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A Future For Christmas
🕑 Added 2021-12-24 09:08:30 +0000 UTC(Dual posted to Tumblr, for Christmas Eve)
Note: Like Sir Terry Pratchett, I really hate The Little Match Girl. It’s the worst Christmas story. And the Gentlemen of Night don’t care for it, either.
This is the 4th story set in the Night Gentlemen's universe.
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The Night Gentlemen were tasked with a solemn duty. To guide the dead, to comfort and to reassure, to find lost souls and carry those who were too old or too young to understand walking onward.
He had been a Night Gentleman for a long time. Years. Since before the Great War, and that had been a hard time for them all. But he had had time to learn that you couldn’t stop death. Couldn’t save people, even the youngest children. You could only be there for them, when it was over, and take them to their rest.
Well…
Almost always.
There were times, when the veils thinned, and the living and the dead drew closer, when faith was stronger and the Powers, perhaps, a little kinder. Times when death could be held off long enough for a farewell, or one life exchanged for another, or…
Or something.
There were times.
It was Christmas Eve. One of the strongest times. A time when even Death could be persuaded to wink, now and then. Death was blind to good or evil, justice or injustice, but not to kindness. Never to that. Death gave ease, when the pain was too great, and sent the Night Gentlemen to bring comfort and companionship on the journey. And Christmas was a special time for kindness.
Even so…
He could not give life to one who was dying, where no exchange was offered. He had himself passed beyond the veil, and the dead could not give life.
But comfort, surely, was permissible, on this night of all nights.
It took all his strength, all his will. But he pushed through the veils, through into the mortal world - not all the way, but enough to be seen, and to be solid. He walked over to the child huddled in a doorway, shaking, and sat down on the step beside her. “Would you like some of my dinner?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears, without the ringing distance of Death echoing in it.
The child cowered, but she was too cold and too hungry to refuse when he offered her the small thermos flask of hot soup. “It’s good,” she whispered, after her first sip, and smiled a little.
“It’s very good. A kind lady at a boarding-house makes our dinners for us. She’s a very good cook.”
They sat and ate together, not talking very much, but enjoying the good food. Then the child looked up at him, and she was close enough now to Death to see more than most people would. “Are you an angel?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “When a person dies with… with things on their conscience, debts owed or sins unredeemed, they get a chance to make it right. To help, and show kindness to others. Some of us, like me, come to people when they die. It’s…” He hesitated, looking down at her, but she was a street waif, who knew all too much about death, and knew it was coming for her. “It’s frightening for people, when they die. It helps them to have someone with them to explain, and help them go on to where they belong.”
“And you came to help me.” It wasn’t a question. Her shivering had stopped now, and her eyelids were beginning to droop. The soup had bought her a few minutes, but… it was so cold. “I’m glad you came. Where am I going to go? I’ve.. I’ve done bad things. Stealing, and such. Will I go to the bad place?”
“No,” he said gently, and it was always a relief to be able to take away that fear, at least. “Children never go to the bad place. But… if you had a choice, what would you want to do? To go on to the next world, or stay longer in this one? This one is harder, much harder. But you can… grow, here.”
Tears froze into sparkling eyes on her lashes. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “Even if I go to heaven. I don’t want to… to just die on the street, like rubbish. Like I wasn’t ever here.”
For some, heaven was all the relief they needed. He’d needed to know which kind she was. It was hard, but he pushed himself to his feet, and held out his hand. “Then come with me,” he said quietly. “I can’t give you more life than you have. But the living can help the living.”
It wasn’t far to the boarding-house. He took her in through the tiny side-yard, supporting her stumbling steps, and knocked on the kitchen door. When Annie opened it, he didn’t have to say a word.
*
I’ve never known one of the Night Gentlemen to come back to the boarding-house once he’s taken his dinner-pail and gone. What Door they go back through I don’t know, but it’s not this one. They usually leave the pails by the kitchen door in the morning, without coming in, and I take them in and wash them for the evening. Then there’s the pails for the ones who work from midday until midnight. I make those too, now - there was a lady in a diner who did them, a few blocks away, but she passed on and the Power asked if I’d mind. I don’t, though since Mrs Hallow passed it’s a lot of work for one person.
