The Christmas Tree that came in from the Cold

It was a snooty, haughty thing. It came to the house of the Bannervilles, that sat right on the edge of the top of the hill and was always in danger of falling off and sliding down to the bottom and becoming thoroughly middle-class.

The decorations were not much to look at it being natural and without the charms of artificiality, the elf hat that hung upside down had elven dandruff, some lice, and cookie crumbs inside, the marcipan pig grunted softly and tried to bite your finger if you got to close to its snout, the drum if you played it was too loud and martial. No the decorations were just the worst, said mother Bannerville.

Petro Bannerville who was named after a famous painter of wartime propaganda slid down the banisters of the old house when he heard the Christmas tree enter with its many little tinkling steps and the way it laughed scornfully at the frightened fireplace and father Bannerville who cowered at the Christmas Tree’s entrance and subsequent artful placing of itself in the center of the room. “Wheee, wheee” shouted Petro as he slid down the banisters of the Bannerville house.

“Whee, whee” shouted Petro, sliding round and round the corkscrewing banisters, until dismounting with one fluid motion came running into the living room where the Christmas tree stood with an enigmatic and superior expression on its brow, and that when it saw the energy of the child graciously spread its branches wide to welcome the jumping boy into its embrace. For a moment child and tree stood united with joy upon their faces, despite that the needles had scratched the child’s cheeks and his arms had broken some of the smaller branches and scattered needles onto the thick rugs of the living room.

“No!” shouted mother Bannerville, and father Bannerville shouted “No!”, but it was far too late, Christmas trees that visit you of their own accord must be quickly apprehended.

With a cry that was, as one might expect, inhuman, the tree with boy embraced jumped through the fancy doors that led from the living room to the cake-like exterior balcony with its many schmancy embellishments on stonework and railings. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, and then each piece as it struck the fancy stone itself shattered into a thousand pieces, and the Christmas tree was rising on the buffeting winter wind as the parents from below tried to clutch at low hanging ornaments of inferior quality.

“Whee, Whee” shouted the rapturous child “No, No” cried the horrified parents, but the tree from then on was silent, although it did allow the lights of its candles to fire so that it could be seen, majestic like a falcon that has captured a rabbit, moving through the dark sky for a long time to come as the “whee, whee” grew fainter and fainter and at last was no more in the chill air.

Somewhere in this world where old Christmas tree convene and talk amongst themselves of the greater heroes and villains of their kind, where they speak with reverence of the farthest Christmas Tree

Or of the cursed Tree Candleloriam, that has a coal mine at its roots, some times an old couple will wander and inquire of the boy-stealer, the tree that comes in from the cold onto the prosperous and takes from them with a certain disdain.

But trees do not lightly give up their secrets, and Christmas trees are an especially proud and nonreciprocal kind. Some day soon the couple will die and the trees will not have to be bothered by them anymore.