The story of Elenna Wren

Tuesday, 2 January 2018

Sunny at first with showers later and stormy conditions at night 6 degrees - Grange over Sands

Perusal of my work inbox shows an influx of new enquiries and oh, buggerations, they are all for gite renovations.  Do you know how many people ever buy gite properties or renovations?  For me, I have not sold a single house with gites in my nearly 14 years.  And perhaps only two or three renovations.  One of them was so derelict that the barn roof fell in between compromis and acte de vente.  Never mind, said the new owners, it saves us knocking it down.  In early December I did a study of all of the sales which had completed in the year, company wide, and discovered that no one else was selling gites either.  What do people buy, I hear you wondering?  The answer is bungalows with a hectare of land, for about 170 000 euros.  Or houses under 150 000 euros in more or less decent condition.  I only have one house under 150 000 euros with land.  And it has been for sale for absolutely years, being on a junction between two roads.  The poor owner has become a widow in the intervening period and therefore very inflexible on the price.  I suspect it will form part of her kids' inheritance.

Speaking of children, and on this day which comprised a walk in the gap between the morning showers and the late afternoon storm, I was told of the birth of a baby girl called Elenna Wren.  What a delightful name.  It made me want to write a story about her, so here it is.

The story of Elenna Wren

Once upon a time, there was a deep forest, filled with ancient trees whose names were whispered on the wind; oak and ash and chestnut and elm, birch and beech and blackthorn and elder.  Their great roots were home to many small rodents and their broad trunks were filled with insects and their leaves rustled like a whole corps de ballet.  Birds hatched and matched and, when their time came, were dispatched and became part of the mould on the forest floor.  A tiny stream gave succour to the animals of the forest and, often, whole families would come and drink together.  Leaves fell and were carried away and the music of the water was a constant in each day and night.

At the heart of the forest lay a cottage; a simple affair with thatched roof and rough planks nailed to the exterior.  Leaded windows were frowned over by  heavy lintels which were, in their turn, laughed at by the rampant rambling briar which scrambled over them and was hitching itself to the thatch.  Smoke from the chimney curled into the still air.  Under the porch, a solid oak door with polished knocker and a bright wreath of holly, jewelled with berries.  A tiny leaded window winked in the moonlight.

The door opens and a girl comes out.  She takes a log from the porch seat, gazes up at the moon and then wraps her shawl closer around her and goes back in.

It is the 1st of January.  The girl is called Elenna Wren.  She is 26 years old and she is the mistress of the cottage.  If there had been more light inside, you could have noticed her thick and wavy brown hair and her conker bright eyes; you could have seen that her smile is mischevious and reveals dimples inherited from her mother's side of the family.  Her brows are strong and her skin clear.  She is diminutive, barely five feet tall with tiny hands and feet and, tonight, she is wrapped up in many layers of clothing to protect from the cold.  Like a wren, her movements are quick.

She loosens the shawl and leans over the fire, carefully placing the new log onto the embers.  A pair of bellows are employed and soon the log catches and crackles and small yellow flames start to consume the outer layers of bark. Elenna's lips move silently and she stares into the flames.  A wish has been made.  

Outside, the clouds clear and the moon rides out into view.  Its pale rays shine through the leaded window and Elenna looks up, startled.  There is a tap at the door.  Surely it is just the briar, waving in the wind.  But no, there it is again.

Elenna peers through the leaded window.  All she can see is a bird.  She opens the door and peers out.

'Good evening' says the thrush.

'Good evening' replies Elenna, who had always been raised to be polite to strangers.

The bird shakes its feathers.  

'Terrible weather to be out and about'

'Yes indeed'

'Mind if I come in and dry off a bit?'

'Of course'

The bird hops in and perches on the edge of the range, shakes itself again and starts to preen.  Elenna sits down, takes up her cup of tea, and racks her brain for a subject of conversation.  The thrush looks at her from under a wing and winks.

There is another tap on the door.  Elenna looks at the thrush and the thrush looks at the door.  

Elenna laughs and looks through the leaded window.  Outside is a soggy looking fox.

'Good evening' says the fox, smiling at her

'Good evening'

'Terrible weather to be out and about'

'Do you want to come in and dry off a bit?'

'Don't mind if I do'.

He settles himself down on the mat and tips a nod at the thrush.

Elenna has barely had time to pick up her now cooling cup of tea when there is a third tap at the door.  She opens the door without looking and lets in a very skinny cat of doubtful parentage.

The cat smiles and settles itself down next to the fox.

'Do you not speak?' Elenna enquires of the cat

'He's not much of a one for conversation', says the thrush.

The cat starts to wash itself.

'Hairballs', said the fox 'get stuck in his throat'

'Good night' said the thrush.  'Its late' said the fox.  'Better get our heads down'.  

The cat had closed his eyes and was deep in sleep, his paws twitching slightly.

'Good night then', said Elenna and went upstairs, rubbing her eyes.

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The next morning dawned all too soon and Elenna woke on the morning of her 27th birthday.  The pale light of morning speared through the leaded panes and landed in silvery pools on the counterpane.  If she was not mistaken, she could hear birdsong.  High and clear and pure, the notes were being joyously cast on the morning air.

Elenna took up a package from her bedside table.  A gift from her godfather.  She untied the string and unwrapped the brown paper to find a thick dressing gown covered with rambling briars and roses and exotic birds.  A pair of matching slippers lay on top.  Elenna put them on and luxuriated in their newness and loveliness.  Again, the birdsong.  She lifted the latch on her bedroom door and went through and down the stairs.

The thrush was perched on the front door lintel.

'I heard your song!' exclaimed Elenna.  'It is so beautiful'.

The thrush ruffled its feathers with pleasure.  'Every day I will sing for you.  This is my gift.  And you will never feel alone.  Goodbye'

Elenna opened the door and the thrush flew off into the new morning.  She looked down.  The fox was standing at her feet.

'When you hear my bark, you will know I am near and I am looking out for dangers and will protect you.  This is my gift.  And you will never feel alone.  Goodbye'.

He trotted off, without a backwards glance.

Elenna turned.  The cat was sitting on the table, next to the cream jug, and he looked expectant.

'I expect you need feeding up a bit', she said, filling up a saucer.

The cat purred with pleasure and Elenna stroked his boney back.

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It is a year later.  Elenna smiled as she thought of the happiness she had had over the months - how her mornings had been brightened by the beautiful and varied songs of the thrush and how the bark of the fox had told her he was near.  She had even seen his pawprints in the snow, and those of his children.

She placed her birthday yule log on the fire and thought of the wish she had made the year before.  The cat had stayed with her, behaving as a cat should, and getting fatter and catching all the local rodents.  He warmed her knees before the fire and her nose tickled with his fur on her pillow.

She had, indeed, not felt alone.

'Well', she said stroking the cat's fine ginger fur 'you have never had much to say for yourself, have you?'

There were two taps on the door.

'Happy birthday', said the cat.