This story was written for the 2017 Advent Calendar – Day 13

The the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid,
for behold,I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.”

A Cartwright Christmas Carol
~~by PSW

Stave 4

 The Last of the Spirits

“Merry Christmas, my son.”

Adam was convinced that time was indeed no longer moving at normal pace.  Barely was his third (no one was there to stop him, after all) gingersnap consumed when the clock struck three mournful chimes, and so like the tolling of a funeral bell was the sound that he shivered in spite of his firm disbelief in premonition.  The voice, light and nebulous as a memory, followed quickly upon it, however, and he had no time to ponder his unusual reaction to a sound he had been hearing for many years.

Slowly, he turned.

She stood near the dining table, looking upon him with such an affectionate joy that he would have known her for Elizabeth Stoddard Cartwright even had he not, from the miniature at his bedside, been familiar with her features.  Yet in the flesh (was she? His logic for once utterly failed him) she was so much more than the likeness which was all Adam knew.  Young she was—so young—and Ben Cartwright’s eldest son was struck for a moment by the absurd realization that his mother was in fact younger than he.  Her eyes were light, her hair was long and brown and hung loose about her shoulders, a dark splash against her red and ivory gown.  High cheekbones stretched in a wide smile.

A mischievous smile.  He had somehow … never thought of her as such.

Adam shook his head, aware suddenly of his stare.  “Mother.  I … ah, Merry Christmas, Mother.”

Elizabeth’s laughter was the playful giggle of a girl.  “Oh, my Adam.  So serious.”  Her mirth quieted, though her joy did not dim.  “So tall and strong, and so serious.”  For a moment they stood drinking each other in, Adam and this mother he had never known.  Then her smile flashed again, and her laughter rippled around him.  “Which is fine, my son, very fine … but do remember to look for an elephant in the clouds every now and again?”

Adam was uncertain what to make of this enjoinder, and she gave him no time to ponder.  Instead, Elizabeth held out her hand, eyes dancing.  “Come along, my Adam.”  He hesitated, rational mind stilling his hands and step where his brothers had not faltered.  Surely this was all a dream …  Yet if it was, what was the harm?  What did he fear?  As if his mother had heard this silent query she stretched forth her hand once more, urging him forward.  “Come, don’t be afraid.  What you will see this night is meant only for your good, and I will be with you.”  A longing entered her eyes.  “I do so wish to have this time with you, difficult though it may be.”

Difficult?  “What do you mean by that?”

“Come and see.”  When he yet hesitated, she sighed.  “Your mind is a wonderful thing, my Adam, but tonight of all nights, let your heart lead.”

“You sound like Little Joe,” Adam muttered, and slid his fingers into hers.  They were cool and slender and very real.  Elizabeth Cartwright’s laughter followed alongside as the great room melted away, to be replaced by another view of the same.  From this little-trodden corner behind the stairs, differences came quickly to his eye—new wear in the old red and white Indian blanket, a scratch across the flooring with which he was unfamiliar, the four (four?) small frames that graced his father’s desk.  Another shelf of books on the wall in the alcove.  A taller Christmas tree than they usually brought home, and holly hung about the room in a configuration he had never seen.

“Is that so terrible?” she asked.

For a moment, distracted as he was, Adam couldn’t remember the topic.  When he did, he only shook his head.  He’d had enough of his youngest brother lately as it was—he had little intention of spending this time with his mother talking about Joe.  Before he could inquire after the alterations in his home, however, Ben Cartwright himself appeared at the top of the stairs.  If the changes in the house had intrigued him, those in his Pa startled him.  Perhaps even unsettled him.  Ben was thinner, his hair whiter, the lines in his face deeper.  He was not old—but he was certainly older than Adam knew him.  Ben descended slowly, most of his attention taken up with a well-worn letter.  He crossed to his desk as he read and sank into his chair, eyes focused still upon the paper.  One hand fumbled as if by rote to grip the fourth, unknown frame.  After a long moment, Ben laid the letter upon his desk.  He picked up the picture, eyed it for a long moment, then replaced it with a sigh.

“Who—” Adam began, but fell silent when the door slammed open.  The newcomer was Hoss, running full out with arms wrapped about his head.

