Little Old Ladies

            

Judith Hammond spent much of her time alone. The tiny apartment she had just moved into a few weeks before was certainly not as large as the one she had shared with her husband, but it fit her tastes much better and allowed for a lighter load.  It had been over a year since she found Vincent struggling for air on the living room floor. By the time the paramedics arrived, it was too late. She laid him to rest and began the chore of sorting through fifty-eight years of wedded bliss. She often told herself that ridding her estate of unnecessary things would make it easier for her family when her time came. She had convinced herself that her children and grandchildren would thank her for sorting and allotting what goes to who. No one had to wait for their inheritance, Judith gave almost everything away. In a primal sense, she just wanted it all gone. The couple had sold their home and moved into the Applegate apartments when Vincent first started to weaken. It made things easier that way. The recent change from the third floor to the eighth was not hard to justify. With Vincent long gone, Judith no longer needed the space that a two bedroom unit gave her and the little possessions she kept for herself fit well in her almost studio apartment. She made sure she was ready to go. Despite her age, she was vibrant and fully functional. Her thirst for knowledge drove her inquiring mind. She was a tiny woman but only in a physical sense. Judy loved to communicate, to chat, and she did it well. Every day, after the dinner hour, she would board the elevator and find herself in the lobby, waiting for her friends.

  

           Ilene Partridge never married and never even considered having children. She never really saw any point. At eighty-four, she remained an independent woman in every way. She had resided in the same one bedroom Applegate apartment for almost twenty years and required little to keep her occupied. It was a brief ride from the fourth floor to freedom. Her books and three cats kept her company when she felt alone. It was a feeling she had grown accustomed to over the years. Her lifestyle, her financial security and her academic pursuits all seemed to bring her great comfort. Historically, she was one of the first woman to declare the modern idea that happiness could be found outside of matrimonial bliss and any resulting offspring. She stood as a self-made woman and knew her choices had been the right ones for her. She did not linger in the land of regret. For her, such things were but a waste of time and energy. She had much better things to do with her day. Ilene was intelligent, well-educated and sharp as a tack. This tough old broad was even wicked if you got her going. When her hip gave out the year before, she took to a walker, cursing it every time she needed to go out. Time had not been kind to her aging form, but she never let it get in the way of a good shot of whiskey, a day at the salon and a bitch fest with her Applegate pals. Every day, after the dinner hour, she took the elevator down to the lobby to meet up with her friends. 

             Martina Kuusk escaped the approaching Nazi storm in 1938. With her family, she fled Austria and eventually settled in a small Swiss village. Martina moved to Canada in the early 1950s and found a new life, a new husband and three children in under a ten year span. When she divorced in the mid-1960s, it was just a matter of time before she was left all alone. Her children got married, or moved to the west coast, and she found herself struggling to establish a new way of life. She was one of the very first tenants to move into the Applegate apartments. She liked it. For the first time since childhood, she actually felt like she was home. In her opinion, life had been far too hard on her and she deserved some peace of mind. It was a challenge for her to maintain it. Sadness always seemed to seep back into her thinking. As a result, she became a bonafide curmudgeon. Her path was paved with gravel and so was her voice. She had always been a fair sized woman but age and gravity had pulled her down a few inches. She was a heavy smoker, her teeth and fingers revealed for just how long. Her glasses were simple and so was her approach to life. She didn't believe in God. She didn't believe in democratic freedom. She didn't believe in anything but her friends. Every day, after the dinner hour, she left the second floor for the lobby to spend time with her comrades.

            When you live in the same building as someone for years and years, eventually you become familiar with them. These three little old ladies slowly became accustomed to each other in passing. Salutations aside, it took some time for the friendship between them to form. One thing led to another, 'hello' turned into 'how are you?' and the lobby became a common ground for these blossoming relationships. Over the months and years, the trio became inseparable, thankful for the company and companionship. They went to market together, shopped together, and every day after the dinner hour, they sat together like true friends would. Meeting in the lobby was more tradition than anything else. It was here that these three women first formed as a group. All that time acknowledging one another throughout the building evolved into brief visits, coffee trips and cemented the lobby as the best place for them to gather together. They felt more alive in each other's company when in this certain place. Whether it was kismet, or providence, there was an energy whenever they assembled there. They almost seemed revitalized whenever they got together, but only in this space. It was the strangest thing, but it did not seem unnatural. Other residents of the building referred to them as the Coven. 

            It did not take long for the occupants of the Applegate to discover that George Christian was not a very good superintendent. In fact, he was as lazy as his wife Sheila turned out to be. These staunchly conservative religious folk had been hired for their high moral standards and capable nature, but actions always speak louder than words. It did not take much time for the tenants to realize this sad state of affairs. The building itself was not the only victim of this casual disregard of obligation. The tenants quickly experienced a new state of ill repair. In secret, the maintenance allowance for the building could easily be siphoned. One could claim for the work being done when no work was done whatsoever. The Christians, it appeared, were not immune to the ways of the world. The appearance of the building began to suffer. The grounds outside and the lobby inside looked more like public housing than a private building. The elevators and plumbing were granted only basic repair. Walking through the place, one would have assumed there was no manager or staff on duty, ever. When the complaints started, George and Sheila hired an assistant, who was fool enough to do all their work for them but at half the price. Even then, the constant lack of care was much more than noticeable. In fact, hiring help only meant less money for maintenance.

            The owners of the Applegate building were flooded with constant appeals to make things right. For over a year, it seemed as if nothing was done regarding the unacceptable superintendents. The building suffered and so then did the tenants. When it was discovered that the Christians were hired through their Church, the reason for them not being fired became crystal clear. People registered complaints with the housing authority but to no avail. When one resident sued the management for failure to do their job, it was clear the staff did not follow the tenets of their faith. Lies flowed like milk and honey, all validated by the owner and his legal representative. It became abundantly clearer that the only way to fix the problem was to move out. This was something the three little old ladies did not want to do. When confronted person to person, or discussed in front of prying eyes and ears, George and Sheila did what any good religious person would. They stowed away in their apartment for weeks, even months at a time. Ignoring the problems somehow never made them go away. The tension, the aggravation was only made worse when the Coven, from the lobby, made a unified assault. Together they waited for George to come out. They meant to gang up on him. They banded together and they almost pounced on him.

            George Christian had been having an okay day when the octogenarian trio confronted him, face to face. Denial fell like manna from heaven. St. Peter would have been proud. Nothing that any of the group said made a difference. He disappeared rather quickly into the utility room, abruptly halting the conversation. The three sat down in their proper places and waited for him to return. He re-entered the room with a fluorescent bulb and a ladder, positioning himself beneath the ailing light in front of the elevators. This was the first actual work any of the ladies had seen him do in months. They sat in their circle, desperately trying to appeal to his sense of fair play and spiritual conviction. He completely ignored them. As he climbed the ladder, the three grew angry that he had chosen to act as if they were not even there. As their anger grew, so did the energy in the room. Like a crescendo, you could feel the growing flow of rage and hatred from the three women. Suddenly, the light bulb burst, cracking into a million pieces. It flooded over poor George like a white wash. He just stood there, propped up on the ladder, lost in disbelief. It was like a wave of resentment then burst from the trio. The ladder fell straight out from under him and he landed hard on the faux marble tiles. The girls sat quietly, waiting for him to rise. When he shuffled away in defeat, they realized what had happened. They had all witnessed the surge which had come from them. They could see the ripple of emotions as they joined together and shoved the man down.

