Christmas Magic

The ominous creaking and groaning of the porch floor boards, the menacing thud of each footfall and the rattle of the old door handle were like alarms going off. He had returned. It was passed midnight when he lurched through the door into the darkened house. He shivered in the chill of the frigid room. “It’s as cold in here as it is outside.’ He thought to himself. “Why is it so cold in here, Fleur?” he bellowed.

Shuffling and staggering his way to the kitchen he reached out and flipped the light switch but nothing happened. “Fleur!” he barked. “Why is there no light?” he roared.

He had spent the electricity bill money on beer, whisky and the horses again.

His stomach protested its emptiness. Lighting a match he could see, in the dimly flickering light, his dinner waiting for him on the table. Taking hold of the back of a chair to steady himself he stretched out his hand to pick up a sausage from the plate at his place at the table. It was stone cold. He threw the cold, flaccid banger across the room bellowing angrily, “Fleur! Where are you and where’s the boy? My dinner’s stone cold, woman! I work hard all day and come home to this?” The overlooked match flame stung his fingers. He flicked it out and cursing he dropped it. The room was plunged into darkness once more.

No one came to greet him. His wife and child, chilled to the bone, huddled together, trembling, in the blackness of the unlit bedroom hoping against hope the man would not come to find them.

Reeking of beer and cigarettes Frank Lee teetered unsteadily, “Get out here Fleur!”

The boy and his mother clung desperately to one another, “Not tonight, Lord. Please not again tonight.” She whimpered her prayer. Then they heard the floor boards creak as he made his way along the gloom of the hall. His meaty fists thumping the walls for support as he swayed to and fro. “Fleur! I know you’re in there; you and that snivelling brat.”

Removing his thick leather belt and wrapping it once around his hand so the razor sharp buckle hung loosely at the ready. He took hold of the bedroom door knob, turning it slowly. An evil grin betrayed his wicked delight in inflicting pain and terror. The decrepit door hinges groaned and grated in grievance as he pushed it open little by little, as if twisting the knife intensifying the agony.

The boy’s sharp hearing caught what sounded like a sigh or possibly a whisper. It was so faint he couldn’t be certain. He sensed it more than heard it.

Fear gave way to anger and anger became a blinding, burning rage as the boy leapt from his mother’s arms and charged headlong at the brutish evil monster that was his father and should have been their protector.

A shrill scream split the night, “Brock! No Brock!” and with the knowledge of the impending consequences quickly became a cry of anguish.

The boy was pulled up short, frozen in bewilderment, as he watched the grotesque silhouette in the doorway suddenly look at his hand with a look of pure, unadulterated terror. The brute was transfixed by the golden reptilian eyes of a cold blooded killer looking back at him, watching his every move. They were the eyes of his greatest fear, a deadly king cobra. The thirteen foot long hypnotically undulating snake flared its hood then with lightening speed it struck. He flung the belt across the room and turned to escape but tripped and fell over his own feet. Falling to his knees he cried out as he attempted to crawl away cradling his hand as if bitten. Curling up in the furthest corner of the outer room he crouched whimpering until he heard the hiss and rustling sounds of slithering vipers in the darkness all about him. This sent the fiend into paroxysms of screaming and crying as he scrambled about the floor until at last, he reached the front door. After what seemed an interminable struggle, fumbling with the handle he finally managed to open the door to make good what he hoped would be his escape but the slithering serpents hunted his every move. Brock’s father absconded stumbling, tumbling and floundering down the filthy, litter strewn pavement until he was out of sight.

The Illusionist had, in that moment when Brock had been blinded by fear and rage and his father’s sole focus was on slaking his thirst for sadistic brutality created the hallucination the degenerate’s worst nightmare, snakes, lots of snakes. The belt Brock’s father had been intent on beating him with had magically transformed into a cobra that had struck biting him on the hand.

Brock stood in the open doorway watching, arms limp at his sides as his fury subsided. Then he heard the whispered words, as if they floated on the breeze, “Everything will be all right now, Brock. You and your mother are safe now and you will never again have to live in fear.” He felt a peace come over him as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Knocked for six, he felt his mother’s arms enfold him and together they sobbed as their fear and dread ebbed away.

