Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Echo of Fern and Fire

More about Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Echo of Fern and Fire

The door of light closed silently behind them. No creak, no whisper—just silence so complete it almost hurt. But then came the echo. It wasn't a sound, but a memory that felt like sound: the crackle of a fire that had never burned; the rustle of ferns no one had ever trodden. Hugo blinked. The ground beneath them was soft and alive—a carpet of moss-covered rock, crisscrossed by ferns that swayed to the rhythm of their footsteps. Above them: a dark sky in which not stars twinkled, but glowing signs, pulsing like distant drumbeats. "I think we've arrived at the heart of history," whispered Hugo. "Or the heartbeat of what shouldn't be," Brummel answered. Before them grew an archway of charred wood, entwined with golden-green ferns. Beyond: a hollow in the center of which burned an ancient fire—without wood, without smoke, but full of light. Around it lay stones in a circle, each engraved with a symbol. As they approached, the symbols began to glow. Not obtrusively—more like a sigh of relief. From the fire rose something: a figure of smoke and radiance, its contours constantly in motion. "You have read what was not written," it said. "Now you must hear what was not said." Hugo sat down on one of the stones. The warmth of the fire flowed through him like an ancient melody. "And if we don't understand?" "Then you'll remember anyway." Brummel stepped to the edge of the circle. The fern rippled beneath his feet as if forming words. Then the echo began to speak. It wasn't a language they knew—more a stream of feeling, color, thought. They saw scenes, not with their eyes, but in their hearts: A tree whispering before it fell. – A child who laughed but was never born. – A song sung by two voices at once – in the silence. Tears welled up in Brummel's eyes. Hugo placed a hand on his shoulder.
"This is our story," he murmured. "And that of many others," said Brummel. As the echo faded, the fire fell silent. All that remained was a small glow – and a new door. This time it was made of black stone, covered with fern vein symbols. "One last time for today?" asked Hugo. Brummel lit his pipe, inhaled the smoke, closed his eyes. Then he grinned. "One more time." They stepped through – and the echo followed them. Quietly. Like a promise.