“The wealth of the Mantanai is as the sands on the beach.”
(There was a shaking and rattling sound from the rocket as the delicate meters and instruments were pounded to fragments of glass and metal).
“The wealth of the Mantanai is as boundless as the stars in the heaven.”
(There was a hissing noise as the huge bonfire was lit in the control room).
Reynolds watched the destruction of the rocket calmly; he had accepted its ultimate fate for what seemed a long time now. But his turn was coming.
After a long and elaborate ceremony, Reynolds was gifted with the village and the lands surrounding it and presumably the people in it. Then he stepped forward with a lighted torch in his hands.
“The lands of the Mantanai are as the egg of the vulture: worthless. A poor land, with a poor people. See, I think little of it!” and he cast the torch at a wet spot on the ground.
The wet spot flared into flame that became a rapidly twisting snake of fire, leading down to the stream. A moment later, the waters were thick with flames and oily, black smoke.
It looked like Reynolds was indeed bent upon the destruction of the land.
The chief’s face was white. “The stranger really means this?”
Reynolds nodded grimly and the first of the drums that he had cached behind the village went up in a roar and a gush of flame. The assembled natives paled. Another drum went up.
“We shall be killed!” the chief cried, his eyes rolling white.
Reynolds smiled. “The property of the Mantanai and the Mantanai themselves are as nothing.”
Another drum.
“But you, too, shall die!”
Reynolds shrugged. “My last gift. I knew you wouldn’t want to ascend into the skies without taking me along.”
The chief suddenly knelt and kissed Reynolds’ callused feet. “The wealth of the stranger is mighty; that of the Mantanai is small and insignificant.” His face was terror stricken. “The stranger has won the game!”
The last of the drums went up with a loud explosion.
“Perhaps,” the chief pleaded, “the wealth of the stranger is so great that he can overlook our own small lands and village?”
They were learning humility at a late date, Reynolds thought. But he nodded solemnly and extended his hands toward the flaming oil barriers around the village. There were no more sudden gushes of flame and gradually the oil on the stream burned out.
He had won, Reynolds thought shakily, won on a bluff with practically no time to spare. Another ten minutes and the flames would have died by themselves, exposing his deception.
But he was still stranded, and stranded now for the rest of his life. There were compensations, of course, chief among which was the fact that he would be spared his unhappy homecoming on Canopus.
And this planet was comfortable, the weather was nice. And he had always been the comfort-loving sort, anyways.
And then there was Ruth.
“About the girl Ruth,” he said to the Chief.
The chief’s face immediately grew stern. “She interfered with the game of the Giving of Gifts. She will have to take the Last Cup.”
Reynolds was aghast.
“But look here, I own the village and all the lands surrounding it! I...”
The chief shook his head. “It is tradition.” Then his face grew sly. “But, perhaps if the stranger was willing to consider a gift, the girl could be spared.”
There wasn’t any doubt as to what he was driving at.
“What do you want?”
Firmly. “The village and lands to revert to their owners.”
Later, on the bank of the stream, Ruth leaned her head in the crook of his arm and gazed dreamily at the sky.
“You know why you won, do you not?”
“Certainly. They were afraid they were going to lose all their property.”
She shook her head. “Partly. But mostly because you were willing to lose your life, your last gift as you said. They could never have matched it.”
He nodded vaguely, not too much interested, and told her his plans for the future and just where she fitted into them. He should have seen long ago, he thought, that her efforts to help him hinged on more than just the past kindnesses of Father Williams.
She didn’t reply to his final question.
He flushed, thinking that possibly his conclusions had been all wrong.
“You forget,” she said softly. “The bridal price.” He lay back on the bank, his head whirling. With the reversion of the village and lands back to the tribe to save Ruth’s life, he was broke. He had no property of his own.
He had won his life—and hers—he thought, but he had finished as a bankrupt in the most brutally capitalistic society that nature had ever created, without even the bridal price for the woman he loved!
Reynolds finished the story, and sipped the last of the wassail in his cup.
