Tales of Corwin

Sandra was worried about Mark. He’d told her about Clare Tannerman. There had been a shuttered look about him—no telling what was going on behind his eyes, when they looked like that. Then he’d gone out to clear some snow. Two hours later, he was still at it, out in the bitter cold: snow blowing, shoveling, scraping; driveway, porch, steps, sidewalks. She’d left him to it, thinking that it might be one of those things he found therapeutic. But when, finally, she heard him come in, she went downstairs to find him sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, stripped down to his long underwear and his long-sleeved T-shirt, staring at his hands. His hands and face still looked red with cold, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat.

“Mark,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he sighed.

“You’re not blaming yourself about Mrs. Tannerman, are you? You did everything you could for her.”

“No, I’m not blaming myself. Not really. If I’d gone there sooner—but who knows? I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m just so damned depressed. And,” he added, shamefacedly, “I’ve hurt my back.”

She thought, Of course you’ve hurt your back, you big idiot!

She said, “My poor dear man. Where does it hurt?”

She made Mark shower, and change, and dress. It took a while, because he was in considerable pain and moving very tentatively. Then she eased him into her car and took him over to Hecate Holistic Health for a massage. He protested against this, but in vain.

“It’ll be fine,” she reassured him. “And I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

The massage did wonders for Mark. He was tense on the way in, but once on the massage table, he seemed resigned to whatever fate Eunice had in store for him. She kept the gloves on, and under her skillful hands, his resignation became relaxation, and eventually he simply dozed off. Sandra and Eunice left him under hot stones on the massage table and sat together on the sofa in the next room.

“Tell me what happened to Mark,” said Eunice softly. “I loosened him up and adjusted his spine, but there’s more amiss than just shoveling, isn’t there?”

Sandra told Eunice about their adventures of the previous day, and about the news Mark had received that morning.

“I see,” said Eunice, nodding her head. “That fits. But don’t worry—he’ll bounce back, with your help. He just wants to save everyone, bless him.” Then she continued, more gravely: “But this sounds like the start of the ‘cold deaths’ Timi foresaw, doesn’t it?”

“So it seems,” said Sandra.

“And four more storms to go,” Eunice continued. “And it’s only just January. But, you know, I don’t feel the least bit oppressed by this hard winter, so far. It’s because I have something new to hope for, I guess.” She smiled. “Maybe Mark could use something to hope for as well?”

“Oh, not you, too!” Sandra snapped. “Just leave it alone, will you?!”

“What?” said Eunice. “Oh, I see. No, I was just going to suggest planning a vacation together, or something of that nature. I wasn’t advising you to marry him—or to have a child with him.” She laughed. “Now, if you were to ask my advice—but no, I won’t trespass there. I take it that people have been dropping hints?”

“You could say that,” said Sandra, venting her annoyance. “It feels like people have been, not so much dropping hints, as launching them at me. And then yesterday, a very sweet crone from Mark’s church came right out and told me that I should marry him—that I should ‘have him,’ she said, as in ‘to have and to hold’ or something. She gave me some annoying observations to go with her advice, too. Annoyingly accurate observations. She’s such a dear lady, I couldn’t be mad at her, but it’s left me a little off balance.” She paused, and sighed, and smiled contritely at Eunice.

Clare Tannerman’s tiny house was cold, and she was sitting in a rocking chair when they checked on her. She was shivering, and her speech was slurred. Her eyes looked feverish, but her skin felt cool—maybe too cool. There were plenty of blankets in the house, but she didn’t seem to be thinking clearly enough to put them on. Mark did it for her, and gave her hot cider to drink, while the lieutenant got on the radio to consult with the EMTs. Eventually, they decided it was too risky to try to get an ambulance out to her, so they bundled her up, carried her out to the Humvee, and took her to the ER that way. Mark left her there, promising to visit as soon as he could.

Sandra had an adventure of her own, while Mark was out on that call. Ready for a break from the kitchen, she went out on the snowmobile with Vicente to bring a hot meal to Doris Shaughnessy.

