Christmas Stories - Charles Dickens

"...and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!"

Last year around this time I focused on one of my ironic choices for Christmas reading by discussion what I consider to be the antithesis to Dickens; James Joyce's The Dead, but in the charitable spirit of the season I think I will break my miserly tradition and embrace the tale which has come to define, in more ways than one, the Spirit of the Christmas season.

Whenever we think of Charles Dickens, especially around December, immediately images crop up of faces in door knockers and frail children making exclamations of blessing. I enjoy a hearty rendering of A Christmas Carol as well as the next bloke, but I get the sense that our preoccupation with Ebenezer Scrooge's humbugging often obscures Dickens' literary preoccupation with the meaning of Christmas. This is not to downplay one of the Victorian author's most iconic tales; in fact, I almost feel that many of Dickens' other Christmassy short stories are searching for some kind of meaning in the winter holidays; a search that reached its culmination in the message of generosity and kindness that has come to epitomize nearly every piece of Christmas entertainment since the composition of A Christmas Carol. Indeed, one can find Ebeneezer Scrooge in any number of cinematic and literary incarnations from Dr. Seuss' Grinch to National Lampoons' Clark Griswold. Some of these incarnations are more overt than others but all point to the profound effect that Dickens' Victorian holiday narrative has had upon the cultural discourse of the English speaking world.

What one must, of course, consider here is to what extent we are willing to accept this particular holiday message. Most people will agree that the progression of Scrooge's character from miserly grouch to generous chap is a positive message for anyone during the Christmas season but we have to wonder if this particular narrative coincides or muscles out the intended meaning of the Christmas Holiday. The term holiday of course is an old portmanteau of Holy Day; a day reserved for the catholic (and later Anglican) Christ's Mass which was a period of community celebration that fit nicely into the December church calendar.

The importance of this holy-day, of course, was the celebration of the incarnation of the Christian messiah; the moment at which God committed a part of himself to earthly existence in order to demonstrate to humankind the significance of his willingness for self-sacrifice on their behalf. While the life of Christ as we understand it in the gospels certainly demonstrated values that undoubtedly align themselves with Dickens' narrative, the holiday itself seems to represent a significantly different narrative. At what point does our appreciation for God's mercy become supplanted by a sense of social generosity? According to some sources (and admittedly I have not done much research beyond wikipedia. So sue me) it is with Dickens.

Of course it would be too much to blame the prolific Victorian author with the sad slide toward the commercialization of a formerly sacred holiday but the circumstances surrounding this shift must make one think. That said, I cannot in my right mind diminish the importance of a holiday that emphasizes a general sense of unselfishness. Perhaps this is the way in which we may justify the holy-day to the holiday. In either case, on a literary level I must admit that I'll never stop reveling in the lush spirit of Dickens' Christmases, past, present, and future and the ghosts, holy or otherwise, that descend upon us with the snow of late December.

The Familiar

I've always enjoyed the notion of good fiction beginning with a dream and in the case of this heretofore unpublished short story this is exactly what happened. Oddly enough, at this point I can't entirely distinguish the story from the dream that came out of it. Undoubtedly the dream lacked much of the detail and meaning that the story has but in the mysterious workings of the human mind the two have fused. Enjoy, and as always, critiques are welcome (since someday it might be fun to publish this for real).

The Familiar

by Schuyler Eastin

            In the cool, bright morning she woke me. Her black hair spiraled down over my face like a wind chime crowned with a pair of emeralds. "Open your eyes," she said, her voice a distant mission bell. I did, and saw golden rays sitting patiently on the balcony outside our room, politely requesting admission. She leapt nimbly from the bed and flung open the double doors, granting the sun's request.

            She flitted across the room, an epiphany framed in sunlight like the dream that fades when eyes open. Leaning on the balcony rail she turned her head over her left shoulder to the east, then to her right, examining both horizons. I sat up, silently observing a bohemian curiosity in her face that I knew foretold change.

            The little house slept in the bosom of the open plains near the heart of the continent. The cottage was simple, with a peaked roof, like the teepees from that land's past.  A single dirt road ran to us from daybreak in the east and only took a moment nod at the front porch before rambling west towards twilight. Behind the house ran a stream that returned the liquid memories of the road back to their origin. This balanced the house, in a way, making it a wheel that spun slowly between two tracks. The  house had been our home for almost a year, which, for as restless a woman as she surely felt an eternity. But we had been happy.

            By the time my feet touched the cold wood floor she had disappeared and there was no telling where she would materialize.  But I had the comfort of knowing that the whirling gyre of her fancy would eventually lead her to the backyard where I intended to absorb myself in a book.

            After dressing, I descended the stairs and opened the back door. I stepped out into a yellow day and sat down in the old Adirondack chair that faced the stream. A glass filled with ice and an opaque orange liquid  sat sweating on one of its arms. I sipped and could faintly hear her whispered voice echo from the quiet choirs of grass blades, giving away the drink-conjuring trick.

            It tasted of pineapple and coconut dirtied with Pacific trade winds and a twist of watery sunsets; a stark change from the comfortable country apple and abiding oak flavors of yesterday.

