Parable of the Pit

Once upon a time, a woman named Bertha found the entrance to the Strait and Narrow Way. It appeared to be much less crowded than the Broad Way she had been traveling, and she thought she'd like to try it. But the Narrow Way also looked rather steep, and her knees had been giving her some trouble lately. So she settled there at the crossroads, and enjoyed watching the people go by as she waited to become stronger.

As Bertha returned home one day, she noticed that a large sinkhole had appeared between the two roads. Alarmed, she stepped carefully around it, and safely reached her house. Later, though, she glanced out the front window, and saw a young woman fall into the pit. Bertha hurried outside.

“Help!” called the young woman. “Can you help me?”

Bertha peered down. “How did you fall in?”

“I didn't see the hole. Can you pull me out?”

Bertha reached in, but the pit was too deep. She could not reach the young woman's hand.

“Do you have a ladder, or a rope?” the young woman asked.

“No, I have nothing like that. I'm sorry, but I cannot help you.” Bertha left the disappointed young woman in the pit, and returned to her comfortable home.

Over the next few days, more people fell into the pit. A couple of teenaged boys dared each other to jump in, but could not jump back out. A girl was pushed in by a false friend who ran off, giggling. A scholarly-looking older man convinced his pupil that the only way to understand and solve the problem of the pit was to explore it fully, and they climbed in. Some rushed along the road without paying attention, and fell in. Others looked down, curiously, until the side seemed to give way, and they fell, too.

At first, Bertha worried about the fallen travelers. She advised them to climb the sides or boost each other out, but the pit was too deep, the sides too slick. Eventually she decided they must deserve to be down there, if they weren't going to pay attention or stay away from obvious danger. She began to smirk when she saw someone fall. Occasionally, she'd toss a casserole down to the victims. There really wasn't anything else she could do, was there?

One morning, Bertha heard the fallen ones calling for help, and looked outside. A new traveler approached the pit. He looked like one of those hippy types, with long hair and a beard. He leaned down and smiled at the people in the pit. Then he climbed right in. “That figures,” Bertha thought, but she went outside to see what else he would do.

The people in the pit were clamoring around the newcomer.

“We've been here so long. We've tried everything, but we can't get out. Can you help us? Please?”

“Yes,” he said. “I can.”

Bertha thought that was unlikely. He looked no taller or stronger than any of the others. But most of the people in the pit seemed to believe the stranger.

“I will lift you out,” he said, “but you'll need to do something for me.” He spoke to each victim quietly. The old scholar scoffed, but his pupil agreed wholeheartedly to whatever the stranger had asked. So did most of the others.

The young woman who had fallen first sat staring at the wall. She had given up asking for help some time before. The man took her hands. “Even you,” he said. “I can even save you.” Tears streamed from her eyes as he helped her stand. Then he crouched down next to her, offered his hands for her to step on, and lifted her out of the pit.

Bertha was amazed. Had the stranger stretched that far? Or had the hole shrunk? Both looked the same as before, but there was the young woman, backing away from the edge, smiling up into the sunlight. And soon others joined her. When the man had lifted out all who were willing, he climbed out, too.

Bertha thought they were a sorry-looking lot, all smudged and stained from their time in that muddy hole. But they all smiled, and called the man their Savior, and he smiled and put his arms around them.

Then he said, “Come,” and led the group to the entrance to the Strait and Narrow Way. As each went through the gate, the dirt on their clothes disappeared.

“Wait,” Bertha called as the gate began to close. “May I come, too?”

The bearded man turned and extended a hand toward her. “Come, follow me.”

Bertha tried to walk that way, but her feet would not move.

The man walked back toward her. “Would you like me to help you out of the pit?”

“I'm not in any hole,” she replied indignantly. “I knew better than to fall in there.”

“But did you warn your neighbors of its danger? Did you minister to those who had fallen?”

Bertha suddenly knew that her casseroles hadn't counted for very much. “Well, no.”

“Then you, too, have fallen into a trap.” Bertha saw that she was, indeed, surrounded by the tall, slick walls. “I will return, should you desire my help.” The man walked away.

When another woman fell into the hole, Bertha rushed to comfort her. When a young man peered cautiously over the edge, Bertha begged him to set up a sign, or a fence, to warn other travelers of the danger. She found her knees strengthened as she spent more time on them. And she waited patiently for the return of the only one who could rescue her from the pit.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.  Isaiah 53:4-5

Clearly

Bond of Union, 1956, by M. C. Escher

     "So, what do you think of him?  Isn't he so hot?"
     "I thought it was a little chilly in the café.  But you're right, he didn't seem bothered by it."
     "I could stare into his eyes for hours.  I love the shape of his earlobes, and isn't his little beard so cute?"
     "His face is sort of appealing, but . . ."
     "But what?"
     "Something about him seems, well, only skin-deep, you know?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "His comments weren't very substantial.  And he seemed pretty thin-skinned."
     "Huh?"
     "He can't take a joke."
     "Um, when did you make a joke?"
     "You know, when I teased him about his clear nasal passages?"
     "You were teasing?"
     "The speed at which my words went in one of his ears and out the other indicated a certain lack of interference in between."
     "You saw your words come out of his ear?"
     "Uh, yeah.  I can see thoughts, too, you know.  And every time a thought bubble began to form over his head, it burst before anything coagulated inside."
     "Whatever.  You're weird.  But he's dreamy.  I just want to wrap myself around him and never let him go."
     "Even if he's an airhead?"
     "I think he's perfect."
     Sigh.  "I guess he is, then.  Perfect for you."



