A Harry Christmas

Happy holidays, dear readers! Darcy here.

I was in the office a few days ago. I must have been looking out of sorts or something as Harry picked up on it.

"What's wrong, Darce?" he said, coming over to my desk. "Something worrying you?"

I smiled. "No, Harry. Just thinking about what's left to do before Christmas. The newsletters about Chunglewood took longer than expected. And then I'd agreed to help Spencer Maces redesign his plan for organising the Mouse Run."

"Right. But they're done now, aren't they?"

"They are, but they delayed me starting the usual tasks."

"Can I help?" 

"You do, mate. We can get all the pre-Christmas stuff done if I postpone some of our other work to the week between Christmas Day and the new year. If I come in each day, we'll be back on track."

"Give up all your Christmas holiday? That's not fair on you or your family. Didn't you say that you were inviting the little elf..."

"Clip. Yes. The little guys will have finished helping Lennox Murr-Grand during the Christmas build-up. He's a lovely little bod. He spent some time with us a couple of months ago. Really fits in with the family. Clop adores him." A recent memory popped into my head. One I had to share. "You'll like this. When Clip said he didn't know his birthday, Clop said that he could share his; pretend they were twins."

"Cute," said Harry. "That confirms what I was thinking. You can't miss out on those Christmas Holidays. Let me come in and help you. Two people means we'll free up half the week."

"I can't ask you to abandon your family."

"Tillie will understand. And besides, my house is packed at the moment. My brother and his family are staying with us as his new house isn't ready for them to move in."

"Willard?"

"Yes. I love him but... well, you'll understand how I would be glad of a break from him twenty-four hours a day."

"Okay. Double-check with Tillie but it does sound like we'll be doing each other a favour."

Harry and Willard. A shame they didn't get on better. It occurs to me that you don't know much about Harry and his family. I'll remedy that.

o 0 O 0 o

The Hawthornes are a long-standing family in Mellowdene. They have run "Hawthorne Horses" longer than living memory, with a love for equines that is reciprocated by those animals in their care. The relationship is almost symbiotic. The Hawthornes seem to know what the ponies are thinking and feeling and in return the ponies lend their strength and agility to those the Hawthornes trust.

Harry and his twin Willard were the sole representatives remaining in the family. It was a tradition established by one of their ancestors that the eldest child takes over the business at the relevant time. When it became time for Harry to take the reins (sorry about that; I couldn't resist) things didn't go to plan.

"We're twins," Harry had said, "so you can be in charge."

Willard had stared at him. "But you're the eldest. Tradition says it should be you. I can support you."

"That doesn't work for me," Harry had replied. "It's only tradition because our great great grandfather said so. Besides, you're more of a horsey person than I'll ever be. And I have other plans."

Whilst Willard was proud to do the job, he found it hard to accept Harry flouting the tradition. Not that Harry objected to helping out at times - it was just that his interests were elsewhere. "Finding things out".

This was an attitude present in his school days. It helped his grades but it went beyond that. He began "finding things out" to help people. He learned first aid. On one occasion a family had locked themselves out of their house. Harry was inspired to find out how to pick locks. He shadowed the Sheriff's Department to see if he might wish to join; he didn't because - whilst that would help people - it didn't offer enough of the "finding things out" element.

I was a little younger than Harry but I was still aware of him at school. I'd see him sitting in an empty classroom, pondering upon a book he had been reading. My upbringing and apprenticeship at the Mellowdene Examiner had given me observational skills and I had recognised in Harry a kindred spirit. Years later when I took over the running of the newspaper, Harry was the first person I employed. 

You're probably only seen Harry in his role as food reporter. He's much more than that. I have neglected to mention how he can be relentless when it comes to research. And perceptive. Unsurprisingly he found out about this blog and figured out Jackson's role in writing stories for you, that it should remain secret and that he could extend his loyalty to me to help cover up the whole "Life in Mellowdene" project. He even helped divert my daughter Una from prying too deeply. 

When Harry was seen as an established employee at the Examiner, Willard's hopes that his brother would return to Hawthorne Horses were dashed and the rejection created a barrier between them. Nothing un-Sylvanian, of course. Merely the conflicting approaches of a traditionalist versus a maverick.

