Student Submission: Cantique de Noel

By Chaille Kitchen

Chaille Kitchen is a junior majoring in environmental studies and her hometown is Cedar Valley, Utah. She’s been writing all her life, and when she’s not writing, she’s taking pictures of life, volunteering where she can or reading great books.

A flash of light in the darkness blinded him as his eyes dazedly swept up to the starless sky. His ringing ears muffled the rumbles and whistles preceding the bursts of illumination, so that he felt strangely detached from the death and destruction dictating the expansive of scarred earth. Gradually, he understood that indeed, he had survived the explosion, and the prevailing, eerie silence on his immediate side suggested that perhaps, he’d been the lucky one.

Shifting slightly, his uniform sucking in the fresh mud, Colonel Philippe Devereux tested his range of movement. This process proved laborious, as nothing wanted to obey him, particularly his left leg. Rolling upwards, ignoring the thick reek of smoke and blood that hit him, he managed to glimpse a large, ragged tear in his pant leg at the knee and perceived a warm wetness steadily soaking into the dirtied blue color of the clothing. The wound hurt plenty, but didn’t appear worrying—he could leave it alone for now— so letting out a wearied breath, he lay back down, the harsh chill of the ground penetrating his back.

He didn’t want to move. Only a deep ache and stiffness rewarded such efforts. The ringing in his ears had greatly subsided, but now a constant throb in his head had taken its place, so that he was compelled to shut his eyes.

The awful noise persisted to rule the dark of night, where quiet only existed beyond the field where an eighteenth-century château or manor looked out over the horrific scene of war with its sweeping expanse of bloodshed. Although he could only see the high roof of the country house, he imagined the outbuildings that had yet to be touched by violence: the stables, breweries, kitchens, and manservant quarters in the garçonnière. The stately château had once stood in the quiet times of peace, but now, the fighting had come home and kept advancing toward the town and beyond to what had once been his grandfather’s land.

Why couldn’t it just stop?

He sighed, long and heavy, letting his mind retreat from the harsh noise, away from the unrest, across northeastern France, back through the long years to when the torn battlefields with their endless silent dead were still whole country fields with endless swaths of green grass. Indeed, he went back to a bright corner in his memories of boyhood when he’d spent many days in the beauty of this land and in the company of his loved ones.

***

“Hold the lamp steady, Philippe,” his grandfather said, coming around the mare’s legs as she nosed the straw in heightened agitation. Her dark bay flanks glistened with sweat and heaved with the contractions.

Advancing further into the stable with nervous expectation, he obeyed his grandfather’s command and held the lamp aloft over the wooden gate, so that its soft and warm glow chased away the shadows clinging to the corners. The mare’s eyes dilated and her breathing quickened. His grandfather knelt down in the bed of straw, speaking in gentle tones.

“I’m here, Lorraine. I’m here. Here we go.”

Philippe watched in quiet fascination as his grandfather shuffled closer to the mother so as to assist her in the foaling. Before he knew it, the water sac appeared, amber-colored, and his grandfather had a hold of two shinning black legs, progressively pulling out toward the horse’s hocks with the contraction intervals.

“Come on, girl. Come on,” his grandfather coaxed. “Push.”

In a matter of moments, the little body lay in a heap, and upon shaking its head, it broke the sack, uncovering the simple beauty of its sleek baby fur. Philippe could only imagine how foreign and dazzling and cold the new world must seem to the newborn colt. It made a valiant attempt to stand, wobbled a bit on its young legs, and then toppled over with a plop onto its bed of straw. After a second try, it stayed upright, close to its mother as she kissed its neck in the way of her kind. Philippe’s grandfather patted the side of the foal.

“Come over here, small one,” he said, leading it to find its mother’s milk. “There you go. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The swishing of the colt’s tail and sucking of its mouth brought a smile to Philippe’s face and green eyes. With a grunt of old age, his grandfather rose up and backed out of the stall, putting the gate pin back into place and stood beside Philippe with a leathery hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. The two lingered as the first golden rays of early morning light shone through the stables and the sun turned a pleasant eye on nature’s miracle of life.

They walked out into the freshness of a new day, greeted by the song of birds nestled amongst the shady grove of trees down by the running brook, overhung by a sloping bank and lined with swaying rushes and one black poplar tree. Dew sparkled beneath the long branches, just beginning to show their budding promise of spring, and the sweet grasses stretched beyond the laughing waters, passed the meadow brushed with heather, to the open fields where his grandfather’s pointers ran free. Far ahead of the property, a light, mist still hung over the woods.

Beautiful, Philippe thought, thinking of Sunday’s services and of the sermon their family priest had given on gratitude.