“Then when we gave those natives our guns,” Harkins said, “it was doing essentially what you had done. Short circuiting the ceremony of the Giving of Gifts by offering our lives, the ultimate gift, the one that couldn’t be topped.”
“Essentially," Reynolds agreed, “though that’s a simplification.”
“I don’t understand,” Jarvis cut in, puzzled. “Harkins here says that the town has been considerably modernized. How was that accomplished?”
Reynolds swirled the last few drops of liquor in his glass and watched the small whirlpool thoughtfully.
“I’m a comfort-loving man myself, and as I became more wealthy and consequently gained more power in the village council, I saw to it that my own ideas for civic improvement were carried out.” He started looking around for the wassail bowl. “Quite simple, really.”
There was a short silence, leaving an opening for the strains of Good King Wenceslas and Silent Night emanating from a small group of overly-merry carolers in another corner.
Harkins looked Reynolds slowly up and down and thought to himself that the man was lying like a rug. There were gaps in his story big enough to run the Churchill through.
“I was wondering, Mr. Reynolds,” he said. “You had to give back the village and lands to save the girl’s life.” (The way Harkins phrased it, he obviously didn’t approve of Reynolds taking up with the native girl, but that was neither here nor there). “And that left you as poor as the proverbial church-mouse. Just how did you gain your wealth and influence?”
“I worked a full year,” Reynolds said, “before I earned Ruth’s bridal price. Even at that, her bridal price wasn’t great, less than that of some of the other belles of the village. (Their tastes in feminine beauty weren’t the same as ours, you understand.)”
“I don’t quite see what bearing that has on it,” Harkins said stiffly.
Reynolds felt around in the folds of his cloak, then passed over a simple drawing to Harkins. It was a crude line drawing of a plump, pleasant-faced woman surrounded by her family.
“I think I told you before, that the natives also used their wealth in paying for their grandsons. That is, a father-in-law would pay a hundred percent interest on the bridal price his daughter’s husband had given him on the birth of his first grandson. Two hundred percent for the second child and four hundred per cent for the third, doubling each time. Now most of the Mantanai don’t care much for many children, but Ruth and I had always thought that we would like a large family. And Ruth's father, you remember, was the wealthiest man in the village.”
Harkins was staring open-mouthed at the drawing, counting the number of children and frantically doubling as he went along.
“Of course, a good deal of luck was involved,” Reynolds said expansively. “Fifteen children—all boys!”
The Pony - Connie Willis
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Suzy demanded. Barbara obediently pulled off the red-and-green plaid bow, bracing herself for the twinge of disappointment she always felt when she opened Christmas presents.
“I always just tear the paper, Aunt Barbara,” Suzy said. “I picked out this present all by myself. I knew what you wanted from the Macy’s parade when your hands got so cold.”
Barbara got the package open. Inside was a pair of red-and-purple striped mittens. “It’s just what I wanted. Thank you, Suzy,” she said. She pointed at the pile of silver boxes under the tree. “One of those is for you, I think.”
Suzy dived under the tree and began digging through the presents.
“She really did pick them out all by herself,” Ellen whispered, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth.
“As you could probably tell by the colors.”
Barbara tried on the mittens. I wonder if Joyce got gloves, she thought. At her last session Joyce had told Barbara that her mother always got her gloves, even though she hated gloves and her mother knew it. “I gave one of my patients your phone number,” Barbara said to Ellen. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Just a little,” said her sister. Barbara clenched her mittened fist.
Suzy dumped a silver box with a large blue bow on it in Barbara’s lap. “Does this one say, ‘To Suzy’?” she asked.
Barbara unfolded the silver card. “It says, ‘To Suzy from Aunt Barbara.’ ” Suzy began tearing at the paper.
“Why don’t you open it on the floor?” Ellen said, and Suzy snatched the package off Barbara’s lap and dropped to the floor with it.
“I’m really worried about this patient,” Barbara said. “She’s spending Christmas at home with an unhappy, domineering mother.”
