The Great Tree Rescue

The living room was quiet, too quiet, save for the insistent whisper of snow lashing against the windowpanes. A vast, empty corner waited, a silent sentinel for the tradition that hadn't yet arrived. The air carried the scent of cold fireplace ash and unfulfilled promise. Outside, the world was a blur of white, thick flakes clinging to the glass, erasing the familiar street beyond. The silence was heavy, only broken by the distant, muffled groan of a snowplow that seemed to be losing its battle.

Mark pushed his face closer to the window. His breath fogged the glass, then cleared. "They're not coming," he mumbled, more to the glass than to Nancy. His older brother, ten, usually knew everything. Now, he just looked… small. His shoulders slumped inside his too-big hockey jersey, the number seven fading at the back.

Nancy, seven, pulled a loose thread from the hem of her pyjama top. "But the tree?" Her voice was a small, reedy thing against the blizzard's grumble. Their parents had promised. Always promised. The tree, tonight. Before the big snow got too big. Now the big snow was enormous.

Mark turned. His blue eyes, usually bright, were a little dull. "Dad said… work thing. Mum's stuck." He kicked at the rug, a scuff on his worn slipper. "Too much snow. They can't. Until tomorrow." The word 'tomorrow' hung there, heavy and grey.

Nancy’s lower lip trembled. She really liked the lights. The colours. Red, green, blue. All shiny. "But… no tree?" she asked. She hugged her worn teddy bear, Barnaby, a brown fuzzball with one missing eye. Barnaby always understood. Or at least, he didn't argue.

Mark looked at the empty corner again. Then at Nancy. Her small face was scrunched up, nearly crying. His chest felt tight. He hated when she cried. "We could…" he started, then stopped. It was a crazy idea. A very crazy idea. The kind Mum would say 'absolutely not' to.

"Could what?" Nancy’s voice was barely a whisper. She looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

"We could put it up," Mark said, the words coming out faster than he'd planned. "The tree. We could do it. Before they get home. A surprise."

Nancy’s eyes went even wider. A gasp. "Really?" Her voice had a sudden spark. Barnaby jiggled in her arms.

"Yeah. Really." Mark felt a jolt of something electric, buzzing under his skin. It was still a bit scary, but also… exciting. This was an adventure. Their own adventure. He straightened his shoulders. "Okay. First, we need the tree." He marched towards the back door.

Nancy scampered after him, nearly tripping on her pyjama bottoms. "Where is it?"

"Out back. On the porch." Mark paused at the door, pulling a thick woolly hat onto his head. It had a bobble. He hated the bobble. But it was warm. He fumbled for his gloves, the thin, damp ones from yesterday's snowball fight. "It's cold. You need your big coat."

Nancy was already struggling into her bright pink parka. The zipper caught halfway. "It's stuck!" she whined, tugging. Mark sighed, went over, and yanked it up, the metal biting. She pulled on some mittens, chunky ones with a lost thumb, then pushed her feet into her rubber boots. They were usually for puddles. Today, they were for snow.

He pushed the door open. The blast of cold air hit them, smelling like wet asphalt and sharp, clean ice. Snow piled high on the porch, drifts almost to his waist. The big fir tree, still bound with twine, lay half-buried in a drift by the shed wall. Its branches were dark, stiff with cold, some needles already coated in rime.

"Whoa," Nancy breathed, her voice a little cloud. "That's a lot of snow."

"It's fine." Mark squinted against the swirling white. His nose felt instantly frozen. He trudged out, boots crunching through the icy crust. The snow was heavier than it looked. His legs sank deep with each step. He reached the tree, grabbing a thick part of the trunk. It was heavy. Much heavier than it looked. He braced his feet, tugging.

It didn't budge. Not really. Just scraped along the ice a tiny bit.

"Help!" Mark grunted, straining. His breath came out in short, puffs of steam. His fingers were already aching, even through the thin gloves. He shifted his grip, trying to get a better purchase.

Nancy waded over, her boots making comical, squelching noises. "Like this?" She grabbed a branch, a skinny one near the top. She wasn't strong enough, of course. Not really. But her small, determined tug added just enough leverage. The tree shifted. A little more.

Together, grunting and slipping, they wrestled the tree through the snow. Its needles scraped against Mark's parka, catching on the fabric. A few broke off, leaving a sharp, clean scent of pine. The twine binding it was stiff, frozen, almost impossible to grip. They dragged it up the two steps to the back door, then struggled to turn it to squeeze through the narrow opening.

