The Pine Who Knew Too Much

The Pine Who Knew Too Much

I’m not your average pine tree. For one thing, I’ve been around since before the town of Elmswick even existed, and I’ve seen more human shenanigans than I care to count. For another, I can talk. Well—*think*, mostly. Talking is complicated when your mouth is a knot in your bark, and your tongue is made of sap. But thoughts? Oh, they ring loud and clear, and if you’re the sort of person (or creature) who knows how to listen, you’ll hear me.

And here’s the thing: last Christmas Eve, I solved a mystery that nearly ruined the holiday for every creature in the forest *and* the humans in town. Yes, a pine tree saved Christmas. And I don’t even get cookies.

---

# I. The Disappearance of the Lights

It began with a theft. Not just any theft, but the *lights*.

Humans string them everywhere this time of year—along rooftops, through shop windows, wrapped around my poor distant cousins who get chopped down, dragged indoors, and humiliated with ornaments shaped like pickles. (Who came up with that, by the way?)

But this Christmas was different. On December 23rd, all of Elmswick’s lights vanished. Poof. The giant glowing star on top of Town Hall, gone. The twinkling strands in front yards, stolen. Even the gaudy reindeer with glowing red noses that frighten the owls—missing.

Naturally, the humans panicked.

“Vandals!” cried the mayor.

“Gremlins!” shouted the old librarian.

“Definitely Gary’s kids,” muttered everyone else.

But I knew better. My roots go deep, and they whisper to me the secrets of the soil. Something unnatural had crept into our woods.

---

# II. Enter Jingles

That night, just before dawn, I heard the crunch of tiny boots in the snow. Now, most of the forest’s usual crowd—foxes, badgers, deer—don’t wear boots. So my branches shivered with curiosity.

Out waddled a creature no taller than a woodpecker’s flight: a squat little elf with ears so pointy they could have skewered chestnuts, and a hat jingling with bells that seemed way too loud for sneaking. He looked around nervously, clutching a lantern made of candy cane stripes.

“I told them it wasn’t safe,” he muttered. “But nooo, nobody listens to Jingles the Elf. Just guard the stash, Jingles. Make sure the tree doesn’t find out, Jingles.”

Well, naturally, I leaned down and rustled my needles in what I hoped was a menacing manner.

“The *tree* knows,” I said.

The poor elf shrieked so loud a family of squirrels fell out of their nest.

---

# III. The Elf’s Confession

Turns out, Jingles was part of a covert Christmas operation. Santa, he explained, had outsourced. Apparently, the North Pole had become “too commercial” (ironic, I know), so a few experimental outposts had been planted in small towns around the world. Elmswick was one of them.

But there was a problem: someone—or something—was stealing their magical Christmas energy. The lights weren’t ordinary decorations; they were *conduits*. Without them, Santa’s sleigh couldn’t find its landing strip, the reindeer couldn’t power up, and worst of all, Elmswick’s children wouldn’t get their presents.

Naturally, Jingles was supposed to keep watch. Instead, he’d lost everything.

“And now I’m doomed,” he wailed, sitting on a snow-covered root. “Santa will banish me to the Island of Misfit Paperclips!”

I creaked sympathetically. “Don’t worry, Jingles. I’ll help you.”

He blinked up at me. “You’re…a tree.”

“Yes. And you’re a three-foot man wearing bells in a predator-heavy forest. We all have our disadvantages.”

---

# IV. Clues in the Snow

With Jingles perched on my lowest branch like an anxious ornament, I extended my awareness through the forest. My roots touched the frozen ground, reading vibrations like a book.

Something large and clumsy had dragged the lights deeper into the woods, leaving a trail of crushed snowflakes and broken candy canes. Not fox, not deer, not bear.

Jingles clutched his lantern. “Could it be…Krampus?”

Now, I’ve met Krampus before. He comes around sometimes, complaining about Santa’s pension plan and muttering about “the good old days of proper child-scaring.” But Krampus doesn’t bother with lights—he prefers chains and coal.