“Little Joe, you just watch yourself!  If you—”

The threat broke into a high-pitched yelp as a snowball sailed through the open doorway, hitting squarely the bare skin between Hoss’s hair and his collar.  Ben rose, frowning, as his youngest followed the missile into the room, clearly intent on perpetrating further mischief.  “Joseph!”

In that briefest of moments, Adam’s eyes froze upon his youngest brother.  Hoss had not seemed so different—he had gained weight, perhaps, but nothing too noticeable.  Joe, however …  Joe was indefinably, undeniably matured.  His body was lean and hard, the softness of youth gone from his face and carriage.  His hair was longer than Ben had ever allowed it, and shot through with gray.  Gray?  A glance assured him that his little brother was not yet so old as all that—he was, apparently, graying early.  Adam might have snickered at the thought of Joe’s dismay, but his feelings regarding his own receding hairline kept that unworthy impulse in check.

Despite all those signs of aging, however, Joe still apparently didn’t know when to quit—rather than halt his forward movement, he simply swerved and sent the next snowball in a new direction.

It hit Ben full on the chest, breaking apart and tumbling to land in melting pieces upon the floor and the desk and the letter.  Joe’s cackle bounced from the walls and the high ceiling even as he ducked behind Hoss, who had halted his flight to stare wide-eyed at the wet spot upon their father’s chest.  Eyes as green as ever peered from behind the broad back.  Ben stared after his youngest, jaw tight … but even so, Adam saw the hint of mirth in their father’s dark eyes.

“How does he do that?” Adam demanded as Ben retrieved the letter, shook it dry, and stepped from behind the desk.

“Do what, my dear?”  Elizabeth’s voice was tight with suppressed laughter.  He would, apparently, get no sympathetic ear from his companion.

This vaguely surprised him about her, though Adam could not say why.

“Joseph,” Ben Cartwright scowled.  The tone was gruff, but even so Adam knew that particular tilt of the brow.  Their father was not remotely put out by his youngest son’s antics.  “Perhaps next time you might consider—just consider, mind you—keeping the out of doors … well, out of doors.”

Joe and Hoss exchanged a twinkling glance, and then Joe laughed again.  Hoss’s loud guffaw joined him.  “Sure, Pa.  Next time.”  Ben shook his head and strolled toward the stairs, waiting until his back was turned before allowing any hint of amusement upon his features.

“That!” Adam threw exasperated hands into the air, nearly pulling away from his mother.  Elizabeth gripped his fingers, drawing him gently back to her.  “He gets away with the most ridiculous things!  Do you know what would have happened if I had thrown a snowball inside the house?”

Eyes settled upon him, an unsettling pale blue combination of amusement and solemnity.  “Would you have ever done that?”

“Of course not!”

“Did you ever wish to?”

Adam frowned, scrambling within himself for a reply.  What was the point—of either snow in the house, or of this question?  “Why would I want to drag snow inside?  It just makes things cold and wet, and then you have to clean it up again.”  Joe’s leisure activities had always been more rambunctious than Adam’s—a source of both irritation and bafflement to his eldest brother.  It was, quite frankly, a disparity which had long been a matter of contention between the two, for it seemed that whenever Adam most desired a few moments of peace, Joe was most likely to have other ideas entirely.

“It is not your way.”  His mother sighed, squeezing hand.  “As your ways are not his.”

The change in his brothers’ tones drew him back to their conversation, and Adam saw that the laughter had gone from them.

“I wish he’d send a new one.  It’s been almost five months.”

“Yeah.  But he won’t forget—he don’t never just forget completely.”

“Well, I wish he’d just remember a little more often, then.  Pa’s reread that last one so many times it’s about to come apart.  It’s Christmas, ain’t it?  You’d think that’d count for something.”

“Now Joe, that ain’t fair.  You know—”

“Yeah, I know.  He tries.  Well, seems like he could maybe try a little harder.”

The fragmented discussion was difficult to untangle without any manner of context.  Adam was distracted from even the attempt when Elizabeth’s hand tightened upon his own, drawing his attention back to her.

