A Holiday Journey 2

Chris picked up his phone.  Mary sent him a text.  Mary lived in the apartment across the hall from his own apartment.  She became his semi-permanent babysitter over the last six months, since his mother got so sick.  Mary picked up Lilly from first grade, and they were presently in a department store downtown, looking for a Christmas present for him, so don’t hurry. Chris smiled.  He hurried, though he figured in his small Midwestern city, nothing could be that far away.

Mary seemed a godsend.  She appeared to be young.  He guessed she attended some local college, and maybe mostly took classes on-line. That, or she recently graduated and was filling the gap between graduation and a good job.  She always seemed to be available when he needed her, but he never would have noticed her if he had not broken up with his fiancé, Courtney, some six months ago; about the time his mother went into hospice.

Lilly, who he had mostly taken care of over those last couple of years when his mother got so sick, had come to live with him by the time Grandma went into hospice. Chris recalled his fights with Courtney were all about Lilly.  He depended a lot on his babysitter, Missus Minelli, at first.  When Lilly finally and permanently moved in with him, Courtney called it the last straw and broke up with him.  Mary moved in that very day.  Lilly seemed immediately drawn to Mary, and Mary volunteered to sit whenever he needed her, and without him even having to ask.  Truth be told, he felt bad about paying her minimum wage, even if he paid her under the table so she got to keep the whole amount.

“Mary.” He saw her right away.  The brisk three-block walk faded as he warmed in the ambient heat of frantic shoppers.  Mary’s smile helped—and Lilly’s hug, when Lilly ran to him.  “And what have you two been up to?” he asked, pretending innocence.

“Buying you a Christmas present, but you are not supposed to know,” Lilly said, as he set her down and took her hand.  “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?”  He pretended surprise, while Lilly vigorously nodded her head, before she coughed.  Chris knelt-down to hold her until the coughing fit passed.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said.  “She seems to be struggling today, but I thought a fun outing might do her some good.”

“No, it’s all right,” Chris said.  “It was a good idea.  Lilly always gets sick around Christmas, especially.”

“But maybe an hour and a half since school is enough.”

Chris shook his head, and confessed himself.  “I just got laid off, so Lilly and I will be spending lots of time home in our little apartment this Christmas.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary said, and barely held her hand back to keep from offering a physical touch to comfort him.  Lilly stopped coughing, but instead of backing out of the hug, she put both arms around Chris and returned the sentiment to him.  Even if she did not entirely understand, she knew being laid off would not be a good thing.

“No, I think maybe it was a gift.  Maybe, if the economy picks up in the new year, I can get a job that actually uses my college degree.  Who knows? I might even find a job I like.”

“It should be one that you love, no?” Mary whispered.

Chris heard, but did not answer.  Instead, he stood, kept hold of Lilly’s hand, and proposed.  “What say we go to Vincinni’s tonight?  What would you like: spaghetti or pizza?”

“And Mary?” Lilly asked with the name, and reached out with her other hand.

“And Mary,” Chris said.  “If she doesn’t have other plans…” he turned to Mary.  “If you would like.”  He did not want Mary to think he was asking her on a date.  He wanted to be sure she knew she could make an honest choice, but Lilly interrupted.

“Mary is family, too,” Lilly said.

“Like family,” Chris admitted, and he thought of Thanksgiving, and that great turkey Mary made.  She called it the first turkey she ever made, but it turned out perfect, so he found the first turkey confession hard to believe.  Still, she asked him, and Lilly to Thanksgiving supper.  She brought everything over to his apartment, turkey and all, since Lilly had a fever that morning, and lay curled up on the couch. Not exactly a date, Chris imagined. Not the same as him asking her out.

Mary looked at Chris with a look that said she would not mind being family; but he did not notice.  They walked, both holding one of Lilly’s hands, and no doubt the people who saw them thought a mom, a dad, and their little girl.

“So, what did you do for an hour and a half?” Chris asked Mary, but Lilly answered.

“We counted the decorations all up and down the street—all the beautiful trees and lights.  And we said Merry Christmas to everyone.  I love Christmas,” Lilly said.  She let out her biggest and best smile, but she felt warm, like she had a little fever even then.

 

Cue: Silver Bells

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  Ó℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

 

After spaghetti, and lots of love and laughter, they walked home together, since Mary lived just across the hall.  Chris picked up his mail on the way and said good night to Mary, who lingered a bit before she went in to her place.  He carried a tired Lilly inside, after a last look at Mary’s door.

