by Alma Boykin
After Lee departed, Rachel gave up on the bookkeeping and instead picked up a walking stick and made a slow trip down to the chapel. Her leg wasn’t bothering her too much, but she felt no need to hurry. The main hall of the office area was quiet since at least half the unit was on leave. Many were staying close enough that they could come in quickly if something arose, but London and Vienna had been generous with leave this year. God knows they deserve it, the Wanderer sighed. We didn’t suffer nearly the losses that the Germans and Poles took, but things have still been rough. She nodded to a few people, then poked her head into the chapel.
No one else was there so she slipped inside, genuflected to the Presence, and took a seat toward the front, where she could stare at the stained glass. Rachel let her defenses down with a relieved sigh, taking advantage of the chapel’s shields. It was the winter solstice, and Logres’s power surged through her, strengthening her own inborn gifts and skills. If her guard slipped the least bit, she felt every single person in the building, as well as everything going on in the grounds and woodland beyond the fences. That was one of the hazards of being a Guardian of the Isle of the Mighty, especially this time of the year. Tonight, she’d go out into the storm and revel in the power. For now she just wanted peace. The shadowy quiet of the chapel kept her interior shadows at bay—for the moment.
Well, she’d promised to think about darkness and light. Rachel tipped a kneeler down and settled onto it with a bit of a creak. She contemplated the flickering Presence candle and the snow-lit image of St. Michael Archangel descending from heaven, his sword half drawn as he prepared to do battle with evil in the form of a bilious green dragon at the bottom of the window. The warrior saint wore the original regimental uniform, and Rachel smiled a little. Then her thoughts returned to her current woes.
Nothing had been the same since that September, three years before. And now, after what had happened in Germany three months ago, Rachel didn’t know what to make of herself. She kept trying to believe that she’d done the right thing, but then she’d remember the bloodlust and rage, and how easily she’d killed who knew how many Vreenahlwee, granting deadly mercy to the parasitized humans she’d found. Thirty? Forty? And before then? How many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives had she taken over the centuries? “The wages of sin are death,” the Bible said, and she’d committed mortal sins how often? There was no forgiveness for that, was there? Scripture said there was, and Rachel hoped that God could forgive her, but more and more she wasn’t so certain. And yet, and yet . . . McKendrick and Joschka and Father Mikael never blamed her for what she’d done, never even commented on it. “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light.” The Wanderer searched her faith for some kind of hope and prayed.
As his advisor contemplated life, death, and sin, James McKendrick gave up trying to pretend he wasn’t depressed. First Jamie and then Mary had called to inform their father that they had other plans and wouldn’t be coming all the way down to central England to visit for the holidays as they’d said they would. There was more to it than that, James knew. The children blamed him for his and Ellen’s divorce, even though his transgression had occurred before they’d even been born. He’d been married for more than twenty-five years when she had reappeared and shattered what had seemed so solid and stable. Ellen had always insisted on hosting a holiday party for his command and their families this time of year, filling the house with light and color, guests and music. Despite his strict Calvinist faith, McKendrick had a special place in his heart for the holiday festivities, and relished them even as he heartily disapproved of the tawdry excesses that surrounded Christmas itself.
From atop the bookshelf next to the window, a raven squawked quietly, then stalked over until it could bounce onto his desk without much effort. The bird gave the man a sympathetic look.
“You are getting fat and lazy, Knox” the general informed his alter ego.
“Caw,” the corbie replied, before poking at the silvery computer mouse. McKendrick bought Knox off with a tidbit of dried meat and let the bird sidle up onto his shoulder. Normally Knox lived outdoors, but just this once the redhead was allowing the raven to come in and stay through the nights. Truth be told, he wanted the company. No family visits, no holiday festivities, nothing to mark the season except for the midnight service on the twenty-fourth. McKendrick let himself mope for a minute or two, then went back to work.
When he finished, he locked the computer and left his office, heading for his quarters before going to supper. To his surprise, he met Rachel leaving the chapel. She looked much more relaxed and peaceful than he’d seen her in months, and he wondered what had changed. She smiled at him and gave Knox a little salute. In turn, the raven bowed deeply—to McKendrick’s chagrin. “It’s the solstice,” she reminded him.
