THE LAST GHOST OF CHRISTMAS

by Jesse Colt

  “Jim, it’s rather a long story. A wearisome one at best, perhaps when we have a little more time, I can bore you with all the monotonous details. But a priest is supposed to be a better listener than a talker. Tell me what brings you into this wondrous land of ice and snow?”

  Jim hesitated. It was Christmas. Perhaps the priest could help exorcise some of the demons that tormented his soul. He hesitated, he did not want to relive the memories, not tonight! “No, I don’t have a very interesting story to relate either, Father. I guess one reason I wound up here in the North is that some people feel that I’m not a great conversationalist. Not a very good listener either, some people might say.”

  The tall priest leaned carefully back on the protesting chair. He took a long swallow of his drink. “Well we do have a long night, but I’ll give you my Reader’s Digest version.” He reached for another ice cube and Jim could see him preparing the story in his own mind.

  “I didn’t ask for this transfer and it certainly was not in my vocational plans,” he laughed a little. “No, it was not part of my original career path. They ordered me up here. At the time I probably had one of the best parishes in the world. Ever been to Philadelphia? There was loads of money in the parish and the church was always packed. We lacked nothing. I lived in a converted mansion, did fundraising, celebrity marriages and generally mingled with the rich and famous. Some people say I can carry a fair tune.” He paused and smiled at the memory. “I was even receiving voice training from some of the best teachers in the country.” He paused and finished his drink.

  Jim raised the bottle and when the priest made no attempt to wave the offer away, he poured another generous shot into his glass.

  “Yes,” he laughed. “It seemed I was headed for the top. A lot of powerful people had me penciled in for the Vatican. The scotch was free along with most everything else. Some people like to tempt a priest it seems.” He looked over his glass of rye at Jim and Jim listened for the censure in his voice. The reproach was not there.

  “I succumbed to the pleasures of the bottle and other delights that are unbecoming to a dedicated man of the cloth.” He took a long swallow and Jim watched while the memories flooded in on him.

  “When my superiors learned of my failings, there was talk of disrobing me. Other priests have been punished by banishment into the wilderness. Someone must have felt that this was the best path for me. But it turned out not to be a chastisement. I found something up here I had never known before. I found true peace and I found that I can really contribute. Not as a traditional priest. Heavens, no! These people are as pure as anyone on earth. Here I’m more of a social worker and a teacher. I attend council, help instruct, take minutes and keep the bridge open to the outside world. I tell them about Christ if they want to listen and, surprisingly, most of them do,” he swirled the rye in his glass. “And so here I am.”

  There was a gentle rap at the door. A woman from the village appeared. She smiled shyly at the priest. The Father excused himself, promising to be back in a few minutes. Jim sat staring into his glass. The priest had told his story quickly. He had not dealt with any details. Jim found himself trying to fill in some of the blanks. He finished his drink, then poured another. The smooth rye had untangled the anxious knot in his gut. He felt the gloomy ghosts of Christmas lifting from his tense shoulders.

  In a few minutes the priest returned. He leaned back in his chair and swirled the ice cubes around in his drink then turned to Jim. “Well you have heard my story, perhaps someday you will tell me yours. Just curious, Jim, are you a Catholic?”

  Jim hesitated. He did not want to offend this imposing yet gentle pastor. “No offense, Father, I quit believing in God and even Christmas a long time ago. I don’t believe there is a spirit world. The only ones that touch me are here,” he tapped the bottle. “I’m an engineer and a scientist. I can’t help the way I think.”

  His blasphemy did not seem to offend the lanky cleric.

  “Jim, when you have been here a few days you may have some second thoughts. If the spirit world is alive anywhere, it’s alive amongst these people. I have seen many things manifested here that I can’t explain, and I doubt if an engineer and a man of science could either. I don’t think anyone should give up on Christ. I believe there are only two types of people. There are those who have found the Lord and those who are still searching. Maybe you are still searching.”

  Jim shrugged; the priest’s words did not hold any significance for him. “Well, that may be, Father, but I’ve never seen anything that I couldn’t explain. Anyway, I don’t expect to be here for mass. I’m sure the weather will break, and we can get out. I’m certain you will have a great Christmas without us.”