I was about three in the morning. I was finished clearing up and preparing the kitchen for the boarder’s breakfast and about to go to bed for an hour or two - I find I don’t need much rest these days - when the knock came on the kitchen door.
I couldn’t think who it might be - almost all my boarders were in bed, and the ones who work nights have their own keys. But I opened the door, all the same. There isn’t one of the Ladies who would ever leave someone standing out in the snow, especially not at Christmas!
Well, I recognized the Gentleman right away. They all look alike to some people, but those of us who can ‘see through’, as Mrs Hallow used to call it, can see a bit of who they were, as well as what they are. He’d been coming through my kitchen for about five years, and was as polite and pleasant as they all are. But this time he looked just as guilty as if he’d done something bad - and there was a child standing beside him, wrapped in rags and at least three quarters dead of the cold.
Well. I don’t know about you, but I just can’t stand that story about the little matchgirl. There’s nothing uplifting about a story where a little child dies for want of a bit of kindness. Oh, I know children all go somewhere nice, but it’s still a shame for them to die, and I know the Gentlemen feel it as much as I do. It breaks their hearts to carry some little soul that doesn’t even know how to walk yet on to what comes next. And a little child like this one freezing to death on Christmas Eve? Not while I’m alive. Not in *my* place.
“Come right in,” I told both of them, opening the door wide. “And let me make you something hot.”
“I shared my dinner with her,” the Gentleman said sheepishly. They know they’re not supposed to - though I always put in a few extra cookies or something, just in case they do anyway. “She’s had something to eat, but…”
“Tea, then.” The girl was so cold she couldn’t shake anymore, and I know what a bad sign that is. I put a kettle on the range, while the Gentleman helped her out of her half-frozen rags, and then I took off my shawl and wrapped her up in it. “Now, you come and sit by the heater, love. Don’t touch it or you’ll burn yourself, chilled as you are.”
It didn’t take me long to make the tea - a gas range is wonderful for boiling water quickly - and in a few minutes the poor mite had a cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar in it in her hands, and her feet in a pan of hot water and mustard, and the rest of her on my lap with my arms around her. We were both close to the radiator, but body-heat is the best for those who are chilled through. The Gentleman had some tea too, and sat at the table, sipping it slowly.
I made sure the child didn’t go to sleep until she’d finished her tea, and was warm to the touch. Then I pulled out the cot I sleep on on really busy nights, and tucked her up in it beside the radiator. She’d sleep warm, and wake up the next morning, if the Powers permitted. And if they didn’t, well, the poor mite had been warm and happy at least.
“Can you do this?” I asked the Gentleman, pouring him another cup of tea.
“By the rules, no.” His voice was hollow and echoing, as they always were, but I thought there was an edge of worry to it. “But… at this time…”
At this time. Christmas. It’s a time for miracles… and for kindness. It’s a busy time for the Ladies. There’s more need for kindness, but it’s easier to draw out, too, and between opening ways for others to do good, and doing it ourselves, we’ve got our hands full.
And while the Gentleman, who are dead, cannot give life, we Ladies can and do. It’s part of our job.
The Power we serve is often called Death, though it oversees more than the passage between life and death. It is the Power of passage, and transitions, and change, and gifts. It is a power that does not understand justice, or mercy But it does understand kindness. That which is given, freely, to another who needs. In kindness, it sends the Gentlemen to guide the dead.
Among the living, at least in this time and place, it says, kindness from a woman is more readily accepted, and I can see its point about that. I know that most women would rather take help from another woman, and children too. So many men might… want something in return.
So the Power chooses Ladies to guard its doorways, and its places of power, and carry its messages, and make the mortal food that keeps the Gentlemen anchored on both sides of the veil, and to be kind. We serve only as long as we wish to, but most don’t leave once we take up the task. It’s nice to know that you’re making the world better. And taking a homeless child in at Christmas *would* make the world better.
