Somehow this plan was so awesome that the boy just could not hurry to carry it out. To hurry was not in the spirit of the thing. Then, suddenly, Leah stopped appearing at her window, and the boy was plunged into misery. He was afraid that she might already be dead, and that his chance was gone forever, and he cursed himself for his slowness. But as he sat on the doorstep of his house, his head in his arms, lost in his dreary pain, without word and without vision, he heard the footsteps of people passing and a bright voice chirped, like the sun piercing a sky packed with a cumulus of grey clouds.
"Yes. Not a whisper of her illness. It's just like she woke up one day and it melted away."
"It makes you wonder, don't it? Maybe we could all cure ourselves if we just woke up in the right mood."
"Yes. Straight away she said she wanted to work on the farm again."
The voices disappeared off down the road. The boy lifted his head from his arms in joy. All around him now was that bleak no-man's-land that might be autumn or winter, and the cold stones of the town. But to him it was spring and birdsong. Without waiting he leapt up and ran over the hills to the farmhouse. Leah, it seems, had just finished milking and was carrying two steaming pails from the barn, her soft cheeks flushed in the cold air. Watching from his habitual hiding place behind a stone wall, it seemed to the boy that Leah's renewed health was even more precious than her illness had been. She looked more beautiful than ever. He noticed the faerie flowers still grew by the door. If he could carry out his plan now, with Leah restored to the world, perhaps there could even be a lifetime of…of what? Of that unimaginable state the plan was to bring about. But when to do it? The timing must be right. And then it struck him as obvious. For something of such magic and moment he must choose the most magical date on the calendar. It must be Christmas Day, buried deep in the folds between autumn and winter. It was not long now. He only had to wait a few more days.
* * *
Christmas Day dawned. It was still early, and the cold of the air and the white of the snow made everything seem fragile. Something of the deeper blue of night stained the edges of the sky, fading to a very rare blue, almost tremulous, if a colour can be said to tremble. It was a blue that the boy knew in his heart.
From the lintel of the door there hung icicles. Under a dusting of snow the flowers still bloomed, as if they lived on the darkness and cold as some flowers do on sunshine. The boy knocked on the door. What would he do if it was not her? But it must be her. Who else could come to answer when such a blue was in the sky? There were no voices from within, but there were movements. Someone was coming. His heart beating in happiness, the boy knew it was her before she opened the door. Sure enough, she had been the only one awake so early on Christmas Day.
The door opened. She looked at him, puzzled, but with a sense of pleasant anticipation, as if anything that happened today must be part of the day's festivities. She was not wrong. The boy had never seen her so close, and now the freshness of her beauty startled him, so that he realised it was not an easy thing he meant to do at all. But he wanted to now more than ever. This was the moment. After a few seconds of flustered silence he took his left hand from behind his back and offered something to her. She looked down. In his grasp there was something beautiful, a turquoise, opalescent flower, just like the ones that grew by the door…Her eyes widened for a moment and then she fainted away, as lightly as a snowflake falling to earth, in a swoon of death.
* * *
What happened on that Christmas morning became my greatest secret, and one that has guaranteed my silence all these years, if any such guarantee were needed. Perhaps it is best I can never tell this tale, and not merely because my guilt is thereby hidden. Since it will never meet the harsh air of the world, in this tale, at least, something of the magic of those far-off things, happy or unhappy I no longer know, will be preserved.
Now I am old and hoary. I have enough wit to tend to my bees and sell their honey and keep myself warm in my shed. My eyes are still clear, and my hearing keen, and every day more is added to my store of secrets. In secrets I am richer than any man that ever lived. And though I am old, the sun on the grass looks the same to me as it ever did, and the grass beneath my feet feels the same. I have no need to envy the spring. I have not opened my mouth to speak, and what is inside me has remained the same and ever-young. Perhaps I am the idiot people say I am, for every day the world's cruel wonder leaves me speechless. And I know that even if I tried to speak, even if I forced a sound, with the first, painful birth cry of my voice there would start a wailing, weeping howl that would go on forever.
Gordon Van Gelder
SANTA’S TENTH REINDEER
BILLY AVENDIL DIDN’T go to sleep on Christmas Eve. He lay awake in bed, watching the minutes tick off his clock. He was nervous, he was excited, he was anxious, he had something up his sleeve.
He waited until he felt he had waited long enough, then he tiptoed out of his room, taking precautions in case somebody was still half awake. He slid down the banister to avoid the squeaky stairs and because it was fun.
He instantly went to work, setting up his trap, testing it, making sure that everything was right. He considered setting a fire in the fireplace for the twelfth time, and for the twelfth time he decided that Santa would see the fire in time. Especially if his doubts were correct. But that was what he was doing all this for.
Then came the waiting. He sat down behind the tree, chewing his nails. He got up, started pacing, considered taking a cigarette from his mother’s pocketbook, decided against it, paced some more, and was getting up for the cigarette when he heard noises on the rooftop.
