In the village of Strawstalk, the morning was so fresh it was as if someone had washed the sky with mint water. Lili and Mike were building something on the bank of the little stream. They called it a raft, but it was rather two tied planks and a brave decision. The water tinkled among the stones, the sedge rustled in the wind, and a reed warbler tried out its song, as if preparing for the world's most important concert.

Mike, who loved rattling, clattering things, knocked over their metal box. The box clanked, slid against a flat stone, and from it something tiny and green popped out, bouncing. It rolled and rolled until it stopped at Lili's shoe.

— What is this? — Lili bent down. In the grass lay a little green bell. Its body glittered green, as if spring itself had blown its color onto it, and tiny leaves were scratched into its surface. Beneath the bell, a folded sheet of paper lay flattened.

Lili unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn map, full of airy letters and funny signs: a hoopoe, a mill, three little waves marking the stream, and at the end, spiraling up a hill, a curving inscription: "Path of Sounds – to Wind Hill". On the inner rim of the bell, a scratched sentence read: "Who hears, that I lead."

Mike's eyes rounded. — This is surely a treasure map! — he whispered, his voice so soft that even the sedge seemed to bow.

— Or the bell is the treasure — mused Lili. — If the Path of Sounds leads, maybe the hill will sing.

They didn't ponder for long. Lili tucked the bell into the inner pocket of her backpack and carefully folded the map. They looked at the first sign: the Shingle-bridge. The path, which wound towards the meadow, was softly springy, as if, in secret, the ground wanted to go with them too.

At the bridge, Aunt Juniper stood, picking bilberries into a worn woven basket. Her white hair was like a dandelion clock, which, if blown, becomes a world of scattered seeds.

— Where to, where to, perhaps to Wind Hill? — she asked, squinting.

Lili showed her the map, surprised. Aunt Juniper nodded. — The Path of Sounds leads along strange tracks. Watch out for the magpie; it likes everything glittering. — With that, she handed them a ribbon. — Tie Mike's pant leg, because the blackthorn likes such flutterers.

They thanked her and trudged across the creaking planks of the bridge. The meadow was full of skipping grasshoppers, the wind rocked the dandelion heads, and clouds swam in fast teams toward the hills. Mike, who wanted to collect everything that felt named, had already pocketed three kinds of pebbles. Because of the thistles stuck to his pants, he could almost not step. Lili gathered his pant leg with the ribbon, so only the grasshoppers remained sticky.

At the stream, they had to step over three flat stones. The water tickled their ankles. On one stone, a moss-green spot spread, deceptive as icing on a cake. Mike stepped on it, and whoosh, he almost slid in. Lili caught his arm with a long, forked branch.

— Thanks! — Mike blew out the air. — I almost became a water-chick.

— Don't step on the shiny, but on the grey, — croaked someone. A chunky frog with a serious gaze sat on a stone on the bank. — The moss slips, the grey holds.

Lili nodded. — Thank you! — The frog nodded its head, as if it were natural to give advice to stream crossers.

On the other bank, the mill was already visible. Its wheel turned lazily, flour scent sifted into the air, and a miller with a flour-tufted moustache, Miller Dan, stuck his head out the door.

— Look, who are these? — he smiled. When he saw the bell, he raised an eyebrow. — Oh, the green bell! Last year, a storm swept it off Wind Hill. Since then, the hill only sighs. The Soundbird, the hoopoe, who used to wake up every year to the sound of the bell, doesn't find his way back.

Lili's heart throbbed. — Then we take it back.

— You have brave ears, — chuckled Dan. — Behind the cornfield is a narrow path. — He took a stick, tied a piece of red rag to the end, and dotted flour on the map. — Pin this into the ground wherever you go, so you know which way to come back. The place for the bell will be in the middle of the three trees, if you hear the breath of the hill.

They entered the cornfield. The leaves rustled, as if whispering secrets to each other. Lili stuck the stick down from time to time, and Mike walked like an explorer captain. When they emerged, a shiny, black and white flash swooped before them. Glint, the magpie, hopped onto a branch.

— Did you bring anything glittering? — Glint watched the green body of the bell with a tilted little head. — Trade? I am good at trades! I have a marble, a screw, an old button, and a metal whistle, which sounds like gloved winter.

— The bell cannot be traded, — Lili stepped forward. — We must take it to Wind Hill.

