Fippa Finds the Wishing Well

The morning was still very young in the Silbenwald. Warm lanterns hung between the ancient trees, glowing softly after a long night's watch, and a gentle mist drifted across the mossy ground like a sleepy, slow breath. A few fireflies who simply weren't ready for bed yet danced among the ferns, flickering gold and green. Right in the middle of it all, Fippa sat on her favourite branch and gazed down into the forest below. Her great bushy red tail swayed back and forth. Today felt different — she couldn't have said exactly why, but her heart was beating in a quiet, curious way, like a little drum calling out: come and see, come and see.

Fippa leapt from the branch and landed softly on the moss below. She lifted her nose to the morning air and sniffed. There was damp earth, there were mushrooms — and then there was something else, something she had never smelled before. Something sweet, almost like honey, but at the same time like rain and warm woodland soil all woven together. Fippa followed her nose, turning left, turning right, ducking beneath a great arch of knotted roots. The fireflies seemed to follow her, as though they too wanted to know where that scent was leading. The Silbenwald shimmered in a delicate golden light, and Fippa bounded deeper and deeper into the trees.

All at once, Fippa heard a rustling in the bushes. Balduin the badger pushed his broad grey head between two curling fronds of fern. Balduin was a solid, unhurried sort of fellow, and he moved at his own steady pace — but his eyes were bright and kind. "Good morning, Fippa," he rumbled in his deep, velvety voice. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Fippa told him all about the extraordinary scent. Balduin sniffed the air thoughtfully. "Mmh," he said, after a moment. "I know that smell. It comes from the old well — the Wishing Well." Fippa's eyes went wide as two little moons. The Wishing Well! She had never even heard of it before!

Balduin knew the way to the Wishing Well, for he had visited it once, long ago, when he was quite young. The two of them set off together through the Silbenwald, which seemed to open gently around them as they walked. The lanterns in the trees glowed warm orange and yellow, and the mist curled around their paws like soft handfuls of cotton wool. Then they heard a small, high squeak from somewhere on the path ahead. It was Piek the hedgehog — or rather, it was a small prickly ball where Piek had been, because the sudden sight of Fippa and Balduin coming round the bend had given him quite a fright. "Piek!" called Fippa cheerfully. "We're looking for the Wishing Well!"

Piek uncurled himself and blinked up at them with his tiny black eyes. "Ah, the Wishing Well," he said in his small, squeaky voice. "I think it's somewhere beyond the great field of stone mushrooms. I've never been there myself, but my grandmother used to tell me about it. She said the well listens — really listens — if you speak quietly and honestly." Fippa thought that was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. A well that truly listens! She took Piek's little paw gently in hers, and the three friends walked on together. All around them the Silbenwald rustled and sighed, as though the trees themselves were nudging them in the right direction.

The field of stone mushrooms was truly magnificent. Enormous toadstools with caps of red, tawny brown, and creamy white stood about like a little village of peculiar houses. Mist threaded between them in slow, silent ribbons, and tiny fireflies perched on the curved caps, shining like drops of liquid gold. Fippa, Balduin, and Piek picked their way through in hushed, reverent silence, careful not to disturb the stillness. Then the trees thinned, the air brightened, and there in a small sunlit clearing it stood: the well. It was built of old grey stone, thick with soft green moss, and from its dark centre rose a faint, curling wisp of steam that smelled of honey and rain.

Just then the three friends heard a slow, whispering rush of wings above them. The owl glided soundlessly down from the branches and settled on the rim of the well. She had great honey-coloured eyes and feathers dappled in every shade of brown. "So you have found the Wishing Well," she said, in a calm and measured voice. "Only one whose wish is truly good — and truly honest — may make it here." Fippa stood very still and thought hard. What did she want most of all? Not a store of nuts, not a faster tail. She closed her eyes and listened carefully to her own heart.

While Fippa was thinking, she heard a quiet step at the edge of the clearing. The fox had slipped out from between the ferns — slender and bright, with a coat the colour of autumn leaves and a white-tipped tail. He stayed respectfully at the edge of the clearing and gave Fippa a small, warm nod. Fippa opened her eyes, and in that moment she knew exactly what her wish was. "I wish," she said, softly and clearly, "that all my friends in the Silbenwald will always have a place where they feel safe and at home." The well glowed — a warm, gentle pulse of light — and the steam rose higher. The owl nodded slowly.

Then something wonderful happened. From inside the well, little spheres of light began to drift upwards — golden ones, and some the softest rosy pink, each one no bigger than a soap bubble, each one shining like a tiny sun. They floated through the air and found each of the friends in turn, wrapping them for just one breath in a cocoon of warm light. Balduin smiled his slow, contented smile. Piek squeaked with delight and bounced on his little paws. The fox closed his eyes and leaned ever so slightly into the glow. The owl spread her wings wide for a moment, like an embrace. And Fippa? Fippa felt her heart grow warm and wide, wide open — as though it could hold the whole forest inside it. The Silbenwald had listened.

As the little spheres of light faded gently away, Balduin laid one great grey arm around Fippa's shoulders. "That was a good wish, Fippa," he said quietly. The owl lifted off without a sound and disappeared back into the canopy. The fox slipped away between the ferns with a last flick of his white-tipped tail. Piek gave an enormous yawn and curled himself cosily into a nearby pillow of moss. Fippa sat by the well a little longer and simply listened to the forest. The Silbenwald murmured around her, the lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, and the fireflies danced their quiet, flickering dance. Everything was right. Everything was warm. And the Wishing Well waited there in its clearing, patient and still, for whoever might find their way to it next.