Things thawed slightly thanks to Harry's wife Tillie. Tillie's niece Kirsty Hamilton used to visit her aunt from out of town. Kirsty is fanatical about horses and ponies and when she discovered her Uncle Harry was connected to Hawthorne Horses she pleaded to be introduced to her relatives. The Hamiltons now live in Mellowdene so Kirsty spends most of her spare time with Willard's children.

With Willard and his family staying at Harry's house over Christmas the signs were that relationships were in a much better position. However, when Harry volunteered to help me during the Christmas holidays it was clear that the original conflict still wasn't completely resolved.

I decided I'd see if I could help. I would begin by having a chat with Tillie...

o 0 O 0 o

With Christmas almost upon us Harry and I had completed the time critical work and we were about to close shop for the big day. I'd been keeping an eye on the door for a particular visitor and was beginning to think they weren't going to come. Was my plan unwinding before it truly started?

Thankfully no. There was a knock on the door and Willard entered.  

"Tillie said you wanted a word with me, Darcy," he said, glancing at his brother, greeting him with a terse "Harry."

I didn't procrastinate. No point in putting things off. "I wanted a few words with both of you. It pains me that there is a barrier between you, especially when I remember how close you were at school."

"Darce, you don't need to..." began Harry but I interrupted him.

"I do need to do this. I've got two young children coming together during the post Christmas holidays. My boy Clop and the elf boy Clip. Not related by blood but from the way they act they may as well be twins. Small children showing the best of Sylvanian values. And I contrast this with you two. It's a waste."

"You don't understand," said Willard.

"Really? Then correct me if I have anything wrong. You are twins and Harry is supposedly the elder by less than half an hour. An ancestor decided that the first born should take over the family business at an appropriate time. Harry had other plans and you, Willard, cannot forgive him because you feel that he betrayed the family and defied your father."

"That's oversimplifying it..."

"But is any of it wrong?"

Willard huffed and then shook his head.

"Right. Then let's first address this family tradition. Trying to force a career on someone isn't really a Sylvanian trait, is it? No. And presumably the second born is free to choose their own career. Hardly fair."

Willard's mouth tightened. "But it is our tradition, nevertheless."

"Fine. Then let's look at your birth. I've discovered that you were delivered at home by a locum doctor. Doctor Nelson Stoat. He had a reputation of being a little absent minded and he left the profession soon after you were born. Were either of you aware of that?"

"I wasn't," said Harry. Willard shook his head, commenting, "I'd be interested to know how you know this."

"Tillie told me, having learned of this from your mother."

"Presumably there's a point coming," said Harry.

"By all accounts it was a hectic birth. Twins weren't expected and Doctor Stoat's records weren't updated until the next day. Tillie dug out your birth certificate, Harry, and the scribbles aren't clear regarding time of birth."

"Meaning?" prompted Willard. 

"It's possible that Harry wasn't first born. He could be, but equally you could be, Willard." 

"That can't be right," said Willard.

"Check the documents. If the first born cannot be absolutely certain, why argue about the tradition? Why continue to fight? Remember how you used to be."

Harry laughed. "Darcy Fielding, investigative reporter supreme. Inspiring, dear friend."

Willard looked confused. "So if Harry isn't first born... I would be... and I'd be upholding the tradition..." He stared at me. "How can we be sure?"

"You can't be," I smiled. "The upside is that there's no point in arguing."

Harry beamed. "I think Christmas will be good this year."

"Good. And I don't expect you to come in over the holidays, mate. Spend time with your brother."

"No. You've got Clip and Clop. As for spending time with Willard... I'm thinking we'd be better starting off with quality time over quantity. I'll be in the office and we'll zoom through the work together, Darce."

Clip and Clop. I would like to spend some time with them during the Christmas holidays. Harry had a good point. I nodded my agreement.

With that settled, we had concluded our time at the Mellowdene Examiner and we shut up the office for Christmas. Looking at the Hawthorne brothers as they made to leave I was happy I'd given them a particularly good present this year.

o 0 O 0 o 

That should have been it but Harry came back.

"One thing," he said. "How much of that was fiction from your murine brain?"

"Ah. You guessed. Not all of it. I took the existing facts and spun a credible theory.  Nelson Stoat was competent at medicine but his paperwork was worsening. Undoubtedly that's why he retired."

