Listen to the Trees and Other Curious Tales

The snow has stopped falling

Alice is a young girl, twelve years of age. She lives with her mother Sonja (pronounced Sonya), who at thirty-one is considered an ‘elderly’ lady.

They both live together in the medieval heart of England.

“I will have to go again to collect kindling,” thinks Alice looking out at the crisp, fresh snow that has been falling all night long. “I’m tired, my feet hurt and they are going to hurt even more when I go out there. But if I do not go looking for and find more wood, mother and I will surely freeze to death this day.”

The snow has indeed stopped falling. The bleak mid-day sun breaking through gaps in the heavy clouds provides little, if any, warmth.

Being peasants of the poorest kind, Alice and her mother struggle to stay alive. Their efforts are made all the more difficult because Alice’s father is dead. They lack a male presence in the home to do the heavy work.

They are still tasked, regardless, with toiling for the local Lord Jeffery who lives in his castle some twenty leagues distant. During spring and summer there are the fields to work, new crops to be planted after harvesting the old and tending their two cows. These provide milk for themselves but might still end up as food for the Lord, if he decides to take one.

Alice’s father, Godefray, had until a year ago undertaken the majority of the hard labour. A dreadful accident saw him stumble and fall under the wheels of a heavy cart taking sacks of grain to the manorial home. Godefray had ploughed the land, tended to the two cows, harvested the grasses for hay and collected most of the heavy wood from the forest to keep his family warm in winter. Now he lay broken in a pauper’s grave in the old piece of land outside the village church and without any sort of marker. Alice and her mother lived many miles away in the open countryside.

“Oh come on Alice.” Standing at the open doorway, she is now talking to herself. “Get along now, come along girl.” With this she steps down into the driven snow up to her waist. Shuddering at the sudden cold immersion she manages to pull herself clear, a few paces forward. Here the fresh snow is no more than knee deep. She brushes the snow off her rags of clothes but her scrawny legs and bare feet are still deep. She knows that she must get walking soon or freeze.

Alice’s mother Sonja, now without her husband, works mainly on the planting and harvesting of crops during the good months. Preparing the pottage at home, from the few planted and harvested vegetable crops is her regular chore during these life or death months.

Kept in a few piles inside, the vegetables are only just adequate for survival until the warmth returns.

It has been known for the Lord to release a leg of old beef in the winter time to each of his peasant families but this year has not been a good one. Occasionally, very occasionally he has calls all of his peasants into his baronial hall for a mid-winter solstice celebration. Alice does not know if mid-winter has come or gone, that is something which her deceased father would have known.

“Mother,” Alice says as she turns to look back at her mother stood in the open doorway, “I will not be long. We shall have a good fire as soon as I return.”

“Good girl,” Sonja replies. “I look forward to your safe return,” and with that she closes the rickety door to return to the pottage gently simmering on the embers.

Meat for the pot that Sonja and her mother stay alive with, comes mainly from the few chickens they keep, an infrequent hedgehog or an illegally snared rabbit. On rare occasions they may have a piece of scraggy beef but not this year.

Their chickens are content to be in the single room they share with the two old cows and Alice and her mother, at least while it is freezing cold outside.

Their hut, a small one room building they still call home, is made from some stones, clay and willow twigs. It has a couple of very old, insecure timbers supporting the remains of a once thatched roof. What is left of this has been added to by a lot of muddy grass sods to close the gaps. The roof keeps most of the rain out, which is what really matters and is unlikely ever to be improved upon now because of their abject poverty.

The two old and very placid cows, they are required to take care of by law, are standing at the end of the single room. They are kept here during the winter nights and presently during these harsh days. Alice and her mother are kept barely alive, by the heat of a single open hearth fire that is also used for cooking. It burns the kindling, normally stacked high inside from being gathered in the good months; it is now almost gone. Alice must seek out more in her life or death task.

The smoke from the fire generally finds its gentle way through the one and only intentional opening in the flimsy roof, as it does now. If the wind is blowing in the wrong direction however, it is not uncommon to find a lot of smoke filling the one small room. The night-time storm caused a lot of smoke to build up in the room but Alice and her mother were well used to this inconvenience.

Alice stood, where the path must be outside of their home and thinks of her father who she loved dearly. She looks back at their simple house and remembers the happier times before her father’s death when they lived as a family. She dare not shed tears though as they might start to freeze upon her cheeks.

