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The Chocolate Box
The Chocolate Box will be under Probation. So if anyone acts up badly and abuses the chatbox we will reserve the right to remove it without warning.
You might remember the characters in this story from the chocolatebox... It takes place in the year 1812, just before the War of 1812 in present-day Ontario (then known as Upper Canada). Hope you like it! (PS: I'm taking a break from 'Angels in The Dust' because I need time to stew the plot...)_________________________________________________________________________
Chapter One
The force...met me...on high spirits and most effective state.
-Major-General Isaac Brock (Capture of Detroit)
The day that I first laid eyes on the horse that changed my life began like any other. I was shaken awake by my aunt and I dressed in the chill dark of the March twilight, putting over my brown dress a bibbed apron. Then I helped Auntie to pack a basket full of food for the day’s noon meal, and then together we stole softly out of the house.
The walk from our small, cramped room to the kitchen was a short one. Auntie locked the door behind us as we left the room in which we lived and slept and ate, surrounded by other people, out the door and across the frozen ground to the kitchen.
The kitchen was in the big room in the lower story of the blockhouse. One room belonged to General Quincy, but everyone (except the untrained militia and us women) called him Red, because he had flaming red hair that stood out from his becoming black hat and red coat. This room that belonged to him was his study, and the place where small, private meetings were held. The other room was the ‘mess hall’ where everyone, soldier or not, ate each meal. The upper story was where some of the militia slept, and General Quincy had his own room with a feather mattress and goose-down pillow. The rest of the men slept in bunkhouses.
Auntie’s full name was Eliza Fullerton, but I called her Auntie because that was what I had always called her. She reminded me a little of the bread she made every day, round and soft. She was plump, it was true, most likely because of the delectable little treats she made every day. Her skin was soft and flour-pale, and her hair was like the sinew of a deer, quite brown and a bit frizzy and stringy. Auntie’s job was to cook three meals a day, seven days a week, for the hundred-or-so militia men who lived inside the fort. She had two helpers, and I was one of them.
I looked nothing like my Auntie. She said I looked like my mother, but I was never sure if it was true, because I had no memory of Mother. I was small for my age, and dreadfully thin; no amount of cream or any of Auntie’s richest desserts could put any more plumpness on me then I already had. My hair was not my ‘crowning glory’ as Isabella Thompson said it ought to be. It was not like Auntie’s either. It was much lighter then Auntie’s, like corn silk, so yellow it had a greenish tinge to it. My hair was thick but dull. My eyes were nice though. They were big and blue, like the lake on clear days.
“Francesca!” Auntie’s scolding jerked me clear out of my day dream, like a boot being pulled from mud with a tremendous squelch. I jumped a little and started kneading the loaf of bread dough, as Auntie scolded me for my absentmindedness. “-and what with the whispers of war those hollow-legged soldiers are hungrier than ever and we’re late already as it is! Really Francesca, you must keep your mind on your task, not wandering about whenever you want it to. Appalling, that’s what I call this behaviour.”
“Yes Auntie. I know, Auntie. I’ll do better,” I murmured under my breath as I kept kneading the dough. Auntie watched me for a moment then said, “Faster, Francesca! Faster! You’re appallingly slow!” Appalling, that was Auntie’s favourite word to describe me.
I quickened my kneading and Auntie seemed satisfied, so she stuck her wooden spoon in her apron pocket and went back to the bowl of eggs she was going to scramble. When I finished with the dough, I set it in a bowl and put a clean cloth over it. It would be finished rising in time for the noon meal.
Auntie’s other helper, Kathleen, was making fatback on the black, cast-iron stove. It sent delicious smells into the air, and made my mouth water and my stomach growl, but I knew I would not eat until after I had given the soldier’s their food. Neither would Auntie, not officially; she would sneak small bites of food throughout the preparation of the meal, however, because she could never keep her stomach satisfied for long.
After Auntie had scrambled the eggs, taken the ten baking loaves from the stone oven near the fire, and plated all the food with a strip of bacon, some eggs, and two thin slices of bread, she handed me three plates and said, “Hurry Francesca! The soldier’s’ll be restless and hungry, that’s what. Hurry, child! And mind your manners! You have appalling manners!”
I carefully balanced the three plates, two in one hand and one in the other, and trotted out to the dining hall. I started at the table closest to the kitchen and worked my way down. Auntie and Kathleen loaded me up with plates each time I returned to the kitchen, and while I was gone, they plated more food.
Halfway down the line of tables, I was already quite tired and very nearly run off my feet. The men were loud and boisterous, throwing bits of food at each other and yelling loudly. One particularly badly-mannered man spilled his entire mug of water on my skirt, and then laughed it off dismissively, even though I was nearly in tears by then. A few pieces of short hair around my face had escaped from its tight braid, and I was damp and tired and miserable.
When I set a plate down in front of a particular young man, he turned in his seat and smiled at me. “Thank you kindly,” he said, and began using his knife and fork to cut his fatback into small strips. I was frozen to the spot, unable to move or even think. None of the soldiers had ever thanked me for their food before.
