Silver Francis

(illustration by W. and E. Sarett)

Believe it or not, an incredible incident happened a few years ago in a distant village called Whispering Pines.

The hero of this amazing story is a boy named Mike, who is now an adult. However, he still insists that everything that happened that day was a real miracle. I will not claim whether this story is truly miraculous — I’ll leave that to the judgment of the reader — but the events of that day undoubtedly unfolded in a strange and even supernatural way.

It was late summer, when the sun no longer blazed so fiercely, as if it wanted to scorch everything in its path. The weather was pleasantly warm, and nights brought a refreshing coolness. The area around Whispering Pines was picturesque, surrounded by an endless green forest that seemed to stretch forever. The air was dense, fresh, and rich with the sharp aroma of resin and pine needles — so thick it felt like you could eat it with a spoon.

Mike was well known in the village — a smart and lively boy who grew up without a father, raised by his mother and grandfather. His mom had been ill for quite some time; walking was difficult for her, and for about a year she had spent most of her time bedridden.

It became hard to manage the household. Though Grandpa Joseph was sturdy, age had caught up with him, leaving most of the chores on Mike’s young shoulders. Because of this, the boy saw his friends less often, with little time left to play or wander outdoors. Despite the melancholy that often crept into his heart, Michael tried not to let it weigh him down. Grandpa Joseph, cheerful by nature, often encouraged him.

Joseph — or Joe, as the villagers called him — was incredibly knowledgeable and well-read. He knew a lot and told countless amusing, intriguing, and educational stories. People adored him for it, though they also thought him a bit eccentric. Perhaps this was because Joe sometimes told too abstruse things about space or scientific theories. Not everyone understood them, and some even giggled, finding it hard to believe such things could be true. So people dismissed them as nothing more than fanciful nonsense.

After all, how could anyone believe that stars — including our Sun — were so massive they distorted the fabric of space around them, bending even the light from distant stars? Or that time flowed differently on Earth and in space, and that in a black hole, time nearly came to a standstill due to its colossal gravitational pull? To the residents of Whispering Pines, this all sounded absurd.

Meanwhile, Joseph was telling the truth — these were scientific facts, repeatedly verified. Still, he didn’t mind when his listeners chuckled, thinking he was joking. After all, Joe was always ready to laugh along.

He often joked with Mike, too, but Grandpa never forgot about discipline. Mike wasn’t raised strictly, but he was taught to take important things seriously. From an early age, his grandfather instilled in him a respect for all living things:

“Mike, you must show compassion for every creature, even the tiniest little bug. Everything around us is alive and feels just as we do. Never harm nature — it must be protected.”

Michael always nodded understandingly. He wouldn’t even tear leaves from trees without reason and explained to the village children why they shouldn’t either.

One day, after finishing all his household chores, Mike finally went for a walk with friends. They ran, laughed heartily, and the time flew by. Suddenly, Michael remembered he was supposed to buy bread for home — but the day was already drawing to a close, the sun sinking low.

Frightened, the boy sprinted to the village store as fast as his legs could carry him. But the road was long, and by the time he arrived, a large padlock was already hanging on the door. Mike tugged on it for some reason, even though it was clear there would be no bread tonight. Disheartened, he turned and slowly began to trudge home.

Gradually, his steps quickened, driven more by habit than intent — he had grown used to doing everything quickly; there was no other way to keep up with the chores. At some point, he caught up with the local postwoman, Elizabeth, whom everyone in the village called simply — but respectfully — Betty. She turned around at the sound of his hurried steps and asked,

“Why the gloomy face, Mikey? Where are you off to?”

“Hello, Miss Betty. I’m heading home. Didn’t make it in time to buy bread,” Mike replied, pouting.

“Well, that’s no tragedy! Here, take this,” she said kindly.

Then she pulled a warm loaf of bread from her bag, broke it in half, and handed a piece to Mike.

“The store just closed — you missed it by a whisker. Good thing I bought a big loaf today!”

“Thank you so much, Miss Betty! I don’t even know how to thank you!”

“Oh, don’t thank me for that — it’s a perfectly ordinary thing, sweetheart. How’s your mom doing?”

“She lies in bed mostly, rarely gets up. She says she needs a good doctor, someone who knows a lot. But where can we find one around here? Grandpa Joe says only a miracle can help Mom.”

