Open Writing

A long time ago in a far-off land, there was a forest of the greatest beauty. It lay across the slopes of grey-black mountains and filled the valley below. It was a magical, mystical place: neither road nor rocky path pointed the way and no-one knew it was there. In the distant past a powerful spell had been put upon the land, and now the trees of the forest were made of glass. From the twisted roots to the treetops, and from twig to leaf, everything was made of the clearest crystal. When the sun rose over the mountains in the morning, the leaves of the trees sparkled and glittered like diamonds, and when the sun disappeared and the moon took her place in the sky, then a different light shone upon the land; cool and mysterious, dark grey and blue shadowed, it was not a place where any creature would choose to go. Even the rain and the wind stayed away, for the mountains were high and their slopes were steep, and no flowers ever grew.

Once in a while when winter came a storm would rush down from the mountain tops. Then trees would crack and branches shatter and broken glass would litter the land. The carpet of splinters grew thicker each year, and no moss came to soften the ice-cold stumps. No fox, no rabbit, no mouse made a lair, not even a spider’s web was there.

One cold and frosty night, a little brown bird with one red feather was blown by the wind from the mountain ridge, carried on high from a far-off place. It should have gone to Africa, but it waited too long and lost its way. Down and down it flew, half dead with cold and swept along as the storm passed through. At last it came to rest on the tallest tree in the forest. It clung on to the topmost branch until the morning sun climbed up in the sky.

The bird was almost blinded by the sparkling light, the glitter of crystal, the leaves, the acorn cups, and down on the ground a shining sea of diamonds - or so it seemed. It flew down to the floor to peck for food, for seeds, for insects - anything at all, but nothing was there, nothing at all, only the shards and the splinters.

How should it live in such a place, how could it stay where nothing grew, no flower, no tiny creeping plant or fungus: no ladybird, no running ant, no rotting bark or sprouting seed.

The bird flew back to the tallest tree and warmed in the sun: nothing to eat, nothing to make a nest, and when night fell nowhere to shelter. The little bird fluffed out its feathers and held on to the slippery crystal branch, and waited until the morning came.

Far away on the other side of the mountain the forests were green, and rivers full of fish flowed through the land. The spring flowers had to be seen to be believed as they sprang to life in the meadows. Every kind of wildlife was there, and deep in the darkest, thickest forest lived a family of wolves. It is the way of wolves to drive off the oldest, weakest male to make way for a strong and healthy leader of the pack.

That day had come in the green valley, and with saddened eyes and his tail down the oldest wolf turned away from the others and walked out of the forest.

He looked back only once, but the pack had already gone, so he turned again and walked towards the black mountain slopes in the distance. When darkness came he had reached them, but because he was old and tired he waited for the morning before he climbed to the top.

When the sun rose the wolf began to climb, up and up, slipping and sliding on the stones and narrow ledges, till at last he stood on the highest ridge. Down below, in the bottom of the valley, the crystal forest shone brighter than the sun, and the wolf was dazzled. He had never hunted there before, how was he to know the forest was made of crystal? He half closed his eyes to shield them from the light, and slowly, very carefully, he walked down to the valley floor.

With no path to follow and only stones under his feet, the wolf stumbled on, hungry and tired again, for it was almost dusk. Another day had passed, the night would be cold, and suddenly, over the mountain came the winds, a winter storm bringing ice and snow.

“Who are you, what will you do?” said the winds, as they rushed on by.

“Run for the trees, or you will freeze,” said a voice in the storm. And as if to help him along, the winds blew even stronger until at last, the wolf had reached the edge of the forest.

Alas, the tree trunks couldn’t bend in the storm, nor the leaves hold on, so down they came with the sound of a thousand reindeer bells in the sky, not a thud like an oak or beech coming down. When trees lose their leaves, they float down with less than a whisper, but not these, oh no, not these. As the wolf cowered in the middle of the forest, he was showered with falling glass, splintered leaves and twigs; shards as sharp as needles stabbed every part of his body, but worst of all was the damage done to his eyes. When the night was over and he tried to look around, he could see nothing. His eyes were full of tiny glass splinters. The old wolf was blind.

In his pain he howled and howled. What an end to his illustrious life. To die of old age was what he expected, but to die of hunger and blindness - ah, that was not to be borne. All that day, and the next, he lay bleeding on the brittle, needle-sharp glass, and howled his misery to the sun and the moon.

The little bird had been in the forest for a long time, and because it was only small it had managed to survive on tiny things that had drifted down on the breeze. A few days after the wolf had arrived, the bird heard the sounds of distress as it hopped and flew about. Again and again the howls of pain echoed through the forest, and the bird flew about from tree to tree - for there were many that were still standing after the storm. At last, it came to a glade where all the broken leaves were stained red - the only splash of colour in the whole forest.

There lay the wolf, weak from his injuries and loss of blood. The bird flew down and stood on his head.

“What’s this, what’s this?” it said, and the wolf replied,

“My eyes, my eyes are full of glass. I can’t see. Help me, please, oh help me.”

You and I might have heard only the chatter of a bird and the moan of a wolf, but then, we are not in a place of magic, are we?

Without further delay or discussion the little bird set to work. It had such tiny claws and a pointy bill, and it stood right between the eyes of the wolf and one by one, removed the splinters from his eyes. First one eye, then the other, and when the sun sank to the horizon once more, the job was done. At last the wolf could see again, and although his eyes were scarred and bloodshot, he could lift his head to look at the little bird, with one red feather among the brown.

“Thank you, thank you, my friend. What can I do to repay you for your kindness?”

The little bird told him all there was to know about the glass forest and the valley: how there was neither food not shelter, and no other creatures living there.

“What can we do?” it said. “I would have gone long ago if I knew which way to fly.”

“I can show you,” said the wolf. “I have travelled in these valleys all my life, though I have never seen this one before. In the morning we will go together. When my eyes have healed I will show you the way south, but first you shall be my guide and rest on my head.”

And so it came to pass. Once more the wolf and the bird slept among the debris of the forest, and at first light they set off together. The bird flew high to see how they should find their way, and the wolf stepped with the greatest care until he could feel no more glass beneath his feet.

For days the two friends travelled, but at last they reached the bottom of the valley, where the grasses grew and flowers bloomed There were seeds and insects for the bird, and the wolf, whose eyes were almost healed, could go off hunting whenever he was hungry.

It was such a beautiful place, it never seemed to be the right moment for the bird to fly south. The wolf, of course, had nowhere else to go. Perhaps they are still there, who knows? They were friends, after all.