Listen to the Trees and Other Curious Tales

The hardened ice crystals, sitting lightly atop the deep cold snow, glistened and twinkled. They did so as did the multitude of stars set in the deep black of the sky above.

Young Harry was asleep in his bunk, near to the fire’s hearth. His parent’s recessed bed on the opposite side of the one room they shared was unoccupied and the hanging blanket that served for a privacy curtain was still drawn open. Harry’s mother Martha was still attending to their one and only cow in the ‘barn’, which was no more than an extension of their one room building and living space.

The barn was at the opposite end of the building to the fire but warm enough for the sole occupant, their cow. If Harry had looked he might have seen, through his privacy curtain and the open rough timber door, his mother calming the cow which had decided to become irritable for some odd reason.

It was late in the evening, a very special evening. It was the Yule Season and tomorrow was the celebration of Christ’s birth; it was Christmas Eve.

Harry’s father Tom, had brought into their rough cottage some ivy and mistletoe he had taken from the nearby woods. It now hung on the stone wall of the fireplace with its slow burning but really warming and gently glowing, peat fire. Tom had wanted to make this Christmas the best one for Harry. It was to be his last as a very young boy before he would be required to attend the local school come the spring time. This had been arranged by and would ultimately be to the benefit of the local landowner.

The landowner, who possessed much of the surrounding fields and woods, was a certain gentleman of a generous persuasion. He was head of the prestigious family by the name of Waltham-Stowe. His ancestry, according to local stories, went back hundreds of years. Tom had spent most of his life working for this landed gentleman who was not unreasonable in his demands on the tithed labour that abounded his enormous estate. Christmas day was a day he had deemed to be one of rest for his tenants and he had encouraged them all to spend the day with their families inside, away from the cold. Working was not required on this one holiest of days. Indeed working during the week following Christmas day up to New Year’s Day could be considered as relaxed, provided that the main duties were not allowed to slip. This ‘tradition’ did not extend to enjoying the Saturnalia of early tradition. Such traditions were well before Tom’s time but he had been aware of the local stories.

Waltham-Stowe would be attending an early morning mass at the local church, St. Thomas’, with his family of his wife and three girls. This followed a mass and vigil through the preceding night to witness the arrival of the special day.

They would occupy their personal pew and listen to the day’s sermon that he had written and provided to the Vicar. This to ensure that he spoke with the right emphasis to encourage the other good people of the parish to behold the ascendancy of the major families, Waltham-Stowe being at the apex, of course.

This in addition to the real reason the good and wealthy were gathered together.

Tom, Martha and Harry would not be present, as would none of the other tenants, because their presence could simply not be allowed in their clumsy, often threadbare or dirty working clothes. Christians they might be, wasn’t everyone, but their presence would lower the tone of the church proceedings and that could not be allowed. It was possible that the Vicar may come to the tenants during the following week as he had done as matter of charity for several years previously.

This evening was late, last light had gone and young Harry had been put to bed in his alcove. The extra blanket that his mother and father had placed over him really was theirs but they had each other to keep warm and could easily afford it for this one night of all nights. The gently burning peat fire, kept alight constantly during these cold winter months, provided sufficient heat to keep the whole building warm. The heavy stones of the thick walls provided a stable warmth effect.

Martha now decided it was time for her to retire for the evening as the cow had settled. The fire would last until the following day, when another piece of turf could be added. A broth, mostly of vegetables and stock, was simmering nicely in its small cauldron hung to one side of the stone wall chimney, and it was most unlikely to come to a boil and spill over during the night. The candle, sat on the ledge of the stone fireplace, was still lit and providing sufficient light for Tom before he came to bed.

As Tom approached the bed alcove, Martha was surprised to see him walk straight past and go up the steep steps at the back of the fire wall. These led to a small storage space in the confines of the thatched roof in which any precious items could be kept warm and dry. Nothing of substance had been stored in here for all the many years that Tom and Martha had occupied the cottage; they did not own anything of any ‘substance’ or importance.

Martha was wondering just what Tom was up to instead of coming straight to bed. She soon found out when he returned with several items tucked into the fold of his left arm while he used the right to aid his way back down the steep steps.

Tom knelt carefully before the fire, on young Harry’s side of the room, and gently lay, what Martha took to be, several pieces of painted wood. Tom arranged the ‘pieces of painted wood’ in a line and then it became clear.

Tom had set out a series of little trucks, linked together by bent nails on each, and at the ‘front’ was the basic model of a steam locomotive. A not very clever model, with flat and square pieces of wood pinned and glued together, but still recognisable as a sort of locomotive.

The railways had finally arrived in the area during the warm summer. The engineering had been around for many years and railway systems had been rapidly spreading to all townships and villages bringing business and prosperity for the few. The many had benefited by seeing the wondrous site and sound of a working locomotive in full steam pulling a series of small coaches or commercial trucks.

