Reflections

You left me in the springtime when once again the world was teeming with blessed new life, amid vibrant flowers and a revitalized sun, the refreshing sweet afterbirth of mother earth, but our laws of physics simply do not allow for the continued earthly union of a beating heart and the untethered soul. It felt like a cruel joke, an unprovoked reprimand, but then again, what time of the year could possibly have been any more suitable than that time of year? You were just taken from me, pitilessly snatched away – that is all.

Oh the stunning aftermath of your departure – bewilderment, amazement, misery. The void you left behind was almost more than the space you had filled. That is my fault of course, because in the end a lack of appreciation is always felt severely by the foolish neglector – I see now that your presence was a precious taken-for-granted gift. And where you have gone now, what you must feel now, any remnants of your human senses and what they can still see, hear, feel, if anything – it hurts my brain to try to think of it, my comprehension so lacking, my humanity too feeble, and my own pitiless senses swell and then take over me and I raise these poor hands to these swollen eyes and wipe away the most human of things, the grief-stricken tear. I feel fear for you, I feel fear for myself, and no amount of spiritual counseling seems to lessen this burden.

I first came back to this place in the early summer, back to our little cottage by the lake, amidst the solitude of hushed woods and the reliable sunshine that spilled through bountiful branches and splashed across the water’s surface in late afternoons. The birds sang and the breeze whispered through the cottonwoods and I spent mornings walking along that shoreline, viewing views that you might have once viewed, thinking thoughts that you might have once thought, and there were times other women approached me from afar and I was crushed when they finally came into close proximity and did not materialize into you.

Afternoons were spent sitting on the dock where you once sat, lounging on the day bed where you once lounged, me attempting to read the pages of books that you once read. But it was of no use – I couldn’t seem to turn a single page, I stumbled over their words, my mind kept going back to the image in my mind, of you on this day bed reading this book, these same words rendering your face calm, pleasantly involved, and lost in a sweet peace.

It’s true, back then I envied your peacefulness – now I revere it.

Nighttime was sheer desperation and I was far too sad to even contemplate alcohol or pills. I didn’t feel the need to escape anything at all – I didn’t want to escape it – it was all I had, it was just me. I was absorbed by it, my stinging grief, and so I willingly surrendered, seeing absolutely no reason to fight it. I simply could not escape its awful gravity – it had become me.

I fled at the first sign of autumn, at the first hint of chill when the sun no longer bothered to splash the lake with its waning output. I had scavenged those shores and foraged those woods long enough, a purposeless phantom, and finally reached the point where I craved simple change. So I tried to lock the doors, shut down my heart, and abandoned this once happy place.

I returned to the crowded city streets, losing myself in their constant roar and endless bustle, forever wandering aimless footpaths, and I sat in absolute silence as I attended tedious gatherings and sat alone in the back of mostly empty movie houses, uncomfortably numbed, unresponsive, uncaring, something distant and unintelligible happening on a faraway screen. Truth be told I ignored my fellow man and for the most part they ignored me as well, as if I no longer existed – perhaps without your love I no longer do.

In mid October I returned to our cottage when the chill had properly settled and the trees had turned to splendid color. It was both beautiful and sad and I felt, if not exactly at peace, then perhaps at least somehow suitably satisfied. I lamented, I romanticized, I reflected upon you… upon all of our days together.

But again by early November I was drawn away, out of impatience or intolerable sadness I do not know, both I would suppose, and fled the sad tranquility of the cottage with its drifts of leaves and the wafting pastoral wood smoke and returned once more to my old bitter duties, wandering lonely streets and biding my abundance of wretched time. My late night footsteps were the echoes of forlorn dreams inside the heads of good men and my moans of pain drifted through the naked treetops like a noxious wind.

But now it is December 23rd and I find myself here once again, the snow layered deep, the evergreens preening tall, our solemn lake bitterly cold yet not quite frozen. Just like me, for I am not quite frozen, yet unrepentantly bitter, and I don’t know if a thaw shall ever my way come.

