Billy Christmas

by Mark A. Pritchard

  His mother turned her head towards him a fraction. “Do you see, Billy?”

  Not knowing quite what to say he simply rested his own head on her shoulder, letting more weight fall on her than he had intended.

  “I’d forgotten about this picture. But you see why he could have sent him? As a message?”

  “Anything’s possible, Mum.”

  His mother tilted her own head back. “You’re certain that Saul had to go?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  His mother let out a sigh, put a hand up on Billy’s head, then stood slowly and left the room, taking the photo with her. Alone again, he looked at the collection of old photos for a few moments, but it was less enjoyable on his own. He sorted them by colour and returned them to the shoeboxes before locking the house and taking himself to bed.

  December 22nd

  HE WAS RUNNING, SPRINTING OVER ice again. Looking ahead, he saw his father still there, just out of reach, unable to answer his calls, making eye contact then slipping further away. He could make out an arm around his father’s waist; it was made of stone. Billy dropped to his knees and made progress by slamming the knuckleduster into the frozen water and hauling himself forwards. But he was too late, his father was being taken beneath the ice, and just as Billy made it to the edge, there was no ice, only earth…

  * * *

  He woke uncomfortably, his arm being shaken by the Tree. “You were having a bad dream.”

  Blinking, Billy tried to assess his surroundings. He was already downstairs, stretched out on the couch, but how did he get there?

  The Tree sounded faint and far away. “You sleepwalk, Billy.”

  Well that wasn’t news. A number of times, he’d woken up in the airing cupboard, once or twice in the car. Normally, his father had simply turned him around and sent him back to bed. It had been another good reason to keep his bedroom door shut.

  “All those we meet walk in their sleep from time to time. It’s preparation.”

  The Tree still sounded strange, its voice arriving in shards. Billy felt he must still be half asleep. He stood and stretched, trying to shake himself awake. He turned back to the Tree; something still wasn’t quite right about it. As the Tree turned in its bucket, Billy let out a low moan of horror. Almost half the branches were missing or burnt. The Tree looked as if someone had set upon it with a blowtorch.

  There were peeled strips of bark from the main trunk where branches had been torn, exposing bare wood beneath. The ends of the branches that were left were covered in ash—the remains of torched needles. If this had been an ordinary Tree, Billy would have felt sorry for it; knowing it was far from ordinary, he was wracked with the pain he imagined it felt. The Tree groaned slightly as it tried to rise from the bucket, then overbalanced and fell into the room. Billy was there just in time to prevent a hard landing. He caught the candle before it fell and placed it on the mantelpiece.

  “What happened? Was it the Gargoyle? I thought it couldn’t get into the house.”

  “I wasn’t in the house today.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “It’s difficult to say,” said the Tree, as if it had no air to speak with. “How did you get on?”

  “Enough of that. It’s done,” said Billy. “What can I do to help you?”

  The Tree paused, struggling to get up, and then fell back with a groan. “You better go and get that axe.”

  Billy hesitated.

  “Do you want to help or not?”

  He was upstairs and back down as fast as he dared, knowing that if he slipped on the stair the axe could easily gobble a foot. The Tree had managed to turn and was now leaning against the red chair, clearly desperately ill.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Whittle, Billy. This ash is from magic and rather poisonous. You must take all of it off, even if it means losing branches. Do you know what whittle means?”

  Billy was pretty sure it meant holding the blade at an angle and taking small cuts or slices, but that would be tricky to do with the huge blade. “I think so.”

  “That’s very encouraging. Please start.”

  “Won’t it hurt you?”

  “There’s no choice about this,” said the Tree. “For either of us, actually.”

  Leaning into the Tree, Billy grasped the axe close to the blade with both hands, trying to control its angle as much as possible. The axe had cleaved a gatepost the other night, he was fairly certain it would simply fall through the slender trunk of the Tree. Working from the top, he cut away the blackened bark, praying the Tree would not flinch. “Say something, would you?” Billy’s hands were shaking from the focussed effort.

