1. THE MISSING BOOK

This story begins in the last magical patch of Rivelin Forest.

The trees there were very tall, the holly bushes thick, and the moss so soft that, if moss made mattresses, you would probably never get out of bed again.

If you ever walk through Rivelin Forest, you may pass it completely unnoticed.

Humans often do. They’re surprisingly poor at spotting magical things, usually because they’re busy looking at maps, checking their phones, or wondering where they’ve put their car keys.

But if you looked closer…

and closer still…

you might notice a tiny round door hidden deep inside the bark of an ancient tree.

No bigger than the palm of your hand.

Behind it sat a village.

Not a human village, of course. Humans would never fit. Their boots alone would squash half the village flat.

One crooked little house with round windows belonged to a very special family.

Inside, a copper kettle bubbled loudly on the stove. It smelt strongly of pine needles and something slightly alarming.

“We are the oldest tree spirits in the forest,” declared Grandma Hazel proudly, stirring the kettle with a wooden spoon.

Little Spruce sat nearby chewing an acorn with serious commitment. Across the room, Holly sat at the kitchen table with a notebook made from pressed leaves. She was listening carefully.

Holly wasn’t especially sensible – despite what she might have claimed – but she did have a weakness for clues. Hidden things. Old stories with missing pieces.

And maps. Maps were excellent.

Grandma Hazel stood up and walked around the table.

“Hmmm.”

She examined Spruce carefully. Then turned him slightly to the left. Then slightly to the right.

“Excellent.”

Spruce blinked.

“You’re becoming properly tree-spirit shaped.”

Spruce smiled at Grandma Hazel.

“Rounder,” said Grandma Hazel approvingly. “Healthier.”

She leaned closer. “And I believe your very first leaf is beginning to appear.”

Spruce immediately tried to look at the top of his own head. This proved difficult. Holly laughed.

“Grandma, why is your leaf bright red?”

Grandma Hazel touched the leaf growing gently from her head. “Ohh, that?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Grandma Hazel, “just like our trees, we change with age. My leaf used to be bright green too. Now it’s taking its autumn colours rather seriously.”

“Does it mean you’re old?” asked Holly.

“Very old,” said Grandma Hazel proudly. “Ancient, even.”

“Older than mushrooms?” Holly asked.

“Let’s not say ridiculous things.”

Sunlight crept through the round window and slid across the table. Outside, leaves rustled in the branches. Grandma Hazel adjusted her wooden spectacles.

“Long ago, there were many more tree spirits,” she said. “Immense forests. Wild creatures. Rivers clear enough to see tadpoles dancing.”

Holly looked up from her notebook. Grandma’s stories were her favourite because they always hinted at secrets nobody had quite finished telling. Grandma waved her spoon dramatically.

“Everything important was written inside the Great Tree Spirit Book.”

Holly immediately sat up straighter. “The Great Tree Spirit Book?”

“The very one.”

“Did it really contain spells?”

“Spells, potions, forest maps, remedies, ancient recipes and proper tree spirit etiquette.”

“What’s the spirit etiquette?”

“Extremely important,” said Grandma Hazel firmly.

Little Spruce nodded as though it was obvious. A bubble rose inside the kettle.

Plop.

Nobody paid it any attention.

“Ohh, if only we could find that book,” Grandma Hazel sighed. Her voice sounded quieter now. “Perhaps then we’d understand why our forests grow smaller every year.”

She stirred thoughtfully. “Or grow mighty forests again. The Great Tree Spirit Book knew things we’ve forgotten.”

Even the bubbling kettle seemed to pause. Outside, somewhere deep inside the ancient tree, a branch creaked. Holly thought about immense forests. Magic nobody remembered how to use. Everyone spoke about the missing book as though it was gone for good.

“Do you remember it?” Holly asked.

“The book?”

Grandma Hazel smiled faintly. “Oh, bits of it. Golden leaves on the cover. Forest maps. Wonderful potion recipes.”

She stirred the kettle again. “And stories about when the spirit doors stood open.”

Holly frowned. “The spirit doors?”

“Long ago, dear.” Grandma Hazel waved her spoon gently through the steam. “Before everything changed.”

Holly said nothing.

She wrote spirit doors in her notebook and, underneath it, drew a small question mark.

Tucked between the pages were other things Holly wasn’t quite ready to throw away: an unusual feather, a beetle shell, a silver seed she’d found near the old well. You never knew what might turn out to be a clue.

Now, dear reader, this would have been an excellent moment for Holly to forget all about missing books, ancient magic and spirit doors. Unfortunately, Holly had never once met a mystery she could ignore.

Grandma Hazel shook her head. “So much knowledge gone. Potions. Forest care. Ancient spells.”

“Proper tree spirit etiquette,” added Holly.

“Precisely.”

Holly watched the steam curl lazily toward the ceiling. “What happened to it?”

Grandma Hazel grew quiet. The smile faded from her face. Outside, the wind rustled through the leaves.

“One night… the trees began falling,” she said.

The kitchen went still. Even Spruce stopped chewing.

“What happened next?” asked Holly.

Grandma Hazel stared into the steam curling from the kettle. “The book disappeared.”

“The Great Tree Spirit Book?”

Grandma nodded. “No one knew where it went.”

For a while nobody spoke. Outside, the wind moved through the branches.

Grandma frowned. “Hmmm.”

She tapped the side of her spectacles. “I remember standing somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It was a long time ago.” Grandma squinted, as though trying to catch hold of a thought that kept slipping away. “A shaft of sunlight was coming through the trees.”

She frowned. “And I could hear water.”

“Water?”

Grandma nodded. “Running water.”

She paused, her spoon resting still in the kettle for once. “There was something else too.”

“What?” Holly asked immediately.

“Carvings, I think.” Grandma Hazel’s brow furrowed. “Old ones. On a stone.”

The room held its breath.

“I always meant to remember why that mattered.” For a moment she looked annoyed with herself. Then she shrugged. “But I never did. And now it’s bedtime.”

Holly looked down at her notebook.

Running water. Sunlight. Stone carvings.

She underlined it twice.

You completed Chapter 1.