The Seedling by Arie de Jong A long long time ago, in a far far away land, there stood a castle on a high hilltop overlooking the narrow valley far below. In the valley, nestling against a craggy outcrop of rocks and natural grotto was the tiny village of St. Martinique. Snow had recently fallen. In the predawn of a rising sun, the twilight light was a beckoning beam of stillness for the birds and chipmunks to emerge from their cosy nests.

The castle had become a beacon, as the first rays of sunlight reflected from the sparkling snow that had gathered against the rough strewn rock walls. A solitary sentry stood on a high wall and beheld the awesome, but serenely beautiful scene that lay sprawled before him. As the sun rose higher between the craggy peaks of the distant mountains in the east, a sliver of light shone the length of the valley and grazed the village with its warmth.

The wispy greyish smoke rising from a chimney signalled the stirrings of human life in the village. The axeman and his son had to leave early this day, for tomorrow was Christmas; and as was usual they would have to go into the forest that covered the valley. There they would clear the undergrowth and snow by the little trees giving them access to the freedom of unimpeded growth. But tonight there would be a treat. A Christmas tree was to be set up in the small room where the widower and his young son will celebrate the coming of the wondrous gift of the Child Jesus. Around the log fire the father would retell the story of the Birth, but tonight was still so far away. ‘Tis morning and the young boy will need to be wakened and soon after, they would go. On top of the castle wall, the face of the sentry glowed with the warm rays of the sun as it unveiled the cold cloth of darkness. Inside the cooks were preparing the meals for the master, the Baron von Stuchenberg and his family. The two young children, Ivan and Eva, were still asleep in their fine warm beds. But the Baron had already been awake for some time. For today, as was traditional, he would hunt a fine stag for the venison that would be eaten tomorrow. He looked out the window and noticed far below in the valley, two tiny figures leaving the village towards the forest.

It was the axeman and his boy. The meagre breakfast could not overcome the shearing cold that cut deep. Their threadbare thin clothing was unable to prevent the cold from reaching their flesh. Although it was but a straw filled mattress bed, the young boy remembered the cosy comparative warmth. But he longed more for the choosing of the tree, the tree of Christmas. He therefore bore the cold, and continued on trudging through the deep freshly fallen snow, finding it difficult to keep up with his father. It began to snow softly, thickening the white blanket that already lay across the valley muting the sharp ridges of the surrounding craggy peaks. Becoming enveloped by the trees that were blanked by the white carpet of snow, the Baron could no longer see the figures. He walked to the stables and with the help of his squire; the Baron mounted his proud stead. After crossing the drawbridge, he galloped along the boulder-strewn path towards the forest that lay below.

In the snow-clad forest, everything was silent except for the muffled sound of an axe. The young boy gazed at the falling snowflakes that wispily fluttered from above ever so softly, continually deepening the blanket of white. As his eyes focused on individual flakes falling towards the ground, intertwining with the greenery of the trees, he noticed a small clearing immediately ahead of him. His eyes refocussed and rested on a small seedling. With the silence and the surrounding whiteness, the small seedling gave forth a warm glow of its green colouring.

Among the green and white of the encircling forest, there was a speckling of brown and a misty fog. Then he noticed the beautiful animal. With its proud head held high, listening to the silence. It had sensed human presence.

For sometime the Baron had been following the tracks of the stag, which ever so often teased him with the shiny fawn colouring of its coat among the green and white. The Baron had noticed other deer tracks but he had made up his mind to trek this particular deer. He was chasing it deeper into the forest when he came upon the stag. Seen only by its antlers, it stood before a clearing. He had trapped the animal. It could not escape. He would have a clear shot with his bow. He dismounted, and crept closer to the stag.

The young boy who had come to choose the tree of Christmas was mesmerised by the large deep flowing eyes of the stag. It looked directly at the boy. Pleading. The boy stood and took a step towards the deer. Then he saw the danger the presence that was human.

With bow drawn, the arrow ready to be released, the Baron had his mark. The stag sensed death. The boy saw the intent. "NO! No!" The boy lunged forward.

Jerked into shock by the shattering of the crystal silence, the hunter unleashed the arrow. The swish sound of the arrow travelled towards its target. It tore at the flesh and struck deep but untrue towards a heart. Death was instant. The boy laid facing towards a seedling with outstretched hand as if in the process of clearing its undergrowth.

His father had stopped his task when he had heard the boy’s cry. With comprehending eyes and painful heart he saw his son. In reproachful shock the Baron stood over the boy. The stag had stood momentarily with melancholy eyes and then disappeared into the forest. The father laid the boy’s head in his arms and looked up at the Baron.

Tonight, the boy would not see the tree by the flickering glow of the fire in the small room of the tiny house. He would not hear the story that his father would retell. He would not be there to hear the Miracle retold to him.

There are times when there is a silence. A silence that is deep. A silence that is clear, and one that is true. Within such a silence stood a small gathering that included the Baron and his two children. In the distance, muffled by the falling snow, the mournful bellow of a stag could be heard. A father stood silently with head bowed, eyes glistening as the snowflakes gathered and enveloped the coffin with the soft carpet of purity. After the coffin was lowered, the boy’s father left the gathering and entered the forest.

The rustling of undergrowth revealed the proud head of a stag its antlers protruding above a small shrub. With him, stood a doe and its foal. It was a family. The boy’s father would never know the significance of the young deer family but he did know it mattered. The father approached the doe and her foal. The stag slowly moved towards its family and the father of a young boy, who now lay beneath a carpet of softly fallen snow.

The presence that was human did not retreat but instead stood still and noticed the flooding of emotions that cascaded from the stag’s melancholy eyes. The stag allowed the boy’s father to stroke its neck and to hold the young foal’s head to his chest as the tears flowed softly from an old man’s eyes. With an understanding that was beyond humans’, the doe stood next to the stag and watched the healing of a broken heart as the foal’s neck was stroked with loving care.

The man stood up. With the foal next to him, followed by the stag and the doe, they walked deeper into the forest towards a clearing where a small seedling struggled against the suffocation of the freshly fallen snow. The man knelt before the small tree. With the foal looking over his shoulder, the old man removed some more snow away from the seedling. He then stood up, and with a final acknowledged bow towards the stag, he walked away from the clearing never to return. The foal took a few steps towards the man as he retreated into the forest, but the sudden movement of the stag’s proud head to the foal beckoned the young deer. The foal walked back towards its mother. The stag’s flowing eyes looked up towards the blanketed clouds unperturbed by the searing pain of each snowflake as it struck its eyes.

He strutted towards the seedling and moved his hooves back and forth about the small tree, clearing the snow. Allowing the seedling to have greater freedom. With the doe and its foal, the stag then turned into the opposite direction to where the man had re-entered the forest and the family left the clearing.

In a far, far away place, there is a valley carpeted by a thick forest. Deep in the forest there is a clearing in which there stands a solitary tree, tall and sturdy. It is said, that on every Christmas Eve, reindeer gather and bow their heads in humble tribute to a young boy who gave his life to save one of their kind, a long, long time ago.

Based on information supplied by Arie de Jong.