================================== Dona Nobis Pacem by Nancy Kaminski (c) December 1999 =================================== I think it's time for some Christmas storytelling, don't you? Here's my offering of a little Christmas vignette. Permission is given to post this to Mel's fanfic site, as well as the FTP site. We know who owns these characters. My thanks for letting us take them out and mess with their lives. ~~~~~~~~~ "Nick, tell me a Christmas story." Natalie Lambert took a sip from her wineglass, savoring the deep, rich flavor of the ruby red port, and gazed hopefully at her companion seated at the other end of the leather sofa. "A Christmas story?" Nick queried. He took a sip from his own glass and stretched out his legs. "What do you mean?" "You know, something from long ago." "What do you want to know? How we celebrated? That sort of thing?" Natalie ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass, smiling slightly as the crystal sang. "I don't know, it just seems like a good time for a Christmas story." She waved a hand at the windows. "It's cold and snowing outside, and it's warm and comfy here inside. We've got a nice fire burning in the fireplace, and I feel relaxed because I'm all done with shopping and decorating and all that. I'm ready for a story. And I bet you've got stories -- lots and lots of 'em." She snuggled a little deeper into the corner of the sofa. "Please?" "Hmmm, let me think a bit." Nick frowned into his glass. He had to admit he felt quietly happy and relaxed himself. It was an odd sensation, but one that came more and more often whenever he spent an evening with Natalie. Tonight they had watched "A Charlie Brown Christmas" in his loft and then turned the television off to simply sit and watch the fire. Shadows danced softly in the darkened room, and the air was scented with pine from the fresh boughs Nick had put in a large vase on his dining room table, his only concession to decorating for the season His thoughts turned to Christmases past. Yes, he had lots of Christmas stories, but not many were the kind he wanted to relate to Natalie. There was one, though... "Let me tell you about a Christmas a long, long time ago, when 'peace on Earth, goodwill toward men' had a very personal meaning..." ====================================== Somewhere in the Western Desert, Egypt Christmas Eve, 1220 ====================================== Nicolas de Brabant rode slowly towards the small clump of date palms lit redly in the distance by the setting sun. He was exhausted and desperately thirsty. He knew that where there were palms, there was water -- that is, if this wasn't a mirage. The sandstorm had struck suddenly early that morning, coming seemingly out of nowhere. One moment the sky was blue and the next a murky wall of dust and sand had risen out of the north to engulf him and his companion. In a matter of moments they could see and hear nothing except the driving clouds of stinging, suffocating sand and the buffeting gale. Shouting into the wind, Nicolas had tried desperately to locate his companion, but he had been riding ahead of him and had disappeared into the murk. Nicolas finally gave up and concentrated on his own survival. He made his horse lie down and, after hastily tying a cloth over the gelding's muzzle to try to keep the sand out of its nostrils, he threw his cloak over his head and hunkered down in the scant protection the animal's body provided. He lost track of time as the storm howled around him. He could only hope that Francois had had the presence of mind to do the same. This expedition had been a disaster from the start. He had been selected to take a message from his commander to the Duc D'Anjou in a camp some two days to the west, through territory frequented by Muslim warriors. Nicolas had resented that he was chosen for such a menial and dangerous task, but his commander had felt that sending his message via a mere soldier would be an insult to the Duc. Nicolas was perfect -- a nobleman, but not one so high in rank that his loss would be much lamented. And, Nicolas thought bitterly, his commander probably was under instructions from Lord Delabarre, the man who had sent him on Crusade in the first place, to give him ample opportunity to get killed. At least they had given him Francois, a sturdy, dependable man-at-arms, to accompany him. But they had gotten lost and had taken four days, not two, to locate the Duc and deliver the message. The Duc had reprimanded Nicolas for tardiness and sent him back with a stinging rebuke, not allowing them even a day's rest before returning to his commander with the reply. And then Francois had taken ill with fever, sitting pale and quiet on his plodding horse as they trekked back over the arid plain towards their encampment. And now this. The