by Hank Davis
“So are you, soon enough, so don’t put on airs just because you’re still breathing them. All flesh is grass, though in your case I’d call it cabbage.” She thrust her hands deep into the sleeves of her habit and glared at him.
Thorvald was not what most people would call a quick study, but on occasion his neglected higher processes came through, such as when it was time to divide plunder or show a perfidious swordsmith that he’d tried to pass off substandard work on the wrong Viking. He had heard conflicting reports as to the powers of ghosts. Some said that they were incapable of physically affecting the living, beyond rendering certain pieces of real estate unsalable to high-strung potential buyers. Some said that, on the contrary, ghosts could not only achieve physical contact with the living, but contact of the sort that caused bruises, bleeding, and more permanent damage. Perhaps it was their little way of meeting recruitment goals.
On the evidence of his brine-soaked head and bruised ribs, Thorvald determined that this spectre was of the latter type and determined to treat her accordingly.
“What do you want me to do so you won’t hurt me any more?”
The abbess harrumphed. “You’re a blunt thing. Perhaps that’s all to the good. Hark, barbarian! Before I can say fully what I require of you, I’d best inform your ignorance, may God give me the strength to do so. Some two hundred years ago, this abbey was the site of the Synod of Streaneshalch at which it was determined that the Church of Angle-land would leave the Celtic rites and submit wholeheartedly to the rulings of Rome. It was my honor to both host and attend this Synod, and to hear the compelling arguments of— Stay awake when I’m talking to you, you toad!”
She followed up her admonition with a solid thwack to Thorvald’s nodding head, a feat all the more miraculous not only for the strength and heft of her phantom hand but for the fact that she was seated well out of arm’s-reach. He snapped to attention.
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered. Then, slyly: “Maybe the reason I’m having such trouble harking and all that is ‘coz I’m no Christian. There’s a still a few of ‘em left, down in the town. Why don’t I go fetch old man Aethelbert for you? Drunk or sober, I bet he’d hark better’n me.”
Hilda’s ghost said nothing. Her expression said all.
“Well, it was only a suggestion. No need to get your beads in a bunch,” said Thorvald (who actually did know something of the practices of Christians from drinking with old man Aethelbert). “Talk about putting on airs, what kind of a real Christian hits a poor crippled man when he’s helpless, eh?” He waved his pegleg at her.
Hilda curled her lip in distaste at Thorvald’s dubiously adorned extremity. “I apologize,” she said in a tone whose sincerity left much room for skeptical debate.
“That’s not the way it goes,” Thorvald countered, sly again. “I know; I heard. You’re not supposed to hit a fellow in the face unless you let him hit you in the face, too!”
“Your grasp of the dram is firmer than your grasp of the doctrine,” Hilda replied coolly. “What we are taught is that if anyone strikes a Christian on the cheek, he should offer up his other cheek as well. Hitting others is perfectly all right, if done to some worthy purpose.”
“Oh.” Thorvald was crestfallen. A horrid doubt seized him. Cradling his own recently-injured cheek, he asked, “Here, this doesn’t mean you’ve made me a Christian, does it? Without my leave?” He eyed the water-bucket askance. If he knew about rosary beads he certainly knew about baptism as well.
“You should be so lucky,” said Hilda. “Very few men receive the Faith at the hands of a saint, you know. Not in these times.”
“You’re a saint?” He’d heard about those, too. In fact, he rather enjoyed hearing about them, especially the ones with Martyr after their names. Thorvald never fell asleep during those stories. “How’d they kill you, all at once or by bits?” He hugged himself in gleeful anticipation.
Abbess Hilda rolled her ghostly eyes. “I misspoke: I dwell where all Knowledge dwells, and so I often jump the gun—There, I’ve done it again. What I meant to say is that I will be made a saint a scant four hundred years from now. However, I feel that is no excuse to slack off in the meantime. Of what profit is my sainthood if the very spot whence I took my first Heavenward step has tumbled back into the mire of ungodliness? I can not rest idle in eternal bliss, knowing that my beloved Streaneshalch is—Asleep again? That does it!”