Mary closed the door to her rooms gently. She put her back to the door and found a small tear in her eye.

~~~*~~~

Chris turned on the light switch, and made sure his Christmas tree got lit. Lilly had always been a sickly child, but she always got worse during the Christmas season.  Curiously, she also drew strength during the season. The lights and treats, the trees and decorations, the hymns and songs of joy, the giving and receiving gifts of love, and wishing absolutely everyone Merry Christmas always lifted her spirit. They did not have much in the way of decorations in their little apartment, but as Chris explained to Mary, he really had a choice of buying decorations or presents, and he imagined Lilly would be better off with presents, even if they were things she needed, like clothes, and not so many things she might want, like toys.

He set the mail on the table and carried Lilly to her room, where he got out her things to dress for the night.  “Now, get ready for bed,” he told her.  “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

Lilly nodded, a tired nod, but had a question to ask.  “Uncle Chris, could we get a real tree this year?”

Chris paused.  He had the big box of decorations his parents put on the tree every year, so a real tree would not cost more than the tree itself.  His artificial one turned ten that year and began to show signs of age. “Maybe we can do that,” he said. “But not tonight.  Now, go get ready for bed.”

Lilly did not argue.  She felt tired, and in a way, she felt more than tired just from a long day.  She did not feel well at all, but she did not want her Uncle Chris to worry.

Chris checked the mail, and found a letter from the court.  He felt curious, but paused first to consider how Lilly came to be his sweet responsibility.

Chris’ brother, Ricky, went into the military, and served overseas in the war. Lilly’s mother, Serissa, who no one ever met, was an American service woman Ricky met at Christmas time.  Those were hard days, as Ricky wrote.  The country they were in did not allow for any Christian celebrations, so Ricky and Serissa had to celebrate on the sly.  Ricky said he lost her after the season, and did not see her again until the following Christmas, when she showed up with a three-month-old baby, Lilly.  Christopher paused in his reflections as Lilly went to brush her teeth,

After that, Serissa became lost in the war zone and was presumed dead.  Curiously, when Chris’ mother checked with the defense department to see if Serissa had family, like Lilly might have other grandparents and such, the Defense Department had no record of her as ever having served, and so they could not give Mom any information—not to say that bloated government agency knew anything.  Mom probably got transferred to the wrong department.  Anyway, Lilly came home with Ricky at one point.  No one could imagine how he worked out the paperwork for that; but then he did another tour and in the end, he came home in a box.  Dad had already passed away from heart trouble, but Mom was still alive back then. She raised Lilly until Lilly nearly turned six.  Chris helped-out as much as he could; but then Mom died suddenly at the age of sixty-three.  At twenty-nine, Chris felt devastated.  He clung to Lilly as much as she clung to him.

He opened the letter from the court.  He read and found some tears.

The court knew he became unemployed, and the Department of Social Services was suing him for custody of Lilly.  Courtney, he thought right away.  She canceled their engagement, because, in her own words, she had no intention of being wet nurse for someone else’s child.  She worked for the company, in the main office, and got him a job there back in the days when they were supposedly in love.  No doubt, she arranged for him to lose his job.  But she made a mistake.  The DSS suit got initiated before he technically got fired; not that the court would care about that technicality.  She probably figured if she waited a week, he might find another job and ruin the whole plan.

“So, what?” he mumbled.  “Does she think she can swoop back into my life once I no longer have a child to care for? Or is this just a vindictive, hateful act?”

“Uncle Chris,” Lilly called.

Chris stood, wiped his tears, and went to Lilly’s room.  He smiled his best smile, and read her a Christmas story.  She fell asleep before they got half-way through.

A Holiday Journey 1

Christmas came on a Sunday that year.  The old radio played a mix of Christmas carols and Santa music.  Six-year-old Christopher Shepherd curled up on the couch and marveled at the Christmas tree.  It even smelled like Christmas—evergreen, and Turkey roasting in the kitchen.  He thought happy thoughts, and reveled in the joy of the season.  He felt the love everywhere, and wondered why he could not feel such Christmas spirit all year long.  He felt peace on earth and good will to all with whom God is well pleased.  His older brother apparently felt something quite contrary.  Nine-year-old Ricky had a new dart rifle.  He presently hid behind the Christmas tree where he could poke his head out and shoot the bad guys.  They had plenty of first person shooter video games, but they were not allowed to use them on Christmas morning before church.  Christopher did not mind.  Ricky whined.

Ricky paused in his killing spree.  His eyes got wide and his mouth temporarily opened, when one dart accidentally knocked over the framed picture of Aunt Linda that sat on the wall unit.  He quickly retrieved his dart and put the cracked picture back up, crooked.  His face looked sorry, but his mind worked fast to figure how he could pretend he did not know what happened.

Christopher preferred peace to war—love, and joy to the world, like the angels sang in the Christmas Eve service.  He felt content to sit and look at the most beautiful Christmas tree in the whole world; at least as he imagined it to be.

Mom came over to sit on the couch beside him and she put her arm gently around Christopher’s shoulder.  He smiled and snuggled.  He always smiled on Christmas day.  He normally smiled all day long, and not just for the presents and torn Christmas wrap that littered the floor.  Christmas was the best day of the year, and he wished every day could be like Christmas.

“We need to get moving,” Dad said, as he came half-way down the stairs, and spoke to his wife.

Mom nodded and stood.  “Time to get dressed for church,” she said to the boys.  “Ricky,” she added his name to be sure he heard before she went into the kitchen to check on the turkey, pausing only briefly to straighten out Aunt Linda’s picture, and frown.  Christopher got down from the couch to walk up the stairs.  Ricky put down his gun and ran, shoving Christopher out of the way to be sure he got up the stairs first.  Christopher didn’t mind.  It was Christmas.

 

Cue: Here We Come a Wassailing

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  (c)℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

Cue: opening credits …

…               Christopher Shepherd

…               Merry

…               Plum

…               Roy

…               Lilly

…     as      Courtney/Demon

and

…      as      Santa…

“You wanted to see me Mister Potts?”  Chris stepped into the manager’s office and straightened his shirt, though he imagined he knew what Mister Potts wanted to see him about.  He had been through this before.  He knew the routine.

“Chris,” Mister Potts spoke without looking up from the papers on his desk. “The district office has been reviewing the P & L statements since the summer, and I have been told I have to pare down the staff.”

“I understand,” Chris said, but he could not help the disappointment that crept into his words. “And at Christmas time.”  It caused Mister Potts to look up.

“The company is not responsible for Christmas.  Lots of people don’t even celebrate these days.  I will give you a good recommendation, wherever you go.”

“I do try to show up on time and do my work to the best of my ability.”

“I understand,” Mister Potts said, as his face wrinkled with regret.  “I understand your mother passed away.”

“Three months ago,” Chris said.  “Cancer.” Chris held back his tears.

“I’m sorry.  Your father?” Mister Potts looked up briefly.

“Passed away almost twenty years ago.  Heart.”

Mister Potts lowered his head and shuffled his papers.  “It’s that girl of yours.  You have to call out so much.”  Chris saw the rationalization for the firing scurry across Mister Pott’s face.

“Lilly is my brother’s daughter.  Ricky was military.  He died overseas two years ago.  I guess she is my responsibility now.  We never knew her mother.”  Chris figured it was pointless, but he had to say it.  “I am all she has left.  I need to take care of her.  That is why I need this job.”

“It isn’t my decision.”  Mister Potts steeled himself.  “I’m just the bearer of bad news.  I’m sorry. Good luck.”  Mister Potts went back to his papers and would not look up again. “Your last check will be mailed to you.”

Chris knew better than to argue, and much better than to complain.  “I will be putting you down as a reference, and I thank you for putting in a good word for me.”  He turned and stepped out of the office, closed the door quietly, and breathed.

Being laid off could be a gift, he thought.  Chris sniffed and wiped the tear that came up into the corner of his eye. He thought he might get unemployment through the new year.  The company would probably fight him on the unemployment.  Still, he had some money he inherited when his mother died, though she ate most of it over the years in her reverse mortgage.  He got something from the V. A. to help support Lilly.  He dreaded the idea of going to court, if it came to that.  He knew he needed to insure Lilly had a stable home environment, or lose her, and being laid off twice in the last four years did not make for a good resume.