  “Yes, they will have a great Christmas. I don’t doubt that. They still know the true meaning of the season and they know how to keep Christmas. The village is a little anxious right now. Several of the men are out with the teams and no doubt this storm has halted their travel. A few of the sleighs have gone to the post at old Fort Simpson.”

  “Christmas shopping, even up here, Father? Commercialism has reached into their hearts too, has it?”

  “Well, Jim, you may just have a point,” he laughed. “It has become a tradition. They will pick up a toy for each of the children and perhaps a few gifts to repay others for their kindness. There will be candy and even the odd turkey, although that special bird is little more than a curiosity up here. They have a strong preference for caribou or venison. Each year at this time some of the teams go out for fresh meat and some do go to shop. The hunters returned with all the meat they could carry. But the trip to Fort Simpson is three days one way. They would not try to travel over the lake in this weather. They will be sheltered now in some small line camp, waiting out the storm.”

  Jim finished his drink. “Little Fawn and her mother, they will receive gifts, too, won’t they?”

  The priest shrugged. “Yes, Little Fawn will, but her mother would not want her to receive to much from the community.”

  Jim remembered Little Fawn’s request to him. “Her grandmother, will she make it in for Christmas?”

  The priest looked at him, surprised at his knowledge of the child’s grandmother. “Her grandmother is not well. She is with a small band in a winter camp. The site is many hours ride away by dog team. She visited Little Fawn and her mother last Christmas. I doubt she will be in this year. The trip would be too much for her. Where did you learn about the child’s grandmother?”

  Jim shrugged; he remembered the girl’s happy face when he had promised her that her grandmother would be with her for Christmas. He felt badly, but what could he do? He took another sip, hoping the whiskey would help rationalize his dilemma.

  “Father, it’s just something I heard somewhere.” He looked at the bottle. It was more than half-empty. He poured himself another shot and raised the bottle to the priest. This time Father Stait shook his head.

  “No, I’ve had more than I wanted, there are a few chores I must complete before I turn in. Thank you and good night.” He rose and stretched the stiff muscles in his back. He paused for a second in the doorway.

  “Jim, keep your heart open and remember, even old Scrooge eventually discovered Christmas.”

  “Yeah, sure, Father. When I get down to Martinique, perhaps I’ll look again, but the ghosts of Christmas that I meet are the same ones each year. They are there to torment me and I don’t think they are going to offer me any redemption.”

  The priest hesitated in the doorway. Jim waited for his parting comment.

  “Good night, Jim. Pleasant dreams.”

  Jim searched for the bottle of aspirins. He swallowed three and washed them down with a generous shot of rye. He listened to the howl of the wind whipping the course grains of snow against the frozen logs, reminding him that the storm was still his captor. He pulled the cold blankets over his head and drifted into a fitful sleep.
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  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jim struggled through the whisky-gray fog numbing his mind, trying to orientate himself in the darkness and the intense cold of the unfamiliar room. Somewhere in the distance a disturbing drumming pounded at his dazed senses, regular and persistent, an irritating discord that commanded him from his rest. Someone was rapping on the door of his tiny cell. His first concern was the time, in this land of perpetual darkness. He staggered up, trying to locate a light and the source of the irritating noise. The door cracked open. A pale glow at the door caught his attention and he squinted into the yellow light. The faint gleam from a flashlight revealed Nester’s bearded face.

  “Hey! Are you going to sleep all bloody day? I heard you got it pretty cushy here, with your own private suite and all,” he examined Jim’s sparse accommodations and chuckled to himself before turning away.

  “Where does that bloody priest keep the fucking coffee. Old Red Bear don’t drink coffee and my nuts are washing away in watered down tea!”

  Jim’s shivering fingers managed to light the tiny lantern on his bureau. He examined his watch under the sputtering flame. It was 8:35 a.m. He could hear the incessant howl of the wind slashing off the lake. Behind Nester’s parka clad figure, the hallway seemed as black and cold as the night itself.