“Come on girl, you must not hesitate,” Alice talks to herself once more to give herself a nudge at getting a move on. She thinks of her father again which takes away some of the pain in her feet as she trudges onward towards the forest.

Her father lost his life just before the onset of the severest winter of last year and which they are experiencing once again. As a result of his untimely death, his once crucial task in keeping a store of chopped logs and kindling has not been completed this year. Alice has done her best but her pile of kindling could not match the amount her father would amass before winter started. Alice and her mother are keeping the fire to a minimum, heating their pottage on an old cast iron pot placed directly into the glowing embers. There are simply not enough logs or bundles of kindling wood, however, to get them through this hard period of winter.

Alice, although only twelve, is much stronger than her mother. She has been given the duty since her father’s death of collecting kindling. It can always be found at the edges of the distant forest as old branches fall off trees or are broken off by strong winds. She may be the stronger of the two but wielding an axe to chop an old fallen tree trunk into pieces for the fire has proved to be too much for her. Firewood has now to be from fallen kindling which she must collect if they are to survive.

To Look for Kindling

Alice is trudging steadily away from her home trying to not feel the biting cold attacking her scrawny legs and pathetically wrapped feet. Her aching ribs start to occupy her thoughts as the cold reaches through her skimpy clothing in a direct frontal assault. She is only too pleased, sort of, that the air is still, quiet and not adding to the cold of the day. The icy blast from the night-time is, for the present, no more. 

“I’m on my own again,” she starts talking to herself once more, “just me.”

Their nearest neighbours, living many miles away near to the village, would be unlikely to find sufficient time to depart from their own tasks of simply staying alive to come to Alice’s assistance. Alice and her mother Sonja are isolated in their solitary hut and must rely entirely on themselves for survival this bleak winter.

This year’s it has turned out to be a severe, hard one with lots of deep drifting snow. Nearly every day there is a fresh snowfall and every so often severe blizzards of driven snow, that no-one could possibly face and survive, sweep in to catch the unaware straggler out in the open. It looks as though winter is going to last for a long time with next year’s spring seemingly a long way off.

The words of Sonja are still fresh in Alice’s thoughts. “You must bring back enough kindling to last us through the storms or we will freeze to death this year. You are the fittest and the stronger of us both, please don’t fail.”

More kindling is required because the current store will last for no more than a couple of days. Alice had brought it the last great bundle of it inside to keep it dry before the winter’s storms really got under way. But the fire is barely alive, being kept going as glowing embers until a few fresh pieces of dry kindling must be added to prevent it going out altogether. That would be the catastrophe they must avoid at all costs.

Alice had no choice now but to keep walking to the forest a few miles away, find and collect some more kindling and return as quickly as possible. The storm may not hold off for too long and if she isn’t successful, it is likely that they will both start to freeze to death within a couple of days or so.

Alice looks up at the grey sky as the light of the sun breaks through a gap in the clouds unexpectedly. She guesses that it must be about mid-day. There are larger patches of clear blue sky starting to show through but the bleak sun provides scant warmth.

A wailing wind of a driving blizzard during the previous night had found its way through every little gap in the rickety walls of their home. Alice and her mother had a difficult night, huddling together against the cold to stay alive. Now all is quiet, calm, very cold and with barely a breeze.

The forest, where kindling can be found and collected, is well over another mile away. While this is not a great distance for her, Alice cannot be out for too long because there is a real possibility of her succumbing to the severe cold and freezing to death; she will have to hurry.

Alice is clothed only in old rags for clothes, the only ones she possesses. A rough cloth skirt and blouse with wrapped rags round her otherwise bare feet to act as shoes. Her most precious possession that may yet save her life is a very old, well worn, heavy woollen blanket. This is wrapped round her shoulders and torso and held in place with a length of old rope. These are her entire possessions of clothing and so far they are keeping her alive.

One foot in front of the other, ignoring the fresh chill as each one sinks into the icy, crisp depths. Alice concentrates hard on keeping herself moving forwards.

“Shite,” Alice cries out as the next step takes her waist deep in the fresh icy snow. “Sard it, sard it,” she called out, struggling to get back up to where the path was buried but not too deep. Once again she has to use her bare hands to brush off the frost clinging to her meagre clothes and bare legs.

Over several rises and through the hollows, blanketed with more ice topped snow and managing to stay between where low stone walls on either side of the path were hidden, she finally reaches the edges of the forest. Her feet have becoming painful as are her fingers and ears also. 

