THE LAST GHOST OF CHRISTMAS

by Jesse Colt

  He examined the happy faces of the children and remembered how much he had loved the smell of pine boughs when he had been a child. The picture was part of a past he did not want to relive tonight. He hurried into the cold, anxious to avoid the depressing memories that were crowding in on him again.

  Nester had directed him to the generator in a remote corner of the village. Brilliant stars lit the faint pathway leading past the small cabins. The golden glow from their lamps painted shining panels on the light blue surface of the pristine snow. He approached one small log structure with a flickering candle and a wreath in the window. Something in the scene made him pause. The breeze was hushed, barely a whisper through the surrounding forest. Even the great pines stood in silent awe. The cabin was newer than most, the logs the color of fresh wheat straw, mounded over with new snow and contrasting against the dark pines bowing in the background. It was a scene from a post card. He found himself thinking how much the scene would appeal to Anne. For a moment he wished there was someone here to share the picture with him. He cursed under his breath and hurried away, angry for letting the scene beguile him.

  He followed the spindly power lines, singing in the chill of the night and they guided him through the brush to the steel gen shack. He could see two black stovepipes jutting through the snowy roof, expelling a stream of smoke and red sparks into the frosty night air.

  An unfamiliar sound made him pause. He was certain he could hear music over the sigh of the dark pines. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. He paused on the narrow pathway and his ears strained against the low moan of the wind in the distant evergreens. Somewhere in the distance, carried on the frost of the night air, the sound of an old fiddle cut cleanly through the forest.

  The mellow sound drew him under its spell. Jim was easily captivated by good fiddle music and his ears were starved for melodies after their isolation in this remote village. The sound seemed to be coming from the squat metal building that housed the gen set. He did not recognize the tune, but he had never heard a waltz played so sweetly on a fiddle. He guessed they were amusing themselves while they tended to the heaters and the gen sets. For a moment he considered turning back to his tiny cell so as not to interrupt their diversion. The icy draft cut through the woods, reminding him of his half-frozen condition. He shivered and hurried forward, forcing the protesting doors open and stepping into the sheltered room.

  He could see several faces turning towards him in the dim light of the cold chamber. The lamps reflected on their swarthy skin and the whites of their eyes stood out against the dark background and frosty walls. The old musician was dressed in tattered jeans and a faded blue denim shirt. A contrasting red bandanna was knotted about his sinewy neck. The minstrel did not appear to have noticed Jim’s entrance, and continued to play, totally absorbed in his sweet music.

  Jim slammed the door behind him and searched the darkened room. Nester had set up two stoves, converted oil drums with chimneys and air intakes from outside, one on each side of the gen set. Two young men were heating cinder blocks on the stoves, then stacking them against the units. The hot bricks created a warm environment around the generators, despite the mounds of frost that edged the corners of the building. Jim strolled over to the nearest stove, removed his mitts and spread his fingers to receive the welcome warmth.

  Despite the roar of the glowing furnaces, the building was still cool. The cold air did not seem to bother the occupants who had removed their outer garments and were happily avoiding the rosy stoves. A smiling face presented Jim with a comfortable chair and he settled self consciously into the seat adjacent to one of the smoking oil drums.

  He huddled against the welcome heat. Perhaps he could finally get warm. A pair of mittened hands removed two smoking cinder blocks and exchanged them with cooler bricks. Jim shivered as the first song ended and a carol began. The talented musician was playing Silent Night. He had never heard it played more beautifully. Jim looked at the worn fiddle, marveling that such an antiquated instrument could create such exquisite music.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he counted twelve members in the small group, including a child sitting dreamily upon an old man’s knee next to the faded fiddler.

  When the music started again, they chose to ignore Jim, leaving him to soak up the welcome warmth and relax in the dim room. He looked around the sparse Quonset hut. The flickering blue flame of two coal oil lamps, were turned low and emitting just enough light to allow the workers to move safely about the shadowy room. The red flames flickering though the cracks in the makeshift stoves added a dancing crimson tinge to the darkest shadows.

