Legend of the Santybaras

Long ago, in the land of Llawenglen, a grand fir tree grew in the spot where four mountains meet, whose roots were intertwined with a strand of ancient holiday magic. Every year, when the clock struck midnight on the first of December, the magic awoke. A magnificent choir sprung forth from the tree and spread Christmas cheer throughout the land. The santybaras sang as they inaugurated the holiday season by dressing their beloved tree with the shiniest of baubles, sparkliest of garlands, and twinkliest of string lights. They wore hand-knitted sweaters and red hats with white trim and always had hot cocoa ready for serving.

Once their beloved tree was decked to the nines, the santybaras flew into the village and hung bright lights and decorations to soften the hearts of the villagers. The Christmas magic they adorned the village with seemed to bring time to a standstill and invited the noticing of small joys: a warm mug to soothe frigid hands on cold winter days; lights twinkling against the dark, snow-covered backdrop; and, most of all, the sound of familiar carols being hummed by the whole community.

While the moon her watch is keeping

All through the night

While the weary world is sleeping

All through the night

O’er thy spirit gently stealing

Visions of delight revealing

Breathes a pure and holy feeling

All through the night

In the advent to Christmas, the santybaras held great feasts for the people of Llawenglen. The grandeur of the gifts the santybaras gave did not go unnoticed, but neither did the generosity with which they shared. They never kept any of the magic for themselves. Instead, their humility ensured none would go without. This Christmas magic instilled a sense of wonder in the community, which they kept in their hearts throughout the year until the santybaras returned. Everyone was filled with glad tidings and good cheer because of the santybaras and the magic of the fir tree. Until…

One year on the eve the santybaras were set to return, just before midnight, tragedy struck. A man with a freshly sharpened axe was seen wandering into the forest. Fuelled by greed and disdain for the santybaras, he was in search of the majestic tree that would surely fetch a pretty penny. When he came upon the grand fir growing in the spot where four mountains meet, he chose to steal it and silence the santybaras. The woodsman chopped down the tree in three simple strokes.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

Crack, snap, crash.

By the time the woodsman got back to his workshop with the tree, branches had snapped off from being dragged and one side was completely shed of its needles. The poor fir lost its grandeur upon separation from its roots. When the woodsman saw the tree, he was so displeased he tossed it aside to rot with other pieces of discarded timber.

The villagers woke on the first of December expecting the transformation brought by the santybaras but were met with darkness. They tried to decorate on their own and fill the air with joyful tunes; however, no matter how many trimmings the villagers hung, the baubles were matte, the garlands lacked sparkle, and the string lights flickered. Without the santybara choir and the warmth of their hearts, the season had no charm and the Christmas tradition faded from memory and into legend.

The shop seems to collect dust by the ton even though Karamy goes around daily with the plume. But, what else would one expect from an apothecary owned by an Old Crone?

Before Karamy started running the shop front, the place was dirty and disorganised; its standoffish vibe and homely appearance forced bile to jump from stomach to throat. Upon entering, a little bell made a hollow toll and taxidermied animals, who lined the tops of the walls like crown moulding, stared at patrons with crooked, judgmental eyes. The rest of the wall space was fitted with built-in shelves that were littered with trinkets and elixirs, herbs and talismans, charms and ingredients. How anything could be found was a mystery. Some natural light managed to squeeze between the debris on the windows, and to perpetuate the eerie mood, candles stuck into peaks of melted wax covered the main counter and sent flickering shadows about the space. Behind this, the Old Crone sat snarling. At least, the plethora of wrinkles on her face made her appear quite surly.

But Karamy was not deterred. She tied back her ringlets, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work. Though only slightly taller than a gnome, Karamy is mighty. In no time at all, the windows gleamed crystal clear, the melted wax had been repurposed into fresh rosemary and clementine scented candles, and the bookshelves reorganised. She never grumbled. The genuine nature of her heart causes her to sing while she works and help anyone (or thing) that crosses her path – including people and places that have seen better days.

Karamy stands on a stool on her tiptoes, straining to reach the top of the bookshelf behind the register. Both sets of legs are uneven. She wills her arms to elongate as the stool teeters back and forth. Her focus is divided. She must shift her weight from leg to leg to offset the stool while simultaneously stretching her arm as long as possible.

