Note: A short interlude, because this is a Christmas tale. We pick up the action in the next chapter.
CHAPTER 8
Aramis made his way back to the stand of pine trees where he first scouted the ground for windfall. That gave him a tidy little pile of boughs, but not enough to patch the holes in the shelter and make a mat for the floor. Going over to the lower branches of the nearest tree, he chose a young, thin branch, grasped it as firmly as he could with his frozen hands and stripped it from the tree. A sharp, clean sent of pine filled the air, bringing back memories of Christmases long past, when he was a child.
When he was very little, they would decorate their mantle with boughs of pine and holly making the house smell fragrant. His mother, wise in the use of herbs, often made wreaths around the holiday of useful plants, dried and fresh to give to the neighbors. His father was known far and wide for his apple brandy. No one had coinage to spare, so people in the village who wanted to provide a small token to a friend or neighbor, did so using their natural talents. Aramis' mother made the herbal wreaths, his father provided small bottles of his brandy. The baker's wife made cookies using precious sugar and butter from their cows. The family with the goats made a delicious cheese that they gifted. And so on. Each gift was appreciated, for it took time and resources to make, things that were always scarce.
The pine scent swirling in his nostrils triggered another Noël memory. The orange. One December, when he was a young boy, a peddler came through their village. His covered wagon held a plethora of both useful and exotic items, enough to make a poor village turn out en masse, just to view the items even if they couldn't afford them. And the peddler gave a good show, demonstrating and describing things that no one had ever seen before.
Aramis remembered he had to push his way to the front of the crowd to see, because he was still short of stature. From his front row position, he was close enough to literally reach out and touch some of the wares on display. One had fascinated him. A small pyramid of round spheres of the brightest color he'd ever seen in an object. He hadn't meant to, knowing it was wrong and he might damage something his family couldn't afford. But his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own when they reached out and grasped the round orange orb on top of the triangular stack. The next thing he knew, all the round orbs began to fall, rolling into the dirt.
Horrified, he'd quickly tried to gather them up to restack them. His finger nail scraped the surface one of the objects and the most delicious scent drifted to his nose. Tangy. Sweet. Clean. He raised the orb to his nose and took a deep breath. Heaven. Surely this is what heaven smelled like.
The peddler had moved over and plucked the object from his hands, taking advantage of the little scene Aramis had caused to hawk his wares even more. An exotic fruit, he'd said, tossing it from hand to hand. From far, far across the sea. When asked what it was called, he said orange. Just like the color. Passing the one in his hand, the one that had the scape in it, to the nearest man in the front of the crowd, the peddler instructed him to sniff it. Aramis already knew what the holder of the orange would smell. Heaven. Though the man reluctantly put the fruit to his nose, he soon had a huge smile on his face. The merchant went on with his pitch, saying it tasted as good as it smelled. This was not an ordinary every day apple he had said, but an orange!
Of course, the crowd, after hearing about and smelling the fruit inquired of the price. But the canny man wasn't done hawking his wares yet. He had spun a tale about a ship, leaving from a small island in the south where it was always warm. A ship, that had been bound for India, with a load of precious fruit for the Maharaja. A terrible storm that blew them off course. Days upon endless days lost at sea. The air, turning colder and colder as the ship drifted North. A miracle that it made it to Le Havre. A Captain and crew, with no funds, desperately selling everything and anything they could to get enough money to repair their ship so they could head home to their warm island. And he, the lucky peddler, who was able to purchase these exotic specimens to bring to the people of France.
Aramis remembered the merchant's voice dropping even lower and the people of the village leaning in further to hear the tale being spun. Royalty, he'd confidentially whispered. Kings and Queens. They had these fruits. Not even the nobility in the Palace were allowed to taste this forbidden fruit. Only the King. And the Queen.
After that, he'd gathered back the last orange from the crowd and stacked it on top of a neat little pyramid again. Aramis recalled his mother calling him away at that point, so he never did see who, if anyone, could afford to buy the oranges. That night all he could talk about was the feel of the orange's skin, the heavenly smell. He had talked so much his mother had to threaten him to get him to stop. That night, he recalled dreaming of a land full of oranges and he, Aramis the Pirate, sailed there, saved the daughter of the King of the Island from being eaten by an angry sea monster, and had been rewarded with a ship-full of the exotic orange orbs.
