Llwewellyn nodded, not really interested. His eyes kept turning to the door behind him.
The wind howled as it does coming off the Simmonette River from the Nor'West. Llwewellyn jumped, grabbing at his coat pocket.
"Easy," I said.
"Yes," he agreed, then forgetting about the door tore into the bannock, liberally smearing it with more bear lard. Johnny and I let him eat in peace.
After he ate all the bannock, Llwewellyn sat back and reached into his pocket again. This time he brought out an exquisite pocket watch with no chain. He clicked it open and music filled the walls of the cabin. I didn't recognize the tune but it was lovely.
"What time is it?" I asked. Neither Johnny nor I wore a watch. Mine was at home beside my bed. Johnny was too poor to own one. But in the Bush you didn't need one no how. You get up with the sun, go to bed when you're tired.
"It's ten-thirty-three, exactly."
"Really? I imagine my ma and sister are having eggnog with the neighbors right about now, singing them Christmas songs. This year it's just Johnny and me."
The big Indian didn't say anything, just looked at that picture of Holy Mary. If he was thinking of home amongst his people, the Cree, he didn't show it.
Llwewellyn looked bored.
"Got a place for me to sleep?"
"Sure, you can have my bed, if you don't mind the mice," I offered. "Only you'd probably be more comfortable up in the fur loft."
"We need water," Johnny said, holding the bucket.
"I'll go," I said. I have to admit our visitor didn't make me comfortable. He struck me as the kind of fellow who'd take your last bite of food and then complain about it. Any excuse to be away from him was welcome.
Johnny grabbed the axe. "I'll cut the hole."
We stepped out of the door with our coats done up tight, hats and mitts. We left our guest to curl up on my bed.
Johnny led the way down to the river. The ice was thick by Christmas so we had to chop out a small section once or twice a day. We both knew the spot well. I put down my bucket and waited for Johnny.
He didn't start swinging right away. Instead he said, "I don't trust him."
"Yah? Seems like a liar to me. He ain't no prospector, sure. See his hands?"
"He feels wrong." Johnny had passed sentence. I had come to trust Johnny's intuition in most things. He had a shaman's sight, for when Johnny was nine he had died. Struck by lightning he had lain dead for five minutes. Then just as sudden-like, he was alive again. After that, he had been different. Originally a rambunctious child, he became quiet, serious-minded. It was one of the reasons I wintered with him. He was quiet and serious about his work.
Johnny swung the axe expertly twice. Years of practice guided his hand and he knew exactly how to cut the hole to allow the pail to fill to the top. I dunked the bucket then pulled it up, brimming with clean water.
I was ready to go back as the wind was freezing my face. Only Johnny was standing still. I froze. A cougar or some other predator I wondered? "John-"
He just pointed out at the ice over the river.
My eyes are good. You don't hunt for a living if you can't pick a deer out of a thicket or a squirrel on a pine bough thirty feet above you. But in that moment I doubted my own ability to see.
The Simmonette is about a fifty yards across by Cabin Number Two. Less than half that far was a woman. She was made of ice. I could make out her long, dark hair, her beautiful petite face. I had heard the Indian legends, but this was a white woman's face. Where her legs should have been the ice came up in a frozen wave.
"What is it, Johnny?"
"Bad medicine."
"Surely, it's just a trick of the light -"
"Go inside, Ara."
"No, Johnny. I'll stay."
The Indian didn't say anything else. I could decide for myself. Johnny stepped around the hole and moved closer to the strange thing we saw.
The wind was howling. You have to understand that. I could hear Johnny singing in Cree. He had his medicine bag necklace out in his hand. In the other he still clutched the axe. But over the noise, I thought I heard something else. Another language. I didn't recognize its words either. Only the last part was in English. It was a refrain from a song that went: "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy…" It drew closer.
Johnny dropped the medicine bag and raised his other arm. The single-bladed axe flew through the air to strike something that shattered into a million shards. The singing stopped and an ear-splitting crack ripped through the river like a living thing.