‘Almost th—’

CRASH

Karamy blinks a few times and pats her body to ensure everything is where it should be and nothing is missing. Pieces of wooden shelving, books, broken glass vials, and dried herbs surround her on the floor. She slowly looks to the bookshelf and shrinks when she sees the damage. Her fall was broken by five shelves, and the force snapped the back panel in half. She feels the unnerving eyes of the taxidermied critters boring into her and imagines them all pointing and laughing. Karamy carefully sidesteps glass shards and grabs the broom as the cellar door slams and the distinct tap-shuffle-shuffle of the Old Crone makes its way up the stairs.

CREAK

‘Karamy, I have a new brew for you to—Goodness, what a mess.’ The Old Crone, dressed in her usual black hooded cloak, stands in the doorway, with cane in one hand and a bright yellow mug in the other.

‘I’m sorry Mollianna,’ Karamy starts.

‘It’s no matter. You’ll clean it, I’m sure. Try this first would you.’

Karamy feels her tastebuds explode with sea salt and raw marine life. It’s horrid, and she chokes while attempting to swallow.

‘It’s definitely a unique taste… What’s it supposed to help with?’

‘Strengthening optimism.’

‘I don’t know if the taste and the concept are the right blend.’

‘Hmm, back to work then,’ and the Old Crone disappears to the cellar.

Tap-shuffle-shuffle, tap-shuffle-shuffle.  

Karamy finishes sweeping the bits off the floor and looks at the bookshelf pensively. A visit to the village builder is in order – this will be her fourth one this week. But such is the way when working in a shop as rickety as this one; though, thanks to his help, the two of them have begun to engineer strength and stability back into the shop’s framework by slowly replacing the plethora of built-in bookshelves that cover the walls.

The builder’s workshop is on the other side of the village, close to the forest. He is a very tall and hairy man with an odd sense of humour.

‘Good morning, Stylus,’ Karamy says to announce herself. The bear of a man looks up from his work bench wearing magnifying googles.

‘Karamy, what’s broken this time?’ he teases.

‘The bookshelf.’ He stares at her blankly. ‘Er, the one behind the register,’ she clarifies. ‘It needs a new back panel and at least five shelves.’ A meek smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

‘Dare I ask?’

‘I mean, it’s all so old, probably just wear and tear, you know.’ He is much too handsome to divulge the truth – what would he think of her then?

‘I think that’s the only bookshelf we haven’t gotten to yet, right?’ he asks.

‘Mhhmmm.’ She nods and goes over to see what he is working on. Stylus is holding a miniature gear between his thumb and index finger in his right hand and a small screwdriver in his left. ‘No wonder you need those goggles,’ Karamy says, ‘What are you making?’

‘Oh, nothing yet. Just messing around with some ideas.’ Stylus shrugs his shoulders and carefully puts the tools down. ‘Right, I’ll be with you at the shop in an hour.’

Karamy taps her fingers on the till counter as she watches Stylus perform his measurement process. She knows patience is in order, but Stylus seems to be the one person who tests her absolute limits. If she didn’t know that he was best in business, his time-consuming process would do her head in.

‘Karamy, I think we need to rip this one out completely. The back panel is rotten all the way through. It’s no wonder it gave out.’

Relief escapes her through a long exhale – it’s not entirely her fault.

‘I’ll go grab a box from the back and start packing the contents away.’

With everything off the shelf, the two take hammers and begin prying the beams out of the wall. When the wall is bare, Karamy notices a little door in the middle.

‘What’s in there you think?’ Stylus asks.

‘It could be anything. Mollianna is one odd duck.’ Karamy uses her finger and thumb to carefully twist the knob and open the door. What’s inside leaves the two quite confounded. A small and intricately carved piece of linden wood, no larger than Karamy’s hand, is the only treasure the door conceals. Karamy picks it up and turns it over in her hands. It’s an animal in a seated position, holding a mug of hot cocoa between its little paws. A red and green knitted sweater covers most of its brown body. It has a blunt snout with delicate whiskers and small ears that peek out from beneath a red hat with white fluffy trim and white pompom.

‘I don’t believe it!’

CREAK

Karamy descends the stairs two at a time with Stylus close behind. The Old Crone stands over a bubbling cauldron.

‘Mollianna, can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course, child.’