storm must have lasted for half the day, although it seemed like forever. When the winds finally died down and the sun dimly reappeared, both he and his horse were half-buried in sand. He struggled to stand and then urged the horse to its feet. Sand had been driven into everything -- it was in his clothes, in his mouth, everywhere. He vainly tried to shake it from himself as he looked around for Francois. Nothing. He was alone in an endless, featureless sea of sand and hard- packed dirt. He called, "Francois, where are you?" over and over to no avail. Only the now-quiet hissing of the hot breeze over the sand answered him. Finally he gave up. He would have to find his way home himself. The impact of losing Francois suddenly hit him -- not only was he a solitary man in a hostile land, but Francois had been carrying all the provisions. All Nicolas had was a skin of water, and that three- quarters empty. Fighting down a sudden panic, he mounted his horse and turned it away from the westering sun. He knew at least that if he headed east long enough, he would find the Nile. He only hoped he and his horse lasted long enough to reach it. It was a miracle that the oasis appeared after he had traveled only six hours. Even in December, the heat was intense; he had drunk his last mouthful of water two hours before and he felt as dessicated as one of those mummies he had seen soon after he arrived in Egypt. When he finally reached the oasis he found it consisted of a shallow, reedy pool of water surrounded by a dozen date palms and scrubby brush. His horse rushed into the pool and plunged its head into the murky water to drink noisily. Nicolas slid off and almost fell into the water, barely managing to stay upright by hanging onto his saddle. He, like his horse, plunged his head into the pool, luxuriating in the cool wetness on his sunburned face. Once his thirst had been slaked he surveyed his surroundings. There was evidence the oasis was visited, but not heavily; there was dried camel and horse dung and the marks of a campfire. He looked hopefully into the shadowed heights of the palms, but could see no fruit ready to be picked. Oh, well. He had been hungry before. At least he had water and the makings of a fire. He stripped the saddle off his horse and hobbled it so it could forage for itself on the tough vegetation. In the gathering twilight he collected as much brush and dung as he could for his campfire. It was getting cold now -- the desert night was as chill as the day was hot. Once the fire was burning, he wrapped himself in his cloak, lay back against his saddle, and stared up into the night sky. He counted the days from when he had left his encampment, and realized it was Christmas Eve. His thoughts turned to his family. Were they getting ready for Midnight Mass? Enjoying the feast, drinking spiced wine and eating savory dishes? His stomach cramped at the thought of food. Better not dwell on that subject too much. He craned his head around to the east. Was this the same sky the Wise Men had seen that had beckoned them on to Bethlehem? There was no bright guiding star now to lead Crusaders to the east and Jerusalem, just the familiar constellations. Orion was hanging huge and bright near the horizon, his hunting dogs on his heels, his flaming sword at his side. Suddenly Nicolas heard something -- a faint clinking and the muffled sound of hooves on sand. He sat upright and stared into the dark, trying to see what was approaching. He clutched at his sword and waited tensely. A white blur rose out of the gloom into the faint light thrown by his fire and transfigured into a man leading a horse. He stopped abruptly and stared at Nicolas, his hand flying to the dagger at his side. The two men stared silently at each other. The leaping flames of Nicolas' fire revealed a sturdy, middle-aged man, his face dark and weathered, wearing the flowing white robes and headdress of a desert dweller. His horse was of the small, finely boned desert breed, and looked to be lame. When Nicolas made no threatening move, the man warily led his horse to the pool and allowed it to drink. Keeping his eyes on the foreigner, he stooped to drink himself, keeping one hand on his dagger. Still Nicolas made no move. In truth, he was too weary to fight, and the thought of trying to take a life on this holy night repulsed him. It was a night for peace, not war. The Muslim retreated a bit from the pool and settled to the ground, gathering his robes closely around himself, his horse tethered nearby. Nicolas realized that he had collected every available scrap that could be burned; the man could make no fire on this cold, frosty night. The two were a scant stone's throw apart. Nicolas could see the man was cold and it troubled him. But what could he do? This man was the