Goshen624

The soft flicker of candlelight threw the old man’s time worn features into sharp relief. He was still but for the jerking movement of his gnarled hand over the page, silent but for the scratching of his pen as it scrawled across the paper. He wore a frown, oblivious to the many ink spots that stained his skin and the ancient desk he hunched over, his concentration solely on the words flowing onto the paper. Though his features belied it, a wild excitement was stirring deep down in the pit of his stomach. After years of work, he was nearly finished. A dry, crusty smile forced its way reluctantly through the frown as his arthritis began to act up. Not a moment too soon, it seemed.

         Just as he laid down his pen, a soft knock came at the study door. “Dear?”

         “I’m alright, no heart attack tonight, love. I’ve just been working.”

         He felt the soft hands of his wife on his shoulders, and shivered as she kissed the top of his head. Amazing how she could still have such an effect on him, even after all these years. “The same thing you’ve been doing every night for, oh…fifty years now, right?”

         The old man chuckled. It was an exaggeration, thought not by much. “Writing is not one of my strong points, I’m afraid. That combined with a terrible tendency to procrastinate, it’s a miracle I’ve finished before my liver failed.”

         “Are you really finished? That is a miracle! I’m so excited for you! The kids are here, you know. Maybe you could read it to everyone over dinner tonight, eh?”

         The old man ran his hands softly, almost lovingly over the stack of papers. His manuscript. The frown had returned as he considered his wife’s request. There was a reason he had taken the untold amount of time to write out the story. He wanted people to hear it. He didn’t want it to be lost or distorted by hearsay. A true story, told by one who had been there. Even so, the thought of sharing the intensely personal account he had just finished seemed like a daunting task. His wife’s voice turned gentle. “I know it’s a scary thought. It’s a painful story, for both of us. But the kids have a right to know. They deserve to know the facts. Who better to tell them than you?” she kissed his cheek, more tenderly this time. “And besides, it has a happy ending, right?” He rolled his eyes, unable to fight the urge to smile in spite of himself.

         “You’re right, of course. You always were. Help me up then, let’s get this painful evening over with.”

         She helped him to his feet, steadying him as he gathered up his manuscript. The top pages were well worn with time, and marked by decades of corrections and edits. Stacking them neatly, the old man shuffled from the room, leaning on his loving wife. The pace was slow, but he was in no hurry to get there.

         The large kitchen was warm and inviting, pealing with laughter and merriment. The old man’s two sons, his daughter, and their spouses and children, were all crowded around the massive dining room table, enjoying an evening of games and stories. A massive roast turkey sizzled on the counter, the aroma intoxicating. Christmas lights twinkled on the branches of a freshly cut fir tree in the corner, reflecting off the brightly colored packages underneath.

         “Dad!” The oldest of the man’s sons roared happily, raising a foaming mug of eggnog in greeting. “It’s good to see you’re still breathing, you old prune! We thought you’d mummified up there in that study of yours!”

         The old man chuckled as his wife sat him comfortably in his favorite chair. “Keep grinning like a drunk frog, you impudent punk. There’s still time to take back that ridiculously overpriced present we got you.”

         His son made a show of being quiet and repentant, to the hilarity of those present. The old man’s wife wagged a reproving spoon at the younger man. “That’s enough of that now. Christmas isn’t about gifts, it’s about torturing your family thoroughly enough that they stay away for a year until next Christmas!” The family roared appreciatively. An assortment of miniature people attached themselves to the old man’s legs. “Grammpa!”

         “Whacha get us for Chrissmas Grammpa?”

         “Did yer get us something good?”

         “Can we open one now, Grammpa?”

         “Easy, easy young ones! You can wait your turn like the rest of  us have to. Besides, do you want to rob Santa of the chance to deliver gifts to you tonight?”

         The youngest of the grandkids, a three year old girl with wide blue eyes and a ring of golden curls, looked thoughtful before piping up “Yes!”

         The old man laughed aloud and hugged the little one roughly. “Me too, dear one. If it were up to me, we’d open them all tonight! But…”

         “But then Grandma would have to whack a bunch of little bottoms with this wooden spoon!” The old woman said severely, wagging the spoon at them. They scattered, squealing in delighted mock terror. The old man looked up at her, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, love. Excitement of the holidays and all that. Couldn’t help myself.”

         She winked, and set the turkey on the table, amidst cheers. Dinner was delicious. Conversation was free and easy between mouthfuls of moist turkey, aromatic seasonings and bubbly ginger ale. The old man smiled as the meal progressed around him. He loved Christmas. The sounds, the food, the music. It was the one time his family was together. It was the one time nightmares didn’t plague him. His hands trembled slightly, sipping from his glass. He hoped, prayed even, that telling the story tonight would rid him of them for good.

         It was a tall order.