“Then why did she go home?”
“Because she’s been indoctrinated to believe that Christmas is a wonderful, magical time when everyone is happy and secret wishes can come true,” Barbara said bitterly.
“A baseball shirt,” Suzy said happily. “I bet now those boys at my preschool will let me play ball with them.” She pulled the striped Yankees shirt on over her red nightgown.
“Thank goodness you were able to find the shirt,” Ellen said softly. “I don’t know what she would have done if she hadn’t gotten one. It’s all she’s talked about for a month.”
I don’t know what my patient will do either, Barbara thought. Ellen put another red-and-green package in her lap, and she opened it, wondering if Joyce was opening her presents. At Joyce’s last session she had talked about how much she hated Christmas morning, how her mother always found fault with all her presents, saying they didn’t fit or were the wrong color or that she already had one.
“Your mother’s using her presents to express the dissatisfaction she feels with her own life,” Barbara had told her. “Of course, everyone feels some disappointment when they open presents. It’s because the present is only a symbol for what the person really wants.”
“Do you know what I want for Christmas?” Joyce had said as though she hadn’t heard a word. “A ruby necklace.”
The phone rang. “I hope this isn’t your patient,” Ellen said, and went into the hall to answer it.
“What does this present say?” Suzy said. She was standing holding another present, a big one with cheap, garish Santa Clauses all over it.
Ellen came back in, smiling. “Just a neighbor calling to wish us a merry Christmas. I was afraid it was your patient.”
“So was I,” Barbara said. “She’s talked herself into believing that she’s getting a ruby necklace for Christmas, and I’m very worried about her emotional state when she’s disappointed.”
“I can’t read, you know,” Suzy said loudly, and they both laughed. “Does this present say ‘To Suzy’?”
“Yes,” Ellen said, looking at the tag, which had a Santa Claus on it. “But it doesn’t say who it’s from. Is this from you, Barbara?”
“It’s ominous,” Suzy said. “We had ominous presents at my preschool.”
“Anonymous,” Ellen said, untaping the tag and looking on the back. “They had a gift exchange. I wonder who sent this. Mom’s bringing her presents over this afternoon, and Jim decided to wait and give her his when she goes down there next weekend. Go ahead and open it, honey, and when we see what it is, maybe we’ll know who it’s from.” Suzy knelt over the box and started tearing at cheap paper. “Your patient thinks she’s getting a ruby necklace?” Ellen said.
“Yes, she saw it in a little shop in the Village, and last week when she went in there again, it was gone. She’s convinced someone bought it for her.”
“Isn’t it possible someone did?”
“Her family lives in Pennsylvania, she has no close friends, and she didn’t tell anybody she wanted it.” “Did you buy her the necklace?” Suzy said. She was tearing busily at the Santa Claus paper.
“No,” Barbara said to Ellen. “She didn’t even tell me about the necklace until after it was gone from the shop, and the last thing I’d want to do would be to encourage her in her mother’s neurotic behavior pattern.”
“I would buy her the necklace,” Suzy said. She had all the paper off and was lifting the lid off a white box. “I would buy it and say, ‘Surprise!’ ”
“Even if she got the necklace, she’d be disappointed in it,” Barbara said, feeling obscurely angry at Suzy. “The necklace is only a symbol for a subconscious wish. Everyone has those wishes: to go back to the womb, to kill our mothers and sleep with our fathers, to die. The conscious mind is terrified of those wishes, so it substitutes something safer—a doll or a necklace.”
“Do you really think it’s that ominous?” Ellen asked, the corners of her mouth quirking again. “Sorry, I’m starting to sound like Suzy. Do you really think it’s that serious? Maybe your patient really wants a ruby necklace. Didn’t you ever want something really special that you didn’t tell anybody about? You did. Don’t you remember that year you wanted a pony and you were so disappointed?”
“I remember,” Barbara said.
