The stag called out over the lake, and Fintan bobbed to the surface, looking a little agitated.
‘So?’ said the salmon, ‘what’s your decision?’
‘Patience is a virtue, my friend,’ said Find.
‘I know,’ said Fintan, irritably, ‘and so is kindness and humility. I have eaten eight nuts of knowledge, you know!’
‘And you’ll have to make do with that,’ said Find. ‘Now go; swim out of this lake and spread your knowledge and wisdom.’
‘Finally!’ replied Fintan, and leapt with joy. ‘No more waiting!’ He swam round the lake, leaping up out of the water to say goodbye to each hazel tree. Then he headed out into the river, and with a final swish of his tail, he was gone.
Time passed. Find stayed in the Hazel grove to think about the meaning of these events. He lay at the base of one of the nine Hazels, and was gazing at the sun’s reflection on the lake, when he felt something bounce onto his head and then to the ground. He looked down and discovered it was the shell of a Hazelnut.
Immediately, he knew this had been the ninth nut of knowledge. He rose to his feet and called up into the tree. A young mouse, trembling with fear, timidly made its way out onto a branch.
‘Did you drop that shell on my head?’ asked Find. The young mouse nodded silently.
‘And did you eat the nut that was inside the shell?’ he continued.
Again, the young mouse nodded without saying a word. At that moment, the young mouse’s father emerged from the hollow in the trunk. He gasped when he saw Find.
‘It appears your son has eaten the ninth nut of knowledge,’ said Find. ‘Such an important event carries with it enormous responsibility.’
The two mice exchanged nervous glances, then looked back at Find. The young one opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead an enormous yawn came out. Neither mouse knew what a yawn was, for until that moment, no mouse had ever felt tired, much less needed sleep. After all, there was always food to be gathered and homes to be maintained.
All that was about to change.
‘Your son,’ said Find to the father, ‘Will need to sleep for quite a while after that sort of meal. In fact, to call it sleep would be something of an understatement. I think ‘dormant’ would be a better word.’
‘Dormant?’ repeated the father, not quite grasping the meaning of the word, ‘My son’s going to be a dormant mouse?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Find, allowing a soft chuckle to emerge, ‘A sort of Dorm-mouse, you might say.’
‘Oh,’ said the youngster, and with a final yawn, promptly fell asleep in his father’s arms.
‘When will this ‘dorm’ cease?’ asked the father, as he carried his son towards the hollow.
‘Your son will remain asleep for six moons. On the seventh moon, he will wake. Listen carefully to the words of wisdom he speaks at this time, for all that he utters will surely come to pass.’
For six moons the parents of the first dormouse kept watch over their son, and on the first crescent of the seventh moon, they watched with tears of happiness as his little eyes blinked open.
He sat up in his bed, yawned, and stretched his limbs. Both parents gazed at him as he rubbed his eyes. The dormouse looked at them, blinking, trying to focus. He wore an expression of complete confusion. Then, a quiet voice in his head whispered to him. Do not fear, little one, it said, the nut has given you a wonderful gift. Let my voice of wisdom speak through you. The voice calmed the dormouse, and his senses became filled with the knowledge and understanding of Find. His parents saw that something had shifted in their son’s eyes. It was as if the night sky were alive in them. They listened closely for his first words, and then he said:
‘The tree that has been dormant will thrive again.
Its roots will slither & four branches will see the forest king’s mark.
Golden feathers will adorn its crown & the dray-dweller will move upon it.
After three moons, the giver of nostrums will reside over the spring.’
The dormouse let out a deep sigh, and the sparkle dimmed, his eyes returning almost to the way they were. He shook his head, and twitched his whiskers.
The parents looked at each other in confusion. Surely this was not their son speaking? How did he know such language, and more importantly, what did it all mean?
‘Are you okay, son?’
‘I think so, Papa,’ replied the dormouse. ‘That was strange!’
‘I don’t like it,’ said the dormouse’s mother, ‘I don’t like it at all!’