Noël had been only a day away and Aramis had gone to the church to see the crèche. His family couldn't afford one, but the church had a beautiful one that he had often admired. He'd sit in church, staring at the three Kings and praying that someone would bring him a gift of an orange even though he knew it was improper to put forth such prayers. He knew he should be praying that their neighbor's only cow got well, or the baker's son, who'd been hurt by a mill wheel, recovered. To pray for an orange was simply wrong. To make up for his hubris, Aramis had spent some extra time praying to God for the things he should.
The next day, Noël, he'd woken, grabbed the bucket and headed to the community well to get water, a task he did every day. The peddler, who had been set up near the well had long departed. As he had been drawing the heavy bucket up by the rough rope, he spied something under a bush near where the wagon of wares had been stationed. Placing the bucket on the ground next to the well, he'd scooted over, got on his hands and knees and crawled under the evergreen. And there, before his eyes, was the holy grail. A perfectly round orange!
Picking it up, he raised it to his nose and the scent of orange and evergreen assaulted his senses. Stuffing it in his pocket, he'd backed out from under the bush and glanced around to see if anyone had seen him and his prize. But it was early, and he was all alone.
Grabbing the bucket of water, he'd taken it home like a dutiful son and placed some in a kettle to boil. His mother joined him shortly, wishing him a happy Noël. She suggested he look in the shoes he'd left for Pére Noël, to see if perhaps he had come to visit during the night. And that year, in his shoes he had found a small dagger and a few pieces of precious confections. He'd run over to his mother and hugged her so tightly that the orange in his pocket popped out and rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the soot-stained bricks of the hearth.
Swearing he didn't steal it, Aramis had explained how it came into his possession. His mother knew he wasn't a thief and believed his story. Then she had asked him what his intentions were, in regard to the orange. And that had stumped him. He knew the peddler was long gone and it would be senseless to save the orange to give back to the man, should he ever return to this village. So he told his mother he'd prayed to God for an orange and one had been delivered. It was his, a gift, from Jesus, on Noël.
His mother had sunk into her favorite chair, the one with the rounded needlework cushion that her mother had given to her, and gestured for him to sit at her feet. She told him she understood why he was fascinated with the orange, that the peddler had done his job well in selling its worth. But she'd gone on to explain it was wrong to pray for such selfish things. Prayer should be for the glorification of God. For the helping and well-wishing of others. Not for selfish items for oneself. His mother had instructed him to go to the Priest of the village, tell him the tale of the orange, and ask his guidance.
And Aramis had. The Father, a learned, wise preacher, had listened solemnly to the small boy's tale. He had then led Aramis to where the church's Bible was stored. The Father had opened the great tome and began to read Aramis various passages; about the widow who put her meager savings in the collection plate, about the good Samaritan who thought of others before himself, about the bread and the fishes that multiplied to feed an army of believers. The Father had closed the Bible then and gently said that Jesus wasn't here to make the orange feed the whole village, so Aramis would have to decide himself what to do with it.
Aramis had badly wanted to keep it for himself, but he knew that was not what God had been teaching in the parables of the Bible. He'd taken himself back to the bench where he could stare at the baby Jesus in the manager, a poor boy like he was, though one destined to a greatness Aramis would never achieve. But Aramis understood the stories and knew the right thing was to give the orange away. He turned the orange over and over in his hands, lifting it to his nose every now and then, still thinking it was the scent of heaven. He had to give the orange away. But to whom? He had no idea who was in greatest need, so he took his precious prize back to the priest, who'd been lighting the candles in the church in preparation for the service. Solemnly, he'd handed the orange to the priest and said for him to give it to someone who was in more need than he. After that, he'd returned home and relayed what he had done to his mother. She had been so proud of him and had given him a hug that he still could feel to this day. One of pure pride and love.
