{Previously, in part 1  –  It is Christmas Eve 1933. A blizzard holds Pilot Knob in its icy talons. After finishing his second job, Thomas walks home in the storm.  On the way, he hears a weak cry for help.}

 

“Yes, I think it is Wednesday,” he muttered. “Christmas Eve – Cookies and ribbon, not much of a Christmas,” he shook his head sadly. “Not much, but it will have to do, it’s all I have.”

Suddenly he heard a voice pleading, “Help us?”

Thomas strained to locate the voice, Who could possibly be out here on a night like this, he wondered.

“What? Who’s there?” he replied.

“I’m by the fence.” The voice was ahead of him, and a little louder. Thomas found a woman cradling two small children. They watched him approach. Their hollow eyes sent a chill down his spine.

“Thank you, I need to get the children home, but I couldn’t break through the drifts,” the woman explained.

“Where do you live?” Thomas asked.

“Just down the road; not far,” The woman began to cry. “The drifts were too deep, please help.”

Thomas picked up the oldest, a girl about four. He wrapped her in his blanket. “Here, I’ll break the path, you follow, OK?”

“Thank you, thank you, we’d have perished if you hadn’t come by.” Thomas nodded and trudged down the road, the woman close behind.

I don’t have time for this, he thought, I need to get home myself. He broke the trail, and the woman followed. She prattled on about her husband. He was in the service, and they were alone. Since it was Christmas Eve, she took the kids to visit her mother-in-law. On the way home, the storm caught her unawares.

The girl in Thomas’s arms looked at his bright red coat and felt his ice-covered mustache

“Are you Santa?” she asked. “Where’s your sleigh?”

Thomas laughed, “Me Santa? Na, I ain’t Santa.” The girl looked so disappointed that Thomas felt bad. “Na, I ain’t Santa, but I am one of his helpers,” he laughed. “Have ya been good this year?”

“Yes,” she replied. “My brother has been good too, but he’s only one,” she beamed. No longer shy the girl chatted nonstop. Finally, they reached their house, if you could call it that. The wreck before him was a shack, a rundown shack. The woman opened the door.

“Come in; let me get you some tea. You need a hot drink before you continue,” the woman pleaded. “Looks like the storm may be easing.”

Inside the shed, the child wiggled out of his arms and climbed upon a stool. Thomas scanned the tiny room, a coal stove and a table sat in the middle. An empty coal bucket lay on the floor. He picked it up and headed for the door.

“Is the coal pile in the back?” he asked.

“Yes, what little there is,” she replied. “It’s under the old tarp.”

The coal pile was a pitiful heap of small chunks. Thomas realized that the woman must have walked the railroad gathering the little pieces that fell from passing trains. He had done that himself more than once. He filled the bucket and carried it inside, and then busied himself stoking the stove. The woman scooped snow into a teapot and sat it on the stove to melt.

“Well’s frozen,” she explained.

“Momma, I’m hungry,” the oldest child cried. Then the baby began to cry. It was a pitiful hungry cry.

Sheepishly, the woman opened the cupboards revealing nearly empty shelves. Shaking her head, she looked at Thomas. He knew that look – she had no food. Without thinking, his hand darted into his pocket. He paused, he was about to give away his children’s Christmas.

At least my kids have food, he thought. Slowly, carefully he opened his handkerchief.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

“You must be a Christmas angel,” the woman exclaimed, giving each child a cookie.

“I’m no angel. What I am is late, and I have a long way yet to go.” Thomas muttered, quickly stepped outside, and hustled away. He fought back a rising sick feeling; he had nothing for his own children. His mood darkened as he walked.

The woman was right about one thing, the storm had let up. A bright moon created thousands of sparkling lights in the snow. It was beautiful, but his mood remained dark. The longer he plowed through the drifts, the more irritated he grew about the delay. “Why did she take those babies out into the storm?” he muttered.

“She almost killed them,” he shouted at the moon.

“Killed who?” the moon answered.

“What?”

“I asked, killed who?” a man appeared beside him. “I’ve been trying to catch up, what’s the hurry?”

“I’m late, and it’s Christmas Eve,” Thomas replied, still irritated. “Who are you?”

The man stuck out an ungloved hand, “Name’s Applebee, Corporal Alan Applebee.”

Thomas shook the soldier’s hand; his uniform was tattered and soiled.

“What brings you out on a night like this?” Thomas asked.

The soldier explained that he had finagled a leave, and was trying to get home by morning. He hadn’t seen his wife and kids in nearly a year. He had saved enough to move them to his new posting.

“I got a bit lost in the storm, though, which way is Pilot Knob?”

“You’re heading in the wrong direction. It’s back that way about a mile.” Thomas pointed back the way he had come.

“Thanks,” Alan replied, blowing on his hands. Suddenly he pointed “What’s  under that tree?”

An old cedar, overloaded with snow and ice, had fallen across the road. A soft moan came from the tree.

“Someone’s under it,” exclaimed Thomas.

 

{Continued in Part 3, check back on Thursday, December 21, for the third and final installment}

 

-David Dahl.

 

 

Have a young reader on your list?

Check out Olivia’s Story: Protector of the Realm

and The Last Chore

 

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