For Magpie Tales

Fall Fashion Report

Autumn in Madeira by Jacek Yerka 

   "Almost there, Miss!"
   "It is so kind for you to bring me out here, Mr. Purnell,"  Miss Lyon said, trying to fan away the August heat.
   "Aw, Miss, Mr. Purnell is my Pa.  Call me Jake, everyone does."
   "Um, thank you.  I'm sure the Conscientious Ladies' Journal readers will be quite interested in your business."
   "Of course they will.  Purnell Plantation isn't called the 'Foremost Purveyors of Fashion Foliage' for nothin', you know."
   "Why have you taken that epithet upon yourselves?"
   Jake shrugged, taking a corner at speed.  "Superior products.  We have the best silk leaves on the market."
   Miss Lyon held onto her unadorned fedora.  "To whom do you sell them?"
   "Milliners in the city, mostly.  Some go to the dry-goods stores for the ladies what like to trim their own bonnets.  There it is, home sweet home.  What do you think?"
   "It's rather small, for a plantation, isn't it?"
   Jake sighed.  "Well, it used to be bigger, but times weren't so good a few years back, and my Great-Grandpa had to sell off a lot of the land."
   Miss Lyon attempted to take notes as the sedan bounced toward what looked like an autumnal island in a field.  "Who owns it now?"
   "Dunno.  No one's seen them since they carted it away."
   "Carted . . . what?"
   "The land."  Jake squinted as he accelerated.  "Sorry, Miss.  I have to take this slope at a bit of a run."
   Miss Lyon grasped the edge of her seat as Jake drove the sedan up and part of the way into a ramshackle shed. 
   "Here, Miss," he said, opening her door.  "As you can see, we have a bumper crop this year."
   "How do you define that?"
   "The garage is so full of leaves that I can't fit both bumpers inside."
   Miss Lyon looked around, shaking her head.  "I--this is nothing like I imagined."
   "What did you expect?" 
   "Acres of mulberry trees, in straight lines--"
   "Mulberry trees?  I think we have a couple, in the back.  But there's much more demand for oak and maple leaves."
   "Mulberry trees for the silkworms."
   "Silkworms?  Can't abide the pests.  Last time they invaded, we lost half the orchard."
   "And overworked, underpaid women picking the cocoons apart with ragged fingernails, painstakingly spinning, weaving, painting, for the vanity of those who value appearance over conscience."
   A brilliant orange leaf fluttered down from above.  Jake picked it up, his brows knit together.  "Why would we need any of that, Miss?  The leaves grow, and we pick them."
   "Silk leaves grow on trees?"
   Jake handed her the leaf.  "Sure."
   Miss Lyon turned away, putting on her spectacles.  She peered at the leaf, stroked it with her fingers, crushed it in her fist.  When she opened her hand again, the leaf lay whole, undamaged.  "This--this feels like silk.  And doesn't crunch like a dry leaf should.  But it can't be natural.  Leaves on trees certainly should not have turned colors yet.  It's summertime."
   "I'm no expert, Miss, but if I know anything about fashion, it's that one must look forward.  We harvest green leaves in February, for the spring hats, and colored in August."
   "How, um, convenient.  Will you please show me the rest of your facilities?"
   "Right this way.  You're going to like this, Miss.  The latest technical advancement."  He led her to another shed.  A tree was growing out through its leaf-covered roof.  Jake opened the door. 
   "Stand back, Miss, and watch this."  He pulled a rope next to the door, and the roof panels swung inward, depositing the leaves on the floor.  "Clever, don't you think?  My Pa's applied for a patent on it.  Purnell's Patent Leaf Collector, he's calling it."
   "What happens next?"
   "Why, then we sort them by color, size, and quality, pile 'em into the auto-mobile, and deliver them to our customers."
   "So, you expect my readers to believe that silk leaves just grow on trees, and turn colors in the summer so the milliners will be ready for the autumn styles?"
   Jake shrugged again.  "It's true."
   Miss Lyon threw her hands in the air.  "My readers are no fools.  What else will you claim?  Does wax fruit grow on trees, too?"
   "Certainly.  My cousin Alfred grows the best wax fruit in his orchard.  Would you like an introduction?  Apples, grapes, he grows it all.  Looks good enough to eat, but mind you don't, Miss."
   "I suppose the bonnets themselves grow on trees, too?"
   Jake folded his arms.  "You don't need to jest, Miss."
   "Oh, are you going to tell me the truth now?"
   "Bonnets grow on vines, not trees.  And not in this climate, either.  My uncle Larkin has a vineyard down south, and it's a sight to see, Miss, when the bonnets blossom out in the spring, all bright colors and different shapes.  Uncle Larkin has been around the world, collectin' seeds, he has.  The cloches bloom bright red, and the boaters are yellow.  Those little fanchons were orange, but they only grew one year, and Uncle figures they were just a fluke.  They all ripen to that nice straw color, and then we pick them."
   Jake looked upward, a small smile on his face.  "I went to help out a couple years ago, and I could have stayed there forever."  He looked at Miss Lyon again.  "But Ma and Pa need me here.  I'm the only one that can drive the auto-mobile."
   Miss Lyon kept looking around at the trees, the sheds, the summer meadow surrounding the autumnal island, disbelief etched in her face.  Jake considered.
   "Here, Miss, what you need is a free sample.  That hat of yours could use a little perking up, don't you think?  I'll just shimmy up here and pick you some fresh leaves, and my sister will fix them right up.  She apprentices with a milliner when we're not harvesting."  Jake climbed a ladder to the roof of one shed, and soon disappeared into the brilliant branches of a maple tree. 
   Miss Lyon took some deep breaths, and looked around again, this time to find out if anyone was watching her.  Whether she believed the young man or not, there was only one thing to do when confronted with a pile of autumn leaves.  She gathered her skirts, took a few running steps, and jumped.



