December 23rd, 1886

The boy seems stunned that I would take such passion for celebrating Christmas. He could not fathom the preparations. What did he expect, that I would be such a churl that I would shun the notion of this yuletide fest? I explained, as I took him upon my knee, that such a holiday is tremendously important to me. I asked him what he knew of it.

The boy spewed out some rhetoric about Christ and God, and all the trivialities that I'm sure his father has wedged into his head. It was all rather hard to listen to. I know the stories of the Christ-God, I daresay to a greater degree than any boy. But I entertained his speech.

At long last, he was finished.

I clapped him warmly on the shoulder and drew a strand of his short brown hair about my finger. "Ah, that's well and good," I said, tugging the lock of hair fondly, giving him cause for protest. "But you do have overlooked an important aspect of the modern era. Christmas is a time to present, to display, to open our home up and present the grandeur to which we live for all to see and enjoy."

At least, that is how I explained it to him.

For, you see, I do so love to host such elaborate affairs at Belledouleur. It was in such a tradition of my father's that I met my lost wife. She adored the gatherings, the glamour, the festivities. And I enjoyed being the one to deliver it. I plan to use this joyous occasion to further secure my hold on this youth. In my gentle interrogations, with him perched beside me or on my lap, I have learned that his father - why am I not surprised? - kept Christmas to the most barebones of the holiday; refusing even to offer presents for fear it might alter the Godly upbringing he sought so hard to impart.

Admittedly, I am not even sure why. I raised him in a life of luxury. He received all his hearts desires, if he pleased me, at this holiday. It confronts and blocks my understanding how he could deny himself now.

But here, my mind wanders to that bit of wormrot on the family tree. Let me not dwell on that further.

This boy, young Charles… I asked him "what does your heart desire?"

Of course, he said to see his family. I laughed and reassured him that no, that was quite impossible. And anyhow, had not they given him up? Why would he care to worry his mind with thoughts of a family that was so free to give him away.

"No," I reassured him. "We can do better than some pointless phantom like 'family.' What do you want? Something to have and hold, possess tightly and call your very own?"

He hesitated.

I laughed.

"Well then, young master Charles, you force my hand! I shall have to decide for myself what best fits my young heir's fancy. Not an easy task," I added, tapping him on the nose, "but one I shall undertake nonetheless."

I stroked his hair thoughtfully.

"But boy," I added, "we must do something about your hair." He wears a peasant's coif. He looks like a pauper, or a shorn monk. He put his hands to his head in protest.

"My father-"

"-Call him Clifford."

"Clifford says simplicity is next to godliness."

I rocked back, with mirth. "Ah, see? Brainwashed by the cult of some Christ-king! Suffer and it will be worth it in the end, eh? Well, perhaps there is no end, and we should make it well worth our time now, eh? After all, that is why I host such a beautiful gathering here: so that we might all share in the moment, even if just for the night. Tell me, my son, did Clifford's 'godly' actions always bring you joy? Were you allowed to pursue freedom and pleasure at your whim?"

Of course, the boy shook his head; just as I knew he would.

Thus, I continued.

"Think back, and I'm sure you can remember an instant your 'father' used his so-called 'faith' to justify wounding you greatly?"

I was, admittedly, taking a gamble. But if anyone knows my son's heart, it's me. Perhaps I fail to understand the reason for his actions, but I know how he behaves. He is austere, Spartan. Naturally, I assumed he would force such a lifestyle on his family.

Once again, I was not disappointed.

The boy told me of a time his father caught him reading these printed pages, "funny books" he called them, of drawn characters and their adventures. And Clifford, predictably, viewed such indulgences as "the devil's own press." He bought the very store that sold these funny books, and had it burned to the ground… all the while making Charles watch. The child grew lachrymose as he recounted the tale.

Perhaps I should write Clifford and thank him.

Unknowingly, he has made my task so much the lighter!

I swept young Charles up in my arms, and stood, holding his slight frame to my breast.

"Dear boy," I purred against his cheek, "that's truly dreadful! I am so sorry. What sort of 'father' would so pursue such delight in snuffing a spot od joy from his very own son's life? Truly deplorable. And to think he attempted to justify his actions with some zealot-spurred so-called 'faith?'"

Charles nestled his head under my chin and I endured the presence further.

"Faith, what a lie. At least in terms of some god. It makes people do horrible things, pits man against man, brother at the throat of brother. Others wage a war on the innocent, a war no one can win, and in the end leaves nothing but waste. Your father decides to spend your family's hard-earned money and send it up in smoke; breaking your delicate heart in the process? My boy, dear Charles, that is why such patronage to 'faith' is a demon you must vanquish if ever you plan to be successful. Do you understand?"

I felt the boy's head nodding against my throat.

Having grown tired of his weight, I set his down and straightened my back.

"We'll do away with this atrocious haircut," I remarked with decision. "We'll let it grow strong and thick; an aristocratic mane befitting your noble stature! How does that sound then? A Christmas feast fit for a king on earth, finery to match, and I'm sure I'll be able to find something for you that will bring delight to your eyes." I gave him another tap on the nose to indicate affection.

He grinned, and giggled. It was good to see. He's eager, young. He takes my words to heart. I laid a hand on his head. "Charles, my boy, already you are more a son to me than ever your milksop 'father' was."

And for that, I am deeply glad.

- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. December 23rd. 1886