This time Thorvald’s wake-up call took the form of the empty Wolf Repellent jug. He gasped, groaned, spit out one of his seven remaining teeth, and swore he’d only closed his eyes the better to concentrate. For a miracle—perhaps one of Hilda’s own—he went on to prove that he had been paying attention by saying: “So the reason you’re in a snit is the Christian shortage hereabouts? Well, what did you expect? When Hvitis and me came through here with the Great Army, it rather took its toll, and those folks what were left afterwards—them as didn’t lose their lands or just run for their lives on the spur of the moment—didn’t really see the point of keeping up with religion and all that. Some said that if Christianity’d been doing its job, then how’d us Danes take everything in a walkover?”
“O weak of spirit!” Hilda said bitterly.
“Nah, just simple folk who saw which way the wind blew. That, and they didn’t much care for what happened after, how the odd leftover monk’d come knocking at their doors. always at suppertime, begging for money to rebuild. Bother a man while he’s eating and then can’t even take the trouble to pronounce his name right, I ask you!”
“Never mind,” said Hilda. “I’m sure you’ll do a much better job of it.”
“What? Me? Now just a—!”
“Oh, stop whinging,” the abbess commanded, and Thorvald was cut off in mid-whinge. “It’s not as though I’m asking you to be a Christian. I just want you to use your considerable strength of . . . persuasion to remind the good people of Streaneshalch of their true religious heritage.”
“Hunh!” Thorvald snorted. “And what’ll it take to convince you I’ve done my job? Would you be happy if I got, say this many folks up here to tell you they’re Christians again?” He held up the fingers of both hands. “Or this many?” He flashed the hands twice, then a third time to show willing. “Or is it going to take my getting your whole bloody abbey rebuilt? Because if that’s it, I can save us both the time by jumping off the cliffs right now: It’s not going to happen.”
“You will do no such thing!” Hilda informed him. “To take your own life is a grievous sin.”
“To die in bed’s the greatest sin I can think of,” said Thorvald. “But that’s all I’ve got to look forward to.”
Now it was Hilda’s turn to look sly. “Thorvald, dear,” she wheedled. “What would you say if I promised to restore your lost leg?”
“I’d say you were full of shit,” the former Viking replied in a matter-of-fact manner. He got another thwack for that, but thought it was worth it.
“Listen to me, you jackass: I’m a saint, or will be. I’ve already performed miracles. I saved the region’s entire crop by banishing flocks of ravenous birds that would have despoiled the harvest.”
“No miracle, bird-scaring; not with that face,” Thorvald muttered. “Ow,” he added, as he learned about the keenness of saints’ ears.
“Another time—” Hilda spoke on through clenched teeth. “Another time our land was bedeviled by a plague of serpents, but by the grace of God I was able to cast them all into the sea where they turned to stone. You can still see their bodies on the strand, if you don’t believe me.”
“I can see a lot of things,” said Thorvald. “That doesn’t mean you put ‘em there. But I’ll tell you what, give me back my leg and I’ll give you anything you ask for: A pile of bodies, a pile of Christians, a pile of stones built up into a new abbey, anything. This wooden leg’s the only thing that’s holding me back from a man’s real work. All I want is the chance to go back on viking and die as a man should die, one sword in my hand and another i
n my skull, because that’s what it’ll take to do the job!”
Abbess Hilda heard him out, understood that he was serious, and turned her gaze upward. “O Lord, You granted a vision of your Glory to the ignorant shepherd Caedmon while he slept, and he awoke to share that gift of holy poetry with Thy servants. Indeed, because it was Thy will that he at last seek the shelter of this very abbey under my rule, I somehow came to believe that it was possible to turn any sleeping man into a vessel for Thy service. Forgive a foolish woman for her misapprehension, and for ever having dared to hope that our earthly trials end at the grave. Seriously, You try talking some sense into this one; I give up.”