For Magpie Tales

Dogslist

A Magpie Tale

Photo by Terri Windling

For Sale > Collars
     Shiny yellow collar with human commercial logo all over it.  Worn once.  Not my style.  Must go soon--puppies will be teething in no time.
  
Housing > Swap
    Need a change of scene?  Cozy one-room doghouse with a great view.  Fenced yard for privacy; good soil for digging your own entrance.  Neighbors keep garbage bins well-stocked.  Available for rent, or will consider a swap with your house.

Jobs > Salons > Stylist Wanted
    Cushion available for experienced stylist.  Skills in pedicure, shampoo, male and female grooming a must.  Experience with styles for poodle and wire hair fox terrier a plus.  Trot around with portfolio to apply.

Lost & Found > Lost Ball
    Lost favorite fuzzy, jingly ball.  Last seen on golf course.  Reward: golf ball I picked up instead.

Musicians > Auditions
    A capella group seeks bass woofer for frequent moonlight gigs.  Our pack performs popular covers and original tunes.  Bring prepared piece, and be ready to improvise. 

Personals > Female Seeking Male
    Slender blonde likes chasing pine cones, getting caught in the rain.  Seeks blue-eyed Husky stud.  I want to have your puppies!
 
Lessons & Tutoring > Etiquette
    Afraid to go out?  Tired of being embarrassed in public?  Learn confidence from our experienced teachers.  In our Basic course, we will help you teach your human to:

• shake your paw
• throw a stick properly
• behave well at the park 
• respond quickly to commands such as "open the door" and "go for a walk"

    We also offer Advanced courses (dogs only, please) such as

• The Language of Tails
• Vocal Training--get the most out of your growls, barks, and howls
• Appropriate Gift Selection--for canine and human friends

Services > Limousine
    Cruise in style with a dozen of your closest friends!  Durable leather seats, cozy carpet, and five pairs of fully-opening windows for your panting pleasure!  All rides include complimentary spring water and gourmet biscuits.

Leo and the Nightmares

A Magpie Tale

The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897, by Henri Rousseau

Pippa finished the jig with a flourish and raised her bow in the air.  Its tip tapped the dingy rafter above her, and she hastily lowered it.  But she smiled and bowed, along with Rosalind and Leo, as the audience clapped and whistled.  "Thank you!  Thank you!" Pippa called out, flushed with the thrill of a well-played set.  She caught a meaningful glance from Leo.  "And good night!"

"What, already?"  The landlord stepped forward as the performers filed off the stage.  "'Taint even midnight.  They was just gettin' warmed up."

Leo brushed past the man, latching his lute case.  Rosalind stopped, smoothing a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear.  "Sorry, sir.  Band policy."

"But . . ."

Rosalind shrugged, taking her flute apart.  The landlord stepped back on the stage, facing the already grumbling crowd.  "One more round of applause for Leo and the Nightmares!  And anyone for one more round?"  A stale bun bounced off the wall behind him, and he quickly stepped down.

"It's all for the best, sir."  Pippa settled her fiddle and stood up.  "You really want this rabble here all night?  Turn 'em out and get yourself some sleep."

The landlord sighed.  "Very well.  Meg'll show you to your room."

"Thank you kindly, but we can't take one of your fine rooms.  Save them for your paying guests," Rosalind said.

"But that's what's done!  I give you room and board, you play your tunes and attract custom."

"It's all right, we'll take coin instead," said Rosalind.

"And breakfast," added Pippa.

The landlord buried his face in his hands, his business model overturned by some upstart young minstrels.  Thinking of a loophole, he looked up, but they were gone.

Pippa and Rosalind scurried to the stable and ducked into an empty stall.

"Whew," said Rosalind, pulling off her boots.  "I thought he'd never let us go."

Pippa buried her fiddle case in the manger, and sneezed.  "Unlike old Count Droopy-Jowls, who couldn't wait for us to leave."

"I think we've improved a lot since then."  Rosalind folded her dress and placed it in a clean corner.  "If we played for the Count again, he wouldn't even recognize us."

"Except for the name he gave us."  Pippa sneezed again.  She selected a comb from the tack wall and blew out the lantern before dashing back to the stall and undressing herself.  "Do you think he'd remove the curse?"

Rosalind untied her braid and shook out her hair.  She shrugged, stretched, and whinnied.  Pippa had seen her sister's body transform into a beautiful palomino every night for months, but she still wondered:  Why does she go first?

After another sneeze, Pippa had completed her own transformation.  She was able to understand Rosalind again.

"--not so bad, really," Rosalind was saying.

"There are advantages," Pippa agreed, and took a deep breath through her enlarged nostrils.  "It cures my hay fever, every night."  She kicked the comb toward Rosalind's head.  "And I can grow my own bow-hair.  Would you mind combing the loose hairs from my tail?"

"I think I have some, too," Rosalind nickered before grasping the comb with her teeth.

"I think we could use this more to our advantage, though."  Pippa pawed at the floor as Rosalind combed her.  "We could travel so much faster if we went at night, as horses.  Then we could play in more towns, get paid more often.  Why won't Leo let us?"

Rosalind dropped the comb.  "It's hard on him, being the big brother and the only one who doesn't change."

"We're strong enough to carry the bags and Leo.  He hardly touches his food anymore.  He can't be that heavy."

"Leo needs his beauty sleep."  Rosalind snorted.  "And so do I."

Pippa combed Rosalind's tail next, and could tell her sister was dropping off to sleep.  But when she set the comb aside, full of useful hairs, Pippa felt wide awake.  And curious.  Where did Leo spend the nights, anyway?  He wouldn't take a room in any inn, and he never came to the stables with the girls.  She decided to take a trot around the village.

