In the small village where I grew up, there lived an old man named William. He was a kind-hearted and cheerful fellow. As a child, I thought Grandpa William was a forest sprite pretending to be human. He was short, thin, and a bit awkward, reminding me of a branch that had come to life and turned into an old man.
His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, though that spark faded when he smiled or laughed. His bald head was always covered by an old brown felt hat, as ancient as Grandpa William himself. Even his nose was long and pointed at the tip. It was the kind of nose you’d see on a forest sprite in fairy tales, illustrated in children’s books.
When he walked, he leaned on a long, gnarled stick that seemed to me like a magical staff. One tap on the ground, and a mushroom would sprout from the earth; two taps, and a bush laden with fragrant strawberries would appear. But if you angered Grandpa William, a gust of wind might rise, or a storm with hail and lightning would descend upon the offender.
He always treated us—village kids—to the fruits of his garden: apples, cherriesmediocre cherries, gooseberries, and raspberries, which we eagerly devoured while sitting on a bench by the rickety fence, once painted blue, near his window.
Lately, though, the kind old man wouldn’t let anyone into his house. Even getting into his yard was difficult. That’s probably why all the local kids made up wild stories about Grandpa William.
My friend Tom thought the old man was hiding treasures he’d found in the forest or his yard. Curly—our nickname for our friend Emma—told us she’d seen a giant red dog with four heads and seven tails in his yard. It was lying on the ground, sleeping, when she peeked through a crack in the fence.
Bagel—that’s what we called our friend James because of his love for pastries—was convinced Grandpa William turned into a black cat at night and roamed the yards and forest. I insisted the old man was a forest sprite. We argued until our throats were hoarse, each defending our own version, but we all agreed on one thing: Grandpa William was hiding a secret, and we had to uncover it.
We decided to keep watch over the old man. We agreed to meet at our headquarters at 7 a.m. to start spying. Everyone was supposed to wear black and make Ninja masks to be as stealthy as real ninjas.
That night, I couldn’t sleep, my mind racing with thoughts of the next day’s mission: our whole gang, dressed in black with Ninja masks like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, working together like a trained team to uncover the terrible secret Grandpa William had been keeping for a month.
When I opened my eyes, I realized I was late. It was already 8:30 a.m. when I raced down our street, jumping over puddles left by a sudden rain that had swept through the village overnight.
In my hand was a mask I’d made the day before from my little brother’s old pants. To make a Ninja mask, I’d cut off a piece and poked two holes for eyes. After trying it on and spinning in front of the mirror, I was thrilled with the result.
At our headquarters, hidden in a patch of stinging nettles, someone was arguing loudly. Of course, it was Bagel and Curly. They bickered constantly, about anything and everything. We were so used to their verbal sparring that we barely paid attention anymore. This time, they were arguing about the clothes they’d worn.
Curly showed up in black but without a mask. She’d decided sunglasses would look better. The only problem was, the frames were bright pink. Bagel was strutting around in green sweatpants and a bright red hoodie. He’d fallen into a puddle on his way to the mission, so his outfit had to go in the wash, and he grabbed whatever was at hand. His mask had drowned in that same puddle.
Tom didn’t show up at all. The day before, he’d been grounded for ruining his black cap. His mom caught him just as he was cutting the second hole in it. His arguments about his innocence didn’t sway the chief judge—his mom. The ultimate punishment was handed down: stay home all day and watch his little sister.
After arguing their fill and scolding me for being late, our team set off. We sneaked to Grandpa William’s house and hid in the bushes near his gate.
Mornings, he went to the river to fetch water. Then, armed with his stick, a string bag, and an empty milk jug, he headed to the store. The trip took him an hour: first, he’d greet and chat with neighbors; then, he’d walk to the store, talk with the shopkeeper and customers; on the way back, he’d stop by Mrs. Violet’s at 12 Maple Lane to listen to her complaints about life, her kids, and the weather, before swapping his empty jug for one filled with milk.
Once home, he’d lock the gate and disappear. No one knew what he did during that time. Many thought the old man had lost his mind and was either sleeping, reading, or watching TV. By evening, he’d reappear in the village with his empty jug and head to Mrs. Violet’s for his evening milk.
We sat in ambush for about an hour and got so tired that we decided to call off the operation. My legs and arms, stuck in one position, felt like they’d turned to stone and refused to obey me. Apparently, being a Ninja wasn’t as fun as I’d thought. While waiting for our target, I decided I’d never become a spy, Ninja, sniper, or cop—anything that meant sitting in ambush again.
— Boo! — came a shout above our heads. Startled and terrified, I fell and squealed like a girl. Bagel and Curly were screaming nearby, too. I couldn’t run—my legs were numb and useless. My friends had the same problem. Amid our shrieks, laughter rang out. Someone was laughing so hard it seemed they might choke on it.
It was Grandpa William. He’d passed by our headquarters on his way to the store and, of course, heard everything we said. How could he not, with those two always arguing? Their verbal battles could be heard in the next village over.
On his way back, the old man took a different route and ended up behind us. He hid in the bushes, waited for the right moment, and jumped out, scaring our team half to death.
I was mortified by my girlish squeals that echoed through the neighborhood. What a shame! Luckily, the street was empty, and no one saw or heard me. Then again, I wasn’t the only coward—Bagel was wailing like an opera diva, too.
Our mission had failed, and we had to come clean. Of course, we didn’t mention the forest sprite, treasures, or other wild theories. Grandpa William listened carefully, thought for a moment, rubbed his gray beard, and said:
— Alright, fine. I’ll share my secret with you!
We couldn’t believe our ears. My head spun with excitement. Were we about to see treasures? Would the old man turn into a moss-covered forest sprite or transform into a black cat?
He walked to his gate, unlocked it, and invited us inside. At the doorstep, he warned us not to make noise, talk, or do anything but stay very quiet.
Inside, we found no trace of treasure. Grandpa William didn’t even have a chest. It was an ordinary house with plain walls, typical furnishings, and a simple life. My disappointment was boundless, but I still hoped the old man would surprise us with something else. He didn’t turn into a forest sprite or a black cat, but he still managed to amaze us.
In a small bedroom by the stove lay a large, old fur coat. Nestled in it, like in a nest, were three tiny bundles. They were badger cubs. They huddled together, squeaking in their badger language. Sensing Grandpa William, they stirred, made noise, and pushed each other, eager for their next meal.
Curly couldn’t hold back and exclaimed:
— They’re so cute! Can I touch them?
But the old man shook his finger at her and gestured to stay quiet. We watched the badger cubs, mesmerized, barely daring to breathe, afraid to disturb the room’s silence.
He’d found them in the forest while picking mushrooms. They were thin, weak, and covered in parasites clinging to their tiny bodies. One cub didn’t make it, but the others survived and grew stronger every day. Grandpa William thought their mother might have been caught in a trap or killed by a stronger, hungrier animal. He didn’t talk around the cubs, give them names, or pick them up, and he approached them as little as possible. He didn’t want them to get used to humans. That way, it would be easier for them to return to the forest when they were grown and strong.
We finally learned Grandpa William’s secret. He had no chests full of gold or jewels, he wasn’t a fairy-tale forest sprite, and he couldn’t turn into a cat. His secret was far more important, valuable, and astonishing than anything we’d imagined.
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