He did not want to think about it.  His phone buzzed.

Looking Ahead

2023-2024 Looking Ahead from November 1

These last two months of 2023 will see the third of the three novelettes posted

A Holiday Journey is a Christmas story. This one has the music. Christopher Shepherd’s niece Lilly, his only living family member, is spirited away and Uncle Chris must go in search of her. There are adventures and revelations along the way. Enjoy.

In case you missed them, the other two novelettes can be found in the archives.

1. Ghosts is a story where everyone dies in the first chapter.  Old man Nathan and seven year-old Mya are left to make their way in… they are not sure where they are or where they should be.

This story posted from August 29–September 4, 2023. Ghosts is also available under the Stories to Read tab on the website. Click on Strange Tales and you will find it.

2. Charmed is a Halloween story that brought us to Halloween ( or rather today November first). It is an old fashioned Disney-like story but without the singing. Jake takes his baby sister Elizabeth trick-or-treating and gets distracted by his friends. Elizabeth is kidnapped and taken to a very strange place. Jake can only follow.

Charmed was posted entirely in October, 2023, so that should be easy to find in the archives.

2024 Coming Attractions

Beginning MONDAY January 1, 2024

Kairos Medieval: Medieval Tales  The story of Genevieve and Charlemagne, the story of Thegn Elgar and Alfred the Great, and finally, the stories of Kristina the shield maiden and Yasmina, Princess of Mecca and Medina, two young women whose stories are intertwined, almost like twins, though they are separated by more than thirty years.

Interlude (TBA)

Kairos Medieval: Before Sunrise The book begins with the second stories of Kristina and Yasmina where they are forced to marry the wrong person, get out of that bad situation, and marry the right person, and the book ends with the story of Don Giovanni and his circus: The Greatest Show on Earth. (He stole that line from the future but he figures no one will sue him in the year Y1K).

Note

For those of you who read the two Kairos Medieval stories of Greta, the Wise Woman of Dacia, with her two partners in time, Festuscato, the Last Senator of Rome and Gerraint in the Days of King Arthur, and especially for those who went on to read the two Kairos Medieval books of Marguerite, where Festuscato and Gerraint finished their stories as well, it seemed only fair to post the last two books in the Kairos Medieval group. Notice I used the word group, not series.

I am reluctant to call them book 5 and book 6 in a series. I don’t want anyone to think they have to read books 1-4 to understand what is going on in books 5 and 6. I  am also reluctant to call them a series, for that matter, because it is not that kind of a series. Each lifetime of the Kairos is a story unto itself. Even when the story is split between two books as with Margueritte and Greta, I work hard to make each “half” a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end that comes to a satisfying conclusion and doesn’t leave cliffhangers.

So, if you read the stories of Greta and Margueritte, great. But if you didn’t read those stories that should not make any difference. Medieval Tales and Before Sunrise are stories unto themselves. I only hope you will enjoy them.

But First

A Holiday Journey is a Christmas story. It was first posted in 2019 at the beginning of the COVID scare and I am not sure that many people read it. We all had other things on our minds. This time, I hope you will relax and enjoy the story, and maybe get in the right mood for the holidays. I hope you had a happy Halloween and look forward to a happy Christmas. Until Monday, Happy Reading.

 

*

Looking Ahead

2023-2024 Looking Ahead from August 28

These last four months of 2023 will see three novelettes posted

1. Ghosts is a story where everyone dies in the first chapter.  Old man Nathan and seven year-old Mya are left to make their way in… they are not sure where they are or where they should be.

2. Charmed is a Halloween story that should bring us to Halloween ( or rather Wednesday November first). It is an old fashioned Disney-like story but without the singing. Jake takes his baby sister Elizabeth trick-or-treating and gets distracted by his friends. Elizabeth is kidnapped and taken to a very strange place. Jake can only follow.

3. A Holiday Journey is a Christmas story. This one has the music. Christopher Shepherd’s niece Lilly, his only living family member, is spirited away and Uncle Chris must go in search of her. There are adventures and revelations along the way.

So, it seems dead, kidnapped, or spirited away little girls is a theme. Well, you won’t know how things turn out until you read the stories.

2024 Coming Attractions

Beginning MONDAY January 1, 2024

Kairos Medieval 5: Medieval Tales  The story of Genevieve and Charlemagne, the story of Thegn Elgar and Alfred the Great, and finally, the stories of Kristina the shield maiden and Yasmina, Princess of Mecca and Medina, two young women whose stories are intertwined, almost like twins, though they are separated by more than thirty years.

Interlude (TBA)

Kairos Medieval 6: Before Sunrise The book begins with the second stories of Kristina and Yasmina where they are forced to marry the wrong person, get out of that bad situation, and marry the right person, and the book ends with the story of Don Giovanni and his circus: The Greatest Show on Earth. (He stole that line from the future but he figures no one will sue him in the year Y1K).

Note:

For those of you who read the 2 Kairos Medieval stories of Greta, the Wise Woman of Dacia, with her two partners in time, Festuscato, the Last Senator of Rome and Gerraint in the Days of King Arthur, and especially for those who went on to read the 2 Kairos Medieval books of Marguerite, where Festuscato and Gerraint finished their stories as well, it seemed only fair to post the last two books in the Kairos Medieval group. Notice I used the word group, not series.

I am reluctant to call them book 5 and book 6 in a series. I don’t want anyone to think they have to read books 1-4 to understand what is going on in books 5 and 6. I  am also reluctant to call them a series, for that matter, because it is not that kind of a series. Each lifetime of the Kairos is a story unto itself. Even when the story is split between two books as with Margueritte and Greta, I work hard to make each “half” a complete story that comes to a satisfying conclusion and doesn’t leave cliffhangers.

Because people are inclined to get the wrong idea and think they have to begin with book 1 in the series, I am reluctant to number the books 1-6. Instead, I am considering color coding the books according to the rainbow. Greta’s 2 books could be the red book and the orange book. Margueritte’s books could be yellow and green. These last two books can then be the blue book and the violet or purple book. They are still marked more or less in rainbow order ( they are in temporal order) but maybe people will be less likely to think of books one through six and less inclined to mistakenly think they absolutely have to read book one first.

Now, I am not saying reading the cluster of Kairos Medieval books in rainbow order is a bad idea. Clearly when Greta from the first 2 books shows up in book 4 or book 5, you will know who we are talking about, though I do try to give sufficient information so that should not be a problem. Certainly, the Princess and the Storyteller get mentioned or show up all the time, and I have neither posted nor published any of their books. Likewise, Diogenes and Doctor Mishka show up regularly and I haven’t even written their books yet. So, while it might be nice to read the Kairos Medieval books from the first book or the red book forward, it is not necessary. Of course, I would not mind selling all six books once I get them up for sale, but that is another issue.

Color coding rather than numbering the books? And how about calling the books the Kairos Medieval group or cluster rather than use the word series?  What do you think?

*

M3 Gerraint: Winter Games, part 3 of 3

Gerraint went back to the warming fire while Gwillim looked around the room.  Gerraint felt sure that Gwillim had been completely taken in by the glamour that surrounded him, making the cave appear like the most lavish of manor houses, with great tapestries lining jewel encrusted walls, and even glass in the windows.

“A mighty fine home you have, my Lord, for one so deep in the wilderness and in the wilds of the North.”  Gwillim also saw Macreedy as a plain noble chief rather than the elf he was.  For that matter, Gerraint looked over and noted that Trevor’s discomfort came from being attended to by a half dozen most beautiful young women, and Trevor did not see them as elves at all.  “Are you sure the Scots won’t find us here?”  Gwillim finished on the practical note.

“The Scots won’t come here,” Macreedy reassured him.  “In fact, would you like me to call the Slaugh to visit them in the night?”  That question got directed to Gerraint.

“Heaven forbid,” Gerraint responded.  “They have two deaths now to mourn and were just trying to defend themselves, even if they don’t know that revenge is never an answer.  Let them be.”

“Very gracious of you, my Lord,” Macreedy said.

