"THE HOLLY KING"

J.P. Sloan

Autumn crept into the air with its typical delicacy. Old Claude Mayhew watched it happen from his porch. The morning air began to capture his breath in modest clouds, and his coffee began to taste sweeter. His front lawn began to brown, as the leaves of his dear trees awakened the colors within them. Elm was developing a beautiful, golden hue, while Maple was already fashioning a brilliant red. But Elm had always been a slow starter.

The smell of drying sage wafted from Old Claude's kitchen. He usually dried his herbs in a bag that he hung in the foyer closet, but he needed some sage quickly. So, he left the oven door open as it blasted the water out of the fuzzy green sage. He was having a little trouble with some bothersome spirits, and wanted to clear his home before Samhain. He would leave little bowls of sage in the rooms he no longer used, and clap up and down the corners of the rooms he did use. Nothing extreme... he didn't want to upset the spirits. He just wanted them to leave.

Agatha should always have a clear, welcome home at Samhain. Old Claude took great pains to ensure his wife free access to what was once her home, particularly on the night she came closest to the living world.

Old Claude sipped back more of his coffee, watching Maple drop a few more leaves. She was a messy tree, but always cheerful. Elm was more courteous, choosing to drop most of his leaves at once, so that Old Claude wouldn't have to strain his aging back against the rake for more than one weekend. Elm was a wise tree. He had forty good years on Maple, and would always rise higher into the crisp autumn sky. Claude loved them both.

The smile that never left his face broadened a little, as he considered how fortunate a life he had led.

Claude slowly pulled himself out of his hickory rocker, and guided himself through the door and into his kitchen. Little drams of oil and felt bags of herbs lined the shelves by his window. A tiny black spider traced halting steps across the sill. Claude muttered a greeting to the spider, and watched as it scurried up the jamb.

His coffee had grown cold in the morning air, and he let the remainder slip into the drain of his cast-iron sink. His stomach, he felt, was shrinking. He didn't have the appetite of his youth. And that was fine. That meant fewer trips to the grocery store in town.

Jasper was a lovely town, and its people were industrious, thoughtful people. But as Claude aged, and his joints slowed on him, he felt less and less willing to show his face in the avenues of Jasper. He was fully aware of the tension he created whenever the Christians saw his ever-smiling face. Young mothers shielded their children. Old women scowled, young boys made immature comments.

That was their way. Nothing should change in their lives because one old witch had come to town for a chicken or some toilet paper. They were at peace with their god, and not with Claude. By all means, he would not wish them to be vexed at his arrival. But it was unavoidable. If Claude could save them the bother, he would. And one day soon, he would cease to be an ongoing concern, altogether.

He would be joining Agatha, and a few more questions about his life would be answered. Agatha had an easier time relating to the people in town, before her heart surrendered. He used to call her a busy-body. She would bake constantly, and deliver her goods to people in Jasper. She had more to say than Claude, and so people had more to listen to. There was once a time when young women would sneak to their house after-hours for child-bearing spells, or advice on herbs and relationships.

When Agatha passed, their welcome turned cold. That is the way. The summer comes, then the winter. Perhaps one day, there would be a place for Claude.

At least there was Petra Billingsly. Old Claude would be expecting her annual visit some day next week. There was something about Samhain that drew her out. Claude chuckled as he mused upon it. To old Petra Billingsly, Halloween was an observance of the Devil. Claude had never met the Devil, but he wondered if the fellow wasn't really as bad as Petra had described him. She made a trip, armed with at least two helpers, and a freshly baked apple pie, every year right around Samhain. They would ring his bell, and he would invite them in. They would sit stiffly in his kitchen chairs, noses wrinkling at the smell of the herbs, as Petra attempted to dissuade Claude from his infernal practices. Every year, as she touted the evils of Halloween, he imagined a little five-year-old Petra Billingsly dressed in a ghost costume, ringing bells for candy, apples, and popcorn balls.

He was such a threat to her. But it was the only time during the year that anyone would travel from Jasper to Claude's house in the country. He welcomed them, fed them, accepted their pies, and muttered a silent spell of protection upon them as they left. And they always returned the next year.

As Claude stared out of his window, his vision blurred. He gripped his sink as well as he could. The blackouts were coming more frequently. They weren't so bad if he was sitting down or in bed. But when he was standing, and he would fall, it was always difficult to find his way back to his feet. He wondered if that wouldn't be the way he would leave this world... helpless on his kitchen floor. He didn't fear it, and it gave him no grief. He only felt sorry for the poor soul who would eventually find him.

Perhaps even Petra Billingsly.

