Александр Макаров – Gentle Wise Tales (страница 2)

Every year, as snowflakes swirled outside the window, the mother would say: “Santa Claus only hears wishes that hold kindness in them. If you ask for a gift not for yourself, but to bring joy to someone else, he will surely come.” And the father would add: “And he also comes to those who truly believe — not just waiting for candies and toys, but waiting for a miracle with their whole heart.”

Then one year, the house grew very quiet. The father lost his job, money was nearly gone, and the mother sighed more and more often as she looked at the empty shelf in the wardrobe. But she never told the children that there might be no holiday. Instead, she took out an old box where they kept paper snowflakes and called the boy and the girl: “Let’s make the most beautiful garland in the world. Let it be so bright that Santa Claus will see our house right away.”

Meanwhile, the father found an old wooden rocking horse in the attic. It was scratched, but sturdy. He took sandpaper, rubbed off the old paint, and then covered it with golden varnish. “Let it be like new,” he whispered, as if afraid to scare away hope.

The boy wrote a letter to Santa Claus. But it didn’t list any toys. He wrote: “Please let Mama smile. Let Papa be cheerful again. I don’t need anything for myself — I just want everything to be all right for us.”

The girl, meanwhile, cut out a tiny paper angel. She didn’t ask for anything for herself, only whispered quietly: “Let everything be all right. Let the holiday come to us, even if there are very few gifts.”

On New Year’s Eve, the children went to bed early, snuggling close to each other. And the parents sat in the kitchen, drinking lukewarm tea and watching the lights of the garland. “What will we give them?” the mother asked softly, her voice trembling. “What we have,” the father replied. “Warmth. Quiet. And faith.”

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. Not loud, not demanding — as if someone was afraid to disturb them. The parents looked at each other. On the threshold stood Santa Claus. But not like in the greeting cards. His coat was slightly worn, as if he had already walked through a thousand courtyards; his beard was grey and soft, and his eyes glowed like two kind stars.

“I heard there’s real belief living here,” he said quietly, and his voice made the room feel warmer. “And where the heart truly believes, wishes come true. Even when it seems that miracles don’t happen.”

He handed the parents a small pouch embroidered with silver threads. “It’s not gold or money,” Santa Claus smiled. “These are seeds of miracles. They only grow where people love and cherish each other.”

Before the parents could ask anything, Santa Claus had already vanished, melting into the snowy silence. All that remained on the porch were two large boot prints and a faint scent of pine and frosty wind.

In the morning, gifts lay beneath the tree. Not expensive, not glittering, but exactly what they needed: for Mama, a warm scarf knitted from soft wool; for Papa, a book about old crafts he had long wanted to read; for the boy, that very wooden rocking horse, now shining like the sun; for the girl, a set for making paper angels.

But the greatest gift was something else. That day, the father found a new job — a small one, but a good one, where they valued his hands and his heart. And Mama suddenly noticed that even on the coldest days, their home was warm, because they held on to each other.

From then on, the boy and girl grew up, but every New Year they remembered that night. And when they became parents themselves, they told their children: “Santa Claus grants wishes. But not because he has a magic wand. He lives in those who believe, in those who try to make the world a little brighter, even when it’s hard.”

And now, when snow swirls outside the window again, they light the garland, take out the old ornaments, and whisper to their children: “The most important wish is that kindness always lives in your heart. The rest will follow.”

Because where there is love and care, a miracle is sure to happen. Even if you’re already grown up. Even if you’re just quietly waiting for the house to smell like the holiday once more.

Cat Bayun

In a very old forest, where the trees grew so thick that it was almost dark even in the daytime, and at night the stars shone right through the crowns, lived Cat Bayun. Not an ordinary cat, but a magical one. People said he could do more than just purr—he could tell tales in such a way that even the wind grew quiet to listen. They also said his voice could lull you into a deep sleep, wake forgotten dreams, or even show you what was hiding behind the farthest cloud.

He lived in a tall oak, on the thickest branch, where he wove a nest from moss, dry blades of grass, and moonlight. During the day, he dozed with his sides turned to the warm rays; in the evenings, he sat on the edge of the branch, lowered his whiskers almost to the air, and began to hum very softly. And then the forest seemed to grow wider, and every rustle held its own story.

One day, a little girl came to this forest. She wasn’t especially brave or curious; she was just very tired of all the noise and of everyone around her always wanting something from her. At home, they told her to be faster; at school, to be quieter; and on the street, they simply didn’t notice her. So she went to a place where, as she thought, no one would demand anything.

She walked until her legs grew weary, until the path became very narrow, and then disappeared altogether. The girl sat down on a fallen tree, lowered her head, and suddenly heard a purr. It wasn’t like the purr of an ordinary cat; it seemed made of a thousand soft sounds at once—the rustle of leaves, the patter of raindrops, the distant hum of the wind.

Lifting her head, she saw Cat Bayun. He sat on the branch, his head tilted slightly, looking at her not sternly, but as if he had been waiting for her for a long time.

“You didn’t come here for a miracle,” he said without words, because words weren’t needed there. “You came so that someone would simply hear you.”

The girl nodded, though she didn’t understand how he knew.

“Then listen,” Cat Bayun continued, and began to purr again. But now his purr didn’t carry sleep. It carried a silence where you could finally breathe out. It carried the voice of the forest, whispering to anyone who knew how to listen: “You’re not in the way. You’re neither too loud nor too quiet. You just are.”

He jumped down from the branch and sat beside the girl, pressing his warm side against her knee.

“You know,” he said, “many people think magic is when miracles happen. But real magic is when you can sit beside someone and not be afraid they’ll chase you away. Or when you can speak softly, and still be heard.”

The girl ran her hand over his soft fur. The cat smelled of the forest, dry grass, and something very calm—as if he held the entire quiet evening inside him.

“Can you tell me a story?” she asked quietly.

“I can,” Cat Bayun replied. “But not one where everything is solved with a single magic word. I’ll tell you a story where the hero simply walks forward, even when he’s afraid. Where he stops to listen to how the forest breathes. Where he doesn’t have to shout, because he knows he’ll be noticed anyway.”

And Cat Bayun began to tell a tale. In his story, there was a boy who was afraid of the dark but still lit a small flame and carried it through the forest so that no one would be left in darkness. There was a girl who was afraid to speak, but one day she whispered a single word, and that word turned out to be the most important one. And there was the old forest that listened to everyone and gave each one their own place.

As the cat told the tale, the girl stopped flinching at every rustle. She realized the forest wasn’t a stranger. It didn’t rush her, didn’t judge her, didn’t demand that she be better. It just was—and in it, she could simply be.

When the story ended, Cat Bayun lifted his head and looked at the girl with his big eyes.

“Now you know,” he said. “Magic isn’t about disappearing from everyone. Magic is about finding someone who hears you. Even if it’s just a cat on a branch. Even if it’s just the forest nodding to you with its branches.”

The girl smiled. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t want to run anywhere.

“Come,” said Cat Bayun. “I’ll show you the path that those who aren’t afraid of silence walk. Crowds don’t go there, but it leads to a place where you’re truly expected.”

They walked side by side. The cat stepped softly on the moss, and the girl tried to walk just as quietly, so as not to scare away this peaceful evening. And suddenly, she noticed that at every step, the forest seemed to show her the way. A bird flapped its wing and pointed the direction. A fern bent as if inviting her to pass. Even the shadow of a tree lay in such a way that it looked like a path.

They reached the edge of the forest, where the lights of the village were already visible. Cat Bayun stopped at the forest’s border.