2021 Anne Boleyn Files Advent Calendar

December 23: The Homeward Fowl

Thank you so much to author Natasha Gennady Robinson for contributing this short story to our Advent Calendar. We hope you enjoy it.

In the dark woods, alone, there wandered a wayward soul. The cold of the night and the dark of the shadows; the frost upon the ground caused her feet to be numbed. There lay no shelter among the wooded depths within, only howling winds and cold branches outstretched and bare of life. So dense grew the trees there that the snow hardly touched the ground as it fell, but lay as a mantle upon the leafless canopy above where its long gangly branches grew entwined. Like a mantle of lace upon the dark head of a barren bride, the frost became as a crown of frozen tears, encrusting the unfruitful foliage and enveloping it with a figmental warmth like that of the shell of an impregnated egg.

All the night she had wandered, and most of the day; though the dense foliage gave little light that she might tell the difference between. From the branches above fell upon her back the icy particles of frost which after much heavy snowfall emanated as the frozen mantel slowly dissolved itself under the burden of its very own weight. Therefore, she appeared to walk with pride, a powerful impression for one so lost, so distraught, to convey in her very bearing, given the sadness which she likewise bore upon her shoulders, erect.

For many hours prior, she had searched amidst the darkened quarters for some place of warmth, of comfort; she thought she might ascend herself atop the upper branches and there make herself a bower, if only her legs were still strong that they might carry her. At times of deep delirium, of candid hope, she thought she might even take flight; but alas she did not once attempt it, for reality is ever the suppressor of dreams.

In the midst of nights darkest hours, so black grew the woods that the wanderer saw not a thing but nothingness; only the sounds of dripping frost and the breath of latent hunters on the prowl alerted her to her continued being. And at the point, that blackest of night which ever precedes the dawn, finally the woodland wayfarer conceded herself bound for no hope, thus she turned her tread towards home; or the only home she had ever known, if a home it might be called. There lies no sense of self so unwitting, nor condition so abject, below that which the homeless person concedes himself partisan. Nor is the dark ever so despairing than to those who know not where they are going, for the very simple reason of their having no place to go.

Thus, our vagabond walks back from whence she came, retracing her path in search of crumbs and cold comforts. As she clears the woods, the ground beneath her feet slopes gently downwards and as the dark turns to light, the shadows of the valley beneath peel back like ink weakened by boundless water. The sun shines then, warming as it rises, and the lost one finds herself found in the morning light. The door lies open, the way is clear, she makes her way into the only place she knows where shelter lies, and lays herself down upon her bed of straw. Comfort has come, crumbs will abound.

She closes her eyes and forgets her ordeal like the soft grass forgets the rain as the sun warms it to dryness.

She is happily received. She may think herself easily forgotten, but the elation with which she is met stands undeniable in its exuberance. So round is her reception, so stout the solicitude she is shown, it is a proclamation of belonging and the result is that she cannot help but feel accepted where previously she felt incumbent, elated where once she felt only irascible at her circumstances. The court is adjourned upon the question of her belonging, the verdict stands; here is her home and here she shall stay.

By the very limited experience of one who has known no more about life and its conditions than that which has affected her immediately, where it stands, the wanderer feels happy now that her return has proven itself the remedy to that which had caused her resolute flight; she finds herself now in the throes of one contented having set foot upon the grass which lies over the fence, and finding there only demons. Here lies safety, here lies the sanctity of the only haven known to its very own existence. There may well lie something beyond, but it may only ever bear fruit by its finding. Therefore, the wayward soul finds herself furthermore contented.

There comes then the stark reality which ever shows itself as the cold blade to which the consummate falling cling. For the very next day, the lord of the manor drags forth the prodigious nomad, by her feet no less, and holds her up to the light of the morning sun, like the glory of the very first day, and so suddenly the happy become loath; for he places her being upon a wooden block, and cuts forth her head from her body, and so she is revealed in her true form; for by the peculiarity of nature she is faced with the uncommon spectacle of having watched herself dance while her own head lies lifeless upon the cold ground. Eyes unblinking, thought unmastered; she is soon delivered to the detrimental thereafter.

Her flesh is racked of every dressing and she is lain upon coals, as hot as hellfire they may be, though she shall never again feel that which her body encounters. She makes a pretty dish upon the tabletop; as the parishioners join hands and pray to God’s grace in giving them the bounty before which they are seated. Thus, she is carved of every morsel, the table is set, and now they shall eat.

Enjoy another Tudor-themed treat over at the Tudor Society Advent Calendar at https://www.tudorsociety.com/advent2021