The land may seem like a humble property to some, especially those who attended the grand parties and dinners in the old manor house on the outskirts of the town, but to him it was a great kingdom. It was a three-generation castle in the sky, made with sunbeams and starlight, and his grandfather was master of it all. He could always walk in the imagined royal courts with his grandfather or sister, reverencing the wonder and peace.

“La beauté de la vie est dans notre amour,” his grandfather would always say. The beauty of life is within our love.

Philippe never knew what his grandfather meant by that and no matter how many times he asked, he never got a straight answer. Perhaps one day his grandfather would tell him the meaning, but perhaps he’d have to understand it for himself. Whatever happened later, he had errands to fulfill for his grandmother now, and with the successful delivery of the foal, he knew he had better see to those errands.

In the kitchen, he found his sister, Fae, forming a lump of flour-dusted dough into the shape of the silver pan, her long, dark hair cascading off of her small shoulders and then swishing back as she looked up to see him. Her smile was as radiant as daylight and as warm as springtime.

“Good morning, Philippe,” she said, abounding with little-girl interest. “Has Lorraine’s foal come yet?”

Fae was the angel in their family, their grandmother always said, for she had the gentleness and innocence of a lamb, ever charitable to people and ever seeing the good in them. Three years younger than his twelve years, Philippe adored her, for she had a tendency to shadow him after her piano lessons when he went to the market or into the woods beyond their grandfather’s land.

Philippe nodded with a quiet smile. “It’s a black colt.”

Fae lit up like a firefly. “I want to see it.” She twisted round. “Can I go see it?” she asked, and then added pleadingly, “S’il vous plaît , Grand-mère.” Please, Grandmother.

“Don’t get excited, Fae,” the woman said, wiping her wrinkled, floury hands on her apron. “It’s not good for you to get yourself worked up. Help me finish this loaf of bread and then you may go outside and see it with Philippe.”

His sister’s smile dipped in apparent disappointment and her lower lip jutted out in fervent disagreement. “But I’ve been waiting all week to see Lorraine’s foal. Couldn’t I just go with Philippe now and then come help you?”

Before their grandmother could respond, Philippe came forward with kind persuasion. “We can go see it when I come back,” he promised. “Then we could spend the afternoon with the colt and you could help grandfather give it a name.”

Fae’s perked up. “Really?” she looked from him to her grandmother and back. “Okay. I’ll wait for you.”

His sister’s cheerfulness restored, Philippe picked up the soiled paper and noted the items his grandmother had written down in fine penmanship, estimating how long it would take him to buy everything on the list. He left the house and trekked up to the old road at the far end of the green fields, coming by the old manor house and adjacent stables owned by a kindly widow.

Birds chirruped in the trees around the old place and fluttered from branch to leafy branch. Up the long gravel way to the grand estate, he could even hear the lady singing a hauntingly beautiful French ballad in the sunny calm of the orchards, its melody rising and falling with the warm breeze, then swelling to a crescendo.

***

Another shrill whistle and glaring flash shattered the memory of castles and noble steeds. Philippe shook his head, but the motion made his world swim. He lay still in the biting dampness for a spell, letting the awful present come back to him and listening to the far-off skirmish. Merging with the thunderous explosions, he could hear the muffled barks of commanding officers and prolonged wails of the wounded. It was a storm of wallowing misery.

He would have preferred to stay in the beautiful memory of his youth, where new life brought light to his darkened corner of the world, but the recollection dissolved before he could hang onto it. Once the night settled, he rotated painfully onto his side with earnest searching to see if he could make out anything of his regiment.

Shadowy, still forms dotted the field wherever he turned to look and he noted that many old and young men lay as torn and ugly as the frozen earth beneath them. He squinted, but could discern no signs of life in any of his men. His battered body slumped down with this new understanding. A powerful heaviness took hold of his heart, for he felt as if he’d failed his family—his family of fathers, brothers, and sons.

It was a feeling the civilian world could never know. How could one communicate what it was like to sleep, fight, and then die beside another soul? He’d stood outside with his men in all kinds of weather—pouring rain, howling gales, and blinding snow. Now he lay amongst them in the slick muddiness, the echo of their voices, songs, and laughter haunting every waking second of his consciousness. Many of them, being so full of life, seemed to belong far away from here in bright places of home and family and friends—places like his grandfather’s kingdom. Indeed, more frequently, he found himself dwelling on the face of one particular man in his regiment, his lieutenant colonel and close friend, Henri.

The two of them had been friends for forty-four years, as their fathers had fought together in the War of 1870. Indeed their military careers had run parallel for a long time and had brought them to this field of devastation. They’d endured yet another day of fruitless struggle, whilst fighting to combat their anger and bitterness at the continuing German occupation of their homeland.