I know how much you loved this place. All the year round, but especially the late summer when the loons congregated for one last celebration and then came the early autumn day when they all were gone and the silence was more abrasive than their haunted jabbering ever was. We never saw them leave but we always knew where they were, joining the flock and flying south in an impressive V formation and we felt reassured in the knowledge that they would return again one day, back to our lake, to this cottage, to nest once more in the welcoming warmth of our contented souls. We never fathomed that they would not return, or that we would not be here upon their arrival. For all intents and purposes we, or at least I, had imprudently considered the change of seasons some kind of guaranteed perpetuity despite all the evidence to the contrary and now find that my world stopped spinning on that sad spring day, the promise of new growth and fruition forever left unfulfilled.

It was here that you loved to walk barefoot upon the soft green grass, across the sandy smooth shore, up and down the old wood staircase – footprints! footprints! footprints! – your footprints were everywhere! Now they are all buried beneath the mounting snow which shimmers blue in the bright moonlight.

This is almost unbearable – the memory strikes me in the gut and I damn near clench over. There is the little holly we planted. Oh God yes, there it is. You bought it potted last year toward the end of the holiday season and could not simply toss it onto the heap, you said that it would be a waste, a crying shame, and you enlisted me to help plant the scrawny little shrub. I had smiled at your good intention but informed you that it could not possibly survive a winter planting, it could only be sired successfully in the spring, but secretly I admired your respect for its life and had willingly succumbed as an indifferent accomplice to your futile endeavor. In the end, we broke the hard ground and gave it a chance.

It’s still here.

If only you could see it now.

At dusk of this night I sit staring out at the lake, across the empty darkness that deepens throughout, and I approach the water’s edge. Across the silver surface the lights from the other side are now taking effect and I wonder about the souls who tend to each source. Are they simply fending off the night or inviting it to maybe lessen its burden? And I think of you somewhere out there, all alone, and I pray that you can remember and I pray that you can wait, that you will wait. In the gloaming I implore the Almighty to please somehow soothe my pain.

And I see a light.

A radiant orb just above the surface and it bounces for a moment and then it is gone. My brain is befuddled but my spirit is lifted – I had asked for a salve, would I not be a fool to denounce the vision and deny its existence?

Back inside where the assembled wood is in need of a lit match I wander through the rooms, bouncing off walls in the dark, searching for a suitable place that I can peacefully sit and rest. And I consider the heavy mirror we hung in the foyer, there at the foot of the stairs, and I know that you were once on that glass, smiling, primping, but mainly just smiling. Most times you walked right on past, and unsuspecting the mirror would grab your reflection as you blazed across, but you were assuredly all over that glass, your carefree visage glimmered and sparkled on those beautiful ordinary days. Now you are gone and there is no echo, no faded image – the glass only reflects the present light, the mirror only respects that moment’s truth, this man with the deep sorrow in his eyes. And yet I gaze into it now and see nothing! Oh how I wish that I could take it down and climb to the highest mountain and attach it to the highest pole and point it toward the brightest star in hopes of by chance capturing the return of your spirit, that rare comet of mercy sent to assuage my pain. Silly thought, I know, but if heart and soul and mind cannot conjure your return then all I’ve got are my poor legs and a rabid determination that can carry me to that highest point where the faint glow of heaven may, under the best of conditions I’m told, be detected by the naked eye.

What else to do but commence the climb?

For now there remains only this – the mirror still hangs on the wall where your lovely hands once tenderly placed it.

The next day is a lonely Christmas Eve and all I can do is wait, hope, believe that the orb of light will reappear and so when twilight finally approaches I return to the same spot near the lake and resume my act of faith. And my patience is tested yet I adhere to my pledge and suddenly there it is once more, and it is expanding, growing into an effervescent bubble and I can begin to make out the form of a human face, but then it shatters into a glittered dust and disappears in an instant and again I am left wondering if it was really ever there.

What can it mean, this tortuous visage, this strange apparition? The answer appears to be so tantalizingly close and yet so far – I am at a complete loss to explain its significance.

It is then that I hear a motorized vehicle driving up through the drifts, spinning its wheels, shifting down into a grinding four-wheel drive, and I can’t possibly fathom who would come calling on this night at this time? The last possible thing I desire is company, be it friends with good intentions or strangers lost in a storm. I curse their presence, their very nerve, to impose themselves like this, to actually believe that I can help them or that they can help me!

And so I choose to ignore the perpetrator and I sit and I wait. And I speculate about the expanding orb, I try to recall that faint familiar countenance, I attempt to figure out what it could all possibly mean.

And then a glowing light emanates from the cottage windows and a tiny light ignites within my own dimmed mind.