            She returned when the day had grown hot and the white  haze of the morning sun had transformed into the dense orange of afternoon. She entered her grassy stage prancing, every bit like a creature born in a fireside tale. Her nimble figure seemed to navigate air as deftly as it managed the ground. She jumped, seemed to pause, and then slid to the ground with the tiniest, catlike effort; always sure to land on her feet. I had tried to dance with her once, but was too slow and she had left me wobbling like a spent top.

            I enjoyed the drink and watched as she whirled away in a graceful imitation of dandelion seeds. Her hair swung loose and its long black fan folded around her arms and shoulders, making them pale islands of rock in a strong dark river.  Her voice wavered through the breeze as she danced, half humming, half singing:

“...falling all around, time I was on my way. Thanks to you I’m much obliged such a pleasant stay...”

            She tossed a mischievous glance at me, bold eyes acknowledging my suspicions and thanking me for my acceptance. I smiled and took a deep breath, archiving its taste for later remembrance before returning to my book.

            Before her reappearance I had been partway through some hypnogogic tale of mystery and imagination but my reentry into that world felt barred. I was unable to draw myself back into fiction, as if my environment had grown uncomfortable; some important element lacked. Listening, I soon found that silence had overtaken the yard. I looked up, half expecting her to be sneaking up behind me, impulsively diving for a kiss.

            Instead she stood at the far end of the yard, in the shady parts beneath the passive trees that stretched to the creek. She stood rigid and in her profile I read wild fear. It was a look I had never seen in her before and I rose startled, following the line of her eyes to the opposite end of the yard where a tattered gate opened onto the banks of the stream.

            In the opening prowled the monstrous black shape of a panther with an open mouth and vicious eyes pointed directly at her. Though its back ran parallel with the top of the short fence the cat seemed monstrous, as if the gravity of its dangerous darkness gathered the world around it and squeezed out drops of submission. The panther scrutinized her with calm, wise strength, but also with brutal intent companioned by a leaden rumble in its throat that seemed to make the house and the watery glade shimmer like a mirror in an earthquake.

            Not thinking, I threw my book to the ground and leapt to her side. Only after I stood between it and its prey did the reality of danger reach me. I had thought nothing of the mad fear in her eyes which had filled the sails of my courage. Only when the hands of my frightened gypsy sheltered on my shoulders did I glimpse the murderous power in each of the hunter’s obsidian claws. But I had stood and would stand though courage had grown damp.

            This was a shrewd animal. It would not pounce unless its quarry was assured, so when I jumped the huge black cat stepped back and began pacing a circle around us. As it turned so did we and soon our backs were facing the break in the fence. The cat paused. I urged her to run and turned her quickly towards the gate.

            Terrified she sprang toward the rusted gate, but to my horror the panther sprang too. I froze as the cat launched itself with locomotive strength. But at the same moment its paws left the ground, an exposed root from one of the trees caught the foot of the gypsy girl and threw her on the bank of the stream. Time slowed as the blurred black mass sailed over her head like a zeppelin. A paw lashed but grasping only air thrust forward to meet the opposite bank of the creek, an unnatural distance that revealed the strength beneath the panther’s oily fur.

            I lifted her from the soft ground as the huge cat had turned and was regarding us coldly, pacing and patiently planning a second assault. The panther's eyes never strayed from her, even as she regained her feet. Her hands sought mine and squeezed but her eyes had locked on the cat. There seemed to be some ethereal fear or distant recognition that I did not understand. But her grasp empowered me as I slowly led her downstream.

            The creek widened to the East but the more water that ran between us, the harder the panther's resolve seemed to become. I halted in a silent glen where the drooping trees created a shady cave, permitting only splattered bolts of sunshine to drop onto the water's surface. I glared across the water at the haunting mass of midnight, silently daring it to do its worst. The cat only stared, unblinking, amidst the babbling pulse of the stream.

            The panther's drooping head was defiant as it calmly mounted an old log that lay in the water like a natural wharf. It crouched, drawing its hind legs like a bowstring and was still.

            I grew tense and gently drew the girl behind me, ready to shield her as best I could. But her still, soft voice spoke; “No.”

            She squeezed my hand once and stepped out from behind me. Though I still glared at the cat I felt her slide away from me. I had been her protector, some strange, lanky, white knight, but when she parted from me I felt my fortitude deflate and all the fear that I had pushed away rushed back like sand into a lonely coastal grave. Still holding my hand she took one step, then two, and then stood. She demurely faced her hunter with a kind of phosphorescent mourning around the rims of her eyes and then let my hand drop from hers.

            In a frozen moment the yellow eyes of the feline flickered at me and I silently dared the hunter to spring while terror left me inert and froze my throat.

            Her hand was still falling to her side when the taut tendons of the cat released. I blinked. I heard a hollow crunch followed by a tremendous splash. The panther, gasping amid the floating remnants of the log that had collapsed beneath its strength, disappeared under the swift current that carried it forever away.

           

            By twilight the house stood empty and lifeless save for two sets of footprints on it's doorstep that turned left toward the setting sun.

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Copyright 2010