“Yes,” Gwillim added.  “Especially since we just avoided being whipped half to death and thrust naked into the frozen wastes.”

Gerraint simply coughed, and there followed a moment of silence.

Macreedy stood and walked down to them.  He slipped his arm around Uwaine’s shoulder and turned him toward another part of the cave.  “You seem a man of wisdom.  You hold your tongue well,” Macreedy said.  Gerraint was simply not sure how far Uwaine got taken in by the glamour.  “I suspect, though, you may just be hungry.  What do you say we repair to the dining room?  The feast is all prepared.”

“Food,” Gwillim shouted, but then remembered his manners.  “With the lord of the house’s permission, of course.”

Macreedy stared hard at Gwillim for a moment.  Some little ones could be sticklers for the most miniscule bits of propriety, but then he laughed.  “Permission granted,” he said, and he waved to the ladies to make sure they did not let Trevor leave the fire.  Instead, two of the women pushed passed the men and came back with a plate full of delights.  They appeared to be thrilled with cutting and spoon feeding Trevor, and then wiping his chin with the softest elf cloth.  They laughed merrily most of the while, and Trevor did not mind that at all.

“For you, my Lord, we killed the fatted calf,” Macreedy told Gerraint.  Uwaine, who had glanced at Gerraint once or twice, looked fully at his lord when they came to their seats.  Gerraint explained.

“The food of the light elves is normally very light and delicate, like gourmet food.  Not much substance for flesh and blood.  Macreedy is saying they cooked up some real food for us, and don’t worry, I have decided the food of the little ones will not affect you, Gwillim or Trevor to any harm.  So, eat and enjoy.”  That was all Uwaine needed to hear.

“Pork loins!”  Gwillim shouted again in his excitement.

Gerraint certainly ate his fair share, but by then, his mind had turned once again to Cornwall, his home.  He imagined poor Enid fretting away, with no word from him to hold on to, and sweet Guimier sleeping in his place beside her mother until he again could be with them.  He stood, let the others remain seated, and stepped to the door.  It opened without his thinking about it, though an invisible barrier remained in place so neither the wind nor cold could penetrate the cave.  Outside, it started snowing again, completely obliterating their tracks.

As Gerraint looked out on the beauty of the white upon the northern forest, his heart began to sing, and his mouth whispered at first.

What child is this who laid to rest,

on Mary’s lap is sleeping?

Whom angels greet with anthems sweet;

While shepherds watch are keeping?

This, this is Christ the king

Whom shepherds guard and angels sing.

Haste, haste to bring him laud,

The babe, the son of Mary.

He let his voice trail off as he found the others gathered around his back.  The elf maidens were all on their knees.  Gwillim smiled with a serious smile.  Even Trevor stood, staring at the beauty of the world outdoors.

“Must be Christmas,” Gerraint said, and turned to Macreedy, who had a tear in his eye, which would have aroused his great anger with anyone but Gerraint, his Lord.  “Remember this word.”  Gerraint told the elf, as he put his hand gently on the little one’s shoulder.  “That the whole world might be saved through him.”  Gerraint felt better and a little less alone.  “Remind Manannan of this, will you, when his time of sorrow and dejection comes on him because of the monks.  I worry about that boy.  And as for us, I suppose a bit of sleep would not hurt.”

Having eaten, now exhaustion overtook the men.  Gerraint could see it in Uwaine’s eyes.

“My Great Lord.”  Macreedy nodded his head.  He clapped and the elf maids lead each to a bed where they helped them in and covered them well.  “They will sleep until spring with so many of the little ones,” Macreedy said.  “But we cannot do the same for you unless you let us.”

Gerraint nodded and gave himself over to the glamour.  “Just make sure I am first awake,” he said, and he closed his eyes.  He knew he was safe under the protection of his little ones, but in the spring, there would be far to go.  He would have to stop to visit Kai at Caerlisle, and then Old Pelenor in the Midlands, Arthur in Caerleon, and Tristam in Devon on the south watch.  At that, he might not get home until June, but he imagined Enid running to him in joy, and he felt the joy also deeply in his own soul, and with that he fell asleep for a long winter’s nap.

************************

MONDAY

The trip home is long, but something itches in the back of Gerraint’s mind.  Somehow, Enid and Guimier do not feel safe.  Monday.  Don’t miss it.  Happy Reading

*

Holiday Journey 21

Chris had to sit down.  He sat on the front pew, then moved over to give Santa room to sit.  He looked at his hands and sat in silence for what felt like a long time, though it was actually not long at all.

“You are asking me if I want to take over being Santa?” Chris asked.  “For the next two hundred years?”

“Eleven o’clock,” Santa said, and nodded, and pointed at the stained-glass window at the front of the church.  He sat beside Chris and continued.  “I apologize. Given the modern mass media, the image and traditions of Santa have been pretty well set in stone.  You probably won’t have much ability to shift things, at least at first.  But Santa needs some new blood.  Traditions can grow stale.  The first shepherd, Joel, said he soon realized different people would develop different traditions and celebrations, but he said that was a good thing.  When the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches split, Sinterklaas made it work—even when the Romans tried to drag the celebration back to December sixth, he made it work.  As long as the Christ child remained the reason for the season, as they say.”

“That idea has struggled of late,” Chris said.

“You can read about it in the Christmas book,” Santa said, and pointed to a big, open book on a stand, up front, opposite the podium.  “My predecessors have long speculated whether at twelve o’clock there will be a twelfth Santa, or if that may be when the Christ returns.” Santa shrugged.  “I’m sorry I won’t be here to see it, but you can tell me how it turns out when you get there… So?”

“Well… I lost my job.  I lost my apartment.  I would have lost Lilly if she hadn’t been kidnapped… Times being what they are… Yes,” Chris said.  “But I hope I don’t screw it up.”

Santa patted Chris on the shoulder.  “Just do your best.  In the end, that is all that any of us can do.”  He paused, and they both looked up.

A light appeared around the altar, and grew until Chris and Santa could not keep their eyes open.  Both men trembled in the presence of what was holy.  The light soon settled into the image of a person, but that felt worse in a way.  That person was not only holy, that person was also pure and good in a way no human could be.

“It is settled.” the Christmas Angel said, but kindly made it sound like a question.

“Yes,” Santa stood.

“Good,” the Christmas Angel said, and appeared to smile.  A woman called.

“Santa. Victor.”

“Coming, dear,” Santa responded, as a ghostly image of an old woman appeared to come to the edge of the light.  Santa did not hesitate to step into the light, and as he did, both his and her images faded until they disappeared altogether.

Chris lowered his head, and the angel spoke again.  “Tell me.”

“Lord,” Chris began, and found some tears in his eyes.  They were tears for his hard life, his family that went before him, for all of the people around the world that still lived without hope.  He thought one good day per year was not too much to ask.  One day where people remembered the Lord and did good for one another would be the least the fallen human race could do.  “I don’t think I can do this alone,” Chris said.  “I need Merry, and Lilly, and all the others.”

Chris did not see the angel smile ever so slightly as the angel vanished once again in the light.  Chris just sat on the pew, and felt all the love, joy, and peace rush into his heart. Then he did cry.

 

Cue: White Christmas

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  Ó℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

 

The front door flew open when the angel fully vanished.  Chris wiped his eyes as he heard a voice shout, “Uncle Chris!” He turned and saw Merry, who ran, but stopped a few feet away.  Plum and Roy stayed in the door, but removed their hats.  He saw a fairy land beside Merry, and change from a little, fluttering person, to a fully adult woman, more beautiful than an ordinary human woman ought to be.  And he felt something like a little bug, hugging his cheek and nose.

“Woah,” Chris said.  He had to be careful, but he grabbed the fairy around her legs and gently pulled her off his face.

“Lilly,” the fairy woman spoke.  “You need to come here and get big so your Uncle Chris can see you.”

“Yes mother,” Lilly said, and she did that very thing, and smiled briefly at Merry, who smiled right back at her.

Chris looked at Lilly, furrowed his brow and frowned a bit, but everyone could see the love in that frown.  “You ran away without telling me,” he said, gruffly.

“Uncle Chris…” Lilly did not know what to say, but Merry stepped forward and cut off her childish excuses.

“My fault,” Merry confessed.  “She is a half-fairy, a half Christmas fairy.”  Merry looked at Chris with big, sad eyes.  “Lilly was suffocating in the entirely human world, cut off from the magic that flows in her blood.  That was why she got sick, and especially bad in the Christmas season.  She is very young, and ageing more like a fairy, too. She is nearly seven, but measures small; more like a four-year-old…”  Merry let her voice trail off as she realized she was making excuses, herself.