— Hm, — Glint tilted his head. — Then I'll trade a guide. The blackthorn is dangerous; it scratches and hates looped pants. — He rummaged in his nest, then dropped a shiny silver button. — Show this to the Blackthorn King, and he'll spare you. I'll also show you a shorter path. In exchange… if you hang it up, let me hear the bell closely.

— We're in, — nodded Mike, who couldn't hide how exciting he found the whole thing. Glint led them to the edge of a thicket, clicking his beak and whistling. A stocky, round-backed hedgehog rolled forward.

— I am Berry, — he panted. — The button is a good sign. — The little hedgehog rolled slowly along before the blackthorn, bending down the thorny branches so they could slip through. Even so, they got a scratch or two, but rather just for memory.

After the blackthorn, Wind Hill rose. It wasn't high, yet it looked as if it was inviting them to the top of the world. The grass was long and swayed, as if dancing in a green sweater. As they approached, the air seemed to breathe deeply. Lili paused.

— Do you hear? — she whispered.

Mike nodded. The hill really seemed to pant, with long, calm sighs. In the middle of the three trees, on a smooth branch, a small hook-like protrusion stood out, as if waiting for the bell. The letters scratched into the rim of the bell glowed in this light: "Whistle, clap, word – opens the bell."

— This is maybe magic, — guessed Mike. — With a whistle, a clap, and a word, it can be fixed.

— Let's try — smiled Lili. — Can you whistle?

Mike reached for his ear. — Only with leaves.

Lili looked for a wide willow leaf, skillfully held it between her thumbs, and sounded a clear note. Its sound flew clearly, like a lean bird. Mike clapped twice, and Lili said: — Soundbird.

The bell trembled gently in their hands, as if saying: "Good." Lili hung it on the hook. Then the wind suddenly ran across the hill, as if someone had stroked along the grass with a hand, and the bell sounded. It didn't have a big voice, yet it was there everywhere. It tinkled greenly, and the sound ran into the trees, bounced off the stones, returned from the meadow, and caressed the children's backs. The hill, yes, as if it sighed, relieved of its burden.

The next gust of wind was so strong that Mike's hat slammed against the rosehip bush, and Mike almost went after it. Lili caught his wrist and quickly tied the red ribbon to the trunk of the tree. Thus they stood against the wind until the bell sang, awakening echoes in the valleys.

— Did you hear that? — tinkled Glint from somewhere above, already wobbling on a branch above their heads. — This is beautiful!

— Come closer, — invited Mike. The magpie stretched his neck, listening to the sound as if licking a strawberry from a spoon.

The song of the bell was carried by the wind, and it wasn't long before others arrived from the meadow. The frog sat on the edge of the water and nodded. Berry, the hedgehog, poked his whiskers out from beside the path. Miller Dan, in his flour-dusty apron, stopped at the bottom of the hill, pressing his hat to his chest. From somewhere, from the direction of the high sky, a hoopoe flew: the crest on his head popped up, as if he had just remembered a greeting. It circled once around the bell and landed on the middle branch. It was simply just there, exactly as if it had always belonged there.

— He found his way — whispered Lili.

— Or the bell found him — grinned Mike.

When the wind quieted, the hill still held the echo of the ringing within itself, like when a person guards a good laugh in their heart. Glint jumped down and poked a tiny metal whistle at Mike.

— You deserve this, — he said. — Not for trade; it's a gift. If you whistle with this, you will remember the hill.

Lili took out the stick with the red rag and stuck it into the grass. — So later we'll know which way we went, too.

On the way back, the cornfield rustled more friendly, as if it already recognized them. At the stream, the frog saluted them soldierly. Aunt Juniper still sat at the bridge, and her bilberries never ran out, because there was always another handful.

— I already heard it — she nodded. — The village heard it too. The bread will be better today, if the wind sang it.

Lili and Mike reached home by late afternoon. Dad was tying the tomatoes in the garden. — Did you hear that strange ringing? — he asked. — As if the hill chuckled.

— Maybe it just talked a little, — Lili shrugged her shoulder and pulled the silver button from her pocket. On the table, an empty notebook lay. On its first page, Lili drew a winding line, three little waves, a mill, a blackthorn bush, three trees, and a bell. Into the corner of the page, she inscribed: "Path of Sounds – our map".

And Mike blew the little whistle. It wasn't loud, just like when the grass tilts on the hill. And both knew that if they went that way tomorrow, the green bell would sing again, and the wind would laugh into the heart of Wind Hill again.