            As time passed, the little old ladies learned to control their newfound powers. Practice always makes perfect. They quickly recognized that these abilities only worked when the three of them sat together in the lobby. They had tried different scenarios and different areas but it was always to no avail. They didn't know why they were granted this gift, as they called it. They barely even questioned its origin and why they had been chosen to wield it. They only knew that as a collective, when as one in the main floor foyer, they possessed this strange ability. It grew strong as they learned to control it. As a unit, if they concentrated, they could summon an energy and a great deal of force. It wasn't telekinesis or hypnosis, it wasn't a spell or witchcraft. Together, they could tap into something base in nature. The earth gave up its soul in bursts and ripples. They could feel it as they conjured more and more. The result found them more alive indeed. Judy's mind became keen and more aware. Ilene was able to abandon her walker. Martina, on occasion, even smiled for the right person. They went from spending around an hour after dinner visiting, to hovering for most of the day and evening in their new favourite place. George and Sheila Christian did not like it one bit.  

            The longer the women spent on the ground floor, the less work got done all around them. The dust was thick on the tacky plastic plants that Sheila thought looked classy in the front windows. The rug was heavily stained with muddy track marks and no attention. The faux marble tiles that had welcomed George's rump were covered in layers of this and that. No one vacuumed, no one swept. No one bothered to consider anyone else who lived in the building. Even the maintenance assistant was banned from any  tender care, at least until the gang of witches dispersed. In less than three months, the Applegate went from just alright to grim and dismal. For George and Sheila, things went from bad to worse. They initially failed to suspect that the old ladies were behind their newfound karma. He fell on the ice when there was no ice and sprained a wrist. She slipped on a dry tile and knocked herself silly. The apartment they maintained on the same floor as the lobby in itself became a hazard. New pipes broke for no reason. The ceiling crashed on both as they slept during their office hours. Windows cracked, fires started and people immediately got sick if they entered their home. Of course, neither took the time to see the consequence of their behaviour. They simply told themselves it was evil and that their God would protect them from it. 

            Anyplace on the ground floor was within the reach of the Coven. They quietly relished every bump and beat. They had no agenda, they did not wish to bring anyone harm. They simply wanted what they paid for. There was never an intention. They used their gift as a means to an end, not to bring anyone to their end. Of course, things do not always work out the way we think they should. The best laid plans are usually fruitless. Month after month they lounged in the lounge, waiting for the object of their inspection. Whether it was George, or Sheila, or some innocent who was with them, the three little old ladies made life as difficult as they could for their victims. All the while, George and Sheila plotted in secret to have the space invaders removed. Legally each had paid for the right to use the lobby, but no one ever mentioned to the Christians that constant use of it would become an issue. They felt persecuted and spied on. They convinced themselves that all the "accidents" were a result of the evil which had manifested out in the building's front room.

            The winter came in the most inopportune way. It was harsh, deeply cold with little breaks in the downpour. For those too old to drive themselves in such conditions, it was like a trap had been set around the building. The lack of snow removal, in a timely manner, did not help most residents of the Applegate. The rear entrance was deep with snow. Quite often, the surrounding drifts were intentionally shoved in front of the exits. It was early afternoon before anyone even bothered to clear the way out front. Ice built up under baked snow and over time it became rather dangerous for those unsteady with age to navigate the way. The Christians took great pleasure in the suffering of the tenants. Watching 80 year-old women struggle through frozen piles of dirty white gave them a sense of justice and validation. Revenge was best served quite cold. They believed their choices were approved by the God they claimed to worship. They believed the righteous would be justified by that same deity. It wasn't long before a tragedy. It wasn't long before an innocent was hurt. It wasn't long before the authorities paid a visit. Ruth Hampton was simply trying to get to the bank when she slipped on the icy walk heading out to the street. Her hip shattered in several different places. When the ambulance took her and the police finally left, George and Sheila walked through the lobby and laughed right in the faces of the injured women's friends. The trio sat silently and like George and his wife, they crossed the last line..         

            They sat together like they always did. They sat and they waited. The night before, they had decided that today would be the end of it all. What had happened to Ruth could well have been one of them. They figured if they had all these powers, then they should put them to good use. It wasn't like they could run the streets prancing like 30 year-old superheroes. The best they could do was to work within what life had brought before them. Whether it was moral or not was beside the point. The snow was particularly heavy this winter's morn and by noon, as with most days, the piles made from wind and storm had gathered inconveniently about the exits of the building. Large and deadly icicles hung above each doorway, looming, waiting to be called into service. The Christians were nowhere to be found. Their assistant was busy with the plumber and a frozen pipe in the sub-basement. This was something the snoozing managers should have looked after themselves. Three little old ladies rested there, all prim and proper. They had come in their best Sunday dress. Martina made it clear she could wear it anytime she wanted.

            The snow continued to fall and drifts loomed across the entrance to the garage. The roundabout, for drop-off at the front entrance, disappeared under a dense blanket. Eventually, the street plows came and made things even worse.  The ladies could almost smell the Christians when they finally decided to come down the hall and see to the building. At 1 o'clock in the afternoon, it was about damn time. George grabbed the shovel from the entrance and pulled on a bucket of salt from the corner of the room. He pushed hard against the door, shoving the built up snow out into the circular lane. He grunted and turned to look at the little old ladies, dainty and pretty, and at least in George's mind, not close enough to their final resting place. Getting away with almost everything but murder made him into a cocky and ego driven ass. His wife fared not much better; they believed they were untouchable. As he began to shovel in the most pathetic of ways, she sprinkled some salt here and some salt there. After clearing only a small path to the sidewalk, they folded up their dignity and turned to go inside. George flipped the shovel over his shoulder and glared through the window at the trio. The shovel hit the icicles and the icicles fell down hard. They were enormous. It was almost ironic when the very danger he had ignored for so long then confronted his face. One plunged deep into his left eye and he fell limply to the ground. On his way down, the metal shovel flew into the air and landed sharply, striking Sheila on the head. It stuck in its newfound place. You could almost hear the thud when each one met the ice and snow. They just laid there, finished, and no one really cared. When the building assistant entered the scene, he called 9-1-1 and tried to bring both the bodies inside. A group of tenants gathered in the lobby and joined the three little old ladies in their distance. Pleas for assistance were met with excuses. After all, how was an 80 year-old woman or a 90 year-old man supposed to lift such obese carcasses?

            By the time any help had arrived, it was way too late. When the ambulance left and the coroner left, there was little left for the police to inquire about. No one in the crowd owned a cell phone or mobile device. Not one was able to step outside on the inch-thick layer of ice and offer assistance. Any ability to aid with the morbid scene had been striped from them all long ago. All they could really do was watch. What a calamity to be killed just feet from the safety of inside. What misery, so sad, to fall prey to your own premeditated inconsideration. All the witnesses, and the feed from the security camera, guaranteed there would be no cause for suspicion.  It was such  a tragic accident. If they had only maintained the entrance better. What a horrific act of God. 