Tom had taken Harry across country for a mile or two to see the great spectacle running along the newly laid line that circumvented the extensive Waltham-Stowe estate. Harry’s face had been a picture of wonderment as he witnessed several trains ‘up close’ from the top of a cutting through which the new track ran. He couldn’t stop talking about it to his mother for weeks afterwards.

T om had decided to attempt to make a pull along version of a loco and trucks from pieces of scrap wood off-cuts and some paint he had managed to obtain after working on the estate during the autumn. Tom was not a skilled carpenter but more of an estate handyman, who could repair fences, build or repair stone walls, cut down trees, sweep up rubbish and other non-specialist tasks. If one of the horse drawn carriages required some maintenance or repair, then it went to a coachworks company in the nearby town.

Tom had done his best creating the little trucks and loco from pieces of scrap timber and had even managed the four wheels on each from a length of dowel he had found in the scrap pile. They were a bit rough. Tom only had a large saw for cutting fence posts and the like and no sandpaper. The paint was a leftover from a refurbishment of one of the garages that Waltham-Stowe kept his expensive coaches in. It served to add colour to the plain timber but was a single colour, a dark green. Still Tom was pleased that he had managed to keep his little project secret, cutting, pinning and gluing the pieces of wood when Harry was otherwise occupied. He had even managed to smooth some of the rough corners with a piece of pumice stone and a little whittling.

Now Harry’s Christmas present was laid out before the hearth, not too close, and in the dim light looked as good as it was truly meant to.

Tom was sure that Harry would like his first ever Christmas present. He had not received any in previous years, Tom and Martha did not earn sufficient money for such luxuries.

The excitement on Harry’s face as he had watched a real puffing steam train go past had struck a deep chord in Tom’s heart and he had been determined to see what he could do for Christmas.

Linking all the four trucks and the loco together via the ‘bent’ nails, the train was laid out for Harry to see as he awoke in the morning and turned his head towards the warmth of the smouldering fire.

Tom was feeling incredibly pleased with himself and as he eased into his bed-space alongside Martha. He could not resist pointing out to her what he had been working on all through autumn and some of winter. The smile on her face and the warm cuddle for such a loving husband was the greatest present he could have imagined and he was truly pleased with her reaction.

The hanging curtain gave them a sense of privacy and cuddling each other they soon drifted off to a satisfied sleep.

How long they had been asleep, Tom did not know but he had awoken restless and turned over to face the curtain. Martha’s arm had encircled his half asleep form without stirring. That was when Tom noticed the little flashes of light coming through the gap where the hanging blanket did not quite meet the wall. His first thoughts, as he struggled to come properly awake, were for the fire and possibly the little pull along train set sat in front of the fire; was it too close?

Tom eased the blanket sideways a little as his eyes adjusted to the otherwise dim light. Nothing was burning but there before his eyes he found a flurry of what he could only think of as fireflies zipping round the train. He was transfixed and laid still, so as not to disturb Martha, while he adjusted first his eyes and then his thoughts to figure out just what was going on.

The fireflies were focussed on the wooden train only zipping from one to the other along alternate sides which was most strange. Even stranger and this really struck Tom as odd as he came fully into reality, was that the indistinct glows were not the normal green of fireflies but were different colours. Some were green but others were red, yellow, blue and a host of other sorts of mixed shades.

It was while staring at the remarkable scene that Tom came to the conclusion that the dancing points of light were changing colours as they flew up and down the length of the toy. What kind of fireflies, he thought, changed colour and why were they attracted to the simple wooden toy; was it the smell of the paint perhaps?

Tom could not move, he wanted to, but he was truly transfixed by the sight and had one of the fireflies come in his direction, it would surely have flown straight into his wide open and gaping mouth. Then it struck him, as his eyes focussed on the wooden toy, that the trucks and the loco were no longer the same rough green colour that he had painted them.

They laid there on the beaten clay floor, gleaming in different colours. A green loco with a wonderfully curved boiler, and black wheels which were now properly round, all rough edges and irregularities removed.

Each of the four trucks were a different colour, red, yellow, blue and brown, and with the same smart black wheels. All the painting was immaculately smooth as though made in one of these new factories. And then Tom noticed that the trucks and the loco were not joined together by the bent nails he had used, but by shiny brass hooks and eyes.

Tom was astounded and he rubbed his eyes again just to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming or having some kind of breakdown. As he found the courage to open them once more, there before him was an additional sight. The ‘fireflies’ were floating stationery above the train but behind the small figure of a winged fairie, barely six inches tall that was looking straight at Tom.

This was too much for Tom. He did not wish to rouse his wife Martha, who was fast asleep alongside him, but this was not real and he needed to tell someone.

“Now Tom, there is no need for that,” the diminutive figure spoke to him with a gentle voice that was more felt than heard.

“Rest gently, Tom, all is well,” she continued.

