THE LAST GHOST OF CHRISTMAS

by Jesse Colt

  Jim slumped back in the chair again. He felt a flush of anger at Tania. She always left everything until the last possible moment. She never seemed in a hurry about anything, no matter how important it was to everyone else. Probably out partying with her friends while he waited, desperately impatient for this most cherished gift. His precious letter had only been dropped into the mail yesterday. He shook the package at the old medicine man seated in his comfortable rocker.

  “This was postmarked yesterday. The teams were in the middle of the wilderness. They couldn’t possibly have gotten the letter. It was just mailed from Calgary yesterday!” he snapped.

  “Hummph!” the dark figure stated once more. It seemed an acknowledgment that perhaps Jim had a point, but not a major one. The letter was, after all, resting in his hands.

  Jim looked at the placid face and heavy braids. Maybe Zary was involved in this outrageous conspiracy. He knew he was wasting his time shouting at the illiterate old Dene. There had to be a logical explanation. He would sort it out when he called Tania in Calgary.

  The ancient figure rose stiffly to his feet and removed a huge pipe from the mantle on the fireplace. Jim watched as the lean fingers began blending one of the new packets of rich tobacco with his own mixture of dried colorless material. Jim could smell the deep cloying aroma of the moist tobacco. The fresh packets had come in on the sleds. He was certain the old man must have welcomed the arrival of the new pouches, judging by his own withered supply.

  He watched the practiced hands packing the bowl. When the gaunt fingers had completed the task, he raised the pipe for Jim’s inspection, perhaps to take his mind off the letter that seemed to be causing him such consternation. The pipe had a long stem, nearly the length of his forearm. It was magnificent, carved of polished cherry-wood and decorated with tiny designs engraved into the gleaming surface. A massive eagle feather hung from the center. It was an elaborate looking calumet. Jim wondered who had found the time and skills to carve it so beautifully.

  The lean figure in the shadows smiled and thrust the pipe towards Jim. “Smoke?” he inquired pleasantly.

  Jim didn’t smoke, but he was reluctant to refuse the generosity shining in the bright watery eyes. The cabin seemed to hold him. There was something cozy about this snug log building. He could visualize himself living out his own retirement in such an agreeable environment. He was no longer in a rush to get back to the cold cell in the priest’s manse. His tiny room seemed to bring a flood of unwanted memories each time he dozed on the hard cot. Last night he had been awoken by Christine’s voice, calling to him over the gusts of icy wind. He shook the hard memory off and nodded in affirmation. He would share a pipe with his silent host.

  The mystery of the letter whirled around him again, leaving his senses spinning. He struggled for the answer. Maybe the postmark was wrong. Perhaps Nester had gotten it in his mail by mistake and left it for him in the cabin. Nothing made any sense. He remembered the mystical presence circling over the village. Maybe, just maybe. He dismissed the idea!

  The ancient medicine man picked up a slender splinter of kindling and touched the glowing coals. It burst into flame and flickered in the darkened room, snapping Jim’s attention back to the slender pipe and his aged host. Thin lips sucked on the heavy mouthpiece and coaxed the bowl into a smoldering glow. The weathered lips dragged deeply upon the cherry-wood stem and then presented the ornate pipe to Jim. It was more than just passing the elaborate pipe. It was an offering accompanied by a smile and a slight bow. The lean fingers bestowed the great calumet upon him as if he were a fraternal brother.

  Jim accepted the pipe in what he considered a respectful manner. He sucked on the great cherry stem. It tasted like tobacco, tobacco mixed with some grassy weed or willow bark. The smoke was sweet and heavy, but not that unpleasant. Perhaps the mystical figure was reluctant to use up all the scarce expensive tobacco at once. He was extending his supply by adding his own natural blend of some mysterious mixture.

  Jim had never smoked. The habit disgusted him, but he sucked in a mouthful and held it a brief moment before exhaling. He was not used to the smoke in his lungs. He grew lightheaded and dizzy. A faint tingling pulsed though his extremities. He felt as if he had stood up too quickly after a hot bath or had held his breath for too long. It was a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. He slowly passed the pipe back to the practiced hands and watched as a slow smile crept over the wrinkled features.