I feel as if I am stuck in time, my consciousness a series of photographic images aligned on a taut string, my motivation propelled by these palpable emotional impulses. I move quietly through the front door and down the hall. I notice the small puddles of melted snow on the bricked entryway, the wet footprints leading down the hall and into the living room where a great fire is now raging in the hearth.

And I see the back of a chair facing the fire, her hair hanging down below. She sits in that little wooden chair no one ever sat in, the one that rests in the dark corner – a place to stack books, the odd package, the unneeded frock tossed aside. She has summoned it for this one occasion and dragged it from its dark corner and now sits in it with her hands folded staring into the fire. As I float past her I see her beautiful sad face, I see her tears glistening in the firelight, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.

It is at that precise moment that the lake freezes over and so do I, I am stuck right there, reaching out for her with arms that cannot reach, crying out in a voice that cannot be heard, a helpless phantasm of heartache and desire, and it is then that I realize it is I who must walk alone through this raging fire, it is I who must enter into its eternal light, that I had not merely walked to the edge of our lake these past two evenings but had in fact floated above it, looked down, and seen my own confused reflection – that it is I who must fight to remember and who shall vow to forever wait.

And wait I will.

Merry Christmas, my dear, my love, wipe away your tears and please go tend to our precious little holly, with its tiny fragile branches and unseen clinging roots and the secret faithful fruit it shall one day bear when spring finally does come round once more.



Author’s Note:

This story was inspired by Vladimir Nabokov’s wonderful yet sad short story titled Christmas. It is my hope that, like Nabakov’s story, in the end it inspires hope.

Christmas Stories Volume 1

For the past five years or so I've made it a tradition to write at least one Christmas story during the holiday season. I really enjoy the process and find that it usually helps me ease into some sort of suitable spirit. A lot of times I'll end up writing another story right after Christmas as I suppose that sometimes it's hard for me to shake off that spirit once suitably absorbed.

I'm a clinger.

Anyway, on the heels of the Mercy Stone kindle publication I decided to put together a little ebook of Christmas stories. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to get it together in time but just wrapped up my own editing and formatting last week. I'm sure that there will be something that I'll look back on and wish I had done better but I'm not a stickler for perfection. So here it is... what follows are some notes regarding the included stories.

The first story in the collection, Aquene, was written last year and is one of those stories written during the period just after Christmas. It felt strange to finish this story about two troubled men stuck in an airport right before a huge blizzard actually hit the east coast stranding real people. Then a week or so later came the tragic Gabrielle Giffords shootings in Tuscon and when I saw a photo of the little girl who died that day, Christina Taylor-Green, I was struck by the fact that her pretty face was so similar to the image of the little girl that I had in mind.Very chilling and very sad.

Christmas Eve Medicine Park 1907 was written way back in December of 2007 during the Oklahoma Centennial as I had the urge to try to write something historical about my home state in honor of its first 100 years. The late Senator Elmer Thomas is actually my great-grandfather and I trust he doesn't mind my dusting off of his persona for my own literary pursuit. From all accounts he appeared to be a little more serious than the fellow depicted in my story but heck, I had fun writing it so lets just go with it. As an aside, I recently completed a novella called The Mercy Stone about the life of Geronimo and had the idea to devote a chapter in that work to the telling of this same story but from Geronimo's perspective. That proved to be another fun exercise.

I thought long and hard about the inclusion of Here We Come! understanding that its content might not be considered acceptable holiday fodder for some readers. But back in December of 2008 when I wrote the piece it sure seemed like a reasonable response to compose this angry tirade with its (hopefully) humorous edge directed toward our foolish and greedy (and still to this day unpunished!) leaders - hell, we were seemingly stuck in a fiscal death spiral at the time. So I pulled no punches then and offer no apologies now. In fact, it might serve us all well to remember that such industrious elves, gremlins, and Siberian ogres may still be lurking out there biding their time! And yet I believe that Two Hills And A Mountain, which came later that same December, serves as a karmic rebuttal to my more cynical inclinations. It's arrival seemed to balance out the scale for me at the time.

