A Circle of Celebrations: The Complete Edition (19 page)

The headman shot a look at Rhodri as though asking permission. Rhodri took in a deep breath, and nodded.

“Come, and welcome,” Huw said.

As the man stepped onto the threshold, the hanging mistletoe brushed his head. Rhodri felt the power of the strong mistletoe take hold. The priest’s face changed. He looked up in horror as he saw the sacred plant. He plunged forward, but instead of grabbing the wreath from above the door, he seized Wynedd in his arms and began to kiss her. She squealed, at first in surprise, but then in delight. She put her arms around him and held tight, returning every kiss with all her pent-up longing.

In the very next breath, Nudd realized his terrible error. He pushed at the girl’s shoulders, trying to get free. Rhodri glanced at Huw. The headman, instead of looking outraged, was pleased. It meant that the churchman would have to show favor to the family, if for no other reason than to keep the scandal quiet.

Nudd extricated himself, but the magic was too strong. No matter how he tried to extricate himself, his arms stayed wrapped around the girl’s body. For the first time in years, he was more man than priest. He kept plunging into the kiss again and again, covering the girl’s face and neck with passionate lips. She giggled and her eyes closed in sheer bliss.

Huw smiled broadly.

“Is this a new custom of the church, priest?” he asked. “Kissing under the mistletoe?”

“No! I, uh …” Unable to resist for even a moment, Nudd bent again to his work. Wynedd threw her arms around his neck and cuddled closer against him.

“Well, then, perhaps it should be,” the headman declared. “My daughter seems to be enjoying it mightily.”

At last, Nudd managed to drag in a breath of air, and glared at Rhodri.

“
You
did this,” he growled, before Wynedd dragged his head down again.

“I?” Rhodri asked, watching with growing amusement. “I serve the gods of nature. If this is so unnatural, let her go.”

“I … I can’t!”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Huw asked. “My friend the king comes to Llyn on the second day of Christmas. What on Earth shall I tell him and his friend the bishop about this priest?”

“Nothing,” Bronwen said. “Look how happy they are. Well, we must take our leave. Good Yule to you, Huw.”

Huw gave them a broad wink.

On the threshold, Bronwen took Rhodri’s face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth. The bard felt the crackle as though lightning passed between them. He gasped. The witch smiled.

“Have we done ill?” he asked, nodding toward the closed door. Bronwen waved a hand in dismissal.

“Not a whit. That was what Nudd needed. You have given him a proper Yule present. It will save his soul.”

“He will break his vows,” Rhodri said, feeling the shame Nudd must be experiencing even alongside the joy.

Bronwen shook her head. “Then he will confess the sins and be forgiven. That is their way. In the meanwhile, we will have peace for a time. The girl is happy, and her father is not displeased. You have made all well. Go on and give the rest of your gifts to the village.” She glanced toward the fire on the church steps. It had burned down to a few embers. The monks around it looked puzzled when their master did not emerge from the headman’s house with another prize.

Rhodri was struck by a dismaying thought. He clutched Bronwen’s arm.

“She will surely conceive. The mistletoe never fails. Not with all that power within it.”

“Ah, no trouble for all that. It wouldn’t be the first priest’s brat in these parts, nor the last, and look how many masses the deed will buy for the soul of our worthy headman. Huw has a toe in all our circles.”

Rhodri looked down at Bronwen fondly. The power that passed between them was not all due to the mistletoe.

“Ah, my dear,” he said. “I owe you a debt.”

She gave him a wicked smile that made the dimples in her rosy cheeks indent. “Then you shall pay it. And you can pay it off at midnight tonight, while the moon is still full. I don’t want you to become like Nudd. It’ll be your Yule gift to me.”

He smiled at her. Even Gryffydd would agree that a wise man knew when to withdraw and when to come forward. “It is a debt I will gladly pay, mistress. I will meet you then, under the mistletoe.”

