The Christmas Spirit (20 page)

That was where Francis found her, in a heap on the brown, frozen grass. He leapt right down from a tree, muttering curses about great, hairy heathens, and all their progeny, under his breath.

When Trudy didn't acknowledge his presence, he began to speak in a rallying tone. "Well, sister. That was a mighty close call, that was. And I was afeared for just a minute that ye'd really made a mess out o' things, getting’ yerself all mixed up with them humans. But I can see ye've been afrighted out of yer wits, so I won't scold ye like I ought."

Trudy sniffed. She didn't feel up to Francis's banter just now. She hoped if she remained silent, he would take himself off.

But her brother didn't take the hint. "I nearly thought ye had him there. Though for one minute I was worried he might talk ye into something else, which was why I stopped them horses. But, then, ye almost had him. He was afollowin' ye just as neat as punch, he was, and if it hadn't a'been for that heathenish friend of his, ye would've had 'im, I make no doubt."

"Ahmad's not a heathen," Trudy said with an angry sniff.

"Yes, he is. All them humans are heathens. Haven't I always told ye so?"

"Yes, but you're wrong." Trudy didn't know why she was wasting time arguing with Francis, for he would never believe her. But it made her feel better to defend Ahmad. "They're actually quite religious most of the time."

"Are they now?" His voice held a conciliatory note.

Trudy was stunned. That was the most sympathetic gesture her brother had ever made, to let her think she'd convinced him of anything. His unexpected kindness was one more burden than she could bear. Trudy dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

"Now, don't ye be carryin' on like that. The celebration’s still goin’ on over on the heath, and ye ought to come along. There's music and dancin' like ye've never seen. That's all ye need to cheer yerself up."

"No." She shook her head. "That won't be enough this time. I want Matthew."

"And ye would've had him, too, if ye hadn't carried on with them dangerous games o' yers!" Francis was losing all patience with her. His tone was angry.

"Don't ye think I know?" Trudy almost yelled. "I just couldn't help myself. That's why I did it. I couldn't do anything else, not after I saw him."

"But why, sister? The world's a beautiful place, and it's full of big, handsome men. And a lot o' them are much stupider than Sir Matthew, and they would've followed ye anywhere, as dumb as they are. Ye could've had yer pick o' them."

Trudy winced at his lack of understanding. "I didn't want a big, stupid oaf. I wanted Matthew, with all his greatness and his flaws."

"Well . . . " Francis seemed at a loss for words. He thought for a while before he said, "I guess I could try to trick him back for ye."

"No." Trudy was grateful to her brother, even if he couldn't understand. She tried wiping her tears.

"And why, girl? Yer not making any sense."

"Matthew doesn't want to live in our world, and I can't blame him. He'd lose his integrity."

"Integrity, shmegrity," Francis scoffed.

"You are not to scoff at Matthew!"

"All right, all right." He shrugged. "I suppose if ye have to be a human, he's a decent sort o' man."

"He's more than decent. Confess. You did like him!"

Francis rolled his eyes and said nothing, but Trudy knew he had liked Matthew. Francis would have been content for her if she had managed to lure a man as great as Matthew into the mists. He didn't wish for a big, bumbling oaf of a pet any more than she did.

"So, now, what do we do?" he asked instead.

"There is nothing I can do. He doesn't want me."

"Sure he does. There's not a human alive who wouldn't want me sister." He poked at his chest with his thumb.

His pride failed to cheer her this time. "If Matthew had wanted me, then why did he let me go? Why didn't he even ask me if I wanted to stay with him?"

Francis chuckled. "Because he knew ye'd say no, that's why. And even human men have their pride."

"How do you know I'd have said no?"

Francis blanched. "Ye would have, Trudy." He darted an uneasy glance. "Wouldn't ye?"

Before she could answer, he answered for her. "Of course, ye would have, so stop yer teasin'. Ye wouldn't want to live without yer magic now, would ye? Ye wouldn't want to live the way them humans do."

Disturbed by her silence, he started to pace back and forth in the park, waving his arms in wild circles about his head. "Oh, this is great!" he shouted. "This is more than passing fine. Me own sister's gone soft in her head."

