showing through the clouds, so the two of us walked into the nearby wood to cut some suitable branches and bring them back. This we did, talking as we worked, and learning to know one another better.
“What we need now,” declared Tuck when we had cut enough greenery to satisfy tradition, “is a little holly.”
“As good as got,” I told him, and asked why he thought it needful.
“Why? It is a most potent symbol, and that is reason enough,” the priest replied. “See here, prickly leaves remind us of the thorns our dear Lamb of God suffered with silent fortitude, and the red berries remind us of the drops of healing blood he shed for us. The tree remains green all the year round, and the leaves never die—which shows us the way of eternal life for those who love the Saviour.”
“Then, by all means,” I said, “let us bring back some holly, too.”
Shouldering our cut boughs of spruce and pine, we made our way back to the village, pausing to collect a few of the prickly green branches on the way. “And will we have a Yule log?” I asked as we resumed our walk.
“I have no objection,” the friar allowed. “A harmless enough observance, quite pleasant in its own way. Yes, why not?”
Why not, indeed! Of all the odd bits that go to make up this age-old fest, I hold the Yule log chief among them and was glad our friar offered no objection. The way some clerics have it, a fella’d think it was Lucifer himself dragged into the hall on Christmas day. For all, it’s just a log—a big one, mind, but a log all the same.
As Thane Aelred’s forester, it always fell to me to find the log. We’d walk out together, lord and vassal, of a Christmas morn—along with one of the thane’s sons or daughters astride a big ox—and drag the log back to the hall, where it would be pulled through the door and its trimmed end set in a hearth already ablaze. Then, as the end burned, we’d feed that great hulk of wood inch by inch into the flame. Green as apples, that log would sputter and crack and sizzle as the sap touched the flame, filling the hall with its strong scent. We always chose a timber too green to burn any other time for the simple reason that, so long as that log was a-roast, none of the servants had to lift a finger beyond the simple necessities required to keep the celebration going.
A good Yule log could last a fortnight. I suspect it was the idleness of the vassals that got up so many priest’s noses. They do so hate to see anyone taking his ease. Then again, there was the ashes. See, when the feasting was over and the log reduced to cold embers, those selfsame ashes were gathered up to be used in various ways: we sprinkled some on cattle to ensure health and hearty offspring; we scattered some in the fields to encourage abundant crops; and, of course, sheep had their fleece dusted to improve the quality of their wool. A little was mixed with the first brewing of ale for the year to aid in warding off sickness and ill temper, and so on. In all, the ashes of a Yule log provided a useful and necessary commodity.
Over time, a good few of the Britons took up the Yule log tradition, just like many of the Saxons succumbed to the ancient and honourable Celtic rite of eating gammon on Christ’s day. To be sure, a Saxon never requires much encouragement where the eating of pigs is at issue, less yet if there is also to be drinking ale. So, naturally, a great many priests try to stamp out the practice of burning Yule trees.
“Well now,” said Tuck, when I remarked on his obvious charity towards a custom most of his ilk found offensive, “they have their reasons, do they not? But I tell the folk who ask me that the fire provided is the flame of faith, which burns brightest through the darkest nights of the year, feeding on the log—which is the holy, sustaining word of God, ever new and renewed, day by day, year by year. The ashes, then, are the dust of death, the residue of our sins when all has been cleansed in the Refiner’s fire.”
“Well said, Brother.”
“You seem a thoughtful sort of man, Will,” the cheerful cleric observed.