The Very Next Day

The first thing people noticed, on the busy New York street, was the broadsheet newspaper clutched in the small man’s hand. That was odd, because his costume would surely have set him apart anywhere outside of Lapland, or wherever winter ruled. It ought to have stood out on a fine day in September like a sore thumb. His coat, which reached over his round belly nearly to his knees, was made of fur, russet red like a deer’s hide, and lined with longer white fur. A hood with a long peak lay on his shoulders, revealing wavy white hair worn very long and a shining white moustache and beard that seemed as if they had been growing for centuries, if not decades. His boots of black leather shone like mirrors, as did the silver buckle of his black belt. Normally, they would not expect to see a man dressed as Santa Claus sooner than December, but today everyone in Manhattan felt a bit indulgent and nostalgic.

“Nice outfit,” the man in the newspaper kiosk said, glancing up. “Giving the suit an airing today?”

“Why, no,” “Santa Claus” said. “This is what I wear all of the time.”

The newspaper vendor shrugged. A harmless nut, but he looked like the real thing, and that made him feel good. He pushed the flat wool cap back on his head and scratched his scalp. Like a boy again.

“Just in town for the day?”

Santa slapped his chest with his hand and looked up at the tall buildings—the tallest in the world. He felt a thrill to see them. “Why, yes! It’s a fine city. I never do get to see them in daylight. Always by moonlight or starlight.” He glanced down at the paper in his hand.

The vendor nodded toward the newspaper. “Nice piece of writin’ there, ain’t it?”

Santa nodded. “Truly. I would be convinced, if I were a child.”

Something in the way the old man said the last word sounded disappointed. The newsman gave him an encouraging grin. “Everyone was, if you ask me. Wanna copy of today’s paper?”

“No, thank you,” the old man said. “I haven’t done with this one yet.” He folded it up and put it in his pocket. Then he eyed the newsman, counted the gaps in his smile. “You should take better care of your teeth, you know.”

The newspaper vendor felt his face go red. “Don’t you make personal comments to me, geezer!”

“But you promised me,” “Santa” said. “In your letter. If I brought you that stuffed leather horse, you’d clean your teeth every day, just as your mother asked you.”

The newsman’s mouth dropped open. “But that was forty years ago!”

“A promise is a promise.”

“Yeah.” He ran his tongue over the remaining teeth in his mouth. “I will, Santa. I really will. Thanks. And thanks for the horse. I really loved it. I gave it to my first daughter when she was born.”

“You were a good boy, Louis,” Santa said, offering his free hand for a shake. Louis clutched the leather glove.

How absolutely marvelous that he knew everything there was about a child just by looking at him, Santa thought as he turned away from the wondering eyes. Then he paused, confused.
How
did
I know all that?

What was going on inside his head was not nearly so amazing as what was outside it. New York was a place of wonders! Santa gazed around him in wonder, taking it all in. Men and women wore clothing made of the most exquisite fabrics, soft and evenly woven and dyed in colors that had heretofore existed only in rainbows and spring meadows. Gentlemen in brilliant white linen jackets tipped their flat straw hats to ladies whose long, shining hair was piled up in a pumpkin shape on their heads. The streets themselves were surprisingly clean. Men pushing barrels on wheels stopped to sweep and scoop up refuse deposited by horses.

He had expected to be overwhelmed by the odor of sewage and rotten vegetation on top of the smell of coal fires that filled the air. Instead, there was a new scent, a sharp burning scent. Horses drew carriages through the streets as well as on narrow metal rails, but over his head and in the windows of the many, many shops, tiny lights encased in glass shone. They were not candles, they were light bulbs. The smell was that of
electricity
. Such things did not exist in many places yet, that he knew, but this was a city that had to have everything new as soon as possible. He walked between tall, stone buildings with shining bronze doors. Fantastic, swooping designs were pressed into them. Art Nouveau, they called it. Beautiful. New World, new art. New music poured from the doors of clubs.

From a point at the very tip of the island, he saw in the harbor a magnificent statue, a woman facing away from him, with a torch in her hand raised in welcome. He did not have to see her face to know that she was Liberty herself. She had been a gift. Santa had not given her, but he knew when something had been tendered with love or respect. He felt as if
he
had been given a present, to see something that represented such an ideal.

Children who had been looking out into the harbor noticed the small man in their midst. They broke away from their parents and came tearing toward him.

“Santa!” “Santa Claus!” “Sinterklaas!”

