The Rabbit Man of Tildonk

Nobody knew exactly when he had come. Perhaps years ago, perhaps decades. The man — only called “the hermit of the heath” or, later, simply “the rabbit man” — had come to live at the edge of Tildonk, in a place where the land was rough and overgrown with thistles and brambles. The cottage he inhabited was little more than a shed, covered with moss and ivy, as if it were slowly becoming part of nature again.

Nobody knew how he made his living or how he survived. But everyone knew one thing: he kept rabbits. Many rabbits. Sometimes people said there were a hundred, sometimes a thousand — the number grew with each passing year. They sat in cages around his cottage, in corners, under eaves, everywhere you looked. And at dusk, when he scattered feed for his animals, their squeaking mingled with his soft whistling — as if he spoke their language.

The villagers avoided him. Women warned their children: “Do not go to the heath. The rabbit man is there.” Children played games where they pretended to stumble upon the hermit’s yard and then — trembling with fear and excitement — ran away as fast as they could. It was whispered that he came to the breweries — of which there were many in Haacht — to beg, and that he stroked his rabbits with a peacefulness that seemed unnatural.

It was a wet autumn, the kind of autumn when you feel winter coming — cold and oppressive. The Dijle, the river that flows through Tildonk and whose waters — as the old men said — were naturally pure and wholesome, began to swell. The autumn rains had been heavy, and the stream carried more water than usual.

On a Friday evening — or was it Thursday? — the rabbit man walks into the village. He goes straight to the centre, where the church stands, where the tavern stands, where everything converges. He stands still, looks at the villagers with eyes that seemed to glow with serious knowledge, and says — in a voice that they said was rough and unused from months of silence —: “Water comes. Much water. Tomorrow. High water.”

At first, no one believed him. Why would you trust the words of a madman who talked to rabbits? But then the old men — who had known the Dijle for fifty years — said they felt something strange in the air. The water was indeed higher than usual. And that hermit… perhaps he was right. Perhaps the rabbits — animals are after all sentient beings — had already sensed the danger, and the man had learned it from them.

They trusted the rabbit man’s warning. They brought their most precious possessions to higher ground. They filled water containers. They locked the livestock in barns on the hills. And then… then came the flood.

The water rose and rose. The Dijle, usually so gentle in nature, became a monster — a brownish-green wall of water that swept everything in its path. Houses standing near the river were threatened. Barns were washed away. An entire meadow where cows grazed — now safely on the hills — disappeared under water.

But the worst did not happen. No deaths. No lost homes, because they had abandoned them in time. No lost crops, because they had brought them to safety. The rabbit man meanwhile sat on the hill with his rabbits, staring down at the water below, and nobody dared to bother him. It was as if he were keeping watch — a solitary sentinel above his village.

After the water had receded and the river flowed calmly again, the villagers wanted to thank their saviour. They brought him food: bread, cheese, fish. They fed his rabbits. Even the priest said that he was a saint — someone who had helped God. But the gratitude was awkward. For despite the rescue, despite the thanks, the villagers still felt something strange, something… unpleasant.

Perhaps it was his eyes, which always seemed to speak with rabbits. Perhaps it was the rumours — “Perhaps he is not a man, but something else. Perhaps the rabbits have made him better.” Perhaps it was fear, pure fear of what they did not understand.

And slowly, over the years, the feeling of gratitude faded. The villagers returned to their normal lives. They forgot the flood. They even forgot the man’s name, although everyone knew who was meant when someone said: “The rabbit man.” And him, what did he do? He withdrew to his cottage on the heath, back to his rabbits, back to silence.

To this day, the elders of Tildonk tell the story of the strange man who warned them. And they still shake their heads: why can’t we simply be grateful for salvation without being afraid? Perhaps the rabbits had more wisdom than all of them.