the path to the village. And as he went he looked up, to see his brothers coming, such a light on their faces as he had never seen before.
On the path they met and stood looking at one another. Wordlessly they clasped hands. The forester was the first to speak. “In the night, brother, I heard a child crying, and I found him.”
And the miller broke in, “And I also, brother.”
And the ferryman cried aloud, “And I also, my brothers. On the far bank he was, nearly to drown, but I reached him in time…and when he smiled the tempest died…and this morning he was gone.”
“Even so it was with us,” the miller said. And the three stood silent, filled with wonder. After a long while the forester spoke. “And now the world is newly made.” Then together they turned and went off to the village.
The great storm had indeed left ruin in its wake, and death to man and beast. Three had died, one a little girl who had strayed seeking her lost kitten, one an old man whose heart had stopped from fear, and one a young husband who had been killed by a falling tree. Houses were broken, fruit trees down, flocks and herds scattered, fields laid waste. But wherever the brothers went sorrow was eased, a new hope came, warmth crept into the heart. At length they all rallied; what little was left was shared freely. Together they mourned and buried their dead, together they began to rebuild.
The three went to the lord of the fief and laid before him their need.
“There is grain in the mill but none for the villagers,” said the miller.
“There is firewood and game aplenty in the forest, but cold hearths and no food in the cottages,” said the forester.
“There are plenty of fish in the river, but not to be had by right,” said the ferryman.
And the lord of the fief could not withstand the light in their faces. “The forest, the river, and the mill belong to the village now,” he said. “I have no need of them.”
So they all lived through the first hard winter, which was indeed the most joyful they had ever known.
And thenceforth the miller sang at his work, and the children begged to be allowed to carry the grain to the mill. The forester always had a child at his side as he walked through his woods and together they discovered the nests of the birds, and the dens of the foxes, and the thickets where the shy deer hid, and each tree became a friend. And the ferryman took children back and forth across the river all day for the price of a song, so that the river rang with their music and their laughter. And all people shared what they had; none went hungry or cold or suffered loneliness and fear. This they did out of their new joy, and because it was like a new morning.
And strangers coming to that village were puzzled, feeling something had been won in that place; for it was different from all other places they had seen. And the villagers could only say, “It was the Great Storm, when we suffered so much. Then this joy came to us, and the world was new made.”
And the brothers kept the Child in their hearts.
STRUGGLE
The heart’s winter,
the soul’s drought,
the mind’s ice
hardening out,
the deep clutch
of circumstance,
the numbed spirit
in a trance…
Oh break! Oh break
fire in the east,
that we may rise,
that we may wake.
j.t.c.
The
Innkeeper’s
Son
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
