Peter snuggled into his warm blankets near the fire. Outside, the wind was howling, sending shivers down his back. As he reached for his coffee cup, he thought momentarily about "Mister". Again, he wondered what had led him to the state he was in - shackled by a heavy iron chain by one of his feet to a wall. When Peter last saw him, which was earlier that evening, Mister had smiled gratefully for his dinner - beans, ham and black coffee.
"Thank you," he said.
If anything, Mister was polite. Peter had given him the once over when he first took over guard duties but now, he had more time to study him. He reckoned that he was about his height or a head taller. His hair was covered with dust making it almost impossible to tell what co!or it was. He had blue eyes. He was thinner now, his clothes hung on him. "Boss Man" as Peter called his employer, had told him not to make the prisoner comfortable which to his mind, meant no blankets or a lantern. Of course, since he couldn't go anywhere because of his foot being shackled, the lantern wouldn't have done much good anyway. In any case, Peter resolved, he was his prisoner and he was not about to go out and share his blankets with him.
The next day, the sun shone so brightly against the snow, it made his eyes water. He was grateful for his heavy gloves as he shoveled a path to the shack noticing for the first time the hole in the wall, probably made by a bird. He went back inside his little house and brought out coffee and biscuits for Mister.
Mister was lying on his side, curled up in a ball with his head pillowed on his arm.
"Hey, Mister," Peter called to him, "here's your breakfast."
"Thank you," Mister said and after taking a bite, he smiled. "Almost as good as.." he stopped himself. Not for the first time, Peter saw the wistful, hurting look in Mister's eyes.
"I'll be going into town for a coupla days," Peter announced after laying the plate near Mister. "I'll leave you extra water and food. Anything you want?" He wasn't expecting an answer so when Mister raised his head and asked what was the occasion, he froze. 'Should I add to his misery and tell him it's Christmas?' he wondered.
"It's Christmas," he blurted before he could stop himself.
Mister had been reaching for his cup of coffee when he froze. The anguish on his body was on full display but he never uttered it. Instead, he looked at his guard and asked politely,
"Would it be possible for you to get me a coupla blankets? It's getting colder in here."
Peter looked around the shack. The way someone had built the shack was no wonder that Mister was cold. The walls were made of discarded logs. They were uneven and Peter wondered how on earth the structure didn't fall. The floor, if one could call it that was mostly dirt packed. Some of the rough-hewn boards had given way to heavy rain or snow and had created holes. The part where Mister was chained had the illusion of comfort. The roof, uneven in its construction let in sunlight but also rain and snow. The iron chain was weaved between the logs and was buried under bricks outside the wall. 'Although Mister wanted blankets,' Peter thought 'they would hardly keep him warm'.
"Fine, anything else?" Peter eventually asked.
"My freedom. I have a family," Mister spoke. His voice was filled with pain as if he had suddenly realized that this Christmas was going to be spent shackled to a wall in a dusty, very cold shack.
"I don't have any control over that," Peter spoke forcefully, but softened his tone next, "I'll bring you some blankets."
"Fine," Mister' s smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
After Peter went away, Mister sat up and began his morning ritual. He couldn't shave and his beard was scratchy. His hair was now over his ears and curling down his neck. He didn't have any extra water to bathe. He did have a small amount saved to wash his hands before eating.
Next he planned his day. First thing after washing he said a prayer for his family and friends. Not ordinarily a church-going man, he had learned early on at his Ma's knee, some Bible phrases which now came to him during the deepest, darkest hours of his despair. The bond he shared with his partner was still there. Sometimes, he could even hear his voice when he lay down to sleep. It gave him something to hang onto when the unknown beckoned to swallow him whole.
"If it's Christmas, I need a tree," he said aloud. In the spring and summer he had huddled near the wall where it was cooler but as it got colder, he sat where there was some light that filtered through the roof. Taking a stone and part of the chain, he drew a tree. "I have to have ornaments," he said again, his voice sounding rough in his ears. He thought back to the Christmases at the ranch. So many memories - chopping down the tree, making the ornaments, all the food and store bought presents. He got lost in the memory of a Christmas when they had had a bad year and decided to make presents for each other instead of shopping. It turned out to be one of the best Christmases ever for his family, and as he remembered all the details, tears streamed down his face, "please God, watch over them all."