Piek the Hedgehog and the Missing Lantern Path

Deep in Silbenwald, where the evening mist drifts softly between the roots and the fireflies float like tiny wandering stars, there was a very special path. The animals of the wood called it the lantern path. Every third tree along the way held a small lantern of amber glass, cradled by old and friendly branches. Each evening the lanterns came on all by themselves, bathing the path in warm golden light. Piek the hedgehog loved that path dearly. Every single day Piek would trot along it, nose twitching at the leaves, humming a quiet little song.

One morning, just as the sun was beginning to blink through the treetops, Piek the hedgehog set off along the lantern path in high spirits. Piek had a dark-green scarf wound snugly around his neck, for the morning air was still cool and smelled of damp moss. But then Piek stopped short. He blinked once, then twice. Where three golden lanterns had hung only the evening before, there was now — nothing. Just a bare branch nodding gently in the breeze. Piek scratched behind one ear with a little quill. That was strange. That was very strange indeed.

Piek walked on — and grew more and more astonished with every step. It wasn't only three lanterns that were missing. Nearly every lantern along the path had vanished! Only a small handful still hung from their branches, and even those looked somehow dim and downcast. The lantern path, which usually shone out so welcomingly, was now almost dark. Piek felt his small round tummy tighten with worry. Without the lanterns, the other animals would lose their way after dusk — old Mole, who always shuffled through the evening half-blind, and the little mouse children too. Piek made up his mind: he had to find out what had happened to the lanterns.

First of all, Piek went to visit his friend Balduin the badger. Balduin lived in a cosy burrow beneath a great beech tree, and a small bundle of dried herbs always hung beside his door. Balduin was stirring his breakfast porridge when Piek came knocking. Piek explained excitedly what he had found. Balduin the badger drew his bushy grey eyebrows together and thought carefully. Then he gave a slow, steady nod. "I heard something in the night, Piek," said Balduin in his deep, calm voice. "A soft rustling. It came from the direction of the old alder tree." Piek's ears pricked up at once.

Piek and Balduin set off together towards the old alder. The morning mist still hung in long, pale ribbons among the ferns, and the fireflies, growing sleepy now, were nearly dozing on the leaves. At the foot of the old alder the two friends found something very curious indeed: scattered across the ground were small piles of moss and bark, and — yes, quite certainly — the ends of lantern cords. The cords had not been broken or torn. They had been bitten through, neatly and cleanly. Someone had taken the lanterns down on purpose. But who? And why?

All of a sudden Piek and Balduin heard a rustling above them. The quick patter of small paws. Then Fippa the squirrel burst into view, leaping from branch to branch with her great bushy red-brown tail streaming out behind her. Fippa had bright, wide-awake eyes, and she called down from the treetops even before she had landed: "Piek! Balduin! I know where the lanterns are!" She whisked down the trunk so fast that the bark crackled. Then, though no one was sleeping, she leaned in and whispered with tremendous excitement: "I've seen them! Up in the great oak! Someone has tucked every single lantern into a nest up there — an enormous, glittering nest!"

The three friends hurried to the great oak, which stood at the very heart of Silbenwald, its branches spreading out in all directions like thick, welcoming arms. High up in a deep fork of the tree, they found it: a huge nest of twigs and leaves — and yes, every one of the missing amber-glass lanterns, nestled inside as carefully as though they were glowing eggs. And sitting right in the middle of that nest was someone. Someone with very large golden eyes. It was the owl. The owl blinked down at them sleepily and said in a soft, husky voice: "Oh. You've found me."

Piek the hedgehog called up as kindly as he could. "Dear Owl, why did you take all the lanterns?" The owl gave a deep sigh and ruffled her feathers into place. Then she said quietly: "I sleep through the daytime, you know. And every night when I fly, the lanterns shine so beautifully. I wanted them close beside me — so that even during the day I could dream of their light." The owl looked rather sad as she said it. Piek, Balduin, and Fippa glanced at one another. The owl had not taken the lanterns out of mischief. She had taken them out of love for the light. Piek understood that immediately.

Then Piek had an idea. A wonderfully simple idea. "Dear Owl," said Piek, "what if we made you a lantern of your very own? One that belongs only to you and that you may keep in your nest always — and then we hang all the others back along the path where they belong?" The owl blinked. Then she smiled just as broadly as an owl is able to smile. Before long, even the fox had joined in — he had been slinking past out of curiosity and found he couldn't help himself. The fox had long, nimble paws and used them to tie the lanterns back onto the branches with fresh cord, while Fippa leapt from bough to bough and passed them along.

By the time the midday sun was falling warm through the leaves, the lantern path was glowing again in all its golden splendour. And high up in the great oak there now hung one small, specially made lantern that belonged to the owl alone. The owl gazed at it with deep contentment and slowly closed her great golden eyes. Piek the hedgehog stood on the path and looked all around him. Balduin, Fippa, the fox — everyone had helped. Silbenwald smelled of moss and warm wood, and the fireflies drifted quietly through the gentle air. Piek began to hum his little song again. All was well in Silbenwald.