Kris

by J. J. Ruscella

  I cut and punctured the wood against my hands.

  “This Christmas I couldn’t find Nikko. The family that took him in when I left him at their cabin had vanished. He’s gone.”

  I looked back at Sarah to share the fullness of my regret. “I lost him. It was my fault. My mother was right. I was weak and could not be trusted to care for them. They were only children, and I abandoned them. Left them to survive alone. That is who I am, Sarah. I am sorry, but that is who I am.”

  “You gave them a chance to live, Kris. What more could you or anyone give?”

  I held the scrap of wood in my hand, now a delicate wooden snowflake, like the one I had left with Nikko. And as I ran my fingers across its edges, blood trickled onto the wood and dripped onto my worktable. I snapped the stained snowflake in half and let it fall to the floor.

  “Your hand!” Sarah exclaimed. She took off her scarf and wrapped it around the palm of my hand, tying it in place to stop the blood from the cuts unconsciously left there. When the bleeding had finally ceased, Sarah stooped to pick up the broken snowflake. “These carvings.” She looked to the wooden wolf on the table, “these toys, they are for them, aren’t they?”

  “That’s all over now.”

  What do you mean?” Sarah inquired.

  “They fought over it. The girls fought over my duck and broke it. They aren’t my brothers and sisters anymore. They have new families now. It’s wrong of me to remind them they are any different.”

  “Your toys are special, Kris,” Sarah said to me soothingly. “Why not make toys for each of them?”

  “Each of them?” I asked, trying to understand her point.

  “Your brothers and sisters have new families, with whom you share a common tie and a common love. These other children, Kris. They are your family now, too.”

  Sarah stunned me with her words. Then she continued.

  “You have given the most precious thing you have, your love, in sharing your brothers and sisters with those who embraced them,” Sarah said. “You are part of that love, part of that family just like your brothers and sisters are. You have a talent, Kris. Your toys are special. Now even more children can find joy from those gifts.”

  Sarah had turned me inside out cutting away my pain and doubt. To offer such a stunning notion, wrapped in a simple solution.

  I laughed. Then I kissed her.

  There are some moments so sublime in life they transcend the ability to describe. So I will refrain from trying. But I will say this. Kissing her was the best and smartest moment of my fourteen-year-old life.

  When we stepped apart, she looked at me in stunned silence.

  I looked at her in stunned silence.

  We looked at each other across that space which just short moments ago had contained both of us.

  And softly, all she said was, “You should laugh more.”

  And I did laugh more. I made a habit of it. It took time for the boys to get used to it, but laughter is infectious. Josef and Gabby were the first to catch the symptoms, then Jonas, and lastly Marcus. Noel never seemed appreciative of the laughter, unless it was cruelly inspired, no matter how hard we tried to include him.

  Over the coming seasons I attained my fifteenth year and grew more than a hand span taller. I was thick as an old oak and could have lifted one of Noah’s church pews by myself if I had to. And in the middle of one irregular night I sprouted hair everywhere: my chest, my arms, the back of my knuckles and, most annoyingly, my face.

  Sarah found no end of delight in teasing me over the red fuzz that covered my cheeks and chin. At first I tried to shave every day with my knife, but time and the drive to avoid cutting my own throat finally convinced me to leave the growth.

  Sarah and I hadn’t kissed again since that glorious moment. Not that I didn’t want to; I dreamt about it every day. First, I really wasn’t brave enough to try again. Second, we never found ourselves alone, which was probably due to the brilliant and watchful eyes of Josef and Gabriella. More importantly, if we had been caught we would have been kept apart. It was too much to risk, for a day without Sarah left me aching and feeling hollow.

  Another year had passed and found me healthy as a lark and happy as a bear. Some people would say it’s the other way around, but here’s something I have learned: waking up at the break of dawn singing keeps you healthy, and if you have ever watched a lazy old bear, they sure look happy. I was aware that Sarah still cared for me from the thousands of slight and small touches we would sneak in our passing. Looking back, I think the only people we were fooling were ourselves.

  In the early morning light I reached for the red coat Sarah had made with so much love and wrapped it around me. How proud I was to wear it on this year’s delivery, and how comforted by its warmth.

  It was a glorious morning, and my heart was filled with joy as I sang the holiday carol my brothers and sisters knew so well. “Counting snowflakes from our sleigh, count the hours till Christmas Day. Drifting snowflakes, tumble down, lift your head and spin around. Falling snowflakes, count them all. A Christmas wish as snowflakes fall.”

  Inside the barn, I found Gerda waiting for me, loyal, snorting in her excitement and devotion, her coat glistening in the morning light that spilled between the barn planks and through the opening high on the roof. Then Gerda shuffled, and much to my surprise, out from the other side of her stepped Sarah with brush in hand.

  “I must be sure to stay in her good graces,” Sarah proclaimed. “Otherwise she may not bring you back.”

  With Sarah there and no one around, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. They kept reaching toward her as if they had their own mind. I wanted to squeeze her until she yelped. I had done that with a dog once when I was very young. It took days and a full meal of table scraps to get him to come near me again. So I crossed my arms and held my hands captured in my arm pits to a make sure I didn’t make a fool of myself.