She came two days later. Claude watched them from his porch as they cautiously ventured up his walk. Petra led the way, like a conquering Roman. She held her head back, her shoulders square, and her pie at elbow height. A young woman with a terrified look followed apace, alongside a woman very near Petra's age. Claude did not recognize her.

He managed to find his feet as they reached the steps of his porch.

"Blessed morning, Mr. Mayhew! The Lord has graced us with a beautiful, sunny day, wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed, he has, Mrs. Billingsly." He reached out to shake her hand. She juggled her pie, and returned a well-executed smile.

"Allow me to introduce my niece, Barbara."

The young woman stepped forward and offered her hand. She visibly recoiled as Claude took her hand. He balled his fingers together. They were cold. He had been outside all morning. Poor thing probably thought he was trying to steal the life out of her.

"And I believe you've met Ms. Ainsley?"

Claude turned to the third woman. "No, I don't believe."

She cleared her throat and stepped forward with verve. "I have not had the pleasure, Mr. Mayhew."

Petra looked troubled. "Now, I know I've brought you to see Mr. Mayhew before, Catherine."

Catherine looked up past Petra's shoulders. Her silver hair sat in grand curls around her face. Her smile was warm and sincere. "I think I'd remember that, Petra. Honestly!"

Claude held the screen door open, and the trio shuffled into his house. He had swept up the kitchen that morning, sending his apologies along to the spiders. The kitchen smelled of cloves and cinnamon.

At the sight of the bags and racks of reagents, Petra's niece, Barbara, turned pale. She was a young girl, and undoubtedly had been filled with images of her aunt Petra's imagination.

Catherine, however, grinned and inhaled deeply. "What smells so wonderful, Mr. Mayhew?"

"A little mulling spices. Nothing important."

"Well, it's divine! Smells like the cider my mother used to brew during the holidays."

At the mention of the word "brew", Petra and her niece bristled.

Claude nodded politely to Catherine. "Cider I have. Would anyone care for some?"

Catherine began to nod in the affirmative, but Petra put a hand over hers.

With a stiff expression, she replied, "We're fine, Mr. Mayhew." She gave Catherine a reproachful glance. "We've had breakfast shortly before coming."

"Fine then. How have you been this year, Mrs. Billingsly?"

"Why do you ask, Mr. Mayhew?"

Claude fought back a chuckle. He so desperately wanted to indulge in a little sarcasm, but knew it was unbecoming a host. "I hope you have had fortune and health."

"Health and fortune are divinely appointed by the Lord God, Mr. Mayhew. I accept His blessings and His trials as they come."

Catherine shook her head. "She had the flu last month."

Petra mumbled, "Catherine..."

"Mr. Mayhew, I'm sure you had nothing to do with Petra coming down with a flu bug, now did you?"

Claude could not contain a chuckle. "No, Ms. Ainsley. Not in the least."

"See, Petra? No hexes. Now behave yourself!"

Petra's face soured, and she made fists.

"Mr. Mayhew," Catherine continued, "I believe I would like some of that cider you so graciously offered. And a slice of Petra's pie won't kill any of us, either."

With élan, Claude busied himself over four mugs of cider, as Catherine dished out the pie. She made favorable remarks about Claude's stoneware.

"They were a gift to my wife from our daughter."

"Oh, and where is your wife?"

Petra cleared her throat and shook her head. Immediately, Catherine blushed and covered her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Mayhew."

"Please, don't bother with shame, Ms. Ainsley. Death is a part of life... as important as birth. I still speak with her regularly."

Catherine's face froze. "You... speak with her?"

In response to the young Barbara's stiffening posture, Claude lowered his voice. "Well, I don't believe Agatha is in a hurry to leave me behind. I like to think she's waiting for me to catch up with her."

Catherine's lips began to quiver, and she composed herself by sipping at some cider.

Petra took the opportunity to begin her obligatory discourse.

"Mr. Mayhew, have you considered that there is a place of rest with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

"There probably is, Mrs. Billingsly."

"Well, then you must know that to find rest in the comfort of your Savior, you must first put your faith in Him!"

"If I have need to ask him for anything, Mrs. Billingsly, I'll be sure to get to know him first."

Young Barbara scowled. "But you can't see him if you're dead! You can't go to Heaven!" Her voice was strong with a Southern accent. She probably lived further south, perhaps in Tennessee.

Petra maintained a challenging look, and let her niece's words stand.

Claude looked over to Barbara, who retreated into her chair.

"Young lady, over the years your wonderful aunt has educated me in the letters of your Bible. I understand Heaven, and I understand Hell. I understand that you think that my wife is in Hell, and that if I die today, I'll be joining her there."