“It is his way,” she whispered, “just as solitude and contemplation are yours …”

The room fell from around them, and they stood upon a bleak, cold hilltop overlooking the expanse of Lake Tahoe below.  Adam knew the spot well, and he sought automatically for Marie Cartwright’s grave even as he took Elizabeth’s hand within both of his own.  The shock of finding not one but two markers upon the hill drew him forward, but his feet stilled after only a few steps.  Ben Cartwright stood between the graves, one hand resting upon each stone as though he might buckle without their solid bulk to support him.

“Who …”

His father was not speaking, was not doing anything.  He simply stood, bent as though beneath a great weight.  Feeling oddly frantic—a sensation which Ben Cartwright’s eldest had never been known to enjoy—Adam gripped his mother’s fingers, eyes raking the nearby scenery.  Immediately his gaze fell upon Joe.  His youngest brother stood some distance away, gazing not toward the graves but out across the expanse of blue Tahoe.  A slim young woman with dark hair and eyes leaned into him, tucked beneath his arm.  His curiosity piqued, even in the midst of that which he knew (without understanding how he knew) to be a terrible revelation, Adam drifted closer.  Elizabeth glided silently at his side, and he saw that for once, her merry eyes were somber.

“Who … died?”

At last he managed the words, but his mother only clasped his hand to her heart.  It was not a comforting response.  Reaching Joe and the woman at last, Adam cut a wide circle around.  He accepted that he and Elizabeth could not be seen—certainly no one had reacted in any way to their appearance upon the hillside.  Still, his mind insisted that some manner of caution was required, and Adam was finding it difficult to convince himself otherwise.

Such worries vanished upon sight of his brother’s face.

He had never seen Joe stand so very still, nor those lively eyes so very bleak.  Adam’s youngest brother had lived through his share of disappointment and tragedy—they all had done so—but never before had Adam seen Joe like this …

A terrible certainty welled within him, and Adam cast his gaze once more across the hillside.  Not finding what (who) he sought—that large, comforting presence—he turned upon his mother.

“Where’s Hoss?”  Elizabeth sighed, and his heart seized within him.  “Mother, who died?”

Her grip upon him tightened.  “Adam …”

“And where am I in all of this?”

No answer was forthcoming.  Rather, the world shifted yet again.  Another grassy field, though not the same one.  Another grave, marked by a white cross.  This time, Joe knelt beside the grave—collapsed, more truly—while Ben hovered in the background.

No dark haired, dark eyed woman.

Oh, Joe …

His father looked … old.  Terribly old.  Lined, and worn.

And Joe …

“He’s gone completely gray,” Adam murmured.  For whom he intended those words—his mother, himself, anyone at all—he could not say.  What Adam Cartwright did know was a sense of odd, dreadful vertigo as he peered upon the image of his youngest brother and found nothing familiar—nothing of humor or fire or even life within the man at his feet.  “Joe …”

There was, in fact, little within those dull green eyes but pain.

This time, Adam was able to make out the words upon the marker.  They leaped out at him—scorched into him—and he wished at once, desperately, for some way to un-see them.

Alice Cartwright and Unborn Child.

“Oh, Joe …”

Elizabeth’s hand tightened once more upon his.  The scene shifted.

He and his mother stood within a barn—their barn.  The familiar scents of hay and horses and leather offered a comforting normality after the chilled bleakness of the open, wind-swept gravesides.  Two men he didn’t know (new hands, he supposed) forked hay and poured water for Buck, Cochise, and a couple of unfamiliar horses.

No Sport, no Chubby.  The leaden weight in his gut grew.

“Joe was tellin’ me about the parties they used ta have at Christmas,” the younger of the two, a slight young man with red hair, was saying to the other.  “For the orphanage fund.  Half the town would come, and Hop Sing would cook for days, and they’d get a tree that went up almost to the ceiling. Bet that was somethin’ ta see.”  He grinned, patting Buck.  The buckskin (Buck had grown old) nuzzled at his pocket, and the redhead laughed.  “Sorry, boy.  Maybe Pa’ll bring you somethin’ tomorrow.”

Pa?  There was no time to wonder, though, and still follow the conversation.