She has endured hardships as every child her age has but she knows that this is worse and she must hurry to return quickly. Without a bundle of whatever kindling she can find or caught outside as the weather changes again for the worse, will likely prove fatal.

A few more steps and she reaches the edge of the forest where any branches that have fallen a few days ago are now mostly buried beneath the fresh snow. A few pieces laid on the surface must have been blown off their parent trees as the night time gale was coming to a halt. Alice struggles to collect what she can see to hand, and finds herself dropping again into more deep hollows. She has to use her energy in collecting what she can see and what she discovers beneath the snow and leave the ice clinging to her rags until later.

There are smaller, younger trees with thin black branches standing out against the brilliant whiteness that have survived the winds and are not too hard to reach. This is much better than digging through the icy depths to find what may be there and she can just about reach the lower branches by jumping up to grip and snap some of them off. Every time she manages to grasp one of these low branches, however, a shower of ice crystals and snow falls upon her. Slowly she is building a pile of useful branches and twigs for kindling back at the place where she entered the wood.

The physical activity is helping to keep her body temperature up but she is rapidly becoming exhausted and her breathing painful. The ice clinging to her rags is adding to her woes and she must remove as much as she can. The longer branches she has found have to be snapped in half or she would be unable to carry them. Alice is rapidly becoming exhausted with all the work needed and she knows she must make the best of her efforts heading for home as quickly as possible.

The central pile that she keeps returning to has grown sufficiently over the last hour or two to create a respectable bundle. Carefully she manages to bind together the collection with a length of rough twine that was tied round her thin waist and concealed by the woollen blanket.

Return Home

Lifting the large bundle onto her shoulders, she finds it heavier than she thought it would be but a heavy load is better than none. Her low energy levels are now most obvious; her body and limbs are truly aching. The trudge back home is going to be arduous. The image of her mother waiting for her return provides the impetus to keep going, albeit at a much slower pace than the trek here. The deep snow is becoming a struggle and her feet now seem more painful than ever before.

“Come on girl, you must keep going,” she talks to herself once more.

The arduous nature of collecting kindling and the trek home is taking its toll not only because of her slight frame but because the pottage available for her to eat each day is neither that nutritious nor energy providing. 

She is surviving only on the meagre amount of energy stored in her body but that is not going to last long. The pottage, a vegetable stew like mixture thickened with pulses, has recently included scraps of meat from a dead rabbit they found a few days ago. It must have made a fatal mistake to come out in the cold and did not survive; it has benefited Alice and Sonja greatly. A little rough bread, made by Alice’s mother has helped to fill their empty stomachs.

They dare not slaughter one of the cows even on the point of impending death from starvation because they belong to the baron. They can take some of the milk, when it’s available, but that needs them to be in calf again when the warmer weather returns. They have vegetables and potatoes kept in a wicker basket and a bag of grain, perhaps sufficient to get through this winter, perhaps not. They are hoping that the Baron may once again bring all his peasants into the great hall for a warm nutritious meal. He has done this before at the mid-winter solstice and it will prove be a life saver if he repeats this charitable act again.

In the big hall, to celebrate the mid-winter solstice, the Baron would have two of his pigs spit-roasted over large blazing fires. No-on ever needed encouragement to eat them. To these he would add fresh baked bread and copious quantities of ale and wine. If the Baron is in a good mood he may very well be found serving his food and wine to the gathered serfs and peasants. There would be hot wine with fresh bread and the drinking, eating and sleeping in the warmth from his huge fire may go on for several days. More pigs may very well be slaughtered and roasted if the baron remained in good mood. When the eating, drinking and keeping warm had come to an end, it would be normal for each family to be provided with a sack of grain from the Baron as they left for their home.

Alice is trying to dream only of a hot bowl of pottage. The possibility of the mid-winter event does not cross her mind, not for a moment. Her attention is distracted by the thought of food, away from the cold and the pain that is now increasing in her feet. But such distraction cannot last for long.

Alice’s attention is brought back into focus as she realises that she is exiting the forest and the last few bare trunks are left behind.

“Come on girl,” yet again she repeats these words as before her is a straight trudge back to her mother, to home and respite from the weather.

The last few shadows of trees are passed and the long trudge back home is underway for real. A slow deep whistle is now heard by Alice behind her as a breeze starts to find its way through the snow clad branches of the forest she has just left.

It is only mid-afternoon or somewhere near that time, but the skies have turned dark with heavy clouds blocking whatever meagre sun there was. 

