Piek the Hedgehog Curls Up in the First Snow

The Silbenwald was quiet that evening — truly, deeply quiet. Between the old oak trees, little lanterns hung like golden fruit, casting their warm light softly across the woodland floor. A delicate mist drifted through the roots, as gentle as a sleeping breath. The fireflies danced in lazy circles, as though whispering to one another: something wonderful is about to happen. And indeed, there was something in the air that had no name yet. Something cold, something hushed, something altogether marvellous. I, the Fox, paused on my path and lifted my nose. I knew it straight away: the very first winter night of the year had arrived.

At the far edge of the Silbenwald, where the hazel bushes grow thickest, Piek the hedgehog lived in a small burrow tucked beneath a gnarled old root. All through autumn, Piek had lined his home with leaves — red ones, orange ones, golden ones — and he had gathered berries and dried mushrooms and made every preparation for the long winter sleep. But this evening, Piek was still sitting outside his burrow, his favourite green scarf looped snugly round his little neck, sniffing at the air. Something smelled different tonight. Crisper. Cleaner. Almost like nothing at all — and yet like everything at once.

Then Piek saw it. The very first white flake. It fell slowly, slowly, as though it had all the time in the world. Piek tilted his little snout upwards and blinked. The snowflake landed on one of his spines — and melted at once, like a tiny secret kiss. Piek held his breath. Then another flake fell. And another. And soon a hundred small white stars were dancing through the glow of the Silbenwald's lanterns. Piek stared with his mouth hanging wide open. Snow! Real, true, beautiful snow — the very first snow of the year — was here.

Fippa the squirrel came bounding over first, her bushy tail held high. Fippa lived in a tall linden tree just around the corner, and she had spotted the snowflakes dancing from her window. "Piek, Piek, Piek!" called Fippa. "Have you seen the snow?" Piek nodded, his mouth still open. Fippa settled herself beside him and the two of them gazed up together as the white flakes drifted down onto their noses. The lantern-light from the fireflies turned every single flake into a tiny spark. Fippa whispered, "I think the Silbenwald is dreaming right now." And Piek thought: yes. Exactly that.

Then Balduin the badger came lumbering along. Balduin was large and unhurried, and as always he carried his broad paws with a pleasantly sleepy air. Balduin yawned once, loudly, and then looked up at the falling snow with genuine surprise. "Well, I never," said Balduin in his deep, rumbling voice. "First snow. Then it won't be long now." "Long until what, Balduin?" asked Piek. And Balduin smiled the way only badgers can — slowly, and with great calm. "Time to sleep, little Piek," he said. "The longest night is coming. The forest will pull up its covers. And we may do the same." Piek glanced down at his own small, round tummy. Yes, he thought. Perhaps that's true.

High up on an ancient branch, the owl sat watching the little group below with her great round eyes. She called out softly — not her loud, sharp cry, but a warm, round, murmuring sound: huu-huu. It was so soothing that Fippa the squirrel began to breathe more slowly. And Balduin the badger blinked heavily. And Piek — Piek felt a deep warmth rise up through his tummy, even as the snow went on falling outside. The owl watched over everything. The owl always kept watch. Every single night. Piek was very glad she was sitting up there.

I, the Fox, stepped quietly into the clearing. The others looked up at me, and I sat down beside Piek in the snow. The snow was not yet deep — just enough to make the woodland floor look soft, like a blanket of cotton wool. "Do you know what the snow does while you sleep?" I said to Piek. Piek shook his head. "It settles over everything, very quietly," I said. "Over the roots, over the stones, over your little burrow. And underneath it all, it is warm. Like being held in a hug." Piek thought about this, and as he thought, his body curled ever so slightly inward — almost, almost.

Fippa the squirrel said her goodnight first. "Good night, Piek," she said softly. "Good night, everyone." Then she darted up the linden tree and disappeared into her warm little treehouse. Balduin the badger yawned once more, so deeply that it almost sounded like a song. "Until spring, friends," he murmured, and lumbered off, slower and slower, back towards his sett. High above, the owl fell quite silent. Only her eyes still gleamed through the falling snow. The Silbenwald grew quieter and quieter. The lanterns burned more gently, as though they too were beginning to feel just a little bit sleepy.

Now Piek stood alone in front of his burrow. I, the Fox, stayed beside him for one moment longer, without a word. The snow had gathered a little — on Piek's spines, on the green wool of his scarf, on the leaves around the entrance to his home. Piek gazed out into the stillness for a long while. Then he turned, and crept very slowly inside his soft, leafy burrow. He scrabbled once, twice with his little paws, and pressed himself into the centre of his bed of leaves. And then Piek began to curl up. Slowly, from the tips of his spines inward, until he was one small, round ball.

And so Piek the hedgehog lay curled and warm in his burrow of leaves, deep in the Silbenwald. The snow went on falling outside — quietly, quietly. The lanterns burned with only the softest, gentlest glow. The fireflies were already asleep. The mist lay over the forest like a downy blanket. And Piek breathed in — slowly, deeply — and breathed out. In. And out. The owl kept watch. The Silbenwald dreamed. And everything was well, and everything was warm, and everything was still.