"Run!" I screamed as we spun and made for the home bank. The river ice separated into huge sheets as the concussion vibrated through the ice and into our legs. The surface in front of us broke, splashing freezing water all over. We jumped at the end, making the ground of the river bank. A last greedy wave pawed at us, trying to pull us back into the river, but we had made the willows by then, and hung on for dear life.
Johnny and I both ran for the cabin with the same thought. We had seconds to get inside and out of those clothes before they froze stiff, making it impossible to run. Every second counted. The longer we were cold, the more likely we were to get sick.
We piled in through the cabin door and began stripping instantly. Freezing cold water stings like fire burning your skin. Your fingers get numb and the buttons and strings become impossible. Stoking the fire up, we huddled naked around the stove, slapping our limbs to get the blood flowing.
Our guest rolled over, but said nothing.
Johnny crawled into his bed, leaving his clothes to dry by the stove. His bed folds into the wall, so he took it down and crawled into his thick blankets.
I had someone in my bed, but I didn't care. I was too cold. Llwewellyn complained when I jumped in. "You're freezing and wet!"
"Perhaps you'd be happier in the loft?" I barked, losing my civility at last.
"Maybe I would," he said. I pointed at the ladder that takes you up to the fur loft. Of all our cabins, only Cabin Number two had a loft. It's where we stored the hides and furs we caught during the winter. The ceiling is low so a man has to walk bent over but there is no bed more comfortable than that made of beaver and coyote pelts.
Llwewellyn disappeared up the ladder. The unspoken rules of hospitality said if a man needs a meal, feed him. If he needs to sleep, give him a bed. I had been a guest in many homes by the kindness of these rules but I have never made a nuisance of myself.
I forgot about our guest. It was Christmas eve after all, so Johnny got up and put on his second best pair of long johns and set the kettle to boiling. I followed his example, dressed, adding a pair of moccasins to my feet. Soon we were singing Christmas songs, eating a cake given me by my ma, and drinking scolding hot coffee. We hadn't finished the first cup when we heard Llwewellyn scream.
Johnny went first, a long blade in his hand. I followed with the kerosene lamp. If I hadn't seen the lady on the river, I'm sure I'd have run screaming from that loft. Everything was in motion. In the midst of it, Llwewellyn fought and cried. For a second I thought two wolves had snuck up into our loft until I realized that these attackers lacked substance.
The furs, on all sides, from the smallest squirrel to the largest grizzly bear, were biting and clawing with absent fangs and talons. Like furry snakes the plews came at the Welshman with evil purpose. Some of the pelts were still on stretchers and unable to join in the fight. These mouthed grotesquely, "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy…"
Johnny didn't wait like I did. He grabbed the lantern from me and swung it in a wide arc. The loft ceiling is low, so he did this on his knees, repelling the shadowy pelts with his light. The Indian swore at them in Cree, then in English to me, "Get him out, Ara."
I hobbled forward, bent over like an old man. Pelts scratched at me, flew in my face, trying to smother me. I pushed and clawed until I had Llwewellyn by the shoulder, then shoved him towards the ladder. Johnny covered our escape with the lamp.
Once downstairs I ha
d to restrain Llwewellyn. He would have run out the door without his coat. I yelled at him, "Stop! You're safe here," trying to believe it myself.
We stopped and listened. All was quiet in the loft. The smell of singed fur was thick on the nostrils. We waited five minutes before I left Llwewellyn and climbed up the stairs.
Johnny lay on the floor under a mountain of burnt fur. He was clutching his medicine bag. He was dead. The boy who had come back to life was dead.
"Is it safe?" Llwewellyn called up.
I came back down, a black smoldering hatred burning inside me. "Tell me," was all I said.
"Tell you what?"
"Johnny's dead. Why did he die? Tell me." The look in my eyes told him what I'd do if he didn't.
The Welshman looked at the door, then me. It was as if he was wondering what his chances were of getting away. He made the right decision and sat down on the bed.
