Last December I wrote an advent story day by day on social media, and I felt inspired to do it again this year on Bluesky (with round ups every few days on Instagram and Facebook). Now it's done I'm collating it all here, and it begins...
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Let me sing you a song of a sleeper. She lies on a bed of woven boughs, cushioned with mosses. Her pillow is mounded leaves, she has no coverlet. When the sun shines, she is warm. When it rains, the water runs over her skin in rivers. When the snow falls, she is blanketed in white.
She sleeps deeply, does not toss and turn, not when the wind breathes on her neck nor when the mist fingers her air. She does not stir when a blackbird alights on her wrist, looking for worms. A regiment of ants march a road across her belly and still she sleeps. But she dreams.
She dreams of spring, and when she does, buds swell on bare branches. The brook that dances past, inches from her feet, sings its babbling song among the rocks. Blossom paints the trees in pastels and the sky is full of swallow-dives. All is fresh and tender, green and new.
She dreams of summer, and the world is lush, verdant. Flowers of every hue - reds and purples, yellows and blues - surround her bower. Vines twist loving tendrils around each fingertip, and butterflies kiss her eyelashes. The bees hum their symphonies in the thick, honeyed air.
She dreams of autumn; leaves turn to flame, to rust, the deep glow of the sun setting on the year. Beasts, small and large, busy themselves with the task of growing fat. A fox, flame-coloured, rust-coloured, joins her, rests its head on the warmth of her ribs as rain clouds gather.
She dreams of winter, and her sleeping breath fogs from her lips; the life within her made visible for a moment with each exhale. Frost creeps across every surface, wood and flesh alike; a silvery, crystalline net that leaves what plants still remain scorched, as though by fire.
Wind moans through the trees, tossing naked branches every which way. Rain turns to sleep turns to snow, and great icicles form around the sleeper's bed of woven boughs, a curtain of knives. Her skin grows ever colder as the heart of winter approaches. The dark night encircles her.
Few things stir in the frozen wood. The fox huddles underground. Bees cluster in the hive, thorax to thorax, around their queen. A single robin braves the expanse between one thicket and the next, feathers fluffed up for warmth, red breast a bright spot against the stark landscape.
The sleeper breathes in the cold and her dreams grow colder still. She breathes in the dark and her dreams darken. Snow-laden storm clouds gather, in her dreams and above the slumbering wood. She shivers, in her dreams and in her bed. While ever she dreams of winter, winter reigns.
In her dream, she walks barefoot across frozen earth. The frost-bitten mud crackles underfoot with every step. She cannot remember spring. She looks this way and that, seeking a light, seeking something green, something warm. Something nether dead nor dormant. She finds nothing.
The sleeper knows she is dreaming, and yet she cannot wake. She knows, deep in her heart, that the winter cold should ease and give way to... whatever comes next, but she does not know what that should be. She cannot remember anything but ice and snow and skeletal trees.
In the wood where the sleeper lies, her cold muscles stiffening, the crows begin to gather. Drawn together by winter, dozens of black-feathered bodies are dark against the snow; ink marks on paper. The sense the season has fallen too deep. They know something has gone awry.
The crows croak their concern, one to the next. They hop and skip around the sleeper's bed, but she, of course, does not stir. Their harsh calls awaken other residents of the woodland, however; ears prick up, eyes peer from nest and burrow, hollow tree and lair. It is a summoning.
The robin is close by, as always. The fox approaches cautiously, ears alert. Others come too, fur and feathers, creatures of both night and day. The bees will not leave the hive in these temperatures but their hum grows deeper, fuller, a soft buzz that carries across the glade.
More and more gather. There are owls now, and many small songbirds. There are mice, and other rodents, risking their tiny bodies in the freezing air. A badger approaches, and behind it a deer, shaggy in its dark winter coat. All tentative, suspicious. But all answer the summons.
The sleeper walks in the frozen emptiness of her cream, where there are no living creatures to be found; no birds, no beasts, no insects. there are only lifeless trees, dark against the snow-grey sky. She can neither see nor hear the thronging masses that now surround her bed.
They huddle close to her, their furred and feathered bodies warming her skin, just a little, where they touch. One by one, they close their eyes and join the dreaming. Each of them carries into it their own memories of spring, of summer; memories of sun and green things, of life.
The mice dream of succulent buds and fresh green shoots, of sipping nectar from flowers. The small birds dream of blue skies, of a banquet of insects on a warm evening, worms drawn to the surface by spring rains. The badger's dreams are full of cubs playing near their sett.
For the owls it is a dream of summer nights, when the grass twitches with tantalising movement. For the deer, lush vegetation; an easy meal and a place to safely hide a fawn. The fox dreams of a vixen, a den, and abundance of food to bring her. The bees hum their dream of dancing.
And the crows? The crows do not bring a dream of their own. Instead they gather up every scrap of the dreams freely given by all the other creatures, grip them tight in beak and claw, and carry them up in the direction of the bitterest cold, where they know the sleeper must be.
They fly into chill winds, buffeted by hail and snow. The dreams, light at first, grow heavy and hard to hold, as though they are trying to break free. But the crows hold fast and fly on. Ahead they spy a solitary figure. They circle and she looks up, sees them for the first time.
The descend, settling on the snow around her. There are so many of them; she is forced to halt within an unbroken ring of black feathers. As one, they release their grip and the dreams tumble out, surrounding the sleeper, enveloping her. She spreads her arms wide. She remembers.
And as she remembers, her dream changes. She breathes in the memories of spring, of summer, and breathes out fresh rain, warm breezes, green shoots, and flowers. In the woods where she sleeps, the birds and beasts awaken to the sounds of the thaw; snow melting and ice cracking.
The crows shout their triumph from the treetops. The fox barks, the deer tosses its head, and the owls call softly, one to the next. In the hive the bees hum their joy. And the sun rises and shines on the sleeper's face, and in her dream she feels the warmth and she smiles.
The End
I hope you enjoyed reading this, and that everyone is having a wonderful festive season, whatever you celebrate!
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