  “How is your place, Nester? Pretty rustic, eh!” He had some compassion for his companion, shoved in with a grouchy old villager by the indignant priest. He was certain Nester was sharing a small cabin in the most primitive of conditions.

  “Ah, it ain’t that bad,” the shaggy beard mumbled. “The old chief cooked me a fantastic steak for breakfast, about this thick.” He held up his hand, but Jim could not distinguish his fingers in the darkened room.

  “Hey! It was one of the best I’ve ever eaten! Must have been about two pounds and juicy as hell. Old bugger doesn’t say a word though, guess he don’t speak no English.” He turned and left Jim struggling into another layer of clothing. Jim could hear him rattling around in the cupboards next to the stove.

  “Geezer is coming over,” Nester shouted over the clatter of the pots.

  “Our old plane landed in one piece. He has to repair a damaged strut on one ski. No big deal. They have a fully equipped shop and a couple of the guys are pretty handy. If the weather clears, we may still get out of here today.”

  There was little conviction in his voice. Jim listened again to the ghostly howl of the wind and dismissed their chances. Still, he probed Nester for some positive news.

  “The priest thought the storm would last for another day or two. Do you think it’s breaking up?”

  “The wind is changing. Geezer figures there will be some quiet periods by evening. Geezer wants the moon so he can see to take off. We only need a few minutes to get off the ground,” Nester reminded him.

  “Plane’s half buried, so some of the men from the village are going to help dig it out and pull it around to face out into the lake. Then they will repair the damaged strut.”

  Jim felt a little better. There was a ray of hope after all. He joined Nester and stoked the smoking fire, pressing against the glowing plates to warm his shivering body. “How did you make out with the generator?”

  Nester poured his coffee and took a noisy sip of the steaming brew. “Hey. Those guys from the department! They’re a bunch of incompetent assholes. There are grounds on two coils. All they did was put in a new control system. Idiots! One of the bearings is misaligned on the motor. We worked on it till 2:30 a.m. this morning but, it’s going to take another day to get everything going. The crews are coming back to give me a hand at ten.”

  “Too bad,” Jim muttered. “If the weather clears today, you won’t get finished.”

  “You know we might, if we had another day,” Nester grumbled. “These guys haven’t had that fucking generator working properly since last June. What a shop they have here. Equipped with everything. We might still finish in time.”

  “Nester did anyone say anything about some of the kids calling us Christmas angels?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

  “Yeah,” Nester chuckled, there was a note of approval in his voice. “I seen a couple of them following me around and trying to walk in my tracks. You know there’s no one here who could fix that cranky fucking generator!” he probed Jim for a compliment before continuing.

  “They said it hasn’t run properly since it was installed. Just staggers along for a few hours, then trips out.” He finished his coffee. “Well, guess I’ll head back to the gen room. Geezer could use a hand with the plane,” he suggested.

  Jim watched Nester hurry into the cold. The conceited technician did not seem concerned that they were being mistaken for angels. Jim had the unhappy feeling Nester was willing to perpetuate the myth. He listened to the howl of the wind again and prayed for an early release from this confining village. He remembered the promise he had made to a little girl who wanted to see her grandmother home for Christmas. The ailing grandparent was trapped in a bush camp hours away. He didn’t want to look that kid in the eye on Christmas morning!

  Jim crammed more wood into the rosy stove, desperate to drive the chill from his shivering frame. He heard the church door open and felt the pull of the wind sucking the precious warmth from the tiny alcove. Geezer’s snowy figure appeared, followed by a crowd of smiling villagers, eager to help free the snow bound aircraft.

  Geezer gulped down a coffee, wiped his soiled mittens across his chin and shuffled silently into the darkness. The bundled figures from the village trailed behind. Jim watched them troop along after the graceless old bush pilot then he reluctantly pulled on another layer of warm clothing and followed them to the downed aircraft.

