Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum
By Katherine Fawcett
Mary nodded.
And that was all the encouragement The Little Drummer Boy needed.
He looked around, wide-eyed. It wasn’t every day you got to play for a Lord and Saviour. His heart pounded. This was his big break.
Yes, it was a barn. A stable, if you will.
Yes, the cattle were lowing.
Yes, there was hay and dirt all over the ground. The walls, really just broken planks and pieces of rock piled on top of one another, did nothing to keep out the chill that came upon the midnight clear.
But there was something mystical about being there.
A star, unlike any he’d seen in his entire nine and a half years, shone brightly overhead. It was a star of wonder. Star of light. Dust, or perhaps dried flakes of donkey manure, glittered in a shaft of silver that beamed through cracks in the stable roof. All was calm. All was bright.
A Herald Angel had appeared to him earlier that day. Told him he needed to get himself over moor and mountain; to follow yonder star and honour the newborn king.
“And bring a present,” said the angel.
“But I am a poor boy! I have no gift to bring!”
The angel told him to figure it out, then disappeared.
So here he was, he and his drum. But in the back of his mind, he thought of his sister, back home. He really wished she was there too.
The baby, fresh as an olive picked right off the tree, lay in a feeding trough—hopefully cleaned out first, but probably not—wrapped in rags. Surprisingly, no crying he made.
It was hard to believe that this tiny baby, cute and content as he was, could be king of kings. But that’s what the angel had said. And who was he, a simple drummer boy, to argue with an angel that was heard on high?
Mary looked down at the sleeping child, so tender and mild, then back at him, up to her husband’s tired face, and again to him.
It was go-time.
The Little Drummer Boy mustered up his courage. He took a deep breath, firmly laid the palm of his hand upon the drum’s soft, stretched hide. ‘Pa.’ One simple beat to kick it off. He played again. ‘Rum pa.’ A couple of sweet eighth notes. A final ‘pum pum,’ of really solid quarter notes. It was sublime. Hypnotic. Memorable. He played his best and looped the riff over and over until he felt as if this would be a night people would remember for all time. Sort of an, O, holy night.
The whole family—Mary, the dad, the baby, plus some portly, well-dressed strangers from somewhere called Orie and Tar, and some shepherds the Little Drummer Boy recognized from the Little Town of Bethlehem market—were all listening. Even the ox and lamb kept time. One gently pawed the ground and the other nodded its fuzzy head.
Yet there was a bittersweet edge.
The animals at his place—mostly rodents and one mangy stray cat—never kept time.
He wished he had parents who had encouraged him; looked at him in the same loving way this woman looked at her begotten son.
But most of all, he felt badly about the way he’d left his sister, back in their hut.
His sister! If he came across as a half-decent musician, well Carol was a child prodigy. In all honesty, she was the one who should have come here. Not him. She was by far the better musician. She practiced 10 times more than he did and could play her bells so sweetly they sounded like the cooing of at least three turtle doves.
“Come with me, Carol!” he’d begged her after the angel took off. “You and your bells! Me and my drum! We can make it a duo. It’ll be like heav’n and nature singing!”
But his sister told him she didn’t believe in virgin births or angels or things like that. “Besides,” she said. “I’m a girl musician. The world’s not ready.”
“You could wear one of my tunics,” said the Little Drummer Boy. “No one will know your gender.” She didn’t go for it, so he tried another tack.
“Look, I’m not trying to make you believe things you don’t believe. Just bring your bells and come celebrate love, gift-giving, peace, and a nice family gathering.”
“Sorry, bro.” She bit into a juicy fig. “You’re on your own.”
He’d snarled something about her being stubborn as an ass and stomped away. Big sisters had a way of getting under your skin, but he missed her terribly right now. They were kin, and t’was the season.
Nevertheless, he kept playing. He reined in his focus and ramped up the intensity of the beat. A crescendo mid-phrase. A slight accent on the opening rum and the second pum.
Just when he was starting to go with a bit of syncopation the Little Drummer Boy noticed something miraculous. That baby, no more than an hour old and apparently destined to change history, curled up his cherubic lips, wrinkled his nose, and smiled at him. It was a genuine, love-filled, joyful smile. And in that very moment, bells rang through the silent night. He knew right away that it was his sister Carol—of the bells—playing in the distance, and her music rang merrily on high throughout the land. It was so beautiful! How could the world not be ready for a girl musician? He’d make it his life’s purpose to work on that.
