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Last Christmas in Hexwood: Chapter 5

In which the animals get some startling news

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 5

The Hexwood going away party for the witch got going in exactly the same way, and with exactly the same success, as all the other Hexwood parties, just as Reynard the Fox had predicted.

This being December, the beeches up on the top of the Ledge were bare of leaves; but garlands of ivy were wound up their trunks, and lanterns and bunting hung from the lower branches to create a high, glowing roof that swayed and creaked.

In the long aisles on the bare ground between the trees were long tables laid with every table cloth, every dinner set and every cutlery canteen that could be scrounged up from the village: a mishmash of floral prints and starched white linen, bone handled knives and bent spoons, blue willow-pattern and solid earthware.

Down the centre of each table were candlesticks and oil lanterns, bowls filled with glowworms and dancing blue spirit lanterns under chafing dishes. In between and hanging over the tables were braziers and bonfires and boilers to keep the party warm, so that all the cutlery and glass shimmered and reflected the dancing flames all around.

At one end of the tables was a low stage for the otter’s band, and at the other end was a high table for the Mayor, Lady Ermine, her son Sir Toby Stoat, Mrs Mouldywarp the postmistress, Mr Tuft the schoolmaster, Urchin in his capacity as the chair of the Special Committee, and Cuwert in his capacity as all the other chairs of all the other committees. And, of course, Madame Befana, the witch, and Martin Rukenau, her chimpanzee assistant.

At the other tables sat everyone else, at least most of the time, when they weren’t bustling about finding each other, losing each other, stopping to chat, running to catch up; joining a singsong with the weasels down there, or an argument among the rabbits over here. And all the while, between them, ran all the young mice and rabbits who had been drafted in to help wait on everyone else.

The only person who lived up on the ledge was Reynard the Fox, who had a house right on the edge of the cliff, at the far end, looking out over the fields below. 

His front garden had been turned into a temporary kitchen, with a canvas awning stretched over rows of pots and pans, burners and ovens, everything bubbling and sizzling and everyone shouting to be heard over all the bubbling and sizzling.

Into the kitchen ran the wait staff, grabbing the first thing they could lay hands on and running out again: this one a mouse staggering under a sloshing soup tureen, this one a weasel carrying just a clean fork, this one a rabbit with plates of cake stacked up his arms, this one a vole with a bowlful of wobbling jelly balanced on his head.

And so everyone ate and drank and talked and sang, which was all they had really wanted to do anyway. Mrs Mouldywarp had produced a commemorative brochure, just as she had suggested at the planning meeting, and at least one kind soul asked her to read it to them, although they did not listen quite as closely as they might because Hob the Weasel started singing a complicated song about bottles of beer.

Miss Sleekit did dress up, as she had suggested, and very fetching it was too, all glittering with fish scales and shining with beetle wing cases; but Buck Rabbit just came in his overalls, partly out of a sort of mulish pride and partly because those were the only clothes he owned. Brock the Badger proposed at least one toast and possibly several more, although he was drowned out by everyone else proposing their own toasts over the top of him. But it was with his own beer, so he was happy.

Everyone was happy.

Until the speeches.

It wasn’t anything in the speeches that made them unhappy, at least not at first: it was more the idea of speeches in general, the idea that they might have to stop enjoying themselves for a bit and listen to someone else enjoying themselves and the sound of their own voice at their expense.

It should have been Urchin first, but he had nominated Cuwert the Hare in his place. Cuwert managed to thank Urchin, the Mayor and then himself, before various other committee members in attendance started to barrack him with requests to also be thanked and in the end he just had to give up before he was forced to name absolutely everyone in the village.

Mrs Mouldywarp then tried to read out the poem she had published in her brochure, but various ill-mannered weasels started joining in at the end of each line with a rude rhyme and that had to be abandoned.

Finally Mayor Matagot, the Rat, stood up, his long, naked tail looped elegantly over one arm, and tapped his glass with a fork. That didn’t work, so he banged the table with a plate. Finally he took to pelting the more obstreperous attendees with bread rolls until he had some semblance of quiet. Mostly because they were now eating the rolls and couldn’t talk back. At least not distinctly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, leverets, kits, cubs and children, I want to thank you,” he said, "all of you. For without all of you, this evening would not be so splendid.” 

Cheers and the drumming of heels. 

“Indeed, this little town of ours would not be so splendid, this forest of Hexwood would not be so splendid. You are all the most appropriate tribute to yourselves I can imagine.” 

Some murmuring, while people tried to decide whether that was a compliment. 

“But our thanks tonight must go to the one person who has made Hexwood, our town, us, all of us, possible at all. Madame Befana!” 

Louder cheers, if that were possible.

“Madame,” he continued, turning to bow to the witch, "without you, we would not exist. Without you, Hexwood would not be so magical a place. We wish you just as much happiness as you have brought us and we assure you that we shall all miss you terribly.”

Cries of ‘Speech, speech!’

Madame Befana, the witch, got to her feet and gave a little bow back to the Mayor.

“Mr Mayor, all my lovely Hexwood friends,” said the witch, "I want to thank you for such a happy evening. How odd that such a happy evening should be so sad. Because I have had a happy time here in Hexwood, getting to know all of you and see your little town grow up, and I shall be sad to leave you and it. I shall miss you all, more than you will miss me. Perhaps that is the small comfort I can take with me: that you shan’t miss me at all.”

“Oh, but we will, Madame, I assure you,” said the Mayor.

“Oh but you shan’t, Mr Mayor, I assure you,” said Martin Ruckenau, butting in.

“You really won’t, you know,” said the witch. “When I leave Hexwood, my magic will come with me. This won’t be a hexed wood anymore. My magic, the magic that means all of you are conscious and can talk, that magic will come with me, and you will be left behind. You will remain, and remain as the animals you all once were.”

A hush fell between the trees. Reynard the Fox stood up.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he said, "but do you mean to say we’re all going to return to just how we were before you came? Wild animals in a wood, with no notions of civilised manners or society or talk?”

“No notions of anything, my dear Mr Fox,” said Madame Befana. “No notions at all. It might take a little while for the effects to wear off, but they will go. Perhaps I should just conjure up a little charm or spell to make that process easier. I’ll certainly try and leave the glamour that hides you from the outside world in place for long enough. But it will happen. The magic will go and so will you -- the ‘you’ that is here now. You’ll quite forget all of this, and all of me, and all of yourselves, really.

“And I suppose that’s my consolation for leaving you all: that you won’t know anything about it. Which is all for the best, don’t you think?”

“If you say so, Madame,” said Reynard, in a tone that suggested that he did not agree, and he sat down again. 

And under the tall, dark trees, under the far, cold stars, all the animals were quite, quite silent.

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Christmas Stories
Last Christmas in Hexwood
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.