==================================
Dona Nobis Pacem
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) December 1999
===================================
I think it's time for some Christmas storytelling, don't you? Here's my
offering of a little Christmas vignette.
Permission is given to post this to Mel's fanfic site, as well as the FTP
site. We know who owns these characters. My thanks for letting us take them
out and mess with their lives.
~~~~~~~~~
"Nick, tell me a Christmas story." Natalie Lambert took a sip from her
wineglass, savoring the deep, rich flavor of the ruby red port, and
gazed hopefully at her companion seated at the other end of the
leather sofa.
"A Christmas story?" Nick queried. He took a sip from his own glass
and stretched out his legs. "What do you mean?"
"You know, something from long ago."
"What do you want to know? How we celebrated? That sort of thing?"
Natalie ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass, smiling
slightly as the crystal sang. "I don't know, it just seems like a good
time for a Christmas story." She waved a hand at the windows. "It's
cold and snowing outside, and it's warm and comfy here inside. We've
got a nice fire burning in the fireplace, and I feel relaxed because
I'm all done with shopping and decorating and all that. I'm ready for
a story. And I bet you've got stories -- lots and lots of 'em." She
snuggled a little deeper into the corner of the sofa. "Please?"
"Hmmm, let me think a bit." Nick frowned into his glass. He had to
admit he felt quietly happy and relaxed himself. It was an odd
sensation, but one that came more and more often whenever he spent an
evening with Natalie. Tonight they had watched "A Charlie Brown
Christmas" in his loft and then turned the television off to simply
sit and watch the fire. Shadows danced softly in the darkened room,
and the air was scented with pine from the fresh boughs Nick had put
in a large vase on his dining room table, his only concession to
decorating for the season
His thoughts turned to Christmases past. Yes, he had lots of Christmas
stories, but not many were the kind he wanted to relate to Natalie.
There was one, though...
"Let me tell you about a Christmas a long, long time ago, when 'peace
on Earth, goodwill toward men' had a very personal meaning..."
======================================
Somewhere in the Western Desert, Egypt
Christmas Eve, 1220
======================================
Nicolas de Brabant rode slowly towards the small clump of date palms
lit redly in the distance by the setting sun. He was exhausted and
desperately thirsty. He knew that where there were palms, there was
water -- that is, if this wasn't a mirage.
The sandstorm had struck suddenly early that morning, coming
seemingly out of nowhere. One moment the sky was blue and the next a
murky wall of dust and sand had risen out of the north to engulf him
and his companion. In a matter of moments they could see and hear
nothing except the driving clouds of stinging, suffocating sand and
the buffeting gale.
Shouting into the wind, Nicolas had tried desperately to locate his
companion, but he had been riding ahead of him and had disappeared
into the murk. Nicolas finally gave up and concentrated on his own
survival.
He made his horse lie down and, after hastily tying a cloth over the
gelding's muzzle to try to keep the sand out of its nostrils, he threw
his cloak over his head and hunkered down in the scant protection the
animal's body provided.
He lost track of time as the storm howled around him. He could only
hope that Francois had had the presence of mind to do the same.
This expedition had been a disaster from the start. He had been
selected to take a message from his commander to the Duc D'Anjou in a
camp some two days to the west, through territory frequented by Muslim
warriors. Nicolas had resented that he was chosen for such a menial
and dangerous task, but his commander had felt that sending his
message via a mere soldier would be an insult to the Duc. Nicolas was
perfect -- a nobleman, but not one so high in rank that his loss would
be much lamented. And, Nicolas thought bitterly, his commander
probably was under instructions from Lord Delabarre, the man who had
sent him on Crusade in the first place, to give him ample opportunity
to get killed. At least they had given him Francois, a sturdy,
dependable man-at-arms, to accompany him.
But they had gotten lost and had taken four days, not two, to locate
the Duc and deliver the message. The Duc had reprimanded Nicolas for
tardiness and sent him back with a stinging rebuke, not allowing them
even a day's rest before returning to his commander with the reply.
And then Francois had taken ill with fever, sitting pale and quiet on
his plodding horse as they trekked back over the arid plain towards
their encampment.
And now this.