"Tilt it!" Mark gasped, wedging his boot against the door frame. "This way!" Nancy pushed, her face red from the effort and the cold.

Finally, with a loud scraping sound, the tree was inside. It landed with a thud on the kitchen floor, shedding a shower of white flakes and brittle needles. The room felt suddenly even colder, filled with the raw, fresh smell of the forest.

"Phew," Nancy said, wiping her nose with her mitten. A streak of dirt appeared on her cheek. "It's big."

"Yeah." Mark grinned, a triumphant, slightly wild grin. His fingers tingled. His back ached a little. "Okay. Now the stand."

The Search for the Stand

The tree stand lived in the garage. A dark, spiderwebby place that always smelled of old motor oil and damp concrete. Mark led the way, flipping on the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. It cast a weak, yellow glow, making long, twitchy shadows.

"Over there, I think." He pointed to a stack of plastic bins. "The blue one?" Nancy hesitated, peering into the gloom. The shadows seemed to twist. "What if there's… a spider?"

"Nah. It's too cold for spiders." Mark hoped that was true. He didn't like spiders much either. He rummaged through the bins, the plastic creaking. One held old garden tools, smelling of earth. Another, camping gear. He pushed them aside, a thin layer of dust coating his hands.

"Found it!" he declared, pulling out a rusty metal stand, its screw-in bolts covered in what looked like dried mud. It had a small, bent cup for water. "See? No spiders."

Nancy cautiously approached. "It's… dirty."

"We'll clean it." Mark took the stand and headed back to the kitchen, Nancy trailing behind. They set the stand in the middle of the empty living room corner, the metal legs scraping on the polished wood floor. Lifting the tree was even harder than dragging it. Mark grabbed the trunk again, grunting.

"Push the bottom in!" he instructed Nancy. She pushed, her small hands slipping on the rough bark. The tree wobbled precariously. For a moment, Mark thought it would fall, smashing against the floor. He leaned into it, his muscles straining, until the base finally slotted into the stand.

He tightened the screws, one by one, twisting them until the tree stood upright, slightly leaning, but upright. A triumphant, lopsided sentinel. "There!" he puffed, hands on his knees, catching his breath. "Now, lights."

Untangling the Lights

The decorations were in the attic. This was the truly scary part. The attic was a dark cave, smelling of old paper and something else, something dry and dusty. It always felt bigger than it was. Their mum usually went up there. She had a proper flashlight. They had a small, plastic one with a weak beam.

"Stay close," Mark whispered, climbing the pull-down stairs. Each wooden rung groaned under his weight. Nancy followed, clutching Barnaby tight, her eyes wide as saucers. The flashlight beam danced, picking out strange shapes under dust sheets. An old rocking horse. A stack of chipped board games. A headless mannequin.

"There!" Nancy pointed, her voice a little squeak. "The big red box!"

It was a huge plastic bin, faded red, labelled 'XMAS STUFF' in their mum's looping handwriting. Mark dragged it down, dust puffing into the air. He sneezed. Nancy giggled, then coughed.

They pulled the box into the living room, near the tree. The living room now smelled like pine and dust. A mix of Christmas and old house. Mark flipped open the lid. Inside, a jumble of twisted wires, crumpled tinsel, and fragile glass baubles nested amongst layers of tissue paper.

"Look!" Nancy pulled out a small, ceramic reindeer with one antler broken off. "Barnaby broke this one, remember? Last year?"

Mark picked up a string of lights. They were the old kind, fat colourful bulbs, each one a different shape. They were also a complete mess. A solid, impenetrable knot of green wire, like a snake's nest. He tugged gently. Nothing. He tugged harder. It only seemed to tighten.

"Oh, man." His shoulders slumped. This was worse than the tree. The tree was heavy. These were… confusing. His small fingers, still numb from the cold, fumbled with the wires.

Nancy sat beside him, pulling at a different section. "It's all stuck." She frowned, concentrating, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. "Like… a really big spaghetti."

"Yeah. A really big, mean spaghetti." Mark poked at a particularly tight loop with his fingernail. His mind drifted to last year. Mum always did this. She'd sit on the floor, usually with a mug of tea, and somehow, magically, the wires would unknot. "She's good at this."

"She said it's like a puzzle." Nancy pulled a small piece of green wire free, triumph gleaming in her eyes. "See? Like that."

