Footprints on the Back Page

Marigold held her green wool cape close around her small shoulders. Her brown fur was nearly dry now, and her whiskers stood out neat and perky in the glow of the hearth. She looked down at the old, yellowed paper in Saffron's paws. The ink drawings showed little paw prints moving across drawn squares, just like the shining tiles across the room.

"Look at the shape of them," Clover said. The long-eared rabbit leaned close to the page. "They start right at the doorway. One, two, three."

Marigold felt a flutter of excitement in her chest. She stood up from the low wooden stool. She took three soft, careful steps toward the threshold of the amber floor. The polished golden surface gleamed in the dim light of the room.

"Be careful, Marigold," said Barnaby from beside the stool. "The floor sings when it is touched."

"I will only try one little tap," Marigold whispered.

She lifted her right front paw. She brought it down lightly on the first amber tile.

The amber tile gave a clear, chime-like ring. Right beneath the oak floorboards, the great roots of the ancient tree answered. A deep, rich hum rolled through the wood. It was not a loud noise, but it made Marigold's toes tingle. The hum matched the two singing notes that already drifted through the quiet room.

"It heard you," Pip said, adjusting his warm yellow neck-wrap. He took a step closer, his eyes wide. "The roots really answer the music!"

Before Marigold could tap her paw a second time, a sudden whoosh of cold air rushed up from the floor. The open gap where Saffron had lifted the songbook acted like a tiny chimney. A sharp breeze whistled up from the dark tunnels beneath the roots. It smelled of cool, wet moss and deep underground stone.

The gust caught the edges of the open songbook.

"Watch the pages!" Clover cried out.

The yellowed leaves fluttered wildly in the rush of wind. The weathered leather book slipped from Saffron's paws and began to slide toward the glowing fireplace coals.

Barnaby did not hesitate. He lunged forward across the rug. He grabbed a smooth grey river stone from the hearth edge and set it down firmly on the book's open spine. The paper flapped once more against the stone, but it stayed safe and flat on the floor, well away from the heat.

"Whew," Barnaby puffed, sitting back on his heels. "That was close. The deep tunnels must have big air down there."

"They certainly do," said Clover. She sniffed the air, twitching her long ears toward the gap in the floorboards. "It smells like rain on rocks. Old rocks, far down in the dark."

Saffron knelt beside Barnaby and gently smoothed the wrinkled edges of the book. She turned the stone so they could see the back page again. The cold breeze had died down to a gentle draft, but the room felt cooler now.

"Now then," Saffron said, pointing a small claw at the ink markings. "Look here at the drawing. We must know the right steps before we try again. See these three marks in the middle? There is a big space after them. That means you must pause."