Pippa searched high and low, but didn't see any sign of her brother in the village.  She checked the surrounding fields, stopping for the occasional mouthful of clover, then decided to venture into the wilds.  The full moon cast plenty of light, enough to show that her brother was nowhere to be found.

The moon was sinking, and Pippa's eyes were growing bleary, when she finally spotted a figure on the ground.  The moonlight threw the man's face into shadow, but glinted off the strings of a lute.  It had to be Leo.  She studied him for a moment.  It might be nice, sleeping out here under the stars.  He certainly looked peaceful enough.  Did he just need some alone time, away from greedy landlords and drunken villagers and nightmarish sisters?

Pippa was about to wake Leo and ask, then remembered that he wouldn't understand a word she said.  Dawn was coming soon, and with it, her re-transformation; she should return to the stable.  But something caught her eye as she turned away, and she froze, one hoof in the air.

An enormous lion padded out from behind a boulder.  His sleek mane shone in the moonlight, but blood stained his chin.  The lion strode silently, straight to Leo's sleeping form.

"Neigh!"

Pippa couldn't help it.  She screamed, her horse-voice full of terror.  The lion lifted his head, looking at her with sorrowful eyes.  Pippa wheeled about and galloped back to the inn.

The lion sighed.  He had tried so hard not to frighten anyone. 

He reached across the still body and strummed the lute strings with one great claw.  He couldn't really play it, though, not like this.  Which was probably the worst part of the Count's curse.  Leo stretched his four legs and settled down, hoping for a catnap before the dawn came, when he would reinhabit his human body.

Then, it seemed, he'd have to do some explaining to his sisters.

In Memoriam

A Magpie Tale

self-portrait, Francis Bacon

"Can I help you, son?"
"Uh, yes, sir.  I missed my grandmother's funeral--"
The undertaker raised a disapproving eyebrow.
"I was deployed, sir," Nick explained.  "And now I want to pay my respects."
The undertaker whipped out his phone, and started scrolling through a list.  "Well, then, what was her name?"
"Ruby Poole."
"Poole, Poole . . . Oh, yes!  Come this way."
They walked along the path between plots of close-clipped grass.
"She's the first in a new section we've opened.  Your grandmother was a very progressive woman."
Nick chuckled.  "That she was.  Always excited about new things.  We used to call her Grandma Gadget."
"I think you'll like this, then.  Right over here."
A shiny black headstone stood apart from the mottled granite memorials.  Nick thought back to his geology merit badge training.  "Is that obsidian?"
"Even better.  It's interactive."  The undertaker brushed the blank stone with a long finger, and words appeared on it.

RUBY POOLE

1935-2014

"It's a screen?"

"It's a beauty, isn't it?  Solar powered, with very efficient storage batteries.  Sealed tight against rain, extreme temperatures, impact, and hacking.  Go on, touch the menu."

Nick crouched before the screen and chose the slideshow.  Black-and-white images of solemn faces crossed the screen.  He sat, entranced, watching his grandmother grow from a long-gowned infant to a smiling bride, to a colorful grandmother.  "Hey, that's me!  What a family reunion.  Grandma was so excited about her new GPS that she forgot the hot dogs . . . "

When the slideshow ended, Nick chose the genealogy button.  He watched a pedigree tree grow from his grandmother's name, in both directions.  "Cool."

"Some of my colleagues are offering similar information through a QR code etched on a regular headstone, but how long is that technology going to be in use?  I prefer this self-contained unit.  And here's the best part."  The undertaker pointed to a menu entry.  "Personal messages from the deceased."

"Really?"  Nick chose his name from the list of grandchildren.  His grandmother's face appeared.  She looked older than he remembered, but still had a gleam in her eye.

"Oh, Nicholas, I am so proud of you.  You've always been brave and true in your service.  I'm just glad you're listening to this message before you meet me on the other side.  Now that you're back, I hope you'll find a nice girl and settle down, stop worrying your poor mother.  You're a good boy, Nick.  I love you."

The undertaker looked back at the cemetery's flagpole as the Nick blotted his face with his sleeve.  Nick cleared his throat and stood up.

"Did you, uh, record this?"

"Yes, right there in my office.  When the iStones catch on more, I hope to build a proper recording studio.  But, except for your impressive grandmother, such things mostly appeal to the young.  And the young tend not to plan this far ahead."

"That's for sure.  I joined the Marines, did all the training, went to Afghanistan.  I never thought I could actually die.  Until my buddy was gone.  None of us did."  

The undertaker handed Nick a tissue.  Nick blew his nose loudly.

"Do you have a card or something, sir?  I know a few guys who might be more interested in planning ahead now."

"Of course.  I'll go fetch you some flyers."  The undertaker strode back to his office.

Nick settled down in front of the stone again.  He scrolled through the menu.  There were messages for his Grandpa, his mother and her siblings, all his cousins.  And more.  He picked the "Minister" entry.
"Thanks for all your support, Randall.  You've been a good shepherd.  But don't forget, I wrote the best church newsletters this congregation has ever read.  They'd better give me a big vote of thanks.  And I'll be rolling in my grave, right here, if you let Doris Howard get her hands on the newsletter.  She'll make everything rhyme, and she can't even spell 'Deuteronomy.'  You listen to me, Randall . . ."
Nick snorted.  That was the way he remembered his grandmother.  He scrolled past messages for the doctor and the paperboy, the piano tuner and even a favorite librarian.  Then Nick's eyes widened.  He knew it wasn't his business, but he couldn't ignore the category "Old Boyfriends."  He picked the name Willie Gottlieb.
"Oh, Willie, you came!  You always were a sweet one.  All my best to Janice and the kids."
Well, that was nice, Nick thought.  He tried Lee Rutter.
"How dare you darken my grave, Lee Rutter!  You still can't leave a girl alone!  Get thee hence, you--"
Nick hastily stopped the message and sat back.  Leave it to Grandma, he thought.  Who else would cast the first iStone?

