The Truffle Hog

A Tale of Burried Magic and a Nose for Treasure

Jun 03, 2025

A Nose for Treasure

Darragh trudged through the mossy woods, his boots soft against damp earth. His new hog — a plump snuffler with bristled ears and a nose like a compass — zigzagged ahead through patches of fern and fallen leaves. Every time it paused to sniff, Darragh held his breath.

Could this be it? The longed-for truffle?

He had paid dearly for the creature. Sold furniture, his mother’s heirloom brooch, even let go of his favorite carved chair. But the old farmer who sold it swore it had a gift— a nose so sharp it could sniff out the finest truffles buried deep beneath root and stone.

So far: nothing.

Until now.

The hog let out a sharp oink and rooted with wild purpose beneath a bed of ochre leaves. Darragh tossed it a carrot — better a full hog than a thieving one — and dropped to his knees, spade in hand.

No truffle. Just damp earth.

The hog returned to the same spot, oinking louder.

Frowning, Darragh dug deeper.

His spade struck something delicate. A sound like a chime in winter wind.

Bottled Magic

A crystal flask, nestled in the soil. Inside shimmered a liquid red as pomegranate, with swirls of gold catching the morning light. Not a truffle — but surely something.

More flasks followed. That morning alone he uncovered twelve, each a different hue: amber, violet, teal, gold, coral. They pulsed with inner light like bottled starlight. He lined them up on his cottage windowsill, where they threw rainbows across the floorboards and danced up the walls.

He opened one — the golden flask — just to smell. A wave of honeyed warmth rushed to his nose. It smelled like roasted chestnuts, spiced cider, a mother’s kitchen at Yule. And underneath it all, something older. A hunger that curled low in his belly.

He nearly tasted it, but pulled away. Who knew what old magic sloshed in there?

He resisted.

For a time.

A Chest of Gold

The next morning, curiosity won. He poured a bright orange potion into the hog’s mouth.

It squealed with glee and bolted.

Darragh chased it, heart pounding. In a sun-drenched clearing, the hog stopped and began to dig. He joined in, and his spade hit wood.

A chest.

Inside: gold coins, silver medallions, jeweled buttons from distant lands. The metal gleamed, some stamped with kings he didn’t know. He could smell the wealth — the sharp bite of old metal, the earthy musk of time.

In town, the merchant’s eyes widened. He paid handsomely.

That night, Darragh feasted on roasted duck, turnips glazed with honey, and fresh plum tart. He licked the juice from his fingers and slept like a prince.

But it didn’t stop there.

The Taste of Spells

Each day, he fed a different flask to his hog.

One led to a scroll, sealed in silver thread. He brought it to the druid by the creek, who gasped and traded him ten spells written in a language Darragh could read.

The first spell summoned a table of food that never emptied — roast meats, exotic fruits, rivers of gravy, wheels of cheese, pies that steamed and glistened. The smells alone made him dizzy with joy.

The second turned his dusty windows into stained glass, casting his home in cathedral light. Another replaced his wardrobe: velvet cloaks, embroidered shirts, slippers lined with fox fur.

He wore silks. Slept on feather beds. Hired a cook, a gardener, a manservant who smelled faintly of cedar and spoke three languages.

But days passed. The flavors began to blur. The food, though perfect, grew predictable. The stained glass no longer surprised him. The velvet chafed. Even the music felt rehearsed.

Still, he gave the hog more.

A Garden of Wonders

A green-blue flask brought seeds — tiny, brittle things in a leather pouch. Disappointed, Darragh tossed them to a servant to plant in the garden.

The next morning, he blinked twice.

Towering trees stood behind his cottage, grown overnight. One with bark that shimmered silver in the sun. Another bled syrup that smelled like vanilla and thunderclouds. A third bloomed with golden pears that glowed faintly at dusk.

He plucked one and bit in. The flavor burst across his tongue like rain and sugar.

By the fifth tree, the sixth, the seventh...

He stopped noticing the difference.

The House of a Thousand Songs

The next flask led him to a golden cage. Empty.

He brought it home anyway.

At dawn, the house filled with music.

Birdsong — not from any bird he’d ever known. These melodies stirred memories. One sang his mother’s lullaby. Another sounded like a prayer from an ancient chapel.

He wept.

For a while.

Soon, every room housed cages. Songs layered over songs. They bled together — a blur of notes and nostalgia.

He began covering the cages with cloth.

Sometimes, silence was sweeter.

Visions in a Jar

Then came the jar.

Plain clay. Sealed tight.

He cracked the lid and inhaled.

Lavender and fire. Sugar and stars. The scent struck something behind his eyes.

The world shifted.

His hog shimmered like a sacred beast. His home became a palace of light and crystal. The sky rippled with colors unnamed. Servants floated like angels, gliding silently between rooms. At night, the stars burst into fireworks.

But within days, even wonder dulled.

He stopped hearing the angels. The fireworks made it hard to sleep. Even the syrup from his dream-tree now tasted like boiled sugar.

He missed bread.

The Last Flask

Only one vial remained.

It shimmered like moonlight on snow — clear, faintly silver. And still.

He didn’t give it to the hog.

Instead, he walked.

Through the woods, past the flowering trees, over the creek to the druid’s hut.

The old man examined the flask. “This is the healing potion,” he said. “The one that undoes the others. If you bury it, it becomes a well. A sacred one. Its waters won’t dazzle, but they’ll nourish. Always.”

“And if I give it to the hog?”

“Then it’ll find you anything you wish. Forever.”

He paused. “But neither path is without a cost.”

Darragh said nothing.

He returned home.

Dug a hole beside the pond.

And buried the last flask.

Still Water

The next day, the stained glass was gone.

The castle. The music. The trees of light.

Only his old cottage remained.

Silence.

His pantry was bare. No more feast spells. No servants.

Just a few tomatoes in the garden.

He cooked them over the fire. They tasted vivid — the juice tart, the skin sweet.

He noticed the stars again.

Each night, they changed.

In the garden, where he had buried the flask, water began to pool. A week later, it became a spring.

He drank from it every morning.

It was water.

Cool. Clear. Enough.

Oink

One morning, he wandered into the woods with his hog.

The air smelled of pine and promise. Birds sang. Squirrels darted through the brush. Leaves whispered like old friends.

The world felt vast again.

Then — oink.

The hog rooted at the base of an old elm.

Darragh paused.

Probably nothing.

Still—he knelt. Not out of greed, but hope.

He dug.

No chime. No glow.

Just the rich, nutty scent of fresh earth.

And there—nestled among roots, brown and fragrant as roasted walnuts—were truffles.

Real ones.

The kind that make chefs weep.

He laughed, loud and free.

This — this was magic.

The End.

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