When the enchanted animals of Hexwood discover they soon won't be magical anymore, they have to concoct an unlikely plan to save their village and themselves.
'Last Christmas in Hexwood' is a seasonal story of witches, enchanted animals and a series of unlikely plans to save Christmas.
Chapter 21
Over the snow-covered fields, under a clear and starry sky, came a rabbit and fox. It had stopped snowing and the clouds had swept away; the sky was ringing with cold, bright light from the distant, dancing stars and a brilliant gibbous moon. The snow glittered and crunched underfoot as the animals came up the hill outside Stone Magna and paused briefly under the little temple at the top.
Inside the temple was a column with a faun’s head on top. The head had a human face but it was bearded like a goat, with small goatish horns. The animals sat at its base and looked out, away from the town, down towards the Inkstone road and, in the distance, the dark spread of Hexwood itself.
They opened the thermos of mushroom tea that Martin Ruckenau had given them and shared a steaming cup.
“It all goes to show,” said Buck, blowing on the tea to cool it down (witch’s thermos flasks are remarkably efficient), "that you can’t trust a witch.”
“Au contraire, Buck, old man,” said the fox. "I would say that she is being entirely too trustworthy. You heard what she said. She’s not really allowed to return to Hexwood. What’s more, she’s anxious not to upset the parameters of her experiment. It is entirely her trustworthiness that is stopping her helping us. I assume by ‘experiment’ that she means us. I would rather not be an experiment, if I could help it; but I suppose that if we weren’t, we wouldn’t be us, and then we wouldn’t be able to worry about not being us anymore. So perhaps we’re better off as an experiment.”
“Which we won’t be for much longer,” said Buck.
“But we are for now,” said Reynard. "And that gives us a chance, for which we have to thank the witch, after all. She gave us this tea to keep us ourselves all the way back to Hexwood.”
“Filthy stuff, though,” said Buck. "But here’s hoping it helps. The last bit of trust I have is that you, fox, will think of something.”
“I do hope so,” said the fox. "Although I have an inkling that the witch wouldn’t have done this if she didn’t think we might. Don’t you think? I can’t see her endangering all of Christmas just because of her sense of duty.”
“Who knows? Who understands witches?” said Buck. "I don’t. Anyway, speaking of saving Christmas, we better get to it.”
They packed away the thermos and started on down the hill towards Inkstone.
On the edge of the village, by the welcome sign, was a standing stone. The road had to make a little bend around it and the hedge behind had to bulge out a bit to let it in. It was known, generally, as Peg or The Peg. Local folklore said it was one of the stones from the ring the other side of Hexwood, and that it was trying to get to Stone Magna for market day but -- because stones can’t move very fast -- was still only at the edge of the village after hundreds of years.
There were other stories, of course. There was a story that the Ring was a group of maids who had been caught by a local saint, dancing in the fields on a Sunday, and had all been turned to stone; one maid called Peg had been turned to stone in the act of running away. Another story was that the stones were the remains of a bowling game played by giants, and the Peg was where they had stood to bowl. Somewhere under the hummock of the Ledge at the far side of Hexwood, said this story, was their gigantic bowling ball.
All of these stories were nonsense, of course; the stone had been put there by ancients for purposes at which we can only guess. But the guesses and stories are fun, and make the world around us enchanted. The sort of enchantment that leads to a talking fox and rabbit leaning up against The Peg on a snowy Christmas Eve, drinking mushroom tea and discussing how they might save the world.
“You know, Buck, old man,” said Reynard, slowly, as he poured the tea. "Something has occurred to me.”
“Finally, someone who can be relied on,” said Buck, taking the cup.
“I have a notion,” said Reynard, "that the witch may have helped us after all, despite all she said.”
“This ghastly tea, you mean?” said Buck.
“No,” said Reynard. "Greta. Think about what Madame Befana said. She was very definite about not having left a spellbook at her house, and I think we have established her trustworthiness on matters magical.”
“Yes, so Greta doesn’t have any magic,” said Buck. "So we can stop her. The question is how.”
“Precisely,” said Reynard. "But think about what that means. The witch didn’t leave any magic in the house but Greta said she did.”
“She lied,” said Buck.
“She lied,” said Reynard. "Which, as we all know, is bad.”
“I think we can say Greta is a bad little girl,” said Buck. "I already thought this, even without the lying.”
“But what do we know about bad children?” said Reynard. "The witch said it herself. What do good children get from Father Christmas?”
“Presents,” said Buck. "Like in that story.”
“And bad children get?” said Reynard.
“Oh,” said Buck, something dawning on him. "Oh.”
“Father Christmas is, I gather, famously not a fan of bad children,” said Reynard. "And I have a notion that Greta knows this. Indeed, I have a notion that Greta knows she is bad, and is not likely to get presents from Father Christmas. This is why she is getting us to kidnap all these other children, which is also pretty bad in itself, isn’t it? And making those children ask Father Christmas for presents that she wants. To make sure she gets them anyway, even though she has been bad.”
“The witch mentioned a list!” said Buck, suddenly remembering. "Father Christmas has a list of the good children.”
“And I have a notion that Greta isn’t on it,” said Reynard.
“I knew I could trust you, fox, of all people,” said Buck, toasting his friend with the mushroom tea.
“And you could trust the witch,” said Reynard. "She told us all of this, one way or another; she just didn’t tell us she was telling us. She found a way to help us without breaking any of her rules.”
“I take it all back,” said Buck, toasting again. "To Madame Befana, and especially to Reynard the Fox.”
The fox and rabbit skirted through the back gardens of Inkstone, taking a wide berth round the village green, which was now entirely covered in snow, a blank white page on which two scurrying animals would stand out to anyone watching. They crossed over the road that ran off to the neighbouring village of Small Stone, straight into the very northern tip of Hexwood itself. They didn’t know it then, but this was a stroke of luck.
There was a guard on the Walk where it entered the wood from the green, and they were on special instructions to look out for a rabbit and a fox.
The first either Buck and Reynard knew about this was as they approached the witch’s house through the brambles and dead ferns under the trees alongside the Twitten as it came up to the crossroads from the Meadow. This was where Miss Sleekit found them.
“Stop there, you two, this instant,” she said, as they came through onto the edge of the Twitten. "Where have you been?”
“Stone Magna, to talk to the witch,” said Buck. "But we don’t have time to stop, not now. We’ve got things to do.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” said Miss Sleekit. "Greta noticed you were gone and persuaded Urchin that you’re trying to betray the plan to save Hexwood. He’s got everyone out looking for you.”
“What nonsense,” said Buck.
“Not entirely,” said Reynard. "I have a notion that if we set Father Christmas free, then it will rather scupper our plans to get him to save us all from the witch’s magic leaving the wood. I suspect he’s not going to be entirely pleased with us and how we’ve helped Greta so far.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” said Miss Sleekit. "You are trying to betray the plan. We can’t let her keep Father Christmas trapped in the house, can we? It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”
“Exactly,” said Reynard. "If we let Greta keep him here, what happens to all the presents and all the children. What happens to Christmas?”
“So it’s Christmas or Hexwood, then?” said Buck.
“Christmas or Hexwood,” said Reynard.
“Well, then,” said Buck. "I suppose it better be Christmas, hadn’t it?”
Share this post