The wind picks up to a slight scream behind her but also into a menacing, freezing whiteness before her that is driving into the poor girl’s face.

She realises that her life is in serious danger; it is a long trek back to the little house she calls home. Her senses are strained trying to combat the fear of not knowing whether the journey can be completed or if a freezing death awaits her. Tears are of no use, they may freeze on her cheeks and whimpering must be curtailed as her late father once told her.

“Try not to give in, be strong, if you must succumb then stare death in the face as he takes you,” her late father’s words go through her mind.

Leaning into the increasing wind driven snow, a blizzard now by any other name, the grim reaper is surely waiting for her. It is only the pain of her toes that is stopping her from collapsing into a delirious frozen dream to die where she falls.

Foot after foot, up out of the deep snow to reach forward to sink down to the same depth, her concentration and attempt at ignoring the pain, keeps her going. Step after step, after slow step with numb repetition is suddenly replaced by the realisation that she no longer knows in which direction she is moving. Having looked up into the wind driven snow coming straight at her, she is unable to see where she is or in which direction she must go.

A Saviour

She can see only a few feet into the blizzard and any footprints made on the earlier journey, from her home to the forest, have long since disappeared. She is lost and desperate to survive, but how? She is struggling badly, dropping almost to her knees every few steps. Shortly she will not rise again and the impending figure of death carrying his scythe will come to take her.

A hand reaches down to touch her shoulder. Alice can only think that death, the reaper, is reaching out to her before she is to be taken from life. She does not have the energy to scream although the fear she feels courses through her body. She almost shudders but no longer has the energy even for that. It seems that this is the time, her time, to depart this life and without any sort of struggle. She is resigned to her fate, she must accept whatever death delivers; her life is lost.

“Take me if you must, I am not afraid of you,” Alice muttered somehow finding the strength to face the worst.

The weight of the bundle of kindling is lifted off her shoulders. Alice, despite her desperate situation, her fear and the soul numbing cold, is shocked to feel the load lifted. She does not dare raise her eyes against the cruelty of the driven snow to look death straight in the face, but manages just enough to see the dark form before her.

There, barely visible against the white onslaught, is an old, stout man bent down and reaching to take the bundle of kindling away from her and place it easily on to his own shoulder. He steps forward to stand to her left and with his free right arm reaches round her waist, to grip it firmly. This provides her with the support she needs to ease herself up and away from the hole in the snow into which she was about to resign herself.

“Come my dear,” his gravelly voice manages to be heard over the howl of the wind. “Come, come, my house is nearby. It is not much but there is a warm fire and food there for you. Come, hurry, you must try to come with me.”

She does not want to resist him but has become too weak to even contemplate resisting anyone, even death. If this is a different sort of death then she has to go with it, she cannot resist. But who is this old man who has taken her load and lifted her out of the snow? Is he not death but something else? If she is to avoid the frozen fate that has started to befall her, she must accept this strangeness. Or perhaps this is simply another way of dying. In any case she is far too weak to do other than accept what is happening.

There is something remotely familiar about this old man, something about his craggy face hidden in greater part by a large wiry beard. If he is a real person and not death in disguise, it is not a face that she has seen in this manor before. The feeling that she should know him lingers however. This is not death, surely. Perhaps delirium is starting to overtake her to ease her passage from this life.

She cannot work out what is happening but if this is real then it is good and she will live; if this is a dream, then it is a pleasant way to die. Alice cannot determine if she is standing, has fallen down or is moving along; her body is numb with pain and her mind is numb with confusion.

Her limp form is suddenly let go of and it falls back into the snow. A door is opened before her and the heat from the warm air rushing out raises her hopes. The old man, having let go of her to open the door and throw her bundle inside, reaches back down and with both hands raises her more or less to her feet. She is carried more than walks the few steps inside the house where the door is slammed shut behind her against the howl of the wind.

Still holding her from falling down once more from total exhaustion, he manages to move Alice into an old rickety chair before the fire. A large rough woollen blanket, already lining the chair, is pulled round her. Her nearly dead feet, still wrapped in the rough and sodden rags, are taken into the hands of the old man. He does not rub them but takes each in turn between both hands, holding them gently as some warmth and circulation is returned.

He lets her ragged wrapped feet settle upon the baked earth floor which is warm from the effects of the simple fire.

Sitting alongside her on what appears to be the only other piece of furniture in the room, a three legged stool, he takes one of her hands gently within his two.