“Humpf. It is also two days before Christmas,” he grumped.
Rachel’s quiet smile broadened. “If you want to talk about it, sir, I’ll be up late tonight,” she offered, then went on her way.
Knox made a noise suggesting that it would be a good idea to accept the offer. “What do you know?” the unhappy Scotsman inquired, half-joking.
The raven shook and made another soft caw, as if to say, “More than you can guess, my friend.”
“I’m surrounded by insanity,” McKendrick groaned.
At 2000 hours McKendrick tapped hesitantly on the door to Rachel’s personal quarters, not even certain why he was there. “Come in,” a quiet voice called, and he pushed the wood farther open, then stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and blinked at the sudden darkness. Three or four meters ahead of him, a fire burned in a stone and tile fireplace, and he walked toward the cheery orange and yellow glow. As he got closer, the room opened out, and he realized that he’d been walking between bookcases, paired to form a short hallway and to provide a little privacy in a very small efficiency flat.
“Welcome to my lair,” Rachel offered from where she sat, curled up in an odd-looking wing chair, one of a pair in front of the fire. She’d taken her long braid down and the firelight shone red on the black-brown plait. “There’s hot water for tea and hot milk for cocoa here on the fire, and cold drinks in the icebox around the corner there.” She gestured with a mug. “Nibbles are in with the drinks, or here.” She picked up something from a plate piled high with snacks that sat on the petite coffee table between the chairs.
The Scotsman opted for cocoa and carefully settled into the very comfortable chair across from his advisor. Aside from the books, her quarters were even more spartan than McKendrick’s own, and he wondered a little. She seemed content to wait for him to speak, sipping her own cocoa and bundled up under a heavy blanket with what looked like fur trimming the edges. McKendrick finished about half his drink, had a handful of nuts and a “sugarplum?” he asked, looking at the dark-colored treat.
“Someone sends me a box every year. It’s a private joke,” she explained. “I’ve grown rather fond of them, but I’m not going to tell the sender that.” The brunette smiled and the officer found himself smiling in return. He ventured around the corner she had indicated and cleaned out his mug, then fixed a cup of tea. “Gourmet jerky?” she offered, holding out a box.
“I’m glad someone seems to be having a happy Christmas,” he said, then felt bad as he realized how bitter he sounded.
The alien set the box aside and drank more cocoa before observing, “Yes, I am. Because I decided to have a happy Christmas despite what the world says I should be feeling. My friends are alive and are doing as well as can be hoped for, no one is shooting at me, and I’m warm, dry, and clean, with a full stomach and warm hearth. That makes a very happy Christmas, in my experience,” the woman said, gazing into the fire with a small smile. “So why not enjoy it, savor it and remember the best of Christmas?”
McKendrick grumped. “Of all people, I’d think you’d be the last one to be a Pollyanna, Commander.” He couldn’t stand people like that, even when he was in a much better
mood than he was just then. “And you’re alone,” the human pointed out, coming to the heart of his own bleak mood.
Now Rachel looked at him, still smiling a little as she got up, added a log to the fire, and excused herself for a moment. Her heavy wool skirts swished quietly as she rounded the other corner, and McKendrick used her absence to indulge his curiosity. To his surprise, there in the shadows, he saw what looked like an oversize cat basket! He stared at the bed-sized, wicker-lined, wooden box with its thick mattress, bed pillows, a heavy-looking duvet that draped over the back of the frame, and two or three fleecy blankets neatly folded and stacked at the foot of the box. Rachel’s pistol and a long knife hung within reach of the sleeping area, and McKendrick started shaking his head at his advisor’s paranoia, then stopped himself. She did have enemies, and if somehow someone came after her here, it would take time for help to arrive. The man returned to his seat and his tea just before Rachel emerged from the W.C.