The storm must have lasted for half the day, although it seemed like
forever. When the winds finally died down and the sun dimly
reappeared, both he and his horse were half-buried in sand. He
struggled to stand and then urged the horse to its feet. Sand had been
driven into everything -- it was in his clothes, in his mouth,
everywhere. He vainly tried to shake it from himself as he looked
around for Francois.
Nothing. He was alone in an endless, featureless sea of sand and hard-
packed dirt. He called, "Francois, where are you?" over and over to no
avail. Only the now-quiet hissing of the hot breeze over the sand
answered him.
Finally he gave up. He would have to find his way home himself. The
impact of losing Francois suddenly hit him -- not only was he a
solitary man in a hostile land, but Francois had been carrying all the
provisions. All Nicolas had was a skin of water, and that three-
quarters empty.
Fighting down a sudden panic, he mounted his horse and turned it away
from the westering sun. He knew at least that if he headed east long
enough, he would find the Nile. He only hoped he and his horse lasted
long enough to reach it.
It was a miracle that the oasis appeared after he had traveled only
six hours. Even in December, the heat was intense; he had drunk his
last mouthful of water two hours before and he felt as dessicated as
one of those mummies he had seen soon after he arrived in Egypt.
When he finally reached the oasis he found it consisted of a shallow,
reedy pool of water surrounded by a dozen date palms and scrubby
brush. His horse rushed into the pool and plunged its head into the
murky water to drink noisily. Nicolas slid off and almost fell into
the water, barely managing to stay upright by hanging onto his saddle.
He, like his horse, plunged his head into the pool, luxuriating in the
cool wetness on his sunburned face.
Once his thirst had been slaked he surveyed his surroundings. There
was evidence the oasis was visited, but not heavily; there was dried
camel and horse dung and the marks of a campfire. He looked hopefully
into the shadowed heights of the palms, but could see no fruit ready
to be picked.
Oh, well. He had been hungry before. At least he had water and the
makings of a fire.
He stripped the saddle off his horse and hobbled it so it could forage
for itself on the tough vegetation. In the gathering twilight he
collected as much brush and dung as he could for his campfire. It was
getting cold now -- the desert night was as chill as the day was hot.
Once the fire was burning, he wrapped himself in his cloak, lay back
against his saddle, and stared up into the night sky. He counted the
days from when he had left his encampment, and realized it was
Christmas Eve. His thoughts turned to his family. Were they getting
ready for Midnight Mass? Enjoying the feast, drinking spiced wine and
eating savory dishes? His stomach cramped at the thought of food.
Better not dwell on that subject too much.
He craned his head around to the east. Was this the same sky the Wise
Men had seen that had beckoned them on to Bethlehem? There was no
bright guiding star now to lead Crusaders to the east and Jerusalem,
just the familiar constellations. Orion was hanging huge and bright
near the horizon, his hunting dogs on his heels, his flaming sword at
his side.
Suddenly Nicolas heard something -- a faint clinking and the muffled
sound of hooves on sand. He sat upright and stared into the dark,
trying to see what was approaching. He clutched at his sword and
waited tensely.
A white blur rose out of the gloom into the faint light thrown by his
fire and transfigured into a man leading a horse. He stopped abruptly
and stared at Nicolas, his hand flying to the dagger at his side.
The two men stared silently at each other. The leaping flames of
Nicolas' fire revealed a sturdy, middle-aged man, his face dark and
weathered, wearing the flowing white robes and headdress of a desert
dweller. His horse was of the small, finely boned desert breed, and
looked to be lame.
When Nicolas made no threatening move, the man warily led his horse to
the pool and allowed it to drink. Keeping his eyes on the foreigner,
he stooped to drink himself, keeping one hand on his dagger.
Still Nicolas made no move. In truth, he was too weary to fight, and
the thought of trying to take a life on this holy night repulsed him.
It was a night for peace, not war.
The Muslim retreated a bit from the pool and settled to the ground,
gathering his robes closely around himself, his horse tethered nearby.
Nicolas realized that he had collected every available scrap that
could be burned; the man could make no fire on this cold, frosty
night.