“Oh, it’s just what I wanted!” Suzy said so breathlessly that they both looked over at her. Suzy pulled a doll out of a nest of pink tissue and held it out at arm’s length. The doll had a pink ruffled dress, yellow curls, and an expression of almost astonishing sweetness. Suzy stared at it as if she were half afraid of it. “It is,” she said in a hushed tone. “It’s just what I wanted.”
“I thought you said she didn’t like dolls,” Barbara said.
“I thought she didn’t. She didn’t breathe a word of this.” Ellen picked up the box and rustled through the pink tissue paper, looking for a card. “Who on earth do you suppose sent it?”
“I’m going to call her Letitia,” Suzy said. “She’s hungry. I’m going to go feed her breakfast.” She went off into the kitchen, still holding the doll carefully away from her.
“I had no idea she wanted a doll,” Ellen said as soon as she was out of sight. “Did she say anything when you took her to Macy’s?”
“No,” Barbara said, wadding the wrapping paper in her lap into a ball. “We never even went near the dolls. She wanted to look at baseball bats.”
“Then how did you know she wanted a doll?” Barbara stopped with her hands full of paper and plaid ribbon. “I didn’t send her the doll,” she said angrily. “I bought her the Yankees shirt, remember?” “Then who sent it to her?”
“How would I know? Jim maybe?”
“No. He’s getting her a catcher’s mitt.”
’The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Barbara said. She crammed the red paper into a box and went into the hall.
“I just had to call you!” Joyce shouted at her. She sounded nearly hysterical.
“I’m right here,” she said soothingly. “I want you to tell me what’s upsetting you.”
“I’m not upset!” Joyce said. “You don’t understand! I got it!”
“The ruby necklace?” Barbara said.
“At first I thought I hadn’t gotten it, and I was trying to be cheerful about it even though my mother hated everything I got her and she gave me gloves again; and then, when almost all the presents had been passed out, there it was; in t
his little box, all wrapped in Santa Claus paper. There was a little tag with a Santa Claus on it, too, and it said, ‘To Joyce.’ It didn’t say who it was from. I opened it, and there it was. It’s just what I wanted!”
“Surprise, Aunt Barbara,” Suzy said, feeding a cookie shaped like a Santa Claus to her doll.
“I’ll wear the necklace to my next session so you can see it,” Joyce said, and hung up.
“Barbara,” Ellen’s voice called from the living room. “I think you’d better come in here.”
Barbara took hold of Suzy’s hand and walked into the living room. Ellen was wrestling with a package wrapped in gaudy Santa Claus paper. It was wedged between the Christmas tree and the door. Ellen was behind it, trying to straighten the tree.
“Where did this come from?” Barbara said.
“It came in the mail,” Suzy said. She handed Barbara her doll and clambered up on the couch to get to the small tag taped on top.
“There isn’t any mail on Christmas,” Barbara said.
Ellen squeezed past the tree and around to where Barbara was standing. “I hope it’s not a pony,” she said, and the corners of her mouth quirked. “It’s certainly big enough for one.”
Suzy climbed back down, handed Barbara the tag, and took her doll back. Barbara held it a little away from her, as if she were afraid of it. The tag had a Santa Claus on it. It read, “To Barbara.” The present was big enough to be a pony. Or something worse. Something only your subconscious knew you wanted. Something too frightening for your conscious mind to even know it wanted.
“It’s an ominous present,” Suzy said. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
O Little Town of Bethlehem II – Robert F. Young
This morning I take Sandy and Drew into the woods to look for a Christmas tree. The woods are full of them, but finding a good one is difficult, for most of the conifers indigenous to this part of McMullen’s Planet lack the natural symmetry of their counterparts on Earth.
Sandy is ten, Drew eight. Christmas Eve is tomorrow night and they can hardly wait for it to come, even though no Santa Claus will come down our chimney. When I reminded them of this, they assured me it made no difference. Christmas this year, they said, will be special enough in itself. In this they are quite right.
Christmas on Ganymede and Other Stories Page 13