“It is getting so a man can go to sleep in his own trench and wake up with an enemy skulking in the foxhole next to him!” Henri had growled to Philippe, scrunching up his face so his mustache twitched from side to side. “They’ve already nearly marched right into the capitol as if it was theirs to take. Next, they’ll be requesting tea and sugar in our own homes.”

“Let us hope it never comes to that,” Philippe had returned, only for the sake of their regiment’s already low morale.

“You know it will.”

Philippe knew his friend had been right. The German army would only progress closer to civilian life, but Philippe couldn’t dwell on that and neither could his men. They were soldiers and they’d fight to the death for their homes, their country, and their freedoms, but they still needed hope. Knowing a number of his men had been inadvertently overhearing the conversation between him and Henri, he’d turned their talk over to the subject of home.

“What do you suppose our wives are doing?” Philippe had asked.

Henri had checked his watch before answering. “Mine’s probably making those pies she’s always saying I eat too much of. What about you? How is Angela holding up with only Gabrielle at home?”

“Bridgette’s actually visiting with her husband.”

“Really? You said they couldn’t make it.”

“They made it happen. What of your daughter? Has her lover asked for her hand yet?”

“He has,” Henri had confirmed, slipping a letter from his pockets. “The boy has the pockets of a pauper and the heart of a poet.” He had paused to reread a snippet of the letter, then said with a deep sigh, “Awh, Philippe! Do our children still seem rather young to us or is it just that we have grown older?”

“Afraid so, Henri,” Philippe had returned.

“Yes, and for all their innocence of a lamb, they have the boldness of young lions! Dauntless in the face of these changing times because of the springtide in their souls.”

Philippe had smiled, about to agree, but something had diverted Henri’s attention. The next thing he knew, his friend shouted at him above a shrill whistle, threw a shoulder into him, and sent him sprawling down the muddy slope. He could remember seeing the shower of earth and dispersal of his regiment, but he didn’t know what had become of Henri. Of course, he searched the bodies through the flicker of fire and smoke, intent on doing anything he could until someone passed his way, but it was thus far all to no avail.

Beyond the ruin of the field and past the entanglement of barbed wire fencing, the glow of the château and stables stood out sharply in the wintry night. He wondered if perhaps, in the chaos, some of his men had sought refuge there. It stood to reason, as they’d gone there before and received a warm meal, a place to sleep in the barn, and any old clothing and blankets the generous widow could spare.

Philippe felt a certain empathy to the woman he’d known, in a way, since his youth. He’d never gone inside the manor as a boy, but had gone to formal dinners there a number of times, so he was familiar with her family photos that graced home. He’d learned years ago that her late husband, casualty in the War of 1870, would forever sleep with his men beneath white crosses in green fields.

Beast or man, everything returned to their Creator, Philippe thought with some sadness, and though he tried not to, he was unable to stop the recollection of yet another memory from the wooded land beyond the open battlefield.

***

“Bonjour, cher frère,” his sister greeted with her usual natural charity. Hello, dear brother.

“Good morning, Fae,” Philippe returned, descending the last few steps so he could see her busily slicing freshly-baked bread and newly-collected venison. The splendid gift of summer rays filtered through the clear window panes of the kitchen to light her flowing hair, and smiling eyes as she placed the extra food in a neat buddle beside some cheese and an apple. She always worked too hard, especially for one of her frail health; it seemed she would always be susceptible to sickness.

“You can share the meat with Selene and Ranier,” Fae said. “I put in something extra for them.”

“You needn’t have gone to the trouble, Fae,” he said. “You have enough work to do without making more for yourself.”

“Nonsense,” she returned with her habitual maddening, yet endearing stubbornness. “I wanted to do it. Now, I’ve already prepared everything, so there’s no sense in keeping this up. You wouldn’t want me to have done all this for nothing, would you?”

As she spoke, she tied the folds of the cloths around the food and beamed at him with teasing sweetness. Philippe transferred his riffle to his other hand to accept the food in the crook of his arm, smiling in spite of himself as he thanked her for her thoughtfulness. Then he rested the barrel of his gun on his shoulder, and headed outside.

After stopping by the stables to retrieve his saddle and bridle—he hailed his grandfather as he left— he went out to the edge of the fields, looking to the running brook by the grove of trees and meadow where he saw Durante, his grandfather’s handsome black horse, chewing on the grass in the cool shade of the black poplar tree. Just afar off from the burbling waters, his grandfather’s dogs, Selene and Ranier, were poking their noses in a thicket of shrubs, their tails like two flags amongst the humming of bees as they sniffed out some curious scent they’d chanced upon.

