King Winter

*I wrote this for the official December contest*

I do not know what provoked me that gray December dawn to wander away from my usual morning’s route and into the King’s private gardens. Perhaps it was the cold making me go senseless; perhaps it was my own heavy heart seeking solace there. Or perhaps it was my feet which betrayed me, for King Winter had been subject of my mind all morning. His infamous garden of which I had heard so much censure now loomed before me, tall and grim; a battalion of trees clawing at the sky. It was all artistically laid out, but everything was sucked dry by the season.

What an unusual place, I thought to myself. To fit an unusual man.

“King Winter won’t have it any other way,” echoed the nasally voice of remembered gossip. “He keeps to his chamber always, emerging only to roam that desolate garden of his. Oh, he is kind enough, but did you ever come across a more”—here the butcher’s fat wife, perched upon her barrel, had stopped to think—“boring man in all your life! He never sings and makes merry like the rest of us at Christmas. He is company for pigeons that man.”

“Perhaps he likes a bit of peace and silence,” groaned the butcher irritated.

“He believes in simplicity,” continued his wife sarcastically. “No royal gems on his robe (though it would well befit him to do so and no one would think the less of him for it). How he does look the hermit in his plain brown garb.” She fanned her enormous pink face hurriedly while the butcher scowled to himself, fixing his face into that position as if he got into it often and found very little incentive to get himself out of it. A surprised squeal escaped her as he suddenly chopped off the head of that day’s goose.

When I first heard these rumors I had been shocked, but now I almost held an admiration for our king—no doubt fed by that day’s morbid mood. It was said that you either hated King Winter or you loved him; I, however, had never met the man. As I pushed through the black filigree gate, I left far behind me our city of light and song, where red- and orange-flamed candles lit up every window and Christmas carols from morning mass crescendoed to the sky. It was a breathtaking time of year, I admit, but still I was drawn further into the gloom, past the shrubbery and trees, past the fountain now frozen into lifelessness.

I shivered.

Suddenly the air around me grew frigid, creeping into my bones. There was a queer, long hush, consummating itself in the gentle falling of snow. At a distance to my right I heard a murmur, and turning, there I saw old King Winter pacing the main walk, lost in what appeared to be solemn thought. I could think of nothing else except that his plain garb was gray, not brown, and he walked with a limp in his left leg.

“I am not alone,” remarked King Winter, straightening up and craning his eyes to see me.

“Forgive me, your highness. I did not know you were here. I was just trying to—well, I thought—“ I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. Come over here and walk with me.”

For a moment I paused, realizing I would rather be out in the city again than walk with this man, King though he may be. But, for the latter reason, I obeyed.

“You’re the new hire at the Whitfield Mansion, aren’t you?” he asked me.

“I am, sir.”

“And your wife just had a baby girl.”

“Why, yes,” I agreed, halting.

“Babies are the one thing I find in this world that can bring true fulfillment, unasked for and unexpected, in the hardest of times. The hardest of times…” Here he gave me a sidelong glance, but without condescension. I even suspected I saw a note of sympathy in his wizened gray eye.

“Yes,” I agreed again. I did not tell him how my wife was grown ill, stocks were down, and I had not had the spirits to look upon my baby for several weeks.

“And such a gift for such a season,” continued King Winter smiling.

“I do not care for the season.”

“Oh? Nevertheless, I would like to give the child a gift. ‘T is the season of giving, after all.” He reached up and picked a branch off of one of the tallest, ugliest trees present. With a flourish of his hand, he bowed and handed it to me as if it were some majestic rose. I was horrified by its hideousness, but immediately reprimanded myself for such ungrateful sentiments, although I truly believed our king was mad.

“Um, kind of you, really,” I offered weakly, hoping my astonishment was not too apparent.

“It is my honor,” said the king, placing it into my palm.

“Well, I really must be going.” His “simplicity,” as the butcher’s wife would say, was starting to pique my nerves and I was not accustomed to feeling irritated.

As I passed through the gate, the carols and Christmas lights greeted me once again, but they were somehow lacking this time. Never before had these things given to me anything, and yet here was King Winter giving me the first gift in my life. Inferior twig as it was, his intentions were good. I sighed at the hopelessness of the world.

When I arrived at my master’s home that night, I checked in on my wife who was unfortunately still in a fitful sweat. After dining on crackers and tea, I read from the stock column of the paper as usual (with many a sigh), and got ready for bed. As I removed my jacket, the twig poked my hand, pleading in a puny little voice, “Remember me!”

Why not? Our daughter was in her crib next to the mother’s bed. It was the first time I had looked at her in weeks. There she lay staring blankly at me, conjuring up a mountain of spit-bubbles. I laid the twig down awkwardly upon her heaving chest. She looked at it, going cross-eyed in her attempt; fingered it wondrously; tasted it a little; then for the first time ever erupted into a wide-mouthed, giggly smile which illuminated her entire chubby little face. Instantly I saw my dear wife in that cheery grin and those happy (oh, so happy!) eyes, directed at me, just for me and no one else. How she could smile at me after seeing me frown dismally, I do not know. At such unexpected charm I could not help but smile back. Such a simple smile— such a simple twig—flooded such joy into my simple life.