“There, there, my dear,” he speaks these simple words of comfort in the same gravelly voice that she heard outside, but much quieter now. They are spoken with a softness that is so unrelated to his aged, stout, yet rugged persona.

Alice realises that this is not death’s greeting, that she is no longer likely to die but is being warmed slowly back to life by this kindly old man. This is a man who rescued her from the very clutches of death itself. Despite shivering, she is recovering slowly something of her composure and looks straight into his eyes. All is kindness and love. She recognises something or someone in his eyes but she is still unable to identify what or who it might be. This is surely someone she should know but is unable to find within her thoughts whoever it might be. She is alive, not fully, but improving by the moment and that is all that is important to her.

The old man reaches down to her feet again and removes the sodden rags that were meant to serve as shoes. Her bare feet are now being warmed directly by the welcome heat of the crackling fire and the warm earth; the pieces of rag placed to one side to dry out.

“I am called Geoffroi,” the old man tells her. “And I believe that your name is Alice; is that correct?” he asks her.

Alice is shocked by this. “How do you know my name?” she manages in a hoarse mumble, unable to get her voice working properly yet.

“Don’t concern yourself with that, my dear,” he replies. “I know of most people who live and work in this part of the Lord’s manor.”

She doesn’t know everyone; she is only a very young girl and must accept that he knows of her, but she not of him.

The old man disturbs the fire with an old iron and the blazing log in its centre sinks into the blazing kindling and embers sending a shower of sparks across the floor. A fresh generation of smoke does not entirely leave the room by the hole in the roof but some of it swirls back to add to the small amount already circling up at the thatched roof. The small pot containing a simmering vegetable broth, now bubbles a little more vigorously.

“This is warming nicely and I will sort a bowl for you,” he says to Alice with a big smile. “Warmth on the inside and a little nourishment will see you well on the way to being back to your normal self, have no fear.”

“This is so generous,” Alice thinks to herself. “He has so little food, but will share what he has with me.”

“I am grateful Sir,” Alice manages to reply. “You are most kind.”

“It is the least I can do for one so young and frail who has become lost in such harsh weather; winter can be so cruel. You cannot go back outside. You must not attempt to return home until these dreadful conditions are eased. I feel sure that you will be strong enough to continue your journey on the morrow; for now you must rest and take of nourishment.”

He recovers a rough wooden bowl from its place near the fire. With an equally roughly carved wooden spoon he ladles some of the broth into it and then offers it to Alice. She attempts to take the bowl but her hands are still trembling so much that she is unable to hold it properly. The old man simply keeps hold of the bowl. With the greatest of care he starts to feed Alice himself offering each spoonful to her lips, but only as fast as she is capable of taking-in the thick, rich tasting and life giving broth.

It is hot, not so that it might burn, and she savours the wonderful taste of vegetables and some small pieces of meat. She has not tasted meat properly since winter began, save for the scraggy rabbit she found. She is most grateful to the old man whose only food she must now be eating.

He smiles at her and she is almost of the thought that he can hear what she is thinking; he smiles yet again.

“He is an old man, a kindly man,” thinks Alice and she hopes that he is offering hospitality from a good Christian nature without further intent.

It’s as though he has read her mind once again and with a big friendly smile responds to her worrying thoughts.

“Now then child, you have nothing to fear from me, I shall take care of you this night only until you are strong enough to continue your journey with your heavy load. You must build up your strength, come eat, the broth is tasty and will serve you well.”

She takes more sips gingerly from the offered spoon, as the broth is still hot to her lips. Then a little more and with each small morsel her body responds well.

A few more sips from the spoon and she decides to reach for it as she wishes to show that she can feed herself. The old man is only too happy to relinquish the spoon into her still shaky hands. She makes good use of the spoon while the old man continues to keep a firm grip on the bowl.

The old man is still sitting on his stool when Alice has finished with the bowl and taking it from her, he asks if she would like more; she nods yes.

“But kind sir, this is your food that you are offering me. I cannot take it all.”

“Do not concern yourself, my dear,” he responds. “There is plenty in the old pot for me and I have eaten my fill already. Come you must eat.”

The refilled bowl offered to her once more, is grasped by Alice as her trembling has eased and placing it on her lap, she also takes better hold of the spoon and is soon feeding herself.

Eating the broth with relish, she has never felt so good; it must be full of goodness. This is nothing like the pottage that her mother makes.

“I’m sure your mother’s food is good for you or you would not have had the strength to walk as far as you have,” he comments in his old rough voice.

