The Dragon's Christmas Gift

  “I’m not arguing, father,” said the freckle-face girl, her long ponytail flowing behind her. “I’m just dodging Samuel’s snowballs, which isn’t all that hard to do.”

  “Well, I’ve got a brilliant idea,” said her father. “Stop dodging snowballs and…” he added, looking directly at Samuel, “stop throwing snowballs and get going on making some nice Christmas presents for your mother and baby sister.”

  Samuel rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, father. What could I possibly make for Violet? She doesn’t even know it’s going to be Christmas.”

  “That’s beside the point,” said his father, turning a horseshoe over on its side and positioning it for the hammer.

  “And anything I make…well, she’ll just chew it up and swallow it.”

  “Now, now,” said his father. “Violet doesn’t chew up everything.” He paused for a few seconds. “Although I’ll admit, she chews up almost everything. But she’s teething. She can’t help it.”

  “Maybe not,” said Samuel, “but it makes it awfully tough to think of a present for her.”

  “It’s especially tough when you don’t have a working brain to begin with,” chimed in Emma cheerfully.

  “Emma!” roared her father. “You know that’s just the kind of thing that provokes your brother into throwing snowballs at you.”

  Emma smiled slyly. “Really, Father, Samuel can be stupid without any help from me.”

  “That’ll be enough, dear daughter! You may be the apple of my eye but…”

  “An apple with a worm, I’ll bet!” Samuel interjected quickly as he headed out the door.

  “Come back here!” shouted Emma at her brother’s disappearing back.

  “Let him go,” her father said gently. “It’s really you I need to talk with.”

  “Me?”

  “Just for a minute. There’s something I need you to do for me.”

  “Sure, Father.”

  “You know the red shawl in the window of Mr. Allen’s dry goods shop on the corner.”

  “Father, it’s the only dry goods shop in our little village. How could I not know it?”

  “Well, Emma, sometimes your head is in the clouds and I just…”

  “Yes, of course, Father. The red shawl. I know the one you mean. Mother has admired it a few times as we walk by the shop.”

  Exactly!” said her father brightly. “But if I come home tonight with a package in my hands, your mother’s immediately going to know what I’ve been up to. And then she’ll say…’Oh, Jonathon, you shouldn’t have. Money is so scarce…’Well, you know what your mother will say.”

  “But if I buy the shawl for you and sneak it in the house when no one is looking,” said Emma eagerly, “Mother won’t have any idea.”

  “Exactly! Here,” he said, holding out a handful of coins. “This should cover the cost. If there’s anything left over, you can stop at the candy store on the way back.”

  Emma bounced over to her father, gave him a quick kiss, grabbed the coins, and trotted off. “You can count on me, Father.”

  Left alone, Mr. White rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, this may not be the best Christmas ever, but I’ll certainly not let it be the worst.”

  Chapter 5: Exploring the Village

  Bostwick looked longingly at the setting sun over the horizon. It was always a beautiful sight. His view from the mountain top was probably the best for miles around. But he always had mixed feelings about the sunset, as beautiful as it was. It meant that another day was over, another day where he hadn’t really done anything very important…nothing really meaningful. Of course he wasn’t sure what he could do that was really meaningful if it came to that. But he was pretty sure that there was something that dragons could do that was more than looking for food, cooking the food, eating the food and occasionally terrifying a nearby villager or knight.

  And the sunset always seemed to be drawing him out of the cave. If the sun was setting here, maybe it was rising somewhere else? Should he follow the sun? No, he couldn’t really bring himself to leave the beautiful mountain top where he had lived so long. But he could do something…he could go out and find out something new about the village that lay in the valley beneath the mountain.

  Bostwick made sure it was completely dark before he began his trip down the mountain to the little village. Luckily, the moon was hidden under dark clouds and Bostwick was confident that no one heard him on the way down. There was one shepherd, asleep in the field by his flock, who seemed to stir a little when Bostwick crept by his field, but the dragon just held his fiery breath for a few seconds and the shepherd drifted back into a sound sleep.

