Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Sleeping Giant in the Hollow Oak

More about Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Sleeping Giant in the Hollow Oak

It was a day when the forest was almost too quiet. No birdcall, no flapping of wings, only the soft cracking of branches above them, as if the trees were whispering long-forgotten stories to each other. Hugo hunched his shoulders against the damp mist, while Brummel Mossbart walked silently beside him, his gaze fixed ahead as if seeing something that wasn't yet there. "The path wants to take us somewhere else," Brummel murmured finally, turning from his usual route without explanation. Hugo followed without hesitation. He knew that sound—quiet as a thought that didn't want to be disturbed. They trudged through fields of ferns, over bridges of roots, and finally into a valley that opened between two ancient hills like a forgotten book. And there it stood: a mighty oak, so old that even the moss on its bark bore stories. Its trunk was wide and hollow—wide enough for a full-grown person to stand within. Or lie within. Because that's what he was doing: a man, gigantic in stature, huddled in the oak's shade like a sleeping animal. His clothing was simple, almost peasant, and his hair was like the weathered leaves of autumn—wild, disheveled, bleached by time. A steady breath rose and fell on his chest. He was sleeping. Deeply. Unmoving. Hugo stepped closer. The air smelled of earth and old dreams. "A giant?" he whispered. Brummel nodded slowly. "Or what's left of you when the world keeps turning." They sat down in the moss not far away, their eyes fixed on the hollow. Nothing moved. But then Hugo heard something—not with his ears, but within himself. A voice, deep and quiet, like the murmur of an underground river. "I dream of the time when the trees still walked." Brummel placed his hand on the ground. "He doesn't speak to us. He speaks through us." The oak began to creak slightly, as if answering the sleeper. From within, a scent rose—not sweet, not rotten, but like the smell of rain on hot stone. The leaves above them trembled. Hugo closed his eyes. And saw images. Fields that plowed themselves. Stones that formed into songs. A sky that wasn't above, but everywhere. And in the middle of it all, the giant—awake, walking, caring for something no one remembered anymore. When he opened his eyes again, everything was as before. The giant was asleep. The hollow was silent. Only Brummel had a tear in his beard, which he didn't wipe away. "Sometimes," he said, "beings dream for us because we ourselves have forgotten." Hugo nodded. "Perhaps this is true sleep. Not escape—but guarding time." They stood up, quietly, as if they didn't want to disturb the dream. The oak tree didn't close. The giant didn't move. But as they turned away, there was something in their footsteps—a new rhythm, a silent harmony. And deep in the forest, there was a rustling sound, as if a tree had taken a momentary breath.