Slinging the saddle and bridle on the gate, he whistled to the pointers to call them to the house. Both dogs’ heads shot to attention, mystery forgotten, and the pair of them ran across the open fields, tongues dangling from their mouths in exited expectation.

Selene reached Philippe first, circling him in her eagerness, and then Ranier bounded up to join her. Philippe dipped down to scratch their lovely, floppy ears.

“Yes. You know you’re going hunting.” he said. He straightened back up and whistled louder to draw Durante to the gate. This time, the horse came.

Philippe’s grandfather had always said that colts need not work like stallions and boys need not work like men until they are grown. A fine and bright black coat had long taken over Durante’s baby fur and he’d become something of a prince in his own right. He wasn’t the only one to be well-bred, nor to grow into handsome maturity, either.

It’d all seemed to happen overnight—the deepening of Philippe’s voice and the height of his stature. His dark hair had thickened and gained a more pronounced wave, so that the young ladies his age considered him a prized buck more than worthy of the hunt. None of them could actually hold his eye, though, especially given the fact that he was leaving his home very soon, along with Henri.

Being the proper age of twenty-one, they’d been accepted into the Saint-Cyr military academy, in a castle formerly used as a school for girls belonging to the French nobility. At first blush, no one supposed they belonged in that world, as they preferred the quiet life of the country to the loud life of Paris, where their parents lived. They only came here for visits and they were only going to St. Cyr because it was expected of them. Both Philippe and Henri came from a long line of military careers, Philippe as far back as the Knights Templar, as his family had been given much land along with the tittle of chevalière—chevaliers or knights in service to the king, back when France had a monarchy.

Still, he could breathe the high air of aristocracy because, to be exact, he had a foot in it, though no one in his democratic-inclined family had used the nobility particle de for generations. To him, the tittle was more suited to Durante.

He saddled his grandfather’s best horse, fitted the bridle on the fine black face, and swung up onto the high and strong back. Durante snorted and followed the silent commands of his rider, trotting through the open gate and angling through the sauntering meadow to the deciduous forest.

A narrow strip of fir woods crossed the heather carpet and flowers abounding in the thick ribbon-leaved grasses. The shower of rain in the night had yielded a morning fragrance and beauty unparalleled to any perfume or sight Philippe had known in Paris. Older than rural existence, but younger than the mountain’s preeminence, the brave firs clung on to life as if they meant to live eternally.

Skirting their trunks, Selene and Ranier went about the undergrowth, thrusting their wet noses here and there in search of a trail to pursue. The prime southern breeze blew at their paws and the glorious rays made their path burn with white sun-fire. Then in an instant, Ranier lingered in some dense brush, rustling in the undergrowth until he leapt out with triumphant declaration.

He did not bark, nor whine, but kept up a sort of “yo! yo, owoo! yo! yo, owoo!” Once she had picked up the game scent, Selene joined in the call, racing through the forested domain with her sibling to direct their master to the kill. Philippe guided Durante after his grandfather’s dogs, hanging back a ways so as to watch for the hounded animal. It wasn’t long before he saw a hare break cover.

It darted out ahead of its chasers, zigzagging through the coppices to escape the fate of death. Upon seeing its vigor out in the open, Philippe pulled on the reins, for he wasn’t concerned with this animal today.

“Here, Selene! Here, Ranier!” he called.

The pointers ceased their pursuit, if reluctantly, and left the rebounding hare to disappear in new cover. Tongues lolling from their slavering jowls, they loped back to their master and set about their work of finding a different quarry. They found another whiff on a game trail in a shadow-haunted grove, and made no noise, but only snaked their way through the trees, single-mindedly sticking to the hot scent. Philippe stayed right with them, keeping Durante at a mild pace and weaving through the heavily wooded terrain. Then he detected the musk of a large animal.

Knowing he’d soon find his objective, he recalled the dogs and swung down from his mount. Leading Durante by the reins, he noiselessly advanced to the dwarfing of the trees—the impressive roof of the old manor house could be seen in the distance—to where he could hear the gentle gurgle of the same brook. Halting on the edge of the tree line, vegetation breaking softly underfoot, he scanned the strip of wild and sun-drenched meadow until he spotted the sole focus of the hunt on the banks of the brook.

There you are.

The red deer had its head down, drinking the crystal coolness in the shade of some fir trees to escape the summer heat. Downwind of Philippe, it wasn’t yet aware of its fate watching it with mortal intent from the cover of the firs. Careful of detection, Philippe reached into his saddle and withdrew his gun, slowly bringing it up against his shoulder to take aim. He’d already seen to the primer, powder and the firing charge, so he sighted the stag with smart precision and squeezed the trigger.

