by Jesse Colt
They had skidded in close to the shore and Jim searched for the battered craft. It was crouched at the edge of the vast lake, now a vague shadow, nearly obscured behind the veil of swirling snow. The North Wind’s icy chill swept off the lake, piercing his warm parka and hurrying him back to the relative warmth of the church.
His tiny room was an ice box, even colder than his accommodations at the base. He walked back to the stove. Someone had kindled the fire and brought in a mountain of split logs, still dripping their icy cover onto the cool linoleum floor. Jim crammed in more firewood; his numbed hands propped his door open in the vain hope that some of the heat might find its way into his frigid room. He stepped back into the church where a growing circle of happy faces were gathering around the crackling radio.
He watched the scene for a few minutes then returned to lie back on the hard cot, cursing his luck. He examined his sparse accommodations. His room was just large enough to hold the single bed, a dresser, small desk and two chairs. Sparse white walls enclosed him with the image of Jesus Christ on the ivory perimeter. Someone had taken the time to weave a small Christmas wreath around the savior’s likeness and the faint odour of pine boughs filled the air, giving the Spartan room the subtle fragrance of Christmas.
He pictured the bustling Calgary airport with the background of Christmas decorations. A sleek aircraft was loading for the Caribbean. He could see the laughing crowd shuffling through the security gates, waving their tickets to sunny beaches over their heads. He shivered from the cold room and the howl of the icy wind slashing against the log walls. He had visions of Nester and himself huddling around a small fire in an icy log cabin, eyeing their empty rye bottles and waiting for the distant spring. He opened his suitcase and pulled out an extra sweater. He wondered how Nester was making out with the generator. Could it be repaired, and would the repair help warm his frosty room?
Jim stretched out on the firm cot and tried to sleep, but the luxury evaded him. It was not the cold that kept Jim awake. His mind was spinning between past Christmases and the image of the sunny beaches that seemed to fade further away with each lost hour. He slipped off the cold mattress and stretched his stiff limbs. He began searching his luggage for the small travel alarm, then quit the task. He didn’t know what time it was, and it didn’t really matter in this land the sun had forsaken. He knew the sable veil of the dark night had deepened. He could hear the howl of the wind whistling off the ice packs. The scream seemed to mock him, a reminder they were prisoners in this isolated village. He rummaged through his luggage for the bottles of rye. He was desperate for any diversion to shield him from the memories of the past. They were pushing in again, carried on the faint odour of pine and the glory of the massive tree in the church.
He hated sipping the fiery liquid straight from the bottle, but he needed a drink. Part of a bottle of the smooth liquor, layers of thermal underwear and blankets, then perhaps he would be able to sleep away a portion of the endless night.
At least Nester had something to do. Perhaps he should offer to help. He dismissed the thought. Nester didn’t need him and probably wouldn’t want him interfering. He knew that his partner was as happy tearing down old equipment as he was tossing back cold beer with his friends. The eager helpers the priest had promised him only made the project more attractive, for Nester loved to display his skills to an appreciative audience.
Jim rummaged through all the drawers then abandoned the search for a glass or even a chipped coffee cup. There was nothing. He placed the bottle on the dresser and slipped on an extra pair of socks. He was about to crack the seal when a gentle tapping sounded on his thin door.
The door was already ajar, and he turned, expecting to find Father Stait standing in the entrance. Instead, he gazed down to locate his tiny visitor. A small girl from the village cowered in the doorway. She might have been six years old, seven at most. She was dressed in high muck-luks and the hood of her parka was crusted with snow. She carried a steaming kettle of tea in one hand and a large tin mug in the other. Jim looked down the hallway. A faint motion in the shadows caught his eye and revealed the figure that had escorted the child through the wintry night.
He examined the girl’s wide eyes and somber expression. The tiny jaw was rigid, the rosy complexion glowing from the frosty night. She gazed soberly at his shadowy form for a few seconds and then stepped over to the small desk. She placed the steaming kettle and metal cup in the centre and stood silently by the furniture, but her eyes were frozen to the cold floor. At last she spoke.
“I brought you some hot tea,” she stated shyly, her eyes never leaving the frost tinged tile at her feet.
Jim sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at his young visitor. She was a pleasant diversion in this lonely night.
“Why, thank you. That’s very kind. That must have been a long walk in the cold. Was someone with you?”
“My mother walked with me. But I carried the tea myself.” Her voice was slow and timid, tinged with the husky accent of her people.
Jim poured a cup and took a sip of the hot drink. It was strong and slightly sweetened. He was moved by her thoughtfulness.
“This is really good tea. Thank you so very much!”
“You’re welcome,” her soft voice answered, but her eyes remained fixed on his stocking feet.
Jim smiled down at her. It had been a long time, too long, since a small child and he had engaged in a conversation. “What is your name?”
She seemed to struggle with the English then answered him. “Little Fawn.” Her gaze never left the floor, but he caught her glancing at his feet again.
“Little Fawn. That’s a beautiful name. Please, don’t be shy. Look up at me and let me see your face.”
Her tiny hands reached up. She slowly lowered her hood and looked cautiously into his eyes. The child seemed overcome with emotion. Her gaze fell to the floor again. She crossed herself and curtseyed before him.