  “What?”

  “Distract me,” said Billy. “It’s in both our interests.”

  The Tree moved its eye and mouth above the burned area, and looked at Billy. “If you’re sure it will help.”

  Billy nodded back. He was feeling nervous and so that much more apt to make mistakes.

  “Well, I can tell you about my day, I suppose,” said the Tree, looking up at the ceiling, and away from the axe. “I had been having a nice chat with your father, and… OW!”

  Billy had nicked a perfectly good branch in surprise. “Sorry! But you spoke to my father?”

  The Tree looked back at him with a degree of concern. “You said talking would help.”

  “It will, please go on,” said Billy, returning to his work.

  “Well, as I said, I was spending the day reminding him, well reminding part of him—the same part that you lose when you daydream, or that walks you when you sleep—about you, actually.”

  Billy marvelled at this news. The Tree had spoken to his father. He was definitely alive, somewhere.

  “Still quite lost, though very moved when it came to you. As though it were a big hole in front of him, which he’d been stepping into all the time, but unable to see or recognise,” said the Tree. “Then we were interrupted. It found us.”

  Billy tried hard to focus on his task. “Where were you?”

  “Between,” said the Tree. “Yes, I think it is best described as between. It is hard to find people when they are between. Your enemy has some skill.”

  “My enemy: just what is it?”

  “I think a better question is: what does it want? I know it of old, of old rumour that is, but my mind wanders so far these days that I forget where I have placed some older memories. I hope…”

  Billy looked up in concern at the silence. “You hope?”

  “I hope I haven’t kept the memory in any of the branches that were lost,” said the Tree. “That would be unfortunate.”

  Catastrophic was probably closer to the truth, Billy thought, turning back to the task. He still hadn’t worked out the Gargoyle’s part in this strange battle, but he feared pressing the Tree might make the answer harder to find. He’d now cleared about a third of the blackened branches, but so far it had been the easier ones.

  “I do remember a legend amongst our kind, that the last of us would face a terrific foe,” said the Tree. It seemed to sound better now some of the burnt bark was removed. “I put up a good fight though, I think you’d have been proud.”

  Smiling and a little surprised at this, Billy looked up at the branched face. “You didn’t happen to take the other arm off, did you?”

  “Well no, I…” the Tree paused, looking at Billy as he worked the heavy blade. “That was you?”

  “It was.”

  “Well, that is encouraging. Perhaps we’re not finished after all.”

  He looked up at the Tree. “We’re not finished? What do you mean?”

  The Tree groaned and started to shake; he hadn’t worked fast enough. Taking the axe in one hand, he ran the edge more firmly down the entire length of the trunk. A roll of bark, like spooned butter, curled up before his eyes. Now able to see an entire length of the Trunk without bark, there was a clear line where black sap was rising and, Billy presumed, killing the Tree. Looking closer,
he felt certain of this: as the black sap rose, it was splitting and bloating the wood. His mind sent out panicked messages. If the Tree died, so did his chances of recovering his father.

  With his hands shaking, he brought the axe down hard at a point six inches above the line of sap. The blade fell easily through the trunk and buried itself into the floor. The black line continued to rise in the four feet of trunk that Billy had severed, fizzing as it spat though the fresh cut. The foul fumes which came off brought back an instant memory for him: the breath of the Gargoyle. He wished he’d managed to punch it in the neck rather than the arm.

  Where the sap boiled out of the cut, it fell and put holes like cigarette burns in the carpet. Billy picked up the rancid section by a branch and took it to the fireplace. With the axe, he fed the spoiled wood to the fire. Almost at once, more smoke arrived than the chimney could cope with. Coughing, Billy dropped the axe and grabbed the top six feet of the Tree. He ran into the hall, slamming the door behind him. Resting the Tree on the stair, he turned it around, looking for a face, but was unable to find one. A terrible thought hit him. Had he killed the Tree?

  “Hello? I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what to do.”