Inspired, Mark focused. He found the end of the string, the plug. Then, very slowly, he started to follow the wire, inch by painstaking inch, pulling it free from its tangled embrace with other wires, with bits of tinsel, even a stray silver bell. His fingers were getting sore. His concentration was absolute. This was harder than any video game puzzle. Each untangled section was a small victory. The silence was broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth – they’d lit it earlier, a small, safe fire – and the soft rustle of wires.

"Remember when Dad climbed up that ladder?" Nancy asked, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft, distant. "And he nearly fell? Putting the lights way up top?"

Mark chuckled. "Yeah. Mum yelled at him so loud. His face went all red. He swore, too."

"I heard him," Nancy said, a tiny smirk on her face. "He said 'flip.'" They both knew he hadn't said 'flip.'

He untangled another loop, a long, looping coil that had somehow wrapped around three other sections. "And remember that year… I think it was when I was six… and that one blue light wouldn't turn on? Mum had to replace it. Took her forever. She was so mad."

"But then it worked!" Nancy said, her face brightening. "And it was the brightest blue one!"

"Yeah." He smiled. That blue light had been a tiny, sparkling beacon. These lights, this whole process, was like a long, winding story. Every year, a new chapter, but always the same happy ending, with the tree all lit up.

He finally, *finally*, untangled the last knot. The string of lights lay spread out across the rug, a surprisingly long, snaking line of green wire and colourful bulbs. He found the plug. He held his breath, fumbled for the wall socket, and pushed it in. He counted to three.

Click. The first light flickered. A fat, glowing red bulb. Then a bright green. A deep, shimmering blue. A sunny yellow. The whole string lit up, a warm, soft glow that pushed back the dimness of the room, banishing the shadows from the dusty corners.

Nancy gasped. "It worked!" She clapped her mittens together, a muffled thud. Barnaby, forgotten, slid to the floor.

Mark felt a warmth spread through his chest, bigger and better than the warmth from the fireplace. It was a good feeling. A really good feeling. He looked at the tree, still bare, but now with a promise of light.

"Now… we put them on." He picked up the string, carefully, holding the end. "You go first. Around the bottom. I'll take the top."

They moved around the tree, slowly at first, then faster as they got into a rhythm. Nancy carefully draped the wire over the lowest branches, her small fingers making sure each bulb nestled just right. Mark reached higher, stretching on tiptoes, trying to get an even spread. The lights glowed, reflecting off the dark green needles, making the room shimmer with soft, jewel-like colours. The scent of pine was stronger now, mixed with the faint, warm smell of the old lightbulbs.

"Careful!" Mark warned, as Nancy almost pulled too hard, making the top section of lights wobble.

"I am!" she retorted, her voice a little breathless with concentration. She didn't look up. Her brow was furrowed. This was serious business. The perfect placement of a red bulb next to a green one, then a blue. It had to be just right.

He thought about the year the cat had climbed the tree, swatting at the lowest lights, pulling them off, leaving a bare patch. He'd cried then. Mum had fixed it, of course, patiently re-wrapping the wires, smoothing the branches. It always seemed impossible, until it wasn't. Just like tonight. He leaned back, admiring their work. The first string was on. Not perfectly, maybe, but on. And it was beautiful.

The room felt different now. Less quiet. Less cold. The blizzard outside still howled, but its sound seemed muted, distant, like it belonged to another world. This world, inside, with the glowing lights and the smell of pine, felt safe. And warm. The bare tree, once just a dark shape, now held a constellation of tiny, hopeful stars.

Nancy was still fussing with a green light on a lower branch, adjusting it, making it shine just a little bit brighter. She hummed a quiet, tuneless melody. The hum of the lights themselves was a soft, electrical murmur.

Mark watched her, a small smile playing on his lips. His fingers were stiff and cold, but his heart felt light. He had done it. They had done it. The big, scary tree. The impossible spaghetti of lights. They had made a tiny bit of Christmas happen, all by themselves, in the middle of a blizzard. It was a secret, just for them, until Mum and Dad got home.

He imagined their faces, tired and stressed from the snow, walking into this room. Seeing the tree. Seeing the lights. They'd be surprised. Maybe a little cross about the mess, but mostly… happy. He hoped. He really, really hoped.

A soft knock echoed through the house, a sound unexpected and startling, even over the storm's fading roar.