Barbara squirmed.

"But what you may not realize is that a witch is not a lover of your Devil. I am a lover of all things. I look for answers where I find them. After eighty-three years, can you believe I still haven't found them all?"

His chuckling elicited a grin from Barbara.

"Oh, I encourage you to live according to your Bible. You will find peace with your god, and you will no doubt live a full life, and rest in his arms after you pass. Perhaps I'll be somewhere else. Who's to say what that place is like?"

Petra retorted, "The Bible does."

Claude held his tongue and nodded.

Catherine ventured, "Don't you believe in the Bible, Mr. Mayhew?"

"Ms. Ainsley, my Bible is the earth, the trees, the stream. I read the scriptures of the clouds, the rocks, the ferns under my porch... even the webs in the corners of my shed. I'll tell you, it's a hard language to learn. But I trust it. It's never lied to me. And it tells me that your way is as important to you, as my way is to me."

Petra continued to preach for a few minutes in vain, but Claude had lost interest in conversation. Catherine's stare was distracting him. There was no reproach or disgust in her stare. No guile. Only interest.

When the three had left, and he had whispered a quick spell once their backs were turned, he sat at the table, staring at the dissected pie and empty mugs.

He felt lonely.

He had not felt lonely for years! But that day, someone had listened to him. Someone living and breathing. It felt wonderful and sad. He wanted to cleanse himself of it, but decided to wallow in it for the night.

The morning of Samhain, Old Claude was turning up turnips in his garden. The soil was black and moist, for there was a fog out earlier. He could sense the ground getting lighter. The air held a brisk chill. Maple was half-bald already, and it looked like Elm would be shedding his leaves soon.

As Claude paused to let the throbbing in his back subside, he heard a voice from the front of his house.

"Mr. Mayhew?"

He plodded up out of the dirt and onto the dead grass, wiping the soil off his boots onto some leaves.

Catherine rounded the corner of his house, watching her step as she passed over the large, round stones of the pathway.

"Mr. Mayhew? Remember me? Catherine Ainsley?"

He felt his face crinkle with a smile. "Of course, Ms. Ainsley! What can I do for you today?"

She had a basket slung under her arm, with a towel draped over the top. She lifted it up. "I brought you some bread. My mother's bread. She used to bake it for us in the fall."

"Thank you! Indeed, thank you! Your mother was handy in the kitchen, then?"

"Quite. She spent most of her time there. I follow her example, you could say."

Claude nodded and peeked into the basket. A handsome loaf lay in tartan plaid. "Would you share a slice, then?"

He led her up onto the porch, and kicked off his boots before proceeding inside. Catherine watched as he padded into the kitchen. "You should have slippers on, Mr. Mayhew. You'll catch your death of cold."

"Cold is good for the blood, Ms. Ainsley. And please, call me Claude."

"Claude. Call me Catherine."

Claude wrestled with the bread, and brewed a quick saucepan of black tea and honey. As they sat and nibbled on the bread, she watched his motions. She seemed to study him. Claude found it amusing.

"Catherine, your friends in Sunday School would have a thing or two to say about this visit."

"They can sit on a tack!"

Claude laughed.

"Honestly, such behavior! Do you endure that every year?"

"I welcome it, Catherine. Nothing is so wrong that it can't be discussed."

"Well, I think there are better ways to..." She didn't continue.

Claude finished for her. "...to evangelize? You're probably right. I've never seen one."

She muttered, "Perhaps you're seeing one now?"

He paused over his bread, then grinned. "Perhaps."

"Mr. May... Claude, I want to ask you something."

He nodded in assent.

"I don't... understand... your way of life. I have to admit it. You are the first... person of the craft... I've met."

"Person of the craft?" He laughed heartily, and swallowed his mirth as he noticed Catherine growing uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. You may call me a witch, Catherine. I'd prefer it."

She grinned. "I'm sorry, but to me, a witch is an old green woman on a broomstick, chasing Dorothy around Oz."

"I believe there was a good witch in that movie, too."

"Yes. Yes there was. I pretended she was fairy, though."

Claude nodded.

"Claude, you said something, about your wife."

"Agatha? You would have liked her, I think. She was canny in the kitchen, too. I used to call her a kitchen witch."

Catherine paused. "When you say that you talk to her... I mean, you imagine she's still here?"

"She is, Catherine. The dead are always with us. Everything changes, and everything remains the same. Why do you ask?"

Her lips quivered again. With a shaky voice, she replied, "My... my husband... passed last year."

"Ah."

