Tidings of Comfort and Joy

by T. Davis Bunn

  The rivulets of thought seemed to run together in my mind. The village, the people seated about me, the children, my own troubles—a world full of woes and hurts and misgivings. All the while, currents of love and healing ran deep and unseen, but we could only see the rain marring the surface.

  The bus pulled up in front of the orphanage's gates. As I walked down the long lane I struggled to focus, though a single image remained to tug at me. The river flowed on, steady and ceaseless, waiting for me to reach down and draw from its eternal strength.

  THE MOOD AT the orphanage was morose, and worsened steadily with the day and the weather. By midafternoon it had turned so cold the rain began freezing as it fell. Icicles grew from windows and eaves and tree limbs. There was no hope of the nighttime volunteers arriving. Even walking down the front stairs meant risking a broken limb.

  After the dinner dishes were cleaned, I sat with Annique until sleep stole her away. The doctors were increasingly certain we faced a bout of hepatitis; that particular strain, though serious, was almost never life-threatening in children. I sat there on the side of her bed and watched her sleeping face. She was a remarkable pixie, a child's face stamped with such womanly features, honed far beyond her years by experiences I could scarcely imagine. She and all these other slumbering forms had come to mean so much to me. I could scarcely bear the thought of their being taken and split apart and sent goodness knew where.

  Eventually I went back downstairs and found Rachel standing at the back French doors. Without asking, I made two cups of tea, and went over to join her. Her smile at my approach was tinted by the same sadness that filled my heart. "How sweet of you, my dear," she said, accepting the cup and then opening the door. "Come, let us get a breath of air."

  We stepped carefully onto the grand back veranda. The patio was all slate tile and marble inlay, with Grecian urns decorating the stone wall. In order to avoid the subject on everyone's mind, I asked her whom the house belonged to.

  "Nobody. Or rather, the National Trust, an organization founded some time ago to look after properties such as these, when a family either dies out or loses its fortune. Such properties then become a part of our national heritage."

  "Or war colleges. Or orphanages."

  "Precisely." Her breath smoked as she examined me over the rim of her cup. "You have changed, my dear."

  I stared up at the night sky. The clouds had vanished, and the air was scrubbed clean by the rain. I had never seen so many stars. I could feel her eyes upon me, but did not lower my gaze. Imprinted there upon the star-flecked skies were fleeting images of all the past few days had held. Yet I found it difficult to put any of it into words. Finally I said, "The river spoke to me."

  "Ah." Rachel's voice altered, and I realized she had turned her face toward the heavens. "It is remarkable how God will teach us through the silent things, is it not?"

  I nodded, though I knew she could not see me. "Almost as though the hard times open us to lessons we would otherwise prefer not to notice."

  "What a glorious thought." She patted my arm. "I will bid you good night, my dear. Rest well."

  I stayed on the veranda as long as I could. The stars became friends that night, and the silhouette of the big silent house, and the dark images of trees sleeping in the cold air. When I finally allowed the cold to drive me back inside, I knew I would hold that image close to my heart for the rest of my days. Despite the present sadness, despite all in my life that was not as I might have wished, still the Lord was with me. That I knew for certain.

  IT WAS THE quietest dawn I had ever known. This was not the silence of falling snow, with sweet whispers of wind and flakes. Instead, the world was held in a frozen grip, breathless and awestruck by nature's quiet power.

  I rose from my bed in the large room off the kitchen which we were using as a pantry. There was no stirring from the other four mattresses spread upon the stone floor. Quietly I slipped into my clothes. Despite the stove that we had kept burning all night long, I could see my breath. Shivering and rubbing my arms, I carefully stepped onto the back veranda.

  The sun had not appeared over the horizon. The eastern sky was rimmed with gold, yet overhead the stars seemed so bright and close I could almost touch them. The ground was white and layered with a drifting blanket of fog. The trees, the veranda's stone railing, the house, everything was enveloped in frost. Icicles dripped like winter's fingers.

  As the sun rose, the clear crystals were transformed into prisms of gold and orange and red. The field stretching out before me became a giant mirror, reflecting the sky's glorious colors.

  That morning, I was assigned to the sick-hall to assist with breakfast. Annique sat up in bed, too weak to do much walking, yet wanting to follow me with her eyes. Each passage up and down the central aisle, I would pause long enough to smile or speak a few words she could not understand. Her open dark-eyed gaze warmed me.

  "Emily. Oh, there you are." I rose from gathering the breakfast bowls to find Rachel hurrying toward me. Her cane made sharp thunks on the wooden floor, marking time and her passage. "Did you ask Colin to make photographs of the children?"

  I was uncertain how to respond. "It was just an idea. I'm sorry, perhaps I should have asked—"

  "Oh, don't be silly. If Colin thinks it is acceptable, who am I to object? Or anyone else, for that matter." She waved her hand. "Never mind that. He's downstairs waiting for you."

  "Now?" I stared out the window at the utterly frozen world. "How did he get here?"

  Rachel's gaze joined mine by the frost-covered window. "By horseback."

  "I HAD A friend who was coming up this way with an empty cart," Colin explained, hauling equipment into the parlor we used as a playroom. "He was only too glad for the company."