The two were a scant stone's throw apart. Nicolas could see the man
was cold and it troubled him. But what could he do? This man was the
enemy. But as he stared through his fire at the figure huddled on the
other side of the pool, it didn't seem to him that the man was an
enemy. He was a lone traveler, just like himself, and was in need.
Nicolas had to do something.
Finally, he slowly and deliberately laid his sword away from himself
and gestured to the man, waving him towards the fire.
"Come," he called, even though he knew the man wouldn't understand
him. "Let us share this fire. It isn't right that I am warm and you
are not." He gestured again.
Slowly the Muslim stood and approached the fire, wary that the offer
was a trick. When Nicolas still made no move except to smile and
gesture again, he sat on the other side of the blaze and held out his
hands to the warmth. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight, and he
nodded to the weary Crusader. He said something in his liquid tongue,
then pointed to himself and said slowly, "Hamid Ibn Shefia."
Nicolas repeated it awkwardly, then pointed to himself and said his
own name.
Hamid nodded again, then opened a pack he had brought with him and set
out his supper -- dates, cheese, and some dried meat. He glanced up at
Nicolas, who was unsuccessfully trying not to eye the food. He grinned
suddenly, his teeth flashing whitely in the firelight, and said
something, then proceeded to parcel out two portions and offer Nicolas
one.
Nicolas accepted the food gratefully, and soon the two men were eating
in companionable silence. As he ate his meager meal, Nicolas couldn't
help but wonder what his family would think of his Christmas Eve
repast, shared with the sworn enemy of Christendom. Although, he
reflected ruefully, it was the sworn enemy of Christendom who had
shared his Christmas Eve repast with *him*.
The meal finished, Hamid again reached into his pack and brought forth
a slender wooden flute. He began playing, the music strange and exotic
to Nicolas' ears. Perhaps, he thought as he listened, it was this sort
of music that the shepherds had played to their sheep in the hills
around Bethlehem, and that the Christ child had heard from his bed in
the manger.
After the song's notes quavered and died in the still, cold air,
Nicolas offered his own music, singing a Christmas carol about
shepherds and stars and the birth of his Savior. Hamid listened
intently, nodding every so often as he absorbed the alien melody. And
then, when Nicolas had finished, he played another song.
They traded music back and forth through the evening, and even though
they could not speak to each other, they understood each other
perfectly.
Finally the silences between songs grew longer and longer until it was
time to sleep. Nicolas knelt briefly to offer a prayer for Christmas,
and to give thanks for his good fortune to be alive and for Francois'
soul, for he felt sadly certain that he was surely dead. Hamid watched
him from his bed next to the fire, and when Nicolas was done he
murmured a few words that sounded like his own prayer and closed his
eyes to sleep.
Early the next morning found the unlikely companions once again
sharing a meal. "I must go now," Nicolas said when they had finished,
and pointed in the direction of the rising sun and made walking
motions with his fingers. Hamid nodded his understanding and pointed
to himself, and then to the west. He must continue his own journey.
Nicolas stood and began the process of putting on his heavy, hot
hauberk and chain mail.
Hamid was vastly amused at the sight and stopped him with a gesture.
He went to his saddlebags and drew out a spare headcloth and presented
it to the bemused knight. He mimed how Nicolas should wear it as
protection against the fierce sun and pack away his armor for the trip
across the sands.
Nicolas thought briefly of the misery of the day before, and thanked
Hamid gravely for the gift. The generosity of the desert dweller
humbled him, and he cast about for a gift he could give him in return.
He had so little...
He fumbled in his own pack until he found the small knife his brother
had given him many years before. It had a plain, utilitarian blade,
but the bone handle was finely carved with leaping stags and hunting
dogs. He held it out to Hamid, who accepted it with an admiring smile.
"Joyeux Noel, mon ami. Merci." Nicolas bowed, and then the two men
embraced: strangers and enemies, yet friends, brought together by chance
and the simple kindnesses of shared warmth, sustenance, and music.
As he rode away, Nicolas turned around and looked back. Hamid raised
a hand in farewell, then turned to go his own way.
It was a fine Christmas day.
Finis
"Dona nobis pacem" is Latin for "grant us thy peace."
==================================
Comments, criticisms, and musically inclined
knights may be sent to:
nancykam@mediaone.net
Merry Christmas to all!