Doris was the oldest member of Mark’s church, and one of the most outgoing and friendly. She had struck up a conversation with Sandra the first time Sandra had come to a service there; and later that morning, when Sandra had confessed to the old woman that she wasn’t a Christian, only the briefest moment of disappointment had interrupted Doris’ friendly welcome and nonstop conversation.

At the end of a long, wooded drive on the west edge of town, Doris lived in a little Victorian cottage even older than herself. It seemed almost too small for human habitation; Vicente, on the porch, looked like he might not fit through the doorway, and when he stomped the snow off his boots, Sandra imagined the whole structure crumbling under his energetic weight. There was a lot of fussy scrollwork on the outside of the house, and Sandra marveled at it as she climbed through the drift at the bottom of the stairs. “Nibble, nibble, like a mouse! Who’s been nibbling at my house?” she murmured to herself. She was planning to try letting herself in—no need to drag the old woman out of whatever chair or bed she was taking refuge in—but Doris met them at the door.

Doris was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. On her feet were slippers, with thick hunting socks showing above them; a long winter coat bulged on her body, suggesting additional layers beneath; a thick scarf was tied around her neck; and she wore a hat that was comically large for her head, a man’s fur hat with ear flaps pulled down.

“I heard your machine, and I wondered if that might be you,” said the old woman. “Do come inside. It’s not warm, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll be out of the wind. Leave your boots here, please. See, I have slippers for guests: help yourself.” Sandra and Vicente followed her instructions, and then passed through a short entry passage and emerged into the kitchen, where Doris greeted them again. “Welcome, Sandra,” she said, reaching out to embrace her; Sandra bent down, and Doris kissed her cheek before turning to greet Vicente. “Welcome, sir—I don’t know you, do I?” Sandra introduced Vicente, and Doris carefully removed her gloves to shake hands with him. She sat them down at her little Formica table, looked around for a moment in confusion, and then sat down herself.

“Oh, dear!” she said. “It feels so wrong to have guests, with nothing to offer them. I always have tea and cookies—but not today. There’s no hot tea, and I haven’t been able to bake.” She smiled at them. “But, of course, you know that! Thank you so much for coming to visit me. It hasn’t been that long, really; sometimes I’m alone here all day, you know, and I don’t mind it at all. But without the electric, and without any news, this morning is taking forever to pass! What’s going on out there? Tell me what you know.”

Sandra began to unload her backpack. “The snow seems to have stopped,” she said, “but the wind is still blowing it around. We get a little news from the police; they’ve been stopping in to warm up in my tavern,

When the snow started Tuesday afternoon, Mark looked up the forecast. He hadn’t really been paying attention to it; it seemed pointless, somehow, when it was clearly just going to be one winter storm after another. But when he saw that they were forecasting sixteen inches, followed by blizzard conditions and record cold, Mark called the Corwin Police Department and asked to speak to Lieutenant Stedman.

“Lieutenant, hi, it’s Mark Collins,” Mark began. “I’m not really sure about this, but I have a hunch—well, it’s more than a hunch, really. Just FYI, in case people need help during the storm, and in case there’s a major power outage?”

“Go ahead, Mark. I’m listening.”

“The Rose and Feather has a new generator. They’ll be warm, they’ll have power, and they’ll have hot food. Even if they’re not officially open, you can call Sandra, or me, and we’ll help. That goes for anybody on the force, in fact: if they need a snack or some hot coffee, they’re welcome to stop in. Sandra says, no charge for police officers during the storm. Also, my house has a new generator, and we have lots of space here. In case of, you know, bigger emergencies.”

“Okay,” said the lieutenant. Mark could hear scratching over the phone; the lieutenant was making notes. “So, you’re expecting an emergency?”

“Well, yes,” admitted Mark. “Don’t know exactly when, though. One of those things. You know.”

“Shit. Ah, sorry, Pastor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Mark. “Wish I could give you more details, but I’m giving you everything I have. Stay safe, and call me if there’s anything I can do.”