  It was always horrible talking to the Tree when it was inert, it felt ridiculous, but this was different and much more frightening. He thought fast and took the Tree upstairs.

  A few minutes later, he was sitting in the bath as the shower poured down over them both. Kneeling forward, he fought to fit the plug. He was sure that to survive the Tree must drink. Now soaking wet, Billy jumped out of the bath and dashed back downstairs to the kitchen, where he found the strange yellow bottle that contained plant food. Back in the bathroom, Billy squeezed half the bottle in, then the other half for good measure. He climbed back in the bath and sat down, still in his pyjamas. In their house, it was impossible to get anything other than lukewarm water from the cold tap. He just hoped that lukewarm wouldn’t be too warm for the ailing Tree.

  When the bath water was a foot deep, he turned off the shower and surveyed the room. The place was soaked, worse than if he’d attempted to give Saul a bath. Billy felt exhausted, too exhausted to withstand the blow of the Tree dying. He stood and listened to the water dripping from the Tree’s branches. It was over ten minutes before he noticed that the water was now only ankle deep.

  “Thank you, Billy,” said the Tree, sounding exhausted but much stronger.

  “You’re alive!”

  The Tree branched a weary smile. “For a few days yet, thanks to you.”

  * * *

  Following instructions, Billy grabbed the Tree’s bucket and headed out into the front garden, past the pear tree with the gate, to the ashes of the fence. Here he filled the bucket with the damp ashes before heading back inside. The Tree was in the living room surveying the embers of its carcass.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Billy.

  “Oh don’t be, I’m more than happy not to be dead,” said the Tree. “Did the velvet sack make it?”

  “Covered in black sap, I’m afraid I put it on the fire.”

  “Good lad. No use once poisoned.”

  Billy rubbed handfuls of ash into the open areas as the Tree had described.

  A contented face observed Billy. “There are some centuries when I would gladly swap all the ancient magic on Earth for the wonder of a pair of hands.”

  “Except nothing that these hands do can ever bring my dad back,” said Billy, leaving the remaining ashes in the bucket for the Tree to bed into later.

  “Well, that is both true and not true,” said the Tree. “How could you complete the tasks without your hands?”

  He looked down at his hands. His oversized paws had joined in his year of crazy growth. Until this point, he’d regarded them as unwitting aids in his general clumsiness. Now that they had seen him through most of the tasks, and had rescued the Tree, he viewed them with a touch more pride. They were becoming tools.

  The Tree wound the surviving lights around itself, taking care not to disturb the precious decorations. Billy looked at the room and realised that the carpet looked terrible. This was the second time the axe had been through it, and now large burns meant he’d have to pull it up. The room still stank of Gargoyle breath, and Billy presumed the smoke that had filled it was to blame. It was going to be impossible to keep this from his mother.

  “Perhaps we don’t have to worry her about this,” said the Tree, reading his thoughts. “Why don’t you pick up the axe?”

  Billy’s brow furrowed as he stooped for the axe. Of course she was going to see this; she was depressed, not blind. As he stood back up, he knew the Tree was working again, the room was full of static charge raising the hairs on his arms.

  “I think you’d better step outside of the room for a moment.”

  He took the Tree’s advice and went to the stairs, laying the axe on the bottom step. Back in the living room there was a faint hiss, and Billy turned to see that every dust particle in the room was being drawn into a gathering whirlwind. Even the sap was coaxed out of the rug. Billy’s clothes were still soaking wet, but before his eyes he saw a faint mist being drawn from him, all the moisture joining the weather in the living room. As the mist met the twister, tiny internal lightning bolts flew up from the carpet, crackling fiercely. Now quite dry, Billy felt the dust being drawn from his father’s study and the staircase whip past him like sand from a windy beach. Just as slightly heavier material was threatening to join the mêlée, the twister began to move, its footprint snaking across the carpet until it reached the fireplace, and shot up the chimney, dragging the fetid embers with it.