On the other hand, this might be going too far. There *are* rules.
“You’d better let me explain.” I patted his hand. “You finish your tea, then go back to your rounds. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry.”
I don’t know how the other Ladies communicate with the Power, but I use the willow-patterned telephone on the third-floor landing. It’s answered quickly, as always, and I am sure I hear amusement in the voice that is neither male nor female, but sounds like cool shadow and water sparkling in the sun. “There are rules,” it reminds me.
“Yes, but it’s Christmas.” I thought about it on the way up, and I let myself pout a bit. “And I do think you owe me this much.”
“Why?” It really sounds curious.
“When I took this post, I accepted the rule that said I couldn’t marry.” That truly is a rule, though many a widow has joined after her husband passed. There’s simply no way to hide what we Ladies are from a husband, and we can’t have children. Carrying a child unborn between worlds is just too dangerous.
“You never wanted to marry.”
“Well, no, not specially,” I admitted, for I’m not such a fool as to try to lie to one of the great Powers. “But I did want children, you know I did. That was a wrench.”
It doesn’t answer, but I know from the way it… oh, I suppose ‘feels’ is the best word, though it’s not quite right… that it knows I have a point. “So you think you are owed this child?”
“Well, I understood why it was dangerous, when you put it to me, and I did agree to the bargain when I took over from Mrs Hallow, but when a child nobody even wants turns up on my doorstep, I think expecting me to give it back is just plain unreasonable.” I set one hand on my hip, knowing it knows what I do even if you shouldn’t be able to ‘see’ through a telephone. “Besides, now that I’ve took over from Miss Cole, I could certainly use another pair of hands around here.”
“The child seems too small to be much help.”
“She’ll grow fast enough. Besides, if she starts young she’ll get used to the strangeness all the faster. Did you see the soul of her? That’s one with a lot of sunshine in her. She’ll be kind.”
The Power doesn’t laugh, exactly, but I felt the rippling feeling that seems to be as close as it gets. “Very well,” it said, after a long moment. “After all, I allowed Mrs Hallow to keep you. And I don’t care for that story, either.”
That took me a moment to catch up to. “The one about the Little Match Girl?”
“Yes.” That is about as cross as I’ve ever heard the Power sound, and I can’t say I cared for it. I can’t imagine there’s anyone would want any Power mad at them, but especially not that One. “That is a story that humans tell each other to excuse themselves from helping their own kind. As if my kindness to the dead absolves them of duty to the living. As if it is better for a child to die than to live.”
“Well, I don’t like it either,” I admitted. “I want to smack every single person who walked past that poor child and I don’t mind saying it.”
“So,” the Power said darkly, and I shivered, “do I.”
The Power loves kindness, and does much to create more kindness in the world, but it doesn’t like being expected to do all the work. We’ve got our part to do too, which is only fair.
The little girl’s name is Maria. She’s an orphan, and happy as a clam to find herself living in a nice warm house, with an ‘aunt’ who takes good care of her and a good future ahead. She likes the Gentlemen, too, and there’s nothing she takes more pleasure in than handing them their pails and giving them their smile and kind word, for what they do is terrible hard. She’s got the spark in her, the giving heart that makes kindness natural to her. She’ll be one of us, when she’s old enough to choose.
Until then, she’s mine, and I’ll love her as much as any mother could.
Her own Gentleman is moving on, soon, we’ve heard. Going to a better place, having earned his reward. We’ll miss him, but we’re glad for him too. We’ll go to the station to see him off, I’ve told Maria, when the time comes. And we’ll make him a good dinner for the journey.
Comments
Lilyanne
Aah, you spoil us! Two stories in the Night Gentlemens' universe back-to-back; what a lovely Christmas gift. Thank you!
This is beautiful. I had somehow avoided knowing the story of the Little Match Stick Girl, which I had to look up to fully understand your writing. It horrified me. I'm so grateful I could recover from my outrage that it's considered a perfectly reasonable Christmas time story with your beautiful, compassionate rebuttal.