  Sarah leapt into my arms. Thankfully I was quick enough to catch her. And she squeezed me until I yelped. And I did YELP. I don’t know what that dog’s problem was; Sarah could have done that to me every day of my life.

  Then she broke away and ran over to the small counter where Josef kept the clamping iron and other tools for the barn. She snatched up a small bag and held it out to me. Inside were the most delicious gingers. The only person who made better cookies than Gabriella was Sarah. And she knew that gingers were my favorite.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything,” I said.

  “That’s all right …”

  But before she could forgive me, I lifted her into the air, tossing and teasing her. “I could never forget you!” And I did my best to give her that full squeeze.

  “Never?” She wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight. And again I YELPED!

  “Did I hurt you?” She pulled back in concern.

  “Never!” I leaned my head against hers, closing my eyes, smelling lilacs and honey. Then I remembered my surprise. “Oh, your gift! I hoped to show it to you yesterday, but I can never seem to get alone with you without Josef around. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to give it to you until I returned. And that may not be for some time.”

  I walked over to the stacks of hay and pulled from behind them a large device. On the bottom was a small box with a lever. Suspended above the box were seven large gears, the likes of which I used for the internal mechanics of my moving toys.

  Kneeling, I placed in on the ground and motioned for her to turn the lever. “Go ahead. See what it does.”

  No one was more fascinated by the mechanics of my creations than Sarah. She turned the lever with childish trepidation and sent the gears into motion, moving and cranking against and through each other.

  “Kris, it’s wonderful,” she exclaimed.

  “Watch,” I said. And as the gears moved, twisting and turning, seemingly expanding and contracting, they came together as one, almost magically, into the shape of a large heart. I had seen Josef carve the design int
o cabinetry intended for a distant client once, and it seemed appropriate.

  “Kris. I love it.” She wrapped her arms around me and held her face to mine. “I will miss you at Christmas feast,” she whispered.

  “And I you.”

  She moved her chin teasingly against my rough and scraggly beard. “I like it,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Good thing, I don’t think it is going to stop growing.” I lifted her as I stood and placed her on her feet. “Don’t show this to Marcus and Noel. I will never hear an end to it.” Then I yelled, “Ouch,” as she pinched me. Then she reached up, grabbed my beard, and pulled me down to her eye level.

  “Don’t show this to the baker, or he will have us wed!” she said with a smile.

  It was the first time I saw her eyes that close. If you ever have an opportunity to watch two people in love gaze at each other in a private moment, they don’t smile. All tension is released from the face, and they are completely open. This was the moment I remember having with her that Christmas Eve morning.

  “Sarah…” I started, but she put her fingers over my mouth.

  “Come home to me.”

  “Once I deliver the toys, I am going to find Nikko.”

  She began buttoning up my jacket. “Don’t get lost.”

  “I think you have made that impossible,” I said, looking down at the red coat.

  We laughed, and I kissed her for the second time.

  I leaned up against Gerda and gave her a gentle hug. She nuzzled me and pressed her soft face against mine, and I asked her, “Will you take me out into the world again, my girl?” And she snorted and whinnied and shared her tender reply, signaling she was once more up to the task.

  “And bring him home safely?” Sarah added and joined me in my embrace with Gerda.

  I loaded my sack of toys into the sleigh, and in the wink of an eye we were off.

  We set about to deliver our simple toys to my distant and growing family. Gerda led the way with a newfound pride and strength of purpose equal to mine. As we sped across the countryside with happier hearts, I sang the songs of Christmas I had always cherished.

  We passed as ghosts through time and space as we delivered the tokens of our love, our secret gifts, to my brothers and sisters, to their brothers and sisters, and to those who comforted them all. I secretly observed them and witnessed all the joy and love in their hearts, I was no longer sad to see them in these far off places where they had been replanted. I could see the growth and blossoming of each and laughed with their newfound joys. Owen was three and walking and talking and laughing and falling. Jess was five and already helping with preparations for the feast. Tamas and Talia, at seven, still carried that bond I hoped would last their lifetime. They had grown in responsibility, this year making and rolling the traditional pastries for the Christmas feast with only a random thrown dough ball or brief flour fight, unlike last year’s all-out baker’s brawl. I heard but didn’t see Garin this year, leaving a small carving knife on what was obviously the only boy’s bedroll of the camp. And Kendra had become a little lady. Most importantly, and by the grace of God, there was love.

  But I thought of Nikko too and wished I could discover with certainty that he had lived and found the same rich soil in which to grow. This was the journey I set my feet upon that Christmas morning.

  As daylight began to fade, we came at last upon the place where I had left my mother to her peace. There was no grave or marking for anyone to know or find her resting place. There was but a small clearing in the trees beside the road.

  I stood in the middle of that empty space imagining a closeness to her. “There is a girl, Mama. Her name is Sarah. She’s not like you. Which is good, because I am like you. Which is good.

  “I am a carpenter, Mama. A very good carpenter. You and Papa would be proud of what I make.