            For the first time in forever, the three old gals stayed away from the lobby. In fact, it took almost two weeks before they dared to journey near the Christians' final resting place. They slipped in and out of the mail room and through the back door. They planned to avoid each other until the coast was clear. They did not hang out. They did not meet in private. They did not say a thing until the all rang well. No one said a thing when the building assistant was hired on in a full-time capacity. Not a 'told you so' was offered when management got hold of the building's books. Quietly, they viewed the changes that were made to the landscape and the structure. They watched as the building came back to life. It was clean again. It was finally repaired.  It was almost as if their world went back to normal. It was almost as if those terrible people had never existed, never invaded the lives of the tenants at the Applegate.

            Snow was melting from the winter sun and the day was bright and warm, relatively speaking. It was a lovely scene from the lobby window. Sometime around noon, Judy called Ilene and Ilene called Martina, and they all agreed to meet in the lobby just after three. They knew this time of day brought the least amount of traffic to the area. As each filtered down to the ground floor, they noticed the difference. The world was right once again. Judy took her place first and then Ilene showed up in a few more  moments. Martina pulled up the rear, appearing from out back where she had just  finished a smoke. They began their dance like any Coven would. Each took their place like they always had. They closed their eyes and each focused. They reached deep inside and found the gift once again. This had not changed. It was still with them. The oldest took the lead and broke the silence.

            "I can't believe you did that," said Judy to the oblivious Ilene.

            "Did what?" Ilene inquired.

            "You know," she added. "The shovel? The icicle?"

            "I didn't do it," she rebuffed. "I thought you did it."

            "I didn't do it," Judith maintained.

            "I wish I had done it," Martina added, quite pleased.

Photos

http://www.apartmentguide.com/apartments/Tennessee/Murfreesboro/Dana-Downs-~-Applegate-Apartments/190146/

http://vector-magz.com/search/old-lady-cartoon/

http://baronsview.blogspot.ca/2009_08_01_archive.html

http://pixgood.com/mean-old-lady-cartoon.html

Visions of Sugar Plums

           

            I don't know if you believe in Christmas, but I know that I sure do. It just goes without saying that it wasn't always this way. The grand expectations, the materialism, and most of all, the religiosity of the festival always left a lump of coal in both my stockings. Even as a child I doubted. Santa was as real for me as Jesus and the Easter Bunny. I was told it was all make believe. We never got a Christmas tree and we never exchanged gifts. As I matured, I lost touch with any sense of wonder from my youth. I put childish ways behind me and I let go of any intangible ideas about Christmas. The holiday was not alone in this dismissal. Anything I deemed a fable, or illusion, or artificial, I cast aside. I allowed the world around me to dull and limit my imagination and in so doing, I lost any ability to consciously dream. I turned away from anything that I couldn't inspect, validate or touch. You see, my parents had never really tried to ingrain any cultural traditions or even religion into my thinking. There was no magic, no miracles  and God was as unknowable as the vastness of space. Myth only served its purpose in the classroom. We didn't go to Church. We didn't own a Bible. We did not believe in fairy tales. Christmas always suffered in the end.

             When my daughter was born, I hoped, for her sake, that I would be inspired to marvel and question and even consider. Her birth was all that I needed. It was a catalyst but it did me little good. With no foundation, I always floundered. With nothing to cling to, I always ended up back in that confounding and very empty hole in my head. When it comes to such things, our family is fortunate to have my beautiful wife at the reigns; Jingle bells and all. My daughter has never not known a Christmas tree on Christmas morning, or presents or egg hunts in the backyard. The contrived idea of exchanging decayed oral matter for cash has known many financial transactions in our home. When I have questioned the lasting effect these things may have on the child, I am told in the most jovial of manner, "So that she doesn't become void like you."

            The first time I stepped into a Church, I was 30 years old.  My soon to be wife was breathtaking in her gown and veil. Up to that point, any exposure to religion or dogma had always been served cold. I was expected to partake in each ritual but my heart just wasn't in it. It was not that I had dismissed the idea of the ethereal entirely, I was foreign to any application of such a complexity. A year later found little difference. When the baby came home, I just assumed things would be different but they were not. The tactile experience of holding something you created is profound but all the esoteric rhetoric left me wanting. I didn't see a gift from the universe, I simply saw cause and effect. I did not take notice of what I did have, what I didn't have was completely affirmed. I have never felt the need to search for something greater than myself. I have always found life was better viewed with realism than imagination and faith. As my little girl approached her 10^th birthday, I still found myself in that void. Her baptism, then her confirmation had seemed silly to me. Every Christmas morning was more a waste of time and money than a heartfelt experience or snapshot of something to be treasured or recalled. The Bible the child  gave me for my 38^th birthday collects more dust than our vacuum cleaner. I resolved myself to the emptiness. No matter how I tried or how often others attempted to recondition my sense of wonder, the more I recognized the dead place inside me.

            The Christmas tree went up just like every other year. I had little to do with the process. I was more coerced manual labour than an active participant. We all went to the Christmas tree farm. I cut one down and dragged it back to the car. I was directed how it stood and where it finally rested in our downstairs living room. My wife and daughter did the decorating. As the house was lavished with gold and silver and fancy things, I sat watching the game on the television set in the basement. I protested that I had to hang the lights out front of our home and I resisted setting up the manger on the front yard. This was my contribution to each yuletide tradition. I had never known a Joyeux Noel, or a Merry Christmas, so no matter how much I was exposed to these things I just could not relate. One might have assumed that 10 years of Christmas deluge would have tugged at my heartstrings. I suppose I have always been more of a bass drum than some violin. The garland went up on the mantel, the wreath went on the front door and I just waited for it all to be over. The final touch, the last thing to be done, was the placing of three stockings, hung by the chimney with care. My wife has always found it amusing, granting me a place alongside her name and my daughter's. One dangles in glittered red. One dangles in glittered green. The epithet 'Scrooge' is scribbled on mine.      

            She blew the buildup of dust and residue in my face. I coughed and sternly condemned her action. I had promised to attend Christmas Eve mass, and like her mother, she was in my face regarding the matter. The leather-bound collection of both the Old and New Testament rested in her hands and her smile turned to a grimace when I chastised her. Regardless of my posturing, she handed it to me anyway. You could tell she expected I would read it all, like I should be studying for a great big test. My wife watched from a distance, tinkering with the Christmas tree. Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts and scented candles filled the air with apple cinnamon and an almost heavenly glow. It all looked like Christmas. Thanks to Glade, it even smelled like Christmas. I tried my best, at least, to not interfere with the atmosphere, if only for the sake of the child. I agreed to go to Mass for this very reason. I even wore a tie, although I must admit this had more to do with silencing the nag than appeasing the child. I was noticeably ready to go long before either of the ladies were. I was enjoying Sports Center when my better half put me to work. I went out to the garage, raised the automatic door and turned on the car to warm up. I went back inside and started at the top moving down towards the living room. It was my duty to put all the candles out and make sure of it. I grabbed the snuffer from its place and started in the bedrooms. I navigated by each light, tipping the copper hat onto each flame. Tiny trails of orchard whispered behind me as I made my way. I asked myself why we needed all this luminescence with the lights turned on. I wondered to myself why we needed to go to Church when the we have all the  tapers in our house? Remembering the "importance of atmosphere," I shrugged it off like I had done every other year. I finally made it down to the family room and past the tree, snuffing as I went along. I proceeded around the room, when highlights of the game came on. I sat back down in front of the television in good measure. I was summoned almost immediately. I switched off the set, unplugged the tree and headed out to the car, jacket in hand. I switched the basement lights off when I exited. I didn't notice the lovely glow I had left burning near the tree. I am convinced it was the television that distracted my duty. I am sure that it was providence that had me leave on that flickering wick.     

