“Carol of the Bells,” a Christmas Short Story

By Phil Elmore

When the dog spoke to him, Gavin knew his father had been telling the truth.

He was loading the last of the groceries in the Aerostar, making sure to hang on to Henry’s biscuits, when the Jack Russell Terrier hopped into the cargo area of the minivan.

“I’ve got them, boy, I’ve got them,” Gavin promised. “Just let me get in the van.”

“It’s time, Gavin,” said Henry. He was wagging his tail furiously.

Gavin froze. He could feel the blood draining from his face, could feel the sudden knot in his stomach. He looked at the little dog as if he had never seen the animal before.

“Henry?” said Gavin. He looked left, then right. There was nobody nearby. The parking area was busy, but he was alone in this icy corner at the back of the lot. The speakers outside Furnham’s were playing “Jingle Bell Rock” for the fourth time in the last two hours.

“It’s today,” said Henry. Then he barked, once, and returned to his blanket on the passenger seat.

Gavin drove his groceries home in a daze. Twenty-two years, his father had said. Sometimes thirty-three. Once, forty-four. But never less than twenty-two. And maybe never.

Maybe never. He had clung to that hope over the years. With each passing Christmas, he had tried to convince himself that Dad was sick. It was the “chemo-brain” talking. That’s what the doctors had called it. It was a fever dream, a fantasy.

His father’s last words had been, “I love you.” He hadn’t woken up again after that. But he’d said something just before, something that had confused and puzzled Gavin through the years.

A cat is enough, Gavin’s father had said. But cats aren’t loyal. Get a dog. The animals will tell you.

He looked down at his watch. Clarissa’s recital was at seven at the school. Did he have enough time to get to the storage locker? No; it was too far out of the way. He and Judy would have to drive separately.

Henry said nothing else. Gavin kept looking at the dog, expecting something more, but as far as he could tell, it was the same dog he’d brought home to the girls four years ago. Henry was only the latest ambassador in a long line of family dogs. At forty-three, Gavin could not count how many he had owned.

Cats aren’t loyal. Get a dog.

He pulled into the garage next to Judy’s Honda, barely waiting long enough for the opener. He put Henry in the kennel. When he let himself in through the kitchen, Cinnamon was lying on the throw rug in front of the refrigerator. Gavin put down his groceries and eyed the cat, waiting.

Cinnamon yawned.

Had he imagined it? Once, maybe. Once could have been wishful thinking. But Henry had spoken twice. Gavin had heard him. It was real. He believed it was real.

“Today,” Cinnamon finally said. Then, as if delivering this message were beneath its dignity, the cat stood, stretched, and strutted from the room.

Gavin leaned against the countertop. His heart hammered in his chest. He looked at his watch. He could hear the girls playing in the next room. The implications hit him. Clarissa was eight. Dawn was fourteen. He did the math in his head.

Maybe never.

“Gavin?” asked Judith. She was holding the box of ornaments they kept in the attic. This she placed on the counter next to the groceries. “Are you all right? You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“You have to drive the girls,” he said.

“Gavin, you promised,” she chided. “Don’t make me sit through this by myself.”

“I’m going,” he said. “We’re all going. Tell Dawn to get dressed.”

“But you said she could stay home. You know how bored she gets at these things.”

“We’re all going,” said Gavin again. “But I… I have to go to the locker. I need it.”

Judy looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Need what? What are you talking about?”

“I have to get Steve,” said Gavin.

Now it was Judith’s turn to go pale. She put one hand to her chest, clutching her sweater. It had reindeers stitched on it. “No,” she said. “Not tonight. Gavin, not after all these years.”

“Yes,” said Gavin. “After all these years. Thirty-three of them.”

Judith’s eyes went wide. “Your father…”

“Yes,” said Gavin. “Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, just like he said. Thirty-three years later.”

“Can’t we, I don’t know, just stay home?” said Judith. “I’ll cancel. I’ll say she’s sick. We can lock the doors, just stay in.”

“And then what?” said Gavin. “Let it happen here? It’s going to. Just like Dad said. The school is at the edge of town. There’s the athletic field. It’s big. There won’t be any lights. I’ll do it there and then meet you at the recital.”

He turned to go.

“Gavin,” said Judy. She grabbed him, holding him close, and he put his arms around her.

“Dad did it,” he told her. “So did Papa Erway. If they could do it, so can I. Dad said it was in our blood.”

Her eyes were hopeless. He wanted her to say something, wanted her to wish him luck or tell him to be careful. She shook her head. He nodded, once, and left.