***

The deafening boom rattled the earth and the explosion lit up the distant corner of the night. Philippe fancied he saw the silhouettes of running soldiers then, but the dark swallowed the scene so quickly, that they could have passed as mere phantoms born from forlorn longing. He wanted to see someone—wanted the assurance that someone, somewhere, had also survived the cruel blast of the artillery shell.

Where is Henri?

Fingers digging into the mud, he pulled himself across the uneven ground, every movement a sore punishment, and individually checked the motionless bodies lying in a vast sea of death. Some of them, he observed, had perished in the explosion, while others had died by a rifle shot. As he tugged on stiff, grimy uniforms and fingered cold, bloody necks, the memory of his summer hunt hovered like a cloud over his thoughts.

A week before his graduation from St. Cyr with his class of 1885, an instructor had spoken privately with him of the hunting of beasts and the hunting of men. He couldn’t remember everything that had been said then, but knew he hadn’t really appreciated that lecture, nor the similar council of his family priest, until he’d stared down the barrel of his rifle at another human being for the first time. Pulling the trigger then had meant something different than it had in the woods beyond his grandfather’s country house with Selene and Ranier.

Believing he permitted such thoughts to plague him too often, he refocused on identifying survivors, though he still hadn’t found a breath of life in any of his men. The unrelenting cold of the late December air penetrated the endurance of his soldier’s heart, and as the warring sky sent forth a light snow to winter’s far-reaching casualties, Philippe doubted he’d ever find reason to hope.

Then when he came beside the next sprawled body, he felt a throb against his numb fingers—a weak throb, but a throb nonetheless. It was a wonderfully promising sign of life.

Astounded by this turn in the night’s exertions, he hurriedly pulled at the shoulder of the dull green uniform until he rolled the young man over. To his surprise, the wounded stranger was an enemy soldier—a German boy, and from the looks of it, not much older than his youngest daughter, Gabrielle. In comparison to his fifty-four years, the fair-haired soldier was nothing but a kid. He was old enough to be the young man’s father.

This thought gave him serious pause, as he briefly recalled both times he had become a father, first to Bridgette and then to Gabrielle. With Bridgette, he remembered Angela lifting up a soft, sleeping newborn to place in the crook of his arm and he’d thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Then with his youngest daughter, his wife had given him a fussy, squirming bundle and tiny fingers had held onto his one long one. He had thought nothing but holding two precious angels in his arms could melt his heart as it had then.

Suddenly, Philippe stiffened. The German boy had a family, too. He had to have a father and mother who wrote to their son by day and prayed for his safe return of their by night.

Philippe mentally shook himself. He shouldn’t be having such thoughts now; he and the boy were enemies.

What was the boy doing so far from his own comrades anyway? Probably got overlooked in the chaos of his division’s retreat.

A soft moan broke his speculation and when he looked down at the young face, he saw the eyes lids flutter open and reveal stark blue eyes. The boy murmured something in German, but Philippe didn’t know what it was.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t understand you.” He paused. He may not understand the boy’s words, but he knew enough about people to recognize the fear, confusion, and pain all evident in the boy’s voice. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you,” he found himself saying, knowing the boy wouldn’t understand him either, but hoping he could convey his good will by his tone and manner.

The boy’s eyes tried to focus on him, but then they flickered and closed once more.

Philippe blew out a breath. This certainly wasn’t the life he had hoped or expected to find, but amidst the awful scene dictating his field of view, with the memory of his hunt still fresh in his mind, and the boy’s close age to his daughter, he acceded to mercy. He’d spared the life of the hare in the past; he could certainly do the same with the boy.

With some difficulty, he shrugged his own coat off his back to drape over the young man. He knew his superiors would say he’d gotten soft if they ever found out what he was doing, but what many of them didn’t appreciate was that it was one thing to fight a war with a pen behind a desk, and quite another to fight it out here where young boys too often fell by the wayside of war’s cold facts and figures.

Likewise, he guessed not all his men would condone his decision, but then again, it wasn’t their decision to make. He was going to stand by this choice whatever happened and they would have to accept it or at least respect it.

Thus, Philippe applied firm pressure to the boy’s shoulder, stained a deep red, and gauged the distance between them and the warm glow of the farmhouse. He just had to hold out until someone from their side came along. All he needed to do was get to a place where a friend—perhaps his gruff, but dependable major— would spot him and the boy. Still, he wondered whether he had the strength to get both himself and the wounded young man across the expanse of fields to safety. Just the thought of the struggle made him all the more conscious of the pain in his leg.

Such a long way, he thought, his mind drifting to the one person who could make the struggle endurable—his wife. He longed for her company and the strength she always managed to afford him. With a keen remembrance that strengthened his will, he held onto their sweet and early days of courtship and advanced forward.

