The Master (9 page)

“Love!” Hansel said scornfully. “Who wants love? That's for girls.”

“Brotherly love,” Nick explained hastily. “Peace on earth and goodwill toward all men.”

“Just men?” Gretel asked, her lower lip protruding. “That doesn't seem fair.”

“Women, too,” Nick added. “And children.”

“What about frogs? Or fish?” Hansel asked. “Or grasshoppers?”

“Yes, goodwill toward them as well. Peace on earth for everybody,” Nick added. Apparently he was wise to the ways of children, and knew they would spend hours naming species if he didn't include them all upfront.

Zee handed Nick a mug of herbal tea, and he gave her a distracted thanks. Amused, Zee gave tea to the children and then unfolded a second blanket, joining them on the floor. She was closer to the fire than she cared for, but it wasn't intolerable and she liked the way the firelight played over Nick's features, making his eyes gleam a sort of green-gold. Where she came from, everyone's eyes were dark.

“What else? I like
food,
” Hansel said. “Tell us about that.”

“Well, there are certain foods that go with Christmas,” Nick admitted.

“Candy canes,” Zee said, remembering the name of the candy she had tried once when she'd first gone into town. She'd gone with the city children there to see the fat man in a red suit who came to the mall in December. They called him Santa Claus, but she knew he wasn't. The real Santa was an elf; her mother had sometimes threatened her with him.

“Yes, peppermint is a Christmas flavor,” Nick said.

“And eggnog!” added Gretel.

“Toadstool pie?” Hansel suggested, feeling left out.

“Uh . . . no,” Nick said. Then, seeing the boy's wounded expression, he added kindly: “That would probably be more of a Halloween dish.”

“Halloween?” both children asked.

Zee named the holiday in Gaelic, and both children nodded. They knew of certain pagan revels practiced by the people in the town nearest their home.

“When did Christmas start?” Gretel asked. “When will it end?”

“Well, that depends,” Nick answered. Dredging from some sparse recollection of holiday lore, he said, “In some places they practice the twelve days of Christmas. In some places, they celebrate just one day.”

“Why?” Hansel asked.

“I'm not sure—but there's a song about the twelve days of Christmas.”

“Sing it!” the children urged.

Nick obligingly cleared his throat and began to sing about a partridge in a pear tree. His voice was nice and the children thought it terrific fun, joining in when they remembered the order of the gifts.

Nick drank deeply of his tea when the song was done. He had a slight band of sweat gathering on his brow. Zee stared at him, half-fascinated.

“Sing us another song,” Gretel begged.

“Uh . . . well, okay . . . I know one. It's about a reindeer with a red nose.”

As Nick began to sing, Zee reached for the pan on the hearth; she poured out more tea for him and the children. There was nothing bad in the tea, but the herbal concoction would help kill any hunger pangs that might be stirring in their empty bellies. It hurt to think of the children going hungry, but she wouldn't be able to go hunting until the morning, and they would be feeling it by then if they didn't drink the tea.

The children approved of this song, too, though they were clearly a bit hazy about what reindeer were even after Nick described them.

“Another song! Another song!” Hansel demanded, clapping his hands together. “A food song!”

“Well . . .” Nick drank more tea and thought. “I know one more—it even has a little food in it.” He began to sing.

The song was very pretty, but when Nick got to the line about “Jack Frost nipping at your nose,” both children gasped and looked round-eyed. He stopped singing.

“What? What's wrong?”

Zee explained quickly, “Jack Frost is a . . . do you know the word
bogeyman?”

“Yes.”

“In our culture, Jack Frost is one.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He sounded nonplused.

“That is all right. It's just a legend. I am sure the real Jack Frost is a very nice man.” She spoke for the children's benefit. She had reassured them many times that going to see the fey wouldn't be dangerous; she just prayed it was true. She would have liked to ask Nick his opinion, but if he hadn't heard of lutins, he probably hadn't heard of the fey either. “Please, Nick, go on with your song. It's lovely.”

“No. I don't remember all the words, anyway,” he said.

Zee poured more tea.