The other soldiers were already beginning to make impatient noises, but as I said I could not move. The polite young gentleman had hair the exact colour of freshly sawn wood and eyes like damp moss. His bright red coat was studded with glittering brass buttons, and he wore white breeches with tall black boots. He was quite a fetching young man, but then I saw Auntie standing in the doorway to the kitchen, mouthing something to me frantically.
I jumped as though I was a puppet whose strings had jerked him to life. I set down the other plates in jerky motion and returned to the kitchen, feeling tired and sweaty.
Auntie took one look at me and said, “My child, you look simply appalling! Sit down a moment and rest yourself. Your face is appallingly red. Kathleen will finish in the dining room.” She loaded Kathleen with plates then handed me a mug full of fluffy scrambled eggs, two halves of bacon and covered with a generously buttered slice of bread. “Go sit down somewhere and eat up. You’re so thin it’s appalling. Go now. Here’s a smattering of marjoram tea for you.” I ducked my head, as close as I got to thanking her, then took the tea and breakfast to a corner of the kitchen near the door, where some bags of flour were stacked. I sat on them and began to eat.
The tea and food made me feel much better, but when Isabella Thompson flounced into the kitchen, my once-ravenous appetite disappeared. She was wearing a store bought dress of flaming magenta pink, with heavy white eyelet lace around the wrists and hem, which was short enough to show off her pretty button-up shoes to advantage. The sleeves of the dress were jauntily off-shoulder, and her honey-blond corkscrew curls bounced with every flouncing step she took.
She sniffed a sizzling pan of bacon, wrinkled her nose and flounced over to me. I ducked my head over my tea and food. “Hello Francesca!” Isabella greeted me airily. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” “Yes, Isabella,” I mumbled. Isabella lifted her dress just enough so I could see the white lace edging her petticoats. “Aren’t they lovely? Mummy ordered them all the way from New York!” Auntie turned round to see who had entered the kitchen and hollered at Isabella, “For pity’s sake girl, cover your drawers!”
“Yes Isabella, they’re very nice,” I murmured, putting another piece of egg into my mouth. Isabella smoothed her skirt and turned up her nose at my manners. Her voice was heavily accented, for she, her mother and her father were “Straight from the British Isles, eh?” as some of the soldiers put it. Isabella prided herself on being better mannered, wealthier and smarter than us Canadian-born ‘poppy-cockers’ as she put it. I couldn’t stand Isabella, but she was the only girl near my age, and even then, she was a year older then I.
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here,” Isabella said, in the tone of voice that meant she had a secret that I didn’t know. “Why are you here? You never come into the kitchen,” I grumbled, using my fingers to retrieve the last bits of egg from the bottom of the mug. Isabella sneered at my manners, and then smoothed her skirt before continuing.
“Guess who’s here? No, no- I’ll just tell you! Aberdeen Quincy!” Isabella said his name as one might say Windsor Castle or Isaac Brock.
“Who?”
“Aberdeen Quincy! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him.”
“I-“
“He’s only Red Quincy’s nephew, the son of his brother. He’s trained under General Isaac Brock, isn’t that grand? He’s such a gentleman, much more mannered then all your boorish militia and whatall.” Isabella grabbed me rudely by the arm and dragged me to the doorway, sloshing tea all over my already-damp brown dress. She peeped around the doorframe into the dining hall, where the soldiers were eating. “There he is,” she whispered heavily into my ear. “See? In the center, with the red coat.”
I looked. I saw. I recognized him instantly. “That’s him? There, with the yellow hair?” “Yes!” Isabella answered huskily.
“How-how old is he? He seems young. Too young to be a soldier.” I felt flustered. I had made a fool of myself in front of General Quincy’s nephew!
“Fifteen. Too old for you, Francesca.” She pushed the already-low slung shoulders of her dress back into position. “But not too old for me. Fourteen is marriageable age and Papa wishes me to marry a courteous, polite, handsome young lad like this one, don’t you agree Francesca? Francesca!”
But I had already run away from her, through the kitchen and out the door into the soggy spring world. The sky was a heavy grey-blue, and heavy clouds dotted the horizon. The old trees, grey from many winters, were not clothed in spring leaves yet, but small, tender buds, wrapped in a harder, smoother jacket, were already lining their branches like small knobs. A few patches of the ground were still yellowed grass, but most of it had already grown up thick and green.
I ran past the bunkhouses, past the small building where Auntie and I and the few other women slept, and past the stables. I ran along the wall, made of knobby, round logs nailed and roped together, until I came to the huge gate. I threw all my weight upon it until it gave way and opened just enough so I could squeeze through, and ran outside.
FORT NANOCOCH
was painted in block letters on a large board nailed the wall. The red paint was faded and peeling away, but that sign had been in my memory for as long as I could remember. So had the sugar maple tree that graced the fort with its branches. Hiking my skirt up around my knees, I grabbed onto the tree and climbed up. It was hard to do so in my heavy boots, but I stuck my pointed toes into the ridges and valleys in the tree’s rippled bark and I managed to climb up quite nimbly, like a monkey. I had never seen a monkey before, but I had heard it could climb trees quite well.
I settled myself in the biggest V-shaped branches in the tree, looking over the maple’s little dominion. This was where I did my best thinking, here, in the sweet smelling sugar maple.