They danced around him, laughing, and he shared their delight. Little girls in bows tied on top of their heads, boys in knee pants, urchins without shoes. They hugged him, tugged on his coat, tried to clamber into his arms, though he was scarcely taller than they were. They felt in his pockets and came up with handfuls of hard candies wrapped in bright cellophane. Their eyes were alight with happiness.

“What are you doing here?” one asked.

“Where are your reindeer? Can I say hello to Dancer?”

“Mama said you would bring me a train for Christmas if I am good. Will you?”

“Well, well, well, we will see!” Santa said, chucking a chin here and offering a hug there. “Are you helping your mother with the chores? She needs help now that your new brother has arrived.”

“Aw,” said Steven, the boy who wanted the train. “I
guess
.”

“Good for you! Then you will be on my good list for this Christmas!”

Steven glowed with pride.

With every child’s question, Santa felt himself growing stronger and more alive. How marvelous it was to interact with the little ones whom he usually glimpsed asleep in their beds if at all. He knew of the dreams they had and wishes they made. They were a joy awake. He loved to be with them all.

They all knew everything about him, and because they did, he knew everything about them. Glynnis had a lisp that made her friends tease her. Fridur had recently come to the United States with his parents from the Netherlands. They were poor, but making their way. His mother took in washing, and his father worked on the docks. Evelyn was from a wealthy family, but her brother had just died of typhoid. All of them had been good except Mick. He was cruel to animals. Santa regarded him with stern pity. He did not have to say anything. The boy shrank away from his bright gaze. He knew too much about Santa to imagine that his sins were hidden from him.

What did Santa know about himself? More memories came to him as he spoke with the children. He lived far away, where it was cold. They were unclear as to where, as each of them had a different idea. He drove a sleigh with reindeer. He made toys. Not all by himself. Little men helped him. They loaded the sleigh on Christmas Eve, and he drove all over the world. He brought toys for good children, and punished bad ones—no, he brought rocks and coal for bad ones. His assistants did not beat children any more. He was glad of that.

“How do you go all the way around the world in just one night?” a boy with big brown eyes asked. His name was Julian. He was ten, and his grandfather had been a war hero.

“My reindeer are very swift,” Santa said. “I have worked out the very best route possible. I am always home by dawn.” He knew in his soul that it was absolutely true. The other children nodded eagerly.

“But it’s impossible to go to every house with children! There are millions of them!

“It takes magic,” Santa explained. “You do believe in magic, don’t you?”

Julian crossed his arms. “My daddy said that magic doesn’t exist. Just science.”

“Isn’t there room for both in your heart?”

“But you think with your head, not your heart!”

Santa tapped his own temple. “A smart person knows that he should listen to all the parts of his body.”

“Who brings you presents, Santa?”

What a good child, that little girl with long yellow braids tied with blue ribbons. Her name was Caroline. She was just eight.

He stroked her hair, marveling at the silky strands. “Why, you do, children. Every smile, every laugh, every ‘thank you’ is a gift to me.”

“That’s funny,” she said.

“Why do you believe in me?” he asked. “Is it because of this newspaper article?” He showed them the paper from his pocket. Caroline shook her head.

“Oh, no, I always believed in you. Daddy and Mama and Granddad and Gamma say you are real. But I know I heard you in my parlor last Christmas.”

Santa remembered, the memory as vivid in his mind as in hers. “When I left you the doll with golden braids, just like yours.”

“Yes!”

“So you was just pretendin’ to be asleep!” Mick said.

“No, she was really asleep,” Santa explained. “She was dreaming. You can hear me in your dreams. Sometimes you can see me, too.” He knew that Mick had. The boy had also dreamt of those helpers that punished bad children. Mick believed, even if he didn’t behave.

“Come away, sweetheart,” said a slender woman in a white shirtwaist, a tiny blue jacket trimmed with maroon braids and a graceful, long blue skirt that swept the pavement. A tiny hat made of feathers was perched upon her hair. “We must get you to school.”

Caroline didn’t want to let go of his hand. “But, Mommy, it’s Santa Claus!”

Mary, that was her name, detached Caroline’s hand. “No, sweetheart, just someone dressed up as him.” She looked Santa up and down. Her expression was disapproving. “Good day, sir.”