“That’s true — only a miracle... Ah, life,” the woman sighed sadly.

Mike hesitated, then asked, “Miss Betty, have you heard of a magical deer that lives in our forest?”

“Well, I know there are many deer in our forest, and hunters come by sometimes. Why is it magical?”

“Grandpa calls it the Silver Francis,” Mike said.

“The Silver Francis?” Betty repeated, puzzled. “What kind of breed is that?”

“It’s not a breed — that’s its name,” Mike explained. “Grandpa told me it grants wishes. That’s why it’s magical.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s probably just one of your grandpa’s stories. Joe is such a joker!” the postwoman laughed.

“But Grandpa says it’s true. There’s such a deer, and it lives here. People have seen it.”

“Who’s seen it? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Anyway, you’d better hurry home now, or you’ll be late. It gets dark early these days, and we don’t want you getting lost,” the woman said.

Then, for some reason, she pulled Mike close and kissed the top of his sun-bleached head.

“Say hi to your grandpa and mom for me. I’ll come by one of these days,” she added.

“I’ll tell them!” Michael said and ran off.

A little while later, Mike remembered that it wouldn’t hurt to thank Miss Betty once more, so he turned around. She was still standing in the same spot, gazing thoughtfully after him. The boy noticed her take out a handkerchief, remove her glasses, and wipe her eyes.

“Thank you again!” he shouted.

She waved back with a warm yet somewhat sorrowful smile.

Mike made it home on time, but his grandfather still reprimanded him. Joseph didn’t yell or scold — he simply sighed and said,

“Ah, Mike, Mike...”

His grandfather’s words stung deeply. Michael felt ashamed for letting down both his grandfather and his mother. He was also annoyed — angry, even — but he couldn’t quite figure out at whom. At himself? At his grandfather? Or at the whole wide world?

After dinner, Mike sat for a long time, staring out the wide-open window at the darkening pine forest. His face looked unusually serious and tense for a child, and he nervously ran his hand through his short, bristly fringe, occasionally clenching his fist.

Suddenly, he got up, quietly peeked into his grandfather’s room — where the old man was reading under the dim glow of a lamp — and then into his mother’s room, which was dark.

“She must be asleep,” Mike thought. Then he sneaked into the kitchen, took a piece of bread and a red garden apple, placed them in a bag, and carefully climbed out the window.

Michael made his way cautiously to the edge of the village before picking up speed and running toward the forest. The sun had already set, and a full moon had risen — so large that he could easily make out its craters.

He slowed down a bit but continued walking briskly, occasionally glancing up at the bright moon. At times, it seemed to him that the moon was a giant white face, staring down with sad, dark eyes, silently judging him for sneaking out of the house.

But the boy knew well that the “face with eyes” was just his imagination — pareidolia — an illusion. His grandfather had explained that the brain plays such tricks, hastily trying to find familiar shapes among unfamiliar lines and assembling them into a recognizable picture. That’s why we “see” something we know so well, like a human face on the moon’s surface. In reality, the “dark eyes” were merely patches of solidified lava on the lunar surface. His grandfather called them by their scientific name: the lunar seas.

Even so, Mike couldn’t shake the illusion of the mournful moon watching him disapprovingly. Still, the moonlight illuminated his path well, allowing him to almost run. The night air, mixed with the scent of pine, was refreshing and invigorating, and the boy even started to smile, feeling like a hero rushing toward an adventure.

When he reached the edge of the forest, the boy confidently stepped between the trees. There was little undergrowth, making it easy to walk. Pine cones crunched under his feet, and the whisper of wind in the needles high above was the only sound. Michael knew this forest well — he had been here many times with his grandfather. But this time, the surroundings felt unfamiliar, and the forest grew denser.

“Did I get lost?” he wondered briefly.

Unexpectedly, a clearing appeared beyond the trees, glowing with moonlight. It looked otherworldly, as if someone had sprayed white mist into the air with one of those hand sprayers Grandpa kept in the barn. But these translucent clouds didn’t dissipate — they hovered.

Mike stepped closer and couldn’t believe his eyes: in the center of the clearing, amid the floating mist, stood a majestic deer with antlers as intricate as tree branches. The deer flicked its ears, listening, and nibbled on tender shoots of grass.

