The Christmas Stories

By Peter Foye and Ruth Markham

This collection of stories were written mostly with traditional seasonal themes, some more so than others, but all were written at that time of year. They are surprisingly variant and in their styles and content, both engaging and easy to read. The first to be written was as an entrant for a local library competition and was placed first, giving the author encouragement to write more short stories. Another by the second author also had similar success the following year and several others soon followed. The stories are of their own time but they are written to be read in an age where our limited read-time is sadly restricted to our daily commute.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Foye
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370569373

Peter Foye

Peter Foye is now happily retired after a career in engineering spanning 42 years, now living in Oxfordshire and Cornwall. He has written over 30 short stories mostly for the enjoyment of friends and family, some have been, published in local newspapers, excerps read on radio and a few have won competitions. He has also written novels under the pen-name 'Peter Wallace'.

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THE CHRISTMAS STORIES

Peter Foye - Ruth Markham

2017

THE CHRISTMAS STORIES

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Copyright ©2017 by the authors

Peter Foye and Ruth Markham

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet via any other means without permission of the author is illegal. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published by Peter Foye at Smashwords

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THE CHRISTMAS STORIES

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Author's Dedication:

For our children Jo, Simon, Daniel and Kevin and

our grandchildren, Ollie, Harry, Ilya and Alfie, and

all children everywhere who have enjoyed

reading these stories.

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THE STORIES are :-

1. Lost at Christmas

2. The Gift of Love

3. Melchior

4. The Rocking Horse

5. Nogard

6. The Camphor Angel

7. In Time For Christmas

8. The Clockwork Doll

9. The Last Magi

10. Forsaken

About the Authors

LOST AT CHRISTMAS

Peter Foye

Aaaah, now where shall I start?

Well I’ll try the beginning… no not then, take too much ink, let me start by telling you that I am a ‘sprite’, a very special sort of fabled creature, so the others say. I guess you have never heard of us… yes, thought so. You all have heard of elves, fairies, dwarves and even… now this really hurts me, the goblins – horrible nasty creatures, but not my kind. But then we sprites are special, very special and not many of us are found these bleak days. Yes we are still around but when the children don’t believe any more my kind feel… ashamed, that’s it and we hide away in dusty corners and in the bottoms of boxes and old steamer trunks that have been abandoned too, in damp cellars that smell of rat and bat and crawly things or among the things up high under the eaves where the chill wind sneaks through old cracked roof tiles and mouldy thatch that has been ravaged by nesting birds and nibbling mice…

And me…? No, not me, I’m the lucky one; I live in a cuckoo clock, yes that’s right a cuckoo clock. You must know what that is. Usually it is made out of wood and looks like a little house with a peaked roof and a tiny front door that pops open from time to time for a cuckoo bird to announce the hour. At least they are supposed to but my companion has retired long ago and hardly ever makes a move.

‘Isn’t that right Beaky?’

We are not on chirping terms, him and me, probably because I tell him that he never does anything, just sits around the house all day and not a tweep.

‘Not a talker Beaky, are you.’

Mmmm… where was I, oh yes, I was saying, I am a sprite… ah I’ve told you that already, sorry, getting forgetful these days so my benefactor says, he hates me calling him the boss. My name is ‘Timzel’, I clearly remember that, been called it all my life. All of us sprites have a name with a ‘Z’ in it, in fact my sister ‘Tamzzela’ has two and she keeps on about it. I allow her that because she is so much younger than me and the ‘double Z’ was fashionable then and for all that she has been good to me, even sends a Christmas card, every year you know, never fails. She is taller than me, almost a giant for us, why she must be as high as a small chicken or even a wood elf. When we get older we grow smaller, unlike you humans - you get taller, how strange is that? Having shorter legs we can’t run as fast as we could when we were young but we can hide better. And I can live here high up on a wall away from the inquisitive cats and sharp toothed rats looking for a dinner. I am all cosy and warm in a quiet corner in Father’s smallest workshop where all the snuggly presents are finished with bright ribbons and wrapped up pretty, ready for the ‘Big Night’ as he calls it.

I would not miss it for anything even after all these years, though my little brittle bones ache weary at the very thought of the cold night air nipping my ears and tweaking at my nose. My best pal Cupid says it will be the best year ever with more, many more children to visit… can’t wait. There is just one thing… but no I won’t spoil it now, maybe later I will tell you. What I am doing and must do is to get this story down on paper before the memories drift away like dust mites in summer sunshine that scatter with the lightest zephyr of wind.