Alice thought that now that he must be reading her mind and she was worried by this thought. In between spoonfuls of the broth, she glances at him to find that he is smiling that big broad smile yet again.

Reaching down to the fireside, he returns with a torn off piece of bread which he places into the bowl. Alice manages a return smile and a simple, “Thank you.”

This time Alice empties the bowl, using the bread to clean the broth from the wood, which he then takes from her to place it back by the fire from where it came. He picks up a hard and well used leather beaker from the floor, full with some beverage, and offers this to her. The severe shivering has ceased with the new inner warmth and she is quite capable of holding it without spilling the weak ale it contains; she is most grateful for the drink and while uncertain about its contents none-the-less takes a small sip.

In the corner behind the old man, there is a small timber framed bed with a straw filled mattress on it and some animal skins for a cover.

“Take your care young lady, there is nothing to fear in this house. You are most safe and will still be so when you continue your journey on the morrow,” he tells her pointing to the bed.

“Before you sleep,” he continues, “clear your throat with a little more drink, it is quite safe, it is my own ale, I know it is good.”

She hesitated nervously.

“Now look here,” he says taking the leather beaker from her to take a good draught himself. “It is most safe, come drink and clear your mouth.”

She does this time to find that it is indeed most pleasant, better than the cold water, now from melting snow, which is all there is at home. She empties the beaker and with, “Thank you Sir,” hands it back empty.

“Now you really must sleep,” he says, pointing to the straw filled rough cloth mattress that is clear of the floor on its wooden frame.

Taking her hand, because she is still a little unsteady and removing the blanket from round her before it falls to the floor, he helps her take the few steps to the bed. Thankful for his assistance, for being alive and filled with the warmth of food and drink, the few steps are not a great trouble and she manages to walk the short distance, almost on her own.

The old man lifts the old sheep skins off the mattress and she gladly slumps onto it. When she has lain, partly crouching, he places the hides over her and then the blanket for more warmth and comfort.

Alice, unable to keep her eyes open, quickly and gladly falls into a warm all embracing and deep, body repairing sleep. Geoffroi sits in the now vacated seat and contemplates sleeping himself.

The Morrow

Outside, the early morning low light as the sun creeps once again above the horizon, reflects off the ice crystals that form the new crust on the top of the fresh night snow. The sun and the ice crystals together produce a delightful sparkle in the still air although there is no one in this house that is remotely concerned with contemplating such beauty.

Alice’s eyes open as she awakens in the warmth of the bed, automatically at this early time to meet the start of the day.

A short distance away Geoffroi, sat in the chair and wide awake, notices Alice stirring.

“Ah my dear girl, I see you are now awake and well, is this not so?” he asks.

She responds with a most grateful smile, pulls the blanket and hides aside, swings her legs round and manages to get to her feet.

“Another bowl of broth before you are on your way,” he insists rising to his feet, indicating that the chair can be hers.

She accepts, now not requiring the blanket, and sits in the chair while the wooden bowl is filled again from the simmering and thickening broth. Another piece of the bread is torn from the loaf and all is offered to Alice.

She eats heartily, finishing her meal and drinking another draught of the ale for further sustenance and mouth rinsing, considering now that there is nothing that she could not face.

Handing back the wooden bowl, spoon and beaker, she pulls the warmed pieces of rag that serve as her shoes and wraps them about her grimy feet; this feels so nice to her.

“Are you ready to leave now, my child?” he asks.

She responds by getting to her feet and before picking up her collection of bound kindling that is by the door, reaches for and embraces him as a young girl might an elderly relative.

“I cannot thank you enough Sir. Truly you are a good Christian man. I am forever indebted to you.”

“There, there, my dear,” he speaks the words she has heard before but there is something oddly familiar about them, none the less.

“Come now, you must continue your journey my child,” he speaks gently but somehow firmly as he detaches himself from her grasp.

Reaching out Geoffroi opens the door and steps outside into knee deep fresh snow. Offering his hand to Alice, who has slung the kindling over her shoulder, she takes it, steps forward and drops knee deep into the crisp snow.

“It will not be as deep over there,” he says, pointing away from the house where a path should be. “That which you have now stepped into is driven by the wind and it has piled against the wall of my house.”

“Look over there he says,” pointing once more to the crest of a rise where a solitary tree stands alone in the chill silent air. “Make for that tree then keep straight on from there towards the next rise and you will be home by the hour.”

“I thank you for the company,” he adds. “You are a brave and good daughter to a fine mother, take care and a safe journey home.”