"So what about the bit about our times of birth?"

"All possible."

"And if Willard hadn't grabbed onto that theory?"

"I thought he would. Glad he did. I didn't want to use Plan B."

"Should I ask?"

"You do like finding things out," I said. 

"Tell me."

I did. I couldn't help myself as I wanted a reaction.

"You had lots of visitors when you were born. Lots of cuddles for the identical twins. Might it be possible that you were returned to the wrong cribs? The wrong baby taken to be first born? That would make you Willard and..."

"Darcy! No!"

"Happy Christmas, Harry."

o 0 O 0 o

o 0 O 0 o

Sylvania Provides

Part of this year's Mellowdene Day celebrations included a more formal gathering in the Village Hall. The speakers were Cliff Babblebrook, Verden Dappledawn, Howard Brighteyes and - representing the Buttergloves - my wife's cousin and engineer Coltsfoot Ivory. My twin Newton was engaged in some work thing, and as some scientific knowledge was required, Colt was a decent substitute.

 

The main gratitude theme concentrated upon the bounties given to us by the land we love. What Sylvania gives us. The Snow Queen was mentioned but only in passing. 

I have spoken of the Snow Queen in previous stories. Most Mellowdenians subscribe to the belief to various degrees. Our Melting Festival is proof of that. Some are comfortable that this supernatural being actually existed and sacrificed herself to create Sylvania. Some think of her as a kind of metaphor for the land, providing for the people in return for their respect of nature. Reverend Kelvin Waters is careful to be non-committal in his sermons yet he is supportive to each individual's interpretations.

Personally, I haven't decided. The existence of the mysterious mineral we call the Dreamstone has muddied the water. Irrespective of one's leanings, the Mellowdene Day focus reminded me that Sylvania does provide unusual bounties to make life easier for its people. And I'm not simply speaking of food, water and climate. I thought I would mention a few.

o 0 O 0 o

You may recall that we use a substance called coolsalt. Manufactured in the mountain plains by our friends the Polaris family, the product is a clever combination of minerals easily sourced up there. Blocks of coolsalt are the active components of our refrigerators, absorbing heat and reducing the surrounding temperature. A remarkable discovery, kind to the environment and even recyclable. I've discovered that there is technology that can slowly discharge heat from used coolsalt - ideal for keeping food warm. Hot or cold - Sylvania provides. (*see Hot and Cold - Jul 2021)

Some of our artificial lighting is based upon insect droppings! Applying pressure to sparkfly waste causes a distinctive glow. Efficiently processed, spark bulbs are a safe alternative to oil, gas and electric lighting. All produced by the Brooks-Underwood Spark Farm, founded by ancestors of the two families. (*see When the Sun Goes Down - Sep 2022)

I have also mentioned floaty-pods. If the large seeds of the lavender ash trees undergo a simple process, they become lighter than air. They are incredibly useful, providing lift when heavy objects have to be moved. Further, the inventive Cedric Walnut has been able to use floaty-pods within his flying machine - Skyrider. (*see Being Apart from Friends - Sep 2023)

DingleDale Worm Farm helps boost the production of textiles thanks to the unusual echo worms that the Dale and Dingle families rear. I still remember the wonder I felt when visiting the farm and hearing the singing worms! (*see A Neighbourly Yarn with Music Mar 2021)

All remarkable, but there are more examples. One I should mention relates to fuel, but there are others. This came to my mind after thinking about the Mellowdene Day speeches.  

Most fireplaces in Mellowdene homes no longer burn fuel that produces open flames. Although we are fortunate to have the Hornbeam House Safety Department and firefighting equipment - under the control of our fire chief Benjamin Underwood - the village has, in the main, cut down on fire risks by switching to an alternative heat source. 

This in no way minimises the respect and gratitude we have for Ben and his volunteer fire crew.

But back to fireglass.

We call it fireglass because it has the appearance of red glass. I don't know the specific details of its manufacture but we understand a key ingredient is a type of fungus that grows in shady conditions, the common name being ruby mushrooms. A local natural source is within one of the many small valleys at the foot of our neighbouring mountain range, although it is now grown in quantity elsewhere. We have a small manufacturing plant that processes it locally - the alliterative Fireglass Fuel Factory run by Reilly Hunter-Smyth and his family. 