Later that day, he'd accompanied her back to the church for a Noël worship ceremony. And there, on the alter, sat his bright orange. The people of the village saw it and wondered why it was there and what it meant. It was traditional to tell the story of Jesus' birth on Noël and the Father had done just that. However, when he got to the section on the gifts from the Magi, he'd paused, picked up the orange and held it aloft. Giving no names, he described how the orange was found and then given to the church as a gift for someone who most needed it. The priest had asked his small congregation who amongst them was in the greatest need, and his heart swelled when many names were given by others, but no one named themselves. He'd then placed it on the alter once more, saying he would hand it to its rightful owner at the conclusion of the service. He'd then gone on and finished the miraculous story of the Savior's birth.
At the end of the service, the priest had walked over to the Bible on its stout oak stand, flipped open to the book of Matthew and began to read. 'At that hour the disciples came to Jesus, saying: Who, thinkest thou, is the greater in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus, calling unto him a little child, set him in the midst of them. And said: verily I say to you, unless you be converted, and become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, he is the greater in the kingdom of heaven. And he that shall receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me. But he that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and that he should be drowned in the depth of the sea.'
At the end of the verse, he solemnly shut the tome, walked over to the orange, held it aloft and declared it would be shared by the children of the village. The children had gathered around the priest as he'd solemnly peeled the offering. The scent of orange joined the Noël smells of pine boughs and lightly scented beeswax. A hush had fallen over the church as the inside of the miraculous fruit was displayed and broken into sections. The priest had asked the congregation who had a knife and Aramis had proudly held out his new blade. Using the small dagger, the priest further divided each section, until he had enough pieces for every child in the church. Almost as if it were a communion, the father placed one tiny piece of orange into the waiting mouth of every innocent child.
Aramis never forgot the taste of that small piece the man of God had placed in his mouth. But it was more than just the succulent taste. It was the joy, the warm feeling in his heart that all had been able to share in this miraculous gift from God. It was a lesson he'd never forgotten and it began his true belief that God was good and would always take care of his believers. For he had prayed for an orange and had been given not only the orange, but a valuable lesson.
And God continued to watch over him, for his trip to the past had been a result of his body succumbing to the cold and he had unconsciously sunk onto the frozen ground where the earth was attempting to leech the last of his warmth and life from his body.
But God apparently wasn't quite ready to have Aramis join him in heaven, for the wind blew harder through the snow-covered pine boughs, dislodging a large clump which fell directly upon Aramis. As cold as he was, he felt this new chill and woke from his stupor, realizing he was seated in the snow surrounded by the pine boughs he'd dropped. The danger of his situation rose in his mind and with a groan, he climbed back to his feet, then began gathering up the branches from the ground.
On the way back to the lean-to, he thanked God for delivering him from certain death. The taste of orange came to his tongue, almost as if God had acknowledged him. With renewed vigor, he patched the holes in the roof and laid a mat of boughs on the ground to help insulate them from the snow.
He frowned, knowing this was not enough for they were still wet. But Aramis could see no way to dry their clothes, for they couldn't sit around naked in the snow while their garments dried by the fire. Standing there, hands on his hips, he scanned about the area once more. Who'd built this fire pit and shelter? Why were they here? How old was it? If the occupant came here for any length of time, could there be any other useful items nearby?
With that thought occupying his mind, he began to wander around the immediate area of the camp. An odd outcropping of rocks, which appeared to have shifted, caught his eye. It looked as if there had almost been a small cave-like crevice, but the boulders had shifted and partially blocked its opening. It was too dark to see into and he wasn't going to randomly stick his head in, so he decided he'd explore it after they got the fire going and he could make a torch.
The thought of the fire made his fuzzy brain suddenly realize that Athos had not returned. Mother of God, he swore as he headed in the direction he'd last seen Athos. Had the swordsman collapsed to the cold as he had? Or worse, slipped, hurt himself? Fallen in the river?
Panic set in as he trudged through the snow towards the river, desperately calling out Athos' name. Dear God, he prayed. Don't make my time lost to a vision of the past, be the death of my best friend in the present.
