Grandma and her partner Morgan were walking the dog. It was March, a time when cold winds are supposed to blow, and thick jumpers need to be worn. Yet here they were, holding hands and strolling in warm sunshine, their jackets tied around their waists, admiring the wild flowers, which were not supposed to be out for at least another month. Even the hedges were greening up in places where the sun shone on them. 

Their walk took them past the log jam. This was what they called the place where the farmer piled up logs to be used in the winter. Well, let's be accurate. It was the farmer's son who cut down the dead trees, sawed them up with a cutting machine, and stacked them neatly into piles of different sizes. There was one pile of long thin logs for old-fashioned fireplaces, which have huge grates and chimneys, there was a pile of small, neat logs for regular sized fireplaces like Grandma and Morgan had, and a third pile of misshapen pieces. The farmer's son sold these logs to local people as a sideline. 

Grandma always stopped by the log pile of misshapen pieces. She thought it looked like a huge work of art. Each log seemed to have something fascinating about it. Some had surfaces covered with gnarled protuberances, others showed where the inside of the tree had died and formed strange shapes, and some had twiggy bits sticking out of them like woody hedgehogs. 

Today it was not only Grandma who was fascinated by the woodpile. Amber had rushed ahead and was sniffing around it frantically. "There must be a rabbit in there, or something", Grandma said to Morgan watching the dog poking her nose between the logs. Suddenly Amber squealed and sat back on her haunches, growling. "What on earth is she doing?" Morgan said, as the dog slowly retreated on to the path. "I've never seen her do that before." They continued on their way, noting that soon the bluebells would be out, while Amber went on little forays into the fields tracking the scent of animals that had passed by overnight. 

On the way back Grandma stopped again at the woodpile. She pointed out to Morgan one log that she thought looked particularly attractive. It was shaped like a round cushion, covered with large bumps, and from each bump a twiggy shape protruded. "Isn't that strange and lovely?" she said to Morgan. 

"It would look good in the garden" he said, "on the side of the pond." Grandma agreed. "Perhaps we should phone the farmer's son and ask if we can buy a few of the logs" she suggested. 

"He won't miss this one" Morgan said, lifting up the log and putting it under his arm. 

"But that's stealing," Grandma said. "What if someone sees you?" 

"I'll drop it and come back for it later" said Morgan. 

Grandma had a twinge of conscience but comforted herself with the thought that she was not stealing it, Morgan was, and feeling quietly satisfied that she would soon have the log in the garden. Nevertheless she kept looking around in case someone spotted them walking home carrying a large, untidy, piece of wood. 

Morgan dropped it on the stones surrounding the garden pond while Grandma stood back and examined it, then moved it to a place where she thought it looked a little better. "That's great," she said, admiring the new addition. 

The next day the weather was still fine. "Perfect for gardening" Grandma said to Morgan over breakfast. She carried her basket of tools from the shed and took out her kneeling pad and trowel. She was weeding between the daffodil bulbs, which were just sprouting, when she heard Amber give a gentle bark. The dog was lying on the grass, her face between her paws, peering unblinkingly at something near the pond. Grandma followed her gaze. Amber was looking at the log. Overnight, the spiky projections covering the log seemed to have grown, and instead of sticking stiffly from their mossy bases, now seemed to be soft and waving about in the air. 

"Morgan, Morgan, quick, quick" Grandma shouted at the kitchen door. Morgan emerged casually. "This is amazing" Grandma said. "The log still seems to be alive". "Impossible" Morgan replied firmly. 

"But look" said Grandma. "It's grown." 

Morgan felt for his glasses and placed them on the end of his nose. "Ah" he said, walking around the pond to examine the log from all angles. He lay down on his front, next to Amber, then said to Grandma "It's put down roots". 

"I told you so," Grandma smiled smugly. "It's still living". 

"Never seen anything like that before" Morgan said. "That's not how it looked yesterday." 

Grandma had a sudden thought. "I don't want it to grow into a tree. Maybe we should burn it before it becomes established." 

Morgan shook his head. "Let's just leave it till tomorrow. This is really strange. I'll move it then. I just want to see what happens." 

For the first time ever, it was hard to persuade Amber to come in for her lunch. She seemed mesmerized by the log and occasionally gave a quiet bark, or made unusual noises, as if she was having a conversation with someone. 

The next morning Amber was waiting by the kitchen door and leapt out as soon as it was opened. Grandma and Morgan followed close behind, bursting with curiosity. The spike lets now had soft green ends, rather like the stem of a bunch of grapes from which the fruit has just been plucked. 

"Is it growing leaves already?" Grandma asked Morgan who seemed to know everything about the countryside and animals.

 "I've never seen leaves like this before." Morgan was mystified. Amber resumed her position on the grass.

Grandma shivered. "I don't like this" she said.