Fippa the Squirrel Hides Her Last Nut

It was an evening poured from honey, so still and golden, deep in Silbenwald. One by one, the fireflies lit their tiny lanterns, and between the old oak trees the warm lamps of the woodland folk cast soft, round pools of light across the moss. A gentle mist crept along the forest floor, as quiet as a sleeping breath. And right in the middle of it all sat Fippa the squirrel, high up on her favourite branch in the great copper beech, holding something very tightly in her small paws: the very last nut of the year.

The last nut. Fippa turned it over and over. It was round and smooth and smelled of earth and autumn. All through the long, leafy autumn, Fippa had gathered nuts and hidden them away — under roots, beneath stones, inside hollow branches. But this one — this particular one — Fippa had never buried. Again and again she had thought: perhaps there is a better spot. Perhaps over there. Or over there. And now the evening had come at last, and Fippa knew: tonight is the night. Tonight is exactly the right moment.

Fippa climbed down the trunk, paw by paw, and leapt onto the soft forest floor. The moss bounced gently beneath her feet. The fireflies danced all around her, as though they wanted to show her the way. First, Fippa ran to the great old spruce at the edge of the clearing and scraped a little at the earth. No — too close to the path. Then she ran to the mossy stone beside the little stream and sniffed carefully. No — too damp. Fippa sighed and held the nut a little tighter. Somewhere in Silbenwald the perfect spot was waiting — she could almost feel it.

Along the way, Fippa the squirrel came upon old Balduin the badger. Balduin was sitting outside his sett enjoying his supper: a handful of berries and two plump worms. He had a broad, kindly face with a white stripe down his nose, and he blinked at Fippa in a pleasantly sleepy sort of way. "Fippa," Balduin rumbled, "whatever are you doing out so late in Silbenwald?" Fippa held up the nut. Balduin looked at it. Balduin thought about it. Then, slowly and carefully, Balduin said: "I'd hide it in the place you look first thing tomorrow morning." Fippa nodded. That was very good advice from Balduin.

Fippa padded on through Silbenwald. Tucked between the roots of an old oak tree, she spotted little Piek the hedgehog. Piek was halfway through curling himself into a ball, for he was tired and ready for sleep. But when Piek saw Fippa, he uncurled again and lifted his tiny nose into the air. "Fippa!" Piek squeaked. "I can smell something lovely!" Fippa held out the nut. Piek sniffed it with great seriousness. Then Piek said: "This nut smells of spring. It belongs deep in the earth, so it can dream." Fippa smiled. Piek was small, but sometimes Piek said the wisest things.

Fippa the squirrel wandered deeper into Silbenwald. Now it was very quiet — only the soft rustling of leaves and the faraway murmur of the stream. The fireflies glimmered like little stars that had lost their way and drifted down into the trees. And then, high up in an ancient ash, Fippa saw two great golden eyes looking back at her. It was the owl. The owl sat there as she always did, round and still, her feathers puffed against the cool evening air. She turned her head slowly towards Fippa and asked: "What are you searching for, little squirrel, when all of Silbenwald is already asleep?"

Fippa told the owl everything: the last nut, all the spots that hadn't felt right, Balduin's advice, and Piek's wise words. The owl listened and blinked once, then twice. Then she said, very quietly: "Fippa, sometimes you don't find the right place by searching for it. Sometimes you simply have to stand still and feel where it belongs." Fippa the squirrel stood very still. She let her eyes fall half shut. And there, in that exact moment, she felt something — a warm, gentle pull, right in the middle of her chest. All at once, Fippa knew exactly where the nut had to go.

Fippa ran. She knew precisely where she was heading. At the edge of the little clearing, right where the fireflies shone their brightest, stood a young hazel tree. Its branches were slender and trembled just a little in the evening breeze. Fippa knelt down. She scooped the soft earth aside with her paws — once, twice, three times. There was a small, deep hollow. Then, with the greatest of care, Fippa the squirrel laid the nut inside. She pressed the earth gently back into place — as gently as you pull a blanket over someone who is sleeping. And Silbenwald breathed slowly and peacefully all around her.

Just then, from the shadows between the roots, the fox stepped quietly forward. He had a gleaming russet coat and a full, sweeping tail with a white tip. He moved without making a single sound, as he always did. The fox settled himself beside Fippa and gazed at the spot where the nut lay hidden. "You've found a good place, Fippa," he whispered. He looked up through the canopy of Silbenwald to where the first stars were appearing. Then, even more softly, he said: "Perhaps a new tree will grow there in the spring." Fippa and the fox sat together in the stillness, and Silbenwald glimmered gently all around them.

A little while later, as the fireflies slowly dimmed their lights one by one, Fippa the squirrel climbed back up into her copper beech. The branches held her softly. The moss in her nest was as warm and yielding as a cloud. Fippa curled up small, and her great bushy tail wrapped itself over her back like a cosy blanket. Somewhere deep below, in the dark earth, the nut was sleeping. Somewhere in Silbenwald, Balduin and Piek were sleeping too. The owl dreamed with her golden eyes wide open. The fox slipped silently into the mist. And Silbenwald — good, old, gentle Silbenwald — wrapped everyone up together in quiet, and warmth, and soft, soft light.