“Thanks. Will do.” The lieutenant hung up. Jeez, Mark thought, don’t people say good-bye anymore? Maybe it’s a cop thing.

Then Mark made another call, to the Moderator of the church, to suggest cancelling the Church Council meeting scheduled for that evening. She was agreeable. With so many people sick, it wasn’t clear they’d get a quorum, even if the weather had cooperated.

 

By the time Sandra got home from the tavern that night, after an early closing, there were already five or six inches of new snow. The snowplows were staying ahead of it, so far, but there were few other vehicles on the road. It was a beautiful snowfall, and after a light supper and a glass of wine, Sandra suggested that they go for a walk in it.

The winds were still light, and the temperature was only a bit below freezing. Mark and Sandra walked together in the empty streets of the town. They told each other about their day, and they enjoyed the beauty of the night. Against a streetlight, the snow was making every little breeze visible, and they stopped and looked up at it in admiration, mesmerized by the motion, until their necks began to ache.

“Isn’t this beautiful!” Sandra exclaimed. “The way the air moves, I mean. I know the wind is always there, but I’m not usually aware of it, except for the little piece of it that’s blowing on me.”

“Yeah,” Mark agreed. “Sometimes, when I’m flying, I feel a kind of oneness with the wind, like I imagine a surfer must feel with the wave, or a dolphin with the currents of the sea.”

“Do you ever think about trying some winter flying?” Sandra asked him, as they walked on.

“Well, I think about it,” Mark replied, “but when I think about it, it never seems very tempting. Sometimes I watch the winter birds flying—the chickadees and the cardinals, and the finches that come to your feeder—and I wonder how they keep their little fires burning in such weather. But I don’t envy them. I guess I’m more like a bat than a bird. I just feel like hibernating until flying weather comes again in the spring.”

A snowplow approached, and they climbed up out of the street and onto a snowbank to let it rumble past.

Sunday, the day of New Year’s Eve, attendance at church was way down. There was always a bit of a fall-off after Christmas, but now it seemed to be more noticeable. Mark put it down to the strep throat that was going around. People were probably passing the contagion around in church. Mark tried to encourage people to stay home if they felt ill, but there were always some who were determined to come no matter how sick they felt.

Charity came again, this time without her parents, and sat with Sandra during the service. She told Mark confidentially that she was really a “Cubs fan,” but that she liked his service better than the one at First Baptist, and this way her parents would maybe not worry about her so much. Mark thought that was probably only part of the explanation; the kid obviously wanted to spend time with Sandra. And, after all: who could blame her?

That week, it seemed like half the town was down with the strep throat. Mark started calling it the super-strep—he’d been thinking of it as “Joni’s disease,” at first, but he didn’t want Joni to hear that. Some people got the super-strep, had a fever, and then got better after a week or two. But for other people, the fever seemed to last and last, regardless of what medication they took. And it wasn’t always the elderly and the infirm who got it the worst.

There was an article in the local paper about the super-strep—how attendance at school was way down, and what people should do if they got a sore throat, and how busy the urgent care clinic was. But although everybody was talking about it, nobody seemed really alarmed. Every year it was something, wasn’t it? Remember that flu that went around two years ago—or was it three?

The Rose Feather Circle was not so sanguine, however. And John Quick seemed so much more himself after Christmas that Mark and Sandra decided to open up to him about it and see what he might suggest.

So, Tuesday morning, they sat John Quick down in their kitchen and poured out all their fears. They told him all they could remember about Joni’s illness in the fall—a strep infection that wouldn’t respond to antibiotics—and how she had recovered only with the help of a healing Circle. They told him all they could remember about Timi’s visions: the seven waves of winter weather, and the “sickness falls” and the “cold death” parts in particular. Sandra told him about the warning she had received from the Lady Corinne. Mark told him about the situation at the Veterans’ Home, and the death he had observed there. And they both described the rising number of people in town who were getting sick with a feverish sore throat, similar to what Joni had had. John listened, motionless, with his fingers steepled.