‘Where did you get this?’ Karamy holds out the intricate carving. The Old Crone looks up and her eyes well with tears. She shuffles out from behind the desk and takes the figurine.

‘My dear John,’ the Old Crone whispers to herself, then clears her throat. ‘An old flame made this for me when I was young and deeply in love.’

‘What, like two hundred years ago?’ Stylus thinks he’s funny.

‘I’m only forty-three,’ says the Old Crone.

‘What?’ exclaim Karamy and Stylus in tandem; disbelief pulls their eyebrows together.

‘I jest, but mind your tongue young man.’ A playful finger wags in Stylus’ face, then the Old Crone motions for her stool and Karamy grabs it for her. ‘Sit, sit. You know the legend of the santybaras, yes?’ They both nod. ‘John used to believe with his whole being that he would find the spot where the grand fir once grew. He made me this right before heading out on his quest, promising me that the next time I saw him, he would be accompanied by a real santybara. I put it away for safe keeping, and over time I guess I forgot about the carving.’ Her voice trails off, and her eyes glaze over as memories flood back to her. ‘I never saw John again; he never came back.’ She holds up the wooden figurine, shakes the sudden emotions out of her head and passes it to Karamy with more force than necessary. ‘Leave me now, I have work to do.’ The Old Crone shuffles back behind the cauldron and waves the two away.

Karamy is touched by the Old Crone’s bout of vulnerability and places the santybara figurine front and centre on the till counter. As she sets it down, she swears she sees a twinkle in the corner of its eye.

‘Do you want to put a new bookshelf in or something else?’ Stylus asks, pulling her attention back.

‘Oh, um. You know, I think a change is in order,’ says Karamy. She feels a shift in the air and hope swell in her chest as she looks to the calendar on the wall: only four nights until the first of December.

That night Karamy dreams of the santybara choir and singing carols with them. She dreams of returning glad tidings and good cheer to the people of Llawenglen, and wakes before the sun with determination pulling her towards the forest. She packs a bag and heads to the apothecary to slip a message under the door for the Old Crone.

Mollianna,

I have gone in search of the santybaras.

Sincerely,

Karamy

She trudges up the cobblestone steps that lead out of the village, past the builder’s workshop and towards the forest. As the pathway turns from stone to dirt, she is so lost in thought that she doesn’t watch her step and walks straight into someone.

Ooof

‘I’m so sorry… Oh, Stylus, hello.’

‘Good morning Karamy, where are you off to so early?’

‘I must find the spot where four mountains meet.’

‘Ah, you’ve both made it.’ The Old Crone’s voice startles them, and they turn to see her ascending the steps. Tap-shuffle-shuffle, tap-shuffle-shuffle. ‘You forgot this,’ she says, and hands the santybara figurine to Karamy.

‘But, how did you—’ Karamy starts.

The Old Crone holds up a hand. ‘Remember, generosity matters more than grandeur, hope appears in humble places, and wonder is worth preserving. Good luck.’ The Old Crone turns and tap-shuffle-shuffles away.

‘You’re right, she is one odd duck,’ Stylus says.

‘For a tiny lady she sure moves quick.’ Karamy stares in wonderment at the Old Crone’s retreating frame.

The two walk to the edge of the trees. Even though the sun is up and shining in the village, the forest is dark and chilling. They cross the threshold and are soon pushing through bramble. In a little clearing, they spy three hoptails. One is dark brindle brown, one is raven black, and one is white with brown spots. Their bodies are round and soft like a rabbit, and their velvet fur glistens. Long ears extend from the tops of their heads and their equally long fluffy tails wag in excitement. Their faces hold the sweetness of puppies: bright, earnest eyes, cute button noses and mouths the perfect shape for smiling. The black and spotted hoptails playfully pounce on one another, while the brown one is off to the side, resting on a bed of leaves.

‘Hello little ones,’ Karamy says as she pushes into the clearing. Six ears twitch in her direction. Only the black hoptail is brave enough to take a step towards her. Karamy drops to her knees and holds out her hand. The black hoptail takes a few more steps and becomes interested in Karamy’s bag. She sniffs the bag and paws at it. Karamy opens it up for her to see. ‘I’m sorry girl, I don’t have any food to share.’

Stylus steps on a branch, the sound echoes in the clearing and makes all three hoptails jump. The one close to Karamy snatches the sanybara figurine out of her bag and bolts through a gap in the foliage, the other two hoptails following closely behind.