To Thorvald she said: “If you are typical of the sort of person who’ll be settling down in Angle-land, I am tempted to give you back your leg here and now, unconditionally, if only to get rid of you before it’s too late. Go find some corner of a foreign field to wreak your uninvited havoc. If you really cared about fighting as much as you claim you do, a little thing like a chopped-off leg wouldn’t hold you back. But no: Moaning and groaning about how keen you are to be off to the slaughter if only you could, wah, wah, wah! You sound just like a general. Well, whose lead did you follow to these shores, eh? Ivar the Boneless! Poor man couldn’t stand on his own two feet, but did that stop him? Did that even slow him down? No! It was hoi-hoop-hopla, up onto a shield and off he went, carried into the thick of battle! Not that I am endorsing warfare per se, but one does have to admire the fellow’s spunk.
“You know, all I was going to ask you for, in exchange for your leg, was one last Christmas service here, at the old abbey, or what’s left of it. Oh, how I did love Christmas! It gave one such a sense of hope for seeing the end of winter’s icy grip on the land and on the spirit. We’d sing, and our cooks would make a special dish or two to honor the birth of Our Lord, and the halls would be fragrant with the scent of evergreens. Sometimes one of the older sisters would bring in bunches of holly and ivy and mistletoe, with such a dear, mysterious smile on her lips that we quite believed she was guarding some precious secret. And what harm did it do to let the poor old thing have her way?”
Here Hilda sighed. “Christmas. Even after I was dead, I’d lean down from the very gates of Heaven to catch a thread of song or a whiff of smoke from the great log burning on the abbey hearth. If I could only have some hint of that sweet holy day celebrated here again, I’d give you two new legs. No, why stop there? I’d turn you into a centipede! But I’d best face facts: I’d have better luck preaching to that lump of stone under your rump than to that lump of stone atop your neck. Go.” She waved a watery hand weakly. “Go back to your guzzling and your groaning and your give-up-and-die attitude. But go quickly. Here.”
And with another wave of her hand, Thorvald’s artificial leg vanished like a blown candle flame, instantly replaced by a limb of flesh and blood and good, strong sinew. His specially cut breeches didn’t shield it from the cold, nor had the saint-to-be provided him with a new shoe, but Thorvald didn’t care. He goggled at the miracle, let out a whoop, seized Hilda by the shoulders and whisked the ghost around the ruins in a dance of joy that lasted until he stubbed his restored toes against a slab of broken abbey.
When he was done cursing, he caught his breath and asked, “Why’d you do that for me? I never yet gave my word to do anything for you.”
“Perhaps I wanted you to see that there can be more to Christianity than target practice,” Hilda replied. “Or call it an early Christmas present.” She shook her head sadly. “To think I sat here, bargaining like a fishmonger for my Faith. It’s a good thing that I’m centuries away from full sainthood; I’ve still got a lot to learn. Now go, Thorvald, and if anyone asks you where you got that brand new leg, just give them a thump in the head for being nosey. I’d really rather you kept my name out of it, if at all possible. God be with you and good night.”
With that, the abbess’ ghost was gone.
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Morning Edition) notes the year of Abbess Hilda’s passing, likewise the incursions of the Danes, but an event of equal magnitude was not deemed noteworthy by that venerable record. That a one-legged man might return to his friends—all right, to his friend—restored in body was a miracle overlooked. It happens. The world is full of wonders, some of which are bound to slip between the cracks.
However, that this selfsame man—once feared, once contented to give his fellow men the reciprocal wide berth they preferred to give him—should suddenly take to seeking out his Saxon countrymen, tirelessly urging them to return to the Faith of their fathers, was considered by all to be a local phenomenon. If that were not enough, at the same time he was doing all within his power to encourage his Danish shield-brethren to give this Christianity thing a bit of a chance, no, really, it’s not half so bad once you get used to it. This was accounted a prodigy.
