“What do you see?” I ask.
“It is a man in a sleigh,” he says. “A proper sleigh, with a horse. Like Uncle William’s. But it is not Uncle William. It is an old man with a white beard.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is stopped near Aunt Bronwyn’s car. He is looking at it, I think.”
“Hmm. That is a mystery. Should we draw closer?”
Edmund nods and reaches up to take my hand. Then he takes August’s in his other, and the three of us walk down the middle of the snow-covered road. As we draw near, I swear I catch the stamp of a hoof and the jingle of a sleigh bell. The road, however, stays empty.
“Hello,” Edmund calls as we near the convertible.
A moment’s pause. Then Edmund says, “Yes, I can see you. You are driving a sleigh with a brown horse.”
I let out a held breath. If the ghost is communicating, it is not a death echo.
Edmund looks up at me. “He wishes to know if you can see him, Mama.”
“I cannot.”
“She did hear your bells,” Edmund says, turning back to the ghost. “That was earlier. Were you here earlier?”
The man must say something, and Edmund nods. As I watch, something flickers. At first, it is only a shimmer. Then I can make out the faintest image of a man standing beside a sleigh.
“Can you see him now, Mama?”
“A little, yes,” I say.
“And I see nothing but a snow-covered road,” August says. “Alas.”
“Because you do not have the Sight, Papa. Mama has a little.” Edmund rises onto his toes. “There are presents in your sleigh, sir. Are you Santa Claus?”
The man laughs and shakes his head. He is perhaps in his sixties, with a white beard, a dark overcoat and a fur hat.
The man’s mouth moves. Edmund waits until he stops speaking and then says, “Can you hear him, Mama?”
“I cannot, unfortunately.”
“He says he is from . . .” Edmund looks back at the man. “Nineteen-oh-three. He was going to visit his daughter and her family for Christmas when he was caught in a snowstorm.”
“Oh no!” I say. “Was he all right?”
I know the answer, but I still ask. The man says something, and Edmund shakes his head.
“He was thrown from the sleigh. He says it did not hurt at all. He went to sleep and woke as a ghost. Then it was another day, another snowstorm, and he . . .”
Edmund’s face scrunches as he listens intently. “He found someone caught in the blizzard. A boy on a horse. The man went for help and forgot he was a ghost, but somehow, a person seemed to know what he meant, and they came and found the boy.”
“So he saved him. That is a wondrous thing.”
The ghost shrugs, throwing off the compliment. Then he says something more.
“That is what he does,” Edmund says. “He comes back during storms looking for people in trouble. He finds those who can help, and they don’t seem to hear him, but they know what to do. It is magic, like Santa Claus, but better because he brings help instead of presents.”
The ghost makes a face and says something, as if laughing it off.
“He says he does not have the chance to help as much these days. People seem to magically bring help all by themselves.”
I smile. “Mobile phones. They are able to summon assistance.”
“Sometimes they cannot, and he helps, but most times he just watches, and he is glad they are safe.”
The ghost waves at the car, and Edmund says, “Oh, that is ours. Well, it is actually my aunt’s. We are staying someplace warm until morning. But thank you for coming to check on us.”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you very much, sir. We appreciate such kindness.”
He speaks again, and Edmund says, “He wishes to know if we need him to summon help.”
“Thank you, but no. We shall be fine. Is there anything we can do for him? I suppose he does not often get a chance to speak to someone with the Sight. Is there something he needs us to do? To help him cross over?”
Edmund listens and then shakes his head. “He says he can cross over, and he does. He only comes back for snowstorms.”
“I understand. Is there anything else we can do?”
The man laughs and speaks, still smiling.
“He says he doesn’t suppose we know any Christmas carols,” he says. “That is one thing he misses. People going Christmas caroling.”
Edmund listens again and continues, “He says around here, they used to dress up in their holiday best and go from door-to-door, singing Christmas songs.” He glances at me. “Like they do in London.”
“Yes, it is not a custom much practiced in the twenty-first century,” I say. “However, I do believe we may be able to accommodate you, sir. We know a few songs and . . .” I unzip Bronwyn’s heavy coat. “When the storm struck, we were on our way to a fancy-dress party. Would you settle for Victorian Christmas carolers?”
The man’s face breaks into a wide grin.
“He says he should like that very much,” Edmund says. “Though we ought not to remove our coats in such weather.”
“Oh, I think we can remove them for a song or two. It is sheltered here, and the night is not nearly as cold as it was with that wind.” I shrug off the jacket and tuck it inside the car as August and Edmund do the same. Seeing our outfits, the man’s smile grows even wider.
“Now, sir,” I say. “Do you have any requests?”
10
It is morning. The morning after a truly magical night, and we sleep in until the sun is fully risen over the horizon. August manages to pull yet more candy from his pockets—dear Lord, how much did the man take? We eat that with water from the taps, and as we do, Edmund says, “Ought we to leave a gift, Mama? For the people who live here?”
I smile. “I plan to. Did you have anything in mind?”
“I thought we might tidy the barn.”
I have to laugh at that. “Yes, I believe it could use a bit of a tidy. Let’s give it a quick one, and then we’ll be off.”
We spend perhaps an hour cleaning up. As we finish, I find a pencil on the workbench and turn over an advertisement page left for fire starter. On the back, I write a note, explaining that we had to take shelter in their barn overnight, and we tried to leave it better than we found it, in hopes they’ll forgive the trespass.
I also plan to leave my brooch. It is a simple one, not worth much, but they might find the “antique” a pretty bauble. As I remove it, though, I hesitate, realizing it was my grandmother’s. After last night’s memories, that gives me pause.
“You do not need to leave that,” August says when he sees what I’m doing.
“I have others from her, and I really ought to leave some token of thanks.”
He removes his stickpin and lays it on the note instead. It is a much more valuable piece of jewelry, and I thank him for that.
“It only gives me an excuse to buy another,” he says.
We leave the note with the stickpin on top, and then we head out into the bright winter’s morning.
“Now this is a proper white Christmas,” August says as he ducks to grab a handful of snow.