==================================
Dona Nobis Pacem
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) December 1999
===================================
I think it's time for some Christmas storytelling, don't you? Here's my
offering of a little Christmas vignette.
Permission is given to post this to Mel's fanfic site, as well as the FTP
site. We know who owns these characters. My thanks for letting us take them
out and mess with their lives.
~~~~~~~~~
"Nick, tell me a Christmas story." Natalie Lambert took a sip from her
wineglass, savoring the deep, rich flavor of the ruby red port, and
gazed hopefully at her companion seated at the other end of the
leather sofa.
"A Christmas story?" Nick queried. He took a sip from his own glass
and stretched out his legs. "What do you mean?"
"You know, something from long ago."
"What do you want to know? How we celebrated? That sort of thing?"
Natalie ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass, smiling
slightly as the crystal sang. "I don't know, it just seems like a good
time for a Christmas story." She waved a hand at the windows. "It's
cold and snowing outside, and it's warm and comfy here inside. We've
got a nice fire burning in the fireplace, and I feel relaxed because
I'm all done with shopping and decorating and all that. I'm ready for
a story. And I bet you've got stories -- lots and lots of 'em." She
snuggled a little deeper into the corner of the sofa. "Please?"
"Hmmm, let me think a bit." Nick frowned into his glass. He had to
admit he felt quietly happy and relaxed himself. It was an odd
sensation, but one that came more and more often whenever he spent an
evening with Natalie. Tonight they had watched "A Charlie Brown
Christmas" in his loft and then turned the television off to simply
sit and watch the fire. Shadows danced softly in the darkened room,
and the air was scented with pine from the fresh boughs Nick had put
in a large vase on his dining room table, his only concession to
decorating for the season
His thoughts turned to Christmases past. Yes, he had lots of Christmas
stories, but not many were the kind he wanted to relate to Natalie.
There was one, though...
"Let me tell you about a Christmas a long, long time ago, when 'peace
on Earth, goodwill toward men' had a very personal meaning..."
======================================
Somewhere in the Western Desert, Egypt
Christmas Eve, 1220
======================================
Nicolas de Brabant rode slowly towards the small clump of date palms
lit redly in the distance by the setting sun. He was exhausted and
desperately thirsty. He knew that where there were palms, there was
water -- that is, if this wasn't a mirage.
The sandstorm had struck suddenly early that morning, coming
seemingly out of nowhere. One moment the sky was blue and the next a
murky wall of dust and sand had risen out of the north to engulf him
and his companion. In a matter of moments they could see and hear
nothing except the driving clouds of stinging, suffocating sand and
the buffeting gale.
Shouting into the wind, Nicolas had tried desperately to locate his
companion, but he had been riding ahead of him and had disappeared
into the murk. Nicolas finally gave up and concentrated on his own
survival.
He made his horse lie down and, after hastily tying a cloth over the
gelding's muzzle to try to keep the sand out of its nostrils, he threw
his cloak over his head and hunkered down in the scant protection the
animal's body provided.
He lost track of time as the storm howled around him. He could only
hope that Francois had had the presence of mind to do the same.
This expedition had been a disaster from the start. He had been
selected to take a message from his commander to the Duc D'Anjou in a
camp some two days to the west, through territory frequented by Muslim
warriors. Nicolas had resented that he was chosen for such a menial
and dangerous task, but his commander had felt that sending his
message via a mere soldier would be an insult to the Duc. Nicolas was
perfect -- a nobleman, but not one so high in rank that his loss would
be much lamented. And, Nicolas thought bitterly, his commander
probably was under instructions from Lord Delabarre, the man who had
sent him on Crusade in the first place, to give him ample opportunity
to get killed. At least they had given him Francois, a sturdy,
dependable man-at-arms, to accompany him.
But they had gotten lost and had taken four days, not two, to locate
the Duc and deliver the message. The Duc had reprimanded Nicolas for
tardiness and sent him back with a stinging rebuke, not allowing them
even a day's rest before returning to his commander with the reply.
And then Francois had taken ill with fever, sitting pale and quiet on
his plodding horse as they trekked back over the arid plain towards
their encampment.
And now this.