A couple of years ago I finally got around to reading A Christmas Carol and found the segment about the Ghost of Christmas Future taking Scrooge on a mystical journey which included the viewing of a solitary lighthouse as an interesting launching point. It seemed like such an arbitrary insertion into the story and to serve what purpose? Perhaps to spark a creative impulse in some future reader? So I asked myself what if there was someone in that lighthouse far below watching the seas and the heavens that night? I noted this idea in my calendar and in December of 2009 A Solitary Lighthouse was writ.

Naturally I've always wanted to write a story that somehow fed off of It's A Wonderful Life. I'd actually thought of the title George And The Bridge and was trying to come up with a compelling story line - maybe I still will one day. But then the idea of Frank Hagney came to me in December of 2010. I did a little research on the man and came up with all the facts that are revealed in the story. However, I truly know nothing of his personal family life including the dispositions of his descendants. My account is strictly from the point of view of a fictional character who I assume does not exist. I certainly intend no disrespect to the family of Frank Hagney or the man himself.

In October of this year, while I was thinking about putting this Christmas collection together, I decided to write a couple of stories to help fill it out. I wound up producing four stories within a two week period. Two of those stories, Merry Christmas and Levitation, were written simultaneously and share their brevity with a certain tone although their theme and sentiment are quite different. I wound up writing An Atheist Christmas right after those two and then finished the flurry with Beyond which is a semi-autobiographical piece.

I've always enjoyed the mystical aspect of the Christmas story. The star and the guiding light, angels from heaven, the benevolent magic of the season. I consider it all as a part of some greater cosmic scheme which, when you boil it all down, only wants us to be a little nicer to one another.The cover photo of the Christmas Tree Nebula seems to be a fitting symbol for this sentiment.

So I end with a heartfelt Merry Christmas (although not exactly like the one experienced by our man in the similarly-titled story) to one and all... I appreciate your support... so give it!

A Solitary Lighthouse

by Noble K Thomas

Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some leagues or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse.
--- from A Christmas Carol: Stave Three by Charles Dickens



Old Willie climbed the winding steps yet one more time. Always damp, the smell of wet limestone and burning ember filled the chamber as he stepped carefully upon each slick stone abutment with a full flask of grog strapped across his heaving chest. He was getting too old for this, his knees knew it, his heart knew it, but every evening his soul insisted that he forget about those two sorry complainers and rise, rise, ascend to the top yet again, and on this Christmas Eve night he did just that.

And there awaited poor Benjamin. Poor cold lonely Benjamin, looking suitably drab in his grey longcoat and cap, keeping the iron basket filled with the burning lumps of coal, and his soul screamed that he was too young for this! And yet the coal kept burning through and Benjamin kept scooping fresh replacements and the lantern surely glowed strongly whether his spirit did or not. Alas, it was Christmas Eve and somewhere he knew a beautiful young girl waited for him, outfitted from head to toe in the red and green glory of the Yuletide, ruby lips and twinkling eyes, awaiting her handsome lighthouse keeper whether she knew it or not. But he could not escape this lonely vigil, not for several hours yet, and he was sworn to hang steadfast by feeding the fire and keeping the light.

But what is this? Cast by dripping candles upon the curved staircase wall a shadow now ascends, could this at long last be the material manifestation of the ancient maritime ghost, the briny myth raised from out of the stormy depths? But even now the shadow recedes and a man of flesh and bone takes its place, an aged specter with milky moribund eyes and a toothless grin.

“Aye Benji, it is only me, your old fool Willie here to relieve you early if only you might first partake in some good Christmas cheer before absconding with your merry self.” For the old man was fond of the boy, he favored him as a grandfather might a grandson, and all he could offer him on this night of gifts was a special brew of rum, lemon juice and cinnamon spice as garnished by the windswept salt of the sea, and, as diminished as it might appear, his very own flesh and bone.

“Good God old man, you scared the devil out of me, or at least my most recent impulse to commit misdeed in this world,” and now Benjamin chuckled in relief, happy to satisfy his mentor’s request as long as the partaking was brief and the liquor strong. He would not admit it to his friends perhaps but the ugly truth was that he’d become quite fond of Willie as well. “So what have you got there, friend?” he inquired, pointing toward the sheepskin vessel that hung proudly atop the man’s sunken chest, and Willie swung the flask over his head and tossed it to his eager apprentice. And then, as if it was the only proper method of response, he broke into song and danced a spry jig:

‘Tis time for the hearth and the old Yule log,
‘Tis time for the earth and its Yuletide fog,
‘Tis time for the spit and the roasted hog,
‘Tis time to get drunk on the Yuletide grog!
And in the mornin’ let the Missus flog,
Have no cares, for me the life of a POOCH!
Despite his decrepit state the aged reveler displayed a rather loose stride and his vocal delivery was quite spirited and punctuated with an ornery wink and Benjamin suspected that the flask had already been significantly drained prior to the little man’s arrival, yet when he shook it he noted with surprise that there seemed to be plenty of the tawny liquid remaining inside.