  …

  In a few hours they had shoveled and swept the stranded craft free, wrestling the chipped propeller into the face of the gale that stormed off the lake. When the bone-numbing task was complete, they repaired the damaged strut before trekking across the frozen village to a small holiday feast prepared by some of the women. The weather and the struggle with the unwieldy plane had given Jim a ravenous appetite and he devoured the tasty meal with relish.

  A constant stream of admiring visitors filed through the door. Most stayed but a few minutes, long enough to share a cup of scalding tea. Then they smiled at their guests and disappeared back into the endless night.

  Jim had the uncomfortable feeling that many of the villagers were bringing their children to gape at him and old Geezer. He felt as if he were on display, for the youngsters treated him with a respect that bordered on reverence. The tiny faces peeped around their mother’s swaddling clothes and stared at him with the same sense of wonderment he had found in Little Fawn’s eyes.

  Geezer gulped down his last cup of tea and commented dryly on the parade.

  “You know I been in a lot of places and been treated a lot of different ways, Laddy. But this is the first time anyone ever judged me in the company of angels. You and Zary sure don’t look like cherubs to me and I heard enough stories about that little Ukrainian chauvinist to write him off as a seraph. Kind of makes a feller stop and ponder his ways, don’t it now, Laddy?”

  Jim looked into the wind burned face and bulbous nose. He was in no mood to discuss angels. He mumbled a thanks to his hostess and struggled into his heavy parka. She was still smiling when he and Geezer shuffled into the darkness.

  An expectant hush had fallen over the snowy village. Jim looked to the motionless treetops. The harsh wind had died away, only the occasional gust stormed out of the north, whipping a frozen cloud of snow across the distant lake.

  “Think you could take off in this, Geezer?”

  The ancient pilot examined the sky. “I’ve taken off in worse and got away with it, Laddy. We need to wait for the moon is all. Got to see where we is headed. Some of my instrumentation don’t work too good in this here cold weather.” He jammed his numb fingers into
his pockets and fumbled out a twisted pack of cigarettes. Jim waited until he had lit one. He walked along beside the hacking figure battling for breath against the sting of the tobacco in his violated lungs. Jim looked to the darkened sky for any sign of the moon, wondering if the old pilot’s tired eyes could distinguish between a good runway and a poor one….

  The silent church was nearly deserted. Jim examined his watch in the faint light from the flickering lanterns. It was only 5:30 p.m. He knew the moon would not be over the horizon for several hours. He glanced around the tiny chapel again. The tree seemed brighter, fuller than before, swelling magically under the gracious hand of Christmas. Small children were adorning the great tree with additional decorations each time they visited. One of the elders was removing the ornaments from the lower branches and passing them to his assistant balanced on top of a crude stepladder. Jim watched as the young man secured them to the upper branches.

  He remembered how Christine and Tania had loved to pile decorations on the tree. He fought the closing memory and considered pouring himself a stiff drink. He tossed the idea aside. Perhaps the mellow rye was not a good idea. If they were to attempt a takeoff soon, he wanted a guarantee that at least one member of the crew was sober.

  He tossed his jacket into the cold bedroom, then fled the tiny cell. Jim searched the darkened church, looking for the old pilot. He found him at the back of the chapel. The worn figure had removed his heavy toque and was seated piously in the last row. His bleary eyes were fixed on the image of Christ outlined in the dim light over the pulpit. Jim wondered what thoughts might be running through the immoral old pilot’s mind and what personal ghosts he might be battling from his lengthy string of Christmases long past.

  Jim slumped into a rough seat and examined the small sanctuary again. The familiar sound of carols drifted in over the short wave, driving him back to his room. He collapsed on the cold bunk, aware of muscles he had pushed to the extreme digging out the aircraft. He pictured the plane and the rocks they were boiling in battered 45-gallon drums. The hot stones were a crude, but effective method of warming the frozen engine. Old Geezer’s predictions on the weather seemed to be holding for the constant moan of the gale had subsided to a soft sigh. The moon would soon be over the horizon. Jim visualized the old Norseman lifting him into the quiet night with his tickets to the sunny beaches clasped in his hand. He began to imagine the smell of wet tropical gardens and the salt spray from the warm beaches.