Rumours of war had been rippling throughout the colonies in Upper Canada since the snow had melted. I didn’t know what the Canadiens in Lower Canada thought, but all I knew was that if there was going to be a war Fort Nanococh would be caught squarely in the middle of it. General Quincy was highly respected and although we had only a handful of properly trained soldiers, our militia was strong and brave and would stand up to the challenge of a war.
I was so deep in thought I didn’t notice him until he was directly under me and shouting at me. “Hey you! Up in the tree. What are you doing?” I jumped so much I lost my balance and slipped from the tree branch. However, I grabbed out and caught a limb, and hung there, over the head of Aberdeen Quincy.
His face looked as though he might begin to laugh at any moment. “A girl? In a tree? There’s something you don’t see every day.” I grunted and measured up the distance between me and the ground. “Do you need help?” asked Aberdeen. “No!” I snapped. Five feet. Nothing more. Shutting my eyes tightly, I uncurled my fingers from the branch and let go.
I managed to land on my feet but Aberdeen was not so lucky. I clipped his shoulder as I fell, causing the young private to fall backwards- and into a very large mud puddle. Thick mud flew up like fireworks around him, covering him from head-to-toe. He looked at himself, and slowly stood up. His crimson red coat was soaked through, and the seat of his snow-white breeches was now dark brown. His boots, however, seemed mostly intact.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, unsure what to do. I opened my mouth to speak, then forgot how to. I just stood there like a goose for one long moment. Then, suddenly, Aberdeen began to laugh. He laughed so hard he fell back down again, although not into the mud puddle. He just laughed and laughed. And I stood there, watching him with my mouth open like a pitcher plant.
When Aberdeen managed to regain him composure enough to stand, he was still chuckling. “You knocked me over,” he said, trying to keep his face solemn, but broke into more snickers. I nod quickly, closing my mouth. “You-“ he started but then laughed again.
Suddenly I heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind us. “Private!” A gruff voice boomed, so deep it seemed to echo off the trees. Aberdeen looked shocked. All traces of laughed fell away from him like a snake shedding its skin, and he stood straight up, his arms pressed against his sides and his feet together, and his face grim and sober. “Captain!” he said, saluting. I spun around.
Captain Hartley was a sour man with white hair though he was not old. He was stocky and short, and never smiled. He stood tall and looked and walked straight ahead without wavering to either side. It was his manner to reprimand anyone, not just soldiers, for unruly behaviour or disorder in the fort. He was not as highly ranked as General Quincy, but he acted as though he himself were a general too.
“You are out of uniform, private!” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. He walked in a wide circle around Aberdeen, who stood a little straighter, stared ahead a little harder. Captain Hartley seemed to not have taken notice of me. “What happened?”
His deep voice struck fear in me. Captain Hartley was in the habit of disciplining those who caused trouble in the fort, accidental or not. Once he had used a wooden cane, thick as a man’s finger, to slap the palms of a young boy who had accidently let a chicken escape from a coop. Another time he confined a private to three days, alone, in an old cabin out in the woods for not arriving promptly for training. He was cruel and wild, and his sense of justice was disgustingly twisted. If Aberdeen told him what had happened, the whole truth...
“I slipped, sir. I was running so I could arrive at troop muster on time when I slipped in the mud,” Aberdeen lied. “I apologize, sir. It won’t happen again.” Captain Hartley nodded slowly.
“Since you’re Quincy’s nephew, I’ll let you off easily. But if this happens again...” he let his voice trail off, for he knew Aberdeen knew what he meant. “Aye sir. It won’t happen again. I promise you, sir.” Aberdeen saluted again.
“Have Peters garrison you up another uniform. Hurry Private. Pronto.” He smacked the side of his right hand into his left palm. Once again, Aberdeen saluted, then turned to Captain Hartley and bowed quickly before turning on his heel and marching toward the fort.
Captain Hartley also turned, looked through me and marched away. I ran like a frightened rabbit back to safety of Auntie’s kitchen.
After grueling hours of sifting through miles of text. After searching for days for the best one of these stories. I realized something.
There was only one entry.
While this entry is very good I am somewhat dissapointed I have to give Miss Charlotte Bronte all the rewards.
so here are the winners.
1st place: Miss Charlotte Bronte
2nd: place: Miss Charlotte Bronte
3rd place: Miss Charlotte Bronte
So without anything else to say: I give you The Light by Charlotte Bronte
“Judah! Judah, c’mon! I’ve got something to show you!” The taller of the two boys ran toward the littler. The smaller boy knelt in the dust by the roadside, looking intently at something the other could not see. “Judah?” The older boy, whose name was Benjamin, approached his brother. Judah looked up into his face and held up his hands. A tiny green butterfly, no bigger than one’s fingernail rested in his open palm. “Judah!” breathed Benjamin. “How on earth-“ Smiling, Judah lifted his hand up into the breeze. The tiny green butterfly lifted off and floated away.
Once upon a time, almost two thousand years ago, this boy named Benjamin lived with his father and mother and three sisters and only one other brother. Benjamin was like most other boys; he liked to play and run and jump and explore, and he went to school. But unlike most other boys, Benjamin’s brother, Judah, was not like the others. The boy was eleven years. Why was he so different? Because Judah had not spoken a single word in his entire life.