"I'm not a prospector," he said first. "I make candy, ice creams. Or at least I did. That was one of the reasons Glynis married me. She didn't want a laborer for a husband. She loved the nice, clean little shop. She loved riding in the cart when I sold ice cream on hot summer days. Only, the business failed. We had to move to Canada.
"I tried to make a go of it as a farmer. The Government was selling cheap land. Only I never had much luck."
I sized up the little Welshman there. Some people work hard and people call it luck. Lazy, greedy schemers like Llwewellyn. I had thought his eyes sad, but now I knew them for what they really were.
"Glynis wanted to leave me. This was Christmas eve, three years ago, you see? A cousin in Winnipeg had offered her a job. And I had bought her nothing for Christmas. She told me she was leaving." He stopped, staring at his small, soft hands.
"I wouldn't let her. I grabbed her from behind. Got her around the throat with my watch chain, and -"
I looked at his hands. Uncalloused but possessing a kind of reptilian strength.
"I put her body in a hole in the ice of the creek by our house. Then I packed up and left the farm. I went to the States. I found a job in a candy factory, did well for myself.
"Only, come next Christmas eve, I found I had this feeling, like I was being watched. First it was little things: a slip on the stairs, a candle burning my sleeve. But on the next Christmas eve, I knew for sure. On that one day of the year, Glynis could get at me. For twenty-four hours, she could take her revenge. And her strength was growing-"
Llwewellyn dug in his pocket, brought out the watch with no chain.
"I studied up on these things. Curses, spooks and such. And I realized my mistake. I had taken the watch chain with me. If I put it in the creek with her, then she'd be powerless. So I came back. And tonight I put that chain in the ice."
"But she still comes. Are you sure?"
"Yes, she's been trying to get me all night. She pushed me down that beaver dam. And the furs- But once it reaches midnight, it'll be Christmas and I'll be free." He held up his watch. It said 11:59.
"Merry Christmas," he said with a wide, wicked grin. The watch played its pretty tune and I recognized it at last. "Green grow'th the holly…"
Llwewellyn got up off the bed and began to dance in a disgusting manner, giggling like a child. "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy," he sang. "It was her song. She could sing it in Gaelic and English. Glynis loved Christmas. She always said I never kept Christmas in my heart."
I felt sick. I wanted to get up and beat the little Welshman like a dog. Instead I just watched him dance like a man who had won the lottery. He patted the turkey on the sideboard, saying to it, "Well, this is a Christmas that'll warm my heart for many a year." He laughed at his own joke, picking up a cranberry and popping it into his mouth.
I could take no more. I had no intention of sleeping in a cabin with a murderer. Llwewellyn would have to leave now.
"Green grow'th the holly-" Llwewellyn stopped singing and clutched his throat. He choked once, then began thrashing like a man in a seizure. All I could do was hold him down until he stopped. He only stopped because he was dead.
I let go of him then. He felt wrong. His skin had a prickly feeling to it. His mouth was wide open. I looked down and saw something green poking out, deep in his throat. It was also in his nose and ears. Blood began to leak out of him onto the floor.
I went to the sideboard. I picked up the bowl of cranberries. Only the reddish berries were blood red. They were holly berries.
I noticed something shiny on the floor next to Llwewellyn. It was his watch. I opened it. The time said 11:59 then the minute hand clicked to 12:00. The music stopped when I threw the watch against the wall with all my strength.
I couldn't bury Johnny or the Welshman until Spring thaw. I wrapped them in blankets and hoisted their bodies high into a tree. When the ground softened I buried Johnny on the hill overlooking Cabin Number Two. I buried the picture of Holy Mary with him.
Llwewellyn, I buried in a dark patch of fir, a good distance from the cabin. That spot to this day bears holly bushes. The trees there about are twined with ivy. I don't go there anymore.
Sarah Downey
SANTA BABY
MY MOTHER: STERN, deeply sanctimonious; a delectable vision of grey knickers and uncut toenails. A staunch supporter of tradition and Mass every Sunday bloody morning. The precise person one would least expect to find in sticky situations. And yet, I did. I found her, I caught mother in a truly forbidden act.