She curled back up under her blanket, nibbled a bit of gingerbread, and sipped her drink. “I am alone, sir,” she agreed. “But I know that my friends are thinking about me.” She gestured to the treats and to some cards standing on the mantle. “And I believe that my family is at peace, wherever their souls have gone. So why not celebrate the birth of the One who brings us that peace and that hope?”
The human considered her words as they both stared into the crackling fire. He thought about her past and how grim the little bit was that he now knew: both parents murdered, child killed as she watched, and spending most of her life on the run from people who wanted her to die as agonizingly as possible. And yet she remained apparently sane, and could laugh, and kept her deep faith in the Lord. It made his own troubles seem small by comparison, and he felt ashamed for his bad mood. “I think you’re right, Rachel,” he admitted after much thought.
She laughed quietly. “I’ll go write it in the report book so I can prove that it happened at least once in my life,” she joked, as she got up and took their mugs to rinse while McKendrick visited the WC. When he finished, she was standing at the fireplace with a shaker of some kind in her hand. “Here,” she offered. “Add a little to the fire.”
He did and a rich scent, unlike anything he’d encountered before, filled the small room. It reminded him of clove and cinnamon, but also of spring’s life and of snow’s cleanness. Rachel took the shaker back and capped it tightly, then set it on a tiny sideboard next to the fireplace. “Happy Christmas,” she offered, extending her hand and a smile.
McKendrick took the hand, then pulled her closer, forgetting their positions and his problems for a little while as he hugged the small woman. “Happy Christmas,” he replied, as she returned his embrace. And it was.
A wicked gleam lit Rachel’s eye as she surveyed the mess table two days later. Because so many people were gone on leave or visiting with family or friends nearby, the officers and senior NCOs had thrown both protocol and tradition to the winds and combined their messes for the evening meal. And there, at each place, lay a large, gaudy Christmas cracker. “Hey, where’d those come from?” Sgt. Tom Mackintosh asked. “And what are they?”
Colour Sergeant Morgan St. John shook her head and tsked. “Barbarian American! Those are Christmas crackers. It’s an old British tradition.”
“English tradition, Sergeant,” General McKendrick corrected. “My people look at such frippery as a corruption of the holy day.”
“Then may I have yours, sir?” Rachel inquired politely.
“Certainly not,” the Scotsman rumbled.
Supper consisted of far too much roast goose and turkey, stuffing and dressing, carrots, turnips, potatoes beaten with real butter, hot fresh bread, mince pie, and plum pudding. The cooks even managed kosher and halal options for Captain ben David and the other Jews and Muslims in the group. After everyone ate what they could manage, and the volunteers on mess duty had cleared away the dishes, McKendrick sat back and picked up the brightly colored tube next to his plate and offered the end to Lieutenant Van Doren.
The South African took it and pulled. With a loud pop! the cracker exploded in a shower of confetti to reveal a silver watch fob, a toy whistle, and a whisky-filled chocolate, along with a riddle involving an appallingly bad pun. She, in turn, offered him an end of her cracker, and pop! out fell a piece of honey candy, a plastic crocodile, a knock-knock joke, and a charm in the shape of Africa. The black woman smiled at the strange mix of items and decided that, indeed, the British were crazy. Soon the room filled with laughter and popping as the crackers revealed their trinkets and treasures. Rachel’s held a paper dog mask, a heart-shaped silver charm, another horrible pun, and a stick of jerky. Captain ben David got a plastic dreidel, a blue-and-red paper crown, and chocolate coins. About half the crackers had chocolate coins in them, as it turned out. “I suppose this is our end of the year bonus,” someone quipped, generating more laughter.
Soon the men and women broke into their usual officer and NCO groups, each heading to their respective place to continue the celebration. Rachel spent time with both sets of personnel, as was her custom, and then retreated to the lab still wearing the dog mask. She took it off, folded the delicate tissue paper, and tucked it away in a drawer. As she did, she noticed a small red-and-green box in the middle of her desk. There was no name on the box, piquing her curiosity. Inside she found a note saying that two donations had been made in her honor to the Salvation Army—one by Anthony Lee and one by James McKendrick. Touched, she smiled, and took the box and note up to her quarters to add to the collection on the mantle.
