Treasures of the Snow

by Patricia St John

  In her sleep she dreamed of a dark house with no welcome lights in the windows, and the door barred and bolted. Somebody came to it at night across the waste of snow, and she could see his footprints all the way. This visitor knocked at the door, slowly and patiently, but nobody came to open it. He felt for a handle, but there wasn’t one. He went on knocking and knocking and knocking. He went on knocking until Annette woke up, but still nobody answered, and there were still no lights in the windows.

  “Perhaps there’s nobody there,” thought Annette to herself in a half-asleep sort of way. But somehow she knew perfectly well that there was. They just didn’t want to come to the door.

  The sadness of the dream lingered with her, and she dressed and went down to breakfast feeling rather upset, only to find everything in a turmoil. Dani had lost Klaus, and was refusing to eat his breakfast until she was found.

  “She always wakes me in the morning,” explained Dani excitedly. “She comes and purrs at me. But this morning she wasn’t there. She went out last night before I went to sleep, and she hasn’t come back.”

  Dani was upset, and everyone tried to help him. Papa searched in the barns, Grandmother rummaged about in the kitchen, and Dani explored perfectly impossible places. Annette went upstairs and searched the bedrooms, but it was all in vain. Klaus was nowhere to be found. Papa had last seen her stalking toward the barn with her tail in the air, picking her way gingerly across the soft snow. No one had seen her since.

  It was a miserable day. Dani was really upset at dinner, and between his sobs declared that he could not eat anything because Klaus was hungry. His tears trickled down into his soup and no one had any power to comfort him, although neither Papa nor Grandmother seemed particularly worried. “She will come back, Dani,” said Papa quietly. “She’s only hiding for today.”

  There was no sun either. Grey clouds hung low, hiding the mountains, and fresh, soft snow began to fall. At night it would harden into a crust, and next day would be dangerous for walking. Papa pulled on his cape and got out the big sleigh to haul in logs. Grandmother went to sleep in the armchair by the stove, and Dani came and leaned against Annette and looked up into her face.

  “’Nette,” he said pitifully, “I want to go to bed.”

  “Why, Dani?” asked Annette, astonished. “It’s ever so early—only just beginning to get dark. And you haven’t had your supper!”

  “But I want to go to bed, ’Nette,” persisted Dani.

  “You see, I want it to be time to say my prayers.”

  Annette gave a little laugh. “You don’t have to go to bed to say your prayers, Dani,” she replied. “You could say them just as well now, and then have your supper and go to bed at the normal time.”

  But Dani shook his fair head. “No,” he said, “I want them to be my proper prayers, in my nightgown. Please put me to bed, ’Nette.”

  “Oh, all right,” answered Annette, beginning to unbutton his sweater. “But you know, Dani, it doesn’t really make any difference being in your nightgown.” And then she kissed him because his small face looked so terribly sad and his mouth dropped at the corners.

  When he was safely buttoned into his white nightshirt, he knelt down and folded his hands and prayed for Klaus.

  “Dear God,” he prayed, “please bless Klaus. Please find her and bring her back to me quickly. Don’t let her be cold or hungry or frightened. Show her the way home tonight. Please, please, dear God. Amen.”

  “Aren’t you going to pray for anyone else?” protested Annette in a slightly shocked voice.

  “No,” replied Dani, getting up from his knees in a hurry, “not tonight. I don’t want God to think of anyone but Klaus tonight!” And then, thinking that perhaps he was being a little unkind, he added, “You can pray for the other people later.”

  Having asked God to look after Klaus, Dani climbed into bed with a peaceful heart and rested his cheek on his hand. But he opened his eyes and said drowsily, “’Nette?”

  “Yes,” answered Annette.

  “You’ll wake me when she comes, won’t you?”

  “When who comes?”

  “Klaus, of course!” And with that, Dani fell asleep.

  Annette wandered round the room restlessly, and then, because her cheeks felt hot and because she had been indoors all day, she opened the door and went out onto the balcony.

