The Squirrel Rock of Chiny

Benoit was a young birdwatcher who explored the area around Chiny. He had learned how to imitate bird calls, how to locate nests, and how to observe without disturbing. The Semois was his second home, and he knew every stone by name.

On a warm September day, he paddled slowly along the river. The sun stood high, and the water mirrored the slopes with their forest edges. Then he heard something strange — not the sound of birds, but another sound. A kind of whistling, soft and melodic, that seemed to come from the Squirrel Rock.

Benoit steered his kayak toward the shore near the rock. The sounds grew stronger, more intelligible. They were not bird calls — they sounded almost like voices, like a song on the edge of comprehension.

Benoit climbed the rock carefully. The vegetation there was exceptionally dense — much thicker than normal for such a part of the river. And everywhere he saw hazelnuts. Thousands of them, hanging in clusters from branches, lying on the ground, as if the rock itself did nothing but produce hazelnuts.

“This cannot be normal,” thought Benoit. Hazelnuts certainly grew in this region, but not in such abundance. Not on a single rock. It was as though this place were blessed.

As he climbed higher, he saw the squirrels. Dozens of them, working in the branches, gathering, storing. But they did not seem to fear him. More than that, they seemed to welcome him, moving aside to let him pass.

“This is more than just a rock,” whispered Benoit. “This is something special.”

At the summit of the rock, where the views over the Semois were most beautiful, Benoit found something unexpected: a ring of white stones, about a meter in diameter. And in the center of this ring stood a woman.

She was not quite like ordinary people. Her body seemed to glow with a soft light, and her clothing appeared woven from leaves and sunlight. Her eyes were both old and young at once, full of wisdom and playfulness.

“Welcome,” she said. “Few see this place as it truly is. But you have listened well, and that is why you have come.”

“Who are you?” asked Benoit, though he already knew this was no ordinary encounter.

“I am a guardian of this valley,” she answered. “I tend the growth of these hazelnuts, watch over the safety of the squirrels, and preserve the beauty of this place. For centuries I have done this, since the first hazelnut bushes took root here.”

“Why do you tell me this?” asked Benoit. “Why do you reveal yourself to me?”

“Because you, Benoit, are one of those who understands the natural world. You listen to bird calls without disturbing them. You observe without destroying. That is why I tell you: this place is sacred. Not because it is magical — though that is true — but because it is tended with love.”

The fairy gestured to the hazelnuts around them. “This abundance did not grow by itself. It grew from care, from the desire to nourish and protect this valley. Every year I plant new hazelnut bushes here. I tend them through drought. I protect them from pests. And I ensure the squirrels always have enough for winter.”

“Why?” asked Benoit.

“Because that is my work,” said the fairy simply. “And because love for the land matters more than all the riches in the world.”

“I wish to ask you something,” the fairy continued. “Will you protect this place, just as I do? Not with magic — you have no power for that — but with your own hands and your own heart?”

Benoit felt something change within him. It was a calling, a recognition of what he had wanted to do his whole life. “Yes,” he said. “I will do it.”

The fairy smiled, and her smile seemed to emit the same light as her body. “Then I give you this gift.” She touched his forehead, and Benoit felt warmth, warmth that felt like a blessing. “You will see what this rock needs. You will feel when the squirrels are distressed. You will know when the hazelnuts need aid. And your life will be filled with this love.”

And then the fairy was gone, like vapor dissolving in the morning.

Benoit descended from the Squirrel Rock changed. He told no one what he had seen — who would believe him? — but he began his work.

He began visiting this rock regularly, at first once a month, then weekly. He removed dead branches. He planted new hazelnut bushes where he saw gaps. He observed the squirrels and recorded what he saw. Gradually he became a guardian of this place.

Years later, when Benoit was old, he brought young people to the Squirrel Rock. He taught them to listen to bird calls, to the song of the wind, to the silent voice of the land itself. And many of them also saw the fairy — not with their eyes, but with their hearts.

To this day, the Squirrel Rock remains a place of abundance and wonder. And whoever takes the time to listen well will still hear that soft whistling — the song of those who love this land.