“Yeah.”  The other, square-jawed with a wide (if enigmatic) smile, shook his head.  “I was here for the last few—they mighta had one more after I left, I think.  They were quite the shindigs.”

“A shame we don’t do it anymore.”

“Nobody’s up to it.  You know that.”

The younger man (still almost a boy, really) sighed.  “Yeah.  Ya know, I been real worried about Hop Sing, Candy.  He ain’t movin’ around so good—I think that knee’s givin’ him trouble again—but he won’t admit it or slow down.  He just keeps cookin’.”

The other (what kind of a name was Candy?) shrugged.  “It’s hard for a man to admit he’s gettin’ old, especially somebody like Hop Sing, who’s used ta bein’ always on the go.  Anyway, I’m thinking he’s just after the same thing we are—keep everybody’s minds occupied and on this Christmas.  You know how Mr. Cartwright and Joe both tend ta … drift back around this time of the year if there ain’t anything keeping them in the here and now.”

“Yeah …”  The red-haired man was still for a moment, stroking Buck’s dark mane, then blurted, “Do you think Adam’ll evercome back?”

The sound of his name from this stranger’s lips startled Adam … and the question, with its many implications, both confused and disturbed him.  He had never kept it any secret from his family that he often considered taking leave of the Ponderosa for a time, to stretch his wings and see the world.  It was expected, in fact, if not entirely anticipated by the remainder of the Cartwright men.  The intention was not, though—had never been—to go for good.

What he was hearing now suggested quite otherwise.

He could not accept that.

“Naw.”  Candy’s voice was solid, confident, and a wave of offense washed over Adam.  This cowhand didn’t even knowhim, how could the man make such claims?  “And Mr. Cartwright doesn’t expect him to, not really.  Joe definitely doesn’t.”

“But they put out a place for him at Christmas every year.”

“That’s more wishful thinking than anything else.  Jamie, no one’s even heard from him for at least five years, no one expects him to just walk through the—”

“Five years?”  Anger flared in his breast, and Adam turned upon his mother.  “No.  Whatever this is, whatever you’re trying to prove, I don’t believe it.  I’m not so cruel.  I wouldn’t just leave Pa wondering for all that time.  And I wouldn’t stay away, especially not with everything else going on.”  Her blue eyes were steady, revealing nothing.  He ground his teeth in frustration.  “They’re my—”

“Oh, my Adam.”  Elizabeth rested her head gently upon him, her voice a whisper.  “The world was all before them, where to choose their place of rest, and Providence their guide …”^

Adam recognized the words—of course he did, the book had been upon his shelf (as it were) since before his memory began—but he could not accept their meaning.  Not now, not for him.

“Mother …”

“How quickly our good intentions fade, when our dreams lie within reach.”

So … what?  I abandoned them?

No …  A bitter taste rose in his mouth, and the barn did a slow, drunken spin.  They drove him nearly insane much of the time, but they were his family.

“I don’t …”  Adam could barely form the words, or frame his protest in a way that made sense even to him.  “This hasn’t happened yet though, right?  So it doesn’t have to happen at all.”  His mother’s eyes merely rested upon him, light and silent.  Anger rose again, and determination.  “I have a choice!  Why would you be showing me this if I didn’t?  I don’t—”

“You two about done in here?”

It was Joe’s voice, but not entirely—not the voice Adam knew.  He looked around, and beheld his brother grinning in the barn doorway.  No, not grinning.  Joe was smiling, but it was a faint, distant sort of smile which matched his solemn eyes and carefully held posture.  Nothing remained of the reckless grin of old—Joe’s entire being was subdued.  Adam looked upon the worn and weary face, and suddenly, fiercely ached to see that Joseph Francis Cartwright who had always driven him to the brink of homicide more quickly than aught else in the world.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon his, and the scene shifted.

They returned to the site of Marie Cartwright’s grave, and (unless he was entirely mistaken) Hoss Cartwright’s … and now another.  Drifts of snow heaped upon the frozen earth, yet Joe sank onto his knees without appearing either to notice or care.  The two men from the barn hovered nearby, exchanging anxious glances.  After a time, the red-haired man (he was a man now, though still quite young, and Adam wondered absently how long had passed) moved forward to place a hand upon Joe’s shoulder.  Adam’s brother remained utterly still, kneeling among the graves, and this time Adam was close enough to read the words …

Marie Cartwright

Eric “Hoss” Cartwright

Benjamin Cartwright

“No!”  Adam spun and strode away, fighting the grief and horror of the scene.  “I’m done!  I don’t want to see any more.”