  I could not begin to tell him how happy I was to see him and his smile. His presence seemed to light up the orphanage in a way the brilliant sunshine had failed to do, dispelling all the gloom wherever he went. "But don't you need to be working with the Ministry?"

  "Abler hands than mine have taken that on." He opened a strapped wooden crate and extracted a collapsible tripod. "The mayor is personally seeing if any of his contacts in Whitehall can help us out."

  The children did not know what to make of Colin's equipment. They clustered toward the back of the room, watching Colin with solemn eyes. We were tremendously short-staffed, what with the roads turned to slick ribbons of ice. I stopped in every now and then and saw the changes take place in fleeting segments. On one trip between the laundry and the bedrooms, my hands full of freshly starched sheets, I saw that a few of the bolder lads had moved up close. They watched intently as Colin wrestled with equipment that had not been touched since before the war. Another trip, and I realized they were watching his face far more than his hands, studying with the intensity of those who had survived through constant caution.

  Having their pictures taken awoke some dormant memory within many of the children. It did not matter that they were friends with Colin. Something about the big apparatus and the lights and the need to stand there alone terrified them.

  Rachel walked in and inspected the frightened face standing before the camera, and the equally alarmed ones waiting their turn. Impatiently she declared, "This will simply not do. Not at all."

  "They're not going to make a very appealing impression," Colin agreed. "Not to mention the fact that most of the younger ones have vanished."

  Rachel turned to me and demanded, "Well, what are you going to do about this?"

  "Me?"

  "It's your idea." She swept out one long arm. "Something must be done to make the children come alive."

  All the children who had not run off were watching me. Perhaps three dozen little faces, looking up to me in silent appeal. "For starters, let's turn off the lamp," I decided.

  "We'llbe fighting shadows if we do," Colin warned.

  "Well, Rachel's right. We're just wasting film the way things are now."

  Thoughtfully, Colin moved t
o the big bay window at the parlor's far end. He stood there a moment, studying the window and the sky, then turned back to me and said, "Sit down here on the window seat, would you?"

  I saw what he had in mind. "Oh no, I couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  I tried to push my hair into some kind of order. "I don't have a touch of makeup."

  Colin laughed. The sound rang through the high-ceilinged chamber. "Don't be daft. We're after the children. And besides, you look marvelous."

  Reluctantly I allowed him to place me so the sunlight fell directly upon my face. The memory of that one laugh seemed to echo about the room.

  The sunlight was bright enough so that one of the lamps could be turned off. The other was stationed in the far corner. When I was comfortable, he led one of the children over to me. It seemed almost natural for the child to climb up into my lap. I noticed she was staring at the locket I wore around my neck, so I slid it off. I helped the little fingers pry open the clasp.

  When I realized what was inside, I could not hold back a little gasp of surprise.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing." And I was surprised a second time to discover that what I had said was the truth.

  The locket was a little golden heart, with Grant's picture embedded in one half, and my own in the other. I had forgotten his picture was there. I sat there in the sunlight, wondering at the events of the past few weeks, and the ability of my own heart to heal such that I would even forget I still carried his picture.

  Colin finally spoke up again. "That's it."

  I looked up, squinting into the light. "What?"

  "We're done with this one, let's move on."

  I allowed the child to slide down, and held out my arms for the next one. The locket and chain still dangled from my hand. When the boy was settled, he sat and watched as I pulled Grant's picture free. The camera's click was almost imperceptible. A moment later, the boy was replaced by a shy little girl. I heard Colin ask, "Can you make her look up?"

  "I'll try." The girl watched wide-eyed as I set aside the locket, then took Grant's picture and tore it in two. Then put the pieces together and tore them again. A third time, then I lifted one hand, and let the little pieces fall to the floor. In the sunlight, they looked like tiny dry snowflakes, and the girl in my lap laughed out loud.

  Colin clicked the camera, then declared, "Perfect. Absolutely spot-on."

  I heard the excitement in his voice, and hugged the girl before letting her go. This time, the next child did not need to be led over. And the time after, there was a little tussle between two who wanted to be next. I could not see much beyond the sunlight streaming through the window, but I heard quiet movements through the chamber's far end. Next came three children, in descending order from an overly thin nine or ten year old to a toddler. But they all shared the same slanted dark eyes. They stood before me, holding hands, solemnly looking up as I asked, "Should we do these together?"

  "I would think so," came a woman's reply. "They're sisters, as far as we can tell."

  "Is that you, Rachel?"

  "Yes. Your lunch is growing cold."

  "We shouldn't stop," Colin announced. "The light is perfect."

  So we stayed where we were, photographing one child after another, allowing those who we knew were siblings to sit together. Some refused to look up, some peeked shyly from the protection of my arms. A few smiled. Most took it calmly, once they saw that I was there with them, content to sit and play with my locket. My arms grew tired, my legs numb. But my smile seemed to strengthen with the passing hours.