Cardboard Christmas

A Magpie Tale

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

Lisa reached into the back corner of the closet. She stood on her toes and tugged with her fingers, and finally the box came free. She carefully pulled it out and stepped down from the chair. The last box. She hoped it was the one she wanted.

As she set it next to the other boxes on the floor, Lisa heard little feet coming down the hall. Was naptime over already?

“Mommy, I waked up,” Josh announced. “What’s in the boxes?”

Caleb followed his brother on loyal little legs. “Peasants?” he suggested hopefully.

“No, not presents. Just some things we haven’t unpacked yet.”

Josh peered into one box and pulled out a tiny sweater. “Whose is this?”

“You used to wear that when you were a baby. And so did Caleb. Put it back, please.”

Caleb toddled over to Lisa and patted her belly. “Baby.”

“Yes, the new baby will wear it, too. But not for a while.”

Josh was already investigating the clothes in another box. “Did I wear these?”

“Yes, but–”

Caleb pulled a skirt out of a third box, and knitted his blond brows together. “I wear this?”

“No, that’s mine.”

“Mommy was baby?”

“Mommy wore that before you were a baby, and hopes she’ll be able to wear it again someday.” Lisa sighed, and refolded the skirt. “Anyway, I’m not looking for clothes right now. I’m–no, don’t touch that one!”

Lisa swung Caleb away from the box containing the equipment and remnants from her stained glass class. Someday she’d get back to that again, too, but it was not a safe hobby to practice with toddlers in the house.

“What are you looking for?” Josh asked.

“Christmas ornaments.”

“Kiss-miss?” Caleb repeated.

“Yes. I’ve looked through all the boxes but this one. Shall we see what’s inside?” Lisa picked up her scissors and slit the tape. Her heart thumped with anticipation. The bright colors, the familiar shapes, must be right there beneath her fingers. She opened the flaps.

Papers. Kevin’s college notes. No wonder the box was so heavy.

The little boys looked inside. “No Kiss-miss?” Caleb stuck out his lower lip.

Lisa sank to the floor. “No. The movers must have left my box of ornaments in Grandma’s garage.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

Josh wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Mommy. Come on, Caleb. Let’s play trains.”

“Choo-choo!” Caleb hooted as the boys pattered back to their room.

Lisa knew she should put away the boxes and prepare the room for guests. But she felt drained after her fruitless search. She went downstairs for a glass of water, hoping Kevin would be home soon to help with the lifting.

She looked around the small living room. It was comfortable, but not very festive. She had hoped to be all ready for Christmas before Kevin’s parents came to visit. She’d bought the groceries and done most of the cleaning. But Kevin had been working late, training for his new job. He was too tired to decorate when he came home. They had not even bought a tree.

Lisa brightened. Maybe Kevin’s parents could find the box of ornaments and bring it along tomorrow. She gave them a call.

No answer. They must be still at work. Lisa left a message, and hung up with a little more hope.

It had been a blessing to live with Kevin’s folks, Dale and Donna. They had invited the young family to stay after Kevin graduated, just until he found a good job. The few weeks he expected had turned into two years, though, as Kevin applied for position after position. He worked some odd jobs during that time, and played with the little boys, but he’d spent more and more time grumbling about the economy and playing video games. Lisa was grateful that they’d had a comfortable place to live all that time. They’d never gone hungry. But she knew her husband hated depending on his parents.

Everyone was thrilled when Kevin was hired. Lisa loved the fresh sparkle in his eye, his new sense of purpose and responsibility. She also looked forward to setting up their own home, having their own space, and starting their own traditions.

As the moving van rolled away, scattering the fallen leaves, Donna pulled Kevin into a tight squeeze. “We’ll miss you so much, but we’re so proud of you.”

“That’s right.” Dale gave Josh a tickle before buckling him into his car seat. “But you’ll be back for Christmas, won’t you?”

Lisa looked at Kevin with concern. His parents’ Christmas celebrations were too glitzy for her taste.

“I won't earn much leave by then,” Kevin said. “We’ll probably be staying in our new home.”

Lisa breathed a small sigh of relief as she buckled her own safety belt.

“Then we’ll come visit you,” Dale declared.

“You bet,” Donna agreed. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without a child in the house!”

Kevin waved as he drove the car away, but Lisa felt frozen.

She’d had some time to thaw over the past couple of months, and had determined to show her in-laws a Christmas her way. A nice dinner on Christmas day, not a Christmas Eve extravaganza. Homemade cookies. Singing carols around the–well, someday she’d get a piano. Singing carols around the CD player, then. And a real tree. A small one, to be sure. Expense and living room space dictated that. But she looked forward to arranging her small collection of ornaments on a sweet-smelling fresh tree. Lisa closed her eyes, imagining the aroma.

“Behold the conquering hero!”

Lisa’s eyes flew open as the front door slammed. Little feet pounded down the stairs, and cries of “Daddy!” filled the air. Lisa struggled up from the couch.

Kevin swung the two boys into the living room, then caught Lisa in a hug. “I’ve completed my certification. I'll meet my first client after Christmas!”

Lisa gave him a kiss. “That’s wonderful, dear,” she said. “Oh, look at the time. I haven’t started dinner yet.”

“No big deal,” Kevin said. “Let’s pick something up on the way.”

“On the way to where?” Josh asked.

“To buy a Christmas tree.”