The storm must have lasted for half the day, although it seemed like
forever. When the winds finally died down and the sun dimly
reappeared, both he and his horse were half-buried in sand. He
struggled to stand and then urged the horse to its feet. Sand had been
driven into everything -- it was in his clothes, in his mouth,
everywhere. He vainly tried to shake it from himself as he looked
around for Francois.
Nothing. He was alone in an endless, featureless sea of sand and hard-
packed dirt. He called, "Francois, where are you?" over and over to no
avail. Only the now-quiet hissing of the hot breeze over the sand
answered him.
Finally he gave up. He would have to find his way home himself. The
impact of losing Francois suddenly hit him -- not only was he a
solitary man in a hostile land, but Francois had been carrying all the
provisions. All Nicolas had was a skin of water, and that three-
quarters empty.
Fighting down a sudden panic, he mounted his horse and turned it away
from the westering sun. He knew at least that if he headed east long
enough, he would find the Nile. He only hoped he and his horse lasted
long enough to reach it.
It was a miracle that the oasis appeared after he had traveled only
six hours. Even in December, the heat was intense; he had drunk his
last mouthful of water two hours before and he felt as dessicated as
one of those mummies he had seen soon after he arrived in Egypt.
When he finally reached the oasis he found it consisted of a shallow,
reedy pool of water surrounded by a dozen date palms and scrubby
brush. His horse rushed into the pool and plunged its head into the
murky water to drink noisily. Nicolas slid off and almost fell into
the water, barely managing to stay upright by hanging onto his saddle.
He, like his horse, plunged his head into the pool, luxuriating in the
cool wetness on his sunburned face.
Once his thirst had been slaked he surveyed his surroundings. There
was evidence the oasis was visited, but not heavily; there was dried
camel and horse dung and the marks of a campfire. He looked hopefully
into the shadowed heights of the palms, but could see no fruit ready
to be picked.
Oh, well. He had been hungry before. At least he had water and the
makings of a fire.
He stripped the saddle off his horse and hobbled it so it could forage
for itself on the tough vegetation. In the gathering twilight he
collected as much brush and dung as he could for his campfire. It was
getting cold now -- the desert night was as chill as the day was hot.
Once the fire was burning, he wrapped himself in his cloak, lay back
against his saddle, and stared up into the night sky. He counted the
days from when he had left his encampment, and realized it was
Christmas Eve. His thoughts turned to his family. Were they getting
ready for Midnight Mass? Enjoying the feast, drinking spiced wine and
eating savory dishes? His stomach cramped at the thought of food.
Better not dwell on that subject too much.
He craned his head around to the east. Was this the same sky the Wise
Men had seen that had beckoned them on to Bethlehem? There was no
bright guiding star now to lead Crusaders to the east and Jerusalem,
just the familiar constellations. Orion was hanging huge and bright
near the horizon, his hunting dogs on his heels, his flaming sword at
his side.
Suddenly Nicolas heard something -- a faint clinking and the muffled
sound of hooves on sand. He sat upright and stared into the dark,
trying to see what was approaching. He clutched at his sword and
waited tensely.
A white blur rose out of the gloom into the faint light thrown by his
fire and transfigured into a man leading a horse. He stopped abruptly
and stared at Nicolas, his hand flying to the dagger at his side.
The two men stared silently at each other. The leaping flames of
Nicolas' fire revealed a sturdy, middle-aged man, his face dark and
weathered, wearing the flowing white robes and headdress of a desert
dweller. His horse was of the small, finely boned desert breed, and
looked to be lame.
When Nicolas made no threatening move, the man warily led his horse to
the pool and allowed it to drink. Keeping his eyes on the foreigner,
he stooped to drink himself, keeping one hand on his dagger.
Still Nicolas made no move. In truth, he was too weary to fight, and
the thought of trying to take a life on this holy night repulsed him.
It was a night for peace, not war.
The Muslim retreated a bit from the pool and settled to the ground,
gathering his robes closely around himself, his horse tethered nearby.
Nicolas realized that he had collected every available scrap that
could be burned; the man could make no fire on this cold, frosty
night.