            The second time I stepped into a Church, I was 40 years of age. As my wife and daughter each lit an altar candle in memory, I sat snoozing with my eyes wide open. My smartphone was in my wife's purse, silenced until after the service. I had no idea just how ironic the ritual would turn out to be. As they used a flame to remember the past, I used several to destroy our future. The fire spread fast. Down the wall and into the tree it moved. I'm told the place went up rather easily after that. The firemen came, the police tried to call me, and my neighbours watched in horror, praying it remained intact and far away from their abodes. It was rubble before we left for home. We saw the smoke and the lights long before we turned onto our street. A crowd had gathered near one of the fire trucks and a police officer was trying to call my phone one last time. I stopped the car when I saw the ashes and we all got out in the middle of the road. There was almost nothing left but a burned out frame and some embers. A pair of first responders were putting out the last of the flames. It was all gone. The house, the garage, everything, lost to stupidity and the daily scores. I looked over at my wife, who was holding my daughter against her. You could tell she was trying not to cry. She looked over at me and asked me if I had done what she asked of me. The police officer interrupted and informed us that it appeared the fire had started in the basement as a result of burning candles. The only thing I could think of, the thing that popped into my head, wasn't about our smouldering belongings. It wasn't even gratitude that we all were safe and that no one had been at home. All I could muster somewhere inside of my head, as I looked at my girls, was where's your Saviour now?

            I am well aware of my limitations. I am also very much aware of my responsibility in starting the fire. This did little to silence every word of the Pastor from that night, preaching in my head of God's Mercy and Love and how He lavishes Grace upon us all. The only thing that going to Church on Christmas Eve had accomplished was yet another reason for me not to believe. As I stood counting everybody else's blessings, I recognized that this was no wonderful life. The flames had not only stripped us of all our possessions, it stole our home and destroyed my family. As I stood watching, my wife took my daughter into a neighbour's home and waited for her parents to arrive and carry them both away. Without a word to me, they shuffled into their getaway and left me sitting in my car at the edge of our street, staring at the charcoal remnants of my entire life. As they made an escape, I lingered on the front seat, trying to force even one tear. I supposed, in the most literal of ways, that my wife had been right all along. I was void. I was dead inside. Not even losing it all could make me feel anything but resentment and anger and despair. In that moment, I did something I had never done before. I wasn't even sure that I knew how to do it. I closed my eyes, put my head against the steering wheel and for the first time in my life, I prayed.    

            Asking a Divine creature for help was very much against my nature. Spending the night alone in a hotel room did not convince me that anything had been listening. In the wee hours of the morning, I could stand it no more. I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. I couldn't sleep. Most of the time, I felt like I could not even breathe. I got in my car and I started to drive. In the deepest, darkest part of the night, I pulled up in front of my burned down home and I got out to inspect what was left of my future. The water that had been used to extinguish my fate had frozen and formed patches of slick ice all around the property. Any snow that had melted due to the fire had joined these pieces. The entire scope of the grounds looked more like a skating rink than a place where my daughter had once played. I didn't pause for a moment, despite the yellow barricade tape wrapped around the seared trees which surround the building. I crunched threw the outer rubble, my scorched existence calling out my name. At what was once the front foyer, I was forced to stop in my tracks. I peered down into the shadows, past what used to be the ground floor. The chasm left by the flames was nothing compared to the growing space within me. I hungered for a glimpse of what had been but all I could picture was the look on my wife's face as she took my daughter's hand and abandoned me in my greatest hour of need. I turned from the place, almost slipping on a slick surface, and left my car sitting on a sheet of glass where our driveway used to be.

            I walked away, wandering past all the quaint little homes that used to be part of my neighbourhood. Every once in a while, Christmas lights called out to me, somehow mocking my disbelief. In the distance, at the 6 o'clock hour, the Church we had attended

rang out and pierced the night with ding dong merrily on high. I headed in that direction. I felt pulled to journey that way. I trudged through the misery, unable to imagine a life without my girls. I told myself that there was nothing left without them. There was no life to live if it meant this feeling of loss and guilt and horror. The further I walked, the more I convinced myself it was over. I was over. Every part of me cried out that this must be the end. I couldn't go on knowing what I had done and the consequence which had left me all alone. As the dawn began to break, I arrived in town and I sat down on the front steps of the Church and I started to cry.

           

            The snow fell softly on Christmas morning as I sat waiting for the doors of the Chapel to be unlocked. I didn't know why I was so compelled to linger in the shadow of a God I have never known, let alone believed in. I was empty and I did not know what had brought me there. When the bells tolled at 7 o'clock, from somewhere within came the unlatching and the turning of each lock. The service, the Christmas Mass, would begin in an hour. I slowly rose to my feet, wiping off the white dust of defeat that had covered my head and shoulders. I opened the door, stepped inside and stomped away any ice which had found my feet. Inside was as heavenly as it had been the night before. The priests and altar boys shuffled about preparing for the Eucharist and Holy celebration.  I left the fount behind me, failing to make the Sign of the Cross as I passed it. I walked up the centre aisle and dropped down, almost halfway up the row of pews. I was exhausted, and collapsed on a hard wooden seat. It took little time for me to lay my arms on the back of the pew before me, resting my head in the cradle of both hands. I starting shaking at the thought of my world coming to an end. In desperation, from the deepest part of my soul I cried out for God to help me. I was sure that no one was listening.

            "You cannot search for something if you really believe there is nothing there."

            I opened my eyes and raised my head to see who had addressed me, startled by a voice and a face which had not been there mere moments before. The old man sat down on the pew in front of me, placed his black fedora on the polished seat beside him and turned to speak. His hands gripped the back rest of the pew and I noticed his heavily stained fingers, as if they had been dipped into nicotine.

            "I beg your pardon," I replied, somewhat irritated by this intrusion.

            "When one door closes, another one always opens," he relayed.

            "I don't understand what you mean. Who are you?" I asked.

            "A friend," he assured me. "A friend and an answer to a prayer."

            He was around 60 years old, dressed entirely in black and he seemed to calm my agitation simply with his presence. He looked at me as if he could see right through me.

            "Do I know you?" I questioned.

            "As a matter of fact, you do not," he stated in the same manner.

            "I'm just sitting here waiting for the Mass to begin," I pointed out in the most obvious of ways. "I'm just here to .."

            "To ask forgiveness before you kill yourself," he punctuated.

            I looked at him, ignoring the statement, quite dumbfounded by his insight. His face was much more withered than it originally had appeared to be. His hair was gray and thinning on top. His eyes were a blue I had rarely seen before. They glimmered in a reflection from the sanctuary lights and bounced back unto themselves with an almost eerie glow.

            "I don't mean to be rude," I lied. "I have just experienced a personal tragedy and if you don't mind I would appreciate it if you left me alone."