She was surprised by Claude's tone.

"I suppose you haven't spoken to him since, have you?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not since the funeral."

"What is his name?"

"Robert."

Claude stood up, and went to his windowsill. He thumbed through a couple felt bags, then returned with a pinch of rosemary and dropped it onto tea paper.

"What's that?"

"Rosemary." He picked up the paper and held it to her face. "Smell."

She inhaled, and smiled. "It's nice."

He set the paper down, rolled it neatly, and pinched the edges. "Here. Keep this in your purse."

"For what?"

"Comfort. Remembrance. You look like you need it."

"I... I have rosemary at home."

"That's good! Use it in soups?"

"Cabbage soup. With lentils." She chuckled. "This is witchcraft?"

"Not witchcraft, Catherine. Just a little rosemary. Surely a Christian may agree that rosemary smells good?"

They sat and discussed recipes, their spouses, and the weather. When Catherine left, Claude hurried back outside to snatch more turnips and some beets from the earth. The sun was near setting, and he had a dinner to prepare.

Claude pulled out the black lace tablecloth Agatha had purchased fifty years ago. A single black candle sat lit in the center of the table. Claude sat in his chair with a plate of salty ham, turnips, and a small bowl of beet soup with cabbage.

A separate setting lay across the table.

He had polished up the nice silverware... the set Agatha used when she entertained. She loved that soup! She made it every day for lunch. It was a carry-over from her Russian heritage.

Claude sat in silence, slowly chewing the salty ham, staring through the candle flame. He knew she was there. Like every year. Her presence filled the kitchen. It was her center in life, and now it remained that way after she had passed. That was why Claude spent so much time in the kitchen.

This was the night she was the closest to him. Samhain. The veil between this world and the next was so very thin. The nights were growing longer. Soon, all the leaves would be brown and forgotten, and the snow would come. The Holly King was aging, and would soon be slain by the Oak King... and the days would grow longer again.

But things do change. Claude's mind wasn't focused. As he sat at the table with his memories, he thought of Catherine. Her brilliant, silver hair lying in ringlets and curls. Her warm eyes drawn into crow's feet at the ends. Those high cheekbones that made her face smile even when she wasn't. He felt guilty thinking of Catherine when Agatha was sharing her one meal of the year with Claude in silence.

That night, Agatha visited Claude in a dream. She held his head in their bed, and sang a song to him. He felt light. All the guilt left him. There was only gratefulness, and hope.

It was no surprise when Catherine called upon Claude the next week. He knew she would be coming that day. He had just finished raking Elm's leaves, and had recovered from another blackout. She came up the walkway, wearing a white fur and a dress.

"Good afternoon, Claude!"

"Good afternoon, Catherine!"

"I was on my way out of town. I'm visiting my children in Louisville."

"Well, send to them all my best."

She cocked her head. "Didn't you say you had a daughter?"

Claude looked to the ground. "Yes."

"Where does she live?"

"Last I heard, somewhere in California."

Catherine's brows came together in a concerned wrinkle. "Last you heard?"

"She doesn't speak with me."

"That's horrible! Why in God's name?"

"Exactly." He looked up to Catherine's face, which was filling with concern. "She's met a fine young man and married. He's a Mormon. I take it there's little room for an old man like me in his family."

She put a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Claude."

"Her name is Tabitha. She has three children. A beautiful family. And she's very happy. So, I can't be sad."

"Still, Claude, don't you miss her?"

He nodded heartily. "Every day. But it's her way. I wouldn't want her to destroy her happiness. And one day, I'll be able to see her again. I'll watch over her and her children. Agatha and I."

Catherine reached out and put a hand to his shoulder. "You're a special man, Claude."

"Everyone is special. No one more than another."

"When I come back to town, I'll come and visit. Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?"

He shrugged as his heart leapt. "Nothing special, anyway."

She lifted her chin. "Well, then I would be privileged if you spent Thanksgiving Day with me in town!"

He felt his legs weaken. "A kind offer. I accept."

Claude busied himself around his house for the next few weeks, cleaning and sorting. Catherine stopped by every other day to lend a hand. They would talk, and work, and go through another box. Claude would stop and explain photographs. When Catherine saw a photograph of Agatha, her face shone like the sun. Claude felt warm inside. The whole house felt warmer.

They would talk and have lunch. There seemed to be no end to the conversation. She did not tire Claude at all. He felt more energized. His knees felt better, as did his back. When he excused himself to tend to his garden, she would join him with a hoe and a shovel. Together, they tilled up the garden for winter.

