LITMIR.BIZ

      IT WAS A BITTER NIGHT, though very clear. Under the sparkling stars a wild north wind drove cold into the veins, into the cracks and crannies of the tightest dwelling, and the tree limbs sighed and creaked. The snow that had fallen yesterday swirled up afresh and made new drifts, and the frozen earth was swept bare in wide swathes. No creature moved abroad, and except for the moan of the wind the world lay silent.

      But the inn was warm and cozy in the firelight and in the lamplight flickering from the walls. The smell of roast goose and pudding and spiced wine permeated the air. There was the glitter of holly on the shelf above the hearth, and greens were hung in bunches from the great black rafters. The four men at the table set their flagons down in unison with loud thumps and burst into raucous singing, not for the first time that evening to be sure.

      God rest you merry, gentlemen,

      Let nothing you dismay,

      For Jesus Christ our Savior

      Was born upon this day!

      Perhaps it was concern for the decorum of his house that brought the innkeeper from the kitchen then – or perhaps concern for a sale of more ale – for he came in bearing a foaming jug and set it before them, and stood with arms akimbo, grinning, as they filled their mugs and drank his health. Then his glance flickered to the settle by the hearth, where his boy sat alone. He was a slender lad, dark, with great blue eyes that stared emptily into space, blinking occasionally. His hands lay upon his knees. The innkeeper’s face shadowed a moment, then his mind came back to his guests.

      “So, gentlemen, here is more cheer for you this bitter eve. The goodwife sends you greetings, and hopes you won’t tarry too long this night from your own hearths.”

      The townsmen laughed and the first one spoke, “More cheer here than on my own hearth. Bickerings and brawling brats! No peace on earth for a man there, Christmas Eve or no.”

      But the second chided him. “Come now, what say you, Nat! They are all hale and hearty, just a bit lively and numerous. This is a holy eve, and like as not we should all be home,” and he pushed back his chair as if to rise. But the third laid a hand on his sleeve, saying, “Like as not, but it’s warm and merry here, and cold and bleak without.”

      And in a low voice the last one spoke, “But a night of mystery all the same. We should be home by our own hearths, for this is the night the Christ Child walks, by the old legends.”

      Then the innkeeper leaned upon the table with his hands and shook his head. “A likely tale, a likely tale!”

      “Nay, but ’tis true,” broke in the second. “You know the kindly woodcarver from Terminaison beyond the mountain who said a heavenly visitor carved him a most marvelous chest when he was an awkward and mistreated lad?”

      And the third spoke, remembering, “And that woman of the same town whose long-lost husband was led home by a fair-haired angel child one Christmas Eve, after years of wandering?”

      “And that lame girl,” said the fourth man. “Do you recall that lame girl in the next village – the village of La-Croche – she who gave her last crust to a little lost boy – and next morning awoke with legs as strong and straight as yours or mine?”

      Then the innkeeper glanced again at his son on the settle by the hearth, and he eased himself onto a stool and put his head close to his guests. “There was a time,” he said in a low voice, “when I prayed for him, yonder, that his affliction would be lifted. Aye, and my wife and I laid many pence before the altar, and lit many a candle. But his eyes are still vacant, and scant use a blind lad is to a man like me! He does what he can, but that is little enough.”

      But the boy had heard, for he drooped his head and passed one hand across his eyes. Then he sat as before. A little silence fell upon the room, and the fire crackled and hissed. At length the first townsman spoke.

      “Such tales are told to give us comfort. Not one of us has seen such with our own eyes. ’Tis true that now Terminaison has a name for good works that is unsurpassed in all the province, and the girl in La-Croche is said to be a veritable saint, giving of her own to the poor till there is nothing left for herself. But who can say the world itself has changed?”

      Still the uneasy silence lay upon the room. The boy sat with bowed head, the innkeeper poked at the fire, and the men slouched in their chairs, all merriment quenched. Then the third townsman slapped his thigh and spoke in a loud voice.

      “The priests sometimes, to get our pence and our candles, spread these miracles. I do right as I see it, and look for no sudden and unearned ending to my troubles. But why be sad, for the world is full of sorrows and disappointment, if we dwell upon it.” And he rose with the jug, to lean across the table and fill all their mugs, until the last drop was drained.

      So they all broke into song again, and as they sang they did not hear the soft knock, nor see the latch move and the door slowly open. The stranger stood against the night unnoticed, watching them; then he quietly shut the door behind him. He was dark and thin, and wore a threadbare cloak, and clutched a gnarled staff with one brown hand. He waited for a moment while their song rang out.

      In Bethlehem in Jewry

      This blessed babe was born

      And laid within a manger

      Upon this blessed morn.

      But the boy had turned his head with the opening of the door, and rose

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