            "Do you not feel alone already?" he inquired. "Just because you think that you have lost everything does not mean you have to abandon everything else altogether."

            I looked at him slightly astonished. What he said didn't really even register in my head.

            "May I make an observation?" he asked.

            "Why stop now?" I affirmed. He, apparently, didn't take the hint and shrugged me off.

            "The obvious fact that you are sitting in a place of worship would indicate to me that you already believe in what you are seeking. You could have chosen anywhere else. It doesn't matter where you have come from, it only matters that you are here now." He smiled at me. "You may believe your world is over but I am here to inform you that even the saddest sorrow can turn into the sweetest fate."

            I watched him push himself up, forgetting his hat, and he proceeded over to the altar candles. He reached for an over sized match, lit one, and walked back towards me. One single flicker raised out of the lifeless and empty display. He walked down the centre aisle and approached me gently. He reached down, clutched his hat and smiled at me again.

            "Love can make beauty from ashes," was the last thing he shared.  

            He breezed past me as if he was floating mere inches above the path. I turned to watch him leave and he was already gone. I looked about in an attempt to find him but there was no one. I was truly sitting by myself. The only other life in the place was the flame of that one candle. It danced and it waved and seemed to say hello. It convinced me that he had not been a figment of my imagination. What if everything he had observed and stated was the truth? If I had come looking for God, then I must believe in God. In trying to find something Holy, I forgot that seeking must come first. What if God had been with me all along? Blood raced to my face and I felt flush. My mind turned over and over and it started to throb. I grew weary. I grew weary of thinking and weary of feeling. I placed my head back onto the pew in front of me and closed my eyes to ponder what had been said. The smell of apple cinnamon woke me.  

            I don't know if you believe in Christmas, but I know that I sure do. The greatest gift I have ever received was a glimpse of what life could be. I opened my eyes and my world had been returned to me. The TV whispered, the tree shone bright, those damn candles flickered where I left them. I was back in my space, in my home. It must have been a dream. All of it was a dream. When my wife called out that I had left the car running in the garage, I knew that all was well. I was flabbergasted and quite bewildered. It had been so real. I pounced from my chair and ran to the candles sitting like demons near the spruce. I grabbed both, puffed them out and walked directly into the downstairs bathroom. My daughter found them in the morning, each submerged at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I stormed up the stairs like a giddy schoolgirl and grabbed my wife. I kissed her full on the mouth, hugged her with even more zeal and whispered "I Love You" in her ear. "What's gotten into you?" was all she had to say.

            It was strange to sit in the very spot where I had been approached in my dream. For this first time, I didn't fall asleep during the service. The priest's words had new meaning for me. The place had new meaning as well. As the congregation began to splinter and head home for the holiday, I looked about me for the man in black. He was nowhere to be found. It must have been a dream after all. As we walked towards the exit, it struck me. There was something I could just not forget. I left my wife quite confused and my daughter calling after me. I walked up the side of the pews, took a match and lit an altar candle. I almost skipped on my way to the car.

            The snow had been falling. The car needed warming. I scraped the front window and then the sides and finished with the back. As I opened the driver's door, the Church bells once again rang out of joy to the world and peace, goodwill to man. It was now Christmas Day. I looked into the night sky and I thanked whatever it was that had saved me. Across the street, standing in the heavy flakes of snow as they lingered, I saw the man in black standing on the sidewalk. He tipped his hat to me. I called out "Merry Christmas," and then he was gone. We left for home. I turned the Christmas tree off, checked for burning candles and locked all the doors. I crawled into bed and I held my wife close. It was not long before I drifted off to sleep. There were no flames to put out, no stranger to behold, just visions of sugar plums that danced in my head.

Photo

http://comocualquiera.com/para-que-son-las-velas/

http://www.edupic.net/lang_pics.htm

The Little Extras

            I discovered that the shop had sat on the corner of Scott and King Streets for well over one hundred years. The panes of each simple window had been painted dark hunter green in at least half that amount. They now flaked with time and ill-repair. The canopy, I was sure, was once bright and friendly but now it revealed much fading and decay. Stitches made long ago had unwound allowing for small gaps of direct sunlight to pierce the inner sanctum. It leaked. Each window was tarnished from within. In places, the stain was so thick you could not see the display set up inside. The entrance, also caked with brittle disguise, met a cracked frame and compromised base set in the same colour scheme. The door was thick and heavy, bearing an old skeleton key lock and mail slot just beneath a sheet of beveled glass. Tiny white lilies and roses and hummingbirds danced around the edges like a ghostly scene. Dead centre, resting on the glass, the 'Yes, We're Open' sign welcomes inquiring minds. The post a jovial welcome indeed. Its standard appeal hidden just behind more camouflage. From a distance the place still holds a quaint appeal, but on careful study you could not help but wonder if it had been abandoned long ago. Looks can be deceiving.  

            In stark contrast to the fading storefront, right above the canopy, the signage hangs new and refreshed. Like some throwback to Victorian marketing, it dangles, cleverly jutting out over the ripped and frail rain catcher below. No rust has invaded the cast iron hold. Both sides of the hard wooden mass sit identical in nature. Both quite pristine, as if purchased and drawn the day before. In bright copper red, against a trim of hunter green and a background of white, The Little Extras names the place. Running under the width of the logo, in a thin black mark, the words "More than Collectibles" sits like a beacon, much more than just to let you know. It is subtle but worthy of note. Do not be deceived. This is not some failing precursor to the Good Will. Inside is a different world. There is much to be seen just past the front door. This dying fashion, still all the buzz. Customers from around the world came to purchase. The shop's commanding reputation would be quite pronounced throughout the world of Antiquing. What appears an ancient relic itself holds such grand and cherished things. Rumours abound of the wonders within its walls. Strangest thing about rumours. Rumours spread. The word gets out. Unfortunately, from what had been suggested, not every patron did. 

            Mr. Arthur Beasley lived above his shop just as his father's family did and his grandfather's family before that. The steep drop to the ground floor stood as a regular morning ritual for one very old man. Carefully, slowly, he would descend.  You could watch his feet approach through the smoked glass that made up the upper half of the ground floor barrier. He would rest when he sank to the plateau. Quickly adjacent to the shop entrance, Mr. Beasley locked it tight every departure and stepped next door. From his left hand pocket he would proceed by removing the large passingkey and placing it clumsily into the hole. With one small turn, only this stood between safety and invasion. He was a short man, not more than five foot five. His grey hair fluttered from under his flat cap, just like it did every morning. Every day he possessed a different colour but every day the exact same style. His matching suit fit him well, I suppose, and his shoes looked polished to a tee. On rainy days he was unaffected, despite the ruin of his overhang. On sunny days he was unaffected, despite the sun and the heat and the humidity. It was repetitive, this back and forth from door to door. From my distance, he seemed like an overgrown elf, fidgeting between each space. You could not help but notice him and the briefest journey from exit to entrance. He would open the door, the same as every day, take the briefest look behind him, then scamper into The Little Extras. He would flip the open sign then simply shut the door behind him and disappear into his ill-secured domain.  