  Jim checked his watch. It would be two or three hours until the moon rose, another couple of hours until the plane returned. With a little luck they would be in the air, headed south, by midnight. They might still be in Calgary tomorrow in time to catch the afternoon flight to the golden beaches of the Caribbean.

  He pictured himself in the tropical paradise, in time for the rum to ease the sting of another bachelor Christmas. He wondered if he would have time to call Tania or if she would even be home. Where would she and Christine spend their Christmas? He had not intended to cut his schedule this close. God, how he would love to hear Christine’s voice again this Christmas.

  He thought of Tania’s missing letter and how he intended to chastise his thoughtless daughter for the wayward gift that held his last faint hope for a cheerful Christmas.

  The frayed bow danced across the worn strings, quivering though several jigs and polkas, then the fiddler begin to play We Three Kings. It took him back to a Christmas concert with the kids when they were still in Regina.

  After the recital he had helped them wrap their presents for Anne. Anne loved Christmas more than most kids. Another box under the tree could always make her smile. She would pick up the new addition and try to guess what it might be. She had the annoying habit of shaking the gaily wrapped presents. He remembered how she loved to get Christmas cards and how she enjoyed the shopping.

  She would start her excursions as soon as the Halloween candy had been put away, eagerly seeking out the malls that had the audacity to exchange their Halloween displays for nativity scenes on the first day of November. Anne’s shopping had been one source of their conflicts. She was always buying things, particularly at Christmas, spending more than they could afford. It had made him furious at the time.

  Now it didn’t seem so bad. She’d never had much and the child in her sometimes overruled her better judgment. Anne seldom shopped for herself. The shopping bags were always crammed with presents for everyone else.

  He remembered the packet of canceled cheques that he still carried in his wallet, cashed by Anne and Christine. It wasn’t much of a substitute for a lost wife and daughter. He would pour over the pieces of paper with their recent signatures on them, trying to find a message in the cold canceled documents. Had Christine carried them in her wallet for long or cashed them immediately? Did she have enough money or was she depriving herself just to get by? Was her hand trembling? Did the signature slanting upwards indicate that she was in a happy frame of mind? Jim stood up, trying to shake the hard memories that were rushing at him in the winking light of the fire and on the music of the familiar carols.

  The heavily mittened hands appeared again and shifted more warm blocks. Jim rose reluctantly to his feet, finally warmed by the roaring fire. He checked the cold electrical generators. The primitive heating system seemed to be working. There was no trace of frost on the heavy steel frame. They would be dry to the core in a few hours with the warmth and low humidity of the gen shack.

  Jim moved from the comfort of the fire and waved a quick goodbye to the cluster of smiling faces. He stepped back into the night without a word of farewell to the small group. He was surprised when he looked at his watch. Two hours had slipped away under the spell of the Christmas music and the flickering lights from the primitive stoves.
The moon was creeping over the horizon. The cold bite of the north had again locked its jaws on the tiny village. The night seemed silent as a frozen tomb. He hurried through the frost. Just time to finish packing. The snow-dusted plane would soon be in the air again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jim slapped his frozen mitts together, hurrying to reach the bustling church and the relative warmth of the silent sanctuary. He pushed through the frosty doors, skirting the shimmering tree and the small assembly, equally divided between the crackling short wave and the silent splendor of the great pine. He hurried past the priest’s office where Father Stait and Geezer were reviewing the rough map under the flickering kerosene lamp.

  “Jim, thank goodness you’re back,” the priest called to him. “We were just going to send someone for you. Nester can’t make it. Geezer needs you to go along with him.”

  Jim started to sputter. This was impossible! Nester had volunteered to go. Why couldn’t Nester make the flight?