“What else is Christmas?” Gretel asked, still looking bright-eyed but apparently coming down off her nutmeg high.

Nick looked uncomfortable with the topic, yet he obviously wanted to be truthful and reasonably thorough about the holiday; he clearly didn't believe in lying to children or keeping information from them. “For many people, Christmas is about celebrating a very special birthday. Have you ever heard of Jesus?” he asked.

Zee translated the name to the children, her voice soft, and they nodded. Apparently reassured, Nick launched into a story about people called Mary and Joseph, who were traveling to a town called Bethlehem. He hadn't gotten very far, though, when Gretel again interrupted.

“The people had no room for them—just like us,” Gretel said, her eyes filling with tears. “Poor Mary! Did she have to go see the elves, too?”

Appalled and a bit thrown, Nick hurried on.

“Elves? No! Don't worry—they found a place in Bethlehem. And after the baby was born, a bunch of wise men came and gave him wonderful presents. Anyway . . . that is only one part of Christmas. These days, it's about Santa Claus, too.”

“Santa
Claws?
” Hansel's voice was hushed, and he raised his hands and hooked his fingers into bird talons.

“Claus, not claws. He's also called Kris Kringle or Father Christmas.”

“Kris Kringle,” Hansel said, almost coughing on the K's. He added doubtfully. “He sounds like an elf. A real one.”

“He is—‘a right jolly old elf,' ” Nick said.

“A real elf!” exclaimed Gretel, sounding alarmed. But at least she had stopped crying. “Is he a good elf or a bad elf?”

“Well, a good elf, of course. And he loves children—brings them presents and treats and puts them under the Christmas tree and in their socks. That's why we celebrate him at Christmas.”

Both children looked doubtful, but Nick was looking so harassed that Zee finally intervened.

“Time for bed,” she said, getting up. “We can have more stories tomorrow.”

Nick rose and helped Zee fold the blankets into makeshift sleeping bags, but a brief movement at the corner of his eye made him turn swiftly toward the darkened window.

“What is it?” Zee asked, also turning toward the pane. False sunrise was beginning to lighten the night sky. “Is someone there?”

“It's nothing,” Nick said. He wasn't about to explain how his own elderly reflection was recommending he tell the story of Ebenezer Scrooge and how the miser was finally redeemed. He turned deliberately away from the glass. It wasn't a terrible idea, but he refused to be coached on how to approach Zee.

“Listen, both of you,” he said, kneeling beside the children as they snuggled into their hard beds. Zee had been correct; now that the nutmeg was wearing off, they were very sleepy. “I think Santa may come visit us. And then you'll see that he isn't a bad person at all.”

“Will he come today?” Gretel asked, giving a large yawn. “I thought the elves lived far away.”

“He'll come while you're sleeping.”

“But I want to
see
the good elf,” Hansel complained. “I think that's just a made-up story.”

“Children can't see Santa. It isn't allowed,” Nick said. “But don't worry. Your sister and I will be here in case he brings some presents for you.” Then, not sure what prompted him, he reached out and smoothed back the child's tousled hair. “Sleep now. And have sweet dreams. When you wake up, it will be Christmas Day.”

“Good. I'm hungry,” Gretel said. “I want a partridge and a pear tree.”

“So,” Nick said, trying not to be conversationally heavy-handed and fearing that he was, “tell me all about yourself.”

“That would take a while,” Zee answered, pulling out a chair and seating herself at the table. They spoke in low voices so as not to disturb the children.

“Then start with what you do.”

“Under what circumstances?” A dimple appeared briefly in her left cheek.

Nick smiled back. “To make a living. That might be easiest to answer.”

“Oh.” Was there a hint of disappointment in her eyes at his mundane question? “That is easy. I am sole owner, manager and proprietor of the Zee Finvarra Sewing Service. I specialize in upholstery work—particularly leather.”

“Upholstery work. Have you been in business long?” Nick asked.

“Not yet. I had only just moved to town and opened my business when all this happened. But I have high hopes for it once I settle somewhere safe.” Zee looked away. Following her line of vision, Nick noticed a box of dog biscuits on the rickety table.