When they had finished, he jumped up. “I left my bag by the door,” he said, and he went quickly to retrieve it. He came back, pulling out a pad and pencil, and proceeded to write some notes. While he wrote, he spoke; Sandra was impressed at how he seemed to be capable of speaking to them about one thing while writing about something else.

“As a Wiccan,” he said, “—well, a sort of lapsed Wiccan—I accept, naturally, what you’ve told me about Timi’s divinations, and about Sandra’s communications from beyond the grave. Those things have made you watchful, which is good, but there isn’t enough medical detail in them to be of any immediate use.” Scribble, scribble, scribble. “As a doctor, I’ll tell you: I find what you’ve said about Joni’s illness disquieting. This is, like, every doctor’s nightmare: the possibility of another new, antibiotic-resistant bacterial strain that leaves us with no defense.” Scribble, scribble, scribble.

“Of course, it’s just anecdotal, at the moment. It might be nothing new. There are all kinds of well-known things that might account for the length of Joni’s infection. The most common explanation in such cases is tha...

The following Wednesday night was fine and clear, and the bright moon was just beginning to wane. The Figgy Pudding Singers had a long outing, and they came back to Mark and Sandra’s house having sung themselves hoarse. John Quick had not sung with them, but had stayed behind, brewing something in the kitchen, something that he said would soothe their vocal cords. It was hot, creamy, and delicious, and very soothing—but it also seemed to cause people’s voices to jump up by at least an octave, for a minute or two after each swallow. Naturally, everyone found it hilarious, and nobody rested their voices. Judging from the look on John’s face, that was his plan all along.

Mark found some sheet music online for “Christmas Don’t Be Late” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, and printed it out, and he played it at the piano while Otter, Star, and Rick Pearson performed it in their newfound ranges. Charity Jackson laughed so hard she cried. Mark was happy to see that she was feeling comfortable with the group; tonight, as was often the case, she was by far the youngest singer.

Mark noticed something else, too, for the first time that night. He was watching John Quick, who, with just the hint of a twinkle in his serious eyes, was ladling out his special brew. John filled a glass for Timi, and there was just something about the way she took it from his hand—a lowering of the eyes, perhaps a faint blush—and Mark thought, O-ho! So that’s how it is.  Several times after that, during the evening, Mark caught Timi watching John with a look of furtive admiration.  I wonder if John knows? he thought.

Promptly at nine o’clock, Mark and Sandra drove Charity home, as they had promised her parents they would. On the way, Charity said, “Can I ask you guys a question? How come you don’t, like, fight all the time?”

Good grief, Mark thought with alarm, is that what she thinks grown-up couples do?

But Sandra realized what she was really asking: “You mean, because I’m not a Christian?”

“Yeah, that,” said Charity.

“Oh, that,” said Mark. “Well, of course, we disagree sometimes, about this and that. But not about religion, particularly.” He paused as he drove, trying to leave a gap for Sandra to jump in, but she seemed to be letting him field this one. He went on: “Honestly, it just doesn’t seem like that big a deal. It’s like, in our different ways, we’re both interested in the great Mystery that lies at the heart of reality. In my tradition, we call that Mystery God, and we try to live into it by following the Way of Jesus. In Sandra’s tradition, there are different names and different teachings. But we both agree that it would be a mistake to think that any one tradition has all the answers, and no other tradition has any.”

Sandra said, “It’s kind of like, he follows the Cardinals, and I follow the Cubs. It gives us lots to talk about, maybe even debate sometimes, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, or watch the game together.”

“Now, let me ask you a question,” said Mark. “Are you still going to church?”

“No, Pastor,” she said in a chastened voice. “Except your Christmas Eve.”

“Hey, I was just asking. I’m not the church police. Of course, you’re always welcome in my church. But I hope you know, even more, that you’re always welcome to come talk with us, either one or both of us, whatever spiritual path you choose. If you need someone to talk to. Is it making problems for you at home, not going to church like you used to?”

“Well,” she said, “yeah … it’s a little … tense, sometimes. I wish my parents were more … but anyway, they’re pretty cool, really. It’s just a little … tense, like I said. And I hate disappointing them, you know? But I just … I can’t always be who they want me to be.”