  At last he reached the village. He knew that there was a night watchman who would be roaming the streets and tending to the hand-lit street lamps, every once in a while giving out with an “All’s well!” bellow, but Bostwick was confident that he could keep out of the watchman’s view.

  With the coast clear, Bostwick quickly nestled down next to a small cottage that was set right up against a hill. Making himself as small as possible, Bostwick quietly put his ear as close to the window as he could.

  Bostwick could hear the people talking inside…just barely. He had picked up only a few words of the villager’s language over the years and so he wasn’t quite sure what they were saying. But the people inside the snug little cottage were clearly very cheerful and very happy.

  Every once in a while, Bostwick would sneak close enough to glance in one of the small windows at the side of the cottage. The front room was full of people—grandparents, parents and children. All were busy. Some were knitting, some were whittling small wooden objects, and others were chatting merrily away. At one point, the father of the two small children stood up, his face beaming with joy, to lead the others in a song, while the mother strummed away at the tiny piano in the corner.

  Although Bostwick couldn’t understand everything that they said, he thought it was a lovely scene, one of the loveliest he had ever seen in his life. It reminded him of when he had been a very young dragon and his mother had held him in her arms and sung softly to him. It was a feeling of great warmth and comfort.

  After a while, Bostwick moved on to peek in on other little houses as well. Once, it seemed as if the night watchman, who dutifully walked from one end of town to the other, might spot him. Bostwick was moving in back of the houses, in the narrow space between the edge of the village and the beginning of the mountains, when the watchman suddenly stopped as if he’d heard a noise. The watchman began to walk slowly around to the back of the cottages where Bostwick was crouched down, trying as hard as he could to be invisible.

  When Bostwick saw the watchman starting to head in his direction, he panicked. But then an idea struck him and he blew a non-fiery burst of breath toward one of the nearby street lamps. The lamp’s flame flickered and then died. Noticing that the street behind him had gone dark, the watchman wheeled around and headed back toward the lamp. It took him a minute or so to get the lamp lighted again, and by that time Bostwick had moved to a new hiding place several cottages away.

  Fortunately, Bostwick never again ran into the night watchman as he went from cottage to cottage, sometimes staying just long enough to give a quick glance inside and occasionally staying longer to try to listen to what the voices inside were saying.

  Once, a little child, perhaps three or four years old, looked out the little side window of the cottage at the same time that Bostwick was looking in. The little child gave a little gasp of surprise to see the huge dragon face peeking in. But then he smiled and just pointed toward the window with his chubby little hand. By the time the parents noticed the child and cast their gaze to the window, Bostwick had again disappeared.

  It was probably about an hour later when Bostwick finally decided he had seen enough. The families in the little cottages had all gone to bed and there was nothing more for him to hear. So, slowly and regretfully, he began his silent trek up the mountain to his cave.

  When
he got there, Mortimer was sound asleep. So Bostwick crawled into his over-sized dragon bed and pulled up his single blanket made of soft bark. Then Bostwick sighed and fell asleep.

  Chapter 6: Christmas is Someone’s Birthday

  Bostwick was unusually quiet at breakfast time the next morning.

  “So what did you discover on your visit to the village?” Mortimer asked casually.

  “I’m not really sure,” Bostwick answered slowly. He then paused for a few seconds.

  “Mort,” he said quietly,” do we have ‘peace and good will toward men?’”

  “I guess so,” said Mortimer thoughtfully. “I mean, we don’t eat the villagers anymore.”

  “I know, I know. But that’s not quite what it means.”

  “Well, what does it mean?” asked Mortimer, doing his best to scratch his itchy tail.

  “I wish I could be sure,” said Bostwick, “because the idea certainly seems to make the villagers happy. It’s in their songs, and they have little signs on their walls that say it.”