If Judah had lived today, doctors might have said he had autism or that he was a mutest, meaning he either was unable to speak or that he had no desire to speak. But two thousand years ago, his not speaking was misunderstood. The other boys his age made fun of him. People at the market who knew him would avoid him. No one had really taken the time to get to know Judah, except for Benjamin.
Benjamin and Judah were the best of friends. Judah knew all of Benjamin’s hopes and ideas, and Benjamin knew of Judah’s single dream. This dream was to meet the Messiah. The two boys had known of the coming of the Messiah since they were small, but only Judah held it so close to his heart.
Now, these two boys lived in a place called Bethlehem. It was here that their father ran an inn. It was a good inn, large and able to hold many people. It had a small stable out back of it, where the family kept a few chickens and cows, and where the travellers who stayed at the inn put their animals to rest. It was Judah and Benjamin’s jobs to keep the stable clean and the animals fed and watered. They enjoyed the work very much.
Now, at this time, in Rome, there was a man named Caesar Augustus, the adopted son of Julius Caesar. He was the ruler over the whole Roman Empire, which at that time included Bethlehem. He ordered that a census be taken of the whole empire (which to them was the world). Each man was to return to his hometown with his family in order to be included in the census.
In Nazareth, a town outside of Jerusalem, a man named Joseph, like all the other people, went to his hometown to be counted. With him he took his wife, Mary, who was due to give birth at any time. “The way is long and the journey hard,” he said to her one night during their preparations, “and you are greatly with child. Are you sure you’ll be able to make the journey?” “It is God’s will,” Mary said, putting a hand on her stomach. “Do you not remember the angel’s appearance to us? Come; let us go now.”
The journey was hard, and long too, across open desert, with freezing nights and scalding days. It was not the best conditions for a pregnant woman to be in, but still they made their way to Bethlehem.
Meanwhile, Bethlehem was flooded with travellers. Benjamin was nearly run off his feet taking care of the daily chores. The inn was full to bursting. The stable was busy with animals. “I can’t believe how busy it is!” he said to Judah one night while they were cleaning the stable. “I haven’t seen this many people since we went to the Temple in Jerusalem for the Passover!” He looked at his brother. Judah leaned against his pitchfork, a strange, pale look on his face. “Judah?” Benjamin said softly. “Are you alright?” Judah said nothing.
“Judah? You look funny,” Benjamin said. “Are you-“ Just then Judah collapsed onto the straw, his body wracked by convulsions. “Judah!” Benjamin screamed. “Mama! Papa!” He ran out of the stable, screaming for help. “Somebody help me! It’s Judah! Somebody, please!”
Benjamin’s father, Jonathon, was collecting payment from someone who had stayed at his inn when he heard Benjamin shouting. His son ran up to him. “Papa, it’s Judah!” Benjamin panted. “He- I think- a devil has-!”
“Wait here!” his father said. He ran for the stable.
Judah was carried to the house, and a doctor was called for to see him. Judah had fallen into a strange ailment. The convulsions had stopped, but he was pale and shivered violently, a horrible fever attacking his body. After examining the small boy, the doctor took the father and mother aside. Benjamin listened from the open window, his sisters crowding around him.
“Tell us Elizar,” his mother was saying. “You are a good and wise physician. What’s wrong with our son?” “Only God is good and wise,” Elizar said in his cracked, raspy voice. “I am neither. Some fever- a poison infects his body.” “I see,” said Jonathon said gravely. “What can we do for him?” “You may try the usual ointments,” Elizar said softly. “But I don’t believe they’ll help.”
Miriam, the littlest, gasped. Shoshanna, the oldest, clapped a hand over Miriam’s mouth and told her in a hushed voice to keep still. Benjamin’s heart pounded. He stood on his toes to peer inside the window.
“You mean he’s...going to.....” his mother faltered. She dropped her face into her hands and her shoulders shook with her weeping. Jonathon put his arms around his wife. “Am I God to know such things?” Elizar asked. Then he sighed heavily. “But I am afraid so. Judah is going to die.”
Elizar left soon afterward. Benjamin, with his three sisters, entered the house. “Mama!” Miriam burst out, running to her mother. “Mother, what are we to do?” Shoshanna asked urgently. “Prepare the oil and myrrh,” their mother side, drying her tears with the end of her headscarf. “Benjamin, go to him. Try to get him to drink. He’ll listen to you.” “Yes Mother,” Benjamin said. He took a skin of water from the shelf and went into the sleeping area, where Judah lay on a thin pallet on the floor.
Benjamin stopped short he saw his brother. Judah had always been small for his age, and skinny as well. But now he looked so tiny, it frightened Benjamin. His face was pale and wan. He shook violently as the fever in him wracked his body. Trembling, Benjamin knelt next to his brother and lifted the skin of water to the boy’s lips.
Day after day, the family watched over the little boy. They prayed earnestly for his recovery, but nothing came. Jonathon even took offerings to the synagogue, but in vain. The neighbours scoffed at their efforts. “The boy is possessed by a devil!” they would say to each other in secret. “No use in trying to save him! Why, they might become possessed themselves!” And they would tsk-tsk and shake their heads at each other. But still the family tried to save their son.