  “I have lost Nikko, Mama. All the rest are safe for now, and I promise to keep watch over them, but I am going searching for Nikko. And I promise I will never give up on him. I am sorry if I have let you down.

  “I wanted you to know that you were wrong, Mama. When you said, ‘Never tell them where you are from,’ you were wrong. There are some who you can tell. I just wanted you to know.”

  There was no short or fast way to the cabin where I had left Nikko. So I did what was required. I walked.

  The cabin was lonely and gray from the old, weathered wood. From a short distance I could tell that no one had entered since my last Christmas visit. The rattle encircled with small snowflakes still hung from the knob of the door, which stood ajar to the approaching night.

  Once inside, I looked around at the destruction I had left behind. I unrolled an oiled cloth onto the ground which protected a small set of tools from the damp cold. First the table, then the chairs, then the mantle, I fixed in turn. A few small candles, which I had brought with me for the purpose, lit the darkness. Then I went outside, looking for wood to cut and split for the fire. Purposely I had worked into the cold of the night without warmth. I bound thrushes to a stick and swept the hearth and the cabin of all debris. Once the cabin was restored, I sat in front of the cold and empty fireplace listening to the wind outside.

  To the sides of me I had amassed a small stack of various branches, split logs, and kindling. From my pockets I withdrew a handful of dried fungus and a small tinderbox. The fungus I piled into the center of the hearth. Inside the box was a piece of quartz that I held in my left hand over the fungus tinder and a thick iron hoop that I laced the fingers of my right hand through. Striking the iron against the stone sent sparks flying, igniting the tinder. I broke the broom into its smaller and larger pieces, blowing the fire into ever growing life as I added the soft woods, the pine twigs and sticks, then the branches, and eventually the harder wood logs I had split that night.

  Once the fire was raging, I pulled out the small bag of cookies Sarah had given me and broke my fast.

  “Joy to you this Christmas, Nikko.”

  That night I slept beside the warmth of the fire, and the next day I set off on my quest. Over hills and through ravines, into towns and valleys I searched for a child I wasn’t even sure I would recognize. In the faces of strangers I looked for hope and was warmed by what I found there, even if I wasn’t successful in my search. People took me into their homes and listened to my story and held my hands or touched my shoulders in sympathy. And though they didn’t have answers, their hearts shared my burdens, and in those brief moments they would come to be like family. They fed us and sheltered us and would hear no argument. They mothered and cared for Gerda and me as if we were dear, long unseen relatives. I showed them the toys that I had made for my growing brother should I find him. And my hosts reveled in the toys’ ingenuity and uniqueness. These newfound families I added to my list of deliveries for the next year. I allowed myself the twelve full days of Christmas, and then I gave twelve more before I succumbed to the impossibility of the task I had set for myself.

  Nearly a month had passed when Gerda and I turned our sleigh and began our trek, now in the fullness of winter, home.

  So much time had passed that it soon dawned upon me how I missed my own new family. Spending time alone requires a precarious balance. If you are never silent to your thoughts, you will never hear the deep resonance of their mysterious wisdom. If you live there too long you may begin to believe some of the illusions and lies you whisper to yourself. Thankfully my journey had produced new friends and new perspectives. How I wanted to return and share my stories with Sarah if I could find a solitary moment alone with her. I thought of her so many times each day on my road home and longed to look once more into her eyes, watch her smile, and feel her warmth near me. I dreamt of how we would all live together.

  These dreams and images filled my thoughts so fully, I could not think of anything beyond. I was consumed with a new sense of purpose.

  I had come to believe that it was possible I could help shape and contribute to our lives and build our futures in the same
way we had planned and built so many fine objects of well-formed wood, finished and polished to perfection. I was excited to reunite with my friends and family at the carpentry and share the lessons I had so fortunately stumbled upon. Somewhere along the road of the past month, I had met the man I was becoming, and he had taught me something. As acquaintances became familial friends and I watched them play with the toys I had left over from my Christmas delivery, I grew to believe two truths. One, all the children on the earth are our family. And two, we are all children.

  My heart beat with anticipation as Gerda and I at last approached the lane leading to the carpentry.

  Immediately I knew something was wrong. My mind raced back through images of sporadic clusters of homes as we approached the village. And there it was. One of the homes on my journey toward the village had not lit its window candles for the night. This could have been in error, but for some reason I doubted it. People were vigilant about those candles. They told the world that all were healthy inside and that none need fear contact with the inhabitants. No one wanted the stigma of that mistaken message.

  I lit my lantern and held it out in front of me as I drove the sleigh toward the rear of the carpentry. It was then I witnessed Noel throwing stones at the dark windows of Josef and Gabriella’s house.

  “Stay inside and rot,” Noel yelled as he launched a stone into the night sky. True to its purpose, the stone found its mark and shattered the window high on the side of the wall.

  “Take it!” Noel shouted at Jonas as he pushed a large rock into Jonas’s hand and encouraged him to throw it.

  “Noel!” I yelled at him, seeking some explanation for his hostile behavior. “What are you doing?”

  “Look! Jelly belly has come back!” Noel yelled. And he threw another large rock, which landed with a loud thud against the side of the building.