  BY THE TIME we finished for the day, Colin was too tired to journey home. Which was just as well, since the world outside our orphanage remained locked in a solid sheet of ice. Food had arrived in the form of four cart-loads of produce, and after dinner those of us who were not on duty sat around the scarred kitchen worktable. We were a glum little group, unwilling to say much for all were caught by the same worries, and the same lack of answers. To look into one another's face was enough to know that all hearts were wrenched by fears for our children's fates.

  The next morning we started off bright and early. It was good to be busy with work like this, as it kept our minds too active for more than an occasional pang. Many of the children had accepted the pictures as a part of the normal routine, though some still had to be coaxed.

  Toward lunchtime I heard Rachel call my name. I could not move for the child in my lap, so I replied with, "In here!"

  The lamp kept me from seeing more than a silhouette step through the door. "How are things going?"

  "Fine," Colin said, his voice tinged with fatigue, "so long as our Emily sits and holds them."

  "You really must rest, Colin. That is, unless you're intent upon working yourself into an early grave."

  "Don't even think such a thing," I pleaded.

  The pair turned my way, I could see their shadows shift behind the lamp. For some reason, the quiet inspection made me uncomfortable. I asked, "Are we done with this one?"

  "Not quite." Colin moved back to the camera, and I heard it click. "All right, let's be having the next one."

  "You realize, of course," Rachel pointed out, "that we shall be having three hundred pictures of our dear Emily along with the children."

  "Not necessarily a bad thing," Colin murmured. Then more loudly, "We've got quite a number who still don't want to come down. They're afraid. And we haven't even started with those in the sick-hall."

  "But why . . . " Rachel's voice faded as a drumming sound began to fill the chamber. "What is that noise?"

  There was a moment's silence before Colin said slowly, "I know what it sounds like. But that can't be."

  We all moved toward the window and stood there squinting upward and trying to make out a tiny black speck against the sun's glare. The drumming noise grew steadily louder, until Colin finally declared, "That's a helicopter, and the bloke's coming in for a landing."

  "What," Rachel cried. "Here?"

  "Out the back!" Colin shouted, and sprinted for the door. He was followed by a herd of children, few of whom understood exactly what was going on. But the commotion was enough to draw out everyone who was well enough to walk.

  Together we raced down the back hall and out through the glass double doors. The veranda had lost its slippery covering, but the house still stood in an icy wonderland that sparkled beneath the brilliant sun.

  Though blocked from view by the manor, the helicopter was much louder out here. We stood and shielded our eyes, when suddenly its black and ungainly form came roaring overhead. The children shrieked and either clung to the nearest adult or fled back indoors.

  I had seen pictures of these machines, but had never been close to one before. The wind beat at me with appalling force. The noise was worse than anything I could have imagined, even when it passed overhead and continued toward the frozen lawn. I was very frightened. I did not see how that ugly, lumbering metal beast could possibly remain airborne. I might very well have fled inside myself, but I was held in place by a dozen pairs of frantic arms.

  Then I spotted a friendly red-haired figure waving at me through the helicopter's open side door, and I felt a flood of both relief and excitement. The drumming rotors began to slow, and the noise dropped first to an angry whine and then to silence. Bob jumped from the doorway and called, "Hey there, Emily! What do you think of my new jalopy?"

  "Ugly and noisy!" Gently I coaxed the anxious arms and fingers free, and pried myself loose from the clustering children. A few of the braver ones moved with me, clutching my skirt and hiding behind me. "What on earth are you doing here?"

  Bob kept bent over as he walked out from beneath the still-swinging rotors. "Stuff came in yesterday before the freeze shut us down. We been waiting for the roads to clear, but it's supposed to get colder again tonight. The chopper's here to take the doctor back to Norfolk, he's on duty."

  "Chopper?" Colin moved up beside me. "Doctor?"

  "Hey, Reverend. How
you been?"

  "Fine. Cold." Colin shook the American's hand. "Did you say you had a doctor on board?"

  I noticed Bob's face, and interrupted with, "What happened to your eye?"

  "Oh. That." Sheepishly Bob touched the shiner. "My last trip took me by way of Berlin. Ran into Grant Rockwell at the Officers' Club."

  "Oh, Bob. You didn't."

  "Couldn't help but tell him what I thought of what he'd done," he continued doggedly.

  "Yes, you most certainly could have," I protested.

  "Maybe so," shouted Bradley Atwater, as he hustled under the rotors and trotted over. "But it shore must've been a sight, seeing Grant stretched out on his back like that."

  I stared at the two of them. "You knocked Grant out?"

  "Guess maybe I did at that," Bob mumbled, studying the ground at his feet.

  I worked my mouth open and closed a few times, then managed, "Bob Mclntyre, I don't know whether to slap you or hug you."

  "I don't recall," Colin Albright said, not trying to mask his grin, "anything in the Good Book about our having such a choice."

  "If you're gonna take a swing, do it to this side," Bob said, pointing to his uninjured cheek. "The other one's still kind of sore."

  I let the laugh escape then, and reached out to take them both in a hug. "I can't believe you're here."

  "Thank the chopper," Brad said, flashing his brilliant grin. "That there's the dangdest thing I ever did see."

  Another figure descended from the helicopter's door, this one moving awkwardly. He shouted over, "Is it safe to come out now?"