***

And so they passed the next half hour sharing the grog and rehashing old stories that primarily revolved around the excitement of springtime storms and the unapologetic fury of the overheated summer and the inevitable boredom that descended with autumn. Willie had seen it all, he’d been the unofficial witness to all local coastal events over the last half century or so, some good but most very bad, and although rescues were possible, more often than not after the splintering of wood and the faraway shouts came only the tell-tale shards, the torn debris, the sad washed-up human remains. He’d collected more than his share of corpses in the foamy wash and so knew well the fragility of human life, its preciousness, and the final unyielding judgment of a death by drowning.
Willie took another swig and glanced at the boy. Benjamin’s short tenure had seen nothing of the sort as of yet, but give it time the old lighthouse keeper thought. Oh Lord but give it time.

***

Benjamin admired the man and enjoyed his company, yet in the end he mostly felt pity for old Willie. Although he had never seen it for himself he knew that Willie lived alone in a tiny hut comprised of thatched bush and stripped wood on the outskirts of the deep forest. What’s more, his faithful hound Wallace had perished in late July, the victim of some mad insect’s bite or some other internal malfunction of the variety that rendered the beast prone on his spine for three days and three nights spewing and howling until the spigot was finally mercifully twisted tightly shut and then, shockingly fast, a forlorn serenity was stumbled upon. But Benjamin couldn’t know that the old man had willingly come to some ending point as well, a kind of happy resolution, contented at the end of a long life if that’s what this was all leading up to.

***

The hour was growing late, the night time air frigid with gusts from the roiling sea, but old Willie implored Benjamin to join him up and out on top for but a moment before the lad departed.
“Are you feverish man, has the wicked grog finally permeated the very last corpuscles of your dwindling cranial flab?” he responded in unfeigned alarm. “My pink bum has no earthly business up and out on top at such a time as this, and as for yours, I suppose you may do as you foolishly wish!”
The old man leaned forward with a grin, his breath stinking of molasses and barnacled wit. “Imagine that, a strong young thing such as thee, fearful of a little cold, of a little disagreeable breeze, my boy, you would do well to stay clear of my bed once the sun goes down and the fire burns out.”
“I should think so,” Benjamin answered with a smirk, and he considered the old man’s cold bed and reckoned it superior to a cozy coffin. “Add blankets,” he offered as a kind afterthought, but Willie had already moved on.
“Fortify yourself boy for there is nothing like a Christmas Eve night! The air tingles with a certain magic that no chilled breeze could ever harden as we find comfort in warmed hearts stoked by boundless good cheer.”
“Aye, that may be so my old friend, yet still, the nose already bleats with a frosty toot.” Yet even as Benjamin spoke these words old Willie was shuffling up the wooden ladder and pushing open the small roof hatch door. Instantly the cold air sought the warmer latitudes below and fell hard into the lantern with the swirling sleet and Benjamin could hear a high-pitched howling as wind cut into carved wood above. The old fool has really lost it he thought, and for a moment he was rightly concerned about the lighthouse’s very future should its long-regaled caretaker no longer be up to the task. And yet with a last look at the remains of the burning coal basket, satisfied, the young man buttoned up his coat and followed on up and out.