Lisa and the boys cheered, and the family piled into the car. After supplying everyone with hamburgers and fries, Kevin drove straight to the tree stand in the mall’s parking lot. The brightly colored lights turned off as they approached. Kevin stepped out to talk to a man who was sweeping pine needles.

“All sold out, sir,” Lisa heard him say. “They went fast this year. You could try the supermarket, or the lot on Old Holly Road.”

There were no trees left at the supermarket, either. Lisa and Kevin had different ideas about how to find Old Holly Road, and it took them a while to reach it. When they finally found the tree lot there, it was empty, too.

“Maybe this is why Mom and Dad use a fake tree,” Kevin said, leaning on the steering wheel. “Is it normal to run out the day before Christmas Eve?”

“I don’t think so,” Lisa answered. “Where I grew up, most lots had a few scraggly trees left even after Christmas.”

“Huh. Well, we’d better take the kiddos home.” Kevin nodded at the boys. They were asleep in their car seats, and Caleb was losing his grip on a handful of fries.

After helping Lisa set up the guest room, Kevin spent most of Christmas Eve shopping. Lisa wondered if he would come home with a fake tree. If he did, she’d be stuck with it, probably forever. Ugh. But having no Christmas tree would be worse.

She tried not to think about it as she rolled out sugar cookie dough. She helped Caleb wield a star-shaped cookie cutter with his pudgy fingers. Josh cut out a cookie and held it up. “Is this what our tree will look like?” he asked. He wiggled the tree shape until it broke and fell to the counter, leaving just the point in his hand.

“Probably so.” Lisa squished the dough together and rolled it out so Josh could try again.

“Will we put up a 'table?” he asked.

“This is the table.”

“No, a Christmas 'table.”

Lisa frowned, trying to read Josh's mind. “Oh.” She remembered that Dale built an elaborate train set on the coffee table each Christmas. “You mean like Grandpa's? We don't have anything like that.”

"Why not?"

Lisa slid the cookie sheet into the oven, and the front door opened.

“Don’t look,” Kevin called, sweeping past with something held behind his back.

Josh covered his eyes with his hands. Caleb put his hands on his own face, but missed one eye.

“Did you bring a tree, Daddy?” Josh shouted.

Kevin looked around the corner. “No, but I have an idea. Come here, kiddos.” They followed him to the living room, and he shut the kitchen door.

Lisa finished baking the cookies and started some soup for dinner. A pair of headlights swept up the driveway as she stirred. Donna's sweater sparkled as she came through the door. “Merry Christmas Eve, Lisa, honey,” she said with her usual broad smile.

Dale followed her inside, carrying a box. “We couldn’t find your box, Lisa, but we thought you might like these.” He set the box on the table.

Lisa’s face fell as she looked inside. Instead of the treasures her own grandparents had sent each year, or the cute ornaments her crafty aunts had made, there were packages of silver bells, violet balls, strings of blue lights, and a huge silver star. They had never been opened.

“We can’t use these.”

“Sure, you can! We bought them all on clearance last January,” Donna said with a wink.

“But we don’t have a tree.”

The kitchen door opened. “Yes, we do,” said Kevin. “Come see.”

The little boys rushed at their grandparents, who paused for hugs and tickles. Kevin took Lisa by the hand and led her to the living room. On the floor she saw that a large moving box had been cut in the shape of a fir tree. The boys had obviously been coloring it, with large swathes of green ink and little patches of green crayon.

Tears came to Lisa’s eyes. Kevin put his arm around her. “It doesn't smell great, but I think we can have some fun with it. Okay?”

Lisa wiped her eyes and smiled. “I’ll go find the construction paper.”

After supper, Kevin led the way to the living room, flexing his muscles. “So, I cut this tree myself, and hauled it all the way from the shed with my bare hands. Let's dress it up.”

Dale frowned. “That's not a tree. That's a tree by-product.”

“Start producing some decorations for it, then.”

Dale chuckled. “I'm no artist. You kids go ahead without me.”

“I'll help you.” Josh handed his grandfather a piece of orange paper. “Draw around my hand, Grandpa.”

“Me, too,” insisted Caleb, and the decorating began.

           Donna snipped lacy snowflakes to tape to the cardboard tree. Lisa tied yarn into bows. The boys colored their handprints, then drew stars, train engines, and more abstract shapes.

           Dale traced his own hand, colored it like a turkey, and cut it out, too. “I call it, 'Self-Portrait,'” he said, taping it onto the tree.

           Donna rolled her eyes. “That's you, all right. Full of stuffing and nonsense.”

           Kevin searched the Internet for origami instructions, and busied himself with sheets of aluminum foil. He showed Lisa his creations.

           “Christmas cranes?” she asked.

           He grinned. “Silver swans a-swimming.”

           Soon the flat tree was covered with colorful, fanciful, utterly original decorations.

           “This certainly is unique,” Donna said, surveying their work. “I'll never forget this little tree.”

           “Neither will I,” Lisa agreed. “But how will it stand up?”

           “Got it covered,” said Kevin. “Make me another big bow, will you?” He looped some yellow yarn through a hole near the point of the tree. After attaching Lisa's bow, he hung the loop on a hook in the ceiling. The cardboard tree dangled, swinging slightly in the breeze from the heating vent.

           “Pity,” said Caleb.

           “Yes, it's a very pretty Christmas tree,” Lisa said, hugging her sons, “though I feel like I've forgotten to do something.” She yawned.

           “What about a 'table?” Josh asked.

           “Not now, Josh.”

           “The tree is just fine this way,” Kevin declared, “and you're tired. Go ahead and get the boys into their pajamas. I'll take care of the dishes.”