Benjamin’s friend, Simieon, was a shepherd who lived in the hillsides around Bethlehem. He would give the family herbs and wild plants in an effort to help Judah, but to no avail. “It’s not your fault, Simieon,” Benjamin said to his friend after another failed attempt. “Thanks anyway.” “Keep praying my little friend,” Simieon said, “and perhaps God will perform a miracle. He’s capable of that and more, you know.” “I know,” said Benjamin, but in his heart, he really didn’t think so. Judah was so far gone- he was so thin now he looked like a skeleton, draped with clothes.
Simieon sensed this and squeezed his young comrade’s shoulder. “You’ll see Benjamin. It’ll all work out. And remember- whatever happens is for God’s glory. Now come, and let us go tend your father’s sheep. The little one is in need of your affections.” “Not today Simieon,” Benjamin said. “I’ve got to get home to my family. The inn’s so busy now, with that census going on.” “Ah, yes,” said Simieon, grinning. “The life of an inn keeper’s son is never finished, no? And you’d better practice, if you’re going to take over the inn for your father?” “Perhaps,” said Benjamin, and walked off.
Meanwhile, off in the desert, Joseph and Mary made a makeshift camp for the night. A harsh wind blew across the dunes, and Joseph struggled to keep their little fire going. When the fire went out for the fifth time, he rocked back on his heels and shook his head. “Mary,” he said, “it’s impossible.” “Nothing is impossible with God,” Mary said. “Shalom, my husband. God is with us. Do you not remember what the angel said to us?” “How could I forget that Mary?” Joseph said, a smile spreading over his face. “You are right.” Again, he set up the kindling for a fire. Miraculously, the wind immedietly died down and the fire took shape in a strong, warm blaze.
Mary moved closer to the fire. Joseph shook his head in amazement.
The night was cold, and both were stiff when they awoke the next morning. After a hurried breakfast, Joseph helped Mary onto their donkey and continued on to Bethlehem. They cross a river, and the town of Bethlehem was sprawled out in the far distance, about a day’s walk. Lines of the travellers, like ants across the desert, trickled into the city from every direction.
In Bethlehem, Benjamin sat in the open window of the sitting room and looked out at the gray sky of early morning. Still visible was the huge, mysterious star that had appeared just a few nights ago. He studied the star, thinking. Never had he seen anything like it. It was bigger than all the others, and brighter too, and seemed to glow with special importance. His thoughts wandered to his brother, who still lay on the thin pallet, shivering violently. Elizar had come the day before, checked over Judah, and shaken his head sadly. Nothing could be done now. The boy was too far-gone.
Now, instead of jeering at the family’s efforts to save their son, the townspeople mourned as if Judah had already died. It made Benjamin mad. Whenever he heard people offer condolences, he felt like screaming No! He’s not going to die! But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it would be of no use. If it was God’s will, then-
He shook his head. How could it be God’s will? His mother and father had taught him the stories of God’smiracles- the parting of the Red Sea as their nation left Egypt, how the oil in the Temple lamps lasted for eight days even with so small a supply, how God used someone so small as David to defeat the great giant Goliath- so why couldn’t God save his brother? God could. Benjamin knew he could. And yet, it seemed he would not.
He stood up from the window and hopped to the floor. It was time for the morning meal. His mother had already put the braided challah and meat on the table. Benjamin slid into his place silently between Miriam and Shoshanna and bowed his head over his plate. “Shalom,” his mother greeted him. “Peace with you.” “And with you,” Benjamin muttered.
His father entered the room. He sang the blessing over the food and they began to eat. His mother and father talked about the business at the inn, while the children simply ate and did not speak.Then his father rose. “I’ll be off then,” he said. “Send a message to me if Judah’s condition changes.” Then he left.
Benjamin went with him. His morning chores needed to be done. The girls, at home, would help their mother and tend to Judah. The day was shaping up to be sunny but cool. Blue sky was all around, with just a smudge of cloud on the horizon. In the far distance, mountains spiked the blue. Benjamin paused, looking at the sky, thinking. Then he continued on his way, running to catch up with his father.
Jonathon went into the inn to take over the night shift from his favourite worker, and collect pay from travellers that were leaving. Benjamin went out back to the stable.
Five donkeys, two cattle and numerous hens, sheep and goats found their home in this stable. Benjamin cleaned out the soiled straw, flung fresh hay down from the loft and checked the nests for eggs. He cleaned out the mangers and troughs, put in fresh feed, and finally finished by letting the chickens into the yard.
His father came out to see him around the tenth hour. “Benjamin,” he called, stepping into the stable. Benjamin swung down from the loft and faced his father respectfully. “Yes Father?” “You remember the manger that you and your brother were making?” Jonathon asked.
“Yes.”
“I need to use it. More travellers are coming in. Might you run home and bring it? Take one of the goats and a cart if it’s too heavy.”
Benjamin’s heart pit-pattered. He hadn’t want to use the manger. He felt like it was all he had left of Judah. Reluctantly he nodded and went back to the house.
