The Song of the Deep Roots

Rain tapped against the thick oak bark with a steady, drum-like beat. Inside the secret room, the acorn-cap lamps gave off a soft, buttery glow. The damp chill of the storm could not reach the smooth stone table, where the friends sat shoulder to shoulder. Warm steam rose from small clay cups filled with clover tea.

Bramble held his cup in both paws. The little hedgehog lifted the rim toward his snout, but suddenly he stopped. His brown eyes grew wide. A tiny ring of warm steam curled right past his whiskers, yet he did not take a sip.

"Bramble?" asked Pip. The little mouse sat up straight on his stool. "Is the tea too hot?"

"No, Pip," Bramble whispered. His gravelly voice was full of wonder. "It is not the tea at all. It is the old song. The tune my grandmother hummed when we walked beneath the lower boughs. I only remembered the first part before. But just now, watching the steam twist in the air, the rest of it came back to me."

Barnaby set down his wooden spoon. The root-cellar mouse tilted his head, his golden-dusted ears perked up. Close by, Saffron smoothed her damp field fur and leaned forward across the stone. Clover sat on the edge of the green moss cushion, watching Bramble's snout twitch with thought.

"The old words tell of the amber chamber," Bramble said softly. "I thought the hum in the floor was just the wind through the hollows. But the song says the floor sings back when you call to it. It is not just one long note. It is a three-note melody, meant to be tapped in turn."

To show them, Bramble placed his clay cup down upon the table. He leaned down toward the floorboards near the crack where the acorn had slipped earlier. He tapped his round paw once, then twice, right against the dark timber. Tap. Tap-tap.

Everyone held very still. Saffron did not even twitch a whisker.

From far beneath the room, deep in the honey-colored amber chamber where no one stood, a clear sound answered. Chime-hum-ring. The tone rolled up through the wood like a warm, ringing bell. It made the clover tea in their cups ripple in tiny circles.

Pip’s tail gave an excited flick. "It answered you! The wood actually heard you!"

Bramble smiled, his quills relaxing flat along his back. "It did. But there is more. That tune was never just a sleepy lullaby for tucking hoglets into moss beds. It was a walking chant."

Bramble traced the rim of his cup with one gray claw. He cleared his throat and began to hum again. The first verse was slow and rocking, like cradle boughs in an evening breeze. Then his rhythm changed. His snout bobbed to a marching, steady tempo.

"Step on the root, step on the stone," Bramble chanted softly. "Count three paces, follow the tone. Where the amber wakes to bright honey gold, the path opens wide for the small and the bold."

"The footfalls match the root tunnels," Clover realized. She pointed toward the parchment map Nutmeg had found earlier. "The faded dots on the old scroll... they are not mile markers. They are footsteps! You have to walk in time to the song, or the amber floor will not let you pass!"