Here’s a little Christmas story I’ve been working on just for fun. I’ve never tried posting short fiction on my blog, so feel free to leave me feedback on how easy or hard it is to read in this format. Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays, and thank you for your friendship.
The World in Solemn Stillness Lay
The shutters rattled under the relentless assault of the north wind. Brother Rasmus pulled his blanket tighter about himself and tried to concentrate on the bundle of vellum huddled close to the single candle on his small table. The pages were not his; they were part of a new bible being prepared for His Eminence the Cardinal, but Rasmus had borrowed them for the night, ostensibly to check them for any errors in his illuminations.
The real reason, of course, was that it was Yuletide. His work that day had been in the Gospel of St. Matthew, and he felt it would be appropriate to prepare for the holy day to come by reading the section pertaining to the Blessed Birth. He treated each leaf tenderly, and Cardinal Lucian would be none the wiser.
A soft scratching came at the door, tentatively at first, then more insistent. Rasmus groaned under his breath. “Coming, Harlequin,” he called, rising stiffly from his stool. He opened the door and a tortoiseshell cat forced itself inside the moment the gap was large enough. The cat technically belonged to the entire monastery, but Harlequin had attached himself to Rasmus. It was probably for the best. The other monks tolerated the cat, but complained whenever he made a mess or interfered with their work. Or worse, when he made them a present of a dead mouse or a bird, which was often.
Rasmus wasn’t entirely fond of Harlequin’s hunting either, but he knew the creature was only behaving as God had made him; he was created to be a hunter, and one could hardly fault him for that. Still, Brother Rasmus loved all the creatures that lived in and around the monastery and wished that Harlequin could learn to live in peace with them. Which was why his brothers in the order sometimes jested that he should have joined the Franciscans.
“I assure you there’s no mouse here,” Rasmus told the cat as he closed door again, “but you’re no more likely to believe me tonight than any other night.” Indeed, the cat was already poised next to the door of Rasmus’ cabinet, the only other furniture besides the table and bed, head expectantly cocked to one side, listening for the tiniest of noises that might reveal a mouse hiding inside. The cat might stay like that for an hour or more before losing interest; it lived to hunt.
The wind continued to howl outside Rasmus’ small tower chamber, carrying a torrent of snow along with it. Did our Lord and Savior come into the world on such a night as this? he wondered, then remembered that Palestine was more moderate of climate. And besides, he reminded himself, no one really knows when Our Lord God was born.
He felt the chill in his old knees, despite his robes and the blanket he wore, as he returned to his stool and resumed his reading, mentally laboring through the Latin, which had never come as easily as his native tongue, no matter how much practice he had as a monk. He didn’t mind. It was its own form of meditation, and it was always good to meditate upon the Holy Word. And even better to meditate upon the story of the Holy Birth.
When he looked up again the tallow candle had shrunk by the width of a finger. He hadn’t been aware of the passage of time, not that it mattered. He wasn’t ready to go to bed yet; all he would be able to do is lay there, anyway, listening to the wind tear at the shutters while time crept by at a snail’s pace. Better to put his mind to work so that the time would pass more quickly. He would retire after the midnight bell, announcing the start of the holy day.
Something struck the shutters, not heavy like a stone thrown from the grounds, but still solid enough to be more than wind and snow. The noise was followed by something fluttering against one of the wooden panels. “What was that?” he asked aloud to Harlequin, who was now curled up on the pillow of Rasmus’ small bed. The cat was asleep, his brows knitted in a look of concentration that the monk found amusing. How could sleeping be such hard work?
Since the cat seemed disinclined to answer he arose from the stool to find out for himself. He gripped the latch on the shutters, steeling himself for the cold blast to come. Carefully opening one side, he peered out. There, pressed tightly against the hand-span of snow that had collected on the window ledge, huddled a dove, brown and gray against the icy white.
Surprised, the bird fluttered its wings, and Rasmus saw that one barely moved, hanging from its side at an odd angle. Only the incessant wind kept the injured creature from falling from the ledge. Thinking quickly, Rasmus pulled off his blanket and covered the bird before gently gripping it through the cloth and drawing it inside. He held the bundle against his chest with one hand while he refastened the shutters against the night.
He looked around his tiny room for a place to place the poor bird, and finally crossed to his cabinet, opening the side where he hung his other set of robes. He lowered the blanket to the bottom of the cabinet, letting the loose end pile up before setting the bird, still wrapped in the blanket, atop the makeshift nest. Gently he pulled back the blanket until the dove’s head emerged.