  It had stopped snowing. A west wind was blowing up the valley, piling the snow in drifts against the walls of the chalet. It was not a bitterly cold wind. It felt pleasant on her hot cheeks, and she decided to go for a walk up to the streambed. She might meet Klaus.

  She slipped on her cloak and set off. It was a full moon and very light. As Annette reached the top of the field, she turned and looked back over the snow and could see her footprints just like the footprints of the man in her dreams—only his had stretched a long way. He seemed to have traveled right across the world to reach that dark little house—and all for nothing.

  17

  An Open Door

  Annette wandered quite a long way, and at last she reached the little bridge that crossed the stream. The railings were hung with icicles and the stream was almost silent. It was very still up there. The wind had stopped and it had begun to freeze. The little bridge was extremely slippery and Annette never noticed the sheet of ice below the soft snow. Suddenly her foot slipped and she stumbled forward with a little cry of pain.

  For a moment the pain in her ankle made her feel faint and sick, and she lay for a minute or two in the snow without moving. Then she tried to get up, but sank down again with another cry, for she had sprained her ankle badly and could not stand on it at all.

  For a few minutes she felt terribly frightened. She was alone on the mountainside, and no one was likely to come down that lonely path that night. It was getting colder and colder. Unless she could reach shelter she would certainly freeze to death.

  Then she remembered that there was a chalet a little farther up the mountain around the bend in the path, just inside the forest. A young woodsman and his wife lived there. If she could drag herself on her hands and knees to their door, they would take her home on their sled. It was not very far. She would start at once.

  She began crawling through the snow, painfully dragging her poor swollen foot behind her. It ached dreadfully at every jolt, and before long she began to get terribly tired. Her hands kept sinking into the snow and her eyes filled with tears. Would she ever get there?

  She reached the hairpin bend in the path where the forest started, and to her relief she could see the chalet, not very far away, with one little light in the window.

  She struggled on slowly until she reached the steps of the little house. She gave a low call, hoping that someone would come out and carry her up them, but no one came. So she struggled up herself and sank down in an exhausted heap on the doorstep.

  Then with a sigh of relief she stretched up and knocked on the door.

  There was no answer. The little house seemed as silent as the snow. Annette reached up again and knocked as loudly as she could.

  But there was still no answer; Nothing stirred in the little house. No friendly footstep came toward her.

  Feeling very afraid, she staggered up on one foot and beat her fists upon the door until they were sore, shouting at the top of her voice and rattling the latch. Then, as the horrid truth dawned on her, she sank down on the steps and burst into frightened tears. The door was locked and the house was empty. The little light had only been left on to scare burglars. There was no one there at all.

  For a few minutes she felt in a real panic. She was a mountain child and had often heard stories of people being frozen to death in the snow. But then her panic left her and she began to think more clearly.

  If they had left the passage light on, they probably meant to come back that night.

  But if they had gone down the valley, they might be a long time coming, and then perhaps it would be too late. Already she could feel the cold creeping int
o the tips of her fingers.

  Perhaps if she rested a little she might be able to crawl back. But the next chalet was a long, long way down, and the snow drifts were soft and deep.

  Anyhow, she would wait a little longer and then try. It was her only chance.

  She looked hopelessly out into the snowy scene in front of her. Once again she thought of her dream, where there had been footprints all the way to the door of the silent house.

  As she sat there waiting, she thought of something else. She knew now, for the first time, what it felt like to knock at a closed door and get no answer.

  She had knocked for only a few minutes, but the Lord Jesus went on knocking for years and years. She knew He did.

  She had stopped knocking because she knew the house was empty. But just supposing Monsieur and Madame Berdoz had been inside all the time. Suppose they had heard her knocking out in the night and had looked at each other and said, “Somebody’s knocking, but we won’t let them in just now. We’ll pretend not to hear. We won’t take any notice!”

