STORIES OF THE SEASON
A Collection of Short Stories Inspired by the Spirit of Christmas
by
Darragh Metzger
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
TFA Press on Smashwords
The Call of the Wild: Copyright © 1999, 2011 by Darragh Metzger
And To All A Good Night: Copyright © 1996, 2011 by Darragh Metzger
Long Distance: Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Darragh Metzger
A Gift of Avalon: Copyright © 2004, 2011 by Darragh Metzger
Merry Christmoose: Copyright © 2003, 2011 by Darragh Metzger
Cover Design and Illustration by TFA Press, copyright © 2011
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Other Books by Darragh Metzger from TFA Press:
The Strawberry Roan
Stories of the Season
Other books in the Triads of Tir na n'Og series:
Ironwolfe
Tales from Opa
The Triads
The Red Triad
The Green Triad
Other Titles available at Smashwords.com:
Short Stories:
Masque of Moonlight and Shadows
Novels:
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Table of Contents
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(I'm going to do one of these before each story, so might as well read through this one so you get used to it. The others will be a lot shorter, though. I promise.)
Just so you know, I don't normally write short stories. I'm a novelist. Confining myself to a few pages hurts my brain and has, upon occasion, proved utterly impossible (The Strawberry Roan started as a humorous short story). Only one thing could make me do it.
For many years, I belonged to the Fairwood Writers Group; a group of professional and semi-professional writers, some published, some working at breaking in, who meet weekly to critique each other's work, share marketing tips, and generally encourage one another along the long, rocky, and too often lonely path every writer must walk.
Every year, the group has a "Christmas/Holiday Challenge," where all members must come up with a short story, to be read aloud at our holiday party. The length is anywhere from 1500-2000 words (which I almost never stick to), and we randomly select 2 or 3 characteristics that the stories all have to have in common.
There. That's where all these (and a whole lot more) came from.
As for Call of the Wild:
In 1999, the only element we all agreed on that I can remember was it had to be about the New Year as well. Turn of the Century, end of an era, new millennium, and all that.
To me, it seemed natural to include a horse. But then, it usually does.
Jokata is real, and lived to the ripe old age of 33. I miss her still.
I ride these trails all the time, and have never spotted a single reindeer, but there you have it.
Years later, I tried to make the story less time-specific to try and sell to another market, but Christmas stories are notoriously difficult sells, and horse stories aren't that easy either.
The woods where I usually ride, right at the foot of the Cascades, have momentarily escaped the thick coat of fog that's blanketed the region for most of the holiday season. Jokata, my little paint mustang mare, and I are out enjoying a brief spurt of almost sunshine. Well, okay, the sky is a light gray when you can see it, with patches of bluish stuff now and then, but at least it's not raining. The air is that raw, wet cold that western Washington gets in the winter, the kind that no sweater or coat is going to keep out and the best you can do is bundle up and take lots of Vitamin C.
We're heading up what I call The Big Loop, a trail that starts in the watershed and winds over the lower peaks of the foothills so you can stare some of the snow-covered mountain passes in the face — when they're not fogged in, anyway. It's a bit of a workout for the old girl, but she's up for the challenge and not complaining. I don't let her do anything too frisky, like break into a gallop, which she'd like to do on some of the straight stretches.
The trees keep the trail mostly in shade, so the thick frost on the branches hasn't melted and the frequent puddles are covered in crisp coats of ice. On the right side, the trail's edge is a steep drop into a ravine. I can hear the chatter of the stream that runs along the bottom. It even sounds cold.
Usually I ride with friends, but today it's just me and my horse, out here in the almost unspoiled wilderness. The leaves crunch underfoot — sometimes, anyway — and Jokata's feeling good; ears up, eyes bright, head turning this way and that as she takes in the scenery. She's twenty-nine years old and doesn't get out much anymore, and there's nothing she loves more than bushwhacking.
I take a deep breath of frosty air while various and sundry thoughts fight to get my attention. Such as: here it is Christmas Eve. My family, such as it is, is scattered to the four winds, there's a war on and the other side keeps trying to bring it here, I don't know how I'm going to pay the bills this coming month, my car is making a funny, grumbling noise, Lady Clairol isn't keeping up with the grey in my hair any more, and I think I’m gaining weight again.
But strangely enough, what I'm mostly thinking is how lucky I am to be who I am, where I am, living in this time and place, right here, right now. The last century saw two major wars and a host of minor ones, the inventions of the airplane, the radio, the television, the computer, antibiotics, rock and roll, tap dancing as an art form, jazz music, motion pictures, CDs, and Haagen-Dazs ice cream. We walked on the moon, sent our eyes and ears out into the farthest reaches of our solar system and to the deepest depths of the ocean, did things that were pure science fiction to anyone alive a hundred years ago. We're just starting out this century, but already talking about a trip to Mars.
And here I am, celebrating the beginning of the twenty-first century by doing something perfectly familiar to someone from the dawn of the twentieth, the nineteenth, and all the centuries before. Kind of puts it all in perspective.