The mushroom caps are red but the once picked the stalks become dark, charcoal coloured. The fireglass retains these colours, but the dark parts are not visible in our fireplaces. When those dark parts are submerged in a bath of salt water, the red parts radiate flameless heat. Fine control is achieved by varying the amount of fireglass that is submerged.

A number of vehicles have had their fuel systems altered to use fireglass. The garage associated with Mellowdene Van Hire offer this as part of their services. Murphy Van Dyke and his son Draven are very efficient in this task. Once converted, a periodic replacement of the fireglass (often at the annual vehicle service) is all that is required thereafter. Salt water as the actual fuel is very convenient for filling up! 

o 0 O 0 o

It never ceases to amaze me how these discoveries are made. Given the existence of the Sylvanian Research Group and the Owl Collective, it wouldn't surprise me if all sorts of substances are examined and processed in a variety of ways. I could ask Newton but I'm never sure how much he'd reveal about the scientific work done by the SRG.

It is clear that Sylvania provides. Whether it was by design by the Snow Queen, some purpose of these ubiquitous wild energies, or as a consequence of magic or luck - I cannot tell. But it certainly links with our Mellowdene Day. A reason to be grateful.

o 0 O 0 o

 

The Halloween Box

Whilst I had been involved in the Brothermeet, Cecile had been meeting with her Cake Club friends in the living room. I gathered that, whilst there had been a little bit of Club business to sort out, it was primarily a social get together.

Cecile told me all about it and I report this below.

o 0 O 0 o

"Okay," said Willow Thistlethorn, a happy expression on her elfin face, "Now we have all the cakey stuff out of the way, what's everybody doing for Halloween?"

"I take it you mean our children," said Flo VanDyke, sitting back from the table,

"Our children, us - either way," said Willow. "It's an excuse to have fun for any of us. I'm making ghostie muffins."

"What are those?" asked Beatrix Spotter, "and are they anything my triplets will enjoy?"

Willow nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. Muffins with just the slightest touch of coffee essence, but they're ghostie because I'll top them with a white fondant cut-out of a ghost."

"I might omit the coffee as my three already bounce about quite enough, thank you," laughed Beatrix. "With regard to Halloween, Gail and Alfie haven't really become involved as yet. They dressed up for the Beastie Hunt, though."

"Don't talk to me about the Beastie Hunt," said Emma Furbanks. "My Myrna used it as an excuse to start wearing her chicken costume again. A few months ago Ken put on a short play in his drama group called "Chick-a-bun" and Myrna had one of the title roles. Her friend Andi Catamaran had the other, dressing up as a fluffy bunny. Since then, they have worn the costumes continually. I had to draw a line to stop Myrna wearing it to school. The Beastie Hunt has stirred it all up again. I don't doubt she'll want to wear it for Halloween."

Cecile laughed. "I saw them when they called here. Cute as anything."

"You didn't mind that it was a 'wild beastie rabbit' you were treating to candies?", smirked Flo.

"Jackson might say that description applies to me," said Cecile, straight-faced.

"Cecile!" said Willow and Mona Hazelnut in unison. The others sniggered. 

"Anyway, maybe I envied the soft fur of the costume," said Cecile, winking.

"Actually," said Emma, after the laughter abated, "speaking of the drama group, I hope Brendan wasn't too disappointed about the Halloween doodah."

"Halloween doodah?" repeated Cecile. "Brendan didn't mention anything. What am I missing?"

"His ghost story? The Halloween Box? The one they were aiming to use as a framework for a drama improvisation at Halloween?"

"He's said nothing. Tell me more."

"Presumably you remember the ghost story reading Fliss Robinson did in the chapel meeting room two years ago?"

"She does write good stories," said Willow.

"Agreed. Well, she offered to run a writing workshop for the drama group. Give the budding actors an insight into how the creative mind works. Invaluable. But it was to be at Halloween. Before any discussions could begin on rescheduling, Brendan withdrew his ghost story, saying that Mrs Robinson's offer was more use to the group."

"Aw, the little darling," said Beatrix.

"Yes," said Emma, but I wondered if he might have been overwhelmed, feeling inferior to a professional author. Jumping before he thought he'd be pushed."

"I see," said Cecile. "That doesn't sound like Brendan - but I'll have a word with him."