Where’s that best pen? It’s made of finest goose feather you know and a present last Christmas from the big man himself. Tell you what I will sharpen the tip a bit, dip it in that fresh ink there… and I will begin, I promise.

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It was the Christmas before last… no it was before the before last, I think. But then again… well anyway it was long before now. He gives us lots of encouragement as it gets closer to the Big Night and the run-through the ‘plan’. What? You never knew there was a plan, of course there has to be a plan. Think of all the young children out there, all over the world waiting for their dreams to come true, ’FC’, I call him that sometimes – but not to his whiskery face, is very particular about the timing of it all. Of course the team, old Donder, Blitzen, Prancer, Dancer, Dasher and Vixen, Comet and my pal Cupid all know their part and they go into training with early morning gallops and frisking about. Oh my word what a racket they make when getting ready, what with putting the harness on right and then the bells. They play-up the elves that work in the stables something awful just for fun.

‘Oiie! What’s going on here…?’

Everybody froze, I mean like statues, that booming voice was all authority, not the normal ‘Oh, ho, ho’ at all.

‘We have a serious amount of happiness to deliver this very night, everyone to their places, Donder and you Blitzen you’re up front as usual…’ FC began in quite definite tones. There was no Rudolph in those days and when there was he never had a red nose, ridiculous and I should know because I was there. But on his first trip he did have a rather sore cold and dear old Father Christmas made terrible fun of him. Of course he really loved him and the little chap became a firm favourite.

As the elves scurried about chattering nervously in their sing-song voices they soon had the team harnessed in the correct order and the sleigh runners were fully charged and twinkling with magic dust swirling in little clouds. The reindeer stamped with nervous anticipation as they felt the sleigh adjusting to the starting weight of the bulging sacks that FC piled on. But I knew that in no time they would feel the load not at all because with all that flying magic the sleigh would become as light as a baby owl’s feather down and the joy of pulling it would put such speed into those flying feet. FC told me that long ago and it was true because we were all swept up in a great stream of glittering moonbeams.

Yes, that’s right we sprites were on board as well; we were up on top of the heads of the reindeer. Me…? I was hanging on for dear life right between Cupid’s ears and our job was to whisper Farther Christmas’ commands about direction changes direct in those soft ears. What a ride that was… breath taking, frightening and exhilarating all in one go, so, so magical. We started in the east as we always do, as the night starts there first of all, then we swoop and climb, turn and bank then soar again with many, many stops. Some were on roof tops, some outside homes big and small, rich or poor; they were all the same to the big man. He was on great form this night, his huge snowy beard fluffed and curled, his hair a match flowing freely from under his ermine trimmed hood, it was his best one this year and he looked absolutely perfect. Well Mrs. C would have it no other way, would she?

Gosh, I remember now what a beautiful starry night it was, the air was crisp and sharp as it whistled past my ears and freezing my fingertips even through my rabbit’s fur gloves. My legs hooked in a little tighter when the instruction came that it was time to land again. Cupid sensed it and gave a sort of shrug of excitement as the team brought us around in a tight arc to begin our spiral downwards. Below I see the silver snake of the river that wound through the sleeping city, snug beneath fluffy blobs of moonlit clouds. The streets and houses had a dusting of fresh snow that showed no tracks of carts or people making everything look clean and new. It was wonderful and then we swooped again ever lower and lower and… wow we were just above the wide river, passing the boats and trading ships with sails tightly furled moored together tight to the lee shore close to the bank.

Then I saw it, Cupid did too, his ears pricked, there up ahead was a massive bridge with a tower on each side and two spans between them, one high up and a larger lower one. Oh… no, the thought screamed in my head, he’s not going to….

‘Wheeee…!’ Christmas yelled full voice into the freshening chill wind and his message was clear, oh yes he was.

And we were through, right through the bridge with the entire sled magic sizzling like I never heard before and then we were climbing again.

‘Our first stop over there,’ he said triumphantly, ‘always wanted to do that on such a night, whoopee!’

My word he was in a rare mood and it took all of us sweeping along with it.

The ‘over there’ was a large important house standing proud at the end of a drive that was edged with poplar trees topped with snow, like two lines of toy soldiers with tall white plumed helmets. We were over them in no time but… we were too fast, much too fast…

We hit the main sloping roof on the upside… bang… and then we were up again,