“You are a man of a great love for your family and especially your son Harry, on this special day of days. We have often seen you working hard, especially when you come into the woods, and we felt that special feeling you keep deep inside of you. There are not many in your world that cares and loves for their family as much as you Tom, so we thought that we would keep an eye on how your life was moving along.”

Tom’s mouth was dropping even further open, he wasn’t sure just what he was looking at or listening to.

“It is real Tom,” the fairie continued. “Believe me that those of us that are here right now are but a few of our big family. We all love our family as you love yours and it is for that reason that we have come to help you. You deserve our help and we are only too willing to provide it, so that you may continue the love that you have already shown. Harry will have a special day tomorrow, one that he will never forget. I hope this is also something that you will never forget.”

“No, no, I won’t,” Tom managed to splutter out as quietly as possible.

“Goodbye Tom,” her little voice called out. “Do not forget that we will continue to watch over you for many, many years. Do your best, as you always do, and we will try to help you along whenever we can.”

With that the figure of the fairie seemed to enclose herself within a cloud of glistening sparkles which, as with her, slowly faded away to disappear completely, leaving behind only another firefly, perhaps a little brighter than the others.

Then they all faded from view, just disappeared, gone off to somewhere or other.

Tom was left wondering and in confusion. He laid there still trying to work out what he really had witnessed. He had to have been dreaming, he thought to himself as he laid his head back onto the straw filled pillow. 

“I’ve been dreaming, of course I have,” he thought to himself. “Faeries? What nonsense.”

Then he received a dig in the back from Martha. “Tom, wake up you old fool. You’re talking in your sleep again,” she tried to say quietly so as not to rouse Harry. “Come on man, I want to get back to sleep.”

Tom’s eyes opened at the rude interjection and found himself staring at the closed blanket curtain. He felt sure that his head had just touched the pillow and now his wife was trying to wake him up. He drew aside the blanket a little to see that first light was not showing at the little window in the other side of the room, that the fire was still gently burning and the little train set was where he had left it.

It seemed to be shining by the light of the fire but Tom ignored it; he had been dreaming, hadn’t he.

“Faeries? Nonsense, go back to sleep, you’ve been dreaming. A fool I must certainly be,” were the only thoughts to cross his rousing mind.

First light was not yet breaking, it was still jet black outside. This was too early to rise from bed, especially since it was to be Christmas day on the morrow and he was not required to report for work. He relaxed as Martha reached her arm round his bulky form to cuddle up as they both drifted back to sleep.

When the two of them did wake properly, some time later, they could hear the joyful sounds of Harry. He had to be playing with the little train that Tom had made and as Tom rolled over to Martha, he was greeted with a warm and tender kiss.

“Happy Christmas husband,” Martha said so sweetly to Tom.

“And a Happy Christmas to you, my lovely,” he replied, returning the kiss with another.

Tom pulled the blanket aside to fasten it to the wall and sat on the edge of the bed to look at his son playing.

Harry was on his knees, pulling along the wooden loco with the four trucks following close behind and connected by their shiny brass hooks and eyes. Harry spotted his Dad watching him, jumped to his feet and ran over to embrace him.

“Happy Christmas father, Happy Christmas mother,” he called out in gleeful surprise. “What a wonderful present. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you,” he repeated cuddling his dad firmly and reaching for his mum.

“Happy Christmas son,” they both replied almost in unison. “I believe that you like what your father made for you Harry, is that right?” Martha continued.

“You made my train father?” Harry questioned with a massive look of surprise on his face and his mouth left wide open.

Tom stared after Harry as he returned to his beloved train and trucks. His stare became one of amazed astonishment as he focussed on the little wooden toys.

They were smooth, shiny and in different colours, the loco with a smoothly rounded boiler in green, the trucks of red, yellow, blue and brown and all with shiny black wheels. They were surely as good, if not better, than any that might be available in the shops in town. Tom just sat there with his mouth dropped open trying to figure out what was real and what was not.

~ o ~

Author’s Note.   

This story is a slight elaboration of one told to me long ago as a young boy, by my late grandmother.

She told me that she had been told the story by a friend called Amy when they had both been at school together. Her friend had a distant cousin who was the son of Harry, he of the story; it was her cousin who had told of this event. 

It was a tale that was being passed down the generations and through her family because of its surprising content and a belief in faeries.

Apparently Harry when he had grown older, had gone off to join the local regiment as World War One broke out but never returned; he lies somewhere still in France.

 I wrote this initially to present the tidied up story as a possible competition entry but soon realised that I had exceeded the maximum number of words’ limit, so it has gone in here in full.

I elaborated the story a little to give it a little character but in essence this is what I was told by my gran.

Have you ever seen fireflies; have you seen them dancing about together?

I have but they all looked the same colour to me in the dark.

And perhaps most importantly, have you ever seen them change colour and if so, did you guess right that they might just be faeries enjoying themselves.

If you did and you saw them for real, please let me know.

~ o ~