The Little Drummer Boy played for a while more—until Mary nodded off and the shepherds headed back to watch their flocks by night.
On his way out, one of the well-dressed men slipped The Little Drummer Boy a small drawstring bag made of red velvet. He peeked inside. It was filled with gold coins that sparkled in the starlight.
“In the spirit of the night, take this,” said the man through a thick beard of white. “It’s for you and your sister.”
The Little Drummer Boy was dumbstruck. He bowed in gratitude. “I humbly thank you, kind sir. But, how did you know about my sister?”
There was a twinkle in the man’s eye. He laid a finger aside of his nose and said “I am a wise man. I know the joy of Christmas Carol.”
Katherine Fawcett is a Squamish-based author, teacher and musician. Her latest books are The Swan Suit and The Little Washer of Sorrows. Read more of her work at katherinefawcett.com.
A Tail of Too Xmas
By Kate Heskett
A loud crash sounded from the kitchen and HD sleepily turned his ears towards the sound.
“For fu—”
“Na-ah-ah,” Father said. “Not on Xmas, you promised.”
Mother exhaled loudly, letting her lips flap together. “Fine,” she said, and bent to pick up the roasting pans, dropping them with an even louder clang onto the counter. She rolled her shoulders in an effort to shed the stress, but even in his half-awake state HD knew the day would only get worse.
It happened every year, at the time of least daylight. An uncharacteristically early morning of cooking and cleaning and the ghastly wind sucker. He did enjoy getting his breakfast early, but hated coming back to find that his bed had been moved off the couch. And the kids, trying at the best of times, running down the stairs and being very loud, tearing into the boxes with shiny paper that HD had specifically been banned from playing with. He’d mostly complied, but one around the back smelled particularly delicious, and he couldn’t help sneaking a couple of covert nibbles. Surely a few bites of such sumptuous fare was fair trade for being so rudely awakened? He wrapped his tail tightly around his paws and tried to focus on the comforting smells beginning to waft from the oven as they mixed with the earthy sweetness of the decorated pine.
--
It had been a cold and wintry day when a stranger first knocked on his door. HD was cuddled up with his brothers and sisters, recovering from a game of hunt-and-tackle. The woman at the door smelt of things he didn’t have names for and carried a large plastic case.
“Are you sure you want the black one? He’s a bit of a handful,” his human warned.
“All cats are a handful,” replied the stranger.
“I’ve started calling him Houdini,” his human chuckled, as she reached down and plucked the black kitten from his home.
--
The first nights in the new house were scary. Locked away in a cold laundry by himself, HD had cried for his brothers and sisters. During the days he patrolled the doors and windows, sensing the outside air on his whiskers and looking for an escape from the white-tiled prison. Alert, his ears would twitch when he heard the stranger’s footsteps coming, and he’d jump up on top of the dryer and crouch down in his “ready” position, paws outstretched and fluffy butt wriggling dangerously.
On the third night, as the woman bent down to fill up his food bowl, HD launched himself from his hiding place on top of the dryer and landed on the back of her head, becoming tangled in the thick brown hair. He tried to hold on, but his sharp nails pierced her scalp like tiny needles and she shrieked and bolted upright, sending HD flying through the open laundry door.
--
An other appeared in the doorway. “Honey what happened?”
“The stupid cat flew at me! It was in my hair—”
“The cat? What cat?”
“The kitten, the ah…” getting it together, the stranger changed tack. “I mean, Merry Xmas hon! Your present is loose in the house somewhere.”
--
Heart pumping with fear and acting on instinct, HD had shot straight to the top of a pine tree, hiding high in the branches. He knew he should stay still to avoid capture, and he tried, but something shiny caught his eye. Hanging off the tip of the branch was a silver ball, and inside the silver ball a black kitten was looking back at him. Another kitten to play with! HD wriggled his butt and jumped, catching the cat-ball in his paws. For a moment he was swinging in the air, suspended from the tree like a furry ornament, before the whole thing came crashing down on top of him. Tangled in a pile of coloured boxes he clawed his way to freedom, sending shredded paper flying. The humans came running and HD darted for cover—
Behind an armchair, too exposed!