Moments later panic seized Fleur once again as she realized her husband might return. She began scrambling about in the darkened rooms gathering up their few meagre belongings.

Brock pleaded with his mother to give his father one more chance. Through his tears he implored her, “He’s sorry for what he does, Mum. He can change, I know he can if he could just…” but then realized the futility of what he was saying, “Wh…, where will we go, Mum? We have no money.”

“We’ll get by somehow.” She replied from the kitchen where opened the cupboard door and took down a flour tin. She removed the lid and withdrew a rumpled stack of bank notes. “We have enough to get us away from here. Get your coat, Brock, and let’s be off.” She said moving towards the door.

“But where, Mum? Where will we go?”

“I don’t know but we must leave now!” she directed, verging on hysteria, taking Brock by the hand to hurry him along. Opening the door they found a taxi waiting as if for them. The cabby got out of the car and came to meet them to help with their bags.

“I’ll help you with those, mam, shall I? I know you don’t need any help do you, Brock? A big strapping young man like you can carry his own bag.” He said with a wink.

“Who are you and ho… how did you know we needed a taxi?” she said mystified.

“Oi, how did you know my name?” asked Brock suspiciously.

The man simply smiled and after placing their bags in the boot opened the back door for his two bewildered passengers. “Watch your step, mam.” He said as he closed the door behind them and climbed into the front seat.

“Where are you taking us?” Fleur demand fear beginning to stir inside her mind.

“I’m taking you to a place where you’ll be warm, given a hot meal and comfortable beds but best of all you’ll be safe among friends. A place you’ll be able to collect your thoughts.” He replied pulling away from the curb.

“We haven’t enough money to pay you.”

“Everything’s been looked after, mam.” He said tipping his hat.

The boy looked askance into the driver’s piercing grey eyes watching him from the rear view mirror and inexplicably a sense of peace and hope washed over him. The driver returned his focus to the road ahead and Brock turned back to the window.

The rhythm of the passing circles of light cast by the street lamps as their little black London cab sped along the gloomy thoroughfares lulled him into exhausted slumber. A short time later he awoke to the sound of gravel crunching under the tires of the little car. They had arrived at their destination just as the first rays of dazzling sunlight peeked over the horizon revealing a wondrous dwelling set in an enchanted forest.

Brock’s eyes were as big as saucers as he marvelled at what appeared to be a giant gingerbread house nestled in the trees. There had been a light dusting of snow that night that covered the roof and collected on window sills like sparkling white icing. The brilliant rays of the morning sun glinted off of the frost on the window panes with all the colours of the rainbow like peppermint candies.

Brock blinked his eyes and was turning around just as a woman smiling sweetly appeared from the door with a bound. She was dressed all in fur from her head to her foot and her clothes were all covered with splashes like a cook.

Her eyes how they twinkled, her dimples how merry! Her cheeks were like roses, her nose like a cherry! Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the hair on her head was as white as the snow!

She had a broad face and a little round belly that shook, when she laughed like a bowlful of jelly. She was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and he laughed when he saw her in spite of himself. A wink of her eye and a twist of her head soon gave him to know he had nothing to dread.

“This will be your home for a little while Brock.” What do you think of that? Awestruck the boy could only stair open-mouthed as she wrapped her pudgy arm around him, “You can call me Nana.” She said giving him a hug.

Turning to Fleur D. Lee, Brock’s mum he said, “Gladys C. Hughes” indicating the jolly old elf “will be your host for the next few days. You’ll be perfectly safe here until I return to assist you and Brock in starting your new life.”

Tears filled her eyes as she watched her son, clearly lost in a Christmas fantasy world. A barely audible sound caught her attention, “Is that the jingle of sleigh bells I hear? It must be my imagination.” she thought as she turned to thank the cabby “I… I don’t know how we can ever repay you for your kindness...” she began only to find he had vanished.