He didn’t look in on Judah. He knew his brother would be no better, and he felt it would be too hard. Without a word to anyone, he found the manager and dragged it back to the stable. He cleaned it with a damp rag, dried it, and filled it with clean straw. He put it in the middle of the stable, almost as a tribute for all the animals to see. The he went home again for the noon meal.
Miriam was hand-feeding Judah water from a bowl when he arrived. It felt stranger then strange to have not one but two members of the family missing from the table. It made Benjamin sad. He sipped his broth silently and excused himself from the table as soon as he could. He peeked into the sleeping alcove. Miriam was still struggling to give Judah water.
“Let me,” Benjamin said softly, kneeling down on the other side of his brother. Miriam wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said. She handed him the bowl over Judah. He took it and set it down. Miriam stood and, kissing her little brother’s hot forehead, left.
With trembling hands, Benjamin lifted the bowl to his brother’s parched lips. Judah trembled when the clay bowl touched his face, and the water sloshed onto his chest. Benjamin bit his lip. “Judah,” he said softly, putting the bowl on the floor. Benjamin rocked back on his heels and rubbed his hands together. “Judah, I don’t know if you can hear me. Can you? I hope you can.” He stopped. He felt silly. Then he tried again.
“Do you remember the stories Mother used to tell us- about the Messiah? You loved those so much.”
“There’s this big star in the sky now. It’s larger and brighter than all the rest. You’d love it if you could see it. Get better Judah. Please. So you can see that star. Hear the stories about the Messiah again. Please.” His voice cracked and he stopped. He picked up the bowl and held it once more to his brother’s lips, this time holding his chin steady so the water wouldn’t spill.
A few miles outside Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph still pushed onwards toward the small town. Suddenly, Mary cried out and grabbed the donkey’s stiff mane. Joseph stopped and turned to her. “Mary?” “Joseph,” Mary said, breathless. She held one hand over her bulging stomach. “It’s....it’s happening.” “The baby?” Joseph asked in horrified surprise. “Yes,” Mary murmured. “Hold on,” Joseph said. He urged the donkey into a jog. Mary held on tightly. The ornery donkey brayed but complied, running along behind Joseph in a floating sort of way, as if he knew how precious the cargo he was carrying truly was.
They arrived in Bethlehem as darkness was falling. The bright star shone over all with its brilliant silver light. Benjamin, at the inn, watched it rise higher and higher in the sky. He hopped off his chair and went outside. He had nothing to do. The streets were crowded with people come for the census. He missed the quiet, small town he used to know. He would be glad when the census was over, and all these people went home. He went out of town and into the hillsides, where he would find Simieon and his fellow shepherds tending their flocks.
Simieon saw him approaching and met him, holding a tiny white lamb in one arm. “Greetings, Benjamin!” he said heartily. “Here is that tiny lamb I told you about.” He held the baby sheep out to Benjamin, who took it and cradled it under his chin. It’s clean, white wool was scratchy and it shivered in the night air. “You may take him if you wish,” Simieon said. “He’s too much trouble for all of us.” “Thank you Simieon,” Benjamin said. “My mother will be pleased.” “Ah! And here,” the shepherd said. He reached into a pouch at his side and withdrew a small bag. “Fine salts from Lebanon. They might help.”
Benjamin squeezed the small leather bag in his fist and slipped it under his cloak. “Thank you, Simieon,” he said. “I’ll be going now.” “Good night!”Simieon called after the boy.
As Benjamin entered the town, the stars silvery bright light filled the streets, making it almost day. Benjamin tucked the little white lamb under his arm and slipped the salt into his pocket. The streets were filled with people. He pushed through the crowds towards his father’s inn. As he approached it, he was surprised to hear a familiar voice shouting over the thrum of voices. “The inn is full! There is no more room in the inn! Go back!”
Benjamin pushed through the crowds at a jog. There was his father, standing in front of the inn and waving his arms. “There’s no room at the inn!”
The boy ran up to his father. “Father! What’s going on?” he asked urgently. Never had her heard anything like this. “There’s no more room at the inn,” Jonathon told his son. “Who is this?” “Oh, Simieon gave him to me,” Benjamin said quickly, lifting the lamb higher. It bleated in protest. “But Father- what do you mean there’s no more-“
“Excuse me,” a young man interrupted, stepping forward. He held on a tether a grey donkey, on which a very pregnant woman sat, holding her greatly protruding stomach. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but my wife- she is in labour and we have nowhere to stay. Is there anything you could do?”
“I am sorry, friend,” Jonathon said. “But there is no room! Perhaps there is family you could stay with?” “No sir,” the man said, shaking his head. “They have either moved from here or are dead. But please- I am Joseph, a son of David. Surely there is something you could do!”
Benjamin looked at his father, who rubbed his beard and though hard. “Well....” He looked over his shoulder at the full inn, and beyond it to the stable. “The only place I have is the stable.. It’s clean and warm, but I’m afraid that’s all I can do.”
The man, Joseph, smiled gratefully. “Bless you, sir. Thank you so much.” “Shalom,” the woman said. “Come with me,” Jonathon said. “Benjamin, you come with us.” He walked toward the stable, Joseph and his wife trailing along behind. Benjamin ran ahead to the stable, lamb in arms.