Across the mantlepiece, cards and decorations flying, too flimsy!
Finally to the top of the bookcase, here! where he cowered motionless, senses still at full alert.
--
With no idea where he went, a trap was set for HD, and in the morning he was dropped unceremoniously at the local shelter, where he spent Xmas alone.
--
The smell of crushed pine needles still strong in his mind, HD shuddered awake. He sat up and gave his belly a few licks, running his pink tongue along his black fur, before turning his back to the kitchen and plonking down on the couch with a huff. He tried to be positive. Maybe this year will be different, he thought. Then the doorbell rang.
He stayed very still, but the sticky hands of a newly mobile human groped at his soft belly, digging its nails into his flesh. He hissed a warning at it to back off and the toddler fell on its bottom, crying. Satisfied that justice had been served, HD was cleaning between his toes when the other small humans started yelling and throwing things. Backed into a corner, HD yeowled for help, but the large humans were filling their glasses with rum and eggnog, wilfully ignoring the sounds of their offspring in the other room.
A blue plastic dog bounced painfully off HD’s nose, and he arched his back and hissed at the children, finally drawing attention to his plight.
“What’s going on in there?” Mother called.
“Nothing!” came a chorus of angelic voices.
With his attackers momentarily distracted, Houdini saw his escape. He leapt from the couch to the Xmas tree, knocking it off balance, and as the tree toppled towards the kids, he jumped over their heads, across the coffee table and into the laundry, where he settled into his favourite hiding place on top of the dryer. As he listened to the adults trying to calm the children he knew he was in trouble. His heart raced as he thought about what came next. The cat carrier. The car. The lonely shelter.
He didn’t mean to ruin things, it’s just that sometimes it all becomes too much. The noise, the strange smells, the humans who don’t understand that he needs his own space to feel safe and happy. HD knew he should go out and try to apologize, but he wasn’t ready for the cat shelter just yet. He wrapped his tail around his sore nose and tried to ignore everything.
--
After a while he realized there was no screaming, no loud voices, only the sound of knives and forks on plates and the delicious scents of freshly roasted meats. HD’s mouth watered and his tummy rumbled. It’d been hours since he’d eaten anything. Maybe he could make a quick trip to his bowl without being seen?
Sticking close to the walls, Houdini stealthed towards his food bowl, hoping for a last meal of his favourite kibble. Arriving, he froze. A handmade card sat next to his bowl—a picture of a black cat, a red heart and misshapen letters that said Sorry HD—and his bowl was full to the brim with turkey and gravy, a crisp of bacon on the side. Before he could dig in, a pair of arms scooped him into the air.
In the human’s hands was the present he’d chewed the hole in, and a card. On the card it said, “To Houdini, the cat who hates Xmas.”
A soft voice whispered in his ear, “Merry Xmas, you silly cat.”
Kate Heskett is a Whistler-based writer, canoe guide and collector of stories. They are an award-winning poet and their work was recently published in the Lupine Review. Originally from Australia, Kate is firmly stuck in the Whistler bubble, trying their best to grow more than just kale and still working on their first novel.
Santa Claus vs. The Hobbits
By Alan Forsythe
Now, a lot of you out there have heard endless stories about Santa Claus, jolly old St. Nick, what have you, and they’re always the happy stories, the ones that make Christmas brighter, but I’m here to tell you that Santa has a dark side or at least he did, and this is the story of how he came back from the brink.
It’s funny how unexpected the events that provide the forks in the road can be, for Santa it was hobbits. Three somewhat annoying hobbits, to be precise.
Let me back up a bit. It was more than a few years ago now, on a stormy Christmas Eve, when ol’ Santa was hitting the bottle pretty hard, and to be honest, I wasn’t doing much better. We were both down in this dive bar near the port on the east side, figuratively about as far from the North Pole as you can get.
Santa was a rye drinker back then, and was most of the way through a bottle of Canadian Club, when three cheery hobbits entered the bar, like they hadn’t a care in this cold, cruel world. To say they looked out of place in that seedy bar would be the understatement of the century. I was sitting at the bar next to Santa, who was grumbling into his rye something about ungrateful elves and upstart reindeer. The hobbits sat next to me, putting me between them and Santa, which, I thought, was for the best. But nonetheless, the one sitting closest to me leaned back, so as to look past me to Santa, and said,
“Santa Claus is it? Shouldn’t you be off doing something else?”
