LITMIR.BIZ

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      A nearby streetlight gave some small illumination, but some of the carolers had brought lanterns while others were having varying degrees of success keeping candles burning. Faces were ruddy from the cold and children played at the edges of the square. Vainly they tried to make snowballs with snow that was not sticky enough. There had been a fresh two inches of snow earlier in the day but it was quickly being urine-blemished by a half dozen dogs who hoped this might be one of those human gatherings that would result in yummy tidbits being dropped and tossed about. But by the middle of the festivities the dogs were finding that this was not at all like the firemen’s picnics or the church barbecues where the pickings could be simply marvelous. No, at this gathering all the humans seemed to be saying the same thing at the same time which was unusual to begin with, and then there was some dreadful noise coming from the large shiny things that were poking out of some of the humans’ mouths who evidently did not realize how painful such noise was to the acute hearing of canines. For a while, a couple of the dogs howled more or less on key with the blaring horns and squeaking clarinet, but soon they contented themselves with peeing and defecating on the outside of the circle and joining the straying children who at least seemed to be acting normally. Father Mancuso was just relieved that this year none of the dogs charged inside the circle to pee on the Christmas tree itself.

      When Silent Night, always the grand finale, came quavering to an end, Father Mancuso checked his coat to be sure he had the buttons lined up correctly and wiped at his frozen droopy mustache that people thought made him look jolly or silly or wise or world-weary. He stepped forward into the middle of the circle with that same nervousness he always felt when he knew all eyes were upon him.

      Even with many faces covered with masks and scarves, the priest recognized one and all. Even Gil Brady from the bowling alley was there with his big bass voice. Gil was never to be found in church. He had little patience for what he called “all that mumbo-jumbo Latin stuff.” Bob Bukowski and Norm Kraus were there with their families. Little could they anticipate that the time was near at hand when they would be laid low during the the charge of the roof brigade. They nodded at Father Mancuso when his eyes met theirs, while the wives tried to hush the children who resembled tottering penguins in their bulging snowsuits. All the children had reluctantly heeded their parents’ calls to return into the circle now, but many of them had gotten wet during their earlier romps in the snow and some were beginning to whine and fidget. Others would be miserable with chilblains later that night and keep their parents up long after everyone should have been in bed before Santa arrived.

      When he judged it was as quiet as it was ever going to get, Father Mancuso straightened up, cleared his throat and began: “Dear friends, it is fitting on this most holy of nights that we should gather in song. Music lifts us above the drudgery and cares of our daily lives. Music transports us into the higher realms of God, whose son we honor and revere this night of His blessed birth. It might be said that the songs we offer tonight are perhaps the highest form of prayer.”

      “Amen,” exclaimed most of the voices in the circle, although a few of the women raised their eyebrows and peered down their noses at each other. After all, singing was one thing and praying was another. Of all people you’d think a priest should know the difference. But no one wanted to be uncharitable on Christmas Eve and so they quickly turned their attention back to the priest who clasped his hands behind his back as he continued: “And above all let us never forget God’s eternal promise that wherever His children gather in His name, He is there. He is with us now. He will be with us aways, even at the hour of our death if we but do his will by loving Him and loving each other. Follow me now as the church bells ring; they chime to us now to welcome us to God’s house and to His protection.” The priest raised his hands above his head which was the signal for old Clarence Burns, who had perched in the church belfry for over forty Christmas Eves and almost every Sunday morning in between. Clarence loved to pull the rope and set the venerable bell swinging and pealing through the town’s frozen air.

      And that’s when it happened. Heads began turning and people began whispering with hushed excitement. At first some said no, it couldn’t be them. But it was indeed. The mysterious Boudine sisters were coming down the street, obviously intent on joining the group. The whispers grew more urgent; some actually gasped.

      They were known simply as the Boudine sisters in polite circles. Elsewhere they were known as “those crazy Boudines” and sometimes by far worse and more sinister epithets. They lived up on the mountain somewhere. No one knew for sure how long they had been up there except that it had been a very long time indeed; so long in fact that many doubted that these two were the same women who had come to the mountain originally. They hardly could be unless they had somehow found the fabled fountain of youth.

      Years ago when the titanium mine was operating on the mountain, rough-hewn miners would come into town and after more than a few drinks would tell tales of having wandered off through the woods to take their ease with the Boudine sisters. But when pressed by anyone who knew much about the mountain, it became obvious the men were engaging in wishful bravado. Once in a while one of the locals would slam an empty beer bottle on the bar and loudly announce he was off “to get me a piece of them crazy Boudine sisters.” But in truth, no one to this day knew where their cabin was, or if they did they weren’t telling. There was only the general supposition it was high up on the mountain. And what if you did find it? What kind of reception would you get? What if they had guns or vicious dogs? Exactly how crazy were they? And did you really want to find out? They only showed up a couple times each year to buy some meager supplies; never said more than was necessary to transact their business and then they were gone. It was assumed they must be living mostly off the land somehow.

      Still, whatever their strange lives and history might be, there was no doubt that, beyond all expectations, they were here tonight on this cold Christmas Eve and for most of the carolers, this fact sent a chill through their bones that made the night yet colder. The sisters were on the square now and walking slowly but purposefully toward the tree. They wore long wrap-around capes of deerskin, homemade but strikingly handsome against the fresh snow. Hoods almost totally hid their faces, and as the sisters reached the circle, space was quickly and nervously made for them and they moved in and joined hands, looking straight at Father Mancuso. The church bells continued to ring and the wind now made the tops of the trees sway and whisper above them. The priest was momentarily at a loss until he decided that some sort of welcome was in order for these strange visitors who had appeared out of the darkness and into their midst.

      “We have with us tonight two very welcome if infrequent guests to our little community. Perhaps they will honor us with a song of their own choosing and from their own traditions. Ladies?”

      The sisters looked at each other for a moment, not in an embarrassed or nervous manner, but in a direct and composed way as if they silently communicated between themselves. Then together they tossed back their hoods onto their shoulders.

      Father Mancuso had only seen the sisters on two other occasions and then only briefly. Now he could no more stop himself than the rest of the congregation from staring. He was reminded immediately about what people meant about their age. If they indeed had come to the mountain long ago, then the years had been uncommonly gentle to them during what had to be a hard life on the mountain. They seemed to hover always in that fine space between youth and age, like the long years of a mature beech tree before its smooth, gray bark finally begins to gnarl into old age. It was this that no doubt helped spawn the rumors that these were not the original Boudines but perhaps some offspring from dalliances with the titanium miners or some itinerant loggers or God knew who else.

      “Maybe they made a deal with the devil up there on that damn mountain.” some would joke in an uneasy way. Some of the women—perhaps more than a bit jealous—just sniffed and said the two didn’t even look like sisters, whoever in tarnation they might be.

      That much was true, Father Mancuso reflected. Ariel was tall and dark, black hair and eyebrows framing and contrasting with an almost doll-like ivory complexion. Beside her was Tara, with slightly freckled skin, who had the kind of long reddish blonde hair that didn’t seem really possible, and some said they didn’t care if Tara was living in a damned cave or in a hollow tree; either way she was doing something unnatural with her hair. Besides, why the hell

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