The strange old man in red with the belled reindeer led the ragtag party, weary and wet and bruised and smarting, deep into the north wood. Night had fallen by then, but so bright was the light shining from the crook of his staff that it chased all the shadows, and the snow sparkled like day. He led them on until they came to the old faerie how, the one with the standing stone, the one the village of Stane How was named for. Somehow the snow had been melted from it, and the man climbed up it through moss and ferns and even flowers, still leading his reindeer. They came to stand by a perfect little spruce that had magically sprung to life there–everyone could see its roots twisted in with the moss, as if it had been there for years. It stood just higher than the stone on the top of the how, and there were flowers twined in its branches, and candles…or, they couldn’t have been candles, because they were moving, floating in and about the filigreed branches, flashing on and off, on and off….
“They look like fireflies!” Violet breathed. She and Bertie had gotten down from Clive, and Clive nickered in her ear. How it was possible to have fireflies, or flowers, in the middle of winter, she didn’t know. But so much of this was of course impossible, starting with the man who now raised a mittened hand to the crowd assembled below.
“This forest has ever been hallowed and beloved. I could tell you the story of how that came to be, but it is not altogether a happy story, and so it is one for another night. But all who have come through this wood have recognized it as sacred in their own way. Men have their ways and animals, theirs. In many places in the world, those ways meet with each other, and in many they clash. It is my desire, my hope, that this wood will continue as it has always been–a place of sanctuary, for all. This tree will be a sign of that hope. Every year, I will visit it and rekindle that hope, and I pray that you do the same.” And with that he lifted his staff to the top of the tree, and the light drifted to rest there, shining down on the faces–round and bearded, furred and feathered–of all assembled at the foot of the how.
“Merry Christmas,” said Saint Nicholas, because of course that was who he was, with a great, big smile in his white beard. “And to all, a good night.” With a surprisingly agile leap, he swung up on the back of his reindeer, which leapt into the air, ran a spiral up and around the clearing above the how as if climbing a crystal staircase, and galloped off into the night sky above.
Everyone just stood for a while, mesmerized by the blazing Christmas tree on the fae how, by what had just happened. And then slowly, the men gathered their tools and went home. And slowly, the animals went back to their burrows and tucked themselves in for the night.
Violet and Bertie rode home on Clive not saying a word to each other. When they’d brushed him down and left him munching a pile of hay contentedly as if nothing that had happened the last day or so had happened, then at last they turned to each other and said at exactly the same time, “What should we tell Ma?”
They laughed together. Bertie put his arms around Violet’s shoulders and squeezed her. “I think we should give her a big kiss and tell her ‘Merry Christmas, Ma,’ don’t you?”
And so they did. Ma Cooper, after holding Violet’s face in her hands and looking her all over for a long minute and biting back the scolding she so clearly wanted to give because it was Christmas, after all, handed her daughter a letter.
“A distinguished-looking gentleman stopped by– soaking wet, though! Imagine going out in the winter in nothing but a suit and top coat!” Ma Cooper shook her head at the pure nonsense of it. “I got him some tea and bade him dry himself by the fire for a bit, and then he left this for you, with that parcel over there.” Violet ran to look at the stack by the Christmas tree tied together with twine. They were veterinary books–on anatomy and farm breeds, on mending bones and mixing feed, on training and behavior–college textbooks. With trembling hands, she opened the letter:
“Dear Miss Cooper,
I have reflected upon your offer to revoke your scholarship in exchange for the timber contract and am afraid I must decline it. In fact, I have added a stipend to the scholarship so that you will not be tempted to take on additional work during your program of study at Beringford Veterinary College. You should be studying your curriculum, not mending people’s underthings, which is in my judgment an unseemly occupation for a future Doctor of Veterinary Medicine.
Yours Sincerely,
Lydia Beringford
P.S. Christabel wishes me to inform you that she would like very much for you to stop by the mansion now and then and let her know how your studies are progressing.
P.P.S. When you do so, please observe normal visiting hours and do not arrive half-dead and drip snow all over my carpets.”
Violet couldn’t tell if she were laughing or crying as she wiped tears from her eyes. Bertie took the letter, read it, and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Pa would be so proud.” And then their mother was calling them to eat some soup and get into bed, for heaven’s sake, before it was Christmas morning already.
***
Armand and Abigail were exhausted of course, but at the end of the day, they were night creatures. So, they got Elsie and her kits and her grand-kits tucked into the nest, Alfred flew off to find them all some dinner, and then Armand flew down to where Martin the fox was nudging his family back toward their burrow for the night, with Eustace trundling along behind them.
“You’re all right?” Armand asked. Martin shrugged and licked his chops.
“I’d say the men got worse than they gave. You and yours?”
“We’re all right.”
Martin grunted his approval and turned to go. Then, he paused and looked back over a shoulder; one foxy eye glowed like amber. “Merry Christmas, neighbor.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Armand flew back up to the spruce where Abigail was waiting for him. She sidled over and tucked her head into the crook between her mate’s head and wing. “Would you look at that?” she murmured. The lights on the Christmas tree on the how were still burning by whatever deep magic St Nicholas had infused them with, and they lit up all the north wood, it seemed–the ancient trees and stands of bracken, the hawthorn berry bushes and the fairy rings, the nests and burrows, the standing stones and all the bones they stood over, old and older, of men and animals alike. Above it all, the owls watched the wood and waited–for their son to come home to them once more, and for Christmas morning.
The Rookery 