The fire was laid, and the Yule Log had pride of place. Soon it would burn, and the Yule Log could not wait.

Because the stories could only be told once the tree no longer lived.

You didn’t know that trees collected stories?

Well, they do.

Tree rings were one example – they could tell very general stories of long periods of time.

But trees collected other stories too, your stories…and mine…and of everything that happens around them.

Most stories stayed trapped in the wood. Have you ever been in a wooden house and felt happy or sad or troubled just by being there? Those are the stories trapped in the timber seeping out.

The stories can only be released properly by burning – and that is why he wanted to burn. He had so many stories – he was full of them. They were bursting to get out and only the fire would set them free. That was the real cause of the Great Fire of London – all those stories rubbing against each other for all those years – it was bound to happen.

Have you ever watched a forest begin anew after a fire? Seen how everything begins to grow so green and lush? That is because of the stories. The immense energy generated by the release of so many stories into the world all at once sets the new world growing. The crackling noise you hear is not the destruction of the wood, it is the stories escaping into the world. You can hear them if your ears and heart are open to them.

The stories released by the burning stayed around for a while, usually, and then dissipated.

But the stories released by a Yule Log were different – they stayed a part of the world forever, there for those whose ear is attuned to hear them. That was why he was so happy to be the Yule Log – it meant that his stories would live forever, and be a part of the record of the earth for all time.

Most stories lingered like wisps of fog in his memory, but some remained crystal clear.

He thought about The Clan – that was how they appeared to him, capitalised and forever fixed. There had been several of them over the few years they came to him regularly, but most revolved around a core group of 8. And the core of 8 revolved around The Chief. The Chief was loud and funny and seemed to be their unofficial leader. They just naturally deferred to the Chief. The Chief’s jokes were laughed at the loudest, the Chief’s suggestions were always followed over another’s. The Chief never forced it, it just seemed to happen that way.

Then one day the Chief came alone. This wasn’t right. The Chief was never alone. The Chief was always surrounded by The Clan. The Chief seemed somehow small, ephemeral, as if it was only the gaze of others which gave her existence. The Chief took herself out of existence that day. He was witness and recorder, to both The Act and The Aftermath. The person who found her, those who came to collect her, all now part of his story.

The Clan continued to meet there. A new Chief emerged, and things continued as before, as if this was not the place where It had happened. They never spoke Her name, as if She had ceased to exist in their memories when She had ceased to exist to their eyes and ears. He realised that they’d never spoken her name, even when she lived. She didn’t matter to The Clan. She never had. It was the role that mattered. As long as there was a Chief, The Clan would continue.

But She’d mattered to The Boy. The Boy slowly stopped joining The Clan. He visited by himself instead. There were so many worlds in his eyes. Worlds of Happiness, Worlds of Despair, Worlds of Wonder. When these worlds were visible in his eyes The Boy would play music, or sing, or write. Sometimes, however, She was in his eyes and then The Boy would just Be.

Eventually The Boy stopped coming. That was years ago.

Ned and Georgina – they used to meet by him when they were courting. Ned had carved their initials in his bark once, inside a heart. That had pleased him – they would always be a part of his story, but now he was a part of theirs as well. That was before Ned left for the War that was supposed to be the Last, but was only the First. Georgina had come to sit by him to read the letters Ned sent back from the front. When Ned returned, he proposed right under the initials he had carved. Georgina said yes, of course. They’d returned to him many times over the years, and he’d watched their children, and their children’s children, grow.

Harold had sat there too, sharing his fears and worries about going to the Next War with Marjorie. And he told her why he needed to go anyway. Marjorie had cried. Marjorie had come back a just few short months later. She had sobbed out her grief, her arms wrapped around his trunk for support, telegram in hand. He’d been her only son, her only child, all she’d had, and now she had nothing. He’d been grateful for the breeze that had allowed his leaves to brush against her hair, the only comfort he could offer. She never came back.

There had been countless generations of birds who had taken their first flight from his branches, countless generations of squirrels chasing each other through his leaves till it made him dizzy.

