A Christmas-tinged 'Anne of Avonlea' one-shot to thank every one of my new friends on this site,

which has become by delightful obsession.

I am not sure how eels came to be here.

I can only hope to walk in the shoes of elizasky, Oz Diva and Excel Aunt, to whom this is lovingly

(and apologetically) dedicated.

Merry Christmas one and all!

'Friendship is a Sheltering Tree'

Gilbert Blythe blew air onto his mittened hands in attempt to restore some semblance of circulation to them, and then leant over and braced himself, pulling at the stubborn trunk with all his considerable nineteen year old might.

"Careful of the door, Gilbert!"

"Anne, never mind the door," he huffed, standing and expelling a long breath, frozen hands on slim hips now comfortably padded by approximately three layers of clothing and the heavy jacket he had treated himself to at the onset of this winter, as he trudged back and forth on the weekends from his school at White Sands. "There is no door. The door has sacrificed itself to this preposterous tree."

Anne stood far from harm's way by her teacher's desk in the Avonlea schoolhouse, worrying her bottom lip in fetchingly pensive perusal, considering their dilemma from all angles – or as many angles left remaining to them, given that the only access point to and from said schoolhouse was now resolutely obstructed by a magestic pine tree, its pungent scent already prickling his nose and contributing a woodsy aroma he may indeed have appreciated out in its natural surrounds, but that was overwhelming when combined with damp wool, sweat and the prickle of his own growing frustration.

"What on earth made you decide on this one, for goodness' sake?" his dark brows knotted together as his hazel eyes took in its frighteningly large, wide dimensions. "We'll never get it through, let alone up. It'll knock the roof off as well as take the door with it."

He was not surprised by her huff of offended exasperation, her boots clattering on the floorboards as she jumped down nimbly from the raised platform by the desk, eyes smoky grey, arms crossed in ready defence. He didn't often openly challenge her, being still too grateful for her friendship at all, frequently reflecting upon that golden moment when she had extended her hand to him as he came through the gate of the Blythe farm, and he knew he had been forever altered by her eventual capitulation to their kindred spiritness; that she had indeed "thwarted destiny long enough." * His delight in her made him too readily engage in clearly foolhardy schemes such as this one, on his precious free Saturday, which had found him hauling a too-huge Christmas tree halfway across the village in order to now see it idiotically jammed in the doorway, in miserable mockery of all his manly attempts to impress her.

"It had already been cut down, but was found to be too big. How could I leave it behind, Gilbert, to see it just wither and die, alone in all its unappreciated splendour?"

Her typically effusive sentiments made his lips quirk reluctantly. He could never summon the strength to remain appropriately annoyed by all her outlandish requests.

"If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" ** he raised an eyebrow at her.

She wrinkled her nose, slightly mollified by his response.

"I just wanted to make it a special Christmas this year…" she faltered, looking away. "For… the children."

And there it was, and he was suddenly shamed. For this was her first Avonlea Christmas which wasn't at all as special as it should be, with quiet, gentle Matthew Cuthbert gone. His throat tightened as his gaze, always appreciative, swept over her with a resigned sadness, noting her subdued lilac blouse and serviceable mourning-grey skirt. How he longed to see her in colors again… the darker, unforgiving hues forever threatened to swallow and consume all the spark and sass that still fought to illuminate her.

"Well, then…" his voice was husky now, and he cleared it determinedly. "I think if I trim off some of the bigger branches and lop off the top, we might just get away with it."

When her grateful smile came, it chased away his chill, its warmth penetrating to his marrow.

Gilbert spent a good hour just sawing, the shavings flying up to flicker in his dark curls, the residue settling there as if dirty snowflakes. Anne gathered the smaller debris and swept around him with the old broom that had once been commandeered by Mr Phillips, not altogether convincingly, in his attempts to rid them of a stray skunk that had popped in for a social call one afternoon, giving delightful respite from their dictation, weaving amongst and under their desks as if undertaking some drunken wager to spread its scent as far and wide as possible. The memories of his past self, sitting across the way from a certain titian tressed individual, swirled and danced around him as the stray gusts that blew in from the open – albeit still barricaded – doorway. He wanted to share any number of them with Anne but he was painfully aware that her own recollections would be tinged by the animosity that had fired her for five years. He had no need to revisit that upon himself; there had not been quite "world enough, and time" *** to give him appropriate distance from the pain that those years in the wilderness still occasionally engendered in him.

He finally stood back, surveying his handiwork, divesting himself of another layer that had been strewn in sawdust. He was able to gently manoeuvre the marginally denuded tree through the door, smiling relief on both their faces. He and Anne between them managed to drag the tree through the aisle and up to the front corner, struggling then to right it vertically as it swayed in an extravagant circle before they were able to anchor it in its pot.

They contemplated the sight of it, appropriately awed.