Ho ho ho jingle jingle. The sound of hoofs beat against the roof. Billy raced to his spot behind the tree and gripped the pole nervously. He wondered about the reindeer, for if his theory was right, then the reindeer would be different, but he didn’t have time to follow up on the thought.
Ho ho ho ugh ugh damn oof ugh. Santa was on his way down. Billy wondered if he should have stuck a knife in the chimney.
Ah phew ho ho whooooa oof! Santa emerged from the fireplace, stepped onto the skateboard, and went flying into the tree. Billy pushed the angel off the tree, and it struck Santa on the head with a crash. Then Billy hit Santa on the head with the pole. Santa fell to the floor, unconscious.
Billy tied Santa’s hands to the tree, and lashed the feet together. Then he confirmed his theory, and took a picture for proof. He waited for Santa to awaken.
Santa came to with an awful headache. He realized where he was, and he swore, a long string of curses too terrible to repeat. When his “speech” was over, he said,
“Why’d you do this, Billy? If it’s my presents you want, take them. I don’t give a damn. It just means that a lot of kids are going to be disappointed.”
“Take your presents and stuff them up your fat rear, one at a time. I don’t want your presents. All I wanted was proof of who you are, and I’ve got it,” said Billy.
“All right, son, you’ve caught me.”
“Get lost. My father’s upstairs, with enough drugs in him to put an elephant to sleep. I know who you are.”
“Damn, I think that you do know.”
“That’s right, Santa. I know why you always wear red, and it’s not because it matches your nose. That was a pretty good joke, with the switch of the names. I liked it.”
“I’m thrilled,” said Santa unemphatically.
“Aww. Why so sad, Prince? Sad that the cat’s out of the bag, along with all the other stuff you’ve got in there?” asked Billy.
“Do you know what a pain in the, uh, neck you are, Billy? I have stuff to do, and you’re keeping me from doing it,” said Santa.
“Aww, that’s too bad. The Prince of Evil worried that he won’t give out enough presents? Tsk tsk.”
“You’re the snottiest kid I know, and I think that all kids are snotty,” said Santa.
Billy made a disgusting noise in response to Santa’s statement. “Could you tell
me something?” asked Billy.
“Why do you do it? Why give out presents, and eggs on Easter, and love on Valentine’s Day, why?”
“Take a guess,” said Santa dryly. “Are you going to let me loose?”
“Not until I get answers, that’s for sure. Why do you do it?” he repeated.
“You’re evil, you’re clever, figure it out.”
“If I could’ve figured it out, I wouldn’t have asked. Tell me.”
“More hate comes through love than any other way,” said Santa.
“Bull. That ruins the definition of love.”
“Really? Think about it. What are half the murders? Husband and wife. How do best friends become best enemies? By chasing after the same person. Don’t you see? Love and hate go hand in hand, like life and death. Are you going to release me?”
Billy was considering everything Santa had said. “I see your point, Santa, but there are still things I don’t understand. Why give out presents?”
“They go with evil, too. Haven’t you ever seen two kids fight over who gets the better present? Just think about the things you ask, and you’ll get answers.”
“No. True, presents do cause some evil, but they spread a lot of love. So does Valentine’s Day, so does Easter, so do all your holidays.”
“The world cannot exist without opposites—love and hate, life and death, day and night, and so on. Nobody can do anything without opposites occurring. I try to cause evil, and some good comes of it. Same with you, same with what everyone does. Are you going to let me go?”
‘‘I think I see what you mean. Do I have an opposite?”
“Of course. Everybody does. You’ll probably marry her. But I have some bad news for you. Your plan isn’t going to work. The picture you took won’t convince anybody.”
“Yeah, sure, like I’m really going to buy that.”
“It’s true. They won’t accept Santa as something else. It’s the opposite theory again. The people think that Santa is good. Believe me. Other people have tried what you’re going to.”
“You mean, all I’ve done is going to go to waste?”
“No. I’ve found out that you’re evil, and that’s important. You’re so evil, in fact, that I have an offer to make to you. How would you like to become a helper of mine, a cupid, or maybe a bunny?”
“No thanks. I couldn’t stand it. I’m fine as I am right now.”
“You don’t want to be an elf, huh? Well, how about a personal assistant? I could make my former one an elf, and let you have the job.”
“Very tricky. Then when somebody new comes along, I’m an elf. No thanks. I’m fine as I am.”
“I’ll level with you. There is a time when certain people have to be removed from the world, or else they would wreak too much havoc. No matter what you say, a good soul is going to change places with you. You may as well get as good a position as you can.”
“I don’t believe a single word you’ve said. Take your proposition and shove it.”
“That’s it.” Santa stood up, rearing himself to his towering full height, hands and feet free by some unknown means. His eyes twinkled—with evil and not merriment.
“That’s it, Billy. You’ve had your chance, and you shoved it. No longer shall I ask, I shall do. From now on, you will be my helper. One night a year, you will tow me around the world with nine others as evil as you. You will learn what it feels like to be whipped, and what it feels like to freeze on rooftops. For three hundred and sixty-four days, you will live in the Arctic and eat moss. I shall deprive you even of death. Your life will become a living hell, no pun intended.” He smiled at the horror in Billy’s eyes, and made a motion with his hands . . .