enemy. But as he stared through his fire at the figure huddled on the other side of the pool, it didn't seem to him that the man was an enemy. He was a lone traveler, just like himself, and was in need. Nicolas had to do something. Finally, he slowly and deliberately laid his sword away from himself and gestured to the man, waving him towards the fire. "Come," he called, even though he knew the man wouldn't understand him. "Let us share this fire. It isn't right that I am warm and you are not." He gestured again. Slowly the Muslim stood and approached the fire, wary that the offer was a trick. When Nicolas still made no move except to smile and gesture again, he sat on the other side of the blaze and held out his hands to the warmth. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight, and he nodded to the weary Crusader. He said something in his liquid tongue, then pointed to himself and said slowly, "Hamid Ibn Shefia." Nicolas repeated it awkwardly, then pointed to himself and said his own name. Hamid nodded again, then opened a pack he had brought with him and set out his supper -- dates, cheese, and some dried meat. He glanced up at Nicolas, who was unsuccessfully trying not to eye the food. He grinned suddenly, his teeth flashing whitely in the firelight, and said something, then proceeded to parcel out two portions and offer Nicolas one. Nicolas accepted the food gratefully, and soon the two men were eating in companionable silence. As he ate his meager meal, Nicolas couldn't help but wonder what his family would think of his Christmas Eve repast, shared with the sworn enemy of Christendom. Although, he reflected ruefully, it was the sworn enemy of Christendom who had shared his Christmas Eve repast with *him*. The meal finished, Hamid again reached into his pack and brought forth a slender wooden flute. He began playing, the music strange and exotic to Nicolas' ears. Perhaps, he thought as he listened, it was this sort of music that the shepherds had played to their sheep in the hills around Bethlehem, and that the Christ child had heard from his bed in the manger. After the song's notes quavered and died in the still, cold air, Nicolas offered his own music, singing a Christmas carol about shepherds and stars and the birth of his Savior. Hamid listened intently, nodding every so often as he absorbed the alien melody. And then, when Nicolas had finished, he played another song. They traded music back and forth through the evening, and even though they could not speak to each other, they understood each other perfectly. Finally the silences between songs grew longer and longer until it was time to sleep. Nicolas knelt briefly to offer a prayer for Christmas, and to give thanks for his good fortune to be alive and for Francois' soul, for he felt sadly certain that he was surely dead. Hamid watched him from his bed next to the fire, and when Nicolas was done he murmured a few words that sounded like his own prayer and closed his eyes to sleep. Early the next morning found the unlikely companions once again sharing a meal. "I must go now," Nicolas said when they had finished, and pointed in the direction of the rising sun and made walking motions with his fingers. Hamid nodded his understanding and pointed to himself, and then to the west. He must continue his own journey. Nicolas stood and began the process of putting on his heavy, hot hauberk and chain mail. Hamid was vastly amused at the sight and stopped him with a gesture. He went to his saddlebags and drew out a spare headcloth and presented it to the bemused knight. He mimed how Nicolas should wear it as protection against the fierce sun and pack away his armor for the trip across the sands. Nicolas thought briefly of the misery of the day before, and thanked Hamid gravely for the gift. The generosity of the desert dweller humbled him, and he cast about for a gift he could give him in return. He had so little... He fumbled in his own pack until he found the small knife his brother had given him many years before. It had a plain, utilitarian blade, but the bone handle was finely carved with leaping stags and hunting dogs. He held it out to Hamid, who accepted it with an admiring smile. "Joyeux Noel, mon ami. Merci." Nicolas bowed, and then the two men embraced: strangers and enemies, yet friends, brought together by chance and the simple kindnesses of shared warmth, sustenance, and music. As he rode away, Nicolas turned around and looked back. Hamid raised a hand in farewell, then turned to go his own way. It was a fine Christmas day. Finis "Dona nobis pacem" is Latin for "grant us thy peace." ================================== Comments, criticisms, and musically inclined knights may be sent to: nancykam@mediaone.net Merry Christmas to all! ==================================