The two were a scant stone's throw apart. Nicolas could see the man
was cold and it troubled him. But what could he do? This man was the
enemy. But as he stared through his fire at the figure huddled on the
other side of the pool, it didn't seem to him that the man was an
enemy. He was a lone traveler, just like himself, and was in need.
Nicolas had to do something.
Finally, he slowly and deliberately laid his sword away from himself
and gestured to the man, waving him towards the fire.
"Come," he called, even though he knew the man wouldn't understand
him. "Let us share this fire. It isn't right that I am warm and you
are not." He gestured again.
Slowly the Muslim stood and approached the fire, wary that the offer
was a trick. When Nicolas still made no move except to smile and
gesture again, he sat on the other side of the blaze and held out his
hands to the warmth. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight, and he
nodded to the weary Crusader. He said something in his liquid tongue,
then pointed to himself and said slowly, "Hamid Ibn Shefia."
Nicolas repeated it awkwardly, then pointed to himself and said his
own name.
Hamid nodded again, then opened a pack he had brought with him and set
out his supper -- dates, cheese, and some dried meat. He glanced up at
Nicolas, who was unsuccessfully trying not to eye the food. He grinned
suddenly, his teeth flashing whitely in the firelight, and said
something, then proceeded to parcel out two portions and offer Nicolas
one.
Nicolas accepted the food gratefully, and soon the two men were eating
in companionable silence. As he ate his meager meal, Nicolas couldn't
help but wonder what his family would think of his Christmas Eve
repast, shared with the sworn enemy of Christendom. Although, he
reflected ruefully, it was the sworn enemy of Christendom who had
shared his Christmas Eve repast with *him*.
The meal finished, Hamid again reached into his pack and brought forth
a slender wooden flute. He began playing, the music strange and exotic
to Nicolas' ears. Perhaps, he thought as he listened, it was this sort
of music that the shepherds had played to their sheep in the hills
around Bethlehem, and that the Christ child had heard from his bed in
the manger.
After the song's notes quavered and died in the still, cold air,
Nicolas offered his own music, singing a Christmas carol about
shepherds and stars and the birth of his Savior. Hamid listened
intently, nodding every so often as he absorbed the alien melody. And
then, when Nicolas had finished, he played another song.
They traded music back and forth through the evening, and even though
they could not speak to each other, they understood each other
perfectly.
Finally the silences between songs grew longer and longer until it was
time to sleep. Nicolas knelt briefly to offer a prayer for Christmas,
and to give thanks for his good fortune to be alive and for Francois'
soul, for he felt sadly certain that he was surely dead. Hamid watched
him from his bed next to the fire, and when Nicolas was done he
murmured a few words that sounded like his own prayer and closed his
eyes to sleep.
Early the next morning found the unlikely companions once again
sharing a meal. "I must go now," Nicolas said when they had finished,
and pointed in the direction of the rising sun and made walking
motions with his fingers. Hamid nodded his understanding and pointed
to himself, and then to the west. He must continue his own journey.
Nicolas stood and began the process of putting on his heavy, hot
hauberk and chain mail.
Hamid was vastly amused at the sight and stopped him with a gesture.
He went to his saddlebags and drew out a spare headcloth and presented
it to the bemused knight. He mimed how Nicolas should wear it as
protection against the fierce sun and pack away his armor for the trip
across the sands.
Nicolas thought briefly of the misery of the day before, and thanked
Hamid gravely for the gift. The generosity of the desert dweller
humbled him, and he cast about for a gift he could give him in return.
He had so little...
He fumbled in his own pack until he found the small knife his brother
had given him many years before. It had a plain, utilitarian blade,
but the bone handle was finely carved with leaping stags and hunting
dogs. He held it out to Hamid, who accepted it with an admiring smile.
"Joyeux Noel, mon ami. Merci." Nicolas bowed, and then the two men
embraced: strangers and enemies, yet friends, brought together by chance
and the simple kindnesses of shared warmth, sustenance, and music.
As he rode away, Nicolas turned around and looked back. Hamid raised
a hand in farewell, then turned to go his own way.
It was a fine Christmas day.
Finis
"Dona nobis pacem" is Latin for "grant us thy peace."
==================================
Comments, criticisms, and musically inclined
knights may be sent to:
nancykam@mediaone.net
Merry Christmas to all!
==================================