  Jim looked around the room again. His eyes had grown accustomed to the faint light. He examined the animal skins on the walls. He knew what they were now! Not decorations, but trophies of the old man’s skills, like the silver hardware and ribbons he kept in his own showcase, when he still had a home. He could sense the medicine man’s comfort amidst his mementos, his crackling fireplace and the complete solitude of the North just outside the solid log walls.

  Red Bear was about to draw his second puff from the mystical pipe. Jim watched him with interest. The proud form seemed to be demonstrating the correct way to smoke the great pipe. He looked over the bowl at Jim. There was a touch of arrogance on his weathered face. He elevated his chin, placed both lean hands on the pipe and sucked until the bowl glowed. His eyes never left Jim’s. There seemed a challenge in his every motion. He held the smoke in his lungs for half a minute and finally exhaled the rich cloud. He extended the pipe to Jim again in a formal fashion.

  Jim accepted the challenge. “What the hell,” he mumbled, “so far this has been a completely whacko trip. I may as well get hooked on nicotine as well.”

  He received the pipe slowly with both hands and raised it towards the buckskin clad figure. He was rewarded with an appreciative smile followed by a slow nod. The ancient Dene seemed to be enjoying Jim’s company. Jim carefully placed the stem in his own lips, jutted his chin arrogantly at the weathered face and sucked in a long puff. He held the raw smoke in his lungs until his head began to swim, then he exhaled again.

  “Top that, Ancient One,” he gasped.

  The elderly medicine man smiled into Jim’s eyes. Jim felt completely at ease in the mystical vision that seemed to surround his host. He was no longer a stranger with a foreign tongue. He had become a fellow traveler, moving across the mysteries of the universe with him on Christmas Eve. He looked through the cloud of smoke he had blown towards the buckskin clad figure. It had not dissipated like the first puff. It seemed to be hanging before him like a friendly mist. He stared into the vapor. The light must be playing tricks on him! The unfamiliar kick of the tobacco had left him lightheaded! He was certain he could see the reflection of a magnificent Christmas tree in the curling smoke.

  The shimmering tree looked vaguely familiar. It was draped in angel hair and the lights were bubbling in a familiar, but almost forgotten manner. The image grew clearer within the thin cloud. Then he recognized it. It was his grandmother’s tree, back on the old family farm. He had not thought about it in years. He had not seen such a magnificent pine since he was a child. His grandmother always had the world’s greatest tree, taller than most and loaded with gleaming decorations acquired over her lifetime.

  The smoke dissipated and Jim swam reluctantly back to reality. He watched the old medicine man puffing on the pipe again. He was smiling at Jim through the vaporizing smoke. This time Jim reached eagerly for the pipe; there was something in that powerful bowl that made him feel good, helped him clarify his thoughts. A couple more puffs and he would be ready to wrestle with the surely ghosts of Christmases past.

  “You know tonight is Christmas Eve,” Jim stated. “Down south everyone will be rushing through the malls buying last minute gifts they can’t afford, using credit cards they shouldn’t have.” He knew the old man didn’t understand a word he was saying, but it no longer mattered.

  “Hummp!” the braided figure responded. He rose slowly to his feet and tossed another log on the dying fire. The dry birch sent a shower of crackling sp
arks spiraling up the chimney. The red shower seemed a picturesque invitation for Jim to remain in the cozy cabin.

  “You know it’s really great talking with you. Did you know Christmas has become one of the most stressful times in our lives. There are more suicides than any other time of the year and a lot of marriages break up over the holidays. That’s when my own started to come apart,” he laughed bitterly. “One New Years day, after I had been partying all night.”

  “Hummph,” the solemn figure answered before placing the pipe to his own lips.