Chris dropped to one knee and held open his arms to his little girl.  “Merry Christmas,” he said, and Lilly rushed into his hug. She returned his Merry Christmas.

Chris stood, took Lilly’s hand, and stepped up to Serissa, who did not know what to expect, but finally lowered her eyes.  Chris just smiled all the more.  He caught Serissa in a hug and repeated, “Merry Christmas,” and added, “Sister.”

Serissa found some happy tears and returned, “Merry Christmas.”

As Chris stepped back, he said, “Saying the words is right and good, but I think people should give Christmas hugs, too.”  He looked at Roy and Plum.

Roy leaned over and hugged Plum, and said, “Merry Christmas.”

“Same,” Plum said, and returned the hug, briefly, before he pulled back, brushed off his coat like restoring his dignity, and said, “We have some special deliveries tonight, it being actual Christmas Eve.  There are not many, but they are the hard and dangerous ones Santa always insisted on handling.  I don’t know what you want to do.” Plum struggled hard to hold his tongue after that.

Chris nodded, but said, “First things first.”  He turned to Merry.

“I have been made human,” Merry said, and added, “It is different.”

“You don’t mind not being an elf anymore?” Chris asked.

Merry shook her head and lowered her eyes like Serissa.  “It is what I prayed for.”

“Good,” Chris said in a voice straight and clear, without the least hint of what he might be thinking.  He came out with it.  “Will you marry me, Merry?”

“Yes,” she said, dropped one tear, and looked up at him in time to be wrapped up in his arms.  Chris kissed her, and she returned everything in her heart.  They would say Merry Christmas in a minute, or perhaps a few minutes.

 

Cue: closing credits …

Cue: Here We Come a Wassailing

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  Ó℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

 

END

************************

MONDAY

Avalon, Season Six will post, 13 episodes over 24 weeks, or roughly a new episode every 2 weeks.

The travelers came to the beginning of history on a rescue mission.  Now, to get home, the travelers must follow the Amulet of Avalon that points the way to the next time gate.  They move through time zones that center around the many lives of the Kairos, the traveler in time, the watcher over history, a person who never lives a quiet life.

They have unlimited vitamins, elf crackers, for their health; and unlimited bullets, which are needed far too often.  They ride mustangs brought back from the old west, and wear fairy weave clothing they can shape and change with a word in order to blend into the local culture.   By a special gift of the Kairos, they can understand and be understood no matter the local language.  It helps, because inevitably they deal with thieves, brigands, armies and empires, gods and monsters, spirits and creatures, space aliens and the great unknown. They try hard not to disturb history. To be sure, all they want is to get home in one piece, but they are not the only ones lost in time.  Some of the others lost in time want to follow them or even go with them.  Some want to fight them, or hunt them, and not everything lost in time is human.

The Avalon Series is written in short story (episodic) form, but designed to be converted to visual form, either a television show, anime, or graphic novel.  As such, like any television show, it is not difficult to pick up in the middle and follow along.  One (or two) episodes is enough to grasp the concept and begin to get to know the characters.  If you are seriously worried about starting in season 6, you can find the prequel, the Free pilot episode, and the early seasons as E-books at the major retailers.  Thank you for your support.

So, as always, until Monday…

*

Holiday Journey 20

*

Cue: Carol of the Bells

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  Ó℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

 

“Christopher Shepherd,” Santa said Chris’ name as he slowly rose and walked down the center aisle.  “And you have seen the window.”

“Yes.” Chris did not know what to say. “Santa?” he repeated, and the old man nodded as he took Chris’ arm and gently led him to the altar.

“You can see the window better from here,” Santa said, and he turned his attention to point at the morning sun that streamed through the stained glass. “But, you see, there have been ten Santas since the birth of our Lord and Savior.”

“Ten Santas?”  Chris saw the window neatly divided into twelve slots, so it looked like a clock. Ten of those slots had pictures of people.  The eleven o’clock and twelve o’clock slots remained plain glass.

“Well, they haven’t all been called Santa, you know.  Let’s see.  I first met Kris on a trip to New York.  Mine was a merchant family, out of eastern Pennsylvania.  Christmas Eve, 1806, or 7… maybe 1805.  It was a long time ago.  Anyway, I explained the quaint Dutch traditions associated with Christmas to a young fellow by the name of Irving—that was his last name. Washington Irving.  I met him again in England about ten years later…” He waved off that train of thought and pointed again at the window.

“The first, the one o’clock picture, shows the first shepherd.  He was over sixty when the Lord was born.  A remarkable thing, to be so old in that day and time. He was out watching his sheep at night, and so on, you know, and the angel came to him, the Christmas angel. He filled Joel—that was his name—with the Spirit of Christmas on that night.  Love, joy, peace, generosity, celebration, and all.”

“Joel was a shepherd?”

Santa nodded.  “The first Christmas shepherd.”

“The first Santa?”

Santa nodded again.  “From that day, wherever Joel went, the Spirit of Christmas went with him and touched so many lives.  He was there when the church started.  He went with the apostles to Greece. He eventually made it to Rome, where he picked up a young man to help him in his journey.  He cut through Gaul and went into the Germanys where the J of his name got pronounced like a Y.

“Yoel?”

“Yule, as it came to be called.  He got burned at the stake.  That happened around 140. You see, in bearing the Spirit of Christmas, he ended up living over two hundred years, kind of like Abraham, I guess.  But before he died, he passed on the Spirit of Christmas to his young Latin friend.  You see? Two o’clock.”

Santa pointed again, and Chris kept his eyes on the clock window.

“That young Roman considered what it meant to carry the Spirit of new birth, the celebration of the Lord’s birth.  In the Latin, it would be the name Natalis, but in Gaul, he compressed the idea and came up with Noel, in honor of his mentor, Joel.  Pater Noel, actually, once he got a few years on him and grew his beard, which turned white enough.  He carried the Spirit of Christmas for two hundred and four years before he passed it on to the original Saint Nikolas, back in the Middle East.  That was in 343.”

Chris shook his head.  “I read about Saint Nicholas.  He died in 343.”

“Natural causes,” Santa said, and nodded with a small smile.  “There is a book that chronicles all of this. You can read about it, later.  He did not actually die, in fact, he took the job, and kept it well enough to put his imprint on the whole enterprise, at least the name Nicholas.  After two hundred years, when he was actually two hundred and seventy something, he came across a half-frozen man and his daughter in the Slavic wilderness.  He gave the man the Spirit of Christmas and took his place in freezing to death.”

“Four o’clock,” Chris pointed.  “I was wondering who the girl was.”

“Snowflake.  Still an important part of Slavic and Russian Orthodox celebrations.”

“Did she carry the Spirit as well?” Chris asked.

Santa did not exactly answer.  “Honestly, as the faith and Christmas celebrations spread, the job became too much for one person.  Ded Moraz was his name, and he chose to live in the far, frosted north.”

“The North Pole?”

“Well…near enough.  He was the first to enlist the elves to the task.  That happened in the Scandinavian north, the land of the reindeer.”

Chris nodded, but he had a serious question.  “And that demon at five o’clock?”  He thought of Courtney.

“Another Nicholas, as he took the name.  Krampus was his demon.  From roughly 750 to 960.  Each bearer of the Spirit of Christmas serves about two hundred years.  Each Santa, if you will, from that point on, also had a demon of some sort to follows them around.  They frighten the naughty children, but you know, though they are powerless in Santa’s presence.  Kris said it kept him human, and I don’t disagree.  It is remarkable what Santa can do.  Faithfulness, humility and self-control are probably the most important traits to hold on to.”

“I can see that,” Chris said.  Santa paused to look in Chris’ eyes.  He said nothing, but after a moment he nodded and went back to the window.

“Six o’clock is the Dutchman, Sinterklaas, and his servant, Zwarte Piet. Servant, not slave, is the best way to refer to that.  Those were the dark ages, from about 960 to 1171.  In those days, the Roman Church tried to disconnect the celebration from the birth of the Lord and drag it back to December sixth, the supposed death day of the first Nikolas.  I don’t know what demon in Rome suggested such a thing, but it became a struggle. In the end, about 1171, a bishop, I won’t say which, beheaded Sinterklaas.”

“Burned at the stake, frozen to death, beheaded,” Chris said.

