Waldemar and the Voices in the Moss

More about Waldemar and the Voices in the Moss

The murmuring began like a mistake in the wind, a rustling between fern and bark, barely more than a breath. Waldemar stopped, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and pushed the brim of his red hat lower. The forest was alive beneath his boots, and the moss lifted slightly, as if something were breathing beneath it. Then words formed, soft as dew: "Step softly, wanderer, and listen." Waldemar crouched down, placed his paws on his knees, and listened. The moss told of days when the sun stood so still that even the dragonflies forgot to fly, and of nights when the mushroom caps bore light like small lanterns. It spoke of paths that devour themselves and warned: "Beyond the grove begins the path that lies. Whoever takes it will never return home, but will run in circles around their own memories." Waldemar nodded slowly. "Then I won't hurry," he murmured, and set off again. The voices accompanied him, sometimes as a chorus, sometimes as a single voice, old and quiet. They spoke of a stream singing beneath stones, and of a spruce tree within whose core slumbered a spiral of light. Soon he saw the grove: two paths led into it. One bright and smooth, as if a broom had just swept it, the other narrow, overgrown, restless. "The familiar beckons, the true demands," whispered the moss. Waldemar bent down and sniffed. The smooth path smelled sweet, but lifeless; the overgrown one breathed of fungus, earth, and rain. A small spider spun a fresh web above it, vibrating in the light. "Thank you," said Waldemar, and took the uncomfortable path. He stumbled more than once, tore his fur on thorns, and had to tighten his backpack, but each stumble showed him something new: a hollow covered in bright green lichen, a stone where frost had left traces like runes, and a clearing whose moss bore the memory of old footsteps. "Here," hummed the earth, "here stories share." Waldemar knelt, placed his paw on the ground, and felt the cold thread of a brook beneath it. In his mind, he saw hikers who had taken the smooth path: they seemed lighter, but paler, as if each step lost a piece of his soul. Others, who had chosen the roots, carried more heavily, but their eyes shone more deeply. "The wrong path is not evil," Waldemar murmured, "it is hungry." The moss rustled approvingly: "And hunger feeds on the careless." The path narrowed, and the branches formed a web of shadow and light. At one point, Waldemar thought he saw eyes in the ferns, but they were only drops holding the sunlight. Finally, the forest opened into a silent chamber of spruce trees—a green chapel, at the center of which stood an ancient trunk. The bark bore spirals as if time itself had drawn them, and in the resin, a story shimmered, warm and golden. "Here the wrong path begins and ends at the same time," whispered the moss.