Dropping her bundle, her heart filled with love for the elderly man, she flings her arms round him once more, close and tight in a loving cuddle.

“I thank you most greatly, truly,” she says offering her deep heartfelt thanks while still holding close to him. “There is a place most surely in God’s heaven that is reserved especially for you.”

He responds with what she takes as a knowing sort of smile, which is a little confusing. Picking up her bundle of kindling once more, throwing it over her shoulder and with a final glance at his smiling face, sets off in the direction of that lone tree with renewed energy.

Fifty yards or so travelled and she turns to see him still outside his house giving her a friendly wave.

It takes her another thirty minutes or so trudging through the ice covered snow to reach the solitary tree on the top of the rise. Before going over the crest, she turns for the final time to wave goodbye but he is no longer to be seen. His house also is nowhere to be seen, not even a rise of smoke from the fire.

“Have I gone the right way?” she questions herself. Checking the line of footprints in the fresh virgin snow they lead back to where the small dwelling should surely be, but is not.

“This doesn’t make sense,” she talks to herself. “Perhaps this is an illusion of the ups and downs of the ground.” There is only one direction that she must travel in to get back to her mother’s home, forward. In the distance, over the next rise, she can just make out a swirl of feint, lazy smoke which has to be her home.

Another look back, but still nothing, she knows she must do the simple thing, get a move on, go quickly and do not look back again. She doesn’t and walks forward down this slope towards the next rise in the knee deep snow with a renewed energy but only as quickly as it will let her.

Her heart is beating faster; she can feel the thumping in her ears and in her chest. “Go forward Alice, do not stop now; go,” she is talking to herself again.

Barely an hour has passed since that lonely old tree on the first crest, across this slight valley and up the next crest before she arrives at home.

“Mother,” she calls out, “mother, I am home, I am well, mother.”

The door of their simple house opens inwards with some difficulty and it takes some further good pulls by her mother against the drift of snow against which it is frozen, to free it and make a clear path.

Sonja, her mother, steps out into the depth of the snow where she stops suddenly with a look on her face as though she has seen a miracle or perhaps a ghost. She is shocked, excited and happy all at the same time. She rushes the few steps through the drift of snow, to reach and throw her arms round her daughter.

“A miracle, a miracle,” she proclaims to the sky. “Praise is to God for this deliverance. You are alive, alive, the Almighty has kept you alive,” she proclaims breaking into tears and an even tighter embrace.

“Come inside, come, come,” as she pulls Alice with her kindling into the dim interior of their home.

The last few pieces of dry kindling and the last piece of rough wood from autumn are burning slowly on the open hearth. The fresh kindling is thrown on the floor alongside the fire and a few pieces broken to join the burning struggle.

Together they sit down on the two stools they possess and Sonja queries how she survived the night. Where did she find shelter and why was she coming home from the direction that she did. Alice explained, with a good description of the help and sustenance she received from the old man called Geoffroi, how it was she was rescued and survived the harsh night.

At the mention of his name her mother’s face turned ashen and she was clearly shocked and trembling.

“What is the matter my mother?” Alice asks. “I am alive and well, what ever is the matter?”

“Tell me again what was this man’s name is and his appearance?” Sonja asks her daughter, “Tell me again.”

Alice repeats his name, describes the appearance of the elderly man and tells of the love and affection he showed towards her, without which she would surely have died.

“The man you have described child,” she starts off in a stuttering way, “is no other than your grandfather, your late father’s father.”

“That cannot be, surely,” Alice exclaims but by the pallor of her mother’s face she knows that she is very serious.

“Your grandfather could make a good broth and his own ale, as this person you describe,” Sonja continues. “I remember him with a good head of hair and beard right up to his death and his name was Geoffroi.”

Alice just sat there shaking.

“My girl,” Sonja says to her daughter. “Come, I will lead you to his house. The cows are fed and warm and the fire will be good for another hour or two. Come follow me.”

Alice struggles to her feet, her mind cannot comprehend what her mother has just said and in a panic with an uncertain voice manages, “If it is true, it cannot be mother, it cannot be.”

She is far from certain that it could be true; she cannot contemplate that it could possibly be true.

“Alice, please come with me now,” Sonja says trying to get Alice to her feet.

She responds on shaky legs and follows her mother outside into the crisp, ice covered snow. Alice wants to neither be out in the cold once more, nor travel to the place she has become frightened of.