  How angry she would have been with them. How much she would have hated them for being so unkind!

  Yet that was exactly how she was treating the Lord Jesus—and He didn’t hate her. He still loved her dearly, or He wouldn’t go on knocking and still want to come in. Grandmother had said so.

  She was thinking so hard about this that for a moment she almost forgot her fear and loneliness. But she suddenly lifted her head and strained her ears, for she thought she heard a sound.

  It was a very gentle sound, but one that all mountain children know well—the sound of skis running through soft snow. Then she heard the sound of a boy’s voice, singing.

  Someone was coming down through the wood on skis. In a few seconds they would come around the bend and shoot right past the front of the chalet. If they were going very fast, they might not see her.

  A little figure came into sight, swaying toward the valley. Annette kneeled upright and shouted at the top of her voice. “Help!” she cried, cupping her hands in front of her mouth. “Stop and help me!”

  The skier turned swiftly and brought his skis to a standstill. Then he unstrapped them and ran lightly up the slope toward her.

  “What’s the matter?” he cried. “Who is it? Are you hurt?”

  It was Lucien. He had been up the mountain to visit his old friend, and now he was on his way home. He had been startled by Annette’s cry, and when he saw who it was kneeling there in the moonlight, he stood still and stared as though he had seen a ghost.

  But Annette was too pleased to see anyone to care about who it was. Just for a moment she forgot everything except that she was found and saved. She stretched out her hands and seized hold of his cloak as though she was afraid he might run away.

  “Oh, Lucien,” she cried in a rather shaky voice. “I am so glad you’ve come. I’ve hurt my foot, and I can’t walk, and I thought I might freeze to death before Monsieur and Madame Berdoz came home. Can you take me home, Lucien? I’m getting so cold.”

  Lucien’s big mountain cloak was around her in an instant. He squatted down beside her and rubbed her cold hands.

  “I can’t take you on the skis, Annette,” he said gently, “because you’re too big to carry. But I can be home in five minutes, and then I’ll come straight back with the big sled and a rug. I’ll have you at your chalet in less than half an hour.”

  Lucien’s heart was so full of sudden joy that he felt he must run and shout and sing. His dream had come true. He was doing something useful for Annette. She needed him. Now perhaps she would forgive him and forget that terrible quarrel.

  “Won’t you be cold without your cloak, Lucien?” asked Annette in a small, exhausted voice.

  Lucien promptly took off his jacket and wrapped it around her head, and wished he might give her his shirt as well—although it wouldn’t have been the slightest use. He could feel the bite of the frost on his body and raced back over the snow. A moment later he had his skis on and sped off. He felt so happy he hardly noticed the cold. He stumbled into his front door and his mother cried out at the sight of his bare arms and blue nose!

  Annette, left alone, snuggled up in the warmth of Lucien’s rough cloak. He would be back in about twenty-five minutes, and in those twenty-five minutes there was a good deal to make up her mind about.

  First, she was safe. Lucien had come out of the wood just at the right moment, and he had heard her cry. So all the time she had thought she was alone, God had been caring for her and had sent Lucien to save her.

  Secondly, she had discovered something about closed doors. She was not quite sure yet just what would happen when she opened the door, but one thing she was quite certain about. She could not leave Jesus outside any longer. She leaned her head against the snowy step rail and closed her eyes.

  “Lord Jesus,” said Annette, “I’m opening the door now. I’m sorry it’s been shut such a long time and you had to wait so long. Please come in now. I’m sorry I’ve hated Lucien. Please make me love him, and if I’ve got to tell him about that little horse, please make me brave enough. And thank you for sending Lucien to find me. Amen.”

  And so the Lord Jesus, who had been waiting outside the door of Annette’s heart and life for such a long time, came in. He would forgive her and help her to change. There was no one there to see that wonderful thing happening. Even Annette did not really feel any different. But up in heaven that night, Annette’s name was written in God’s Book of Life, and the angels rejoiced because another child on earth had opened the door and made room for the Lord Jesus.