The dove didn’t move, watching the monk intently with one black eye that glimmered in the candlelight. Only the pulsing of its heartbeat gave any indication it was alive, it held so still. Rasmus decided to leave it like that, partially wrapped in the blanket, in case it found it soothing. It wouldn’t do if the bird became alarmed and tried to fly in the tiny room; best to keep it still.
He resisted checking its wing. Yes, he might better assess the damage, but then what? Did he have the slightest idea how to heal a bird’s wing? Better to leave it alone for now and hope that rest would be best for the delicate creature. Rest, and perhaps some food.
He shivered, and remembered he had needed that blanket to stay warm. Slowly, as to not alarm his new guest, he took the spare robe from where it hung and slipped it on over the first. The dove turned its head to watch him, but did not otherwise move. He wondered at its gender. He thought it might be female, but he couldn’t give it a name if he might be wrong.
“You are a patient one,” he told it. “Or perhaps just very frightened. You are safe here. I will go and see if we have something a bird might eat. You will need your strength.”
He retrieved the candle from the table and made his way down the spiraling stairs leading to the bottom of the tower. The rooms of his brothers in the order were silent, and light under only a few doors. The great stone structure of the monastery was dark and chilly, throbbing with the wind. His heart beat harder in his chest as he descended to the main floor. He wasn’t as young as he once was, and that many stairs took effort. He welcomed it, however, as it also meant more body heat building up beneath his robes to warm his old bones.
He caught movement at the periphery of the candlelight as he approached the kitchens, accompanied by the whispers of tiny feet as mice scrambled out of sight. He wondered why Harlequin had to come all the way to his room to hunt mice when there was undoubtedly much better hunting down here in the kitchens.
Something about that thought bothered him, but he pushed it aside, instead trying to remember where the items he sought would be kept. He found a small saucer and a handful of wheat kernels, a small hunk of bread and some sunflower seeds, hoping at least one would be something the bird might eat. After a moment’s thought he added another saucer that he would fill with snow to melt for the bird to drink, just in case.
Once he was satisfied with the provisions he had gathered he turned to make his way back up to his tower room. A little gray mouse, little bigger than his thumb, sat in the middle of the stone floor, chewing on a wheat seed Rasmus must have dropped during his foraging. Its tiny eyes gleamed in the candlelight, reminding the monk of the dove’s. Then, realizing it had been spotted, the mouse stuffed the rest of the seed in its mouth and scampered out of sight.
It was then Brother Rasmus realized his mistake. Harlequin was still in his room, asleep on the bed. Rasmus had not closed the cabinet. If the cat were to awaken, the little dove would be helpless. The monk’s heart pounded with sudden anxiety for the defenseless dove. What had he done? It was no kindness to invite the poor thing in only to become Harlequin’s plaything.
He hurried as quickly as he could to the tower stairs without spilling any more food and began climbing, his ears straining for any sounds of a struggle. But all was silent. He was too late already. He only hoped—though a faint hope at best—that Harlequin had been quick about it rather than toying with the poor creature. The poor, unfortunate creature he had most assuredly doomed. He offered up a prayer to St. Francis of Assisi for the dove as he climbed.
His room was quiet when he arrived, puffing and red-faced from the exertion. Harlequin was no longer on the bed. The monk expected to see feathers all about the floor, but there were none.
Puzzled, he checked the cabinet. There lay Harlequin, curled up next to the dove on the blanket. The dove, untouched, had not moved. Its dark eye blinked once.
Rasmus sighed and offered up a quick prayer of gratitude for the little dove’s safety. But he still had a problem. Harlequin seemed to view the bird as a potential companion instead of a midnight snack, but would it last? Could he be trusted? Would it be better to remove the cat and close the door? Or had the Good Shepherd granted him a small miracle that he would be faithless to doubt?
He had seen Harlequin kill on numerous occasions; mice, birds, lizards—he hunted anything that moved. Doves were larger than his typical victims, it was true, but he doubted the cat was all that afraid of a dove that couldn’t even escape.
After a moment’s deliberation he decided to simply watch for now. He set the saucer of food within reach of the dove, then scooped some snow from the windowsill into the other and held it above the candle until the snow began to melt. His room was warmer than outside, but that was not saying much, and the snow melted slowly. Rasmus placed the saucer of water went next to the food. The bottom of his cabinet was becoming crowded.
Satisfied he had done all he could, he returned to his study of St. Matthew, alert for any stirring from either creature in his cabinet. The candle burned lower. The wind slowly slackened. Time crept steadily toward the midnight hour. Harlequin lay with his paws tucked beneath him, head erect. He might have been standing guard had his eyes not been closed tightly. The dove now slept, its head resting on its breast.
