THE LAST GHOST OF CHRISTMAS

by Jesse Colt

  THE

  LAST

  GHOST

  OF

  CHRISTMAS

  A CHRISTMAS NOVEL

  God Bless Us Everyone

  —charles dickens

  JESSE COLT

  Copyright © 2020 Jesse Colt

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by chrisodesign.com

  Interior design by teaberrycreative.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Far to the north, farther even than the frozen expanse of Great Bear Lake and north of where the last thin stands of timber yielded to the tundra, endless gloom had taken command of the ice packs. The heavy veil of the arctic night cloaked a barren landscape and allied with billowing dark clouds to choke away the last faint light from the desolate scenery below.

  Lost on this dreary carpet, three tiny luminescent domes clustered together like faint white mushrooms crouching in the darkness. The silent cones were illuminated by the glow of sputtering oil lamps radiating through the translucent walls of the igloos. These sturdy snow bulwarks sheltered a small band of nomadic hunters. The bold searchers had ventured into this desolate region and would turn their eager huskies south as soon as the night sky cleared and allowed the bright stars to guide them back across the wasted landscape.

  Still farther north, almost to the very limit of the compass, the scene remained timeless and unchanging beneath a cloudless sky. Rough ice ridges heaved their ragged shoulders up from the black pack ice. Irregular drifts of snow broke the faint horizon and cringed under the harsh blasts sweeping down from the north. Here the restive snow flowed across the endless white tundra, driven forward on the stinging breath of the polar wind. The frozen crystals drifted a scant meter over the familiar surface, an endless white river undulating across the featureless terrain.

  These were not the soft, plump flakes of the southern regions. The perpetual stream was formed of ice particles that had swirled around the tip of the North Pole, tasted the frigid air of the Russian arctic and endured the solitude of the endless Siberian night. The numbing arctic gusts granted the crystals an eternal life, shifting them restlessly over the polar ice caps like lost souls condemned to eternal wandering across the wasted landscape.

  The ghostly tide surged on polar ice, now polished to a glistening hue by the endless passage of the uneasy stream. The frozen crystals gathered speed, skating over the burnished surface, tinkling like tiny bells heralding the coming of another Christmas season.

  Without warning, they shattered against a barrier of ragged steel and rigid corrugated steel forms. The frozen steel bordered a sprawling communication centre buried in the timeless snow. High over the cheerless scene, a stunted Christmas tree jutted up from the frozen peak of the largest warehouse.

  The tormented pine stretched its sparse limbs skyward, flaunting coloured lights to the prim communication towers trembling in the gale that surged though the taunt guywires. The multicolored lights and spindly tree were recent arrivals to this station, carried in on a thundering Hercules. This mammoth aircraft regularly broke the spell of the hushed night, expelling the necessities of life into this remote installation before dashing southward to the familiar comfort of its warm hangers and attentive crews.

  Deep inside one of the frozen metal huts, Jim Thorndyke shrugged his lean shoulders into yet another heavy sweater. He did not bother to peer out the frost-encrusted window of his tiny room, for the scenery never changed. The endless panorama merely contracted or expanded, depending upon the whim of winds that stirred the passive snow or ushered in southbound blizzards that toyed with the faint horizon.

  The room was sparsely furnished, more of a cell than a bedroom. The room was still freezing. Despite Jim’s efforts to seal the cracks around the frosted window and the addition of two electric heaters, the cutting wind forced its icy tentacles past the insulation, clutching at his chilled bones. Jim seldom ventured from his artificial womb during the long winter months. His comrades hiked, snow-shoed and ran skidoos, but he was content to remain in his self-imposed exile. The long arctic winter held no charms for Jim Thorndyke.

  He located his bulky mitts, then wrestled the down parka from its cramped closet. Struggling into the huge windbreaker, he glanced at his watch and frowned at the pallid artificial tree cowering in a corner of his cubicle. The miniature lights were winking bravely against the chill of the room, making a desperate attempt to bring the spirit of Christmas to a soul that had long ago forgotten the true meaning of the season.