           Lisa woke with a start. “Did you hear that?” Kevin did not respond. How could he not hear it? Lisa shook his shoulder. “Kevin, what's that sound?”

           He rolled over and grunted at the darkness. “Huh?”

           “That rustling sound. Listen.” Lisa sat up, heart pounding. “There's a light on, too.”

           Kevin raised himself up on one elbow. “I doubt our presents would attract burglars,” he said.

        “Well, probably not.” The gifts they had set out, after tucking the boys in, made a pretty meager pile.

           “I bet it's Mom and Dad, sneaking some more packages downstairs. Go back to sleep.” He rolled over again.

           Lisa lay down, breathing deeply, willing her heart to stop racing.

           She woke again to the sound of giggling. Weak sunlight glowed around the edges of the window blinds.

           Kevin sat up. “It must be Christmas morning,” he said, grinning.

           Lisa pulled on her robe and headed for the boys' room. “I wish your dad wouldn't tickle the boys awake.”

           “He was already awake, weren't you, little man?” Dale laughed along with the toddler.

           “Merry Kiss-miss, Mommy!” Caleb called when he caught his breath.

           “Merry Christmas, sweetie. But where's Josh?”

           “I dunno.” Caleb collapsed in a fresh round of giggles.

           Lisa walked down the hall to the guest room. “Josh, are you bothering Grandma?”

           Donna put down her magazine. “He's no bother, but he isn't in here.”

           Lisa grabbed handfuls of her own hair. “Where's Josh?”

           Kevin looked out of the boys' room, surprised. “What do you mean?”

           “He isn't there, he isn't here.” Frantic, she hugged herself. “I heard noises last night. Maybe someone took him!”

           Kevin put one hand on Lisa's shoulder, and smoothed her hair with the other. “Calm down, Lisa. He's probably getting a head start on the presents. Let's take a look downstairs.”

           Caleb and his grandparents followed silently as Kevin led Lisa down the stairs. At the bottom, she closed her eyes, afraid of what she might see. Kevin stepped out into the living room.

           Soon he returned and took Lisa's hand. “Come and see,” he said quietly. Lisa let out the breath she was holding, and followed him.

           The gifts had not been disturbed, but there was a mess beneath the dangling cardboard tree. Josh lay curled there in a nest of crayons. Lisa dropped to his side, giving his round cheek a grateful kiss. Josh's blue eyes opened in the pale morning light.

           “What are you doing down here?” she asked. “You gave me such a fright.”

           Josh looked surprised. “Sorry, Mommy. In the night I waked up, and I made the 'table you forgot. Look.” He pointed to a folded piece of cardboard, standing near the trunk of the swinging tree. Lisa picked it up.

           Brown crayon marked walls and a roof. A yellow star with eight or nine points shone at the top. Smiles split the round faces of three figures within—one wearing blue, with long hair, one with a pointy brown beard, and a small one between them, balanced on an X. Curly-hided animals stood nearby, smiling, too.

           “The stable. You're right, that's just what we need.” Lisa wiped her eyes.

           Caleb knelt down next to her, and pointed reverently to the central figure in the drawing. “Baby.”

           Lisa sat on the couch, sipping hot chocolate. She watched as Dale chased Josh through a tunnel of empty moving boxes. She leaned her head on her husband's shoulder. “The boxes were a great idea, dear.”

           Kevin grinned. Dale poked his head through a window in one box. “They're just like you. No matter what we gave you, you'd just play with the boxes.” Then he roared, and crawled after Caleb while Donna snapped photos. 

           Lisa looked around the room. She could barely hear the Christmas music from the CD player. The cardboard tree swung. Wrapping paper, crayons, and packing peanuts littered the floor. It was not quite the vision she had had for Christmas morning. But it was perfect. She picked up the cardboard Nativity and studied it again.

           “Your mom was right, Kevin.”

           “Huh?”

           “It just wouldn't be Christmas without the Child.”

For more Christmas tales, see my Anthologies page

Dear Uncle Theo

A Magpie Tale

Keene Township, Ohio

May 25, 1893

Dear Uncle Theo,

     I hope this letter finds you safe and well in the big city.  We all miss you, though none so much as Archippos.  Mother mutters that he must be a faithful hound indeed to whine and howl at the absence of such a master.  She has not forgiven you for taking your journey during the planting season.  "Any able-bodied man . . . " she says when Archippos barks, glancing at Father in the corner.  "I shall never understand my brother."

     I understand, of course.  And the young man you hired to take your place on the farm is quite agreeable.  Abel speaks politely and works hard, and the crops are coming along quite well with his assistance.  Still, you had not been gone a week before Mother turned Abel out of your room and installed a lodger there.  Abel nodded and said, "Yes'm," and took his little bundle out to the hayloft.  John, though, was furious.  You know my brother's temper.  He told Mother that if Abel was to sleep outside, that he would, too.  Mother simply shrugged.  I almost envy the boys out there, with no one shushing them after prayers.  Mother would probably let out John's room, too, if she could find a soul desperate enough to live in his musty garret.  

    I do not trust the lodger, Mr. Schneeman.  He leers at Mother with his coal-black eyes and sniffs his sharp nose before every blessed thing he says.  I think Mother hoped he'd pity us and help out on the farm, but he does no such thing.  He claims to be a traveling salesman, and leaves the homestead with his mysterious painted cart every morning.  He must not travel far, though, for he returns to the supper table promptly every evening.  When we're washing up, Mother grumbles that Mr. Schneeman eats far more than his share, but she won't say a thing to him.  She is afraid to lose his money.

     Archippos is howling again.  I am sure he does miss you, but I think there is more to his distress.  The hens have been acting most peculiarly, and even placid Bossy has been skittish in the milk stall.  I think the pixies have gotten in again.  Mother won't hear anything about it, though.  What shall I do?