When Joschka finally escaped momentarily from his horde of grand and great-grandchildren and checked his phone messages later that week, he found one from Commander Na Gael saying only, “I kept my promise. Happy Christmas.” Two weeks later, a CD arrived from England. It was a recording of the Lessons and Carols from the British Branch. Curious and hopeful, Joschka put it in his computer and hit play. First he heard a hand bell chiming, then a sweet, clear voice singing “Once in Royal David’s city / stood a lowly cattle shed . . .” He smiled. Perhaps her shadows would stay away now.
Two months later, Rachel regarded the item on her desk with a combination of amusement, trepidation, and concern. It was a box, covered in crimson taffeta and shaped like a heart. A gray bow decorated one corner and white lace outlined the top of the box. In short, it strongly resembled one of the containers of chocolates that Terran males gave to their preferred females on the Feast of St. Valentine. Since the Wanderer did not have a mate, fiancé, sibling, or “just a friend, really,” she frowned at the puzzling item intruding on her world.
She poked it with her pen. The box scooted and rustled a little, suggesting that it was not very heavy even though it had something inside. Rachel decided to ignore it for the nonce. Perhaps it had gone to the wrong place, although that was unlikely. Just to be certain, she wanded it with a small metal and electronics detector to rule out explosives. Well, that’s a relief. She pushed the heart to the back of her desk, out of the way. She frowned and opened up her portable supercomputer, entering the codes to connect it to her timeship’s central processor and secondary computer. She needed to look more closely at the Dark Hart’s logs. Something about the timeship visits it had noted and a news story, what was it?
Four hours later, she was reminded of the mysterious item when she reached for a binder on the shelves above her work desk. Oh foo, might as well see what it is and if there’s a note or something. Rachel dragged the box to the front of her desk and popped the top open. “Whee!” Someone had replaced most of the traditional contents with no less than five kinds of dried meats in bite-sized portions, neatly interspersed with a few remaining gourmet chocolates. And there was a note in a standard computer font that read in English, “For Commander Na Gael.”
Later that day, she called Joschka to check in and update him on any new developments he needed to be aware of. She also told him about the box and they both wondered whom it could be from.
He wanted to know if she’d taken precautions, testing it for poison and so forth, and she assured him that she had and had found nothing besides dried meat, vanilla and chocolate creams, and caramels. The Austrian didn’t offer any suggestions, but after he rang off he smiled and helped himself to one of the chocolates he’d dumped into a small container in his desk drawer. He rather liked the ones filled with liqueur, and was glad that Rachel didn’t care for them.
“If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the course; Allah and Earth pardon sin, but remaineth forever remorse.”
Rudyard Kipling, Certain Maxims of Haifitz
It began one night at supper when Commander Na Gael joined the others in trying to identify the mystery meat. It was Lent, and Friday, so most guesses centered on fish or seafood. “Maybe lobster,” Major Maria de Alba y Rodriguez speculated, drawing laughter.
Lieutenant Pedro Bustos, from Chile, poked the item in question and decided, “Capybara. It is a fish during Lent, after all.”
Neither guess was at all likely, but both were possible, Rachel mused as she chewed. Given the absence of bones and texture, she suspected a soybean something or other, and made a note to get more of her dried beef the next time she ventured into the town near the base. At least the cooks had stopped stewing the vegetables into submission. She had unpleasant memories of English cooking from the mid-1980s. “When in doubt, boil,” had been the motto, or so it had seemed, and every non-bread, non-meat item emerged from the kitchen mushy, bland, and unappealing. The thankfully brief dietary lurch towards vegetarianism in the late 1990s had also been rough for a near-obligate carnivore.
She returned from her mental wanderings in time to hear Edward “Oatmeal” O’Neil asking Major de Alba, “What are you giving up for Lent?”
The woman shook her head. “That is between me and God.” Her eyes narrowed a little, “Although if you’re looking for suggestions, not talking without thinking might be a good place to start.”