‘Get back here!’ Karamy yells as she scrambles to her feet.

And the chase begins.  

Karamy runs after the bounding hoptail and feels a strange tightening in her chest. Panic begins to set in the deeper into the forest they go. The edges of her vision blur as the minimal light from the sun fades away.

It is well after sunset before the hoptails stop. They are standing in front of a small cottage and spinning in circles. Karamy and Stylus collapse to their knees from the fast pace. Before today, neither would have claimed to have the level of endurance the chase required. Both huff and puff as they work to regain control of their breathing.

‘Kinda makes…me want to…take up…running,’ Stylus says and starts to laugh but breaks out into a coughing fit instead.

Karamy rolls her eyes and turns to the hoptails. ‘Is…this…your…home?’ she manages. The black hoptail drops the figurine and begins to howl. Then, the other two join in. Heavy footsteps cause the floorboards to groan, and the cottage door swings open. Out steps an old man holding a half-carved piece of linden wood. He has a full white beard and thick, luscious hair that is neatly combed to the side. The callouses on his hands could recant stories of their years of hard work. At his feet are four timid pricklepups peeking out from behind the safety of the old man’s legs.

All four pricklepups are a different shade of brown and standing together they mirror an ombre from rich espresso to fingerling potato. They have the same excited, wagging tails as the hoptails but are much smaller in size. Their backs are covered with tiny spines, and their faces are dachshund-like. Curiosity hides behind their eyes and tickles the ends of their snouts.

The hoptails jump up on the old man as he crouches down to greet them. ‘Why hello friends,’ he says, and the hoptails roll onto their backs to expose their bellies for rubs. Stylus clears his throat, earning the attention of every pair of eyes and startling the old man.

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I thought you saw us.’ Stylus casts his eyes to the snow-covered ground and pushes some around with the toe of his boot.

‘We’re sorry to disturb you. I’m Karamy and this is Stylus. We came across the hoptails in a clearing a way back and this stinker,’ Karamy points to the black hoptail, ‘took something from my bag and ran here with it.’

The old man smiles, ‘Pennybell is a bit of a rascal, but I’ve learned she always has a good reason for it.’ Turning to Pennybell, he says, ‘Now, girl, what have you taken from this young lady?’ Pennybell casts a shy look away, and the brown hoptail nudges the carving towards the old man. ‘Thank you Sprig,’ he says. When he picks it up, bewilderment plays in his eyes like the aurora borealis. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘The Old Crone that runs the apothecary,’ Stylus says.

Karamy digs her elbow into Stylus’ side. ‘Mollianna,’ she corrects.

The old man’s expression softens. ‘Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.’

‘Are you John?’ Karamy asks.

A tiny smile pulls at the old man’s lips. ‘You’d best come in; I shall make us some tea.’

The small cottage was cosy with three people, three hoptails and four pricklepups. The old man passes warm cups of tea to Karamy and Stylus, before mixing a concoction of herbs for the critters and setting it by the fire to brew.

‘I gave this to Mollianna the last time I saw her,’ the old man says motioning to the figurine. ‘She was neither old nor a crone back then.’ He winks at Stylus and grabs a stack of bowls and sets then down in a row. Every bowl has a name on it: Pennybell, Cider, Sprig, Thistle, Winterbud, Niblet and Puddlewick. The seven animals stand patiently in front of their allotted bowl, waiting until all are served before lapping the brew which such delight as though it is the most spectacular feast.

Bbbbbuuuurrrrrpppp

‘Ew, Cider,’ says Pennybell as she playfully paws at the spotted hoptail between her and Sprig. Then all three hoptails start giggling uncontrollably. Karamy and Stylus feel their bottom jaws touch the floor.

‘Did…how…talking?’ Karamy stutters. Pennybell comes over and places a paw gently on her shin.

‘John makes us a special drink that soothes our throats and lets us speak like people,’ Pennybell says.

‘I call it bramblebrew,’ John says, ‘You know, if my memory serves right, Mollianna and I concocted it together.’

‘She mentioned you yesterday, said you went to find the spot where four mountains meet. Did you ever find it? What about the santybaras? Can Christmas be restored?’ Karamy can no longer contain herself. She has too many questions that require answers, and a strong suspicion that John has information.