Trudy stayed quiet. She let Francis burn his anger out while he paced and stomped. The dry winter grass crackled under his feet until he'd worn a visible path about seven feet long.

"Tell me it ain't true," he finally begged her, coming to a stop beside her.

"I'm afraid it is," Trudy answered in a low, shameful voice.

"Well . . . " Francis's energy spent, his anger seemed to have vanished with it, but his eyes held a hint of sadness. "That do beat all. That's all I can say." He went on, "But I should have known. I should have known when ye were different, right from the cradle. I even heard our mother remark upon it a pair of times."

"On what?"

"Them inclinations of yers. They're not natural, that's what. That's why I've always tried to get ye to settle at home. I was always afeared that yer perverted nature would lead ye to do something foolish like this."

"What perverted nature? Why?"

Francis looked at her, his eyes full of warning, and placed his fists on his hips. "I've never told ye this, Trudy. I never did, because I was afeared ye would get some sort o' bug in yer head, which I see ye have anyway, so I might as well tell ye now."

"Tell me what?"

"Ye'll recall all that talk about our ancestors?  How one o' them was a prince, hunnerds o' years ago?"

She nodded, not sure where he was leading.

"Well." Francis sighed again and wiped the back of his neck, chagrin written all over his face. "I hate to be the bearer o' bad news, but it seems he was a human prince."

"He was?" This was interesting, but she did not get the point. "What does that have to do with me?"

"It means yer blood is tainted, ye thickhead. Same as mine, same as our mother's. Only neither Mother nor me ever showed any signs o' takin' after that side o' the family. When you
did,
which is what we always worried about, Mother and me."

"You mean, I might be human?"

"No, no! Nothing so bad as that! Only that ye might be partly human which would explain all yer strangest quirks."

"Well, thank you, Francis," Trudy said dryly. "I suppose you think that solves all my troubles."

"No, I don't! But--" he scratched his beard, then his head, then his beard again in frustration. "Ye've just got to tell me what ye want!" he said on an angry note.

"I think I want a soul."

"No, ye don't." Francis shook his head vehemently. "Nobody who's right in his mind would want anything of the kind."

"Well, I do."

Francis shrieked, "No, ye don't! Ye don't have the faintest little inklin’ o' what yer talkin' about. Souls are cumbersome, pesky things what nobody should want. They tie ye down, they take all yer fun away . . . ."

"Well . . . I still want one. I don't want Matthew to be disappointed when he holds me."

Francis sighed. Then he tore the peaked cap off his head and stomped on it until it was flat.

Trudy watched him and her heart reached out to him, for she could see he did love her in his own way. He could not bear to see her make a foolish mistake. She wished he knew how right her decision was for her.

By now, Francis had picked up his hat, dusted it off, and pulled it back onto his head. He clapped the dust off his hands and said, "A soul now, is it. Well, that shouldn't be too hard."

"You don't think so?"

"Nah." He shrugged. "I'm sure there's hundreds of 'em just floatin' about, waitin' to be asked for."

"Francis, stop teasing me. Is there anyway to get one?"

He thought a minute with his chin on his chest, his short, skinny arms folded, and his eyes screwed up. Trudy sent all her good feelings his way, for she was too upset to think for herself. If Francis couldn't think of anyway to get her a soul, then she was doomed to a life without Matthew. She might hover around him, might watch his progress through the rest of his years. She might even visit him in his dreams. But she could not think of any greater torture than to watch him from a distance and not be any part of his life.

"I've got it," Francis said, making her start. "Or I think I have." He raised his eyes. "I've seen Old Christmas about this evening, and ye might ask him."

"Old Christmas?"

"Sure, and ye remember him. He's that old, gray-bearded bugger. The one what goes around on Christmas Eve bringin' pennies and such to them what believe in him."

"Pennies? And you think he could give me a soul?"

"Sure, and why not? They say he's a deep one, Old Christmas is. Ye might ask him for anything, and he'll do his best."

Trudy sighed. It didn't seem like much to go on, but she had to try.        "Very well, then." She stood and hugged her brother, even though he hated any demonstration of affection. "Thank you, Francis. You've been a great help."

His ears had turned a deep red, and so had his eyes. "Now, don't ye go blamin' me," he grumbled, "if ye get what ye asks for and then ye don't like it. Don't be expectin' me to get ye out o' this one, now. I've only done what ye asked."

