I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play.
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men.

 

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The echo of a Christmas carol floated on the hazy air, swirling through twisting passageways, drifting into candlelit chambers. As the voices of the children’s choir filled the world Below, members of the tunnel community paused in their work to listen for a moment, feeling the weight of everyday cares lighten with the cheerful sound. The familiar music of the season warmed and bolstered tired spirits, offering a sense of peace and happiness to all who lived Below.

To all, that is, but one.

In a far alcove of his chamber, Vincent stooped low over an old storage chest, one large, furred hand holding open its lid while the other rooted about within its depths. Unwilling to proceed with any sense of methodical efficiency, he shoved aside an old model train, wincing as the engine’s metal smokestack crashed against some unseen object. The shatter of broken glass and the slash of torn paper were ominous clues, leading him to discover the damage inflicted on a small, framed lithograph, a favorite print of sunflowers Mary had given him long ago. Ruined now, like everything else.

Slamming down the lid of the chest, he straightened and threw back his head as a low, ominous growl rumbled from deep within him. Motionless save for the heaving of his chest, he struggled within smothering waves of frustration and anger. It was useless. No matter how hard he searched, there was nothing to be found. He should have known, but the hope in his heart had been unquenchable.

He slowly became aware of a golden sound, the children’s voices lingering in the dusky amber air, and he felt his heart begin to ease, his pulse slow. Peace on Earth, goodwill to men. Shoulders sagging, a small, harsh sigh escaped his lips. A few plodding steps brought him to the great carved chair near his bed, and he dropped heavily onto its threadbare, velvet-covered cushion, a defeated knight, an abandoned quest. Cupping his chin in his hands, he leaned forward to rest his elbows against the taut muscles of his thighs and stared into the candlelit gloom. The final notes of the children’s carol faded to a memory.

Soon the members of his tunnel family would begin their Christmas Eve celebration, and everyone was expected to be present in the communal dining chamber. Christmas was only one of the many holidays his world shared with the world Above, and yet the differences in this special time Below were remarkable for their honest simplicity and reassuring warmth.

There would be a special dinner created by William’s artistry from Helpers’ welcome donations; simple, heartfelt gifts provided for the children, and chorus after chorus of favorite holiday songs. Then, as members of his family gathered close, Father would read aloud “The Night Before Christmas” and the final scene from “A Christmas Carol”. Everyone cherished the chance to enjoy holiday traditions that some had known and treasured in the world Above and some had only learned of since coming to live Below. The origins didn’t matter as long as they were loved and shared together.

Ever since he was a young child, he had looked forward to this holiday, savoring its quiet pleasures as much as he enjoyed the more vibrant excitement of Winterfest. But this year there would be a new element added to the festivities, and it was one he faced with unexpected dread. This year, Catherine had been invited to join the underworld family for their Christmas Eve celebration. Even the idea of anticipating Catherine’s presence Below with anything less than joy filled his heart with shame and anger. And yet he could not escape the feelings that tormented him.

Sighing heavily, he leaned back in the chair, drumming his fingers against its scarred wooden arms as his thoughts turned toward the last time he had seen her. It was then he’d invited her to come Below for Christmas Eve, and he remembered how his heart had swelled with pleasure as she’d eagerly accepted. His words had tumbled one over the other as he told her about the ways of their celebration, explaining its simplicity and warmth, hoping she would enjoy it as he always had. Even now, her heartfelt response resonated through him. He had been stunned by the ease with which she had turned her back on the glittering excitement of Christmas Eve in the city Above, to willingly trade it all away just for the chance to share that special night with him, in his world and in his heart.

He shook his head hard, returning his focus to the present, feeling the pervasive despondency return. He knew he had every reason to be happy, and yet he could not shake off the insistent disappointment that haunted him. He looked toward the barren surface of his desk, able only to imagine what he’d hoped to see waiting there. But there was no box wrapped in festive paper and colorful ribbons, still lovely if slightly creased and frayed from years of careful use. No card or tag with her name inscribed in his flowing script.

There was no gift for Catherine.

As they’d talked that night of Christmas pleasures, he had purposely mentioned their gift-giving Below as being only for the children, knowing she would understand immediately. She had readily agreed to the appropriateness of that practice, never realizing her brief, involuntary glance toward the living room and the nearly imperceptible sadness that had dulled her eyes only for a moment had given her away. When minutes later she had dashed inside for a warmer jacket, he’d moved closer to the glass-paneled doors and had seen resting on a table a large, brightly wrapped package. He had known without a doubt that it was meant to be her Christmas gift for him, something special and precious because she had chosen it with great care and a heart filled with love. He knew, too, that she would put the gift and her own disappointment aside out of respect for his wishes and the ways of his world.

He loved her even more for that, for her unquestioned acceptance and appreciation of the tunnel community’s traditions and her longing to be part of them. Yet all the understanding and love and gratitude in his heart had not kept him from near obsession once the desire to please her with a gift had possessed him. Even though he knew it was contradictory to everything he had told her, he could not let it go. And in the days preceding Christmas Eve, he had driven himself to distraction trying to find the perfect present. He knew full well she did not expect a gift from him; and even if at one time she might have hoped for such a thing, she would not have imagined some sparkling, new object from the world Above, and instead would have treasured a well-loved or handmade gift from the heart of the world Below. He knew, too, that even if he never offered her a tangible gift at all, she would not care, for to be with him was what she wished for more than anything else.

That final thought filled him with shame for it only underscored what now seemed like so much time wasted in childish sulking, useless yearning for what could not be. Since they’d first met, he had found so few ways to express his feelings for her, and just once he’d wanted to give something special to the woman he loved. But there were gifts still to be offered that were far more precious than mere objects. Catherine meant everything to him, and to know she wanted to share this special night with his family and with him in their own unique world was a gift beyond measure. Nothing else should matter at all. And nothing else did.

Rising to his feet, he shrugged his shoulders and sighed one last time, ready to move past the disappointment of thwarted hopes. It was then that the sweetest music he would ever hear filled his soul, and he turned toward the chamber entrance, feeling his heart rejoice.

Within moments, she appeared. The reflected golden light of the candles and torches seemed to make her glow and shimmer like an angel he’d once seen gracing the top of a Helper’s Christmas tree. He closed his eyes for a moment and smiled as he remembered the long ago wonder he had felt as he’d beheld that glimmering sight, all the while knowing when he opened his eyes once again, he would see not the gossamer doll of his childhood amazement but his own beloved angel, his Catherine.

Seconds later she was in his arms, and the beautiful, seasonless music of their hearts and souls resonated around and within them, spiraling higher and higher with the sweetest of sounds only they could hear. It was then he knew they had offered, one to the other, the greatest gift of all, the gift of devotion and unending love which would be theirs for now and for all time.

The best and most beautiful things in this world
cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart.

~ Helen Keller

___________________

Author’s Note:  The plot of “The Gift” is an original idea that might fit within the First Season of BatB. It was written at the request of Rita Davies, a good friend who was the editor of “Chatterbox,” a letter/anthology zine series published in Wales. This original story was included in the Christmas 1995 issue, and the slightly revised final version is the one you have just read.