John sighs deeply. ‘I will tell you my tale, but please, withhold judgement.’

When John went in search of the spot where four mountains meet all those years ago, hope guided each step and wonder fuelled his determination. He faced many challenges and endured much hardship. There were nights without the warmth of fire, and days without a guiding light. But thanks to the forest friends he acquired along the way, his resolve never broke. That is, until he learned a terrible truth. You see, John comes from a long line of arborists. And when he finally found the spot where four mountains meet, the ancient magic hid from him. It was his great-great-great-great grandfather who cut the grand fir and rid Llawenglen of Christmas.

‘When I learned about my great-great-great-great grandfather, I was too ashamed to face Mollianna, or anyone else in the village. What would she think of me? Of my family? I decided to stay in the forest and care for it and those that call it home. As a way of repentance,’ John finishes.

Karamy places her hand on John’s and gives a gentle pat-pat-pat. ‘We are not the sins of our forefathers.’ John gives her a weary smile as a tear slides down his cheek which Pennybell licks away.

‘They should visit Mistlelyn,’ Sprig says.

‘Mistlelyn?’ Stylus asks.

‘She’s a hootoise who was there when the grand fir fell. She will know what to do,’ Cider says.

‘That’s a great idea, but it’s much too late now. Rest here for the night and head out tomorrow,’ John says.

The next morning, Karamy wakes with the sun. Across the room, she sees Stylus sleeping under a pile of hoptails and pricklepups who all bound up when they spy her awake. Somehow, Stylus’ snoring remains uninterrupted. Outside, the air is crisp and the snow crunches under foot.

‘Ahh good morning! Beautiful day ahead, I think,’ John says. Karamy and John talk of Llawenglen and the forest’s flora and fauna while gathering firewood and feeding the animals. The two sing old folk songs and throw wayward twigs for the hoptails. When the last log is chopped and the final bowl set down for the pricklepups, Stylus pushes open the door of the small cottage.

‘Thanks for the help sleepy head,’ Karamy laughs.

‘Pennybell, Cider and Sprig will take you to Mistlelyn. You’ll find no better forest guides than hoptails. But, before you go,’ John reaches into his pocket and takes out a burlap sack. ‘You will need this. Don’t open it until the time is right.’

‘What is it?’ Stylus asks.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ John says.

Karamy carefully places the sack in her bag and makes sure to zip it shut. ‘Thank you, John. And, for the record, I think Mollianna deserves some answers.’

‘You’re probably right. Until we meet again, young Karamy.’ He turns to Stylus, ‘And you, uhh, young man.’ The pricklepups sit at John’s feet waving.

‘Come on! If we leave now, we can make it to Mistlelyn by noon,’ Pennybell, Cider and Sprig exclaim together. Their three tails wag so fast that they blur into one.

‘Don’t forget,’ says Winterbud.

‘Generosity matters more than grandeur,’ Puddlewick continues.

‘Hope appears in humble places,’ Thistle says.

‘And wonder is worth preserving,’ finishes Winterbud.

‘Thank you, little ones,’ Karamy says.

The journey takes them deeper into the forest, and soon, a mountain peak pokes out above the tops of the trees.

‘Mistlelyn lives at the base of the mountain,’ Sprig says, ‘In an ancient oak tree, said to be the oldest in all the land.’

‘I’ll run ahead and let her know we are coming!’ Pennybell shouts over her shoulder before disappearing between the trees.

‘Why are you looking for the santybaras?’ Sprig asks.

‘Yeah, people don’t usually help the forest,’ Cider says.

‘When I woke up the other day, it felt like a voice was calling out to me. Telling me to find them. It feels like Llawenglen needs Christmas and the santybaras now more than ever,’ Karamy says.

Mistlelyn’s home is a quaint yet spacious nest. The trunk is broad and time-carved, its bark furrowed like ancient script. A natural opening, arched like a cathedral doorway, sits low to the ground, softened by draping moss and winter lichen. Frost-pearled ivy climbs the trunk, and tiny red holly berries glint like lanterns. Mistlelyn is standing next to Pennybell, gently scratching the hoptail behind the ear. As soon as Sprig and Cider see the attention Pennybell is receiving, they race to her side to wait their turns.