            I had watched him going on half the month. The chore felt like a demotion. The stakeout seemed quite cockamamie when I stopped to think of it. To imagine this frail old man, over eighty his file revealed, could somehow be a criminal, was tough for me to swallow. I had been assigned this tasteless duty after his business card turned up at three missing person's residences. The plain logo accompanied by only his name and the address and telephone number of his store called nothing to motive or intent but nonetheless. My assignment was my assignment whether I liked it or not. I sensed I was misused, as if a Detective had nothing better to do with his time and energy, not that I had much to offer. It didn't matter how ill I felt, three lost souls and one little extra seemed common ground for misgivings and intrigue. Silly if you asked me. These two weeks found customer after customer unabated by whatever monster lurked within those walls. Face after face would enter, then after a reasonable amount of time they would come out with their treasure. Young women, handsome men and even families would face an unknown fear and enter in. There was nothing suspicious or questionable about this formula. With each purchase, or so I assumed, he would wave to them 'good day' from the creaking threshold and return to his duties, perhaps even mischief. Not a soul came screaming out with warning. Even the children who would enter smiled, as if charmed, then leave through way of the same door. I found nothing to give me pause.

            I called in my intent to enter and left my vehicle locked and secure. I placed my badge in my coat pocket and my firearm was hidden in the glove compartment. I was sure I would not need it. Jaywalking across Scott St. was the only crime I would ignore that day. I adjusted myself, eager to get inside, and I pushed at the wooden frame of the door. It did not open. I almost walked into the pretty glass and all those white dainty things around its border. The handle was tougher still, and it ached with sweet relief. I held it open and I stepped inside. I was shocked at what lies within. This was no mere pawnshop or thrift store. It looked and felt more like the finest museum would. Antiquity swallowed the room. Gold and silver and bronze glimmered in what was left of the outside light. Egyptian sarcophagus, Oriental swords and Tiffany lamps called out for attention. The shop was spotless. For all the artwork, all the furniture, I could not find one patch of dust to disturb. Old books lined the walls, propped up on French Provincial or Colonial shelves. Display cases filled with the most beautiful of jewels met mahogany pieces layered with nic nacs and precious things. To the left, nearer to the back, was the counter, a hard walnut ledge with an archaic, but quite lovely, cash register. It was heavily layered, so it seemed, with copper and gold. The 'No Sale' tab had risen to this occasion. Arthur Beasley stood from behind with friendly greetings. Before I could say a word, he surprised me.

            "Detective Hardy, I presume," the old fellow said with no hesitation. "Finally," he continued, "after fourteen days you have finally favoured me with your presence."

            "Listen," I tried to deny. "I don't know who you think I am but ..."

            "You are," he inserted, "Detective James Hardy of the 41^st precinct."

            "How did you ..." I stumbled.

            "You would be amazed at all the things I know," he patronized. "You, perhaps my soon to be friend, have come in search of three lost souls. Am I wrong?"

            I was flabbergasted.  I just stood there with nothing but an open mouth to guide me. He reached behind and grabbed a collection of keys so large it clunked instead of jingled.

            "Would you care for a tour?" he gestured.

            I did not know what to think let alone what to do. The old man's brazen approach took me back and then some. I watched as he rounded the counter and met me person to person. He shook my hand with a strong grip. He was smaller than I had originally presumed. His eyebrows were unkempt, with long threads of grey and dark, mixed to a point just above the far corners of his eyes. They seemed like tiny horns, fighting to stay in their place. His clean shaven face was friendly enough and the rest of him seemed pleasant, although one can never be quite sure. Despite his statement, I could not help but feel comfortable and at ease. Of course, he had seen me sitting in my car, day after day until this moment. A man of his wealth and reputation could easily uncover my identity. Perhaps he paid off a sergeant assigned to the front desk. Perhaps he knows the Chief of Police or some high ranking official on the police force. I concluded there was nothing devious within his knowledge.

            The grand front room of the shop was so well organized, it struck me more as a library of pleasures than a den of deceit. Completely ignoring his own claims, he walked to the far rear end of the over-sized room and began to open two very well maintained and large antique doors. Nothing creaked, nothing clamored as both slid, without incident, into their hiding place.  He reached just inside, past the empty space left by the doors and he flipped on a light by switch. The room was bright and well preserved. Hard wood accents ran along the wall tops and around the bottom into baseboards of the same dark stain. The walls were deep burgundy, painted not papered. I moved forward for a better look. Like puzzle pieces, each wall was coated with varying sizes of different framed pictures. These captured people I would not dare to recognize without closer, keener  examination. Those three walls each looked more like a photo album or yearbook page than a display on a wall. The floor was hardwood, polished and shined. I couldn't see even one scuff or print on it. The center of the room struck me as purposeful and spectacular.  An extra large Oriental rug ran by width and length to the outer middle, a testament to the size of the space. A ripple of copper red and hunter green dashed about a sea of burgundy and off-white. Each fringe seemed carefully laid, almost pulled in an appropriate direction. The ceiling was a simple white, with little decoration. A chandelier of reasonable size hung like ice after a warm day. A cascade of crystals flowed down at least three feet from the main stud. The height of the room was impressive. Resting firm beneath it was the most curious thing.

            It was not the cherry wood table that drew my attention. Sitting like a masterpiece would, resting on a small ebony easel, an empty frame loomed like the Mona Lisa. The holder was obviously gold and inlaid with ivory lilies, roses and hummingbirds. Each delicately grazed the black satin backing where no picture was. Arthur moved deeper into the room eventually reaching the far wall. I was so dumbfounded I just stood there, like the mummy box up in the front room. He carefully reached up, took down a simple wooden frame that was carved in a way I could not make out. There was no dust for him to brush off the photo, but he pulled out a handkerchief from an inner pocket and he polished the glass to and fro. I just watched him, trying to listen should he give himself away. Thus far, I had seen nothing to implicate the man. That was all about to change.

            "The Little Extras," he began, walking slowly along the outer wall. With each step he took, he touched the encased picture by the wooden frame. He seemed to tap on it as if following some distant drum that I could not hear. He continued, "offers itself as a humble shop filled with timeless treasures and things made of gold. We sell to anyone looking for the finer things in life."

            He stopped, then removed a second picture from the end of the opposing wall and placed it on the other. He resumed the tapping on metal instead of wood. This frame was ornate, solid silver from what I could make out. As he crossed the room to the third wall, he revealed, "We even dabble in the taboo."

            He stopped, placed a finger to his chin and seemed quite perplexed over something he did not voice. He grunted, moved forward a few feet, and removed another frame from its place on the wall. This frame seemed simpler but for the shine of polished gold. It was lesser in both weight and function. It wrapped around the photograph like a single bow of great value. He placed the third picture on top of the second and proceeded with his beat in the same manner.

            "This shop offers anything your heart desires, anything you can dream of. We have unique and the rarest of things. These little extras are not our bread and butter."

            He carefully walked to the middle of the room and placed all three frames down upon the deep stained round table, knocking three times on the surface.  

            He stood for a moment, finished the tapping, and began to speak once again. He seemed stern and oddly Shakespearian, as if Hamlet was about to place his soliloquy for an audience of one. "Some people come here looking for greater wealth. Some seek out an ancient totem in the hopes of better luck and a better life.  Many customers come for mere pleasure, to have and to hold. They are somehow more in their own small minds because of a possession. All are welcome but our customer base varies depending on the need. Some come to collect, others are called."

            "Called?" I inquired.