  “Yes, I’m afraid he got a little carried away with the rye and lack of sleep. We practically had to carry him to Red Bear’s cabin. We got into a rather exhilarating discussion about Nester’s lifestyle and values.” The priest chuckled at the memory.

  Jim spun around and stormed across the snow. “Let me see if I can wake the bastard up. He is probably just playing possum,” he snarled. Nester would enjoy sending him into the wilderness while he slept off a few drinks.

  He raged along the snowy path to the tiny cabin, silently cursing his hard-drinking colleague. Damn him! The son of a bitch had made a covenant with a priest and a little girl who thought they were angels. Now he was trying to stick Jim with the obligation! He would shake the cocky Ukrainian from the liquor-induced stupor. Drag his hairy bare balls across the rough ice until Nester screamed himself awake.

  He pounded the door open and charged into the small bedroom. Nester was sprawled across a narrow bunk. His heavy flannel shirt was open, exposing his hairy chest. He was snoring loudly, and the smell of booze hung on the crisp air like a sour vapour. Beside him on the cold bed was the largest husky Jim had ever seen. It was Brutus, the husky the priest had warned Nester to avoid. The snow-white coat was a dead giveaway. For a moment Jim froze, expecting the dog to launch an attack.

  The old sled dog who hated white men. The hoary killer that had a tendency to snap at strangers, was cuddled contentedly against Nester in the frigid room. The dog’s massive head was over his lap. The imposing creature appeared totally at ease with the stranger sharing his bed. Nester’s left hand was twisted into the powerful dog’s mane. The giant husky appeared to outweigh Nester by at least 15 kilos.

  “Zary, get your God Damned lazy ass of that fucking bed,” Jim cursed.

  Nester answered with a snore and a drunken grunt. Jim guessed that he had consumed the best part of a bottle of rye. The man had hardly slept for close to 48 hours. The husky lifted his enormous head from Nester’s sleeping body. The powerful dog raised one corner of his black lips, revealing a set of imposing teeth. It was the most subtle of motions. Jim examined the burning eyes and the huge fangs under the dark lips. This husky was incredibly old, but he had faced down howling blizzards and once a pair of northern wolves had backed away from his determined stand. Jim was only a passing inconvenience.

  Jim seized Nester by the foot, the anger driving him to jerk the exasperating drunk off the comfortable bed. The dog was on his feet in an instant. All the teeth were showing now, and a deep rumbling growl was coming from somewhere in that gigantic throat. The giant husky meant business!

  Jim released Nester’s sock. The foot bounced back on the firm bed like a lifeless piece of firewood. The dog’s black lips slowly relaxed over his teeth. Nester grunted in his sleep and the dog turned, raising a concerned ear to his inebriated companion now mumbling through the shaggy beard.

  “You bloody arrogant little sot,” Jim cursed. “You and that great ugly cur. You’re two of a kind. You’ve both seen better days and you both still think you can whip the entire bloody world. You work for 48 hours straight, gulp down a bottle of my best whisky and then you wonder why you’re near dead. And now I’ve got to climb into that rickety old plane with your drunken partner and risk my ass while you’re sleeping off a gigantic hangover.”

  Jim shook his fist at the sleeping figure. The powerful husky slowly raised his lip again, exposing the horrible, clenched teeth.

  Jim pulled up his hood and shivered. He knew who would be making the cold flight into the wilderness with old Geezer.

  …

  The spent engine sputtered a few times, then barked to a reluctant life in the crystal air. Geezer jammed levers and tinkered with switches on the battered panel. The engine backfired and then stalled. He cursed the cranky machine softly then hit the button again. This time it spun with more purpose, the prop biting into the heavy air, blue smoke whirling past the cockpit. For a minute or more Geezer revved up the sputtering engine, then apparently satisfied, he applied full throttle. The plane began to shudder and creep across the snow-covered ice. Soon it was bouncing wildly over the unforgiving iron surface, drawn forward by 300 horsepower, smoking pistons and whirling prop. Jim held his breath. By the time he began to breathe easier again, they were in the air, heading towards the cold light of the distant North Star.