At the stable door, Joseph helped his wife, who he had introduced as Mary, off the donkey. Benjamin and Jonathon made a comfortable ‘room’ with blankets and clean straw. Benjamin had put the little white lamb into the pen with the other sheep, and it bleated loudly as if it knew the importance of what was happening.
Jonathon sent Benjamin to fetch his mother to help with the birth. Benjamin did as he was told, but was told to stay back at the house with his sisters and brother. He sat down next to his brother, leaning against the wall. “Simieon gave me a lamb tonight,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s tiny and white. You’d love it.”
Just then, a baby’s shrill cry broke the silence of the night air. The bright light of the star shone in through the window, illuminating Judah’s pale face. Benjamin stood up quickly and ran outside, followed closely by his three sisters.
Something important was happening. He saw Simieon and the other shepherds coming toward the stable, their flocks in tow.. Benjamin ran toward his friend. “Simieon! What’s going on?” he asked urgently. Simieon laughed and leaped into the world, waving his staff in excitement. “The Messiah! The Messiah has come!” “What?” Benjamin asked, astonished. “There we were,” Simieon babbled on, “just minding our business, when an angel- an angel!- appeared to us and gave us glad tidings! The whole sky was filled with choirs of angels, singing! They told us to come here! The Messiah is born! Salvation is here!”
Benjamin was amazed. Could it really be? He felt a twinge of sadness when he thought of his brother, unable to witness this great night. He went with Simieon to the stable, where Mary and Joseph were sitting, cradling their newborn in their arms. Mary had wrapped the babe in swaddling clothes and placed him in a manger- the new manger that Judah and Benjamin had made.
The shepherds sang songs of blessings and joy and prayed to God, kneeling in front of the manger. The tiny baby gurgled and cooed, a smile lighting up his little face. Simieon told the story of the angels to Mary and Joseph. “What shall you name such an important child?” Simieon asked. “Emmanuel,” Mary answered. “Jesus.” “A fitting name,” Simieon said. He touched the child’s face gently.
After the shepherds had wandered off and the crowds at the stable had diminished, Benjamin went up to see the baby himself. He knelt down in the straw and rested his chin on the side of the manger, looking at the little baby. “My brother Judah and I made this manger,” he said softly. The baby looked at him with huge, sparkling eyes. “Judah loved the stories about the Messiah. He would have loved to meet you.” He blinked, trying to keep his tears from falling. “Judah doesn’t talk. He has never spoken a single word. And now he’s very, very sick. The doctor says he’s going to die.”
Benjamin started to cry softly. The baby Jesus watched him. “I-I think you are the Messiah. Can you help my brother? Please? I believe...” He trailed off. The baby squealed and squirmed, gurgling. Benjamin managed a weak smile. “God bless you, little child,” he whispered, and stood to leave. As he turned to walk out of the stable, he suddenly heard someone calling his name. “Benjamin! Benjamin!” Shoshanna came running into the stable. “Shoshanna, what is it?” Benjamin asked, worried.
“It’s Judah! He’s-“ She stopped to catch her breath. “Judah what? Is he...he hasn’t...?” Judah asked. “No! No! Come and see!” Shoshanna grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the house. Their way was illuminated by the bright star, proclaiming the birth of the baby Jesus, back in the stable. As Benjamin entered the house, he heard an unfamiliar voice coming from the sleeping room. His heart leapt in his throat. Shoshanna pushed him ahead of her and he stumbled into the room.
Judah, is brother, knelt on his pallet, his hands clasped in front of him and an angelic look on his face. He was smiling, his face so full of joy it almost hurt to look at him. He looked straight at Benjamin and he spoke. “Hosanna!” he whispered. “The Messiah- the Son of God- he is here! He is born! Hosanna!”
And the light of God filled the little house and the stable, where Jesus lay peacefully sleeping in the manger.
I don't know who you are,
Your distance may be near or far,
All I know is that there is a hurt inside your heart,
It's like you're falling apart,
And you feel all alone in your hurt,
'Cause no one seems to care anymore,
Well, I just want you to know that;
(Chorus)
You matter to God,
So you matter to me,
For you I am praying,
'Cause I know that you're hurting,
Please keep breathing,
Don't let your heart stop beating,
I know that it hurts,
Just hold on a moment more,
So we may have never met,
But you matter to me so much,
Just think how much more,
You matter to those you love,
And I know for sure,
That Jesus loves you even more,
I just want you to know that;
(Chorus)
You matter to God,
So you matter to me,
For you I am praying,
'Cause I know that you're hurting,
Please keep breathing,
Don't let your heart stop beating,
I know that it hurts,
Just hold on a moment more,
So when you heave that mournful sigh,
When it seems you can't get by,
It'll matter to God and I,
And when you cry,
It matters to God and I,
So if you should leave this place tonight,
It will matter to God and I,
And I just want you to know that;
(Chorus)
You matter to God,
so you matter to me,
For you I am praying,
'Cause I know that you're hurting,
Please keep breathing,
(Keep breathing)
Don't let your heart stop beating,
(Don't let it stop)
I know that it hurts,
Just hold on a moment more,
Yeah, hold on,
Hold on,
Hold on a moment more.