            "We offer," he carried on, ignoring my question, "special services unlike any other." I started to smell a rat. "Take you for example, Detective Hardy."

            "Me," I asked. "What do I have to do with any of this?"

            "Did you think it was mere coincidence that you were assigned this case? It was fate, not chance, that finds you here with me."

            "Look here, Mr. Beasley," I punctuated.

            "Please," he interrupted. "Call me Arthur."

            "Look here, Arthur," I reiterated. "You seem to know an awful lot about who I am. You also seem easily distracted from the real reason I am here today. Why don't you cut through all the crap and get to your point?"

            "I assure you of my intentions," he added. "Regardless, I will make my point heard." He turned back to the table, picked up the three frames and laid each of them out, one beside the other. He touched his finger to each as he said, "Linda Hedges, Richard Grant and Malcolm Stern. How is that for my point?"

            Adrenaline rushed from my toes to my nose and I practically ran over to the trio. I was astonished by his almost confession but much more by the three missing persons, each smiling grandly, captured in wood and silver and gold. I instantly thought about my gun that I had left in the car.          

                      

            "There is no danger here," he claimed with his smile. "Occasionally, our patrons require something more than a mere ornament. Our specialized services are simply a way of helping people, like you, who readily need our help."

            "Helping me?" I inserted. " Listen here, you are treading a fine line ... Mr. Beasley."

            "No huff, no puff," he preached in a jovial manner, waving in dismissal from his midriff. 

            "Would you care to explain to me why you have photographs of three missing persons hanging on the wall of your place of business?"

            "I did business with them," he explained.

            "What kind of business?" I demanded.

            "I ended their time here," he revealed.

            "Are you telling me you murdered these three people?" I huffed.

            "Oh no," he assured me. "No one was killed or harmed in any manner."                  

            "Then where are Linda Hedges, Richard Grant and Malcolm Stern?" I puffed.

            "In those picture frames," he said as a matter of fact.

            I have seen the odd and strange and many things during my tenure on the police force. The nut balls I have arrested over the years range from sad to severe. I had never encountered anyone or anything like Arthur Beasley and The Little Extras. As I stood listening, I grew tired and weary from the stress. The chemo takes a lot out of you, especially first thing in the morning. I was overwhelmed and just wanted to lay down on that beautiful rug and sleep forever. Waves of nausea washed over me and the headache returned.  I should have tried harder to mask my predicament. 

            "May I ask you a personal question, Detective?" he pondered.

            "Why stop now?" I whimpered.

            "Why are you still working when you have been given less than six months to live?"

            "Okay," I perked up angrily. "How the hell do you know that? Nobody knows that but me and my doctor. What in God's name is going on here?"

             The old man seemed startled, as if he believed bad decorum outranked murder and collusion. He begged for my consideration. If I just allowed him to explain, all would be well again. I was faint and excused myself to the water cooler in the front room. He followed like a puppy would. As I filled my second glass, he offered me a grand chair to rest in. I took to it before I ended up on the floor. It seemed to absorb me, a delicate mix of structure and comfort. I sank into it and suddenly I felt better. I somehow knew if I left  its safety, the ill would return once again. I planted myself and bid him to continue. 

             "Linda Hedges came to me with one month left to live. Her heart was so damaged, so compromised that it took her longer to get through the front door than it does for me to descend the stairs next door every morning. Richard Grant's lung cancer was so advanced he should have been hospitalized. When he first appeared at my door, he was barely alive to begin with. Malcolm Stern was exposed to radiation when overseas with his company. It was literally eating him from the inside out. He begged me for help," he paused. "So I gave it to him."

             "What do you mean by help?" I inquired.

             "Do you believe in other dimensions, Detective Hardy?"

             I replied as succinctly as I possibly could with a hard "No!!"

              "What if I told you that you could avoid dying altogether?" He waited for my response.

             "What makes you think I'm dying, Mr. Beasley?" I quipped.

             "End stage pancreatic cancer is a death sentence," he forced at me. "Here at The Little Extras we offer a life sentence." I glanced over at him as if he was queer. "I can arrange for you to leave this reality and be placed at a new beginning. No pain, no cancer, nothing but the new life that you choose to live,"

             "So you're telling me you sent these three," I scoffed, "these innocent people into some dimension where they could start a new life?" I searched for each portrait.

            "Yes," he pointed at the round table. "Each one of these has left this plane of existence and started a new one. A new life without the terrible circumstance that brought them to me. They traded one finite existence for a never-ending one."

            "You'll have to forgive me," I projected. "Don't you think you sound more than a little wacky suggesting such a thing?"

            He gestured for me to follow him and I carefully made my way into the back room. Oddly enough, a new chair waited for me where one had not been before. It was identical to the one I had left, which I turned to spy in the same place it was before. I sat down just inside the doorway as he went from one random photo to another, addressing the name and reason for their 'departure.'  Face after face flashed at me, name after name met with each unique and special frame. He randomly jumped from one to the next, like from a phone book, picking and choosing each example in the most deliberate of ways. As my sickness left me once again, I wondered to myself just who this strange old man really was. How did he know all the information about me? What kind of wack job tried to cover up his crimes with the excuse of inter-dimensional travel and a magical escape from ill health? Each one, he pointed out, met their fate in the same unbelievable manner. Hundreds of people, he made perfectly clear, had come to him and his special brand of renewal. Hundreds of people, each one, now someplace else, trapped inside each frame. I stood, pushed back the armchair, I forgot and reached for my sidearm. A flood of misery washed over me. My stomach turned and my head began to swell. I remembered where my gun faithfully rested. My intent remained the same.

            "I need to get something from my car," I injected. "Arthur Beasley, I need to contact my station, so please remain where you are until I return."

            "As you wish," he seemed to placate. "Are you sure you do not wish to take another path?"

            I declined and turned back towards the front door. In spite of my condition, I walked as quickly as I could, leaving the shop and crossing towards my automobile.

I reached inside and grabbed my firearm, still unsure whether I would need it. I called for backup and a cruiser to take Mr. Beasley in. I closed the door then rested upon it.

            It took over an hour for the Judge to issue a warrant. Eventually, I found myself sitting on the curb waiting. Waves of discomfort crashed throughout my body like tides on a shore. When Mr. Beasley's escort arrived, I tried to stand but had to cover my imbalance with a smile. I walked back to the front of The Little Extras and instructed the two Constables of my intentions. Just before we entered, I noticed something rather odd and out of place. The pristine signage that met me when I first arrived was missing. Even the cast iron holder had disappeared. I reached for the doorknob and it opened, swinging  all the way back with a heavy squeak. I could not believe my eyes. The room was empty and in poor condition. Cobwebs and dust trails littered the crevices of each wall and across the old faded counter near the back. Not one item, small or large, remained in its place. The golden cash register was gone. The display cases, the antique shelves, had all vanished while I was outside. I was noticeably stunned.

            "Is there a problem?" one of the officers asked.

            "Its gone," I urged. "It's all gone!"

            "What?" he inquired.

            "The shop, the collectibles, they aren't where they were but an hour ago," I cringed. "Where the hell are all the little extras?"

            "Warrant says this is an abandoned building," the Officer spoke.   