The conversation then resumed the survey into Halloween intentions.

With thoughts of Mona Hazelnut bobbing for apples, I'll bring this report to an end. 

o 0 O 0 o

In Brendan's last school report we were pleasantly surprised at the results. He's always been good at his sums, and his imagination always ensured that his compositional efforts were highly rated. His other subjects - including spelling - were more mediocre. His quick little mind wanted to get down his thoughts so he didn't concern himself checking his spelling. Now, there were improvements across the board.

We learned that he'd borrowed an old pocket dictionary that belonged to his Uncle Merlin. His teacher - Eve Wildwood - had commented that Brendan spent more time in the school library - a quarter hour each lunchtime. He was actually consolidating what he'd learned in class. He was even taking notice when Beverley corrected his grammar.

Rewarding news, but we were curious as to why he'd become so diligent. We had asked him and he said that if he wanted to become an author like Fliss Robinson he needed to improve his writing. It seemed he wanted an additional outlet for his imagination; he still had fun with his role-playing games but thought that writing stories might be fun too. It wasn't a great leap since he usually directed the plot-lines of those games he enjoyed with Lucky Snow-Warren and Orton. Whilst we couldn't predict whether or not he would persevere down this literary road, if his academic skills were improving we had no complaints. 

Now it seemed that one of his stories had come to the attention of the drama club he attended. This was news to us and Emma's revelation that Brendan had pulled his story really made us curious. Had he really been so selfless?

Cecile and I asked him about it after lunch. Beverley was watching with interest.

"Mrs Robinson's workshop would be better for the group," he said but Cecile noted how he said this.

"Perhaps, but  that isn't the full reason, is it, Brendan?"

He pulled his face. "Well. no..."

"Out with it."

"They wanted to change my story, mum. My story. I wrote it how I wanted it to be. I spent a lot of time on it."

"Maybe it didn't quite match what the drama group wanted," I suggested.

"Then they shouldn't have chosen it. It's not a play. They can act it out as I wrote it but nobody should change it."

"How did they want to change it, dear?" said Cecile.

"They said they wanted an ending that was... resul... revuls..."

"Resolved?" said Beverley, helpfully.

"Yes. That. Thanks, Bev." He turned back to us. "I wanted my story to leave the reader with questions. Not have it all wrapped up. You know, dad. Lucky's dad said you used to tell stories at school."

Those were the days I let my imagination rip. Not to the same extent as Brendan, but my silly little tales did seem quite popular with my school mates, in particular Clary Snow-Warren who sat next to me in class.

Cecile answered before I had a chance to open my mouth. "So, when Fliss Robinson offered to do the workshop, it gave you a good excuse to withdraw."

"It wasn't intended as a play anyway. It's a story to be read out. Like Mrs Robinson's."

"What about afterwards? Won't you have the same problem?"

"The workshops last three weeks. When they're done it won't be Halloween and they might not want it. It also gives me time to think about any changes that I could make rather than them."

Beverley was nodding. "So you don't compromise your artistic integrity."

"Wha? Oh, yeah. That sounds good, sis."

I glanced at Cecile and saw she was suppressing a smile like me. The children didn't see, thankfully. We were pleased Beverley was supporting her brother. Particularly when she made a suggestion.

"It seems a bit of a waste of a Halloween story if you don't tell it at Halloween. How about reading it to us? How long is it?"

"Not too long. Are you sure?" he said, looking at each of us in turn. 

Seeing no objections, he continued, "Right, I'll go and get it."

With that, he ran out of the room.

Cecile called after him, "Don't think you're getting out of washing up!" but there was no response. She looked at me. "He won't avoid it tomorrow." 

o 0 O 0 o

A while later when we had settled to hear Brendan's Halloween story, Orton had joined the family audience. 

He gave us a little smile as Brendan glanced at his notebook and began to read. I suspected there might be a little deviation from the written word due to improvised "improvements" but it was sure to be entertaining either way.

"Many years ago," he said dramatically, "in the village of Purple Crumb there lived a mad professor. People were scared of him because he did weird experiments. They saw him carrying tools from his shed and because he used to talk to himself the villagers avoided him. That was sad."

I saw Orton nodding slowly as Brendan continued.