     Father shakes his head and says that none of this would ever have happened if Mr. Buchanan had not been reelected.  But that is what he always says, so no one pays him any mind.

     Have you found what you were seeking?  I wish I could join you and see the great Columbian Exposition, but I cannot leave Mother now.  She would likely rent my little room out to someone even more disagreeable than Mr. Schneeman.

Your faithful niece,

Susannah

P.S.:  Who wants to play the Letter Game?

On Holiday

A Magpie Tale

Laree hoisted the pack off her back, and sat at the picnic table.  She pulled out her guidebook, and the paper-wrapped lunch she had purchased from the tight-lipped proprietress of the village pub.  The sea breeze blew her hair awry, and flipped the pages of the book.  It's quiet here, she thought.  Just a little too quiet.

Tired of the clamor of city life, sick of deadlines and traffic and pretending to please people, she'd thought a self-guided walking tour of the Shetland Islands would be a perfect vacation.  She could explore at her own pace, think, write, dream, and get some good exercise and fresh air, too.  It was beautiful, and she relished the freedom, but the first couple of days had been a bit more lonesome than she'd expected.

Laree curiously unwrapped her packet.  She'd ordered the Ploughman's Lunch, thinking it sounded appropriately rustic.  She was a bit disappointed when it consisted entirely of a baguette and a wedge of cheese.  Oh, and a foil packet of chutney.  What was chutney, anyway?  Opening the packet, she sniffed it, and still didn't know.

"Mind if I join ye?"

A stocky man approached the picnic table, lunch bucket in hand.  A few grey hairs stuck out at odd angles from under his cap.  From the chaff stuck in his thick woolen jersey and the muck on his wellies, Laree guessed he might be an actual ploughman.  She wondered what he'd have for lunch.  "Be my guest," she said, waving at the other side of the table.

"You'll be mine, more like."  He chuckled as he seated himself, then gestured toward the field nearby.  "This is my place," he said, puffing out his chest slightly.  "Been in the family for generations." 

He opened a Thermos and Laree smelled the tantalizing scent of curry.  She swallowed her envy and bit off a chunk of her bread.

The man eyed Laree's pack.  "You're on a walking holiday, then?"

Laree nodded, her mouth full.  This bread was tougher than she'd expected.

"Will ye be headin' across the troll-below?"  He pointed at the sandy strip leading to a green island.

Laree frowned, and consulted her guidebook.  She swallowed quickly.  "This says it's a 'tombolo.'  'St. Ninian's Isle is tied to the Mainland by the largest active tombolo in the UK.'"

The farmer shook his head dismissively.  "Well, we call it the troll-below.  See, long, long ago, there used to be a bridge out to that island.  Folks would let their flocks wander across in the morning to graze, then send the dogs to round them up at night.  But if a goat crossed a little too early, or a little too late at dusk, a troll would jump out from under the bridge and catch it."

"A troll?"

"Nasty bugger, he was.  Some of the big billy goats could butt him into the water, but most of the little ones didn't have a chance.  It got to be pretty bad.  The villagers were losing kids left and right, and they didn't know what to do."  He took a long drink from his other Thermos.

"So, what happened?"

"Well, St. Ninian came along to convert the heathens.  But they were frettin' about the troll, and wouldn't listen to his sermons.
Finally he called the village together by the bridge, and told each person to dump a pail of sand on it.  They were scared to go on the bridge even in daylight anymore, but they bucked up and did it.  Then the good saint raised his hands and chanted.  Before their very eyes, the bridge sank into the sea, and sand covered the whole way to the island.  'The troll has gone below,' St. Ninian declared.  'You need not fear for your flocks.'  For good measure, he planted leeks on the island." 

"Leeks?"

"Trolls don't care for goats with onion breath, see?"  The man's face crinkled as he laughed.  "They still grow out there.  Should be blooming, as a matter of fact."  He packed up his lunch again.  "Well, have a nice time, miss.  But mind your step on the troll-below.  That troll hasn't been seen for centuries, but you never know..."

Laree wrapped up the rest of the tough roll and walked across the sand.  Stray sunbeams highlighted the ruined chapel, and set the sea sparkling.  She spent the afternooon exploring the island, with its oddly-named features.  She didn't see any seals in the Selchie Geo, but there were plenty of fat sheep at Baaberg.  She took pictures of the cliffs and holms, and gathered leek blossoms in the meadows.  It was a glorious day.  Finally, as the sun dipped low, she decided to head back to the mainland.  She was skipping across the sand when she heard a voice.

"Who's that trippin' across my bridge?"

Laree skidded to a stop and looked around.  A wild figure crouched on the strand, a dozen feet away.  Its sandy hair whipped in the freshening breeze.  Burlap sacks covered its back.  Laree's heart thudded.  There's no such thing as trolls, she told herself.  Right?

"And don't say you're goin' across the bridge, up the hill to eat grass.  I've heard that one before."

"How about leeks?"  She brandished her bouquet.

The figure laughed and stood up.  A tall young man stood before her, swinging the burlap sacks to the ground.  His jersey and wellies were cleaner versions of what the old farmer had worn to lunch, and his eyes sparkled like the sea.

"My dad thought you might be hungry after your ramble.  Would you like to come back to the house?  Mum makes a mean billy goat curry."

"Goat?"  Laree's mouth watered at the thought of curry, but was it a good idea to go home with a troll impersonator?

He laughed again.  "Actually, I think it's chicken today.  Come along.  And bring the leeks.  They might come in handy."

He swung open a gate, and Laree followed, thankful for new friends on the wild Shetland coast.