A Whistle Under the Oak Bench

The little acorn-cap lamps flickered on the stone table as the wind shook the hollow oak. Inside the secret room, the air was warm, but outside the autumn rain came down hard. Bramble stood very still by the thick bark door. His hedgehog quills bristled just a tiny bit as he tilted his round ears. Behind him, the tea sat cooling in small clay cups.

While Bramble watched the door, Barnaby got down on his front paws near the heavy oak bench. His winning hazelnut die had rolled right off the slate tabletop and vanished into the dark corner. Barnaby had a coat dusted with pale golden powder, and his dandelion-silk pouch swung softly against his chest as he bent down low. The space beneath the wooden bench was dusty and dim. His long whiskers twitched to the left and to the right.

"Do you see it under there, Barnaby?" Saffron asked from her moss cushion. She pulled her brown cloak tight around her shoulders. She was still a little damp from the puddles in the lower tunnels, but she smiled politely at the little mouse.

"Not yet," Barnaby squeaked softly. "It bounced hard. It went right toward the wall."

Barnaby reached his paw as far as it would go into the shadow. The floorboards felt cold against his pads. He swept his arm slowly in a wide half-circle through the dust. He expected to feel the rough, carved edges of the hazelnut shell. Instead, his small claws bumped against something hard and very smooth. It did not roll like a die. It was cold to the touch, and it made a tiny clinking noise against the wood.

Barnaby wriggled forward on his tummy. He grasped the object with two paws and pulled it out into the yellow lamplight. It was not a die at all. It was a tiny whistle made of green-tarnished copper. It was shaped just like an acorn cap, with a little hollow stem you could blow through. A thin hole ran along the side. Barnaby turned it over in his paws, his dark eyes wide with wonder. An old item had been resting under the bench for a very long time.

"Look what was hiding in the dust," Barnaby whispered, holding the copper piece up toward the table. Clover leaned over the stone bench to get a closer look, her nose wiggling with curiosity.

"That is very pretty," Clover said softly. "Does it play a note?"

"We should not make loud sounds just now," Barnaby said wisely, tucking the small whistle beside his pouch. "First, I must find my winning die. The game cannot end without the count!"

Barnaby turned back around and slid his paw even deeper into the corner. He stretched his shoulder until his cheek touched the wooden floor. Away in the back, behind an old iron nail, his claws brushed another round shape. His heart gave a little hop. He curled his fingers around it tightly and pulled his arm back out. But when he opened his paw in the warm glow of the lamp, he let out a tiny sigh.

It was only a smooth, grey river pebble. It was heavy and perfectly round, worn smooth by water many seasons ago, but it had no carved numbers. The hazelnut die was still lost somewhere in the dark, and the afternoon dice game remained unfinished.