“I know,” Santa agreed.  “It is not an easy job.  In the Middle Ages, mostly in Europe, though just hinting of spreading world-wide, Sir Christmas, an honest to goodness knight, took the job.  He had a retinue of helpers by then, and the elves and fairies of Christmas as well.  He needed the help.  And in 1383, the one who followed, an Englishman, kept to the theme.  Father Christmas was what they called him.  He saw the celebration up to the days of reformation.

“The reformation.  That must have been a difficult time to hold things together,” Chris surmised.  “Christmas itself might have splintered into dozens of separate traditions.”

“There are dozens of separate traditions,” Santa said.  “Some still celebrate December sixth.  Some celebrate on January sixth—the day the wise men presumably arrived bearing gifts.  It is hard to keep track of, but the Spirit of Christmas, the love, joy, peace on earth, the giving and caring for one another and celebrating the time of the Word made flesh remains.”

Chris nodded.

“I will say, Father Christmas and Henry the VIII did not get along well.  But anyway, in 1601, the reformers wanted to move away from the Catholic tradition.  Sinterklaas had already dealt with the east-west schism, when the catholic and orthodox churches split.  This became like that, except the reformers were more nation-state or even congregational based, one of the main reforms being against a central, human authority. But that led to so many different churches—so many denominations.”  Santa shook his head, like the whole thing gave him a headache.

“Father Christmas found a German, since that was where most of the trouble centered. A Lutheran, Kris, with a beautiful young blonde daughter that he called his angel.  She took on the persona of an angel, sort of.  The Christkind.  Kris Kringle was his name, but some still referred to him as Nicholas.  I get Nicholas at times, or Saint Nick, sometimes. Can’t be helped.”

“I see you and Missus Clause up there at ten o’clock.”

“Yes.” Santa paused to pull out a handkerchief and sniff before he blew his nose.  “Pennsylvania Dutch, originally.  Clausen. Plenty of German roots, too.  She bravely went with me when the shop went bust. We headed to Indiana territory to make a new beginning.  We got caught in a snowstorm.  That was where Kris found us.  I forgot all about meeting him in New York that one time.  He offered me the job, and well… With the shop gone, and the Shawnee about to go on the warpath… Times being what they were, I accepted the job.”  Santa smiled and let out a little of his famous ho, ho, ho.  “I heard that once in a movie.”

“I know the movie,” Chris returned the smile.  “But that is more of a Halloween movie than a Christmas movie.”

Santa frowned.  “You know, I am not entirely happy with some of the ways I have been portrayed.  But honestly, each Santa, in turn, has had some impact on that portrayal—in the human psyche.  Nicholas, long white beard, living in the frozen north, and so on.  Then, there have been some exaggerations cooked up in the human mind.  Can’t be helped.  I hope you realize I don’t actually travel around the entire world in a single night, bringing presents to all the good boys and girls.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, there is a workshop, and we make toys, but we also make plenty of ordinary things as well.  Shoes, coats, soap and clothes.  We package lots of food, mostly dried and canned, though some cookies and candy. Toothbrushes have been a big one these last fifty years or so.  Mostly, they get put in boxes and delivered to the poor and needy through others. Goodwill, Salvation Army, Samaritan’s Purse, and churches; thousands of churches all over the world.  I have delivered some few, special needs now and then, but mostly the elves take care of passing on our work to where it is needed.”

“Elves that appear human,” Chris understood, and had a revelation. “Those two soldiers in 1914, with the Christmas cookies.  They were disguised elves.”  His eyes got big.  “That old priest in the Catholic church was you.”

“Yes,” Santa admitted, before he looked down at his boots, what he could see over his belly. “And Plum and Roy.  Sorry about them.”

“They are all right,” Chris answered.  “Plum just talks too much without any watch on his tongue, and Roy doesn’t say enough.”

“Yes,” Santa let out that little smile.  “That about sums them up.”

“And Merry?” Chris said, but it was a question.

“That little girl… I mean, that lovely young woman.  She thought I was getting too old, which I am.  She wanted to bring you here to help me in my old age.  That was very kind and thoughtful of her.  But you know, once an elf gets attached, they are very hard to remove.”  Chris stared at the wall for a moment, and Santa looked at him, squarely.   “You know, if you marry her, she will stop being an elf and become human.”  Chris did not know that, and thought maybe that would be asking too much, but Santa took his arm again, as he did at the beginning.  “How about we let her decide that,” he said, and Chris nodded, before he swallowed his feelings and spoke.

“But now, Lilly.  Did you have to kidnap her?  Where is she?”

Santa held up his hands to stave off Chris’ anger.  “She is here, and fine.  She is with her mother, Serissa.”

“Serissa? She is alive?”

“Serissa. She is the Christmas Rose, a fairy.” Santa paused to let that knowledge sink in.  Chris’ eyes got big as he remembered several strange events in Lilly’s young life.

“I want to see her.  I need to see her.”

Santa still had his hands up to make Chris pause.  “First things first.  Do you want the job?”

Holiday Journey 19

Chris pushed as fast as he could through the brambles and bushes at ground level. He could hardly see where to place his feet, but Lilly was in trouble.  The sky remained storm dark, and it seemed doubly dark under the trees.  The only grace seemed most of the snow got caught in the branches above.

“Lilly,” Chris called.  He heard a deep, guttural growl off to his right, and headed toward it instead of away from it.  “Lilly.” Suddenly, he imagined that maybe the missing reindeer was all part of the game.  He tried again. “Roy.  Plum. Merry.”  He stopped just inside a small clearing.  Something like a street light, or the moon come down through the clouds could be seen overhead.  A creature, or person that looked too much like Courtney for comfort, stood on the edge of the trees, ten feet off.  She had Lilly, with a hand or claw over Lilly’s mouth.  Her other claw held a knife pointed at Lilly’s throat, and she spoke in a harsh, chilling version of Courtney’s voice.

“Your elf maid has deserted you.”

“Hardly,” Chris responded, pulling up all the courage he had. “She has gone to help save the animals, and I support her in doing good for others.”  He dared not move closer for fear of what might happen to Lilly.

Courtney turned down her blood-red lips, not liking that answer.  She showed her fangs.  “Making love to an elf is a disgusting idea.”  Courtney shivered, like one repulsed by the idea of so much as touching such a person.

Chris laughed, a real “Ha, ha, ha,” and only a small bit of nervousness could be heard in the laugh.  Most of it sounded genuinely amused.  “But Courtney, I thought you were into all that social justice stuff.  Origin, skin color, even species should not matter. You know, love wins.”

“Are you prepared to have pointy-eared freaks for children?”

“I have found the world full of every kind of people, and many of them try to be good, even if they often fail.  True, there are some bad ones, and that is sad, but we pray for them.”

“A pointless exercise, praying to some sky-god.”  Courtney shuffled what looked like cloven hooves in the snow.

“But this is Christmas Eve,” Chris continued.  “Far from being pointless, this is the night the promise of love became real in a baby.  Love won on this night, and you lost.  You have no power here.”

“No.” Courtney grabbed Lilly more securely and scratched her cheek.

“Love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, gentle-kindness, faithfulness, humility, and self-control.  All these things are real.  They are not only real, but on this night, they came to live in the heart of all who believe.  You have no place in such a heart.”

“No.”

“Lights,” Chris called.  He figured out what those moving lights were.  “Lights, I need you.”

One by one, the fairies of light abandoned the great tree in the wilderness and attended to Chris.  It miraculously stopped snowing in the little clearing, and the Courtney-beast looked up and around, dread written across her face.  As the fairies arrived, the light in the clearing increased until it became almot too bright to see.

“I will pray for you,” Chris said, as he closed his eyes.

“No,” Courtney screamed and vanished with Lilly still struggling against the claw.

Chris lay down in the snow, not sure if what he saw had been real or a dream.  He felt his head spin.  He spent all week worried about Lilly, and now he could not be sure what just happened.  He felt exhausted, and did not pay close attention to what he was doing.  He knew the devil was real, but had no power over the people of faith.  Faith, hope, and love, he thought.  But the greatest of these is love.  He fell asleep, and the fairies kept careful watch in the night.

 

Cue: Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies from “The Nutcracker”

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  Ó℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

 