  Jim knew Nester would soon be at his door, pounding and shouting for him to hurry and showering him with curses in coarse Ukrainian. He glanced at his suitcase, half-packed and waiting expectantly beside the freakish little tree. The luggage was crowded against the few presents he was carrying south.

  His Christmas list grew shorter each year. Since the divorce, there were fewer friends to buy for and almost no cards to anticipate. The girls, at least the daughter who was still communicating with him, seemed satisfied with a Christmas cheque. Cheques simplified the shopping. He scowled at the exorbitant jeweled watch for his girlfriend, still unwrapped, an awkward task he would avoid until he was back in Calgary.

  Ingried hardly qualified as his girlfriend. She only pretended to be when he came south for a few days and needed the companionship of her warm, available body. He knew that by the time he had packed his heavy bags and trudged up the steel steps of the gloomy north bound Hercules again, Ingried was no longer his. She was available for any high roller with the money to show her a good time.

  It didn’t bother Jim, not like it should have and he felt no sense of guilt that he was leaving her behind and flying to the Caribbean with Nester. He had ordered the expensive watch on impulse. He knew the jewel-encrusted timepiece was no more reliable than a cheap Timex, but the rich gold and diamonds would please her 14-karat mind. The elegant doll beside the watch was for her pampered child. What had possessed him when he ordered her daughter this expensive gift? Ingried’s brattish offspring and Jim had developed a painful dislike for one another. Buying her daughter’s present was just some left over reaction from Christmases’ long past when he had bought gifts for children less demanding and arbitrary than her spoiled brat.

  He examined the small calendar tacked to the bleak wall. The days were marked over in heavy black and red ink, marking his shifts on and days off. Today was December 17. Damn it! Tania’s letter still had not arrived!

  The eagerly awaited letter was already late, but this was typical of Tania, his younger daughter, perhaps the world’s worst procrastinator. He remembered the emotional phone calls they had shared just after the divorce, but once he had started this assignment in the Arctic, the calls had become difficult to arrange. Now it seemed she was never in when he phoned.

  Predictably, her letter arrived each year just before Christmas, like some precious lifeline to his past. Her annual message was always lengthy, a delight to read. The sparkling lines told of her hopes and dreams, her trials and triumphs throughout the year. Infinitely more important to Jim, were her expressions of eternal faith in her father, a belief he often found waning in himself.

  Tania was in college now, studying journalism. With a little hard work and her personal dreams answered, someday she would become a writer. Her annual letters were long enough to occupy him for hours, even days, reading and rereading the glowing lines. Now, instead of her familiar sprawling handwriting, the words came on crisply typed sheets, probably created on the expensive computer and printer he had given her for her last birthday.

  He longed desperately for the letter! Without this precious gift, Christmas would be devoid of its
last star. The season would become as forlorn as a discarded Christmas tree, shedding its brown needles in the warmth of March, with only a few pieces of ripped tinsel to remind the world of its former splendor.

  He thought of Christine, his older daughter. This memory was a painful one. She had not spoken to him since the divorce. The cheques that reached her were still cashed, but the letters went unanswered. He knew that Anne, his wife, could always give him Christine’s new address, but he wasn’t speaking to Anne either. Not since her lawyer had threatened him with legal action if he didn’t hurry the alimony through.

  Christine’s face flashed before his eyes again, full of anger and hurt. He wondered if there was any pain deeper than that of a lost daughter. Was there anything he could do to bridge the dreadful gap?

  His dismal thoughts were interrupted by an impatient pounding on his fragile door. He flung it open, trying to dismiss the memory. He snapped off the light switch, plunging the room and the valiant little tree into darkness.

  “Hey! Jim, you look like you seen a fucking ghost. What’s the matter? You been sipping your Christmas presents early?” Nester chuckled.