***

Benjamin found the atmosphere up top not nearly as unsettled as previously feared but it was still plenty cold. Up here a complete circle of darkness seemed to be pushing in all around them, the barren land behind them as indistinguishable as the brooding sea to their front, and although no gulls cried the beating of the waves upon the rock mingled with the groaning sky to complete a symphony fit for solemn meditation.
And then came the bells.
Benjamin stood straight at attention like a well-trained birder. He couldn’t be certain, after all his head was plugged with the coming malady, but the sound of the bells did not go away. “Do you hear that Willie, do you hear that chiming sound? For the love of Jane Gertrude Purnell, do you hear those ringing bells?”
The brittle old man tilted his head up toward the sky. “Aye,” he said in wonder, “I hear the bells, I do indeed, and that means we are not too late after all,” and he swiveled his head upon his shoulders and scanned the heavens, for exactly what Benjamin could not even begin to imagine, for the darkness was complete and the thickening cloudbank was lowering by the minute. He found no reason to ask, because this strange episode would surely soon pass and Willie would descend into the warmth of the lantern and his stuffed pipe, and then Benjamin would gather his few things along with his scattered thoughts and take leave.
“Do you see it?” the old lighthouse keeper croaked with a heavenly nod, and with mild annoyance the bundled lad turned to see just what on earth the fellow could be referring to, and of course he saw not a thing.
“No,” he answered with hint of annoyed defiance, “I see nothing, not even the raw frost that steams from my very throat, not even the red tip of my dripping snout,” and he knew that there could be not a thing in this sky, for the moon was new and any lighthouse man worth his salt was keenly aware of the phases of this vital orb. But just then, back to the northwest, the faintest of flickers, perhaps a tiny brief ignition.

***

Long ago yet not too far away, deep within the boiling innards of the bustling dark city, a child was born. No father and only a sick frightened child for a mother, the baby boy was snatched from her trembling arms and tossed adrift into the clamoring milieu of what passes for public compassion and then straight into what can only be called a very private suffering. Every day a struggle, every day a fight, and at night there was not even a hint of that healing dose that all human beings require – the dose of simple dependable love. How is it that one who has not been shown even a smidgen of it knows so well the true measure of this love? How can this be when those who are drowning in it pay it so little mind and allow it to seep away unnoticed down the slimy drain? Call it sweet instinct, a primal need as strong as the search for sustenance or the struggle to breathe open air, but he felt its void so deep down within his being that his bones chattered without it.
Those doling out the public compassion didn’t bother with much of a traditional education and the boy became a man and quietly went about his business, working hard and making a few friends and somehow finding a way to get by, to complete one more day, the reward being the opportunity to find the way to get through one more night. The weeks went by, a blur really, then the months, yet another year of tedious meaninglessness, until, incredibly, time stopped: he had met a girl. He quite fancied her and she returned his feelings but her father would have none of it, this young man being nothing more than an unworthy phantom bumbling his way through his own wretched nightmare, with no parents or siblings or family history, with absolutely no experience regarding the fine art of giving and receiving love, with nothing at all, and their courtship was quickly denounced and his exit ensured. All alone he fled to the sea, to the long endless horizon and the vast unknowable worlds that lay beyond, but he never got on the ship that was meant to carry him far away.
For there was a solitary lighthouse nearby that was in need of a strong reliable hand and he possessed that, and he possessed the time, and he sensed that maybe here he might be needed, and given the right circumstances need can turn into love.