When Chris woke, the sun just began to brighten the horizon.  He found a blanket beneath him, and another on top of him.  He felt warm enough, glad the snow did not fall on his face all night.  He figured the others must have returned and found him in the night.

“Merry?”

She did not answer, so he sat up and found himself alone on the edge of a clearing. He stood, picked up both blankets, and draped them around his shoulders.  He looked around, in every direction, twice.  He must have gotten turned around in the dark.  He looked as hard as he could through the trees, but saw no sign of the others, and no sign of the big Christmas tree.  He thought to wait.  As a child, he got told he should stay where he was until the others found him. He folded a blanket and set it on the ground beneath a tree so he could sit and watch the sun rise.

“Today is Sunday,” he said to himself.  “It is the real Christmas Eve back home.”  He did not want to think of home.  Without Lilly, he had no home.

“Eighteen-eleven,” he said out loud.  “From 2017, that makes two hundred and six years.”  He did not understand.  Why did they have to travel into the past?  Why did they move fifty-plus years at a time?  Was there some significance to those times?  He could only remember the Christmas villages his grandmother used to collect.  He remembered the Yuletide diner from the nineteen-sixties village.  He recalled some of the eighteen-sixties dickens village. London Towne, if he recalled correctly. World War I in the trenches made no connection, however, and eighteen-eleven in the wilderness of Indiana territory with a giant Christmas tree in the middle of nowhere made even less sense.

“Merry,” Chris tried one more time before he got up.  It started getting too cold to continue to sit.  He had to start walking to warm up.  He considered walking the edge of the clearing, to stay where he was, but he decided that would be stupid, and boring.  He opted to pick a direction and see what he could find. He had thought through his movement through the trees in the night, and tried to pick a way that would lead him back to the great tree, but he had little hope that he might choose the right way.

“Merry.” He called now and then as he pushed through the undergrowth and occasionally growled at the thorns and burrs. “Plum.  Roy.” he sometimes added, and sometimes he walked in silence.  He was not sure what sort of Indians inhabited Indiana territory, but it would not be good to run into a hunting party, or worse, a war party of some sort.  One more push, and he came out on a two-rut road, a wagon trail of some sort that vanished quickly among the trees behind him, but cut well through the trees ahead. The snow looked thick on the road, but it would do, if his toes did not freeze off.

“Merry,” he called one more time before he started off down the road.  He hummed and whistled some Christmas songs, to occupy his thoughts, it being Christmas Eve for real, back home.  He remembered it was Sunday, so he changed his humming to his favorite Christmas carols, including O Little Town of Bethlehem, as he climbed a small hill where the trees finally gave out.

On top of the hill, he saw a village up ahead—a small town at the bottom of the hill. It looked to be built mostly of log cabins, though he did see a few slat-wood houses.  He did not see any people there, but he figured about ten o’clock on Sunday, and they all might be in church.  After all, 1811 in pioneer territory, he thought.  He saw a steeple in the distance, and headed for it.

Chris whistled Silent Night as he wound through what looked like a deserted town and came at last to the steps of the church.  He did not hear anything inside or outside the church, and found that curious. He looked up at the great circular stained glass window, but could not make out exactly what it was supposed to depict.  He tried the front door, and found it unlocked.

“At last,” he whispered to himself.  “A church that doesn’t lock its doors on the Sunday before Christmas.”

The church had a small altar with candles burning in front, two steps up, and a single small pulpit, more of a podium off to the side.  It had a center aisle between a mere dozen pews—half-a-dozen on each side.  All were empty except for the very front pew, where a very old man with a long white beard appeared to be praying, with his hands clasped, and his head lowered.

Chris did not want to interrupt, so he looked quietly around the room where there was little to see, and at last, raised his head to look at the circle of stained glass from the inside.  It looked like a clock, with twelve spaces.  He imagined the twelve days of Christmas, but the eleventh and twelfth spaces appeared empty, being plain glass.  The other ten spaces had pictures of people.  He recognized the ten o’clock space being Santa and Missus Claus.  He spun around to look again at the old man in the front pew.  That man lifted his head and began to stand, moaning a little as he had to make his knees work.

“You made it,” the old man said.

“Santa?”

Holiday Journey 18

“This tree is more than two hundred years old,” Plum said, as he walked up from where the cowboys built a fire and got out what they had for supper.  One cowboy kept an eye on the reindeer to make sure they did not wander off into the forest that began a hundred yards off to the right.  The forest looked dark under the storm clouds, like a place even the Christmas lights could not brighten.

“It is tall enough, and bright enough with all the lights,” Merry said.

“It is very Christmas-like,” Chris agreed, but hesitated, before he added, “But something seems to be holding back the joy—the merry and bright—the Christmas Spirit.”

Merry took Chris’ arm and let out a small sound that suggested her heart might have broken.  “Missus Claus passed away a few years ago,” she confessed.  “And Santa has gotten very old.  It is not the same, but we try not to notice.”  She sniffed, and Chris slipped his arm around her to pull her in close.  Chris imagined one of the lights moved.  His mind said the wind, but there was no wind to speak of at the moment, like the calm before the storm.  Before he could look closer, someone called.

“Over here,” Roy’s voice sounded out in the snow.  “Mister Shepherd.  Merry.” Chris and Merry went to see.  Roy and two of the cowboys had gotten the evergreen out of the wagon and stuck it in a hole that Chris had not noticed.  They had spades to cover the roots, and Plum stood there admiring the tree.

“Looks nice,” Chris thought a compliment was in order.  “Looks bigger than I thought.”

“It is as old as you are,” Plum responded.  “It is your tree.”

“My tree?” Chris asked.

Roy nodded, and Plum spoke again.  “You need to touch it to bring it to life.”

“I what?”

“Go on,” Merry said, and held his arm out toward the tree.  “Think of your Christmas tree at home.  Think of both trees, and all the love that went into them.”

Chris hesitated, but trusted Merry. He reached out and touched a branch of the tree, and at once the tree became strung with lights and ornaments.  The lights stayed lit, even though they had no place to plug them in.  The ornaments, he recognized.  His mother loved to decorate, and she kept those ornaments as well as she could through the years.  They looked worn, but lovingly clean, and… yes, he saw the ornaments he bought over the last ten years for his artificial tree. Chris dropped his face into his hands and held back his tears.  He mumbled for Merry.

 “Lilly would love this tree.”

He decided this game had gone on long enough.  He needed to find Lilly.  He needed to know she was all right.  He turned on Merry, took her by her shoulders, and said, “Tell me about Lilly.”

A dark wind blew through the camp.  The wagon shook.  The horses neighed.  The fire flickered, and the cowboy by the cooking pot yelled.

“They are stealing the reindeer.”

“All hands-on deck,” Plum yelled, and people rushed for their horses.

“Stay here,” Merry told Chris.  “You will be safe here, and I promise to tell you everything when I get back.”

Roy came up, trailing Merry’s horse.  She mounted and they rode in the direction the wind had gone, soon disappearing in the darkness beyond the lights of the trees.

Chris did not know what to do.  He sat down by the fire, left alone in the wilderness.  He stood and retrieved a blanket from the wagon and went to sit again, pausing only to assure the two big draught horses that they were not forgotten.  He poked at the beans that were cooking.  He sighed and felt grateful for the light from the tree behind him.  He refused to look at his own, personal tree.  There were too many memories there, and not all happy ones.  He supposed he felt grateful for the light from that tree as well.  Being alone, in the wilderness, at night, in a storm would be spooky, no, it would be frightening in the dark.

It began to snow great flakes of white, and soon, it began to snow hard.  The wind picked up, and Chris found his mind taken by the wind.  He remembered a day he did not want to remember.  Ricky was there.  He looked young.  Mama was there, too, weeping.  It was the day his father got buried.  They were at the graveside.

Chris sniffed.  He hugged his Mama and wept with her.  He tried to hug Ricky, but Ricky did not want to be hugged.  He looked out over the graves, and saw an angel there, in the snow. It did not appear a clear image; just an outline.  But Chris felt comforted.  He knew his father would be all right.  It was the promise of Christmas.

But it did not snow at his father’s funeral.  That happened in the summer.

Chris paused to gather his thoughts.  He looked again, but saw no image of an angel.  He stirred the beans in the pot and tried to wait patiently for the others to return. He looked at the fire and saw something he did not want to see.