The young dormouse’s prophecy spread quickly to all the creatures that dwelt in The Great Woods. The rabbits, squirrels, beavers and rats laughed to hear that a mouse would dare to try and tell the future. Such gifts were not given to rodents. The bears, wolves, badgers and boars barely even listened to such rumours, as it was beneath them to do so. The lizards, snakes, frogs and toads blinked in surprise before dismissing such idle talk. Only the deer stopped to think a moment, as their kind were wiser than most.
The moon waxed and waned and life went on in The Great Woods, but in the grove of nine hazels, all was not well. The young dormouse was restless. He sat in deep thought, often refusing to eat, or paced the hollow, stopping now and again, a frown on his face. His parents became more worried with each passing day.
‘He’s too young for all this worry,’ exclaimed his mother. His father nodded in agreement. This wasn’t right.
As night approached, the parents of the first dormouse were sitting on the branch outside their hollow, hand in hand, watching the moon rise over the lake. Their son came out and sat down in front of them. The moon was full, and it framed his head like a halo.
‘Mama? Papa?’ he said, his whiskers twitching.
‘What is it, son?’ said his father. His mother knew what her son was about to say, and she’d been dreading it for days.
‘I have to go on a journey,’ he said, but his mind was in turmoil. Is this the right thing to do? Am I ready?
His mother began to weep, and his father comforted her, tears welling up in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ said the dormouse, ‘I don’t really want to go, but… I have to. It’s hard to explain. I just know that if I don’t go, something bad may happen.’
‘Is it to do with that strange voice thing?’ asked his father.
The dormouse nodded. ‘I think so.’ Then tears welled up in his eyes, and his mother held him close and gave him a hug.
‘It’s all that stag’s fault,’ she said, rubbing his back, ‘him and his bloomin’ nut knowledge!’
The dormouse laughed, and his little shoulders shook. Then, he wiped his eyes and stood up. He kissed both his parents and turned to leave.
‘You’re going now?’ asked his mother. ‘So soon?’
‘I can’t put it off any longer, Mama. I’m sorry.’
‘Wait just a moment, dear,’ she replied and hurried off into the hollow. Presently, she returned with a bundle in her hands. She handed it to her son, and he opened it eagerly.
‘It’s a cloak,’ said his mother, ‘I made it myself; it’s to keep you warm on cold nights.’
The dormouse put it on. It fitted him perfectly. It felt snug and reminded him of home comforts.
‘Thanks, Mama,’ he said, and gave her another kiss. ‘How did you know I’d need it?’
His mother winked at him. ‘A mother knows these things,’ she said.
He looked at his parents one final time and they saw in his sorrowful eyes that he would never return. He paused for a moment, a frown on his face; then a wave of calmness came over him again. He smiled, and his eyes lit up as if the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. He said:
‘Three moons shall pass before word reaches you of my journey.
The salmon will swim upstream, returning to the wisest lake.
Its waters will likewise journey to the well-source of all life.
Follow this stream to find me & you shall witness a wonder.’
His father squeezed his mother’s hand tightly. For a moment, they had both thought that they would never see their son again, but now, a glimmer of hope had entered their lives.
‘Goodbye, son,’ said his father.
‘Goodbye Papa. Goodbye Mama. I love you!’
With that, the young dormouse stepped out of the hollow and was gone.
Several leagues from the grove of hazels, in the centre of The Great Woods, stood the ancient tree. It is said that this tree had roots that stretched to the very centre of the Earth, and that its branches stretched into the heavens.
No creature in The Great Woods knew what kind of tree it was, as it had lain inactive for longer than memory. Its trunk was smooth, and had no markings to reveal its name. Its branches, four of which were so large that they now trailed on the earth, had not held leaves for many moons.
The tree was the subject of many myths and legends in the animal communities. Some myths said that the tree was the tree of all life, and would miraculously bloom again when the Earth was ready. But such stories are for the young, and the tree was dead. Wasn’t it?
But now there were stirrings in the undergrowth, and the words of the first dormouse grew in strength with each retelling. And, deep inside the trunk of the ancient tree, four seeds trembled with the promise of life.