“Well,” said Mark, “I’ve talked with your parents,

Shortly after seven, Mark stopped playing and went up to the lectern. “Good evening, my friends,” he began. “I’m so glad you’re here. I had a big service planned for tonight, with a children’s play and everything. But several members of the cast got sick at the last minute, so we had to cancel that. One or two of our soloists have also dropped out at the last minute—as you know, a lot of people have come down with the sore throat that’s going around. I have to confess that, with everything sort of falling apart at the last minute, I was worried about not being able to lead a good service for you tonight. But then this wise woman I know”—here he winked broadly at Sandra—“reminded me that we don’t have to make Christmas; we just have to let it in. And that’s what we’re going to do right now, with carols, and readings, and special music, and candlelight. Let’s start with this reading from the prophet Isaiah.” And Mark read the passage about how “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,” and the service began.

It was a simple service, and very casual. Mark did a Christmas reading; then he invited one of the children to add a figure to the nativity scene; then he led the singing of a carol. Repeating that sequence, he progressed through the Christmas story, using readings from both Matthew and Luke. There was just a little special music: a college student just home for the holidays did a nice solo, and Rick Pearson and Rosa Alsay, who had thus far stayed healthy, made a beautiful duet of “O Holy Night.”

Toward the end of the service, Mark brought down all the sanctuary lights. There was an Advent wreath on the central table, with four lit candles around the outside, and there was one white candle, still unlit, at the center. Mark did a final reading; young Roger Stedman came up and put the figure of the baby Jesus in the center of the nativity scene; and Mark lit the central candle, the Christ candle, saying, “Now, we light the central candle for Jesus our brother, born this night. The Word became flesh and lived among us; Jesus is the light of the world.” Then Mark carried that flame up the aisle, and all the people in the pews lit their handheld candles, passing the flame from person to person until the whole sanctuary glowed with it. Mark started singing “Silent Night,” a cappella, and everyone joined in. It was a beautiful moment, and Sandra could tell from the look on Mark’s face that he was pleased with it.

And then he was back up at the front of the church, standing in the silence and the candlelight, gathering himself for a final word. He looked strangely holy up there, somehow—not saintly, whatever that might mean, but radiantly insubstantial, as if he were already halfway in the spirit world. Sandra had a sudden, unaccountable, frightening thought: that Mark might just vanish, just pop through the veil and disappear, to walk with his God. My Lady! she thought fiercely. Please don’t do that! I need him. But then a little movement off to the side caught her eye, and she looked over to the nativity scene on the table. She scanned it again more carefully; something there had just caught her attention, but what? Had one of the pieces fallen over, perhaps? But everything looked right: the ox and ass, the sheep and the shepherd, the camels and the wise men, Mary and Joseph, the baby and the angel, the fox and the duck—

Oh. She covered her mouth and suppressed a laugh. Don’t worry, Sandra dear, said the Lady Rose in her mind. Mark Lucifer doesn’t want to go anywhere without you.

Mark opened his eyes and spoke his closing words for the service. “We call Jesus by the name Immanuel,” he said, “a word that means God-With-Us. And God being with us is our first Christmas present, and our best. We open that present with every love we share: God is with us. We open that present with every act of kindness we give or receive: God is with us.

That was Thursday, the day of the Yule Circle. On Friday, the cold was intense, but the Figgy Pudding Singers ventured out again. Otter brought his silver flute, and Mark no longer wondered at Otter’s ability to play in the cold. As always, wherever they sang, they left Christmas/Yule cards offering emergency contact numbers for cold-weather assistance.

By this time, Mark’s work for the church had intensified to a point just short of panic—because, of course, Sunday was Christmas Eve. There were two services to prepare for that day: the regular Sunday morning service and the Christmas Eve service. And that Christmas Eve service, in particular, demanded a lot of extra preparation. There was special music to be rehearsed, and there were special readings to be organized; and somehow, it always seemed to require endless phone-calling and emailing and texting, as Mark tried to coordinate all the participants. This year, it was worse than usual. What with the weather, and the sore throat that was going around, it seemed impossible to rehearse anything, or indeed to get any three people to the church to work on anything at the same time.

