The dimbes-hilly landscape was covered with a never-ending evergreen mossy blanket of pine. It covered the cracks and sharp-edged rocky crags that crawled like wounds on the body of the earth. If one listened to the silence of the forest, one could hear the breathing of the trees as well as the whistling of birds. There was peace and tranquillity in the landscape.
The huge, southern pine giants have populated the plains for centuries, and when a tree fell due to old age, industrious hands planted new young saplings among them.
As Christmas drew near, signalled by the bright lights of the distant village, people came into the forest. They took some of the small pine trees with them, but first they carefully dug them up and put them on the cart with the ball of earth containing the roots.
After the holiday, when the village's colourful lights faded, their relatives would see these trees again, despite the distance, growing beautifully in the lawns of a garden, sometimes even sending a message to their forested counterparts with the whispering wind.
Now Christmas was coming again. Some small trees, who had never been able to enjoy the Christmas lights because of their low trunks, were filled with dread. They were overcome with anxiety, fear of the unknown.
A wise old pine tree then began to speak.
It happened many years ago, just before Christmas, and I'm going to tell you about it. The still night fell, shrouding the forest in an unusually dark shroud. It grew colder by the hour, even the trees shivered. The sky was starless, the air smelled of snow. It was almost as if the silence had frozen.
Suddenly there was a crash of thunder in the woods. The sound of a car, quite unusual in the middle of the night. It couldn't be hikers or forest workers, they never came after dark. The car continued to rumble along the road, as if it feared it was getting cold.
Cautious footsteps approached, the sound of crunching brushwood penetrating deeper into the forest. They settled near a young tree trunk, and soon there was a whimpering, shrieking sound. The small tree felt a sickening pain in its side, the like of which it had never felt before. Another tug or two and it would break at the waist, but then something unexpected happened.
As if winter had been waiting for the signal, a blizzard broke out. The precipitation-laden skies fell away, besieging the ground with larger-than-usual ice particles. The wind turned into a fury, bending even the great trees, it pounded the forest with such force. The two men were forced to stop sawing the trunks of the small pine trees.
A minute later, the sharp-toothed tool was picked up by the wind, blown far away, and the men were separated. They were splashed in the thickening snow, ice crystals on their faces and icicles on their uncovered heads. Their clothes were torn, soaked, turned into an unpeelable crust of ice.
The man waiting in the car, fearing that the engine would stall and he would freeze, jumped in with his last ounce of strength, and swerved the vehicle to negotiate the snow barriers and reach the highway. His abandoned companions were not in his mind, nor were the three of them, what profit they hoped to make by selling the small pines they had cut down under the cover of night.
It was only hours later, in the waning darkness of dawn, that the men who had intended to cut down the tree found their way on all fours to the road, where an early morning driver picked them up and took them straight to hospital.
The wounded trunk of the small tree was well covered with snow. It protected it from drying out, provided it with moisture, and by spring there was only a faint trace of sawing.
'Fear not, little pines,' the storyteller finished, 'for the forest protects its own, and punishes the thief who is up to no good. Rest, gather your strength, grow tall, and sooner or later you too will see the bright lights of the village waiting for Christmas.
In the still night the pine forest fell asleep. The old tree, telling its tale, drew its branches, thick with needles, closer together. In the meantime, out of habit, he stroked the scar on its trunk, which had long since ceased to hurt, but was now just a bad memory that was slowly fading.