The roads were wet but passable. Snow was falling. It was a beautiful winter night with a full moon. The moon needed a movie Santa, flying past in silhouette.

The locker was covered in dust. The storage fee was automatically billed to his credit card. He rarely thought about it.

His hands shook. He dropped the key in the snow, dug it free, and finally got it into the lock. Cobwebs brushed him when he lifted the shutter door.

Every locker had a motion-detector light. It was bright and uncomfortable. There was nothing in the locker — nothing except Steve, wrapped in a wool Army blanket. Gavin unwrapped the bundle, spread the blanket on the floor, and examined his prize.

The Dread Weapon Steve was a gaudy thing. The double-edged sword was as tall as Gavin, with a massive skull-shaped hump where its cross-guards were mounted. The pommel, too, was a skull, although smaller. Runes covered the blade.

A weapon like this should have a name, his father had said to him. Gavin, then fourteen years old, had laughed. Name a sword? He thought it was silly. He had suggested “Steve.”

Steve it is, his father had agreed. The Dread Weapon Steve. Six generations and no one in our family has thought of that. I’m proud of you, Gavin.

He had felt shame, then. Shame at his father’s pride. Shame that his father took him seriously when he himself did not. Shame that his father believed in silly family legends.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said quietly.

The Dread Weapon Steve was much lighter than it looked. He hefted it easily. When he was fifteen, his father had given him a wooden replica, carved to exact detail. That had been much heavier and Dad had insisted he learn to wield it. Now, swinging Steve through the air, he found it comfortable. As the blade moved, it hummed.

Gavin drove to the school. He stopped short of the property, parking the Aerostar on the street next to the bus circle. Taking Steve from the back, wishing he had brought his hunting boots, he stepped out into the snow.

A stand of pine trees bordered the athletic field. He marched through the snow to this, where he could wait unnoticed. Far across the field, beyond the access road to the runners’ track, the lights were on at the school. He looked to his watch. Quarter to seven.

He leaned against one of the pines. The air was cold but not painful. The untouched snow, marred only by his own tracks, glittered in the moonlight. A gust of wind drove frigid dust under his nostrils. He coughed.

“He’s waiting,” whispered a voice.

Gavin looked up. A squirrel, perched on the lowest branch, stared down at him. “Where?” he asked it.

“In the field,” said the squirrel. It did not blink. Its black eyes held nothing; it was taking no sides. “Go to the middle of the field and he will come.”

Gavin nodded. Holding the Dread Weapon Steve low by his waist, he walked out into the snow. The gusts were picking up now. Every step he took signaled the wind to blow harder. Finally, the snow before him was swirling in little eddies, forming tiny funnel clouds of ice crystals.

His father had described that, too.

When at last he stood in the center of the field, Gavin held the sword aloft. The snow before him erupted, becoming a mound. The mound became a hill. The hill became a giant. When the snow giant grew fingers, grew a face, grew a mouth, it opened eyes that glowed. Gavin had never seen so blue a blue. He had never felt so cold a cold. Near the thing, near the monster, the temperature dropped. Sudden frost painted wandering patterns in the snow.

“Erway,” said the monster. Its voice echoed, a bass rumble that Gavin felt in his chest. “He would be an old man now. As you will be when I return.”

“I am Erway,” said Gavin, remembering the words. “My father was Erway. His father was Erway.”

“So you are,” said the monster. “The curse has lain long on your family. And so it is that you face me now.”

“So it is,” repeated Gavin. “Release me. Release my family.”

“Not this Christmas,” said the monster. “Not Christmas years hence. Perhaps never.”

The creature lunged.

Gavin Erway brought up the sword that his father had taught him to use, and the two fought for half an hour.

I know, because he told me.

He was late to my sister’s recital.

That night, when he tucked us into bed on Christmas Eve, he told me the story. Told me how Samael Erway, a sailor on a merchant ship, had once cheated a Romany man during a card game. Told me that the curse placed on our family that Christmas had stayed with Samael’s descendants for six generations.

When I unwrapped the wooden sword Christmas morning, my mother gasped. I caught her crying at brunch. I didn’t understand, then, the look that my parents shared. Resignation. Concern. And pride. In my father’s eyes, there was pride.

He passed a few months ago, far too young. Before he went, he warned me. Told me he was proud of me. Told me he loved me. When he died, he was smiling.

My name is Dawn Erway. My father was Gavin Erway. His father was the man we called Papa Erway. I am thirty-six years old.

It is Christmas Eve, and my dog just told me to get my sword.

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on Tuesday, December 16th, 2014 at 00:01 and is filed under On Writing, Published Work.
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