‘Welcome, I’ve been expecting you for some time,’ Mistlelyn says once Karamy and Stylus are within earshot. Mistlelyn has the face of a wise owl. Feather-covered limbs protrude from a tortoise shell that time seems to have etched runes into.

Three tidwits flutter in the air around the wise hootoise. One is a crimson as deep as an amaryllis, one is a green reminiscent of pine, and the third one is white with subtle strands of silver like a fresh snowfall. They have large mouse ears, long tails and delicate wings sprouting from the middle of their backs. Their small size gives them an undisturbing presence and gentle demeanour.

‘Sorry, we aren’t quite as fast as Pennybell,’ Stylus says.

‘Oh yeah! That’s what I was coming to tell you.’ Pennybell tucks her chin to her chest. Dear Pennybell has the most well-meaning heart but is also easily distracted and known throughout the forest for getting sidetracked.

Mistlelyn only laughs. ‘It’s all a part of your charm little hoptail.’ Then she ushers the group inside. ‘You’ll want to write this down,’ Mistlelyn says once everyone has found a comfortable position to sit in.

Karamy fumbles around in her bag for a pen and paper and instead is caught by surprise when a sharp pain runs up her finger. ‘Ouch!’ She clutches her finger with her other hand and leans in closer to the bag. A bashful face slowly creeps out. ‘Niblet?’

‘Hi Karamy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for my spines to hurt you.’ Niblet covers her face with her hands.

Karamy gently caresses the tiny animal with one finger before lifting Niblet up to her shoulder. ‘You’ll have a better view from here,’ she says.

‘A stowaway! How delightful.’ Mistlelyn claps her hands together. ‘To restore Christmas and awaken the santybaras is no easy feat. You’ll need to give graciously, remain hopeful and protect wonderment to commence the spread of Christmas cheer at the spot where four mountains meet,’ Mistlelyn explains.

‘First you have to replant the tree,’ the pine green tidwit, Martin, chirps.

‘Then you wake the santybaras,’ Finch, the white tidwit, tweets.

‘How do we do that?’ Stylus asks.

‘With music,’ the crimson tidwit peeps.

‘That’s exactly right Robin. It takes a whole chorus to wake the santybara choir,’ Mistlelyn says.  

‘Where are we going to find that many voices?’ Karamy thinks aloud, with a hint of despondency playing at the back of her words.

‘I often find that the longest trails favour those who walk them together,’ Mistlelyn says.

‘We’ll come with you!’ Sprig and Cider say.

‘And me!’ chimes Martin.

‘Me too.’ Niblet places her hand on Karamy’s cheek.

Karamy looks into the earnest eyes of her new friends. ‘Oh perfect, you can help me find the spot where four mountains meet too, right?’ All four heads nod.

‘I have an idea. But I’ll have to head back to my workshop in Llawenglen,’ Stylus says.

‘If I go with you, I can help you find the tree,’ Pennybell says to Stylus.

‘Splendid idea Pennybell. Finch, why don’t you go with them as well?’ Mistlelyn asks the tidwit.

‘Of course, I’d be happy to,’ Finch trills.

‘And Robin, would you mind heading to John’s to let him know Niblet is safe and sound.’ Robin gives a swift nod and flutters into the air. ‘Time is precious, and there is little of it before the first of December.’ Mistlelyn looks at the travellers.

‘I believe in us,’ says Karamy. ‘Stylus has never missed a deadline.’

‘I—we won’t let you down,’ he promises.

‘One last thing before you head out, I believe you are in need of a tree,’ Mistlelyn says. Karamy’s eyebrows furrow together. ‘Why dear, how were you planning on replanting the tree?’

A thin, uncertain laugh escapes Karamy. ‘I can’t believe I forgot that bit, it’s like the most important part.’

Mistlelyn takes a small glass vial out of a drawer and begins to pass it over but pauses, takes a deep breath and looks out the window. ‘There was a terrible thunderstorm that night. I remember watching from a nearby tree, hiding under my mother’s wing. The crack of the trunk reverberated throughout the forest; the cry it let out was guttural. As his last swing connected with the wood the rain froze and pelted the forest with ice.’ Mistlelyn puts the glass vial in Karamy’s hands and wraps them shut. Her voice lowers an octave, ‘Keep this safe, it is the only one.’

Thin bands of light squeeze between her fingers. Karamy carefully opens her hands to see a tiny glowing seed.