"I agree," Trudy said. Then, she released him, for he seemed all at once in a hurry to get away.

He did not fly off immediately, however, but instead dusted his hat again, as if he had not thoroughly dusted it already. With a lump growing painfully in her throat, Trudy waited patiently for whatever he might have to say. But when Francis spoke again, his words were nothing to the purpose.

"Well," he said, not meeting her eye, but giving a sniff as he righted his hat. "I'd best be off. The Yule's not over yet, and I've got to get meself over to the heath. Give 'em the joy of the season and all that for ye, shall I?"

"Yes, please."

With a nod and no look back, her brother took to the air. Trudy might have felt hurt that they'd said no goodbyes, except that Francis had not threatened to wash his hands of her if she became a human. She suspected her brother's curiosity would not allow him to stay away from her for long.

After watching Francis go, she wondered how she would set about asking Old Christmas for anything. Since this was Christmas Eve, she could almost be certain he would be pulling his beard out with the number of errands he had to run in just one evening. She could hardly stop him in mid-flight to ask for anything so frivolous as a soul for herself when he had so many other, more desperate people to think about.

As Trudy pondered her dilemma, stories came out of her past, reminding her of what she must do. If she had a house, she would be expected to put out a shoe or a stocking for her Christmas gifts. Trudy thought of conjuring her magic house again, but that fantasy structure had never truly been her home. Her home was in a tree.

Well. If a tree was where Old Christmas would expect to find her, she had better settle for one.

Trudy was about to climb the nearest oak, when something on the ground caught her eye. Investigating, she found it was the green dress she had bought to copy for the ball. It must have fallen from the bed in her room of illusion. It was still just as lovely as ever, though the press of damp leaves had left a brownish-green stain just below the bodice.

If her Christmas wish were to come true, she would need all the real clothes she could get, and if it did not, she would need this souvenir of Matthew.

Tucking the gown under one arm, she climbed the tree and tried to settle herself down to sleep. She could use the ball gown for a fancy pillow. But her cloak?

Her habit had always been to wrap it about her, to make herself invisible to anyone who might wish her harm. The woods seemed empty tonight, but from experience Trudy knew better. All the spirits of the dead were alive on Christmas Eve. The witches and trolls would be roaming, ready to snatch up the unprotected.

But, if Trudy wanted Old Christmas to find her, she must not hide herself from him. Bravely, she removed her cloak and draped it across a branch. She snuggled down onto her dress, hoping its soft pleats would help to conceal her from below.

Then, she remembered what she had recalled about Old Christmas's practices, and with a jerk, she sat up to remove one of her shoes. Determined he should see it, she inched along a big, sound limb and wedged it down into a deep fork. She tested its snugness by bouncing up and down on the branch. Then, satisfied that the shoe wouldn't move, she crept back to her nest, muttering a prayer.

The velvet dress was soft. She hadn't thought she could sleep. But the emotional turns of the evening must have taken their toll, for as soon as her head touched down she was gone.

* * * *

Along about dawn, a weary traveler was passing aloft through the trees, when he spied an elf maid sleeping on a branch and wearing only one shoe. It didn't take the traveler long to find its match.

What might have taken him much longer, if he had not been used to guessing people's secrets, would have been to discover what the pretty elf maid wished for herself. But years and years of looking into people's souls and peering into their hearts had made it easy for the old man to ferret out their desires. What was the one thing an elf maid didn't have, he asked himself, seeing her cloak laid purposely aside, that she couldn't conjure for herself? What would she put herself at such risk to gain?

Instead of moving to her shoe to place a soul in it--a place it wouldn't do her any good, if she only knew--Father Christmas lowered himself silently to her branch and placed his knarled old hand upon her head. He spoke a few well chosen words, for all that he'd seldom had occasion to use these particular ones, and felt the light of the Christmas spirit burning in his hand. It warmed him from his fingers to his toes--his only reward for all the miles and miles he covered at his age. It glowed on the elf maid's hair and disappeared, deep down inside her. It was not until the warmth of that heavenly glow had entirely disappeared, that the old man withdrew his hand, and likewise sought his rest.