She helped him tie up new bags of herbs. Her previous reservations handling the herbs had melted away. She would accuse him of being a harmless witch, and he would accuse her of being a dangerous Christian.

When Thanksgiving Day came, Claude dusted off a suit he had not worn in ages. It was loose around the waist, and a little long in the legs. But the legs did not drag on the ground, and he had a belt. He paused on his porch as he closed the door after him. Maple reached up to the sky, bare of leaves, in her winter slumber. She was a graceful tree. Beautiful young thing. Elm seemed to question Claude as he poked out into the sunlight. Claude chuckled and called out, "I'm going to have dinner in town. Don't worry about me."

The walk to town was long, but he had made the trip with bags of groceries before. This was an easy stroll by comparison.

When he reached Jasper, he found the streets adorned with greenery and red bows. The people were preparing for Yule already. The town was festive. Young children and their parents hopped into cars, laden with dishes covered in foil. No one seemed to notice the old man hobbling past their storefronts. Perhaps the suit threw them off.

Catherine's house was easy to find. She left him with perfect directions. She opened the door with a flourish, and her face was vibrant. She was wearing a fancy red dress with gold trim, and a little broach of colored glass shaped like a beetle.

"Claude! Come in!"

He doffed his coat into her arms, and stood by her fireplace to warm himself. Her home smelled of familiar dishes. Plenty of sage in the air, and thyme. It was a clear, welcoming house. She was fortunate.

They dined on turkey, potatoes, tart cranberries, and a bumble-berry pie. Claude's appetite failed him, and he left much on his plate. Catherine did not seem to mind. She was a magnanimous host.

They retired to her living room as she put on a record of Christmas carols. As "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" began its triumphant verse music, Catherine made a quick, alarmed noise.

"I'm sorry, Claude, I didn't think..."

He held out a hand, and began to sing along with the choir, "...God and sinners reconciled. Joyful all ye nations rise, Join the triumph of the skies..."

They finished all verses together.

He grinned at her challenging look. "Felix Mendelssohn. Remarkable composer."

"I'll have to stop making assumptions about you, Claude."

"Perhaps others may learn something by your example."

"You're talking about Petra, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "I can not criticize a woman who acts from her heart."

She scowled. "Well, I can! Let me tell you, being a witch isn't the only thing that will get you on her blacklist!"

"For her own good, I hope she learns how to fit people into her world."

Catherine smiled and nodded. "May we all learn it."

As they wrapped up the evening, Catherine insisted on driving Claude home. He thanked her profusely, and reached into his pocket.

"I almost forgot. Here."

"What's this?"

He unwrapped a shiny pink stone. "It's just something to set on a table, or a mantle."

"It's pretty."

"Rose quartz. It reminds me of you. You have the same energy. It should bring you luck. Soak it in salt water for a week, to charge it." He looked away sheepishly. "You don't have to, really. It just...helps."

She grinned hard, and her voice was shaky. "Thank you, Claude." She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

As she drove back down the hill, he turned and tread back up to his house. Elm was watching him. Claude called out as he climbed up his porch, "I told you not to worry."

The snows came the next week. The solstice was fast approaching. Very soon, the Holly King would meet his end, and the cycle would begin again.

Maple wore the snow like a fur wrap. She was a vain little tree, but she was adorable when she slept. She was a joy to Claude's eyes. He enjoyed watching her grow from a sapling. He had planted her the day Tabitha was born. He had no idea where his daughter's path would lead her, but he would always have Maple there to adore.

Catherine came to visit, carrying a plate of oatmeal cookies. She had made them in small sizes to accommodate Claude's appetite. Claude sat on his rocker and watched as Catherine dusted snow off of the rails of his porch. He felt as if he could run out and make a snowman. He felt alive, and curiously so. Winter usually took the energy out of him. Catherine was good for him.

She returned his appreciative glances. "What are you looking at with that look?"

"Can you tell me why it is you are so good to me?"

"Because you're charming, intelligent, selfless... I can keep going on, you know, but I don't think it's good for your pride."

"Perhaps not."

She sat down in a chair beside his rocker. Her eyes glided over the snowy landscape. "Ever since I met you, I've been watching nature. What you said, about the Bible being in the trees and the sky... I understand what you mean. But what I see is God's handiwork. I see a beautiful creation. It reminds me that my Creator is always with me."

Claude nodded. "He is, I'm sure."

They sat and watched the snow for a long while.

When Catherine drove off, Claude felt no compulsion to go inside. It was a full moon, and the Lady was brilliant and beautiful in the crisp air. Her light shone over the snow, and it was like daytime.