"There was a rumour he used his drill on people's brains. There was another rumour that he did naughty things with his saw..."

There was a hint of a frown forming on Cecile's face but it disappeared within seconds.

    

"...but they were wrong. The professor was an inventor."

Brendan beamed at us. He had expected a reaction and was satisfied at the result. He carried on with his story.

"He made inventions that nobody else would have thought of. One of these was a box that had a round window. It could glow different colours. The odd noises that people thought were squeals and groans came from the box but it was just electric sounds."

Brendan went on to say how some villagers wanted to see what was going on in the shed but they were too scared. "Once," he said, "a couple of braver ones sneaked up to the shed and peeked through the window. At that moment the box shone brightly and there was a shriek that sent the villagers running."

"There was talk of getting some of the King's soldiers to come, but a lot of villagers argued no. Purple Crumb was a small village and they were worried that if they involved the King it would lead to big taxes."

I didn't know if Brendan had been researching politics and economics in the school library or reading fairy tales. No matter. We listened as my boy carried on with his story. It was five minutes or so before he reached an important plot point.

"It was Halloween. Professor Poot had gone to bed. The two villagers - the ones who had been brave before they ran away - had returned.  Noggy and Huggle went into the shed."

"Idiots," commented Beverley. We were about to shush her when we saw Brendan acknowledging his sister.

"They were. Even more so when they fiddled with the box. For the box was a 'dead box'. Professor Poot was trying to make a device to talk to dead people."

"Dear me," said Cecile.

"Yes! 'Dear me' exactly. Because it was Halloween. Professor Poot hadn't figured out that the date was an important el-ee-ment..." - he stressed the word - "...needed for his invention."

"What happened?" asked Beverley. 

"Noggy turned a knob. Huggle wiggled a loose wire. The box lit up and it shone all the colours of the rainbow. Over and over again..." 

"...There wasn't any noise this time. Maybe because it was Halloween. After a while, Noggy switched off the box. Huggle said that it was pretty with all the colours but otherwise useless. Noggy agreed and they decided to go."

Beverley was about to comment again but Brendan held up his paw.

"After Noggy and Huggle had gone, there were two quiet pops and two pale blobs appeared in the air, swirling until they formed shapes. "

"'That was interesting,' said one blob. 'A bit, yes,' said the other, 'although it was rude to say we were useless. I think we should have a look around.'"

Brendan grinned. "In case you didn't realise - Purple Crumb had invited two ghosts!"

o 0 O 0 o

The story went on to describe numerous visitations throughout the village, most of which were amusing. The ghosts seemed fond of practical jokes. It lasted all night until Halloween was over.

Brendan brought the story to a conclusion when the two ghosts started to fade. 

"That was fun," said one. "I wouldn't mind doing it again," said the other. And with two quiet pops they were gone.

"That's where I left it," said Brendan, "but now I'm thinking that Mr Furbanks was right. It needs a better ending."

Orton made his first comment. "I liked it. Am I right thinking Uncle Newton was the inspiration for Professor Poot? The hand drill was a nice touch."

Of course! A few months ago Newton had been installing Merlin's microwave and he had played a joke on Brendan, brandishing the drill like some sort of space pistol.

"Maybe you're right, Ort," my boy answered before switching his attention to me. "Do you think Uncle Newt would be upset, dad?"

"About being the inspiration for a mad professor? I shouldn't think so."

"Woh!" said Brendan. "I've just had an idea how to change the ending. How about this..."

We waited whilst the Brendan imagination machine whirred into action.

"Professor Poot is long gone now, but some of his work remains. It is understood that some models of microwave ovens incolopolorate his designs. The evidence?"

Brendan scanned his audience for any reaction before revealing all.

"It is said that every Halloween, one of these microwaves will shine like a rainbow and there will be two quiet pops. 'Happy Halloween,' a blob will say. 'I hope so,' the other will reply. 'Let us go a-haunting!'"

Beverley laughed. "Two quiet pops!"

Brendan (and shortly afterwards, Orton) began making popping noises.

After a minute of this, Cecile thought some distraction was needed.

"Right. Now I think we can stop all this popping if we show appreciation for these blobs. How about some ice cream after tea?"

"I would certainly appreciate a blob of ice cream," said Beverley.

No surprise there.

o 0 O 0 o