The boy was captivated by the animal’s grace. Under the moonlight, the deer’s coat shimmered, and tiny silver sparks danced around it, twinkling. The forest was utterly silent, and Mike could almost hear the sparks chiming like delicate little bells.

He gazed in awe at this magical scene, whispering excitedly to himself:

“It’s him — the Silver Francis! He really is magical. Grandpa wasn’t making it up!”

Amazed by the beauty before him, the boy stood still, trying not to move, afraid to startle the deer. But Mike’s enchantment vanished instantly when he heard the dull click of a rifle bolt. Turning sharply, he spotted a hunter aiming from the bushes.

Without a second thought, the boy let out a wild scream and dashed into the clearing, shielding the animal with his body.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoooot!”

His own voice sounded utterly unnatural to him, as if someone else were crying out.

The deer sprang into motion, leaping high and dashing toward the forest thicket. At that very moment, an enraged hunter burst out of the bushes, grabbed the boy’s shoulder roughly, and began shaking him, shouting:

“Are you out of your mind, kid? Do you have a death wish?! What were you thinking?!”

But Mike was no longer afraid — he was just glad the deer had escaped.

“What’s your name, kid? Are you a local?”

Two other hunters approached. One of them said,

“Edward, calm down. The kid’s terrified enough already.”

“My name is Mike. I live in Whispering Pines. And I’m not scared — not one bit,” the boy tried to say confidently.

“And why did you jump in front of the rifle? Have you lost your mind?”

“I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I did it for the deer. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Mike’s lips quivered, and unexpectedly — even to himself — he began to sob bitterly.

“I didn’t make it… The wish… The wish!”

“Oh great. Now what? What happened, kid? Come on, calm down! What didn’t you make? The deer ran away, safe and sound,” the hunter said, a little irritably.

“It was a magical deer — the Silver Francis. And I didn’t get to make a wish! Now it won’t come true,” the boy cried.

“Silver who?” the man asked, confused.

“Francis,” Mike murmured through his tears.

“Well, well — Francis!” the hunter chuckled. “Quite the name. There was a king named Francis — he invited da Vinci to France.”

“I don’t know that king, but I do know da Vinci. I’ve seen his paintings and inventions in a book.”

“That’s impressive. And where are your parents? How did you end up alone in the forest?”

“It’s only my mom and Grandpa Joe,” Mike answered, sniffing.

“And they let you wander around so late?” the man asked sternly.

“They don’t know. Grandpa doesn’t know, and Mom’s asleep. She’s sick and takes strong medicine.”

“I see. Well, here’s what I think, Michael — if the deer was magical, then he must have figured out your wish on his own, right?”

“Right,” the boy agreed after a moment’s thought.

“Then here’s the deal: we’ll drive you home now — it’s too late for a stroll.”

“I can get home on my own. I know this forest like the back of my hand. Look — those are the lights of my village, see?”

“I see. I know that village.”

“I’ll be home in ten minutes if I take the shortcut down the hill.”

“Agreed. But give me a ring as soon as you get home, so I know you’re safe. Here’s my number,” the man said, handing the boy a business card.

The small card glimmered under the moonlight with elegant silver letters and ornate flourishes. Mike managed to read the name: Edward J. Kennett.

“I’ll call, I promise,” the boy said, slipping the card into his pocket. “Goodbye!”

“Take care, fella! Hurry up! And don’t worry about the deer — he’s just fine,” Edward said, patting Mike on the shoulder.

“Got it,” he replied, and ran off.

Here’s what happened next: of course, Mike called as promised, but the next day, Edward decided to visit Whispering Pines himself to check on the boy. Some time later, he arranged surgery for Mike’s mother — and she fully recovered.

Now, grown-up Michael still firmly believes that this event was nothing short of a miracle. After all, he truly saw that magical deer — and Silver Francis granted his deepest wish. Though, of course, he remains endlessly grateful to Edward as well.

So, dear readers, it’s up to you — whether to see this story as a manifestation of magic or merely as an extraordinary stroke of luck. Perhaps it was a fortunate coincidence, and Edward J. Kennett happened to be a highly skilled doctor with a scientific degree.

By the way, he stopped hunting after that day — something clicked in him during that forest encounter. He no longer wanted to hunt; he felt sorry for the animals.