  Geezer’s watery eyes located the frozen river fifty miles up the coast, a smooth dark sash snaking away from the lake and into the endless white wilderness. He swung the creaking plane in a slow looping arc, no sunlight to guide them, only a thin cold moon and remote starlight. Jim marveled at the brilliance below. It didn’t take much light to illuminate the landscape. The crystalline snow reflected and amplified every speck of available light. Their eyes soon became accustomed to the faint silhouettes of the pine-covered hills and the meandering river. After forty minutes they soared over a large channel where the current widened into a lake.

  Geezer maneuvered the lumbering craft over the frozen reservoir, frowning down at the barren landscape. There was no sign of activity below, not even a campfire. Jim wasn’t surprised.

  Geezer shrugged and his shaky hands guided the stuttering plane down. It skimmed over the surface, landed lightly on the snow then glided to a gentle halt. Jim felt a touch of admiration for the old man’s skills as Geezer cut the smoking engine.

  There was no sound on the snowy expanse of the lake, only the creaking of the skis pressing into the snow and the pop of the brittle wings settling back on aging struts. Geezer pried a protesting window open and the crisp air flooded in, overpowering the smell of smoke and warm oil in the cabin. The nearest shoreline was over a kilometer away. The tiny lake was surrounded by a range of low hills, crowned with black pines that threw ominous dark shadows across the sparkling snow.

  “Shit,” Jim cursed. “I need a leak.” He stepped out and relieved himself. The silence was even more remarkable outside; only the occasional distant ping of the ice, yielding under the relentless bite of the frost. Geezer joined him and stumbled around the battered plane, his watery eyes examining the rigid struts and taut cables that held his aircraft together. Jim watched the windshield wiper mitts swipe at the runny nose.

  “How long you gonna wait?” Jim asked

  Geezer shrugged again. “Seems kind of strange, don’t it, Laddy? This is where they said she would be. We are in the right spot for sure,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah,” Jim scoffed. “How the hell would she know we’re coming? The radio?” Jim cursed, “or maybe the welcome wagon lady dropped in for a fucking spot of tea and left her a little note on the cupboard with her basket of goodies.”

  “I’ve seen stranger things out here,” Geezer muttered squinting into the night.

  Jim looked across the expanse of glistening snow, listening for any sound in the absolute silence, half expecting a pack of snarling wolves to descend from the dark forest. The cold stars seemed near enough to touch. The no
rthern lights flickered in the distant sky, but their dancing splendor held no attraction for his callused soul.

  “It could be a nice spot if it weren’t so friggin cold. Can you find your way back?” He did not want to be lost in this barren wasteland.

  Geezer snorted an unintelligible answer and Jim hoped the derisive response was in the affirmative.

  “If this weather holds, we could leave tonight. Eh?” Jim asked, hoping to draw the old recluse into a conversation.

  Geezer cleared his throat, but he did not respond. Then Jim heard the sound, somewhere in the distance. The excited bark of the dogs. “God! Don’t tell me,” he gasped. But it was a team! They were coming fast, from the far end of the lake. Slowly the black dots materialized against the shimmering snow. The team was racing along the shore in a wide arc as if searching for some anticipated rendezvous. Then the black shadows swerved in their direction. Sure enough, the dogs began to bark in unison. He could hear bells ringing across the snow.

  “Well, no luck tonight,” he muttered, drawing only a curious glance from Geezer.

  The dogs dashed across the lake, barking in excitement at the smell of the plane and strangers now wafting towards them in the frigid air. The musher shouted his commands and the surging team glided to a halt in front of them. The driver was a big man. He roared again and the lead dog dropped in the snow. Jim could see passengers stirring amidst the pile of furs and quilts heaped upon the slender sled.