            I grabbed the warrant in disbelief. I could not comprehend how any of this was possible. I began to question my sanity. I turned over and over in my mind. I reached out for proof that I had not imagined it all. Had these two weeks been nothing but a dream? Was Arthur Beasley and his magical cure simply my imagination? The other Constable walked across the room towards the rear and stopped in front of the pair of large doors.

            "Maybe there is something back here," he noted.

            With a strong gesture, he pushed both doors open. One got stuck on a rail and he forced its completion. He fumbled  for the light. The picture room was barren but it was not empty. The walls were faded, lacking the brightness they had held before. There were no images captured in a frame, not one rested on the walls. They could not be seen or noticed or found. Every part of the room looked abandoned, rather unwanted and unrefined. In the center, sitting as it had before, the dark circular table rested. From top to bottom it was covered in heavy amounts of dust. You could tell from the condition of it that the golden frame with ivory accents had waited for me. It was not streaked with webbing or covered by time. It sat all alone, middle of the table, and looked very much out of place. I walked towards it gently so as not to reveal my weakness. His face was clear. Without any question, Arthur Beasley looked at me. 

            He met me with the most friendly of smiles. I barely had the chance to absorb the spectacle of the room. I stood in front of a large wooden counter near the rear of the shop. What appeared as a gold and copper cash register glimmered in the artificial light. He reached out to her, shaking my hand like a gentleman would.

            "Doctor Elizabeth Barrett, I presume," he professed in the most polite manner.

            "How did you know my name?" she questioned, rather dumbfounded.

            "You would be amazed at all the things I know," he grinned. "You, I would hazard to guess, have come in search of an ancient remedy."

            She just stood there with her mouth half open. He reached back and took a rather burdened key chain from the wall behind him, then gestured towards two over-sized, but very shut, walnut doors. They were in immaculate condition.

            "Would you care for a tour?" he asked.

Photo

http://www.richardsfabulousfinds.com/2014/07/yes-we-are-open-on-4th-of-july.html

The Littlest Shepherd

            Azariah was not like the other children. He was smaller, much frailer. For all his 12 years, he stood lesser than most. His hair was not dark or curly, rather, it glimmered with lighter tones and hung straight and fair. Most children in Bethlehem lay sleeping this early winter night, but Azariah stood watch with his father over sheep.

            His father and the men who worked with him had been delayed in arriving home. For almost three weeks, they had been detained because of the census. The colder desert nights had come and the journey from Hebron had been dank and unforgiving. His beaten clothes, not fit for the winds of a Palestine winter, did little to bring much needed warmth. They had arrived back near Bethlehem and planned to stay in the fields until morning when the market opened. His father, a shepherd his entire life, had brought Azariah on this travelling, in hopes of building character in the boy. When he married Azariah’s mother, a Hebrew girl from the Roman territories, he did not expect her death in childbirth, nor did he anticipate that his only son would bring such disappointment and weakness. The harsh life of a shepherd was no place for someone like his son, and with no one to watch over him, he was forced to carry this reminder of God’s judgment upon him throughout the Palestine countryside.

            When the light appeared in the sky, no one was sure what to make of it. When the brightness appeared above them, they were so afraid. A few sheep, startled by the quick and the unknown brilliance, fled to safety. Azariah wanted to stay and see this marvel which magically appeared in the night sky, but his father sent him out in the dark to find the flock which had abandoned them to the same night.

            As Azariah walked into the desert, he did not hear the voices of angels heralding the good news. He did not see the celestial glow from the host which appeared to his father and the other shepherds.  He did not take his father’s hand and follow into the town waiting from the distance. He just kept walking and calling and praying he could show his father that he was strong enough and brave enough.

            Only a few sheep had strayed from the flock, but Herod’s taxes and the expense of traveling for the census meant all were precious and they could not afford to lose even one. As he walked, he thought of the mother he had never met and the taunting of other children. Life was not fun for Azariah. Between a disapproving father and the shame of his frailty, he held little in good regard. In temple, he sat and listened to the tales of Moses and David and Isaiah, but it was the words of the other children which stained him with feelings of worthlessness and sorrow. He too, just like his father, held bitterness and contempt for those whom had made his life almost not worth living. Such ridicule and endless dampening stole the innocent heart and childlike ways of this little blond boy from Bethlehem.

            He grew colder and the desolation of the desert did little to quell his fear and hesitation. He had always preferred being alone, but this night he yearned for the hands of his father, the safety of a greater place. Suddenly, he heard it. The subtle noise of beast was almost invisible, cloaked behind wind and sand and bitter sting. There, alongside an outcropping of rocks, he found the seven sheep that had strayed. Azariah sat down beside them and started to shake. The night had grown darker and colder and met the chill of his heart as he cursed his father for sending him into the desert to die.

            When the sheep laid down beside him in the sand, he could not believe his eyes. He had never seen such a thing. Azariah remembered what to do. How many times had his father told him to find warmth with each other or the animals, if ever lost in the desert come night? How many times did his father instruct him to stay huddled only until the warmth returned?

“Never sleep on the desert floor,” Azariah recalled.

“You will drown in the sand.” 

             Azariah could feel the heat returning to his skin, as he lay between two ewes and the sun-baked glow of the desert floor. Staring out into the endless sea of ebony, he searched his mind for a way to get back home. Although he had not ventured beyond the dunes, he could not find his way. He raised his head and called out into the deep black. There was no reply, no response. Not even an echo bounced back from the hills which shadowed his path to safety. There was no moon to light his way. No fire in the distance to call him as a beacon. He turned over, praying for a new perspective.

            It did not appear, but it was not there mere moments before. It filled his eyes with daylight. It was the same brilliance which had scared the sheep into running. He rose up and greeted salvation. The star shone brighter than any other he had ever seen. Its glow reached across the skyline like beams of blue and bright. It was brilliant and full, and for Azariah, it was hope. The dunes glistened with starshine and gave way through the night. The tail of the star seemed to float in the heavens until it focused on one spot. Azariah knew, he just knew.

            He quickly rounded the sheep and headed into the light. He started out, then he wandered toward the shine, for the star in the sky led his way. When he got back to the pens, he could not find his father. He could not find anyone or anything but a fenced-in mob of white cotton herded into capture. He added his seven blankets into the cage and wandered into the tail of the star. The late night gave little rescue to the answers Azariah searched for. No townsfolk could he question. He looked up and checked the radiance of the beam. It was still with him even though he was home. The star of wonder flickered then to pinpoint, it managed his way.

‘Are you far away from home

This dark and lonely night

Tell me what best would help

To ease your mind

Someone to give

Direction for this unfamiliar road

Or one who says, "Follow me and

I will lead you home."

            When Azariah was older and had a child of his own, he would sit his son down and tell him the tale of the littlest Shepherd. We would tell him of the cold desert night and how the sheep gave warmth to see him through. He would tell them of the kings and the stable and the things he saw that night. Most of all, he would tell them of his star and the wonder of how it led him home.

Sources

The Little Shepherd

(Originally Posted 12-21-2010)

http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/12/littlest-shepherd.html

Meaning of Azariah

http://www.biblical-baby-names.com/meaning-of-azariah.html/

Christmas Lullaby

A Christmas to Remember, Amy Grant 1999

Photo

http://designers-house.blogspot.com/2009/12/27-amazing-widescreen-christmas.html/