Claude stepped off his pathway and walked through the snow to his back yard. He wandered down the hill to the forest, where the creek was still flowing beneath a thin sheet of ice.

The moonlight was still strong through the bare branches of birch and maples. He had not gone for a stroll in a long time. The trees seemed to greet him like a long-lost relative. He paused and stroked their trunks as he passed them. The snow made a cheerful crunching sound beneath his boots. The air itself felt alive.

He hopped over the stones of the creek to the other side. He rarely ventured beyond the creek, but there was no stopping him tonight! He jumped through the old leaves and snow, jogging through the woods. His blood pumped inside him, and he felt younger and younger.

Once he lost his breath, he paused at the base of an oak.

An oak. A tall, towering thing. He thought of the Oak King. The bringer of the light. The solstice was still a few weeks away. Still some days left to enjoy the Holly King.

Claude caught his breath as he stared up through the oak's branches at the Lady. She dimmed her light, and Claude frowned. His fingers began to tingle, and go numb.

He felt the trunk slide along his back. He landed with a crunch in the snow and leaves. The energy dwindled inside him, and he blacked out staring up at the moon.

Something tickled his face. He opened his eyes to see a brown leaf with a crest of snow flipping against his cheek. He tried to sit up, but his back moaned in protest. Claude kicked his leg, and heard a shuffling of leaves.

How considerate of the oak to cover him against the snow! He was grateful.

As he sucked in a breath, he felt a rattle in his lung, and he coughed.

A voice cried out not far away.

"Jesus! Harold, call 911!"

As a stranger began to dust the leaves off of Claude, he lost consciousness again.

Claude awoke in a hospital bed. Tubes were in his arms.

Catherine was sitting in a chair beside his bed. Her eyes were red and weary. When he turned his head, she perked up and smiled.

"Now, what were you doing out there in that snow?"

His voice was gravely. "Oh, just visiting old friends..." His voice disintegrated into coughing. His lungs felt heavy.

"You can't be doing that, Claude! You're not a young man."

He shook his head. "I know. I'm sorry, Catherine." He coughed again. "Sorry to put you out."

"Just don't you go wandering around in the woods alone!"

Claude lay back and stared at the ceiling. Hospitals were such sterile, dreary places.

"Has Mrs. Billingsly sent a parson, or a minister, or someone?"

Catherine squinted. "Yes. I sent him away."

Claude coughed. "You shouldn't have done that. I can use all the positive feelings I can get."

Without hesitation, she retorted, "I didn't trust him. I don't..."

"What?"

"I don't think he knew what it was to live."

Claude tried to chuckle through his rattling breath. "Life, death, health, sickness..."

"Don't, Claude. I want you to take care of yourself. Hear me?" Her lips were quivering.

"Am I really that sick?"

"Nothing the doctors can't fix."

"I want to go home."

"Out of the question."

Claude leaned over and looked into Catherine's eyes. "Do you really think a man like me will get better in a place like this?"

She shook her head. "Just let them do their magic, Claude. Then you can do yours. Ok?"

Claude looked back to the ceiling. "I don't suppose this little trip has improved my reputation any."

Catherine muttered, "Or mine."

Claude frowned. "Then you should leave."

"No. Out of the question."

"Nothing I do should cause you trouble..."

"I don't care about any of them, Claude!" she grunted.

"But you should. They're your people."

"You're my people, too! And you're sick. All they want to do is send a reverend hell bent on converting your soul. I don't think any of them really want you in their heaven, anyway!"

"You're so angry, Catherine."

"Yes. Yes I am. I'm angry. I'm angry for you... because you just won't be angry for yourself!"

Claude grinned. "Ok."

The doctors pitched a losing battle trying to keep Claude in the hospital. Ultimately, he signed to be released against medical advisement, and Catherine drove him back to Jasper. The tension had eased on the road, and the shot the doctors gave Claude seemed to help the cough.

By the time she guided him into his house and into a chair at his kitchen table, he felt as if the entire affair had not happened.

Catherine stayed for a couple hours, then left him in peace. He felt fortunate, indeed, to have her as a friend. He looked up to his window. He saw a couple boughs of Elm, sneeking a peek into his kitchen.

"Don't you worry about me, old boy."

December rolled into Jasper on the tails of Thanksgiving with scarcely any notice. Claude stayed in bed or close to his bed, resting, and feeling the fluid in his lungs build. The bottle of pills Catherine dropped off stood on his dresser, unopened.

He was eating more garlic, and casting more circles. But there was a dark feeling upon him. It wasn't an evil darkness. It was the darkness of the evening that covers and calms. It was the darkness of endings and conclusions.