I choose to tell my tale, because it has been eating away the other thoughts in my head, it reeks of repulsive irony, and I can’t keep it to myself any longer. But, be warned, I might make you fart in dismay.
It was Christmas Eve; our most celebrated holiday of the year. Baubles, so many baubles in disgusting colours of shiny red and nauseating gold hung eerily from the pine tree in the corner of our living room. Picked every year by my father, it stood as a proud family emblem accompanied by those damn baubles and tacky fairy lights.
“Ah… a magnificent tree aglow with the light of a thousand winking fairies, just surrounding each other in splendid harmony.”
“Dad... I’m gonna be sick in a minute if you don’t cut through the crap cake.”
He was a dopey old codger, my father. He had a soppy head on him, but because of being married so long to my mother, he couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow.
“Dinner...” came the shrill and almost irate voice of my mother, the soles of her cheap shoes flapping along the kitchen floor.
I trudged behind father, with resent for the tree. It wouldn’t be subjected to the dry turkey I choke on every year, or the gooey stuffing that smells like bile. It would simply shed its mask and die after a while. Lucky bastard.
I sat beside my cousin Joe, the one who forgets he is my cousin after seven bourbon blues. He wore tinsel round his neck like reins, and with his red bulbous nose quite like a clown’s horn, he could pass for Rudolph. The rest of the table was not much more impressive.
“Pass us those spuds, Josephine, there’s a good lassie...” shouted my eighty-year-old grandfather, a constant sufferer of deafness in the right ear and a rectal dysfunction.
“So, Moira...” started my Uncle Bernard. “How’ve you been?”
Bernard was fitted in a red suit trimmed with white fur. The bell, hanging from the top of his furry crimson hat, jingled when he moved. He held a small whip in his pudgy hand and tickled my mother’s chin when she spoke. Yes, he was Santa.
“My bunions have turned yellow,” replies my mother and adds a second helping of bile to her plate.
“That’s... terrible...,” he says, cockeyed. He removes the whip from her warbling chin much like turkey giblets and tucks into his own turkey giblets.
Then, there is an interruption from my neurotic maiden aunt, who has forgotten to remove a pink hair roller from her blue curls.
“Cheer up, eh, love, the lesbian thing is probably just a phase.”
“What lesbian thing?” I ask through gritted teeth.
> The night steered on like a never-ending horror film. I was insulted mercilessly by a group of drunken-spirited imbeciles with turkey in their teeth. Their cruel, whiplashing tongues sprouted mediocre advice, advice which I didn’t want. And then the
Christmas songs began; and since that night, along with my mother’s sinning ways, their carols have been haunting me in my sleep.
“Dancing through the snow...”
“In a one horse open sleigh...”
“Jingle bells, jingles bells–”
“No, Moira, we’re not singing that.”
“Jingle all the way...”
Their faces became a purple pink, the raucous laughter infectious. Soon, the vision of ugliness and the roaring of carols were too much to bear. So I left the table; their flopping arms and crooked paper crowns a sure sign my presence wouldn’t be missed.
“You know, I’ve always liked you, Josie...” I turned back and watched Cousin Joe flirting with an empty chair. Uncle Bernard was tickling my mother. My grandfather sang ‘Santa Baby’. It was all so... twisted.
* * *
I walked into the living room and shut the door. Their voices became less booming and it was almost silent. I was alone in the room. The tree stood innocently with its prissy fairy lights. I stared out the window and studied the yellow moon. It was in its full phase and hid slightly behind soft purple leaves. Leaves always look purple in moonlight.
“Shhh! You don’t want them to notice...”
“We don’t want them to notice. Shhh!”
I became distracted from the moon, by the sound of two whispering voices. I felt it came from inside the very living room, but it was just me and the tree in there. I shivered at the thought of losing my sanity; the thought of becoming like my family was too horrifying to consider. So, I went to bed, comforted by the knowledge of leaving that madhouse the very next day. I crawled beneath the blankets, I let my head and neck relax against the pillow, I closed my eyes, and tried to drown out relentless laughter. And, for a while, it worked.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 73