Well, I’ll tell you, Santa in those dark days did not like being reminded of his image as a jolly old gift-giver. I guess, like any drunk, he didn’t want to be reminded of how far he’d fallen, and the life he used to have. He certainly didn’t want to be reminded of those facts by a hobbit of all people (for whom, even at the best of times, he didn’t have much patience for).
Santa growled at them and that dissuaded any further enquiries for the time being. However, one of them, the one furthest from me, and the fattest of the bunch, proceeded to ask the bartender if he had any elderberry wine. That made Santa snort into his rye, and he laughed maliciously.
“Elderberry wine? You’re in the wrong place, hobbits.”
“I really don’t see why that should be an issue,” said the fat hobbit, clearly upset that Santa would laugh at him simply for his choice of libation.
“Yes, and shouldn’t you be off delivering presents? It is Christmas Eve, if I’m not mistaken,” chimed in the first hobbit. Well, that was enough for Santa. Like I said, he was deep into a bottle of rye already, and let me tell you, back then, he was not a happy drunk. Just about anything would set him off, but a trio of happy-go-lucky hobbits looking for elderberry wine in a dive bar? That was bound to light up Santa, and not in a festive way.
So Santa pushed his stool back and walked over to the hobbit, who just grinned up at him foolishly. Now, Santa is often portrayed as fat and jolly, but that’s not reality—he’s just a big guy, a big, solid guy. I mean, how can you deliver presents all over the world and not build up some muscle? Oh sure, magic’s involved, but that only goes so far. The point being, Santa towered over this poor little hobbit, filled with all the rage a burnt-out, bitter drunk can manage (which is considerable), looking to do some serious damage to said hobbit, and he was more than capable of doing it, even in his inebriated state.
“Got something you wanna say to me hobbit?”
“Just cheer up Santa, it’s never as bad as you might think.” And on the heels of that good-natured sentiment, Santa answered with a haymaker, aimed straight at the cheery hobbit’s head. Except suddenly, the hobbit wasn’t there. I mean like, just gone, in the blink of an eye. And Santa followed his punch with all his weight behind it, throwing him off balance, and went crashing into the bar, head first. It did send the other two hobbits scrambling, though not for the door. They stuck around to find out the fate of their friend. Who then, just like that, reappeared behind Santa, and gave him a swift kick to his backside.
Santa turned in a blind rage, and promptly tripped over his own bar stool, falling to the ground, grasping for the smiling hobbit as he did so. The hobbit in turn disappeared again, poof, just like that. Then I saw the rye bottle Santa had been drinking from lift from the bar, float in the air over Santa, and instantly the hobbit appeared, holding it, and proceeded to pour the remains of it over Santa’s face.
He was absolutely sputtering with rage, so much so he simply flailed impotently at the hobbit, who, in the final humiliation, dropped the bottle on Santa, giving him a pretty good bonk on the nose, before disappearing again.
Santa didn’t even try to get up. In pain, and clearly humiliated, he lay there holding his bleeding nose, yelling insults that would make a sailor blush.
The hobbit reappeared next to his friends and calmly ushered them out the door, apparently off to find their Christmas cheer in more welcoming surroundings.
Once they were gone, I helped Santa to his feet and brushed him off. I figured he’d immediately order a shot or two and get back to what he was doing before those hobbits entered his life, drinking himself to death.
But no. He looked down at himself, then at me, said I hadn’t been a good boy that year, but then neither had he, and marched himself out the door, looking strangely sober.
Of course you all know the rest. Santa went back to the North Pole, made up with Mrs. Claus and the elves, and got back into the gift-giving business.
He’ll still join me for a hot toddy every so often, in the slow season of course, and only if I promise not to bring up hobbits. The encounter with those three hobbits may have been his turning point for the better… nonetheless, he sure still hated hobbits.
Born and raised on the North Shore, Alan Forsythe has been skiing Whistler since he was 10, and writing fiction for almost as long. You can find his collection of short stories and novels on amazon.ca.