It was the Oak King, creeping up on the Holly King.

Claude was blacking out every day, now. He was growing used to it. He could feel it coming on, and found his way to his bed before the dizziness took him over.

Elm noticed. Even Maple seemed to shrug herself awake to watch him as his hobbled out into the frigid morning air for his coffee. They looked worried. He would shake his head at them, but tried not to speak amidst his wheezing breath. He didn't want to frighten them.

When Catherine's car pulled up to the street, she sat at the wheel, staring forward. He got a chilly feeling about it. She was not happy.

When she had mustered up the will to exit her car, he saw her face was pallid. He wanted to stand up as she approached his porch, but he knew his legs wouldn't hold him if he tried.

"Claude..."

He nodded to his friend, and attempted a greeting. The coughing overtook him.

"Aren't you taking your medicine, Claude?"

He looked up at her with a mischievous smirk, and prepared for a nagging.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You just won't fight, will you?"

"I'm... ok."

She sat down in the chair beside him, her lips trembling. "No, Claude... you're not."

She had an envelope with her. There were photos inside the envelope... photos of the inside of Claude's head. It took her nearly a full hour to explain what the doctors had found in Claude's brain. Claude understood it perfectly well, but Catherine could barely enunciate. Her frame was wracked with grief, and it broke his heart.

"Catherine... please. This is not the end. This is a beginning. Try to understand that."

"I understand it. I do..."

"You still... believe in Hell?"

She put a hand over her mouth. "I just don't know what's real anymore. Is that wrong? At my age? I mean, honestly!"

He put a hand over hers. "We may never know. I'm not sure... what's in store for me, either. But I know... I know there are friends waiting."

"Claude, I don't know if I can lose two men..."

"Hush. Don't talk now."

He stared forward, and regarded the snow collecting on the yard. He realized that it was his last winter.

It got too cold for him, and he returned to the house. Catherine tried to coerce him into some pills, but didn't have the resolve to fight him.

She returned every day for a week. At last, she beheld one of Claude's attacks. When Claude came to, she was sitting beside his bed with her head in her hands.

"I'm still here."

She wept quietly, and he let her.

For a couple days, Claude's health seemed to return. The cough went away, and he had strength in his legs again. The two sat on his porch, well bundled, and discussed trivial matters.

Finally, he said, "I'm dying. I can feel it."

"Please, Claude."

"It's unlike anything you can imagine. Every little thing is important, now. How much have I taken for granted!"

"You? Ha! Of all people?"

He chuckled. "We can never be perfect, Catherine. This is one lesson I've learned."

"So what? We can at least be happy."

"Yes."

Catherine's expression soured. "Your daughter should be here."

"Do you really think she would want that?"

"Absolutely! She should know."

"Perhaps you are right."

"Are you really so unafraid, Claude? I would be terrified."

"Do you know what I grieve? My trees." He nodded to them. "They have never criticized me or forsaken me. And I have taken care of them. I can't help them where I'm going."

"They will live for a long time after we're both gone."

"This house... it will probably go to my daughter. And her husband will sell it. I wish I knew the fate of my trees. My beautiful..." He felt a tightness in his throat. Tears fell from his eyes without control.

Catherine draped an arm around his shoulders. "I'll watch after them."

Claude sat in her arms, weeping for his trees. Some snow fell from Maple's top branches, and showered down. She joined him in weeping. Elm was solid, but sad.

Another week passed, and Claude gave in slowly to his blackouts. The solstice was upon him. He could hear the Oak King's footsteps on his lawn.

He awoke in the afternoon to Catherine sitting beside his bed.

"Catherine?"

"Claude?"

"Heaven is a place of rest?"

"Rest and worship."

He rolled his head around on his pillow. "Do you think there are any trees in heaven?"

"Well... there's the Tree of Life."

"Tree of Life? I wonder if that isn't a magnificent tree?"

"Thinking about Heaven, are you?"

"Wondering if Jesus has room for witches in his Heaven."

"He does if you embrace him. But you're not coming to my Heaven, are you?"

Claude squinted. "I have a place to go."

"With Agatha?"

"She's been very patient." He pulled in a breath that turned into a cough. "Eighty-three years... if any man hasn't had his fill of living in eighty-three years, then he never will."

Catherine dug around in her purse a little.

"Catherine?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't have to stay with me."

She shushed him, and pulled a cell phone from her purse.

"What is that?"

"A phone."

"A phone? I'll be... You can put a phone in your purse, now?"

"It's for you. A loaner." She set it down on his nightstand, with a slip of paper. Claude reached over and unfolded the paper.