“Oh, do you have a dog?” he asked, looking about the small cabin. Then, with a touch of alarm: “He isn't outside, is he?”

“No. We don't have a dog.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. Nick couldn't be certain, but he thought maybe she was blushing. “I know it seems odd, but I have been trying to interest the children in better nutrition, and all the food out here is so strange. They like dog biscuits and, really, those are better for them than most crackers.”

“I see.” Nick was proud of the fact that he kept his voice normal. No wonder Gretel was hungry if tea and dog biscuits was all she was being fed. “I hadn't ever thought about it.”

He reached casually for the box and began reading the ingredients. She was right. They were actually fairly nutritious. He still felt appalled.

“I wonder how they taste,” he muttered.

“Try one.”

Nick hesitated. Aside from everything else, the box was almost empty. “Maybe later.”

“My turn to ask a question,” Zee said.

“Okay, shoot.”

“ ‘Shoot?' ”

“Sorry, that's slang. It means, go ahead.”

“Ah. Tell me more about why you think Santa Claus will visit us here. Are you and he good friends?”

The question surprised Nick because of its seeming seriousness. He started to give a glib answer, but the distorted reflection on the side of the pan with the eggnog stopped him. Somehow, he just couldn't find it in himself to explain Santa was a mythical figure; he'd never actually met an adult who still believed, and he wouldn't be the one to kill the magic.

“No, we're not—at least not anymore,” he said finally, reaching for the Chivas Regal and Stag's Breath. “Would you like to try some proper eggnog? Or will the nutmeg bother you, too?”

“The nutmeg will not bother me as it did the children. And I would like to try eggnog,” she said. She reached for the bottle in Nick's left hand, turning it so she could see the label. The dimple in her cheek reappeared. “Stag's Breath? How do they collect it? It sounds a bit messy. Perhaps even dangerous.”

Nick held still, enjoying the slight touch of her fingers. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed anything so much. Frankly, it had been a long time since he had enjoyed anything at all. He cleared his throat.

“It's a honey liqueur made from scotch. Dreadful name, but very tasty. I smuggled it through Customs last trip to Scotland.”

“If it's tasty, then let's have some.” Zee dropped her hand. Nick carefully cracked the seal on the Scottish delicacy and poured some into the pan.

“Why don't you know this Santa anymore?” she asked, returning to the previous subject. “Did he only want to come to you when you were a child?”

“Well . . . yes, that's right. When I was very young.” Nick added a second generous helping of the liqueur, then reached for the Chivas Regal. Thinking of how to easily explain, he added a generous measure. “But my family chased him away. They were inhospitable people, not the kind of folks who opened their hearts to . . . well, strangers. And I sort of . . . I don't know. I waited for a while for Santa to come back, but eventually I gave up on the idea of him coming back into my life.”

Lame, Nick, really lame
.

“But you think he'll come here tonight,” she said, her head tilted to one side as she examined him.

Nick gave the slowly warming eggnog a stir, then poured it into their empty tea mugs. The smell of the liqueur was strong, and he wondered if maybe he had overdone things a bit.

“Santa will come tonight,” he said, keeping his voice soft so he didn't wake the children. He took a healthy swallow of eggnog. The gray-haired reflection in the old pan was nodding at him encouragingly. “Or he'll send someone. Santa needs help sometimes because there are so many people in the world who need him. But the children—and you— will have Christmas.”

Zee inhaled slowly and then sipped from her mug, using more caution that Nick had. She licked her lips, cleaning them of the frothy drink with a delicate catlike gesture. “But you won't have Christmas with us?” she asked, taking another sip, obviously fascinated by this rather commonplace thing. “Santa won't bring it for you, too?”

“I don't think so,” Nick said, taking another large swallow. “But don't worry. I haven't missed it much these last thirty years. Except for Christmas trees. I always loved those. Nothing smells finer.”

“Christmas trees?” Zee repeated. She leaned back in her chair, getting comfortable. “What are they? Not those green plastic cones at the mall.”