  “I used to believe in Santa Claus too,” he continued. “Yeah, I was probably the last kid on our block to give up on the old cuss. You know where I work now? I work right next to where he is supposed to be. Way up there, north, way north of here even, near the North Pole.” He jabbed his hand at what he thought was the north wall. The watery eyes watched Jim’s animated motion with interest.

  “That’s where he should be, too. Living in one of the most remote, peaceful places in the world and keeping his own mystical council. But you know, I have never once seen him up there. No one has. Not one of us has ever found a trace of him. Can you guess where I last saw him?” He waited for the thin lips man to respond, but he seemed totally absorbed in the sweet pipe. Jim guessed he did not understand a word he was saying.

  “I found him in Toronto. Yeah, bloody, foggy old Toronto. Standing behind a skimpy table in the friggin airport. Shamelessly hawking high priced pieces of junk from China. It was pissin down rain, like it always does out there every Christmas.” The watery eyes seemed to be studying him again.

  “Not much wonder Christmas has gone to hell. I used to think it was me screwed up the season, but it’s as much his fault as mine, you know!”

  “Hummp!” the haughty figure responded and passed him the pipe again. When he had handed Jim the pipe, he leaned over and slowly picked up one of the scribblers and a fat pen. He appeared to be jotting down a few notes, recording Jim’s comments. Jim knew this was impossible, for the old Dene seemed ignorant of the English language.

  Jim wondered what kind of notations the lean illiterate fingers might be inscribing in the text, but he was too eager to secure the pipe again. He took a long puff, held it in his lungs for as long as he could and then exhaled, watching expectantly to see if he could create the crystal ball effect again. It worked! The mystical cloud formed, and he could see a scene within the vapor, like the projected image on some imperfect background.

  The setting was familiar. His old office was next door. He was back in the SunLife mall in downtown Calgary. He remembered standing in the same alcove with Anne while she listened to Christmas carols.

  Now there was a towering artificial tree reaching to the top of the gleaming steel and chrome structure. Someone was playing Christmas carols on a thundering organ and the spectators were lined up along the upper level. His gaze swept across the crowd. He could see the magic of the season on their faces.

  He recognized a familiar figure. His tipsy senses slowed, reeling in surprise. He looked again. God! It was Anne! She was clutching her purse in her hands. A large shopping bag was languishing at her side, practically empty, but guarded as if possessing treasures of great value. She had lost a little weight. Her face no longer had its usual sunny glow. Still, the old physical attraction was there.

  “Lord,” he thought. “She’s wearing that same old coat she wore when we were together years ago.”

  It was starting to show its age too. He looked at her shoes. They were a little scuffed. She was obviously by herself, listening to the music. The carols had brought tears to her eyes. She always had been emotional at Christmas. The music stopped. Some of the crowd turned to leave and Anne moved away with them.

  The organ started again, the powerful pipes swelling the melody through the building. The tune was “Little Town of Bethlehem.” It was her favorite carol. He had often heard her singing it at Christmas. Over and over to the children when they were still babes. They never seemed to grow tired of her happy voice.

  Anne returned and leaned against the rail, totally engrossed in the music. She was staring, not at the organ player, but out into the snow falling in the bustling Calgary street. Her mind seemed far away. He tried to guess what she was thinking. He wondered where she was living now and if Brandon was still with her. The thought of the great dog tugged at his heart.

  He remembered their Christmases together. She wasn’t really that bad a person. A little disorganized, a poor money manager, but there was nothing mean or vicious about her. He wished he could take back some of the cruel things he had said to her in the past. She hadn’t even answered him, when he had hurled the insults, just turned away and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. God, she looked as if she was about to cry now. She dabbed at her cheek and he knew the tears in her eyes were droplets that he had helped place there. He felt his own eyes welling up.

  She moved away, brushing her face with her dark gloves. He followed her image for a time; a TV camera panning a moving object. She was still shopping. She walked into a small specialty shop and approached a rack of leather coats. He knew how much she had loved leather things. She sorted through the rack until she found a beautiful suede jacket in her size. She held it up to her shoulders and looked into a full-length mirror. The color suited her. Her smile returned and her face brightened a little.