Sonja does not want to spend too long in the snow, even if the sky is now a clear blue with not a cloud in sight; the weather can change very quickly and she has no wish to be caught by a new storm. Sonja takes Alice’s hand, they smile at each other, and walk together like this for a while until the deep snow means they must struggle independently to make progress. They reach the rise and clamber up to the lone tree where they stop for breath, but only for a short time; Sonja wants to keep going despite her difficulty in this energy sapping cold.

Alice looks to the distance to find the house of the lovely old man Geoffroi, but as before there is no sign of it. Sonja noticing Alice looking in the direction of her late grandfather, obviously looking for something that cannot be there, puts her arm round Alice’s shoulders.

“I will show you what remains of your grandfather’s house Alice,” Sonja speaks gently to her daughter. “Have no fear, there is nothing there that can hurt you, I promise.”

Alice is not concerned that there may be something at the house, or the remains of someone, to hurt her. She is a frightened as she realises that if her mother is speaking the truth then she was saved from a certain death in the cold and provided with sustenance and love by someone who has been dead a long time.

Sonja has recovered her breath and is ready to move on down the slope for the last forty of fifty minutes he knows it will take to reach where she wishes to take Alice. In the crisp ice covered snow, deep footprints can be still seen where Alice walked this morning.

“There mother, that’s where I walked this morning,” Alice points out to her mother.

“I know my love, I know,” Sonja responds. “We are walking in the right direction, come now.”

Alice’s feet set off almost by themselves as Sonja sets off the down the slope of deep snow. At the bottom Sonja has to wait for her daughter who, while being fitter because she is young, is becoming reluctant to go any further. She wants to follow her mother to see the truth of what she has said but at the same time fearful of what she might find. Sonja takes her daughter’s hand again and with that connection Alice finds her worries are eased; she is in close contact with her mother and that is comforting. Within the hour they have arrived where Sonja wishes to go.

In the snow there are the clear depressions in the deep snow where Alice and the old man parted outside his house, but where is the house? Sonja walks up to where a house had once stood and brushes away as much snow as she needs to show Alice what she expected to find. The remnants of some burnt vertical timbers, even a little wattle and daub now laid flat on the firm ground beneath the snow. There was a lot of black marking from where Sonja had scraped the snow away that could only be soot or charcoal from the burnt timber.

“These are the only remnants of a fine house that once stood here Alice, your grandfather Geoffroi’s house. He was fine man, a man who valued life and would always offer help to those in any sort of need, like you Alice,” Sonja said.

“Your grandfather had a fine house until the day that he offended a visiting Baron in some way and ended up being killed by his henchmen and burnt within as it was put to the torch.”

“All that remains are these few pieces of burnt wall and timber now almost gone completely by the passage of time, longer than you have been alive.

Alice and her mum held each other close as they stood in complete silence and the tears ran easily. Alice had found it hard to believe the words her mother had spoken. But this had now to be accepted even though the very her real memories of the previous night were telling her something else. 

Sonja and Alice, holding each other’s hands trudged slowly back from where they had just come, up the rise to the lone tree. As Alice let go of her mother, who starts off down the slope on the far side, she could not resist one more backwards glance.

Turning round for that wistful look, there in the distance is the house where she received sustenance and love, wispy grey smoke rising slowly from the roof.

Standing outside is a figure that Alice recognises immediately and watches as he waves a last goodbye to her. Alice, feeling the inner warmth from the love of a grandfather, manages to raise a shaking arm in response before turning to follow her mother.

~ o ~

Author’s Notes 

I’m not sure where this story comes from.

I awoke one morning and it was there in my head. I scribbled down, in a notebook I keep by the side of my bed, as much as I could of what I thought may be no more than a very illuminating dream, in case I should forget any of it. I need not have worried because as I reviewed my scribbles over breakfast I found the memory of the story to be almost a real memory of my own and I could still recall every single detail as though it had happened yesterday.

I tried to put away my illusory memories and shot off to work; my mind was then clear of the dream-time story that I thought it had to be.

Coming home that evening, I looked again at my notes and within an instant I was aware of the finest detail, much that I had not written down.

I confess to being a believer in reincarnation and this is seems to be the only explanation to the way I still feel about ‘remembering’ such events. Which character do I feel myself to be in the story? I have no idea and no great alignment with any of the three characters comes to mind. But I swear to you, the reader, that in my bones I feel the story to be as factually correct as possible.

Perhaps it will take a lifetime, my lifetime, to finally find the answer to that question.

~ o ~