I'm still waxing philosophical when Jokata's ears flick forward and she stops. The trail winds between the trees and vanishes just a few feet ahead, and I can't see anything amiss. Still, Jo insists there's something there, and it bothers her. She flicks an ear back to check my reaction, asking me what I think.
It could be bear, of course. The little blackies don't necessarily hibernate, not in Washington, anyway. But I don't think that's it. Jo would be a lot more nervous if she thought it was bear. Jokata's pretty brave, but she's old now, and getting cautious about approaching things she can't outrun anymore. She used to beat race horses and run down coyotes for fun, but those days are behind her.
Then I hear it: the sound of something moving through the dried bracken. Something big. Just as I start getting worried, an elk moves into sight on the rise ahead. No, lots of elk. First time I've spotted them out here, though they often wander into neighboring lawns to munch cut grass and be admired.
Jo's not sure about them; okay, they don't smell like predators, but they're a lot bigger than she is. She's seen elk before, but it's been about twenty years, so maybe she doesn't remember. Anyway, she checks with me and I'm okay with it, so she decides to mosey a bit closer and we head uphill.
We reach the top of the rise and I pull up. About twenty head are scattered through a stand of young alder, taking advantage of the thick, still-green grass that springs up wherever there's sufficient space and even a hint of light. They raise huge heads to watch us, chewing thoughtfully as they assess potential threat, then one by one they go back to dining.
Jo and I are about a hundred feet away, which I think is safe enough. Jokata's head stays up, ears pricked as she stares avidly at these free-ranging, giant herbivores. We'll keep our distance, thank you very much, but I feel privileged to be allowed to witness this. An unexpected gift, this sight of something timeless, living, and perfect, and just for Jo and me.
Then something moves out from behind one of the big cows and I feel like rubbing my eyes to make sure I'm not seeing things. I grew up in Alaska; I know a caribou when I see one, and that's what this looks like, except it's really small. Reindeer, my mind whispers, but reindeer don't live around here any more than caribou do, and anyway it's too little even for that, maybe doggie-sized. Is there such a thing as miniature reindeer? If so, I've never heard of them.
Then, as it peeks further around its massive companion to stare at us, I notice the bright red halter. Now, what the heck is someone's pet miniature reindeer doing running around out here with a herd of elk? And what do I do about it? Can it survive on its own like this?
"Well Jo-Jo, what do you think?" I ask her. "Should we try and catch it? Or leave well enough alone?"
Jo doesn't know what to think either, judging by her snorts and how fast her ears are pivoting around.
I lean forward in the saddle, pitching my voice low. "Hey, little guy." Lots of big, lofty elk heads come up and turn toward me, and I sincerely hope they don't take this amiss or decide to defend their little buddy.
The wee one watches us, switching its attention between Jo and me, not a bit afraid, just deciding whether it wants to be friends or not. It takes a few steps away from the protection of its huge bodyguard.
It's a new millennium, and I've had a good life. Besides, this is too much of an adventure to pass up. I dismount, step up beside Jokata's head, and kneel. "Hey, little one, come here, I won't hurt you. What are you doing all the way out here, anyway? Want to come over and talk to me?"
Its ears are forward, its tiny stub tail twitching. Darn, the thing's cute. I wonder whether it's cow, bull, or steer. I can't tell from this angle; both male and female have antlers, and this one's got a fine rack in miniature. It watches me with bright, brown eyes and takes a few steps, then stops to grab a bite.
A few of the closer elk watching this whole performance are less sanguine, but haven't decided I definitely need to be chastised, so I swallow and hold out a hand. "Come on little guy, come on. Somebody must miss you a lot. You should be home in a warm stable somewhere. This isn't a good place for little deer."
Jo blows a soft breath of warning, and I look up. Some of the elk have turned in our direction, definitely less than welcoming. Oops. I need a quick decision here. "What do you say, Jo?" I murmur to her. "Do we give up on the poor little guy or keep trying for a minute or three? You're a better judge than I am. What are the duennas there saying about us?"
Jokata is not happy about the situation, but she's not ready to back down yet either, and besides, I think she's as fascinated by the midget reindeer as I am. She lowers her head, ears still cocked to keep a watch on the big guns, and extends her nose toward the wee one as if it were a foal.
Reassured by the invitation, the reindeer takes a few more steps, but stops when an elk imposes its massive form between it and us. Oh, Lordy. I tense, ready to rise, and look up at Big Jake. Oh, sorry — Big Jane. Her head is raised, ears still forward as she stares at us, but there's a definite gleam of matronly outrage in her eyes, and she's telling me I'm pushing my luck.
I can't risk it, darn it. I rise, slowly, and back away, catching Jo's reins. I keep my eyes on the big cow, projecting submission and general harmlessness with all my might.
Jokata is of another mind, however. Usually horses follow a fairly predictable line of response: if there's a perceived threat, they will run away. Simple.
For some reason completely unknown to me, Jo decides to defy her genetic makeup and, ignoring my nervous urgings, stands her ground. She holds her head high as she can to look taller, and arches her neck. Her ears stay up, but her eyes have a determined gleam I don't see too often anymore. She's saying, "Look, we're not hurting anything, we've a right to be here same as you, and I’m staying put. You want to argue with me?"