  Jim stepped into the cold hallway and scowled down at his compact companion. Nester was a short, wiry Ukrainian, possessed of a great physical strength far out of proportion to his medium frame. His untrimmed hair and full beard were sprinkled with gray in contrast to his ruddy complexion. Nester had the cold agate eyes of a killer, flinty as the northern ice. He required less sleep and more alcohol than anyone Jim had ever known. He could go for days without a good night’s rest and still spend the evenings matching drinks with men twice his size. Everyone in the Company seemed to know Nester. Each time there was a major project requiring the crews be driven a bit harder or a job completed ahead of schedule, they called on Nester. He was everywhere, cajoling, boasting, cursing the lack of progress and demanding every detail be completed to perfection. He drove his crews as he drove his iron body. They gave him more than he had any right to expect and he rewarded them both with cold beer and generous shots of premium Alberta rye.

  Jim had known Nester before they had come north, when they had both worked for another organization, back when his former company still had a soul and cared about its people.

  Nester seldom talked about his past or his family anymore. Jim knew he had a marriage gone bad like his own and two teenagers living with his wife. Nester had coaxed him north, persuading him to sign on with him one day when Jim was weak and hung over. He had never regretted the decision. The job was far from his earlier life. The pay was excellent. The hours were long, but it kept his mind off his unhappy past and Nester refused to let him indulge in self-pity. When times got really bad, there was always the bottle of smooth Alberta rye!

  Nester was the most energetic person Jim had ever met. Despite his lack of formal education, there was never a piece of equipment that he couldn’t repair and leave in better working order than when it had left the factory.

  Jim scrutinized the hard features again. He could never understand what attractions Nester’s lean frame or coarse humor held for the opposite sex. But whatever had driven his former wife away, seemed to lure the majority of the female population to his brash character.

  “Hey. It’s warmer out today. Only minus 36 C this morning. Hardly any wind. Do you want to walk over instead of taking the damned dark tunnel?”

  Jim frowned at his companion. Even the steel ringed tunnel was an icebox, unheated and cloaked with dripping frost. It was almost as cold as the surface, but without the driving wind that slashed razor-sharp ice crystals against exposed flesh. Nester’s parka was unzipped! The huge mittens dangled on tethers at his side.

  “Christ, Zary, you’re the one full of alcohol! I’ll take the tunnel. Thank you.”

  Nester led him into the dark steel burrow connecting their sleeping quarters with the mess hall. During the night, someone had strung a battered set of Christmas lights up at the entrance. The colored plastic coating was already flaking off the bulbs and some of the lights had burned out, but still, they added a faint sense of Yuletide to the somber atmosphere of the isolated post.

  “Christmas!” Nester snorted. “The bloody airport will be jammed again. I hope we don’t have to wait all day in Calgary for a fucking taxi to the hotel,” he muttered a short curse in Ukrainian.

  He was flying south with Jim to the Caribbean. They would arrive in Calgary on the 23 of December and the next day they would be in the tropics, pouring on suntan oil and sipping rum laced cocktails. A few years ago, it would have seemed sacrilegious to leave the crisp Canadian snow and gaily decorated Christmas trees behind. No more! It was easier in the Caribbean, without the leering ghosts of Christmases’ past to haunt them. Jim could have left yesterday, but he had given up his seat, to a friend wanting to visit Winnipeg to be with his family. Now he regretted his act of generosity, for the memories of Christmases past were pressing in again without the southern distractions to keep them at bay.

  Jim was eager for a lengthy vacation in a tropical paradise. He would be far from the haunting memories. His only challenge would be his ability to match drinks with the tough, bearded Ukrainian in the noisy nightspots that his brash companion loved to frequent.

  They hurried to the mess hall where the welcome smell of strong coffee jolted their senses awake. A gaudy Christmas tree had sprouted in the packed cafeteria. The tables had blossomed red and green decorations in place of their usual austere setting. They pushed into the mess-hall line and Jim watched his companion order a mountain of bacon and eggs. He listened as Nester barked precise instructions to the cooks and heaped the meal unto his plate. Jim collected his own breakfast and followed him to the milk dispenser where Nester added two large glasses to his burgeoning tray.

