Tyribus, the Mysterious Mountain

In the underground chambers of Tyribus lived the Nutons—small folk no larger than children, with strong arms, clever hands, and wise eyes. They were not evil, not bad, but careful and wise. They loved the earth, the stones, the water that sprang from rocks, the deepest parts of the world.

The Nutons knew the secrets of farmers. When a poor farmer did not have enough hands for his harvest, or when his plow broke and he could not afford a new one, the Nutons would appear. They would work in his field at night, swift and silent, and when he woke, his harvest was gathered or his plow was mended.

But they demanded payment—not gold or silver, but simple things: a jug of milk, a bowl of bread, honey from the hive. "We are small," they said, "and we need small things." The farmers always agreed, happy that their work was done.

One day a rich hunter from Verviers came to the valley of Theux. His name was Marcel, and he was notorious for his greed. He heard the story of the Nutons and their underground treasures. "Gold," he said to himself. "The mountains must be full of gold."

He ventured to the entrance of Mount Tyribus and called out to the small folk. They emerged from the earth, friendly and careful. "I have seen your night work," said Marcel. "Help me, and I will give you anything you want." The Nutons were cautious but not distrustful. They invited him to go inside the mountain.

Marcel followed them deeper and deeper into the earth. The passages glittered with gems, the chambers were full of glittering things. He was blinded by greed. "More," he cried again and again. "Show me more!" And the Nutons led him deeper still.

It seemed like hours to Marcel. He walked and walked through chambers full of gold, past water as clear as diamonds, past trees that did not grow in sunlight but glowed from within themselves. At last, the chief of the Nutons said: "This is enough. You may now go."

Marcel climbed to the entrance, into the sunlight. He thought he had been underground for two hours. But when he emerged from the mountain, his village was gone. The buildings were old. The people in the streets stared at him with unfamiliar eyes. An old woman said: "Where have you been, Marcel? You disappeared a hundred years ago."

He had been young when he entered the mountain. Now he was old—not in years, but in time. His skin was wrinkled, his hair gray. Everything he had loved was dead. The treasures he had seen in the mountain no longer existed in his hands. The Nutons had taught him: money cannot buy what matters.

From that day forward, the passages of Mount Tyribus were sealed. No mortal could find the entrance again. The Nutons retreated into their underground world, and the mountain became silent, waiting, hidden behind mist and time.