Now this tale, children, comes from the Birchwood Valley of Numinaria — a quiet place of chapel bells and meadow winds, where the old folks say that once, before the railway came, the forest still had its own folk living deep inside.

Some say it’s just a story told at Sunday suppers; others swear their great-grandmother saw it herself. But however you hear it, remember — every good story carries a truth deeper than the words.

The Girl

Long ago there lived a child named Lydia May, small and kind, with a voice so sweet the doves would follow her down the path to the well.

Each spring, she gathered wildflowers for the church altar — lilies, buttercups, and violets for Easter morning. Her mother always warned,

“Now Lydia, don’t you go past the chapel hill. Beyond there, the woods belong to the quiet folk, and we must mind our bounds.”

But Lydia’s heart was full of wonder and song. She loved the hymn her pastor taught at the revival tent — a tune called “Love and Unity.”
And as she picked her flowers, she’d sing in her soft, high voice:

🎵 “Love and Unity, Lord, make us one,
Many hands, many hearts, but all in Your sun.
Though tongues be many and ways be apart,
Christ still gathers the whole world’s heart.” 🎵

That song floated like a prayer through the meadow — and that’s what drew the listener.

The Grendling

For deep within the shadowed part of the forest lived another child — a Grendling, born of the moss and mist, with skin the color of old bark and hair like fern fronds.
The forest folk had always been told that humans were dangerous, that their fires and iron burned what the Lord had given the woods to guard.
“Never go near the chapel hill,” its father said.
“Stay where the light is green, not gold.”

But one morning, the little Grendling heard something it had never heard before — a voice, not of bird or wind, but bright and gentle and good.
It followed the song until it reached the edge of the meadow.

There, it saw the girl — Lydia — kneeling with her basket of flowers, singing Love and Unity.

The Meeting

Both children froze. Lydia dropped a daisy; the Grendling gripped a branch for courage.

Neither ran.

Instead, Lydia smiled — just a small, trembling smile — and said softly,
“Hello… are you lost?”

The Grendling didn’t understand her words, but it understood her tone. It blinked, then pointed at her flowers, as if to ask, may I?

Lydia nodded and held one out.

And so they met, human and Grendling, in the middle of God’s green world — two little ones from different flocks, sharing something beautiful.

Lydia began to hum again, and the Grendling joined in, making sounds like wind through reeds. Somehow, the notes fit — like harmony born from Heaven itself.

When they finished, Lydia whispered, “That’s Love and Unity.”

The Grendling touched its chest, as if tasting the words. “Love… Unity,” it echoed, shyly.

The Farewell

From the deep woods came a voice — the Grendling’s mother, calling. And from over the ridge, Lydia’s mother too.

Both children turned toward home. The Grendling gently took one of Lydia’s flowers and tucked it into its mossy hair, then pressed a bright green leaf into her hand before slipping back into the forest.

“God bless you,” Lydia whispered.

The Grendling didn’t know the blessing, but it felt it.

The Lesson

That night, Lydia told her parents everything. Her father frowned, but her mother only smiled and said,

“Perhaps the Lord sends His love in ways we don’t yet understand. Love and Unity, child — remember that.”

And deep in the forest, the little Grendling told its parents about the strange creature it had met — a “sun-child” who sang light itself.

Its mother listened carefully and said,

“Then not all who walk in the gold light are destroyers. Some carry songs the Maker taught them.”

From then on, when the forest folk heard the chapel bells, they no longer hid in fear. And when the people of Birchwood Valley sang Love and Unity on Sundays, some said they could hear faint voices joining in from far among the trees — softer, higher, but true.

And so they say…

If you stand by the birches at dusk and sing that old hymn with a clean heart,

“Love and Unity, Lord, make us one…”
you may hear an echo — gentle as breath — answering back from the forest.

And that, children, is why Birchwood folk still leave a few wildflowers at the edge of the trees each spring:
for the Grendling child,
and for Love and Unity,
that still bind heaven and earth together.