The wind whipped across the bleak moor, carrying with it the penetrating chill of a winter’s night. He stood alone on the hill once again, His silhouette etched against the fading twilight, His great coat wrapped roughly around him, scarf hiding his face, hat pulled low over His brow. Another Christmas, another lonely night, another bitter, biting frost. He had been waiting this very night for many years. He had been waiting centuries.
In
the distance, a dog barked and lights twinkled gently in the gloom, sparkling
like diamonds then disappearing as the wind dropped and the swirling mist
doused the light like a douter snuffing out a candle.
He
awaited a visitor. A man He neither liked nor trusted, but a Stranger He was
always forced to confront at this desolate place, at this strange time, every
single year.
He
waited. As the night deepened, the sky above became a canvas of swirling stars.
The silence was profound, His eyes scanned the gloom constantly, searching for
any sign of movement.
A
flicker of light caught his attention. A lone figure, cloaked in darkness,
emerged from the mist. He could make out some features from the soft glow of a
lantern and he was confused. Something about the figure was different. A rich
velvet robe, long black leather gloves, a hood hiding the face, but strangely
no stout winter coat. Instead, it was a long thick dress he saw. A woman! His
heart racing, he realised that things had changed. This was not his old
adversary but someone – something - different. She stopped, a short distance
away, beyond his touch, her breath misting in the cold air. And he knew.
He
could barely see anything of her except her downcast eyes and a few locks of
red hair that tumbled from beneath a scarf she wore under the hood. But he knew
those eyes. He had seen them every day for many years until she went and they
had haunted him every night for eternity since.
“You’ve
come back,” he said, his voice cracked.
The
woman nodded, her face obscured by the hood of her cloak. “As promised,” she
replied, her voice a whisper.
A
tense silence fell between them. He knew this was a moment of significance, a
turning point, yet he had no idea why. A sense of dread mingled with
anticipation. He knew nothing else to say other than that which brought them
here every year.
“You
have it?”, he asked, he was aware his voice sounded small, lacking the certainty
he normally brought to the exchange.
“Of
course”, she said. She stepped forward, arm outstretched. He moved to take it
and realised his hand was shaking. It wasn’t the folder this time. Instead, with
both hands she passed Him a wooden, ornate box. He stretched his hand further,
desperate to touch hers, but she withdrew her arm quickly. “You cannot”, she
said, casting her eyes down to hide the tears that gathered there.
He
looked down for what only seemed a moment, unsure if what he had been given was
what he was waiting for. He fumbled for the latch distractedly, for too long,
before being suddenly aware that something had shifted in the void. He looked
up quickly. The Stranger had gone. “No, wait” he heard himself cry.
But
it was too late.
His howl of pain might have been heard for miles had there been anyone to hear it. As
it was, there was nothing except his echoed sob.
He
turned back to the box. This time his fingers found the latch easily and He opened
it slowly, his heart pounding. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a
single, blood-red rose. A symbol of love, passion, and death. Attached was a parchment.
He placed the box at his feet, removed the scroll and untied the pink ribbon
and held it up to the light from the stars.
Silently
He mouthed, ‘Billy Blagg’s 18th Annual Advent Calendar of Christmas
Songs’