The crowning marvel was, in the words of Hvitis the Eloquent, this: “It’s not just that Thorvald’s grown himself a fresh leg. His mother mated with a troll, so who knows? She might’ve had some on the side with a starfish. Never question a lady. And it’s not just that he’s preaching Christianity everywhere that new leg takes him. No, what’s really making everyone take notice is the fact that he’s actually able to talk it up sensibly, which means that when old man Aethelbert swore he was giving our Thorvald lessons about the old religion, it wasn’t just the drink talking. Which means Thorvald’s actually been able to retain something in that half-troll skull of his besides six teeth, meat and mead. I don’t know about you, but any god that can make Thorvald learn somehing beyond sword-goes-in-here has got my vote! Besides, he said he’d thump me in the head if I didn’t convert in time for Christmas.”
And that was how, on a crisp December night, a procession of the newly made or lately restored Faithful trooped up the cliffside steps in the wake of their priest. He was a young man named Leofwine, and he had almost as much difficulty believing his luck at having secured a parish of his own so soon as he did the local bishop’s letter, for it claimed the spiritual recapture of an entire town in the space of less than a month. Least credible of all—and growing steadily more mind-boggling with every glance that Father Leofwine cast at the man in question—was the purported source of this pious reawakening. Father Leofwine had baptized him with his own hands, and still he could not believe that such a person had joined the Church at less than sword’s-point.
Come to think of it, such a person would probably have bitten off said sword’s point if it tried prodding him in any direction he did not personally wish to go.
Ah well, Father Leofwine was never one to look a gift parish in the mouth, even when that mouth was buried in the snowy beard of Thorvald the Bloody-Minded.
Once the crowd reached the abbey ruins, Father Leofwine might still have been the priest, but it was Thorvald who was the boss. He directed the disposal and ignition of a huge log in one of the least rubbish-heaped hearths of the old abbey. He chivvied the women along as they set out a few special dishes on the scattered stones. He urged the children on in their strewing of holly and ivy, evergreen boughs and mistletoe. Last but not least, he got a good old sing-song going among those young people with the strongest voices. It was a drinking song, but it made mention of a monk who owned a very large set of rosary beads, so he thought it would do.
And then, before the priest could begin the holy service, Thorvald called for silence and you can bet he got it. In that sweet hush, while the people awaited the commemoration of a centuries’-old miracle, the former Viking lifted his face to the stars and called out:
“Thanks for the leg, old girl! I reckoned since it came from you, it was Christian already, so I had the rest of me brought along to keep it company. And the rest of this is my Christmas gift to you.” He spread his arms wide, embracing the massed worshippers and all the improvised trappings of the holiday. “What d’you think of that?”
The people gasped to hear a female voice descend with the starlight from on high, a voice as sturdy a
nd stubborn as Thorvald’s own: “I think—” it said. “I think it’s a very lovely present, Thorvald. I haven’t gotten anything else like it. I also think that you’re up to your old tricks, pillaging and plundering all the credit for what’s happening here. And so, because these good folk have given me something so precious, I now will give unto them a gift of equal worth. May they forever cherish and appreciate it, for it is foreknowledge of a miracle to come, a marvel whose telling will rival that of how I turned the snakes to stones. Behold!”
And all eyes sought the heavens as the stars themselves spelled out the name STREANESHALCH, only to have those glittering letters crumble, melt, and re-form themselves into the simpler, shorter blazon: WHITBY.
“Well, that’s a miracle and a mercy,” Father Leofwine remarked. “At least it’ll be easier to spell.”
“What’s ‘spell’?” asked every other happily illiterate Streaneshalchian present.
And Thorvald the Bloody-Minded was busy for the rest of the night, thumping unquestioning gratitude into them all, a fine tradition that was soon adopted by many a father whose thankless children refused to show proper enthusiasm over the Yuletide gift of socks and smallclothes.
For to quote the wisdom of Whitby’s unsung son and uncanonized saint, that sterling proponent of extremely muscular Christianity: “Merry Christmas. Or else.”
It sounds better in Danish.
INTRODUCTION
JULIAN: A CHRISTMAS STORY
WARTIME puts a strain between what one wishes to do and what one has to do—or, sometimes, what one must refuse to do. At Christmastime, the strain becomes even more unavoidable, even if the war is seemingly far away. And friendship, one of the greatest gifts, becomes more important than ever.