The Gamekeeper: A Fable of Life’s Seasons, Farewell, and the Light Beyond

The cold bit deep into his bones, but still the old gamekeeper worked his hands tirelessly, weaving the stubborn wire netting to seal the hole in the bird pen. Winter was days away from closing the year, and with the sun long vanished beneath the horizon, the world was wrapped in darkness. His torch, fading and weak, threw a dim, yellow light—like a distant hearth in an unreachable cottage—offering no warmth, just a flicker of comfort.

He worked mostly by touch, twisting wire until a sharp end pricked his finger. The pain, sharpened by the cold, burst through him, but he pressed his fingers together and carried on. Around him, the dense conifers stood like shadowy sentinels on the hilltop, shielding pens of grouse and pheasants bred for the amusement of city folk who’d never know the wilderness like he did.

He was old—seventy-seven winters old, to be precise. The years weighed heavy on his knees, his back, his chest. He knew a chill tonight could send him to bed for weeks—time he didn’t have to spare. But each task brought a vision of reward: sitting before his wood stove, boots off, socks steaming, and his hands warming each toe in turn. That small vision of comfort kept his will alive.

As he worked, his mind wandered, drifting through seventy-seven summers, springs, and autumns, each parading through his memory in vibrant color. He smiled, recalling when his niece, as a bright-eyed child, had once asked, “Uncle, what’s your favorite season?”

He had answered with a mischievous grin:

“Always the one that’s coming next.”

It was a truth he’d held onto through the monotony of life’s unchanging cycles, yet deep inside, the old man felt time’s burden growing heavier. Nothing had truly changed for years, and now, tired and aching, he muttered to himself:

“When the sun returns, I shall travel. I think… yes, I’ll travel.”

A voice stirred the darkness.

“And where will you go?”

The old man startled, peering into the black woods. He fumbled to light his torch, but its glow was too weak to pierce the shadows.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice steady despite a creeping unease.

Silence answered first, thick and absolute. No wind, no owl, no rustle—just a void. Then came the voice again, soft but clear:

“You’ll travel as you please, then?”

Now certain of what he’d heard, the old man demanded, “Show yourself!”

A faint light shimmered a few paces ahead. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged—an old man like himself, clad in rough, earth-stained clothes, a dense beard framing a kind face. His green eyes gleamed like deep forest moss, and beside him, a sylph-like creature, no taller than six inches, hovered in the air, its delicate wings casting a soft glow.

“Don’t be afraid,” the figure said. “We’ve met before, though you might not remember.”

Memory stirred. The gamekeeper recalled fleeting visions—a strange figure by the river, a silhouette behind a fence post, a childhood sighting of a goblin and a fairy in his mother’s garden. Now it all returned.

“I’ve known you all along,” the gamekeeper whispered.

“And I’ve known you,” the stranger replied, patting the stump beside him. “Sit, friend. Let’s talk.”

They sat, the air strangely warm. The hovering light illuminated their faces, and for the first time in years, the old man felt neither cold nor alone.

“You spoke of travel,” the stranger prompted.

“Did I? Oh… yes. Yes, I did.”

“Would you like to come with me? There are no burdens, no pains. Only a return.”

The old man’s eyes glistened. “Should I be afraid?”

“No. We don’t fear where we’re returning. Life is what hurts. Beyond this, there is peace.”

A tear escaped the old man’s cheek.

“I’ve waited so long. Please… I’ll come with you.”

The stranger smiled warmly.

“Others are waiting for you. But worry not—your niece will carry your love in her heart always.”

Taking the stranger’s hand—as warm and firm as polished oak—the gamekeeper rose. Before them, the sylph flitted ahead, and a path of floating lights appeared, guiding the way through the woods. Each light glowed with hues of butterfly wings, dazzling yet soft.

“Don’t let me go,” the old man pleaded.

“Never,” promised the guide. “Not until another hand welcomes you.”

As they walked, the gamekeeper glanced back toward his work. In the darkness, he thought he saw a darker shape slumped where he had labored—but he felt no fear, only relief.

Finally, they reached a wide clearing where the moon shone on a grand wooden hall, its windows ablaze with golden light, laughter, and music spilling out into the night. The stranger tapped gently on the door, and it opened to reveal his wife and a daughter—a child he had lost but now grown—both smiling with outstretched hands.

Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks as he stepped forward. The stranger let go, whispering:

“You are young again. Go, and have the happiness you’ve sought. It was never truly lost.”

With love rekindled, the old man—now youthful once more—embraced his family under the glow of the hall. As they disappeared inside, the stranger turned back, his task complete. The path of lights flickered and faded, leaving the forest still and quiet once more.

Moral of the Story

Life is a cycle of seasons—each leading to the next. And when winter finally comes for us, it is not an end, but the start of a journey back to love, warmth, and reunion beyond the veil of life.