The chapel bell struck midnight, announcing the arrival of Christmas day.
Rasmus rubbed his eyes and glanced once more at the cabinet. The two erstwhile enemies slept side by side, breathing almost in tandem. Can I leave them like that while I sleep? he wondered to himself. I cannot keep my eyes open much longer. Can I leave them in the care of the Prince of Peace? Our God does not keep them from eating one another at any other time. Does it matter to Him what day it is among we mortals?
The monk’s eyelids drooped, and he sighed. “Saint Francis, carry my prayer to the Good Lord who knows every blade of grass and every sparrow, and will one day make the lion and the lamb lay down together,” he prayed, “I am a tired old man. Into His care I commend these two creatures who He hast sent to be my guests this night. May this peace prevail between them.” He then crossed himself and made ready for bed.
He blew out the candle, and as his head met his pillow he vowed to awaken at the slightest sound from the cabinet. Sleep took him quickly, and if he kept his vow or broke it he was not aware.
Light, gray and diffuse, crept around the edge of the shutters as the morning came, and the first awareness Brother Rasmus had was of a weight against his legs, pressing down the blankets. Harlequin. The cat had awakened in the night and come to lay next to him as he often did. But something was wrong with that somehow, though his mind couldn’t quite conjure the reason.
Then the monk’s eye flew open. The dove! He sat up in bed, startling Harlequin from sleep. The room was near dark, and he could barely see anything at all in the cabinet. He willed his old and bleary eyes to focus and penetrate the shadows.
The dove was gone.
In a panic the monk furtively searched about the floor of the room, across the covers of his bed and his robes laid out for morning, expecting to see blood and feathers, but could find none. His sparse room was as it always was. His frosty, frantic breath hung in the air.
A soft cooing drew his attention to the window. The dove perched on the window sill as if waiting patiently to exit. Rasmus sighed a wispy fog of relief.
He arose stiffly from his bed and slipped on his robes against the cold. Then, making gentle, soothing susurrations he slowly approached the bird, hoping to examine its wing. Looking at his patient now he couldn’t remember for certain which wing had been injured; both looked equally whole, tucked against its sides. Rasmus drew too close and the dove hopped away sideways along the sill, fluttering its wings in symmetry.
Could it be well so quickly? Perhaps the injury hadn’t been as bad as he feared. Rather than trouble the dove further he moved to the cabinet, examining the saucers of food he had placed there. Only the sunflower husks remained, scattered about. There was also no sign of the bread, but it was just as likely Harlequin had eaten that.
“Well, my little friend,” he said softly, “you appear to be eating, and your wing seems to be getting better. Dare we find out just how much?” He returned slowly to the window and carefully reached for the latch on the shutters. He undid the latch and pushed out the right-hand shutter, then watched for the dove’s reaction.
Stepping with delicate feet it moved toward the light of morning through the open window, where it stood, blinking at the gray sky. It looked back at Rasmus as if asking a question, then turned and launched itself into the air. Rasmus anxiously stepped forward to watch and leaned against the sill, heedless of the cold snow beneath his hands.
The bird, easily traceable against the unbroken blanket of white below, glided effortlessly toward a nearby copse of naked trees where it lighted on a branch with a fluttering, whistling flurry of wings.
A guttural meow next to his feet drew his attention inward. Harlequin looked up at him expectantly. “You wonder where your friend went?” Rasmus deciphered for him. He bent and picked up the cat, lifting him to the window sill. He pointed to the tree. “See? There he is. You were an excellent nursemaid, I must say.” Harlequin purred and bit at the cuff of Rasmus’ robe.
The morning was cold and crisp, the sky a mottled mass of hazy grays, but the snow and the wind had both stopped sometime during the night, leaving a glimmering fresh coat of white over the ground, hiding the tracks left in the previous snowfall. The world outside was still, smooth and peaceful.
Brother Rasmus stood at the window, taking in the fresh, clean Yule morning, unaware of the cold until Harlequin began to squirm. He put the cat down gently, then closed the shutter. “You’re right,” he said to the mottled orange and gray cat. “I’d better get ready for morning vespers. It would be disrespectful to Our Lord be late for the celebration of His Holy Birth.
And Brother Rasmus felt like celebrating indeed. Perhaps it had been a small thing, but peace had won out over instinct between two of God’s humble creatures. To him it was a miracle. Perhaps there was hope for all living things, mankind as well.