“Why not?”  His mother’s voice was light and curious as ever.  “Do you believe that if you do not see, these things will not occur?  That is the way of a child, my son.”

“Will they happen?” Adam demanded, rounding to face her—and careful to keep both his brother and the awful graves at his back.  “Is it certain?  Answer me that one question, Mother.  Are these … these visions set in stone?  Or can I change them?  Why show me this, if there’s no hope of that?”

Elizabeth’s head tilted, her eyes bored into his.  “You cannot control the world, my Adam.  Even your little piece of it, your family and home, is in so many ways beyond you.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Do you understand?”  His mother’s fingers rose to touch his cheek, and though her words seemed harsh a great love shone forth from her eyes.  “Have you ever?”

“I … yes, of course.”  Adam looked away, startling them both with bitter laughter  “Of course I understand.  How could I not, Mother?”  The hurt within those words took him by surprise—long had he thought it safely buried.  Elizabeth drew him to her and laid a kiss upon his brow.

“And yet you so desperately try …”

“How can I not … ?”  Adam looked back then upon the image of his young brother—young no longer, pale and alone and bent beneath a weight of sorrow.  “I love them, even though I’m not always good at remembering it.  How can I see this, then, and not want the chance to change it?”  He seized her hands in both of his, peering down into her eyes.  “Even if I can’t do anything to change this but make sure Joe doesn’t face it all alone, that it doesn’t wear him down into …”  He drew their joined hands to his heart.  “Mother, how can I not beg for that chance?”

Elizabeth’s teeth flashed then, and her cheek dimpled.  “How, indeed?”  She laid her head upon their entwined hands, and Adam held his mother close.  “Oh, my Adam.  I am so proud of you.”  Her whisper was soft, barely reaching his ears, yet it pierced his mind and soul.  “There is always hope, my son.”

A single tear wet her hair.  “Thank you, Mother.”

She giggled then, her gaze moving past him.  “Oh Adam!”  She raised her head.  “That cloud looks like an elephant!”

Turning to follow Elizabeth’s glance, Adam Cartwright released his mother’s hand.

^Paradise Lost, Milton

Stave 5

 The End of It

Bright morning woke them, sprawled upon their beds, and the sons of Ben Cartwright arose to Christmas day.  Sun glinted from snow new-fallen upon yard and barn, and the smell of coffee and cinnamon rose from the kitchen below.  They brushed sleep away, startled to find themselves thus when their last memories were of a beloved face in a distant place.  Remembering then, they rose upon the instant, piling into the hallway without stopping for robe or slippers, and stood blinking upon each other in the light of day.  The briefest of moments passed, in which each saw in his brothers’ eyes an echo of his own recent understanding, and it was as if a great weight rose from them, leaving a happy giddiness in its wake.

“Merry Christmas!” Hoss boomed, and Little Joe jumped upon his brother’s back while Hoss slung an arm about his elder brother’s shoulders.  Memories and lessons of the night still fresh, Adam welcomed the contact as he would not normally do.  Reaching across their middle brother, he stretched out a hand of reconciliation and peace to the youngest, to find Joe offering the same from his lofty perch.  They clasped hands then with a new vigor, each resolving within himself that although they would ever be opposites, still they would find some way to keep the bonds of brotherhood strong.

Thus did their father find them, drawn from his own restless sleep by the commotion outside his bedroom door.  Ben stared in wonder to find his sons so changed, and the brothers hailed their pa eagerly.  Little Joe abandoned his brothers to embrace him, and this example of the youngest was followed by Hoss and even Adam.  Ben received the affection gladly, and if his “Merry Christmas, boys,” held a hint of grateful tears, this reminder of their recent transgressions was no more than they felt they deserved.