  18

  Things Start to Come Right

  Well,” thought Annette, “I’ve done it, and now I know what’s got to happen.”

  She found her heart beating very fast, and she looked up at the vast starry sky and the great mountains to steady herself. How big they were, how old and unchanging! They made her and her fears feel very small and unimportant. After all, it would soon be over and forgotten about, but the mountains and the stars would go on and on forever.

  A small black figure appeared, running around the curve in the path, dragging a sled behind him. He had found another coat, and was so out of breath with hurrying that he could hardly speak.

  “Come on, Annette,” he gasped. “I’ve brought the big sled so there’s plenty of room for you to stretch out your leg. We’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  He held out his hand to help her get up, but she drew back. “Just a minute, Lucien,” she said in a hurried, rather shaky voice. “I want to tell you something before we go home. Lucien, it wasn’t the cat that knocked over your horse that day. It was me. I did it on purpose because I didn’t want you to get the prize—because you hurt Dani. I’m sorry, Lucien.”

  Lucien stood and stared at her, too surprised and, strangely enough, too happy to speak. For instead of feeling angry, he felt tremendously relieved. Annette had done something wrong as well as him, and if he had to forgive Annette, perhaps it would be easier for Annette to forgive him. Of course a little smashed horse was nothing compared with a little boy’s smashed leg, but even so, it seemed to bring them somehow nearer together.

  But he couldn’t put all that into words, so he just gave a gruff little laugh and said shyly, “Oh, it’s all right, Annette. You needn’t worry. Get on the sled.” Then he tucked the coat around her, sat down in front of her, and together they sped down the mountainside and arrived at the Burniers’ front door, powdered all over with the snow that flew up from the runners.

  Annette climbed the steps on her hands and knees and stood on one leg in the doorway. Then she looked at Lucien, who was turning away slowly with the sled.

  She had opened the door of her heart to the love of the Lord Jesus, and that meant opening the door to Lucien as well, for Jesus’ love never shuts anyone out.

  “Come up, Lucien,” she called. “Come in and see Grandmother. She will be so pleased that you found me.”

  She opened the front door as wi
de as it would go, and she and Lucien went in.

  Grandmother jumped up with a cry of joy at the sight of Annette. They had been very worried, and Papa had gone up the mountain to search for her. Grandmother was opening her mouth to be cross when she noticed the lame foot, so she shut her mouth, helped Annette onto the sofa, and went to look for cold-water bandages.

  As she turned, she noticed Lucien standing shyly in the doorway, wondering what to do, and for a moment they stood looking at each other. She could see in his face how much he wanted to be accepted, so she put both hands on his shoulders and drew him to the warmth and blaze of the open stove.

  “You are welcome, my child,” she said firmly. “Come and sit down and eat with us.”

  The door opened again, and Papa entered, shaking the snow from his cloak. He had guessed Annette was safe, for he had seen the sled and the forms of two children whizzing across the fields. When he had heard her story and scolded her a little for going so far alone at night, he too sat down by the open stove, and Grandmother served out hot chocolate and crusty bread thickly spread with golden butter. On top of each hunk she placed a thick slice of cheese full of holes, and everyone sat munching in silence.

  A sleepy, contented silence! The warmth of the stove after the night air made them all feel drowsy. Lucien sat blinking at the flames and wished that this moment could last forever when suddenly the silence was broken by a strange scratching noise at the door.

  “It’s Klaus,” shouted Annette, and she sprang forward. But her bad foot held her back, and it was Grandmother and Papa and Lucien who all opened the door at once.

  Klaus marched into the room with her tail held proudly high and in her mouth she carried a perfectly new, blind tabby kitten. She took no notice of any of them, but walked straight across to the little bed where Dani lay sleeping and jumped up onto the feather quilt. She dropped her precious bundle as near as possible to Dani’s golden head, and then hurried back to the door and meowed.