But what really made it so impossible was the Christmas play. Before the solstice, Mark been working on a little dramatic presentation for Christmas Eve, rehearsing it with the children (and a few adult volunteers). He’d put himself in charge of it—a job that might ordinarily have fallen to the chair of the Christian education committee, except that she was off visiting her grandchildren for the holidays. He’d written the script himself: a little story about talking animals in the stable, preparing for the arrival of Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus. That was the plan, anyway.

Two days before Christmas, it all began to fall apart. First, the hen and the peacock (played by a sister and brother) both got sick. Mark managed to find substitutes for them, but the substitutes were adults who had no chance of squeezing themselves into the kids’ hen and peacock costumes. So then Mark had to assemble new costumes, which took time, even though they ended up being just tails and face paint.

No sooner had he solved that problem, however, than the mouse and the cow also came down with the sore throat. The stable mouse, in particular, had more lines than anyone else in the show, and Mark couldn’t bring himself to ask anyone to step into that role on such short notice.

Saturday night, sitting in booth seven at the Rose and Feather, Mark was feeling overwhelmed. He was thinking about taking the mouse’s part for himself; having written the script, he already knew most of the lines. But Sandra, taking a quick break from the kitchen, was trying to talk him out of it.

“I think this show of yours is getting out of hand,” she said. “Nobody will blame you for cancelling it; it’s not your fault if half your cast is sick. Anyway, you want Christmas Eve to be peaceful, right? You won’t be able to help people feel the peace if you’re getting frantic yourself, trying to keep all these different balls in the air.”

Mark sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It’s already in the bulletin, but—maybe I could let it go.” But could he? He stared blankly at the steam rising from his bowl of stew. He pictured himself calling the cast with the news; would they be relieved or disappointed? Wouldn’t it be like telling them it was time to give up—and wasn’t it his job to encourage people not to give up? He sighed again.

Sandra persisted. “Hey,” she said, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers, “listen, now: didn’t you say that you don’t want your church to be all about you?”

“That sounds like something I would say,” Mark admitted.

“Well, now’s your chance. I may not know a lot about Christmas, but I know magic. And you don’t have to make Christmas magic for your congregation; you ju...

She lit a lantern and led the way up to the Circle room, and only the lantern in her hand kept her from dancing all the way.

When everyone had settled in their places, sitting on cushions on the floor, she rose, picked up a snuffer from the central table, and began. “It is the season of winter,” she said, “the season of darkness, the season of cold.” Starting at her right, she extinguished the first candle in the circle. “Air: dry and bitter. Earth: hard as iron. Water: like stone.” She continued around the circle, slowly extinguishing the candles as she spoke. “Sun: low and distant. This is the longest night of the year, and these are the darkest days. The sun has grown weaker and weaker—only a fool would believe that it might grow strong again. The trees are bare—only a fool would believe that there is life down under ground. The robins and red-wing blackbirds are gone—only a fool would believe that they will ever return. Night has fallen.” Here, she extinguished the final candle of the circle, the one next to her own chair. The room was plunged into darkness.

“Only a fool would believe that this night will ever end.”

She let the silence grow for ten long heartbeats.

“Such fools are we.”

Now, out of the darkness, Lois spoke from her seat at the Circle’s north: “We call the spirits of the earth, bringing forth and giving birth!”

From the east seat came Mrs. Fludd’s voice: “Spirits of the air we call, breathing life, inspiring all!”

Sandra spoke from her place at the south: “Fire and flame, we call your spark, warming cold, dispelling dark!”

From the west, Chris called out: “Water spirits, healing grace, come and join us in this place!”

Then everyone completed the incantation, calling out in unison: “Spirits of the Rose and Feather, now we join to work together!”