***

“Good evening,” Philippe said, giving a courteous dip of his head to another couple as he ascended the red-carpeted stairs. The lovely mademoiselle at his side echoed his decorum, holding onto his arm as if, perhaps, momentarily taken aback by all the glitter of the formal dinner.

They’d come inside from the breezy night air, a hint of autumn pleasantries proceeding the banter and conversation given to highborn customs inside the old manor. Their driver had since cracked the whip and sent his horse clomping away from the stone steps.

Henri cornered the two of them shortly after their host, the benevolent widow, greeted them at the top of the stairs. His steps came off as crisp and immaculate as his uniform. “There you are, Philippe,” he said with his typical deep gusto. “Where have you been keeping this beautiful lady?”

“Henri, this is Angela LeClair,” Philippe said.

His friend gave him a pointed look, placing a kiss on Angela’s gloved hand. “That does not tell me anything.”

“We met a few hours ago,” Angela supplied with perfect graciousness.

Henri’s eyes widened, his attention swinging back to Philippe with an easily discernable question: Is that so, you lucky dog? Apparently, he’d expected a different answer, probably because of how well Philippe and Angela were getting along.

Philippe smiled tolerably. Yes, Henri. There’s more than autumn in the air tonight. To himself, he admitted that yes, he was very lucky to have found Mademoiselle LeClair—that a colleague had paired them off for the dinner. With the way things were going in their uncertain world, how he felt around her was the one thing he was sure of.

His friend’s countenance changed subtly to show good-natured charm as he looked to Angela. “Promise to save a dance for me,” he charged her and took his leave. Philippe observed an officer’s wife descend on him, leading a small stranger in a dark suit to present, and after the introduction, she swept away, on the hunt for other strays.

Awh, the rituals of the aristocratic set.

“Such a glamourous life,” Angela remarked, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She didn’t often attend such events, as she’d told him when he’d escorted her here; she was from Paris, but preferred the quietness of rural life. However, with him, she seemed more gratified to engage in the evening’s conventionalisms—he hoped, anyhow.

Philippe’s tart smile said all that needed to be said. He would have preferred his books, dogs, and family back at his country home any day. His heart would always remain with his kingdom.

The night wore on. He and Angela worked their way through the six course meal, dining on the finest cuisine French craft had to offer. Then came the dancing.

In the large, cozy room of the manor, beneath the dazzling glow of crystalline chandeliers, elegant ladies and sophisticated gentlemen danced their way into the romantic hours of deepening shadow. Philippe watched them twirl and glide across the polished floor and suppressed an inward sigh.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Angela gave him an abiding smile. “I think we should.”

A waltz, Philippe noted. He proved stiff and uncertain at first, as he hadn’t danced properly in a long while. Then as the smooth folk music progressed, he relaxed, stepping around and around with Angela to the slow rhythm. As they moved on the floor, she smiled up at him.

“You dance well, Philippe.” Earlier, she’d insisted that they drop formal titles and he quite agreed with her; a sign of friendship was more than welcome.

“My sister loves to dance,” Philippe returned.

Angela tilted her head with demure inquiry. “Do you dance with her often?”

“No. Her health prevents her from going outside much anymore,” Philippe said. “But when I visit, it is all she wishes to do.” Fae can hardly even stand, he added to himself, thinking of the fevers, chills, weight loss, and fatigue his sister endured with brave cheerfulness. The doctors had called it consumption, but all he needed to know was that the sickness caused Fae considerable affliction and he often had to hold her in his arms, as one would do to a sleepy child.

Sympathy transformed Angela’s face. “I’m sorry. That must be hard on the both of you.”

“It is,” Philippe admitted, “but for her, the only way to make sense of change is to join in the dance. She makes any long evening bearable, as do you.”

Starlight seemed to grow in Angela’s smiling blue eyes. “It has been an unexpected pleasure,” she said and the music slowed to a stop. “Merci pour une soirée memorable.” Thank you for a memorable evening.

“It’s for me to thank you,” Philippe said. And me to remember.

***

Philippe slowly and reluctantly left the memory of the château and grand dinner to return to the present. Still, his thoughts lingered on the years and decades that had preceded the war and brought them here.

Due to the growing militarism which had brought on the winds of change, Philippe had felt as if he lived in a world of decaying ideals which left faith to the storms of uncertainty. Like his fellow countrymen, he could only witness the great powers of Europe grow prime for war, and shelter his family from the brutal realities unfolding like a dark cloud across the memory of a blue sky.

His family.

As he lay on his side in the watery mud, momentarily resting from having dragged the young German boy a fair distance and listening to the distant moans of injured men, his thoughts once again forsook the battlefield and held onto the faces of his wife, Angela, and his daughters, Bridgette and Gabrielle.