“No,” I rumbled. “This feels…hungrier.”

---

# V. The Gnarf

By evening, we found it.

In a clearing glittering with moonlight stood a creature that looked like someone had glued together leftover parts from a dozen fairy-tale monsters. It had the body of a bear, the wings of a moth, and the face of a goat who’d read too many horror novels.

Jingles gasped. “A Gnarf! But those were outlawed centuries ago!”

The Gnarf was happily chewing through strands of Christmas lights, slurping down their glow like noodles. With each gulp, its body swelled brighter, and its wings hummed louder.

If it ate them all, Christmas would be toast.

“Do something!” Jingles squeaked.

“I’m a tree,” I reminded him. “I don’t exactly sprint into battle.”

But I *did* have pinecones. And pinecones, when launched with the right amount of branch-snap, make excellent projectiles.

---

# VI. The Battle of the Lights

The first pinecone smacked the Gnarf squarely on the nose. It reared back, bleating in rage.

The second bounced off its glowing belly. The third lodged in its woolly mane.

“Take *that*, you overgrown Christmas ornament!” Jingles shouted, throwing tiny snowballs that barely reached the creature’s knees.

The Gnarf, unimpressed, turned toward me. Its eyes glowed like molten tinsel.

And then—it charged.

Now, you’ve never truly experienced terror until you’ve seen a half-goat, half-moth, half-bear (yes, I know that’s three halves) barreling toward your trunk. My needles rattled. My bark quivered.

But just as the Gnarf lunged, Jingles held up his candy-cane lantern. It flared brilliantly, fueled by whatever Christmas magic he had left. The Gnarf shrieked, blinded, and tripped over its own wings, sprawling headfirst into a snowbank.

---

# VII. The Bargain

We approached cautiously. The Gnarf writhed, trying to dislodge a string of tangled lights from its teeth.

“Wait,” I said, sensing something beneath its fury. “It isn’t evil. It’s…lonely.”

Gnarf-kind, Jingles explained, had once been Santa’s garbage disposals. They ate broken toys, spoiled candy, and defective magic. But when one Gnarf went rogue and devoured half of Lapland, the species was banished.

This one must have wandered here, starving, until it found the lights.

My branches drooped thoughtfully. “It doesn’t want to ruin Christmas. It just wants to belong.”

The Gnarf looked at me with pitiful glowing eyes and let out a mournful bleat that sounded suspiciously like a kazoo.

So we struck a deal: the Gnarf would return the lights in exchange for a place in the festivities.

---

# VIII. Christmas Eve in Elmswick

The townsfolk nearly fainted when Jingles marched into the square leading a glowing half-goat monster and a pine tree covered in hastily reattached lights.

But when they saw the lights flicker back on, their joy drowned out their fear. Children clapped. The mayor cried. The librarian fainted again, but she does that a lot.

That night, the Gnarf stood proudly at the center of town, wrapped in spare garlands, while children hung cookies from its antlers. Jingles strutted around, claiming most of the credit.

As for me, I was crowned with the missing star and lit brighter than ever.

Santa himself arrived, chuckling at the sight. “Well, I’ll be jollied,” he boomed. “A tree detective, an overeager elf, and a rehabilitated Gnarf. Just what Christmas needed.”

---

# IX. Epilogue: The Pine Who Knew

Now, every year, Elmswick celebrates not just Christmas but *Gnarfmas*. They parade the creature through town, singing carols slightly off-key, while Jingles gives motivational speeches no one asked for.

And me? I stand at the edge of the forest, proud, smug, and perhaps a little resinous. I may not move much, but I solved a mystery, saved a holiday, and proved that even a pine tree can be more than just a future coffee table.

So next time you see lights twinkling in a forest clearing, remember: somewhere out there, a pine is watching, waiting, and maybe—just maybe—judging your ornament choices.

After all, I am the pine who knew too much.