Prologue
The forest of Bern, Saint Nicholas’s Eve, 1514
It was Saint Nicholas’s Eve and, like all the children in her village who had been tucked into their beds, Greta could not or would not sleep. Her tummy was full of butterflies and her head brimmed with fairy dust. Her six-year-old little girl’s imagination was teasing her with things that Saint Nicholas would bring. A new wooden doll, called Anna or Freda. No, definitely Anna, she decided. No, Freda. And perhaps Saint Nicholas would be even more generous than usual, and bring new gloves or boots or a scarf to protect her from the cold. Greta had made efforts to be especially good this year, always helping Mama with her chores, fetching water from the well when asked, feeding Henry the cat, bringing wood from the outskirts of the forest to fuel the fire.
Of course, presents were only the beginning, Greta thought, and warm excitement bubbled through her as she imagined tomorrow’s feast. Mama would cover the table with hazel, berries and sweet yellow forest potatoes. Papa would prepare a freshly hunted pheasant, the succulent meat dripping, and he would make dark gravy from the bird’s fat. For pudding there would be a dark dumpling of fruit and goats’ cream. Her mouth watered at the thought. Throughout the day, Mama and Greta had worked hard to decorate the wooden lodge. Mama hung evergreen holly leaves on the wooden tree trunks that were the lodge’s walls. She’d fetched a stool and stood higher to wrap fir tree branches and mistletoe around the wood beams that crossed the ceiling. Greta had filled a bowl with mint leaves and pumpkin bread for a hungry Saint Nicholas as a thank you for what he would bring. Papa had watched and smiled through his dark beard as he sharpened his cleaver on a stone, smoking his bone pipe and sitting in his quilted armchair. With each stroke of the small stone against the blade, tiny orange sparks had escaped, hissing at times when they landed on the wooden floor.
Greta had been put to bed hours ago, as the sun went down and the wolves of the forest howled their evening chorus. Papa had lifted her up in his huge arms and placed her on his shoulders, cantering and neighing while jumping around and, finally, hoisting Greta up the stairs made from oak branches to the mezzanine where her handmade, wooden bed overlooked the lodge. Greta had giggled so hard, she thought her sides would split with joy.
‘
Schlaf gut meine tochter, ein traum von liebe und abenteuer
,’ said Mama, telling her daughter to dream nice dreams while at the same time plaiting the tiny girl’s long, blonde hair into pigtails. With her nightgown on, Greta lay on her goose-feather mattress and snuggled under the patchwork blankets. Mama and Papa kissed her forehead and told her they loved her and to sleep well, just as they had done every night for the last six years. Papa lit the river-stone fireplace and started burning the logs before barring the oak doors and window shutters, just as he did every night. And so the bitter cold of winter and the singing wolves were kept at bay, and the family who lived in the woods were safe. Greta really should have been asleep by this time. But tonight was not a typical night. This was the night that Saint Nicholas visited.
It was dark in the lodge except for the orange glow of the fireplace. Flamed shapes danced into the rafters. Greta gasped as she heard the clatter on the roof above. Reindeer hooves, perhaps? Yes…the sound was unmistakable. Greta knew exactly who it was, as certainly as any child would, and Greta knew with even more certainty why he was here.
‘
Samichlaus ist hier! Samichlaus ist hier!
’ Greta squealed as she escaped from her bed prison. She stepped on the wooden floor and pattered along to the stairs. She passed her Mama and Papa’s room where, from the archway, she saw the dark figures of her parents sleeping amongst furs. She climbed down the stairs slowly, one at a time, steadying
The forest of Bern, Saint Nicholas’s Eve, 1514
It was Saint Nicholas’s Eve and, like all the children in her village who had been tucked into their beds, Greta could not or would not sleep. Her tummy was full of butterflies and her head brimmed with fairy dust. Her six-year-old little girl’s imagination was teasing her with things that Saint Nicholas would bring. A new wooden doll, called Anna or Freda. No, definitely Anna, she decided. No, Freda. And perhaps Saint Nicholas would be even more generous than usual, and bring new gloves or boots or a scarf to protect her from the cold. Greta had made efforts to be especially good this year, always helping Mama with her chores, fetching water from the well when asked, feeding Henry the cat, bringing wood from the outskirts of the forest to fuel the fire.
Of course, presents were only the beginning, Greta thought, and warm excitement bubbled through her as she imagined tomorrow’s feast. Mama would cover the table with hazel, berries and sweet yellow forest potatoes. Papa would prepare a freshly hunted pheasant, the succulent meat dripping, and he would make dark gravy from the bird’s fat. For pudding there would be a dark dumpling of fruit and goats’ cream. Her mouth watered at the thought. Throughout the day, Mama and Greta had worked hard to decorate the wooden lodge. Mama hung evergreen holly leaves on the wooden tree trunks that were the lodge’s walls. She’d fetched a stool and stood higher to wrap fir tree branches and mistletoe around the wood beams that crossed the ceiling. Greta had filled a bowl with mint leaves and pumpkin bread for a hungry Saint Nicholas as a thank you for what he would bring. Papa had watched and smiled through his dark beard as he sharpened his cleaver on a stone, smoking his bone pipe and sitting in his quilted armchair. With each stroke of the small stone against the blade, tiny orange sparks had escaped, hissing at times when they landed on the wooden floor.
Greta had been put to bed hours ago, as the sun went down and the wolves of the forest howled their evening chorus. Papa had lifted her up in his huge arms and placed her on his shoulders, cantering and neighing while jumping around and, finally, hoisting Greta up the stairs made from oak branches to the mezzanine where her handmade, wooden bed overlooked the lodge. Greta had giggled so hard, she thought her sides would split with joy.
‘
Schlaf gut meine tochter, ein traum von liebe und abenteuer
,’ said Mama, telling her daughter to dream nice dreams while at the same time plaiting the tiny girl’s long, blonde hair into pigtails. With her nightgown on, Greta lay on her goose-feather mattress and snuggled under the patchwork blankets. Mama and Papa kissed her forehead and told her they loved her and to sleep well, just as they had done every night for the last six years. Papa lit the river-stone fireplace and started burning the logs before barring the oak doors and window shutters, just as he did every night. And so the bitter cold of winter and the singing wolves were kept at bay, and the family who lived in the woods were safe. Greta really should have been asleep by this time. But tonight was not a typical night. This was the night that Saint Nicholas visited.
It was dark in the lodge except for the orange glow of the fireplace. Flamed shapes danced into the rafters. Greta gasped as she heard the clatter on the roof above. Reindeer hooves, perhaps? Yes…the sound was unmistakable. Greta knew exactly who it was, as certainly as any child would, and Greta knew with even more certainty why he was here.
‘
Samichlaus ist hier! Samichlaus ist hier!
’ Greta squealed as she escaped from her bed prison. She stepped on the wooden floor and pattered along to the stairs. She passed her Mama and Papa’s room where, from the archway, she saw the dark figures of her parents sleeping amongst furs. She climbed down the stairs slowly, one at a time, steadying
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