  “God,” he thought. “Buy the damned thing. Brighten yourself up a little.”

  She looked carefully at the price tag and quickly placed it back on the rack. Maybe she was short of cash?

  Sometimes his cheques were a little late, but he had sent the last one on time. Just the faint remembrance of Christmas had made him do so. His own account was flush, and he felt guilty about the small fortune he would spend in the Caribbean. He wished now that he had sent her a little extra for Christmas. She reached into her purse and fumbled out a bus pass. He would follow her home. Maybe he could see how she was doing. She pushed open the gleaming steel doors and hurried into the falling snow. He tried to follow her, but the vision would not permit it. Her departing figure gradually melted into the heavy flakes and he was left with the image of the snow-covered traffic crawling down the icy Calgary street.

  Red Bear was extending the pipe again. Jim seized the long stem from the frail hands and eagerly sucked the heavy vapor deep into his lungs, He held it until his head whirled and his lungs burned, then he slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke and searched for the vision again. It reappeared. He knew he was in Anne’s apartment.

  The room was sparsely decorated. He recognized the old couch. Where is the money going? Then it hit him! Tania had hinted at it. Most of the alimony was passed directly to her daughters, Christine, the struggling young artist whose talents were still not well known and Tania, the student with two years left in college.

  He swallowed hard and looked around the room again. Why hadn’t he taken better care of his daughters? He felt a deep sense of guilt, having passed most of the burden to Anne.

  The little tree in the corner of her apartment was hung with sparse decorations. He recognized several. There were some of the first ones his daughters had made when they were still in Brownies. The first small angel Christine had created topped the tree. A small cushion shaped and tasseled like a Christmas tree adorned the worn coffee table. Anne had picked the colorful pillow up during a trip to Minot, on one New Year’s holiday long ago. It had been washed a few times. The last year they were together he had asked her to throw it out before his friends arrived. He thought it had gone into the garbage, but she had saved it. God, why is she living in the past?

  Brandon was there, dozing on the couch. Jim felt another tug at his heart. “God, I miss that damned dog! Almost as much as I miss Christine.”

  The dog stood up and stretched. He was still big and powerful, but he looked a little overweight. Anne couldn’t give him the exercise Jim had done. He could see the w
hite whiskers dotting his chin. How old would he be now? Nine years, ten perhaps?

  He wondered if there was still time in his life to take Brandon for walks in the country once more. Time to watch him spook the saucy squirrels or stare down the bold magpies. He was certain the giant shepherd would still remember him, even after all this time. If only he could touch him once more, run his fingers though the shaggy mane.

  He remembered the struggle within himself before he gave the dog up. He knew he couldn’t take Brandon where he was going. The dog was better off with Anne and the kids adored him.

  He looked at the faded couch again and remembered an earlier Christmas, just after they had purchased the sprawling piece of furniture. The kids had been young, still babes by comparison. He was dozing on the couch when they came to him. Two loving little Smurfs in matching pajamas. Their hearts had been filled with love and excitement at the approach of Christmas. He had opened his arms to the pair, and they had clambered onto his knee, nudging one and other for the most comfortable spot on his lap. They were soft and warm, oversized puppies bursting with love. He felt completely at peace and proud that he was able to make them happy and provide them with all the things every child deserved at Christmas.

  He could see the lights blinking on the familiar tree, even the one that always gave him trouble. His daughters clung to him, filling his own heart with the true meaning of the season. Anne was in the kitchen. The smell of her baking filled the air. She was singing softly. “Little Town of Bethlehem.”

  His daughters knew that they had little time left before they allowed themselves to be tucked reluctantly in their beds. Not until the cookies were out and almost cool upon the tray. Only after they had sampled them, just to be certain they were good enough for Santa. Only then would they have to endure the torturous wait until morning. Now they were content to snuggle quietly in their father’s arms, totally unaware of the bliss they were bestowing upon him.