On the third night of his travels, the young dormouse came to the edge of a glade. There was a light mist over the ground, and moonlight peered cautiously through the branches of the tall pine trees that towered over him. The smell of pine needles was a new delight. He had travelled a long way so far, but he knew there was much further to go. He had slept fitfully, in short bursts, and his slumber was always accompanied by dreams. They came in confusing shapes and symbols at first, but he had begun to make sense of them. Someone needed his help, and he knew it would test his mettle. He didn’t feel at all ready, but the time was close at hand.
Suddenly, he heard a soft shuffling in the undergrowth. ‘Who goes there?’ said a timid voice.
This is it, he thought grimly. He took a deep breath and then spoke.
‘I have yet to earn my name,’ he said, ‘But yours… is Pitamus.’
‘It is?’ asked the voice from beneath the mist.
The dormouse nodded, then felt a little foolish; if he couldn’t see Pitamus, chances are Pitamus couldn’t see him nodding.
‘Pitamus,’ it repeated, as though it were trying the voice on for size before buying it. ‘I like it! How do you know me, stranger?’
The dormouse replied, ‘Em… I don’t. But, you’re in need of help, aren’t you?’
‘Help? How did you know I needed help?’ said the voice in the mist, gradually gaining a little more confidence as it spoke.
‘I… I just did,’ said the dormouse.
The young dormouse could almost hear the hesitant thoughts that swam around in Pitamus’s head. Then, just to his left, he glimpsed the dark grey head of a vole emerge out of the mist, with tiny ears and eyes, ideal for living underground. Pitamus twitched his nose and looked suspiciously at his new acquaintance.
‘I do need some help,’ said Pitamus, ‘but how do I know that I can trust you?’
‘Em…You don’t,’ said the dormouse. ‘Sorry.’
Pitamus sniffed the air, then cautiously made his way over to the dormouse. He sniffed again, and looked him up and down.
‘You smell trustworthy,’ he said, ‘and my family
‘Hmm,’ said the vole, ‘okay. Follow me.’
Pitamus led the young dormouse into a maze of tunnels just below the surface. Fortunately, he was not yet fully grown, and so had no trouble fitting through even the narrow sections of passageway, and eventually they arrived in Pitamus Vole’s burrow. It was a snug affair; there was a stove in one corner, which radiated a pleasant warmth and the smell of burning pine wood. A table with several wooden chairs stood next to it. On the walls, hung on the ends of tree roots, were all manner of copper pots, pans and utensils. Pitamus’s wife and children were curled up in bed at the far end of the main room, looking the worst for wear. When they saw the stranger emerge into their home, they shrank away from him in fear.
‘What are you doing, letting a mouse into our home?’ said the vole’s wife.
‘He’s here to help us, dear,’ answered Pitamus.
‘Help us? A little mouse? What can
Presently, he stood back from the three forms, huddled together in their bed, and stroked his whiskers thoughtfully.
‘Can you help us?’ asked Pitamus, afraid to know the answer.
The dormouse looked at him, then back at the three voles, and tapped his nose three times with his fingers. He smiled and nodded his head. Pitamus came forward and extended his hand. ‘Thank-you,’ he said, as the dormouse shook it.
‘I must go out into the woods and gather the right ingredients for my nostrum,’ he exclaimed, and with that, he turned and left, re-tracing his steps.
‘What’s a nostrum?’ said one of the children, when he was gone.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Pitamus, ‘perhaps it’s medicine.’
‘I’m still not sure if I trust him,’ said his wife, ‘even if he is the mouse we’ve been hearing about. Go and make sure he doesn’t pick anything poisonous, would you dear?’
Pitamus looked alarmed. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’ he said, and scampered back up the tunnel after the dormouse.
The mist had cleared from the glade, and the dormouse stood on his hind legs and peered cautiously at his surroundings. His whiskers twitched, as they always did when he was nervous.
, came the voice of Find,
. Ever since he had woken from his long sleep, the voice in his head had been advising him, and sometimes it seemed a little overwhelming. When he spoke those riddles, for instance; he heard himself saying the words, but he couldn’t quite believe it was him saying them. He went hesitantly over to a plant that had large, dark green leaves with jagged edges.
He was about to pick one, when Pitamus came out of the tunnel and shouted, ‘Careful! They’ll sting you!’