Anne grinned, her hands clasped before her in excitement, contemplating the wonderful decorations the children would make for it; the sharing of Christmas songs and stories and her revisiting of A Christmas Carol in the shadow of its dramatically dark forest green branches.

Gilbert sighed, thinking of his bare-by-comparison schoolhouse in White Sands, and if he would be able to shore up possession of some spindly thing to serve as Christmas tree before school resumed on Monday.

"See, Gilbert! It has a home now."

"Indeed, Miss Shirley. A fine one."

"Thank you, Gilbert."

They lost no time in brushing up stray pine needles and depositing them outside, and stacking the unwanted branches by the stove for firewood. Gilbert stowed the broom away and passed by Anne's desk, noticing the large jar there, festively festooned.

"Christmas gifts already, Miss Shirley? It's just gone December."

Anne rolled her eyes. "I know. Anthony Pye. I think his mother thought there was still time to get in before his results were finalised," she offered drolly.

Gilbert picked up the jar in his large hand, his expression somewhat dubious. "What is it?"

"I am told it's… jellied eel."

"Eel?" he spluttered out a laugh.

"Apparently they are a delicacy of sorts…"

Gilbert's laugh had lengthened to a delighted low chuckle. He had been fully appraised of Anne's hard fought, protracted battle with young Master Pye, only recently having righted itself.

"I think he deserves another whipping just for giving you this!"

"Gilbert!" Anne reddened, protesting somewhat feebly, before her own reluctant laugh escaped. "Actually, he gave an exacting and entirely gruesome summation of all types of culinary feats to be foisted upon the poor creatures. Jellied eel. Stewed eel. And there's something called… ah… speltched eel?"

"Ah, that would be spitched eel," he nodded. "I am familiar with it."

"Well, fortunately I'm not. What a dreadful business! Not to mention eels! I am more than glad that Marilla hasn't seen fit to introduce them to our table," she sniffed.

Gilbert couldn't resist the tease. He thrust his hands into his pockets and affected an unconcerned air, whilst meanwhile biting the inside of his lip to hide his grin.

"Oh, we Blythes are big lovers of spitched eel," he announced, countenance thoughtful. "The lovely flakiness of the flesh… the gorgeous grey of the slimy skin as it separates from the body…" he paused as Anne began to turn green, careful not to goad himself into sickness to boot. Certainly his assertion was only partly true; his father was a great lover of eels; his mother cooked them under sufferance; and he himself still tried to pass his portions off to the cats.

Gilbert's grin finally got the measure of him. "You right there, Anne?" he enquired innocently.

Her auburn brows furrowed up at him, before a queer look came over her.

"Here, Gilbert!" she turned and grabbed at the jar, thrusting it into his hands. "You must have this – a thank you for your help today. Infact, consider it my early Christmas present!"

Her earnest, shining face met his suddenly crestfallen one, before she reached for her scarf, having to wind it around her neck three times to hide her own secret, knowing smile.

"Ready?" she asked with admirable blandness herself, delighting in the consternation with which he stared down at her offering.

"I guess so…" he gave mournful reply, eying the jar reproachfully.

They stopped at the door, for him to don his own scarf and his jacket.

"Wait, Gilbert!" she laughed suddenly. "Bend down!"

Before he realised it, she was raking her fingers through his curls, shaking the wood shavings from them to float downwards, dusting the floor. As he raised his head again their eyes met; hazel on grey. Those grey eyes betrayed the green of their depths the longer he stared into them, and a new blush stole slowly across her lovely pale face.

He blinked rapidly, momentarily unsure if he had really seen what he had just seen, and she turned away and ducked out the door.

Gilbert glanced back at the schoolhouse, hazel eyes bright and newly hopeful, noticing the shadows of the afternoon begin to stretch themselves across the floor and over the desks he and Anne and all their comrades had sat, bent over their work, dreaming of a time when these four walls would not contain them. Gilbert had dreamed of that too; but mostly his aspirations were, conversely, both lofty and modest. The lofty dreams concerned study and seeking and purpose and ambition that was just only now beginning to firm and shape itself; the modest dreams had concerned, mostly, a simple recurring wish for a girl to allow herself to be his friend.

He gave the room - and the hulking tree that had led him back here – a wide grin and a quick salute. He would hold onto the sight of that blush, even as he was sure its owner would baldly deny its very existence.

It didn't matter. Already he had filed it away for safekeeping. And perhaps for sustenance.

Gilbert and the unfortunate eels firmly strode out after Anne.

Chapter Title 'Friendship is a Sheltering Tree' from 'Youth and Age' (1834) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

*Anne of Green Gables Ch. 38 'The Bend in the Road'

**question posed, but not exactly quoted, in philosopher George Berkeley's 'A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge' (1710)

Being Christmas, let's suppose that Miss Stacey held a few lessons exploring philosophical concepts and the nature of existence

***from Andrew Marvell 'To His Coy Mistress' (1681)