Jim looked at the picture of Jesus adorning the room, then turned around, searching for a matching image behind him, any likeness that might have caused her show of reverence. There was nothing on the austere white frame.
“Little Fawn. Look at me again,” Jim instructed.
She favoured him with a quick glance, then crossed herself and curtseyed again. Jim looked back over his shoulder once more, searching for the image of Christ that he might have missed the first time.
“Little Fawn. Why are you bowing like that?”
Her gaze fell to the floor as he waited for her response.
“My grandmother told me, that if ever I met an angel, I should cross myself and curtsey.”
Jim paused a moment and then laughed. “Oh. Oh! Hang on there a minute. You don’t think I’m an angel, do you?” He laughed in amusement. “Somebody is playing a trick on you.”
She frowned up at him; her dark eyes were flashing. Her tiny voice was insistent, edged with exasperation.
“Father Stait doesn’t lie! And you shouldn’t either!” she chastised.
“But. But I’m sure Father Stait didn’t tell you that. Surely, he must have been joking. Maybe you misunderstood him,” Jim stammered.
“No. He didn’t tell me. I heard Father talking on the big radio to Brother Lacombe. He told him the Lord sent him two Christmas angels and they landed on the big lake and they were going to fix things up around this place. I heard him plain as bells across the ice,” the tiny voice insisted.
The phrase rang in his mind for a few seconds. It seemed a very expressive and brilliant choice of words for someone as young as this small child. He searched his mind for an explanation. Jim remembered the priest and the short wave. He knew that Nester was working down at the power plant. That must be it. The priest had been joking with someone on the radio and she had overheard him. He couldn’t let this child think that he was an angel. Especially not at Christmas! He stammered for an explanation.
“Maybe he meant someone else! Maybe he was just making a joke about old Geezer or someone with him,” he stammered. He almost said my friend, but associating Nester with a heavenly spirit would be blasphemy. He should not be accorded a presence with angels, not by a long stretch. Immediately he regretted his words. He had done nothing to change her mind. Only tried to deflect her attention.
“Geezer is no angel!” she insisted. “He is a drunken old Scottish sot! They should have grounded him when they took his pilot’s license away. They should ground him before he kills someone else in that rickety old plane of his!”
Jim felt as if she had hit him squarely between the eyes with a brick. He knew that she had heard this story somewhere. Was it true or just village gossip? Who could have told her this? He remembered the constant smell of liquor on Geezer’s breath and the wretched condition of his aircraft. He knelt before the tiny being in the huge parka, desperately trying to comprehend her statement.
“Who said he lost his license? Where did you hear that? Who said that? Has he crashed before? Are you sure he has killed someone?” He stood up when the absurdity of the situation finally occurred to him. Why was he grilling this small child? He thought of the long flight south to Yellowknife, hours away, over some of the most barren terrain imaginable.
She seemed oblivious to his outburst. He regretted his rash questions and gently patted her bundled shoulder. She smiled up at his gesture and stared reverently into his eyes. A look of pure bliss passed across her face. Jim was moved, it had been years since another human being had afforded him that look.
“Will my grandmother be home for Christmas?” she asked. Her face was alive with anticipation. She smiled and reached out to caress his sleeve. Jim remembered the paintings of cherubs he had known when he was a child; surely if there was an angel in this room, she stood before him now.
“Your grandmother? Well, probably. I don’t really know. Well, I think probably. Yea, she will make it home, I’m sure,” Jim stammered. Grandmothers always made it home for Christmas, didn’t they?
Her tiny face brightened. “Are you certain?”
Jim hesitated. He felt trapped. What else could he say? She took his silence as a confirmation of her wishes. “Oh, thank you. You will make certain she gets home safely, won’t you? Will you pray with me for a moment?” Her eyes had become happy lights.
She dropped to her knees. Before Jim could interfere, she had begun to pray. Her first words were in soft Dene then she switched to English. She slowly raised her head, glancing carefully up at him to ensure that the Christmas angel who had dropped into her life was receiving her message.
“God, please help Grandma get here by Christmas Eve and bring all the teams home safely. And, God, please, this year have Santa bring mummy something pretty for Christmas. She has been so very good and never asks for anything for herself!” She gave her angel an accusing look, as if he had somehow mismanaged this simple task in years previous.
Jim felt the censure in her eyes. A motion at the door pulled his attention away from his tiny visitor. He squinted through the shadows. The priest filled the doorway and a parka-clad woman stood behind him. His timid guest swept over to the woman and whisked out the door. Before she disappeared, she flashed him a quick satisfied smile then scampered into the night, satisfied that she had delivered her important message and a Christmas angel had received it.
Jim rose awkwardly to his feet and watched as they vanished down the hallway. “Boy, that little one has quite an imagination, doesn’t she? Who is that child?” He wiped his hands on his jacket as if to brush away her memory.
The priest watched them disappear down the darkened hallway then slumped down on the solitary stuffed chair the room offered. Jim noted that he had put on his white collar. The neatly cropped red hair, black shirt and collar afforded him the formal appearance Jim expected in a priest.