They piled all down the stairs, to be met by Hop Sing with a tray of coffee.  Their dear friend, too, was much taken aback by the night’s work, but his countenance lifted and step lightened at the sound and sight of the joyous family.  “You sit!” he cried, “and I be back with cookies!”

“Cookies?”  Ben lifted a brow at his sons as they scattered about the room, pouring the coffee and passing it around in the fine red china which Marie Cartwright had loved.  “That’s not Hop Sing’s usual Christmas morning fare.”

“I find in kitchen this morning,” Hop Sing said, bustling back.  In his arms he held a large basket full to overflowing with deep brown cookies shaped as men and women and hearts.  “Very good, very fresh.  One of you put it there?”

Little Joe, not having been present for Inger’s visit, could not speak to the mystery.  His brothers had no desire to do so, nor any way to explain even if they did.  Instead, they exchanged an unseen glance before availing themselves of the spicy treat, and it was sweeter for its secret source.  Ben took up one of the little men and gazed upon it, eyes distant with memory.  “Hoss, your mother used to bake cookies like these … dozens of them for Christmas.”  He bit into it slowly, closing his eyes.  “I wonder where they came from?  Were there any guests out yesterday?”

No answer was, of course, forthcoming.  Hoss, biting the head off his third gingersnap, distracted their father from the puzzle.  “Pa, I was thinkin’.  What if I ride out later on and invite ol’ Jim Cobbin ta Christmas dinner?  ‘F I remember right, John and Carol are pretty busy with their families, and I don’t know but he won’t be out there alone all day.”

“Well, Hoss.”  Ben’s dark brow rose.  “That’s mighty thoughtful, and I’d be happy to have him.  It’s been a while since I’ve seen Jim.  But, I thought you and he were … not getting along?”

Hoss shook his head.  “Naw, that was no big deal.  And it’s Christmas, ain’t it?  Ain’t right for a man to be alone on Christmas.”

“Well then, you go right ahead and do that.”  Their father nodded.  “It’s a good idea, I wish I’d thought of it myself.  Hop Sing!” he called, and the little Cantonese appeared in the kitchen doorway.  “We may have one more for dinner.”

“One more,” grumbled their cook, throwing his hands into the air.  “One more, always adding one more.”  His mutterings were lighter than usual, however, and no threats of returning to China could be heard as Hop Sing shuffled back into his domain.

Adam, meanwhile, had risen and crossed to the large main door.  He studied it for a long moment, remembering him who had come to them through it upon the stroke of midnight, then opened it and gazed out upon a world white and fresh.

It was a new day—a new beginning, of sorts—and it was Christmas.

“Hey Joe!”  His youngest brother looked up, and Adam motioned him over.  Joe set down his coffee and cookie (his sixth, perhaps) and joined his elder brother at the door.  “Look at that.”  Adam motioned with his chin.  “That cloud looks like an elephant.”

Focused upon Little Joe, Adam missed the startled look his father cast his way.  He did not miss, however, the gap between nightshirt and neck as Joe offered a bemused smile and leaned out past him.  The snowball dropped neatly between.  The resulting shriek was enough to startle their father into spilling his coffee and draw a scolding Hop Sing once again from the kitchen.  For an instant Little Joe’s mouth gaped wide as he stared upon his brother, and then his cackle echoed from the walls.  Dropping his own pre-breakfast treats, Hoss dove across the room to join the impromptu war, narrowly missing snowballs from both Adam and Joe as he barreled past them seeking ammunition.

Ben Cartwright gazed upon his sons in baffled wonder, delighting in their laughter and reveling in their obvious, abundant joy.  What had become of those sullen men of the previous night he could not say, and he did not wish to dwell upon it.  Whatever had happened, whatever miracle had occurred, it had been an answer to his prayers.

“God bless us all,” he whispered, and his heart was full.

(fin)

Joyeux Noël,

God Jul,

and Merry Christmas to all!

Link to the 2017 Advent Calendar – Day 5 – Night of the Star by faust (for those who had to finish reading this story in one setting.)

Link to the 2017 Advent Calendar – Day 14 – A Lesson in Miracles by Foreverfree (for those who are reading the collection day by day.)

Tags:  Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright, ghost, Hoss Cartwright, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright