The Christmas Bell
Nigel felt lifted up by the angel of Hope when Mother smiled for the first time in weeks. He had just handed her his Christmas gift, a gold bell with raised figures worked into its surface. The old woman brightened in her sickbed, and bade Nigel’s sister prop her up better that she might examine the beautiful object. She called for her glasses which Nigel proudly handed to her. Mother rang the bell and marveled at its loud peal. She studied the splendid scene upon it. She knew instantly it was the raising of Lazarus. She took it as a sign and got out of bed for the first time in weeks.
She begged her boy to tell her he would not bring shame upon the family for having stolen it. He swore he had found it in an “empty field” and that no man or woman owned it. It was the luck of Christmas! It was pretty enough to keep forever, but Mother knew selling the bell could bring much comfort to her children and herself. It would have to be arranged. She called for stew and they all shared in a Christmas meal. They were bright with optimism about the future. Such a small thing can make such a huge difference to the poor. Mother had suffered horribly working as a scullery maid in one of several mansions owned by the merciless Mr. Greaves. He had cast her off like a pile of rags when she had grown deathly ill. She had heard the recent news of his passing. She said a silent prayer for even that evil man. It was Christmas, after all.
She could not stop glancing at the gorgeous bell. It was stamped with a tiny maker’s mark indicating it was truly of the precious metal, made for the rich. Who knows how much gold went into its manufacture or how much it might fetch. Mother felt so optimistic she got up and began sweeping the room. Her children demanded she stop, but they smiled at each other in joy. She had indeed turned the corner. Hope could come from such strange places.
While the old woman felt herself coming back to life, the eyes of Mr. Greaves snapped open in the darkness of his coffin buried below the hard December earth. He realized what had happened. “Good God!” he thought, “they buried me alive!” He began gasping in panic but he remembered that he had been wise enough (and wealthy enough) to purchase a “safety coffin.” He could feel the string with its terminal ring in his hand. All he had to do was pull on it and the bell above would ring out loudly, announcing far and wide the grave mistake which had been made! People would come running. Why, young men would have their spades in the earth within mere minutes! He pulled on the ring and cried out in horror when he felt no tension at the other end. He heard no ringing bell above his grave. Instead, the string came drifting down and coiled in his palm. Then he began to babble loudly into the darkness that he had been robbed. Why, those “safety coffin” charlatans would be given hellish payback, solicitors would be called! Then he began to realize, he began to understand the odds, began to realize how unlikely remuneration and revenge actually were, and so he began to scream. And because there was an air vent, he would have a long time to scream.
Up above, there were some Christmas visitors laying wreaths in loving memory here and there throughout the snowy graveyard. But these mourners were far from the grave of Mr. Greaves, because he wanted to be placed in an isolated part of the necropolis, far from the common folk. He had gotten his druthers. Of course, he always did. A few flakes of Christmas snow managed to find their way into his coffin through the air vent. He felt them land on the naked skin of his hands. They felt like death kissing him. His screams went on and on, but up above, on living earth, they were no louder than the sounds cold crystals made as they whispered against the stones of the departed. And the church bells were ringing loudly, and the bells on sleighs, and other such marvelous sounds of Christmas day.