  They joined Bob Risk at one of the tables. Bob was the acting site manager over the holidays, a big, gentle man, prematurely bald, with heavy features that broke easily into a pleasant smile. His relaxed manner and genuine concern for his fellow man had made the post a pleasant place to work, under these difficult conditions.

  Bob’s welcoming smile beamed them over to the table, “Hey, Nester, you know we have to fly those eggs all the way from Ontario. Leave a little for the next shift, eh,” he chuckled.

  He turned to Jim. “I see you let Rick go out in your place,” he smiled his approval across the table and Jim felt a little better. He could last a few more days.

  …

  Jim moved on to the radar tower and the hours crept past. Outside, the distant sun made a faint attempt to color the southern horizon before slipping back into the dark pit that held it captive.

  Jim was good at his job and the radar and communication equipment on the site were well maintained. His degree in engineering and the years of practical experience made him ideally suited for this demanding work. He didn’t mind the isolation, for the long hours kept him active and left him little time to dwell on his past. He glanced out the window into the arctic night, then shivered when he thought of Nester.

  Nester was overhauling one of the main generators today. The units were barely sheltered from the elements. It would be bitterly cold, and the labor could be backbreaking with the limited equipment assigned to this remote site. Still, the job would probably be completed in record time and it would give Nester something more to boast and grumble about. The tougher the job, the more he seemed to enjoy it.

  Jim finished his reports and tossed the documents into the out basket. The paperwork always took him longer this time of the year. His mind often retreated into the sweet memories and the times when Christmas was filled with the laughter of his daughters and the thrill of the short vacation they shared at New Years. He could find many reasons to blame Anne for their failed marriage much of the year, but at Christmas he was more forgiving.

  He pictured Anne again. She really had not been that difficult to live with. He remembered how much she
enjoyed Christmas, how hard she had tried to make the last one they shared enjoyable. Their marriage seemed destined to failure, although he often regretted the things, he had said to her. His mind was still struggling in the past when Ron Lylyk strolled in and pulled down the hood of his frosted parka. He sauntered to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup of the steaming brew.

  “Hey, Jim, you were supposed to go out on the Herc Friday, weren’t you?” Ron’s quiet voice drawled across the room.

  Jim snapped out of his daydream. The word supposed had penetrated the thick fuzz blurring his mind. Ron could tell by the startled look on Jim’s face that he was expecting a flight out on the southbound Hercules. Jim gaped at Ron, waiting for an explanation.

  Ron stirred the coffee, slowly rubbing his chilled fingers. “Yea, some joker in a snowplow rammed into our bird back in Edmonton.” he shook his head and laughed. “Took off part of the undercarriage. They say it will be at least a week or ten days before we see another flight in here. Damned shame with Christmas and all. Lots of mail won’t make in till January now.”

  Jim was on his feet, glowering at Ron. There was no way he was going to spend Christmas here! He wasn’t even scheduled to work! The boredom would drive him nuts!

  “Hell!” Jim snapped. “They’ll find something else. They can’t cancel all the flights. Not just before Christmas!” he tried to hide the emotion in his voice. “How about one of the mining planes? With the new mine opening up, there are one or two of their birds landing here every day. Some of them must have some spare capacity!”

  “Well, they might find another craft, but remember the last time one of the regular planes went down. And this year the accountants are still trying to make their numbers for year end. I doubt if we’ll see that Herc till the New Year now.” He was in no panic. His flight out was not due till mid-January.

  Jim knew Ron was right. The big birds were always in demand and their site was well off the main air routes. He frowned at the clock. It was near quitting time. Maybe Nester had better news. He wanted to check the mail again. Perhaps Tania’s letter had shown up. Maybe the desperately awaited package had come in on one of the small utility flights or a wayward military aircraft.