It was his daughter's phone number.

"Tabitha?"

"When you're ready, you should call her."

Claude felt a wave of panic. He never had a phone in his home. Before, to call anyone, he would have to trek to town. Now he didn't even have to leave his bed. He didn't know what to do.

"I... Thank you, Catherine."

"I wish you would stay a little longer. I'm going to be lonely." A tear traced her cheek. "You've turned me into a mess! I don't know what I believe anymore!"

"If I had to guess, I'd say you believe in caring for people."

"But I mean, I... I'm not going to be in this world too much longer. I just wish I had a place to go, too."

"You do. Robert's waiting for you, too."

She pulled her lips together and grinned broadly.

Claude sighed. "Wouldn't it be pleasant if there was just one Heaven for all of us?"

He blacked out again, but with a smile on his face.

The solstice came. Yule. The Oak King was on his doorstep, brandishing his sword.

The shortest day of the year. The day it all turns around.

The chill of winter was hanging in each corner of Claude's house. Sleet bounced off of his shingles, piling into the leaf-filled gutters. He could hear the old clock ticking in his living room. He rarely went in there, anymore. So many memories.

That was Agatha's private place. He kept it tidy, and left it alone.

Before Catherine had left the previous night, she had tidied it up for her.

Claude was on his feet, shuffling through the rooms, trying his best to remember them. His kitchen was still warm, and smelled of rosemary. Catherine had left some floating in a saucepan, now cold.

Outside the window, Claude noticed that Elm was sleeping. It was rare for the old tree. Claude must have worn the old boy out with worry.

Claude dissolved some salt into water, and sprinkled it over his head. He pushed himself over to the fireplace. The old ash log was waiting for him. He had snatched it from a felled ash in July. It was drying all during the Holly King's time, waiting for this day. With considerable effort, he pushed his yule log into the fireplace, and lit it.

The wood sizzled with tiny crackles. It was a talkative log. It would burn all day.

Claude returned to his room, and sat on his bed. He considered the strange black device on his nightstand. What magic the world was absorbed in! A person may now talk to anyone, anywhere. It was good medicine.

He lifted the phone, which was lighter than he expected. Catherine's handwriting underneath Tabitha's phone number explained how to use the phone. Claude pushed the first number, and was surprised to hear a tone.

"It chants!"

He hummed along with the rest of the tones as he pressed the buttons. Finally, he hit send, and tried to remember the chant for his daughter's phone number.

The phone rang on the other end a few times, then a young man's voice answered.

"Laserre residence."

"Hello, is Tabitha at home?"

"Yes..." The young man's voice yelled away from the phone, "Mom! Phone!" A muffled shout returned, and the man asked, "Who's calling?"

"Tell her... tell her it's your grandfather."

"He says he's my grandfather!"

A hectic jumble of noises ensued, and then fell silent. The next thing Claude heard was a voice he had not heard for twenty-five years.

"Daddy?"

Sunlight did not last long that day. The window was already dimming to the gray skies of winter when Catherine came.

Claude was under his sheets. He could barely lift his arm. A light, swimming feeling floated inside his chest.

Catherine stepped into his bedroom, and watched him for a second.

"Glad... you made it."

"Good evening, Claude."

The yule log continued to crackle in the next room.

"How are you feeling?"

Claude struggled for breath. He was getting dizzy.

"Homesick."

She sat down in her chair, and held his hand. He tried to grip hers, but couldn't.

"Claude?"

"Oak king... coming."

"What?" She ran a hand across his forehead.

"Thank you... C... Catherine."

She looked over to the cell phone. "Did you call her?"

He nodded.

"Did you tell her?"

Claude turned his head slowly to the nightstand. "Letter."

Catherine pulled an envelope from underneath the cell phone. It was addressed to Tabitha Laserre, and stamped. As she held it, her hand began to tremble. "Is this... it... then?"

Claude's chest heaved.

"I'm glad... got to know... you. Don't grieve."

"Claude..." She gripped his hand tightly.

With a breath that came too shallow, he whispered, "At least... not on... kitchen... floor."

He closed his eyes, and watched Catherine as she rubbed his hand. He looked down on her tiny frame. He never noticed what a slight woman she was. Or for that matter, what a slight man he was.

The smell of the yule log drew him to the chimney. He followed the sweet scent of its smoke up into the winter sky. The sun was setting behind the clouds.

He passed up through his front yard. Elm reached out for him, but Claude was passing too quickly. He sent his love back to Maple and Elm, and continued up into the sleet-filled sky.

Above the clouds, he mused, how brilliant is the moon!