He missed them.

Will I ever see them again?

Philippe forced his mind away from such questioning and resumed hauling the young man along the uneven ground, moving increment by slow increment. All the while, his leg throbbed with incessant mercilessness, and as he waged his own struggle, he recalled the earlier talk with Henri about their families, allowing those musings to keep him going when he felt he couldn’t crawl anymore.

Angela would be busy displaying the family’s Nativity scene or crèche, which served as their focus for the Christmas celebration while Bridgette played “Cantique de Noël” or ‘O, Holy Night’ on Fae’s old piano. The crèche was peopled with little clay figures, santons or “little saints,” which included the usual Holy Family, shepherds, and Magi. The mold had been passed from mother to daughter in Angela’s family for three generations and his daughters had always listened to their mother retell the story of the very first Christmas with rapt interest.

As with tradition, now was a time for the whole family to come together to connect and worship. When the eve of Christmas came around—now in only three days’ time— the bells of beautifully lit churches and cathedrals would ring out with sublime Christmas carols.

Unbidden, a shadow fell over Philippe’s dirtied and battered face, for the remembrance of other bells echoed in his thoughts with deep melancholy. Through the suffocating blackness beyond the manor’s glow, he could almost see the black coach drawn by black horses.

***

The church bell sounded a long time. A line of carriages rolled onto the property; all of their friends and family came over to the Black poplar tree, while the bell kept tolling, tolling across the silence of the countryside and through the hollowness of winter. Philippe trudged through the crystalline snow, holding tightly to his wife’s hand and his breath curling white before him. With a heavy heart, he walked with Angela to where the priest stood over the open grave, silhouetted against the mourning rays of golden repose. He halted with her before the casket, standing near the spot where he’d buried old Selene and Ranier many years ago, and rested a hand on the spot where the sun kissed the smooth wood.

“Adieu, chère sœur ,” he whispered. Goodbye, dear sister.

Beside him, Angela’s blue eyes softened to match the hue of the dawning sky, and she squeezed his hand with all the empathy of a devoted wife. “It’s not goodbye, Darling,” she said. “Death is not silence, but a whisper.”

Philippe looked over at his wife, appreciative of her gentle understanding, and it was her strength that saw him through Fae’s services. With his friends and family all gathered round in shared grief, he listened to the pious words of comfort and hope from his family priest and envisioned not the Fae of the past few weeks—the woman ravaged with sickness— but the sweet and glowing Fae of his youth, so full of life and love. He remembered her springtime smile, her morning eyes, and her undying spirit which graced the lives of all she touched and remained unmarred by the bitterness of the world. Angela was right, and he could almost feel someone else standing on the other side of him, a familiar perception warming his sorrowful heart.

He admitted then, in his own way, that this barrenness of winter didn’t last forever. Beneath the thick blanket of snow, the fields of green grass hadn’t died, but only slept, and new life was sure to come.

***

Four months ago, France had become swept up in a soul-defining war, but it felt like a lifetime to Philippe—a lifetime since he had seen his home and family. His country had become ruled by the muddy and bloody misery of the trenches and battlefields, and now, he feared that misery had reached home.

As Philippe stopped yet again to catch his breath, suppressing a shiver and fingering his leg, ever-growing more caked with filth, he again wondered what had become of Henri. He’d tried not to think of his friend lying amongst the sea of carnage, reeking of death and decay, but now, he couldn’t keep ignoring the possibility that he was alive because of Henri.

Curiously at that moment, in the deep silence of the darkness, something came to his mind that his family priest had once read in the fifteenth chapter of John during church services. It’d been just after he lost Fae, but years before the declarations of war.

‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’

Philippe went completely still. He’d never been able to appreciate the gravity of that scripture—never really let its gentle power burn within his heart, not until now that was. As a boy, he’d recognized the miracle of life, but only now did he glimpse its great cost. Only in considering the possibility of his best friend’s death and pondering on the sacrifice of the Master—the Prince of Peace—did he understand a little bit more about the preciousness of life.

So affected was he by this verse at that moment that he didn’t register the voices calling out to him. “Colonel Devereux! Colonel?! Wait! Over there. There he is!”

In a matter of seconds, a small group of his men materialized from the shadows and swarmed around him, two of them dropping down to help him up, evidently relieved. “We thought we’d never find you, sir,” said the major beside Phillipe. “If you hadn’t moved up on that berm, we would have missed you entirely.”

Although the smart in his leg had sorely increased with his rise, Philippe was just as thankful as the gruff, but dutiful man. While the others spread out, hunting for survivors, he twisted back to tell them of his one fruitful discovery, but a corporal beat him to it.

