A forum Christmas tale

laurentyvan · December 22, 2003 12:14AM

There’s a light on in the upper floor of an old brownstone well past midnight. A wintery Christmas eve wind blows the ivy that covers the building, rippling the leaves in undulating waves. A coin collector is at work inside, a nervous drizzle of perspiration creeping down his neck as he bends over a small light, a bright patch of silver outlined in black velvet in front of him.

Ever so gently he pries at a capsule, seeking it’s edge to free the coin within, which has been forced into an uncomfortably tight fit. One slip and a modest but not inexpensive British Gothic Florin will lose much of its value and appeal to future collectors.

It is cool in the room yet he continues to sweat, his fingers moist, slippery on the surface of the plastic container he strives to open. Finally he gains an advantage and the capsule begins to split into its halves, the top portion sliding easily now, releasing with a little pop as it is forced off. Victoria enters Christmas, regal and blue with a blush to her cheeks and a lustre that seems to brighten the room.

The collector must now remove her from the bottom of the capsule and he hunches over in his seat, uncertain of his tools. Loathe to use anything of metal he selects a smoothened shard of bone, a fragment of walrus tusk that has followed him for decades since childhood, a christmas present then, a tusk entire but broken since.
Gently and slowly he seeks to insert the sliver of bone between Victoria and her plastic prison but there is no room; she is held in a tight embrace, her passive gaze wistful and unchanging.

The florin is to be a Christmas present for his daughter that very day and as the early morning hours pass, he grows impatient. The capsule has a bottom edge he can grip with small pliers which he does. He places his opposite thumb against the bottom and forces upwards, seeking to loosen the coin slightly and ease it from confinement. It is not to be; Victoria springs upwards, suddenly free, a mid-air Christmas ornament poised in front of his astonished eyes. Time stops and stretches the moment to eternity, allowing him to reach out and grip the coin by its edges, saving it from disaster.

He sits dazed in his chair, his heart pounding, Victoria safe, now needing only placement in a small, felt–lined mahogony box he has purchased for it. How had he moved so quickly to grab the coin? He shakes his head, confused, not comprehending the deftness of his actions. At last, completely fatigued, he stands and exits the room, shutting the light behind.

There came a rustle from the corner behind a glass fronted wooden bookcase. A pair of small mice appear, twitching their whiskers, eyes alive with amusement.
“Och laddie,” one said to the other, “an’ ye did a grand thing usin’ yer Christmas wish
to help that duffer.”
“Wheesht, ‘twas for the bonnie wain and a debt I’m owin’ my cousin Mac who has always spoken highly of her Majesty. Now then laddie, unless my nose deceives, there’s a wee bit o’ Crowdie and maybe a Christmas dram lyin’ aboot.”

Merry Christmas to all!