  Billy walked back into the room, relieved at the hours of work and explanation he’d been spared in a matter of seconds. The carpet looked as if it had been laid that morning, and the room sparkled and smelled of nothing but fresh pine.

  “We’d better keep you from Mr. Dyson,” Billy said. “He’d want to know where your bags were.”

  “I haven’t packed anything,” said the Tree. “Merely sent it beyond oblivion.”

  “I see,” said Billy, not wishing to explain himself. “My mistake, but thank you. That was a lot of cleaning you spared me.”

  “I fear this is not nearly enough to repay you. Never in my whole history has a child, I mean a young man, saved me. Thank you, Billy.”

  Billy dropped his gaze. Compliments from the Tree were a rare thing.

  The Tree hopped away from him. “Let’s see if this works, shall we?”

  At once green light poured from the branches, brighter than it had ever done before, making the Tree cry out in surprise. Its needles crackled and stood out taut; it began to unfurl new branches. Again Billy felt the static ripple over him, sending shivers down his spine. Beyond doubt, the Tree was back. Bowing forwards, Billy met the branch, which handed him the mistletoe.

  “Quickly Billy,” said the Tree. “Put it back in its pouch.”

  Looking about the room, Billy saw the pile of velvet pouches sitting on the windowsill. The mistletoe had started to writhe in his hand almost immediately, although it didn’t seem to be growing. He pulled the nearest pouch open and popped it in, closing the drawstring tightly. Once inside, the mistletoe continued to wriggle about, as if he’d captured a mouse.

  “From here on in, it will be harder to keep the tasks from those uninvolved,” said the Tree, hopping back into its bucket. “Try to keep focussed on each task, and remember at all times, this is about faith.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?”

  The Tree threw Billy a strange look. “People tend to use them to get kisses at Christmas, but you have completed that challenge already.”

  Billy tried not to blush.

  “Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Given a chance, this piece will multiply considerably. Take it within the boundaries of the park, but on no account let any spread beyond.”

  With that, Billy was left alone in the spotless living room, with the animated pouch hopping about with i
ncreasing impatience. Tying the neck as firmly as he thought possible, he slipped it into his dressing gown pocket and headed up to bed.

  * * *

  t was an odd feeling to wake up knowing he was meant to be at school, and knowing he wasn’t going to be. Unwelcome until next term. Billy sat in the upstairs window seat above the front door, still in his dressing gown, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katherine. He was kicking himself about letting the landline, the house phone, go unpaid. It had proved a blessing at first—no more earnest journalists and no more false alarms from the police. The last call from the police had been for his mother, who had been taken to the mortuary at High Wycombe General Hospital to see an unidentified body. This had been the second such occasion, and Billy thought it was this which burst her remaining hope; he thought perhaps the last body had looked a lot like his father. But now, with no working phone, he had no way to check how Katherine was doing, so he kept his eyes fixed on the end of the road.

  He had not slept well. The mistletoe had fidgeted under his pillow until he had thrown it to the far corner of the room. He then thought he could hear it creeping about on the carpet. Getting up he found it on the landing, where it had snaked an arm around one of the bare wooden banisters and was busy fixing a strong grip. The mistletoe had proved to be as parasitic as the Tree had described; splinters of wood from the banister came away with the greedy plant as Billy prised it off. He tightened the drawstring, and put it in a plastic bag for good measure, then hung it from one of his bedposts. It had then rustled in irritation at this treatment throughout the remainder of the night. But at least this way Billy knew where it was.

  With bleary eyes, Billy saw the children from his end of the lane make their way out and towards school. They were happy, and with good reason; this close to Christmas, there was no risk of them having to do any schoolwork. Gradually, the flurry of activity trickled away. Billy hit the window ledge in frustrated realisation. The General would have given Katherine a lift. After all, her bike had been wrecked on Friday night. The remains were in his shed, next to his mother’s bike. Perhaps, given that they were now leaving, she would have been kept home anyway, as there would be a great deal to pack up.