“Sir, this German boy here is alive.”

The major hesitated, seeming about to say something, but in the end, he looked to Philippe for a decision. Philippe didn’t have to think twice about the boy’s fate.

“I haven’t brought that young man this far to leave him behind now,” he told the man. “Where we go, he goes.”

The major delayed a response, staring down at the boy with an unreadable look, and Philippe wondered what the man would do. Would the major agree? Would they all agree to help with the boy?

Fortunately, at length, the major nodded. “Alright. Then we’ll pick him up and we’ll carry him to the stables with the others.” To Philippe, he explained, “Everyone’s taking their wounded to the widow’s place.”

Philippe frowned. “Everyone?” He surveyed the desolate field, only now realizing that all artillery shelling and riffle firing had stopped.

“There’s been a ceasefire, colonel—for Christmas,” the man said like Philippe should have known this, but then again, Philippe didn’t know how long they’d been separated. The man continued anyhow. “Everyone’s collecting their wounded and burying their dead. Some are exchanging food and souvenirs. Come on, sir. Come with us.”

Philippe couldn’t believe it. A ceasefire? Just the word made his heart light and he had to look around at his men for confirmation. The corporal caught on to his silent question.

“It’s true, sir,” the young man said with a half-smile. “See for yourself.”

Overcome, but hopeful, Philippe let his men steer him away from the company of ghosts he had kept during the cold and dark night, and hobbled onwards with their support towards the warm and bright glow of the stables. Beside him, two men carried the unconscious German boy. For the first time that night, the snow-leaden clouds permitted a small view of the glittering stars gracing the profound blue of the heavens and it seemed the wind sung a beautiful carol.

In the cozy atmosphere of the stable, beside the German boy and a medic, Philippe found goodwill or at least tolerance abounded amongst both friend and stranger, ally and enemy. Lowing of animals met his ears and amongst soldiers—some French comrades were singing ‘Cantique de Noël—he saw a donkey, some sheep, and a few cows. Amongst them, and to his considerable amazement, he even spotted Henri at last, displaying marks of the explosion, but still able to give him a small, relieved nod.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” his friend said.

It’s more than good to see you, Henri. “And you,” Philippe returned. He raised an eyebrow in mock reprimand. “You cut it fine.”

Henri smiled through a grimace and shuffled across the dirt and hay—despite the medic’s grouses to the contrary—and reached out to Philippe. They both clasped hands, as they couldn’t get passed a bandaged, unconscious soldier between them, and held on for a long moment.

“Then it’s my good fortune I’m a tough old bird to baste,” Henri said, giving a wry swish of his mustache.

“Indeed,” Philippe said, taking his time in frowning upon his friend’s tattered and dirty uniform, along with the battered face and arm. Henri cued onto his deliberate irony.

“Well, you’re no Renoir yourself, you know.”

Philippe smiled and what passed between them then went beyond the exchange of words. It was a miracle they both were here now and that understanding deepened as Philippe’s released Henri’s hand and his green eyes moved on over the stables. The humble picture of golden straw and golden lamplight took him back to the unsullied years spent on his grandfather’s green land—a great kingdom in its own right, not because of estate, but because of something much finer than earthly treasures.

A king was once born in a stable such as this, and not just a king, but the King of kings, Philippe reflected, thinking of the simple crèche sure to be displayed back home in the light of the fire where friends and family could be thankful for that infinite gift given to mankind so long ago. His grandfather had said it in his youth and now, just beyond the frontlines, right in the middle of a war, he understood a bit more of what was meant then.

The beauty of life is within our love.

Love, he reflected. It was one universal language understood by the heart where words failed. In its greatest manifestation, on a lone green hill beyond Jerusalem’s wall, it had transcended hour and season. It saw beyond youth and old age, beyond life and death. It joined past to present, so that in life’s long or short journey of joy and sorrow, everyone could be led safely home again.

Though still wearied in body and spirit, these thoughts made Philippe smile quietly in the companionship of his brothers and in the soft light of the stable. He closed his eyes for one beautiful moment of peace.

Merry Christmas, Angela. Merry Christmas, girls.

“Cantique de Noël” or “O Holy Night” was composed by Adolphe Adam in 1847 to the French poem “Minuit, chrétiens” (Midnight, Christians). To celebrate the renovations of the church organ in December1843, the parish priest asked Placide Cappeau to write a Christmas poem. Shortly thereafter, Adam wrote the music and Minister John Sullivan Dwight wrote the choral edition from Cappeau’s French text in 1855.

“O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear Saviour’s birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

‘Til He appear’d and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn . . .”

-John Sullivan Dwight