‘Martin will show you once you get to the spot where four mountains meet,’ Mistlelyn says, then claps her hands together. ‘Well, no time like the present.’

Karamy and Stylus wave goodbye before starting out in opposing directions. Karamy turns to catch one last glimpse of his retreating frame before it disappears. A grin stretches across her face and small giggle escapes her as she watches Pennybell hopping along at his heels and Finch flying next to his ear – she’s never thought of him as an animal lover.

Karamy, Sprig, Cider, Martin and Niblet travel long and far. They wind through mountain trails, over rolling hills and slide across frozen ponds. At last, beneath a sky tinted violet, they come upon a small hollow where they make shelter for the night. They light a fire and share stories and laughter until sleep tugs gently at their eyelids.

When the travellers wake the next morning, there is a pale glow to the air.

‘We are getting close,’ says Martin. And after two bends the path opens into a clearing. At the very centre sits a stump, solemn and hollow, in the exact spot where four mountains meet.

‘Is that it?’ Karamy asks.

‘It is,’ Cider says.

The group crosses the clearing and cautiously approach. They peer down into the stump.

‘Hello,’ calls Niblet.

Hello, hello, hello, hello. Her voice echoes in the abyss.

Karamy takes off her bag and searches for the glowing glass vial. The seed seems brighter than before.

‘Drop it into the hole to reunite it with the ancient magic,’ Martin instructs.

They all watch as the glowing seed falls further and further until its light is swallowed by the darkness, before joining hands to encircle the stump and, with their loudest voices possible, sing.

While the moon her watch is keeping

All through the night

While the weary world is sleeping

All through the night

O’er thy spirit gently stealing

Visions of delight revealing

Breathes a pure and holy feeling

All through the night

Then, they wait.

While they wait for the magic to stir, they pass the time with little games. Sprig and Cider dart between snowdrifts and Niblet tosses tiny pinecones. Karamy and Martin sit by the stump, talking of the temperaments of wood, while Karamy holds the santybara figurine in her hands.

‘Did you know, that if you rub linden wood on your skin, it will calm you down?’ Martin asks.

‘How interesting,’ Karamy says – perhaps that’s why holding the figurine is so comforting.

All of them continue singing until the sun begins to dip; the tired crew gather and doze off next to the stump.

At dawn, they wake to the most spectacular of sights. The stump is gone; it has vanished beneath a towering fir that has grown overnight. Tall, and magnificent beyond comprehension; its boughs whispering old magic back into the world.

Joy pounds in their hearts and the moment calls for more songs. Softly at first, then their harmonies synthesize and the energy around them lulls under the sweet melody.

Soon, the winds pick up, and clouds converge overhead.

Cider’s voice cracks. Cough, cough, cough. Sprig hurries to his side, with eyes wide.

‘Cider, are you okay?’ Sprig’s voice catches in his throat. Soon, Martin and Niblet cough as well.

‘Oh no! You must need more bramblebrew,’ Karamy says. Niblet crawls to her bag and pulls at the burlap sack from John. ‘Of course, thank you Niblet.’ Karamy opens the sack pulls out a small piece of paper.

All you will need to grab are three and a quarter sloe, the rest of the ingredients are here. Warm it up in a mug with some snow.

Karamy pours the ingredients into a mug from her bag and stands up, pulling her jacket tighter. ‘You all stay here, huddled together, I’ll go search for the sloe.’ She sets out alone, hunting for sloe in the snowy underbrush while the animals rest under the newborn tree. But her foraging skills aren’t top tier, and in her haste, she plucks damson berries instead.  

Despite the swelling winds, she lights a small fire under the protection of the tree and prepares the bramblebrew for her shivering friends. Once it is ready they take turns lapping out of the mug. Instantly, their mouths fill with a taste like fire and smoke. It burns, and they spit, sput and choke as the spicy liquid stings their tongues.

‘Little ones, are you okay? What have I done wrong? I’m so sorry,’ Karamy laments, and Martin taps the figurine with his beak, encouraging her to hold it. Her eyes soften and she rubs the carving with both hands.

