The Fellowship of the String sat in the hollow deep within the great oak, their stomachs distended from the large bowls of stew and loaves of crusty bread they had been served by Old Pete Seegadil. The Traddits found cozy places among the great snaking roots of the tree, which formed seats, couches, and cots padded with spongy moss. As they relaxed, Acuff Merlie revealed a gift hitherto hidden, but now revealed in the wake of the stew...he had the gift of musical farting. As Pete played tinkling tunes on his 5 string banjo, Acuff would punctuate the melody with sonorous bass tones, whistling flute notes, and even french horn blasts which caused Doodle and Gimlet to laugh hysterically and grab their sides, and had old Pete himself grinning and chuckling.

After one particularly rollicking round of banjo-flatulence, the laughter gradually abated, and the travelers were astounded to hear music echoing in the tree-hollow, music that seemed to come from the living tree itself. When Slam asked, Pete replied "ah, you're hearing the voice of old Woody. He loves to sing along when the mood strikes 'im. Surely you've all heard of 'roots music'? Well, Woody's roots reach into the very heart of FiddleEarth, and tap the sounds and souls of all of those who came before us. Sometimes the sounds he makes are in a language even I can't understand, because it comes from the time before even I was born, and that is a very long time."
They listened, and sure enough, a soft voice was heard rising from beneath them that seemed to sing of the beginning of all things, although they could not say that the voices they heard sang in any form that could be described as "words".
Old Pete stood up slowly, his brittle and lanky old body unfolding a shadow from the cookfire that sprang up the hollow trunk of the tree. "And in Woody's trunk, I can hear the voices I heard as a boy, when this world was yet young. They are voices of men I saw and heard, the Minstrels who told of the days when the world was ruled by magic, the Hobokyms who sang of the great, friendly, smoking beast who carried them in his belly to a promised land. Men who used frail wooden instruments to cleave the legs from tyrants. Men who coaxed powerful visions from drawn bows. The trunk of this old tree is thick and strong with the power of those singers and players. Their bodies have turned to dust, but their voices live on here."

"But the branches of this tree. They are so few and so frail," said Capo.
"Yes, " said Pete Seegadil. "But they are sturdy, and have survived the winds of time. And among the leaves that grow on them are the songs sung by us together."
"What about Lord PopWhore? What is his purpose?" said Slam.
"I don't know about such things," said the old man. "But the music he nurtures doesn't come from the heart of this land. Or even from his heart. It is soulless. And, in fact, it feeds on the souls of those who value it. You must be very careful in this quest you have undertaken. I will give this to you..." and here he opened an old wooden box and took from it a handful of dark powder. This powder he let pour from his fist into a bottle, which he sealed. He handed this to Capo and said " this flour is ground from the bark of this tree. When you need Woody's strength, toss a pinch of this into the air."

In the morning, Pete Seegadil was nowhere to be seen as the travelers rose and packed their things. But as they found the footpath and followed it easterly out of the clearing, a soft strain of banjo music, nearly indistinguishable from the singing of a small stream that flowed by, and the soft whisper of the breeze that sighed through the pinetops, seemed to bid them farewell and good luck.