         After a time, the meal was finished and the night lapsed into softer, easy conversation. The old man’s wife stood up, clearing her throat. The room became silent, and eyes watched her expectantly. “As you are all no doubt aware, since it’s been going on since the oldest of you was still in diapers, your dad has been steadily working on a story from our own childhood. And tonight he’s finally finished it!”          

         Christopher, the old man’s younger son, whistled. “Wow, it’s done? It’s been forever. Are we gonna get to hear the thing? We’ve grown up looking forward to it, after all.”

         The look his wife threw the old man was a question. A request for permission. He nodded, giving it. “Your father would like nothing more than to tell you his story. Our story.”

         The attention shifted to the old man, who was still calmly sipping from his goblet. Taking a moment, he deliberately set the glass down and shuffled the stack of paper restlessly. All eyes were on him anxiously, waiting. Excited. They liked nothing better than hearing a good tale, and a true one could only be the best yet.

         The old man cleared his throat, and looked impressively around at the expectant audience. “First of all, a very merry Christmas to all of you. I love having you all here. And most of all, I love presents!” the grandkids cheered uproariously. The old man smiled gently as the parents struggled to regain silence. Once the giggling and jostling had subsided, he continued. “There was a time though, many many years ago, when I has having quite a terrible Christmas. A Christmas that would begin an adventure of a lifetime. So this story begins on a dark and dreary Christmas eve, countless years ago…



         ***



         Lee Adams was in trouble, and he knew it. He scrabbled frantically around the corner, ducking into a grimy alley, hidden in the shadow of a derelict apartment building. Panting, Lee crouched out of sight behind  a rank smelling dumpster, straining for any sound of his pursuers. He didn’t have to listen long. Angry voices came floating down the street. “Where’d that little punk go?”

         “I dunno, but when I get my hands on him, he’s dead. Dead, d’ya hear me?”

         “Yeah, keep talking big mouth. You couldn’t kill a bleedin’ ant, you lumbering idiot. Just keep looking.”

         “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Let’s see how tough you are when you have to explain that to Ryans when we get back empty handed, and that you’re the one what let him get away. Ten bucks says you piss your pants.”

         They continued to bicker all the way down the street, until they were out of earshot. Lee grinned. Victorious again. He tossed the wallet he had lifted from one of the thugs into the air, and caught it deftly, feeling quite proud of himself. There weren’t many kids in the neighborhood that had the guts to antagonize the local gang, the Kult. Lee snorted to himself. They certainly weren’t the most creative bunch in the galaxy, with a name like that. But they were nasty and tough enough. Lee enjoyed the challenge of infuriating them, and the cash wasn’t bad either. He took a moment to sift through the bills he had pilfered. Hundred dollar bills. Eight of them. Laughing to himself, Lee ducked out from his hiding place.

         Straight into a Mack truck masquerading as a human child.

         Lee recognized the behemoth as Ryans, the leader of the Kult. Before he had a chance to react, his arms were pinned behind his back by unseen assailants. Crap Lee thought dimly. Bad luck for me. This is going to be bad.

         “Well well well, look what we have here fellas,” Ryans crooned, smiling crookedly at his captive. “A lost little puppy, who thought he could get away with nipping at the big dogs. D’you know what big dogs do to little runts what piss them off?”

         “I know there’s a lot of arse sniffing…oh no, please!” Lee pleaded cheerfully. “Don’t put your nose in my arse, Ryans! I don’t think I could take that.”

         The blow came fast, but it didn’t surprise Lee. The pain momentarily stunned him, and Lee could taste the salty tang of blood, but he fought through the daze.

         “You might think you’re hot stuff because you’ve got a big shot daddy, but what gives you the idea you’re so much better than us, eh you little prick?”

         Lee blinked dimly at the assailant. “I dunno, a lot of it’s through comparison.”

         Another blow, but this time Ryans didn’t confine himself to one. Again and again the mammoth hands smashed into Lee, who was helpless to resist. More blood gushed from Lee’s mouth as a blow connected to his jaw; with a sickening crunch, his nose broke. The rest of the gang, now assembled behind their leader, cheered and leered appreciatively. “This is what happens to people that cross the Kult!”

         Lee was beginning to feel faint, and he knew he was close to blacking out. So this is how I die? He thought dimly. Not exactly romantic.

         “That’s enough!” a booming voice called from the shadows. Immediately, the blows ceased and Lee collapsed to the pavement, released from the grip of his tormentors. Lee struggled to raise his head, his entire body on fire from the beating. A London security sentinel was looming over his prone figure, features obscured by a polarized visor. “Citizen, are you hurt?”

         “I’ve felt worse I guess,” Lee managed weakly. He examined his reflection in the visor, wincing at the sudden resemblance to hamburger his face had taken on. “I look fantastic though, don’t I?”

         The guard was unmoved by the brevity. He gripped Lee’s elbow and hauled him to his feet, painfully. “Come with me. We’ll handle this.”

         As Lee gingerly followed the guard, he couldn’t help but smile. In the confusion, the Kult had forgotten their wallet.