I just wanted to say that I would have posted chapter three of Shadows Over Teralou today, but I couldn't find it, and my computer won't let me copy and paste, so I will post it some time soon. By the way: Elizabeth Knight has something very important posted under this entry. I hope you will read it, and give her your support.
I love coming up with characters and story plots. I even enjoy writing to a certain degree. Though, I will admit that I get annoyed with story writing rather quickly... I can't ever get very far. And worse yet, I don't feel in the least bit called to write novels. So, I have come to the hard decision to quit for now. I will write the occasional short story and I will be songwriting, but I will not be writing novels. I feel guilty. I know that a lot of you were enjoying my story, "The Goode Vaccine." I just cannot continue. I don't feel God in this at all. I feel more called to be a songwriter/musician. So, though I love stories, I don't know that I'm one who is supposed to be telling them. At least not yet. Maybe someday...
Now, this does not mean that I'm leaving Inklings. Like I said, I will write the occasional short story. I might even post some of my songs if y'all are interested.
Well, i'm sorry to say, but I haven't written much on my story lately. I just thought I'd let you know in case you were wondering why I wasn't posting. Part of this is because it's December, and i'm pretty busy this time of year, and I don't have a lot of time to write. I should have the first chapter edited and ready to go by the end of next week though, so you can expect an entry from me then!
Fellow author/esses! I shall disappear from the Inklings chat for a while! I have a lot of homework and other things to do..... and so...... I maybe gone well into January...... I apologize for any inconvience........ And I hope I'll be back by Feburary...... May fair winds follow you and the Author guide you........
Hey, everyone! It's Rachel. Sorry I haven't posted in a while, but as some of you know, I'm Jewish and Hannukah is here, so we've been busy. I'm leaving tomorrow for California, and I won't be back for three weeks, so I will post then! I might be able to post on my regular blog, so you can go here to see it:
Here I am again! It’s so good to see you…well, talk to you. I’m sorry for not writing to you sooner- Why aren’t you writing back?
Ashy! I have to go. I promise, cross my heart that I will write tomorrow bye!
Love with all my heart,
Ilana
Dear Katie,
I only have a moment. I was thinking…maybe you should write me letters too? You know, you haven’t and I’m waiting... Maybe after this entry, we can take turns every day writing each other letters. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?
I did a lot of work today. Did you know that Friday, two days from now, is Halloween? It seems very soon this year, even though it is always on the same date. Did I tell you that I have Webkinz? Here are the names of them: Aimee, Birch, Katy, January, Italy, Starryfrost, Dahlia, Lemon, Tree, Apple, Peter, Birdy, Maggie, Chip, Percy, Jessica, Leo, & Neptune. I know, some of the names are weird, but I like them.
Guess what? My teacher said that she won't inspect the letters anymore! I think that she thinks that you're not going to write back. I hope you do.
I have to go.
Love with all my heart,
Ilana
Dear Ilana,
Hi! I was looking forward to writing you, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to. Now that I got your letter, I figure that you do! I have to go soon, but let me tell you a bit about myself. I live in Hawaii, (which is awesome) but I really want to go to the states. I mean, I know that Hawaii is the, like, 50th state, but still it feels like Europe. Where do you live? Do you have any siblings? Oh, duh, you do. Ruthie, right? I have a little sister and brother named Alice and Jacob. And yes, my mom named them that before Twilight came out! I suppose that they stole the names from us! I also have a big sister named Jessica. Like your webkinz! We have nicknames as well as regular ones. Ale, Jake, Kate and Jess. Jess doesn’t really like her nickname. I just don’t like my name, comma. I mean…who would want the name Katie? What happened to “Rose” or “Esmeralda”? It would be heaven to have one of those names. Oops! Jess is looking at me suspiciously. Got to run!
Do you realize that, besides my “introductory post,” I haven’t written ANYTHING in here over the past…seven months? Woops. *blushes* Well, that was probably because I haven’t written anything, because I haven’t had ANY ideas or enthusiasm whatsoever. BUT, BUT, BUT! Here, at last, is something. It is a novel I am writing, called, “Forgiving Jane.” It is about an English girl, Jenny, who is an orphan. I enjoy writing about girls from different countries; I particularly like England because, as some of you know, I had a pen-pal from there. But anyways, here is a little synopisis about the story:
Under the stern care of a selfish governess in an old manor deep in the English countryside, Jenny Morris feels very alone in the world. Her father was killed the year she was born in a mining accident in India, and her mother disappeared quite mysteriously soon afterwards. All that seems to lie in the future for her is a foreign boarding school in Germany, until suddenly a strange telegram arrives from New York with the news that she is at last truly wanted by someone, and should come without delay to the States. Having nothing to lose, Jenny packs her bags and begins her journey. Along the way, she meets a young woman with a secret which Jenny is determined to discover. However, when she finds that the truth behind her past and the woman's are somehow linked, Jenny must make a choice that will change them both forever.
Okay? So, I will be posting my first chapter in a few days, if you would like to read it. Again, I’m sorry about this neglecting of Inklings…but I hope you will enjoy my first novel!