Before anyone can recover, the sky darkens. A storm curls over the mountain peaks and brings with it howling winds. Karamy rushes to grab more firewood, but her arms can only carry so much, and she is soon overwhelmed by the strength of the wind. Karamy pulls her friends in close and continues singing, hoping the santybaras hear her song; the storm swallows her words whole. Cold creeps close and shadows press in. They watch the thin flames flicker and feel strength fading from their limbs. Hope becomes fragile; small enough to slip through Karamy’s trembling fingers.

Still, her voice rings out. But her efforts remain futile. None can hear her over the sound of the swelling blizzard. The fire in front of them is slowly losing fuel. Pain stings her heart as she tosses in the figurine, the last piece of wood she has.

‘I’m sorry friends. I have led us into a trap.’ Karamy’s head drops into her hands and sorrow escapes through her eyes. Cider and Sprig cling to Karamy’s side, while Martin and Niblet tuck themselves into her hair. ‘Stylus will never make it in this weather.’

‘Karamy!’ A voice calls from the raging snow.

‘Karamy!’ And another.

Then, a small light appears.

And another.

Mistlelyn’s face comes between the boughs. ‘They are here!’ She calls over her shoulder.

Finch and Robin pop out from the safety of her shell. ‘Martin,’ they cry and swoop in for a tight group hug.

The lights in the distance get closer. Soon, John’s figure sticks out amongst the white scape. And on his back is a bag of neatly chopped logs. Upon entering the tiny grove, he immediately tends to the fire, as Winterbud, Puddlewick and Thistle jump out of his pockets to snuggle up with Sprig, Cider and Niblet. Mistlelyn goes and puts her arms around Karamy in comfort. ‘Hope appears in humble places,’ she reminds her.

Stylus and Pennybell are last to clamber in out of the storm. Pennybell leaps out of Stylus’ arms and squeezes into the pile of hoptails and pricklepups. ‘Karamy, I made a music box for you. Surely the santybaras will wake.’ Stylus takes a small box out of the bag on his back, sets it on the ground and opens it. As he does, the most songbird like melody begins dancing in the air around them.

The tree begins to glow.

The snow begins to slow.

And a chorus of voices sounds from deep within the tree.

A brilliant light bursts between the bark, momentarily blinding the travellers, who stumble back and shield their faces. Then, one after another, santybaras matching harmonies emerge from the tree. Their singing soothes the storm and begins to thaw the weary group. Santybaras float around the magnificent fir tree growing in the spot where four mountains meet, adorning its branches with the shiniest of baubles, sparkliest of garlands, and twinkliest of string lights. They wear hand-knitted sweaters and red hats with white trim.

While the moon her watch is keeping

All through the night

While the weary world is sleeping

All through the night

O’er thy spirit gently stealing

Visions of delight revealing

Breathes a pure and holy feeling

All through the night

The melody curls through the cold air like silver smoke, and by the final line, even the wind seems to be listening. The group can only stare, their breath caught in wonder, until a small voice pipes up from beside them.

‘Excuse me.’ A santybara stands, balancing a tray of hot cocoa. Every mug bears a familiar name. Warmth spreads through chilled fingers, and as the lights on the magnificent tree cast dancing shadows across the snow, the group finds themselves joining the choir – tentatively only at first.

When the star has been placed atop the tree, the santybaras turn their attention to Llawenglen. One offers Karamy a paw. She hesitates only a heartbeat before taking it and turns to see the others following suit. Up they soar, over the mountain peaks and above the treetops, all the while guided by a soft, steady light. They land outside the apothecary, where Mollianna stands in wait. The santybaras give them boxes of decorations, and together set to work transforming the town. Not a single voice ever falters or stops singing.

Karamy watches with a joy that fills her entire chest. Friends and neighbours spill into the streets; hot cocoa is shared while garlands and lights are strung from eaves and branches. John and Mollianna laugh together, his promise to her finally fulfilled. The pricklepups tumble through snowdrifts. Mistleyn and the tidwits flutter upward to place stars on rooftops. The three hoptails chase a runaway ribbon. And then she sees Stylus. He’s standing a little apart from the bustle, with steaming mug in hand. When their eyes meet, the wrinkles around his soften. He gives her a small nod and hands her a delicately carved piece of linden wood: her very own santybara.

‘You brought them home,’ he says to her.

‘We brought them home,’ she corrects.

As the notes continue to rise through the winter air and Llawenglen remembers what it had forgotten, Karamy knows in her heart that wonder is never truly lost, only waiting to be rediscovered.