Through the Looking Glass
A Christmas Carol Story
Good morning.
Today I bring you part two of a Christmas piece—part fiction, mostly truth—in which the ghost of Christmas Past makes an appearance as he usually does this time of year. I hope you all are enjoying your holidays. I know it’s a complicated time for many. This string of memory is evidence of that.
Yesterday, we left our narrator, barefoot and cold on Christmas Eve, following a strange night visitor just outside her house. A buck, covered in frost and smelling of pine forest, with reflections of her childhood Christmas past in its eyes. To read it, start here.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
We walked slowly in silence, I a few feet behind, and he, moving forward casually, hooves quiet against a thin layer of white snow. I watched his legs, the lift and fall of them, and wondered at the soundless way he moved, like he was made of air.
A spirit.
The thought halted me, and the buck stopped in time. Slowly he turned his head and looked at me, and now, his black eyes were full of crackling fire and floating red embers. I took a step back and he turned around to face me fully.
“Please, I don’t want to go with you. I’m not ready to die.”
In all my childhood myth and lore, spirits were always there for retribution. They showed up and pulled on your feet when you were dying and headed toward hell, or kept you paralyzed in bed cloaked in nightmare while you tried to scream for your mother. They were vicious, always seeking a moment of vulnerability so they could inhabit, control, oppress. Make you crazy. Ruin your life.
“That’s it. I’m crazy,” I said, but didn’t move.
The buck waited, his antlers shimmering the reflected colored lights from a house on the other side of the street. I looked past him, realizing I didn’t recognize this place. Behind me, my street was gone, replaced by some vaguely familiar set of shanty houses and townhomes.
The night was no longer cold underfoot, and a hazy mist rose, haloing the bright white of security lights on every tiny house. Paint was flecking and peeling, and the houses we stood between were the only ones with any sign of Christmas cheer. The buck grunted and turned towards one of the houses, waiting for me to follow.
We walked up the grassy lawn. The evening was a comfortable seventy degrees, and the smell of saltwater kissed my senses. It was humid.
“Where are we?”
Voices and laughter came from inside the house. The buck was at the window staring in, and I took my place by his side. Twenty or more people were gathered. Children ran around the living room, and beyond in the kitchen, the adults stood setting the table. They were smiling and joking, peals of laughter rising and falling like the ocean.
“Corpus Christi. I was in kindergarten there!”
The buck grunted agreement. I cupped my face with my hands and peered in.
“Oh! My mom! She looks so young!”
She was sitting next to me, plates in front of us waiting for fresh tamales that his sisters had just made. I spotted him, standing behind her, a protective hand on her shoulder, the fingers digging in a little. He was laughing with his family.
“He looks young too,” I said, the smile fading from my face. “I want to go.”
I turned my face away, but the buck stepped behind me, trapping me there against the window. He stepped forward, and I turned back. I remembered this part without issue, the memory had been burned into my mind. I watched as my tiny fingers grabbed the tamale, corn husk and all, and went to take a bite. The onlookers went quiet, and then, laughter.
“You don’t eat the corn husk stupid!” he said, and a shimmer of tears glistened in my eyes. I looked to my left, and my mom was laughing too.
“She’s performing,” I said. “She does that when she’s in a big group. Goes along to get along.”
I turned away, and the buck was already at the street.
“I don’t like this. I want to go home. Please.”
He stared at me, and now I could see that his fur was glittering and multicolor. It shimmered iridescent in the night. I had no choice but to follow him, this strange spirit that had led me to a street from so long ago. Behind me, I heard the small motor of a machine, robotic movements stepping in time with us. Then a yipping.
“The dog!” It was a small white toy, the kind with a leash that doubled as a remote control. “My first Christmas present!”
The first one I remembered anyway. We had lined up at a church, each kid getting their chance to choose from the boy or girl pile. An old woman with white hair sat in a chair, choosing presents for kids like Santa Clause.
“Would you like this dolly, or this dog?”
I chose the dog.
All at once, I remembered my mother’s hand in mine as we walked out.
“I wish we got the other lady. Did you see how many presents she gave to that little girl?”
My smile faded, my mood altered by my mother’s obvious sadness. I picked up the little dog and felt warmth in my chest. It licked me and panted, its breath like a copper penny, metal and cold. But in its glassy eyes I saw movement and light reflected. And the sound of jingle bells filled my ears.
The ground began to shift underfoot, and the dog barked as I held it tight in hand. The asphalt gave way to a strange shimmering metal that moved like liquid underfoot. My stomach lurched like I was on a roller coaster, and I hit the deck, looking up just in time to see the world around us crumbling, and then melting. The buck was sinking, his eyes all calm as they dipped below the mercuric ocean around us.
I was sinking too, fighting with all my might against the pull of what felt like quicksand. I held the dog above my head, felt it tremble robotically as it barked against the inevitable. My mouth hit the cool metal ocean, reflecting disaster around us. I held my breath to avoid drinking in whatever it was.
Then all was dark. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I was falling.
To be continued…
Keep shinning ❤️
Wow. I am pulled in …