. . . And Billy changed. His smile softened, his eyes filled with awe at the sight of Santa. Santa put out the presents for the Avendil family, winked at the new Billy, and hustled up the chimney, hoping the tenth reindeer would make up for the lost time.
“Ho ho ho! Move, boys! On Donner, on Blitzen, on Vixen! Get your rear in gear, Billy! Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Richard Brautigan
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH 390 PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHRISTMAS TREES?
I DON’T KNOW. But it seemed the thing to do in that first week in January 1964, and I got two other people to join me. One of them wants to remain anonymous, and that’s all right.
I think we were still in shock over President Kennedy’s assassination. Perhaps that had something to do with all those photographs of Christmas trees.
The Christmas of 1963 looked terrible, illuminated by all the flags in America hanging at half-mast week after week in December in a tunnel of mourning.
I was living by myself in a very strange apartment where I was taking care of an aviary for some people who were in Mexico. I fed the birds every day and changed bird water and had a little vacuum cleaner to tidy up the aviary when it was needed.
I ate dinner by myself on Christmas day. I had some hot dogs and beans and drank a bottle of rum with Coca-Cola. It was a lonesome Christmas and President Kennedy’s murder was almost like one of those birds that I had to feed every day.
The only reason I am mentioning this is to kind of set the psychological frame for 390 photographs of Christmas trees. A person does not get into this sort of thing without sufficient motivation.
Late one evening I was walking home from visiting some people on Nob Hill. We had sat around drinking cup after cup of coffee until our nerves had become lionesque.
I left around midnight and walked down a dark and silent street toward home, and I saw a Christmas tree abandoned next to a fire hydrant.
The tree had been stripped of its decorations and lay there sadly like a dead soldier after losing a battle. A week before it had been a kind of hero.
Then I saw another Christmas tree with a car half-parked on it. Somebody had left their tree in the street and the car had accidentally run over it. The tree was certainly a long way from a child’s loving attention. Some of the branches were sticking up through the bumper.
It was that time of the year when people in San Francisco get rid of their Christmas trees by placing them in the streets or vacant lots or wherever they can get rid of them. It is the journey away from Christmas.
Those sad and abandoned Christmas trees really got on my conscience. They had provided what they could for that assassinated Christmas and now they were just being tossed out to lie there in the streets like bums.
I saw dozens of them as I walked home through the beginning of the new year. There are people who just chuck their Christmas trees right out the front door. A friend of mine tells a story about walking down the street on December 26th and having a Christmas tree go whistling right by his ear, and hearing a door slam. It could have killed him.
There are others who go about abandoning their Christmas trees with stealth and skill. That evening I almost saw somebody put a Christmas tree out, but not quite. They were invisible like the Scarlet Pimpernel. I could almost hear the Christmas tree being put out.
I went around the corner and there in the middle of the street lay a tree, but nobody was around. There are always people who do a thing with greatness, no matter what it is.
When I arrived home I went to the telephone and called up a friend of mine who is a photographer and accessible to the strange energies of the Twentieth Century. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. I had awakened him and his voice was a refugee from sleep.
“Who is it?” he said.
“Christmas trees,” I said.
“What?”
“Christmas trees.”
“Is that you, Richard?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“What about them?”
“Christmas is only skin deep,” I said. “Why don’t we take hundreds of pictures of Christmas trees that are abandoned in the streets? We’ll show the despair and abandonment of Christmas by the way people throw their trees out.”
“Might as well do that as an
ything else,” he said. “I’ll start tomorrow during my lunch hour.”
“I want you to photograph them just like dead soldiers,” I said. “Don’t touch or pose them. Just photograph them the way they fell.”
The next day he took photographs of Christmas trees during his lunch hour. He worked at Macy’s then and went up on the slopes of Nob Hill and Chinatown and took pictures of Christmas trees there.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 11, 14, 21, 28, 37, 52, 66.
I called him that evening.
“How did it go?”
“Wonderful,” he said.
The next day he took more photographs of Christmas trees during his lunch hour.
72, 85, 117, 128, 137.
I called him up that evening, too.
“How did it go?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he said. “I’ve almost got 150 of them”
“Keep up the good work,” I said. I was busy lining up a car for the weekend, so that we would have mobility to take more Christmas tree photographs.
The person who drove us around the next day desires to remain anonymous. He is afraid that he would lose his job and face financial and social pressures if it got out that he worked with us that day.
The next morning we started out and we drove all over San Francisco taking photographs of abandoned Christmas trees. We faced the project with the zest of a trio of revolutionaries.
142, 159, 168, 175, 183.
We would be driving along and spot a Christmas tree lying perhaps in the front yard of somebody’s lovely house in Pacific Heights or beside an Italian grocery store in North Beach. We would suddenly stop and jump out and rush over to the Christmas tree and start taking pictures from every angle.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 30