He saw Ricky in full battle gear, carefully and quietly climbing the steps to the roof, clutching tight to his rifle.  The village was on fire, but sniper shot continued to come from the roof.  They could not call in air or artillery against innocent civilians.  They could not complete their mission under fire.  He came around a corner in the staircase. He faced a boy—barely a teenager holding an AK-47.  Ricky hesitated to kill a child. Triggers got pulled at the same time.  The boy collapsed.  Ricky got riddled full of bullets.

“No,” Chris yelled and covered his eyes.  He prayed for Ricky.  He prayed for Lilly, and Serissa, whom he never met.  He prayed for that boy, and wept some more.  He wiped his eyes, stirred the beans once, and stood.  It started getting too cold to just sit and wait. He put another log on the fire, and dreaded what was to come.

Chris turned to stare at the big Christmas tree set out in the middle of nowhere.  Indiana Territory, 1812, or actually, 1811, Christmas eve.  He imagined the lights were moving again.  It had to be a trick of the wind, the snowfall, and the ice in the branches.  The moving lights looked hypnotic.  He began to cry before he saw.

He held his mother’s hand when she died.  He wept then.  He wept again in the face of the tree.  He heard a voice then, or perhaps now.  It may have been the nurse.  He always thought it was an angel.

“She is in a better place now.  There is no more pain and no more suffering.”  Poor Chris went out the door to Lilly.  He held her and wept all over the little girl, and she wept with him.  They were all that remained, but at least they had each other. They had each other, Chris thought. He needed to blow his nose, but he heard something that took all of his attention.

“Uncle Chris…”  Chris turned toward the dark woods.  He thought the call came from there.  “Uncle Chris. Help me.”

Chris ran across the field and entered the woods without a second thought.

************************

MONDAY, Tuesday and Wednesday, Christmas Day, the final chapter in A Holiday Journey:  Chris confronts the real Santa Claus, but it does not turn out the way he expects.

Until Then, Happy Reading

*

Holiday Journey 17

When Chris got up in the morning, he found himself dressed in his clothes from home. He recognized the little hole in his jeans and the stain at the bottom of his flannel shirt.  His down jacket was not from 1812, but he assumed the hay and the barn he sat in were, so he figured he did not go home in the night. Besides, back home, Merry would be in her own apartment, and not laying comfortably beside him.

“So, this has not all been just a dream,” he mumbled.

“Like a dream come true,” Merry whispered before she opened her eyes and said, “Good morning.”

Chris leaned over and gave her a small peck on her lips before he said, “Morning. Plum said Lilly was in this place. Stick close, I have a feeling things may get weird before we get there…weirder.”

Plum came from the fire.  “We got bacon, eggs, and whiskey soaked beans for breakfast,” he said, and let out a big smile.  “We got a long way to go to reach the tree, so eat up.”

“Weirder,” Chris repeated.

Merry took him by the arm.  “I have no intention of leaving your side.  Not ever, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Chris said, and let out a little smile.  “But you could wait until I ask.”

“Yes…” Merry said, and added, “Just practicing.”

Chris nodded, dropped her arm, and got a plate of breakfast.  Roy found some real coffee, and Chris blessed him before he thought to put Plum on the spot.

“She is still in this time zone, near as I can tell,” Plum said.

“Near as you can tell?”

“She is. She certainly is.  I would know if she was not in this zone.  The thing is, she is at the far end, and she might slip away at any time.  That is a long way to go.  We should get moving.”  Plum did not want to say any more.  He appeared afraid of once again saying too much.  Chris did not push the issue, as long as they had a chance of catching up with Lilly by nightfall.

Merry came up, riding on the back of a horse.  She looked like she knew what she was doing, while Chris never rode a horse before.  Chris quickly looked around.  He figured he might manage a motorcycle, but he felt unsure about going on horseback. Fortunately, Roy got his attention and pointed.  They had a wagon pulled by two of the largest horses Chris ever imagined.  A mount appeared tied to the back of the wagon. Chris assumed that was Roy’s horse, in case he needed it.  He took a deep breath and climbed aboard, and slid down to let Roy get up.

Chris looked in the back of the wagon, and along with all of his things—their things, he saw plenty of blankets, pots and pans, and another bag of beans beside a slab of bacon.  He shrugged. He imagined there were not many options for food they could carry across country.  The curious thing was the evergreen.  They carried a young tree, its roots tied up neatly in burlap.  Chris wondered what it might be for, when Roy shouted, and the horses began to strain.  The wagon jerked, before it settled into a slowly increasing pace.  Chris figured they would never go fast.  He imagined most of the day would be spent going across country.  Still, he would not have minded a seatbelt, and maybe a cushion for his seat.

Chris noticed they picked up a few fellow travelers.  Three men on horseback drove a dozen cows into the wilderness.  He looked close.  One looked like the German officer from the World War One time period. The other two looked like the British soldiers that followed him out of the trench; though one might have been the sergeant.  Chris shook his head.  No matter what they looked like, he imagined they were Christmas elves of some kind. No doubt there to give some colorful backdrop to his journey.

Chris turned to Roy, who seemed to concentrate wholly on driving the team of horses.  He felt glad Plum did not drive the rig.  Plum would have talked his ear off all day and not said anything worth hearing. Roy, by contrast, seemed a man of few words.  Chris feared it might be hard to get the man to talk at all.

“So, where exactly are we headed?” Chris asked.

“The Clausen Christmas tree,” Roy answered readily enough.

“Clausen? Santa Claus?”

“Clausen,” Roy nodded.  “Old Dutch family out of New York.  They first settled in New Amsterdam around 1660.  They remembered Sinterklaas, though Kris Kringle carried the Spirit of Christmas in those days.  Since 1600, I believe.  I was rather young at the time.”

Chris had to think about that before he asked, “What happened?”

“After the French and Indian War, when things settled down on the frontier, the family emigrated to Pennsylvania.  Then came the Revolutionary War, and in 1811, when it looked like another war on the horizon, Mister and Missus Clausen emigrated down into Indiana Territory. They thought to escape the war. They did not count on all the trouble with the Shawnee Confederation.”

Chris shook his head.  “Why can’t people live in peace?”

Roy shrugged.  “The Clausens went west, and on Christmas eve, 1811, they ran into a massive snow storm. That should happen tonight…” Roy shrugged again.

Chris asked no more.  He did not dare.  He got down when they stopped for lunch, and tried to smile for Merry while he rubbed his sore bottom.  Merry, at least, appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself.

“You could ride with me,” she offered, but Chris shook his head.  He would only get hurt trying to ride a horse.

“You enjoy yourself,” he said.  “Just say a prayer for my bruised backside.”

“Oh, poor baby,” she said, honestly enough.  She returned his kiss from earlier before she let go and got them some lunch.

Chris spent the afternoon looking for the Clausen Christmas tree, not having the least idea what that might look like.  The temperature dropped, and he saw the clouds pull in overhead.  Then he saw something that surprised him for all of a second.  He decided he really should not have been surprised.  The cattle being driven by the three cowboys were not cattle at all. They were reindeer, and Chris wondered why there were twelve and not eight, and they did not look too tiny.

Chris looked at Roy and saw the slightest grin on Roy’s face.  “You should see the tree soon, if the clouds give a break,” Roy said.  “No sunset tonight behind the clouds, but the tree should brighten things up nice until the snow starts to get thick.”

Chris nodded.  Nothing should surprise him at this point.  He was going to find Lilly, safe in the hands of Santa Claus—Clausen.  He fell madly in love with an elf—a Christmas elf. And there were three elf cowboys presently herding a dozen reindeer.  “Seven of us,” he said to Roy.  “There are seven of us on this journey.”  Roy nodded, and Chris continued.  “The magnificent seven,” he said, and squinted.  There appeared to be a light in the distance.  He expected it would be the most magnificent Christmas tree ever, and somehow, he knew he would not be disappointed.

 

Cue: O Christmas Tree

A Holiday Journey, The London Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Don Jackson.  Ó℗CD Guy Music Inc., 2001

 

When Chris got down from the wagon and stretched his back, Merry dismounted and ran to him.  She threw her arms around him and spouted, “It is beautiful.  It is so beautiful.”  The tree certainly was, with all the lights and ornaments up to the star and angel on the very top.  Chris could not exactly see the top from where he stood, being up close, but that did not matter.  He looked at Merry, and thought she was beautiful.