  “Really? Maybe it has something to do with food.”

  “Mortimer! That’s ridiculous and you know it! Peace and good will have nothing to do with eating.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Mortimer, “but you said that it made them real happy.”

  “Gosh, Mortimer,” said Bostwick. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re getting enough to eat. I mean…if all you can think about is food.”

  “It’s not all I think about,” replied Mortimer defensively. “Well, I guess it’s mostly what I think about.”

  “So what can we do about that?” asked Bostwick.

  “We are running out of veggies, you know,” said Mortimer quickly. “And there’s a lot of winter left to go.”

  “True. I suppose we could go back into the forest to look for more of that juicy tree bark,” said Bostwick.

  “Oh, please!” cried Mortimer. “Not any more of that darn tree bark. There’s only so much I can take of that tree bark.”

  “All right, then,” said Bostwick. “I’m sure we can find something else…if we just look around long enough.”

  “We don’t have to look very long and you know it,” said Mortimer firmly. “It’s right down the mountain…in the village.”

  Bostwick was shocked. “Mortimer! How can you even suggest that?”

  “It was easy. Look, Bostwick, I know we promised we wouldn’t eat any villagers. And I’m fine with that. But the cattle…the sheep. Come on, Bostwick. Sometimes life presents you with challenges and you have to…you know…improvise.”

  “I won’t improvise if it means taking food away from the people in the village.”

  “But why all this worrying about the village, Bostwick? We should worry a little more about us.”

  “But these are people, Mortimer. Real, live people. With hopes and fears, and wishes and dreams. And it’s almost Christmas!”

  “Christmas? What’s that?”

  “Well, I’m not absolutely sure, but I know it’s a very special day and the villagers talk about it all the time. It has something to do with the birth of their king and ‘peace on earth and good will toward men.’”

  “Not that again!” exclaimed Mortimer.

  “What’s wrong with peace on earth?”

  “If it means that my stomach stays empty, then there’s a lot wrong with it.”

  “Please stop thinking about your stomach for two seconds and listen. Christmas is also someone’s birthday…a king’s birthday. I haven’t quite figured out who he is yet, but it’s someone very important to them.”

  “Birthdays…I remember birthdays,” Mortimer said quietly. “It’s when your mom brings you a cake and some other tasty morsels.”

  “Yes, I think that’s part of it. The villagers are busy cooking and baking, and they seem to be making presents for each other. Presents! I can remember some of the presents my mother gave me for my birthday. I just loved them.”

  “That’s nice for you, Bostwick, but how’s that going to solve our hunger problem?”

  “We’ll solve it somehow, Mort, but in the meantime, I’m not going to do anything that will hurt the people in the village. Remember ‘peace on earth and good will toward men.’”

  “Oh, good grief!” said Mortimer, rolling his eyes.

  Chapter 7: The Storm Threatens

  Mr. White looked up at the sky. It was the day before Christmas Eve and the dark clouds looked as if they might mean trouble. In the last few hours, the wind had picked up and was now starting to create problems, blowing signs off of stores and packages out of the arms of villagers walking down the street.

  The snow was coming down hard and it was getting a lot colder. The temperature had fallen almost 20 degrees in the last few hours.

  Mr. White shook his head. Even his blacksmith’s shop, warmed by the constant fire, was beginning to get chilly.

  “Not a good time for a bad storm, two days before Christmas,” he said to himself, shaking his head as he looked up at the dark clouds.

  But the storm came anyway. And it was a horrible one. By the middle of the day, the wind was screeching, the streets had turned to ice, and the sky seemed to dump the snow on the ground in large clumps.

  By late afternoon, the villagers were no longer able to walk the streets without being blown over. Everyone had retreated to their cottage and was warming their hands at their little fireplaces, while the snow piled up by the foot outside.

  But it got worse.

