A seasonal tale by Peter Coleborn
[1]
This is a true story, one that occurred in the long-ago days.
[2]
The first dwelling he visited was a ramshackle hut. No lights shone from its single window. He sighed, afraid that one knock on the door would collapse the entire building. He couldn’t help wondering who would choose to live in such a place. But he had a package to deliver and so he knocked. Fortunately the house remained upright (just) though the knock echoed hollowly. Was it as empty as it sounded? He waited a minute or two but no one opened the door and he returned to his transportation, to continue to the next address on his list (which was a little way along the lane).
The second dwelling was in a much better condition. It was larger, yes, and more substantial, with two windows. Yet he approached with little confidence as here too no lights were shining. Anyway, as he must, he knocked loudly and waited. As he expected, no one answered. And again, he wondered if the house was as empty as it sounded. He retraced his steps and continued to the next destination further along the lane.
This third dwelling was a veritable mansion by comparison. Two storeys high, double fronted, with many windows. Lights glowed through the curtains and pale smoke rose to the heavens from many tall chimneys. He felt confident that he would make at least one successful delivery that night. He tugged at his uniform and marched towards the double-width front door, the parcel gripped tightly in his arms.
[3]
The three brothers (whose true names are lost in the distant past but I’ll call Tom, Dick and Harry) topped up their glasses with a strong heady elixir (it would be an extremely expensive cognac if this was a contemporary story). They clinked their crystal glasses, took a sip each, and said in unison “Merry Christmas”. The three were gathered in Tom’s home. This was their first Christmas together in a decade or so since each had gone their separate ways to make their own fortunes – or not.
Harry opened the curtains a crack and peered into the night. “There’s someone coming up the drive,” he said. “I don’t trust him.”
“Nor I,” said Dick, who replaced Harry at the window.
It was Tom’s turn to look. “He is in uniform.”
“Anyone can wear the livery,” said Harry.
“You’re too suspicious,” said Tom.
“Perhaps,” Harry replied, “but we can’t take any chances.” He unlocked and opened the glass-fronted cabinet.
The doorbell rang ominously (if doorbells can be said to ring ominously).
Tom, Dick and Harry each took a revolver from the cabinet. (In the original telling there were no revolvers but the story’s essence remains.) They loaded their guns and headed as one to the front door. The bell echoed again.
Harry grasped the handle and pulled and the double doors swung open, the porch light turned on, and three shots shattered the night. There was no time for the visitor to utter a word, not even a scream. He collapsed backwards. Blood sprayed over the cold hard ground, soaking his big bushy beard, darkening his crimson livery.
The three brothers said as one, “Take that, you swine!”
[4]
And that is why, gentle readers, there are no more visits from Santa Claus on this night.
~~~ End ~~~
Peter Coleborn 