On Writing About Christmas

December 11, 2007 by maureen.ulrich.

I was asked by Laurie Sokel at the Estevan Public Library to do a reading for their December coffee house. The theme is A Spooky Christmas. So, here goes — the first installment of a little serial on that theme. No idea what I’ll call it yet. If you have a suggestion, let me know.

The child walks alone along the windswept city street, the night air closing around him like wolves’ teeth. It is nearly midnight, and it is Christmas Eve.

In the doorway of a fast food restaurant, a ragged woman huddles on top of a tattered sleeping bag, her possessions arranged about her. A sad-faced grey mutt blinks at the child from beneath a dirty plaid blanket, frost clinging to his wiry whiskers and eyelashes. The child pauses before the woman, who sings in a raspy voice, “Please have mercy” while she rhythmically sways and coughs.

She suddenly stops singing and asserts, “The Spirit led you here.”

The child smiles and touches her lightly on the temple. The woman sighs, and her cracked, blue lips begin to mouth the words of a once-forgotten carol.

The stars peer down in curiosity. The clock in the church steeple ticks. The wind stills, and snow begins placidly to fall.

On the street corner a tall man in a pinstriped suit waits. The feathery flakes melt the instant they touch his flawless grey fedora. A light mist rises from a puddle on the sidewalk beneath his polished leather shoes, and the faint odour of brimstone whiffs from between the folds of his perfectly tailored camel hair coat.

“I’ll bet you haven’t eaten for days.” The man’s voice is glassy smooth. “Let me buy you a meal.”

The child stares about at the assortment of pizza joints and fast food restaurants, all of which are closed. After all, it is Christmas Eve.

“Say the word,” the man says. “Any one of them will open its doors for you.”

The child shrugs his thin shoulders. “There’s nothing here to satisfy hunger,” he replies.

The child continues down the street, his bare feet scarcely touching the cold, hard cement. The snow gathers in drifts along the curb and atop the window ledges.

The man hurries after the child, the tails of his camel hair coat floating behind him. He quickly overtakes him.

When they draw near the entrance of a high-rise apartment, the well-dressed stranger speaks to the doorman, who steps aside with a flourish of his white-gloved hand. He bows deeply as the child enters the deserted lobby.

“Let me show you a spectacular view,” the man says as they cross the marble floor to stand before a bank of high speed elevators. “You’ll see the city as you’ve never seen it.”

The elevator whisks them to the penthouse suite, a miracle of modern living – all polished mirrors and glass and hardwood and stainless steel. The man hastens the child towards the stone balcony, where the night vista stretches before them. Smoke hangs in billows above a field of skyscrapers. Specks of snow arch down while neon lights wink in green and blue and red Morris code. The distant cacophony of traffic drifts upwards.

All this the child views in silence.

“It’s time for a reality check,” the man says. “Consider the sources of power. Wealth. Technology. Influence. That power can be yours if you but acknowledge the truth of which I speak.”

“What is truth anyway?” the child asks.

In disgust the man tosses the question aside. “Humanity worships only what it creates.”

The child ponders the man’s words for a moment. “Creation is a gift to humanity, and every so often, humanity recalls who gave it.”

The man stammers and sputters while in a heartbeat, the child glides down to street level and makes his way towards the tall, dark church at the end of the block .

An old man in a threadbare parka huddles on the steps of the church.

“Got some spare change?” he pleads.

The child takes the old man gently by the hand and leads him inside the church. The warm mustiness envelopes both of them like a woolen shawl. A few worshippers kneel and pray between the rows of empty wooden pews. A cleric moves wordlessly about the altar, lighting the advent candles.

The child reaches into a pew and hands the man a dusty, leather-bound volume.

“Here’s food for your soul,” he whispers.

The old man clutches the Bible against his chest and mumbles a prayer.

A hot breeze assaults the candles, and suddenly the man in the camel-hair coat is there.

“Come with me,” he hisses to the child. “There’s one last thing you need to see.”

The cleric looks up in alarm at the sound of the man’s voice. The worshippers stir uneasily.

The child sighs. “Very well,” he says.

They climb a winding staircase to the bell tower. The man leans over the parapet and points through the swirling snow at the ground far below.

“If you were to throw yourself off, you would not die,” he murmurs. “You are young. Your future lies before you. Nothing can harm you.”

The child looks down at the harsh stones of the frozen street.

“Pride can,” he says after a while. “And selfishness and apathy. But most certainly nothing of your devising can.”

The man fusses and fumes. He stamps and stomps and whirls out of the church in a fury.

As the child descends to the street, the snow stops falling and a peaceful calm settles upon the city. The church bells began to chime the midnight hour. One.

Two teenage girls are just leaving the church. The halo of their long, blonde hair gleams in the lamplight as the sweet vapour of their laughter rises upwards. Two.

“Oh, look,” one of them breathes. “He’s got no shoes. Can we help you, little man?”
Three.

The child smiles. “We can all use a little help.”

Four.

The other girl says, “Come with us. We’ll take care of you.”

Five.

She bends down and takes his bare left foot between her palms, intending to slip it inside one of her soft, woolen mittens. Six. She recoils in horror at the gaping wound in the sole.

Seven.

“Who did this to you?” she gasps.

The child smiles and places a warm little hand on her head. Eight.

“I did,” he says. “Don’t you remember?” Nine.

“Yes,” she says. “I do remember.”

“And so do I,” says the other girl. Ten.

He takes the girls’ hands and walks between them across the quiet street. Eleven.

A gentle gust feathers the snow across the footprints left by a pair of warm, bare feet.

Twelve.
At long last, it’s Christmas.

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