Henri's Story

Part One: Whimsical Henri & The Legend of The Well and The Pantry

Wooden figurines clinked together with a shell and a few toast crumbs in Henri’s pocket as he wobbled toward the Well near the Children's Tree. Along the way he gathered stray trinkets—an acorn here, a feather there—slipping them into his tin with quiet delight.

The villagers of Hawthorne Meadow treated the Well as nothing more than a place to toss coins and wishes. They hurried past the old willow whose roots curled like a witch’s hand, unsettled by the faint singing beneath the ground. But Henri stayed. The Well made him feel cozy, tingling, seen—though the folk only called him Weird Henri for talking to it as if it were a friend.

Night after night he perched on the stone rim, whispering stories into its depths. Romance, loneliness, creation—whole epics he shared with no one but the dark. And so, when one late afternoon a cheeky voice rose from below—“You talk like a bard. Are you a Fool?”—Henri froze.

Wells do not speak. Someone must be teasing him. Yet when he leaned in, the willow nudged him—plop—straight into the dark.

Cold. Blindness. Then the familiar magic-tingles came, getting sharper. They crawled down his arms, then cracked open a deep, breath-stealing wave of emotion that left him trembling. Empty puzzle pieces flew around the walls, as the wind danced its angry hurricane.

Images of his mother and father, lovingly together. Happy to start their lives, with little Henri next to them.
Then sickness came and took them both. All alone he was left behind, in this memory.

“You’re doing it, love. Witness it; it always passes,” the voice soothed.

He listened—heroes always do—until the storm ebbed. The emotion was seen for what it was and the story was released.

A lantern flared. A single speck drifted near. Henri opened his eyes.

A fairy. Leana, Fairy of the Chalkboard Pantry Door. Henri had heard this myth once.

She hovered before him, tiny and glimmering.
“You, Henri, gave the Well life again with your trust and your stories. And you’ve just passed your first trial. We have been saving up all your buttons. You get a button for each story you release. And you have been doing it for years!”

She introduced herself as Leana. Then, in a voice older than roots, she told him the tale the villagers had long forgotten:

“A weeping seer once lived beneath the sea—a woman who longed for a child but doubted her worth as a woman. When sorrow drained her last strength, her magic spilled into the deep. Rage rose in her place, cracking the seabed and thrusting a mountain up into the sky, creating storm. Upon this land, from her dust, grew a strong willow. Beneath it, a Well formed to hold her remaining magic—a Pantry of knowledge meant to nourish creation.

But people misused it. They took without giving or gave without taking, sold what was meant to be sacred. The river soured; the Pantry closed; the fairies built a labyrinth to guard it. But you brought breath to us again.”

Henri shivered. Paws tight around his many buttons, glasses fogged with breath.

How could an insignificant mole matter to a secret so ancient and deep?