A Christmas Tale

When we start, the pages are still blank. There is no setting, no plot, no plucky main character in need of a story all to themselves. We sit alone in a dark mental corner. Yet, hark! There appears a little candle in the darkness, lighting the walls of our space with a flickering glow. It draws nearer until we can sense its heat comfortably near our skin, and can breathe in its sweet, waxy scent. Through the newfound light, we now see that the walls of our space are covered with words. Little words, big words, angry words, happy words, all blending together like soft chalky pastels, to paint a picture. No, no, not merely a picture, but a series of pictures, but no, not even that. In fact, they paint a whole world. So what do we see in our world of words? A cold winter’s night, snow falling softly in a forest, trees creaking and groaning in the occasional gusts of wind, the thick amber scent of a woodstove burning... burning... burning in a cabin nestled between two snowdrifts. Its windows are dark except for a lonely candle burning in each one. There isn’t a sound within. We move closer, and look, there! Two bright eyes peer out of the window into the snowy night. They belong to a small figure, a very thin little figure, who soon drops out of view. Hattie Weals, she’s called, and we now see as she curls up in bed with tears making sparkling tracks down her face. There won’t be a Christmas for Hattie this year. Her Papa hasn’t made enough money for even an extra pair of stockings.

As Hattie falls asleep, suddenly the cabin door bursts open, snow blowing violently inside. She instantly runs to shut it before her Papa wakes up, but it won’t close. Snow pours inside, piles and piles of glittering snow, rising into a wave which crashes over the tiny cabin. Hattie is buried. The snow wraps her in a frigid cocoon. It smells of mountain rivers and city rainstorms, and she finds herself falling, falling falling... awake.

Hattie is awake? She’s in a bed? Wrapped in a fluffy down comforter with a roaring fire at her feet? She’s confused. This isn’t her house. Her room is smaller than this one. It doesn’t have its own fireplace. Hattie swings out of bed, gingerly setting little feet onto the floor. Matchstick-thin legs carry her, curiously, out of her room and down the hall, where she finds, oh my! Yet another fire, even bigger than the one in her room, as well as a christmas tree with candles softly glowing on each branch. Present-boxes are piled below it, their wrapping-paper sparkling in the light. Right in front is a flat, green box with a tag that reads: ‘To Hattie, Love A Friend’ in swirling cursive. She hurries over, and looking around furtively, begins to tear the edge of the wrapping paper. But no, it can’t be what it looks like! No one could have known she wanted it! Downy brown curls peek over the edge of the wrapping paper. But it is! It’s her! Hattie opens the box slowly, savoring the view of the perfect porcelain skin, the glassy green eyes, the pouted pink mouth of the doll that she wanted for oh-so-long. It’s almost as if she’s more pretty than the first time Hattie spotted her in the china shop window, if that’s even possible!

“Started without me?” A dapper young man stood in the doorway.

Hattie jumped and nearly dropped her- no- it’s not her’s- the- doll.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t, I don’t know, I’m sorry...” as Hattie scrambled to find the words, the young man laughed.

“Don’t be silly, Hattie. That doll’s for you. The other children will be rather sad you started without them though. They were quite looking forward to meeting you first.” His eyes sparkled with a mischevious glimmer in the firelight. He turned back toward the hallway. “Oh look, here they come now!”

And came they did! At least ten other children eagerly rushed around Hattie and clamored to see her doll and to open their own presents. What a cheery time they all had! After opening presents, the children gathered around a long wooden table and ate what couldn’t be described as anything short of a feast for kings. Roasted birds and creamy vegetable soups and all sorts of dishes from all around the world filled the little children until their bellies were stuffed and their eyes were heavy. Slowly, one by one, they mumbled their goodnights and tottered off to bed, dragging their presents behind them. Yet, Hattie stayed, staring into the firelight. Warmth and food had made her drowsy, but something kept poking around uncomfortably in her mind.

“Coming to bed, Hattie?” Asked the young man, who had sat silently at the head of the table all evening. He now stood up, however, and began to stoke the fire.

“Well, I don’t know,” Hattie replied. “Will I wake up here in the morning? Have I just dreamt up all- all this?” The young man laughed, as he had before, and as if picking up a small cat, lifted her easily into his arms.

“My dear, there’s nothing fake about any of us. See?” He poked himself on the shoulder. “About as real as it gets.”

“But, but I won’t wake up here,” said Hattie, whose eyes were beginning to droop.

“No, I’m afraid not,” sighed the young man. By that point, they had arrived at Hattie’s room, and he gently laid her on the bed.

“But how will I know it’s real then?” Asked Hattie. Sleepy eyes stared up at him sadly. He handed her the doll.

“You’ll know, my dear.” He winked and stepped into the doorway.

“But I don’t even know your name,” Hattie called.

“My name’s Nick.” The man smiled. “Now sweet dreams to you, Hattie.”

And with that she sunk back, deep, deep, into feathery dreams of snow and softly glowing candles.

Cold air on her toes eventually woke Hattie. She was in her own bed, in her own room. The door to the cabin stood slightly ajar, wind whistling through the crack, and Hattie hurried over to shut it. Yet as she made to crawl back under the threadbare blanket, she let out a squeak of surprise. Smooth porcelain skin and silky locks met her fingertips, and eagerly, -oh goodness, how exciting- she pushed back the blanket to find the doll of her dreams! And tied neatly around her wrist was a little tag, which read: ‘To Hattie: Have a Merry Christmas Your Friend, Nick’.

The walls of our mental corner grow fainter as our little candle burns low, until the words written upon them are nothing more than vague sketches. And despite the world painted so intricately by the words we have been able to see so far, there are still yet thousands more words we haven’t read, fading away into the distane on walls we cannot hope to fathom the length of. The story is not complete, and it never will be. But for now, our pages are filled, the main character given an adequate story all to themselves, and our hearts are left a little warmer than they were when we started. With a little pfft, the candle goes out.