  The snow became so heavy that the villagers were no longer able to open their doors against it. The strong winds snuffed out every one of the lamp lights and the watchmen couldn’t get back out on to the streets to light them again. Not that it really mattered, because everyone was inside, huddled against the cold.

  But while the villager’s fireplaces and cooking stoves struggled valiantly to give off heat to fight against the bitter cold that was beginning to seep into each and every little cottage, the wind grew fiercer and fiercer. Finally, the violent gusts began to find their way down the villager’s chimneys. One by one, the fires were blown out. Their hearths—the major source of heat in the house— went cold.

  And then the stoves went cold, because there was no way to go outside for more wood to keep them going.

  The villagers gathered together under blankets to fight against the bitter cold. But it was a battle they could not win for long.

  Chapter 8: Bostwick Takes Action

  The next morning, the storm was as ferocious as ever.

  “What do you think is going on down there?” Bostwick asked Mortimer as he tried to peer down the mountain through the blinding snow at the mouth of their cave.

  “Oh, the same as usual, I suppose,” said Mortimer casually. “Although the storm has become pretty nasty, so I suppose everyone in the village is staying inside and trying to keep warm.”

  “But are they keeping warm? Are they okay?” said Bostwick, a worried expression crossing his face. “I can’t remember the last time we had a storm this bad!”

  “They’re probably all right,” said Mortimer. “They have their little cottages, although they aren’t nearly as good as caves when it comes to outlasting a storm.”

  “I’m going down there,” Bostwick announced firmly.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not kidding. I’m going down there to see if they need help.”

  “First of all, what makes you think you can go anywhere in this storm? This is a dragon-size blizzard and if anything it’s getting worse.”

  “It may be a dragon-size storm but I’m a dragon so I’ll be just fine.”

  “That’s crazy talk, Bostwick. You’re going to get lost in this blizzard and never find your way to the village or back up the mountain to our cave.”

  “Maybe, but I’m going to try it anyway.”

  Bostwick took a deep breath and plunged from the mouth of the cave out into the wind and the snow. The wind was worse than he had figured, and h
e found himself toppling over to the side almost at once. He quickly shifted his tail to regain his balance. Then he turned his face away from the direct wind, took another deep breath, and began to move slowly down the mountainside.

  Bostwick had to fight through some enormous snowdrifts and the trip took him much longer than usual. But finally he made his way to the bottom of the mountain. The village was almost unrecognizable. Three-quarters of it was completely covered by the snow, which continued to whip around violently in the wind. Some of the little cottages were almost invisible and many had snow up to the top of their windows. Bostwick was surprised to see that no smoke was blowing from the little chimneys. And there were no sounds at all. The place was deadly quiet.

  Suddenly he heard a very small sound from one of the cottages. The little house was not quite covered all the way with snow and someone was trying to open a window that was partially exposed. Bostwick stood there, squinting against the driving snow, which had softened a little in the last few minutes.

  The window finally opened and a little boy crawled out. It was the blacksmith’s son, Samuel. He fought his way through the snowdrifts to come closer to Bostwick.

  “When he sees me, he’ll be afraid and run away,” Bostwick said to himself sadly.

  The little boy saw the dragon. But he did not run away. He crawled even closer through the snow. Then he looked up plaintively into the dragon’s eyes and said simply, “We’re freezing to death.”

  Chapter 9: Help on the Way

  Bostwick looked at the child. He was amazed that the little boy wasn’t afraid of him. Or maybe he was afraid, but was too desperate to show it.

  Bostwick would have liked to say something to the little boy to reassure him. But he knew that any sound he made would just terrify the boy even more.

  As Bostwick cast his gaze up and down the streets of the village, it didn’t take much time to see the problem. The blizzard the night before had been so bad—probably the worst the villagers had seen for years—and the wind had blown so violently that all of the fires had been blown out in the fireplaces. And now all the wood was so wet from the snow that the villagers wouldn’t be able to re-light their fires for hours and hours.