“That was Little Fawn and her mother. The mother married a white prospector working up here a few years ago. But the marriage work out. He didn’t find his fortune and left. She has been through some difficult times. She won’t accept any charity either, just allows us to give her enough to make sure her daughter is taken care of.” He pushed his hand deep into a coat pocket.
“By the way, I have a small gift for you. I hope you will accept it. It’s a little carving I picked up on the coast. This is Christmas and I want to thank you again for repairing the radio. I can’t tell you how much it means to our village this time of the year!”
The priest placed the soapstone carving on the table. “Are you comfortable here? Is there anything else I can get you?”
Jim was more flustered than touched. He wished he had something to give the priest in return. He remembered the two bottles of rye he had placed on the small bureau. They were still in gift-wrapped boxes. He heard himself stammer.
“Oh, thank you, Father. Thank you very much! I was just going to bring something for you. I hope you like Alberta rye.” He snatched a package off the dresser and thrust it at the lanky redhead in the white cleric and heavy fur parka. The absurdity of his gesture suddenly registered. He felt like a damned fool, offering a priest a bottle of booze at Christmas. He was certain that the good father would decline the gesture and he breathed a sigh of relief at the priest’s answer.
“I can’t really accept your gift,” the priest returned. “I seldom take a drink anymore, except on very special occasions or when I’m coming down with a cold.”
He turned the bottle slowly over in his hands. “Alberta rye. The world’s finest rye…” he murmured and cleared his throat. “I used to drink this on occasion in my younger days.” He examined the bottle again. “Perhaps I will accept your generous gift. My throat has been a little tender.” He rose from the chair, his rangy frame filling the small room with his presence. He started for the door; the bottle partially concealed under his jacket.
“Good night and Merry Christmas, Jim. If you are here much longer, I hope you will make plans to join us for Christmas mass.”
“Father,” Jim hesitated. The question was still there. “Does the saying bells across the ice mean anything to you?”
The priest laughed and sat down again. He examined the bottle of rye. Perhaps he wanted a taste now. “So, you have heard of the legend already have you? The locals here have a belief and I think it rather a beautiful one. It goes like this. If you hear the bells ringing across the ice, it is a sign of good luck. Now this means only the sound of the bells, not the mushers or the dogs barking. They don’t usually put bells on their dogs. They are hunters, but at Christmas it’s a tradition they follow. Even the dogs sense that it’s a special time. Teams will bark and create a lot of noise when they first start to run. When they have been running hard or are a little tired, sometimes you can hear the bells from a great distance. The sound carries for miles across the ice where there are no trees to deaden the sound.”
The priest seemed eager to talk and Jim felt the need of a drink.
“Father, I too have a tender throat. I was about to take a little medicine. If you can find a couple of glasses, I’ll invite you to join me.”
The priest stood up. The bottle was still in his hands. “I will join you, Jim. First there are a few small matters I must attend to. It would be pleasant to talk to someone who has spent time down south. Ten minutes. And I’ll bring some glasses. Perhaps even ice. It’s a common commodity around here,” he laughed.
Jim watched as he ducked through the doorway. He opened the small bureau and rummaged around until he found another pair of heavy socks. The now familiar smell of the pine boughs seemed heavier tonight. He remembered the tiny pine wreath Christine had given him when she was still in Brownies. She had made one every year after that, even when they had resorted to an artificial tree. He had learned to appreciate the piney scent. It had become a Christmas tradition, meaning a little more each year. Like Tania’s le
ngthy letter to him now.
He cursed the post office again; surely it was the mail service that had lost the precious letter. He leaned against the bureau, picturing Christine and Tania’s radiant faces. Damn! He was daydreaming again. He picked the jug up, tempted to take a swallow from the bottle, but he stopped himself.
He was relieved when Father Stait returned with two heavy whisky glasses and a pitcher of ice cubes. Jim noted the priest had not brought any water to dilute the potent brew. Good!
He poured the liquor slowly into the priest’s glass, giving him ample time to protest and stop Jim from over filling his glass. The protest never came. When Jim had dribbled four generous ounces over the cubes, he stopped and poured himself a matching drink. He picked up the glass and raised it to the priest. He noted that the white collar had been discarded.
“Season’s Greetings, Father.”
The priest raised his own glass. The drink seemed to fit comfortably in his huge hand. “May God bless, Jim!” He tilted back the mellow liquor and took a long swallow. “Aw. Nothing smoother than pure Alberta rye,” he stated. He raised the glass again and casually drained the remaining spirit. He banged the empty tumbler back on the table. Jim would normally have taken this as an invitation for a refill, but he hesitated. The big man was, after all, a priest. Just to be on the safe side he finished his drink, being careful not to gulp the mind-numbing grog. He raised the bottle to the priest, a silent offer to pour him another generous shot. The priest did not respond, but he rang another ice cube into the glass and sat back. Jim flooded the ice and refilled his own glass, thankful that he would not have to pace himself with a temperate priest.
“So, you have not been up here long, Father?” Jim felt better. The familiar warmth of the rye was loosening his tongue. “What brought you up to this God forsaken part of the country?” Jim inquired.