Sandra pictured a tiny portal connecting the wick of her candle to her spirit flame in the basement. It popped into existence—incredibly easily; This house is such a trip, she thought. The candled flared, and the darkness fled. She was tempted to light them all in the same way, but she resisted the urge: the casting of the Circle would be stronger if everyone participated. So, she held her candle out for Terri, sitting to her left, and Terri lit her own candle from Sandra’s flame. From person to person the flame was passed around the Circle, until all candles were lit and the room glowed again.

“Our Circle is cast,” said Sandra. “Tonight we celebrate the turning point. Now the sun begins the long climb back, a little higher and a little longer in the sky each day. For my part, I welcome the return of the sun.

“But darkness is not evil, nor is winter, nor is cold. Tonight, they are at their peak, and we celebrate them too. All seasons are part of the circle of life. There is no spring without winter, no sunrise without nighttime, no song of a bird without the silence of the egg, no burst of newborn life without a quiet season of gestation. Let’s reflect on this turning point, and the turning points of our own lives, while we listen to what Otter has to offer us.”

Otter stood and pulled off his sweatshirt and sweatpants, revealing shorts and a bare torso. He sat back down, cross-legged on his cushion, and he picked up his flute—not his silver flute, but a wooden instrument, something Mark wouldn’t have seen before. Here we go, thought Sandra, with a quick glance at Mark. She envied him, experiencing Otter’s magic for the first time.

Otter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play.

His melody was simple at first—almost innocent. It made her think of dawn on a summer morning, complete with birdsong. Every now and then, there’d be a passage that reminded her of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, but it wasn’t that,

Mark told Sandra his theory, but soon they had more pressing matters to worry about. That day, it had warmed up to just below freezing; the next day, all day long, it snowed heavily. School was dismissed at noon, and by evening most of the roads were impossible. The next morning, Thursday, was the Winter Solstice. Sandra jumped out of bed and looked out the window down Amber street—or rather, down along where Amber street used to be. This morning, the road was not only unplowed, but invisible, completely hidden under wind-carved drifts of snow.

She jumped back into bed, pulled up the covers, and snuggled up to Mark. “Blessed Yule!” she said to him. “We’re snowed in!”

“Blessed Yule,” repeated Mark. “To be snowed in with you—that’s already as blessed a Yule as I can imagine. And hey—we get presents, too!” They had agreed to exchange presents on Yule, and again on Christmas morning.

“Presents after breakfast,” said Sandra. “I’ll make you pancakes; then you can open your present.”

“I can think of one present I’d like to open right now,” he said, turning to face her and nuzzling her neck.

“You have a one-track mind,” she said. And she firmly added, “Pancakes.”

After breakfast, Mark gave her a big gift-wrapped box, which turned out to contain eighteen stemless wine glasses, each one etched with a Celtic tree of life. She was pleased, and indeed relieved, to receive them. Her own tableware had been lost in the fire, and Mark’s motley bachelor collection of mugs, tumblers, and jam jars was pretty inadequate when the Rose Feather Circle assembled.

“Your present is in the garage,” she said. “Put on your snow things, and let’s go see.” They trooped out to the garage, where Sandra had had a snow thrower delivered, all assembled and ready to go. “It came the day before yesterday,” she said, “while you were out at the Veterans’ Home. Just in time!”

Mark seemed delighted with it, and put it to work right away, while Sandra went back inside to call her staff. She decided, eventually, not to open the tavern at all that day. Too many of her staff were snowed in, and it didn’t seem likely there’d be many customers anyway. She did make a portal to the kitchen there, but as soon as she’d checked that the power was on and everything was all right, she put up a “Closed for the Storm” sign and came home again.

By early afternoon, city workers had managed to open Amber Street. Then Mark went off to work at the church, and Sandra got to work preparing for the Solstice Circle. For the first time, they were going to use the third-floor rotunda for their Circle. Chris hadn’t yet wired that room, but that didn’t matter – they preferred candles anyway.

