A Winter's Tale

A short story

It was midnight on Christmas Eve at the farm and a howling wind swept through the coomb and into the barn where Silverside, Rump, Sir and Loin stood on their stiff, arthritic legs, chewing the cud and huddling together for warmth. ‘He’ll be doing it now,’ said Rump and they pictured the Mythical Man sitting once more in front of the glowing embers, warming his hands as he weaved his fanciful tale and recited it to the elders. Only Silverside doubted the truth of the legend. Grown older now, he knew that his painful joints would prevent him from battling against the wind to see if the legend was true. Could a fabled old man at this late hour really be peddling such nonsense? Nevertheless, despite the cold, had one of the others suggested they go and see, he would have gone with them, hoping it might be so.