There was the girl who came regularly for few years. He’d never heard her voice, she never spoke. She just wanted to write in a quiet place by herself, but not feel alone. He was good at that. He liked it when she came. He felt a kind of camaraderie with her, both of them silently collecting their stories in their own way.

So many others, long gone now and forgotten by everyone but him.

He wondered what would happen when he could not absorb any more stories. He wondered if that is why trees died. He had heard people speak about trees that were many hundreds of years old and he wondered how they managed to hold it all.

He’d tried releasing stories into the wind, but it was no good. He needed fire.

He’d felt the storm coming long before the first signs appeared. But then, he’d lived through so many, many storms. This one had been fierce, and he was no longer as protected as he used to be. Over the years he’d seen most of those he had grown up with disappear. Some became diseased and died. Some were felled. He always wished them fire in their future as they were taken away. Tell your tales well, his leaves would whisper to them, wishing for them the end he wanted for himself.

This storm had brought with it gales that sent his branches waving to their very limits. Waving or drowning he’d wondered, remembering a line of poetry read out loud by one sitting at his base long ago. He’d wondered what drowning was. He’d heard so many stories told in so many voices. He held the memory of so many people and creatures. He held the whisper of snow falling, and the skittering of paws racing along the frozen surface. He held the songs of many birds, and the chattering of the squirrels he’d provided a home for. He held the splatter of rain and the keening wind. He held the ghosts of joy and laughter and singing. These were dear and weighed little.

But there were other sounds. Of sorrow and anger and fear. The sounds of gunfire and battle. The sounds of dying. Dying was very strange. Sometimes dying was loud and painful and the echoes took years to fade away. But sometimes dying was the absence of sound. You just realized that something that used to be there wasn’t there any longer. The silence took even longer to fade away.

When the lightning struck, it was almost a relief.

The storm left him in pieces. Some still standing, some strewn along the ground. Those pieces, he knew, would eventually rot away and nourish the next generation of Story Keepers. But he hoped that at least part of him would be burned. Just part of him going up in flames and the stories would be free and the memories would live. All he needed now was fire.

Instead, there were footsteps. Very unusual these days. People rarely came here anymore. He didn’t have room for any more stories.

An old man stopped when saw what the lightning had done, and then made his way forward slowly, the young man at his side steadying him as he stepped over fallen branches. His hand was unshaking and firm, though, when he placed it on what was left of the tree trunk. The old man had worlds in his eyes. Worlds of Hurt. Worlds of Memories. Worlds of Love. Worlds of…Her. The Boy had returned. The Boy put his forehead against the remains of the tree and The Boy’s thoughts were absorbed by the wood.  I know now why you did it, Hannah, but there was another way. There was always another way.

The tree did not have room for any new stories, but perhaps just enough room for the end of an old one.

Hannah. That had been The Chief’s name. The Boy remembered her. He remembered her name. And now her name could be added to her story. Hannah’s story.

The old man stood for several minutes, his forehead resting against the tree, while the young man began to collect pieces of the tree that were small enough to lift.

The young man gave the old man his arm, and the two made their careful way back down the path. The old man walked a little taller, as if some invisible burden had fallen away. When they reached the turning, the old man paused and looked once more at the site that had been home to both his youthful hopes, and his first experience of grief. The tree recorded one final sound, a tear landing on the accepting earth.

*****

The young man swept out the fireplace in the tiny cottage and began to lay the fire. He saved the piece of wood his grandfather had pointed out to him for last. This would be their Yule Log. His grandfather had told him stories of his youth and taken him back to see where so many things had happened. It had been sad to see the destruction, but his grandfather seemed almost relieved to be able to take part of the tree away with them. He said that he wanted to sit and watch the fire, and perhaps see some of his own past. He swore that he could hear stories in the fire, too. The young man didn’t believe it, but it made his grandfather happy, and that was what mattered.

The holiday meal was over, and it was just the two of them once more. The young man led his grandfather to his chair in front of fireplace. His grandfather sat down and smiled, ready to meet an old friend. He nodded to the young man, who held a match to the kindling.

The fire was laid, and the Yule Log had pride of place. Soon it would burn, and the Yule Log could not wait.