***

Ten minutes later back down and inside the warm lantern young Benjamin still could not comprehend what he had just witnessed with his very own eyes. Beyond queer that patch of bright light that flared briefly, the faint silhouettes of two beings hovering within, and before one could really think about it ‘twas all gone. Nothing left but the descending fog and the intermittent suggestion of wandering stars. But it was Willie’s anticipation of the phenomenon that was truly the most befuddling aspect of the entire experience for if it had just been some random cosmic event, the manifestation of some tumbling rock spat out from the angry heavens, then that would not be so odd if still quite unexplainable. But the old man had waited for it – he had clearly advised of its coming.
Now warming his hands by the fire Benjamin thought to choose his next words carefully. But before he could choose them the whiskered visionary spoke.
“Fear not my boy, ‘twas nothing really, just the reminder that we all need a little light, a little love, from time to time.” His eyes were glowing.
And now the boy spoke freely, the dam of timidity broken by the other man’s own carefree plunge. “Really now William, I have never heard you mention this strange thing called love, have you perhaps taken one too many swigs from your oily bag there?” He rubbed his eyes and attempted a wry smile. “Have we both?”
“Why bother to speak of it when one has the opportunity to show it – to put the bloody thing into action? Speaking of which, gather your things boy, the time has come for you to take leave, to flee this lonely place and celebrate the night with those who you love, or might love you if given half a chance.”
Benjamin leaned in toward the old man. “You don’t really believe that I am going to let you off that easy, do you? Come clean with it man – I must know your secret!”
Old Willie wondered how deep down he dared go. Perhaps he had already gone too far but he sensed that this might be it, there might be no next time, and the opportunity to pass along this mystical treasure was perhaps the last gift he might be able to bestow. And what’s more, he knew that Benjamin was worthy of both its endowment and its responsibilities.
“There’s no secret lad – only my stubborn silly attachment to a shred of faith. Promise me only this – no matter the circumstances, no matter whether your old fool Willie still walks this world or not, you will attend this very spot next year and await its return. Beyond next year you may do as you wish – but in twelve months time you must return. And then it is my belief that you will begin to understand.”
Benjamin was perplexed, growing angry, duly impatient. “Wonderful! So over the next twelve months I’m supposed to act like nothing ever happened all the while I’m working side by side, conducting serious business mind you, with a sane dependable cohort? Really now, you’ve topped yourself this time old fellow,” and he roared with a forced laugh and drained what remained of the flask.
Willie fought off the urge to respond by suggesting that that was precisely what grog was good for, to ease and possibly enhance the passing of time, but he did allude to the magical tonic of pursuing attractive mischievous maidens, to gaily indulge and lose one’s self in a whimsical swirl of fragrant petty-coats and whatever else that lies beneath. Oh but he was leading the lad on, almost daring him to chase after the very thing he had not much experienced in life himself, and finished by noting, "dear Benjamin, I'm sure you will find a satisfying way to muddle your way on through."
“Okay – have it your way my friend, I am off to seek my Christmas fortune, a pot of gold beneath the tinseled tree and a beautiful candidate of which you just made reference, or at the very least an agreeable easy chair to relax these bones and a pot of warm salted water to soak these feet.”
“And of course a jug of jolly plum wine!” the old lighthouse keeper cried with another wink.
“Why of course – yes, very good my dear mysterious friend, a big jug of fresh and jolly plum wine, good for both the spleen and the reconfiguration of a soured mind.”
“Off you go!” Willie exclaimed, and by the time that boy had reached the quaint inland with the scattered cottages and the country pathways and the old stone church he had already forgotten about the mysterious light, about the absurd promise, but not Willie, no not him. For he would always remember a long ago lonely Christmas Eve midnight when at this very stark and empty place he had cried out to the open sea, “please oh Lord, I need a sign, give me a sign!” and the sign had been delivered in the form of a visitation, a glowing orb that shone light upon this little slab of cold rock and rising tide.

***

We surely all hear of the tragic ends to dreadful nights, the prayers that were never answered while the storms blindly raged on. But what of those others, the lucky ones that found the light in all that darkness, the unknowingly saved? We hear not of those but that does not mean they don’t exist. They do and in numbers too great to count. They all go home to their wives and children never knowing how close they came to obliteration and not knowing who to thank if they somehow did gain a sense of their fortunate salvation. Even now a ship tosses on the turbulent current out there beyond the breakers, its captain and crew clenched with growing concern, but the coal basket remains stoked and the heat gives off a light that shines through the bitter gloom and now a crewman spots it, he cries out pointing and they all rejoice, their bearings quickly determined. Now the slimy hull of the vessel will scrape not a thing this night, only glide through cold lovely water, and in a few hours the entire crew will reunite with family and friends, sharing a full glass and a smile by the warming cheerful fire.
Willie smiled as he watched the light of that ship finding safe passage through the night. He is satisfied, proud, so privileged in the knowledge that he helped frightened men in their time of need. So rejoice in your purpose as lonely as it may be! There is really no such thing as destiny, some aren’t deemed more worthy than others to be blessed with a life filled with happiness and abundant love, but things just happen – molecules collide, our world takes shape, and the sun continues to just burn away. But there is a coal basket that needs replenishment and families that need your dependable light!
Now past midnight and it is Christmas Day. Even the sea seems to sense that it is time for some peace and a calm silence descends. Willie takes a rag from his back pocket and washes a window, he looks out, remembering that long ago night, the first visitation. He remembers the sadness assuaged by the promise, the promise that every Christmas Eve the light will return to remind him, and when at long last it does not, prepare to celebrate! In the meantime continue to feed the basket that shines the light from this bony outcrop of jagged rock. Because soon enough the greater light will descend and sweep him up gently in its wake. And it will be then that he rides that golden wave with the very last angel, the ghost of Christmas Forever.

--- NKT December24, 2009