Sandra had hung heavy curtains in the room, and she had a set of nice wooden folding chairs for the Circle to use, along with a central altar table. Today, however, she moved the table and chairs out of the room—tonight’s Circle would be on the floor. She set cushions in a circle, and some blankets and towels in case anyone chose to stretch out. (The hardwood floor, she decided, would not feel nice on bare backs.) In one of the unused rooms Sandra found an old coffee table; she commandeered it to serve as a low altar and spread a nice cloth on it. She put her censer on the altar, and a strap of sleigh bells, and candles. And then, around the room, more candles, and pine boughs; holly, and ivy, and mistletoe, and red and white poinsettias.

When all was arranged to her satisfaction, she went down to the kitchen to make some drinks for her friends. Others would be bringing food; her contributions for the night were wassail and eggnog.

 

When Mark came home at five, it was already dark and clear. The moon was not yet up, the stars were shining brightly, and the temperature was dropping.

The next day, Mark was working in his office, still tweaking the sermon and the service for Sunday. It was the third Sunday of Advent, coming up: Gaudete Sunday, the Sunday of Joy. Personally, that was no problem: he was feeling pretty darned joyful about a lot of things right now. But Gaudete Sunday was always a bit problematic, because he knew some of his people were struggling with loneliness and hard memories during Advent. And for those people, the lectionary wasn’t offering much help this week. The Apostle Paul was blithely telling them to “rejoice always,” while at the same time John the Baptist was calling them a “brood of vipers.” Mark sighed and wondered (not for the first time) whether there might be a job where you could serve God, but still take a couple of weeks off at Christmas. When the intercom buzzed, it came as a relief.

“There’s a Mr. Jackson, Max Jackson, on line one,” said Mrs. Fludd.

Mark considered. “Do I know Max Jackson? Do you?”

“No, I don’t know him,” said Mrs. Fludd. “There are two Jackson families I know in town. And you know: for a long time I thought they were related to each other. Trish Jackson and Marna Jackson look just like sisters, too. Same hairstyle and everything. And they both play golf. But, long story short: just last year, I was out at the country club, helping set up for the Odd Fellows banquet, and in walks Trish …”

Mark listened patiently while Mrs. Fludd told how Trish and Marna Jackson, neither of whom was related to the man on the phone, were also not related to each other.

“Isn’t that funny,” he said, when the story had unspooled. “Well, I’ll take the call. Thanks, Flora.”

Max Jackson, as it turned out, was the father of Charity, the high-school girl who had lingered latest at the Wheel of the Year class. Max asked if he and his wife could have a minute of the pastor’s time—maybe right after work? Mark made the appointment for 5:30.

Promptly at the appointed hour, Max knocked on the office door. He was a short, strongly-built black man with a deep voice and a hearty handshake; his wife Yvette was also on the short side, and Mark thought that Charity must already be considerably taller than either of them. They wore nice clothes, Sunday clothes, and they both addressed him as Pastor. Mark hoped they weren’t too disappointed to find the pastor in jeans.

After some small talk, Max got to the point. “Well,” he said, “here it is, Pastor. Our Charity came to your class here last night.”

“I remember meeting her,” said Mark. “She seemed like a nice, intelligent girl.”

“She’s a good girl, Pastor, and maybe she seemed shy, so you might not know it, but she can be headstrong.”

“That’s right, Pastor,” chimed in Yvette, “headstrong is the word.”

“She’s got her own ideas,” began Max—but then he seemed at a loss for words.

Yvette took up the story. “You see, Pastor, it’s like this: Charity doesn’t want to go to church any more. Won’t say why—but that’s just ‘cause she don’t—she doesn’t want to hurt our feelings.”

“We’re Baptists, Pastor,” said Max. “Been going to First Baptist since we came to town, going on twenty years now. Charity’s been going there since she was born—every Sunday—and VBS in the summers, and youth group, and all that. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “We thought we were doing the right thing, making her go. Now, I’m not so sure. Doesn’t seem like it did any good.”

There was a pause, so Mark spoke up. “Well now, I wouldn’t say that. She’s a good kid, and a polite one, so I think you must be doing something right. Obviously, you care a lot about her, or you wouldn’t be here. But now, you’re disappointed that she’s not following in your faith tradition—is that right?”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Max.