Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
* Day 16 *

Summary: On a crisp, white Christmas Day, ten-year old Little Joe startles his pa and brothers when he asks too many questions and loses his faith in miracles. It takes the help of some unlikely friends to help him believe again.

Rated: K+
Word Count:  5,007

 A Christmas Miracle

Mr. Timkins stared out the barn window. The heat from the horses made the glass cloudy, so he wiped away a smear of condensation, better to see the dark ranch house beyond. A fresh snowfall had coated the house and yard in a layer of pure glistening white, and all was silent and still. He waited, but for what, he did not know. The horses were also restless. Three of the four animals were facing the window and watching too. The last, a buckskin, stood with his head hung low, his hind leg cocked, breathing a horsey snore as he slept.

A sudden trail of light drew Mr. Timkins’ gaze to the sky. The clear midnight blue firmament twinkled with the light of a million stars, but one star was brighter than the rest and was shooting across the sky leaving a golden trail in its wake. Mr. Timkins’ eyes grew wide as he followed the star’s path and saw it slow to a stop and then hover high above the earth.

One of the horses sneezed.

“Bless you,” said Mr. Timkins.

“Thank you,” came the reply.

Mr. Timkins’ eyes nearly popped out of his head and he whirled around to face the horses.

The horse who had sneezed was a tall, dark brown animal with a white marking down his face. He raised his head and looked at his companions.

“Hey, fellas, it’s that time o’ year agin.” He looked over at the sleeping buckskin. “Hey, Buck, wake up.” He kicked the side of his stall with his hoof. “Wake up, old man, you’ll miss the fun.”

The buckskin blinked open his eyes. “What’s that?” He licked his lips and lifted his head. “Wait, I’m talking!” He turned in his stall to face his three friends. “It must be Christmas.” If a horse could smile, then the buckskin was beaming with joy. He turned to look at who woke him. “But not so much of the old, I’m only four.”

“Er, excuse me.” Mr. Timkins’ voice was a tiny squeak next to the horses’ deep tones. “What’s going on? You can talk.”

“Who’s that?” A tall chestnut peered over his stall door in search of the voice’s owner.

“I’m over here,” said Mr. Timkins, “on the windowsill.” With a flash of speed, he ran along the ledge, jumped onto a nearby barrel, clambered down the barrel’s side, sped across the hay-strewn floor and, using the vertical planks of the stall walls to grip, climbed to the top of the nearest door where he balanced himself, looking up into the large face of the chestnut.

The horse looked back at him and laughed.

“Why, it’s a mouse.”

“Well, hey there, little fella,” said the big friendly brown. “What’s ya name?”

Mr. Timkins ran the short distance to the brown horse’s stall and sat back on his rump. “My name is…” He paused and ran a paw along one of his whiskers. “It’s…Timkins. Mr. Timothy Timkins. Though I didn’t know until now.”

The fourth horse, a black and white paint, snorted. “You didn’t know your name?”

Mr. Timkins’ eyes widened. “No, well, I guess I didn’t need to know before.”

The chestnut shook his head, his mane spiralling through the air before settling. “That’s a long name for such a small creature. My name is Sport.” Sport raised his head proudly for a moment before continuing. “This here is Buck,” he nodded towards the buckskin, “and he’s Chubb.” He indicated the brown. “My young friend at the end is—”

“My name is…” There was a dramatic pause. “Cochise.” The paint pranced slightly, raising the dust from the floor. “And I’m named for the mighty Apache Indian warrior.”

Sport shook his head, but this time in a resigned sort of way, a sigh escaping him. “I’m trying to prove a point here, kid. Everyone calls ya Cooch. Got that. Cooch.”

Ignoring the indignant expression on the paint’s face, Sport turned back to the mouse. “You see, kid, short names, much easier. We’ll call ya Tim.”

Tim nodded. He was happy to be called anything by his new friends. He cocked his head to one side. “How is it we can speak? Why do I understand you?”

Three horses’ heads turned to Buck who stepped forward. “Well, son, today is a day of miracles. Once a year on this day, our masters celebrate the birth of a child, a real special child who was born to save the world.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “A child was born to save the whole world?”

The tiny mouse turned to stare out of the window at the yard and the ranch house beyond. He saw the edge of the corral on one side and the hedges and trees on the other. This was the world to Tim, and he was in awe.

Tim’s whiskers twitched and he turned back to face the horses. “That still doesn’t explain why we can talk.”

“Well that’s easy,” said Chubb. “The first creatures to see the little fella when he was born were animals. So, every year on His birthday, we’re given the gift o’ speech so we can celebrate too. But it’s a secret. Our masters don’t know.”

Tim thought about it and then nodded. “This child must be very special. Will we see him today?”

There was a low rumbling chuckle from the buckskin. “No, son, the child was born a long time before you and me, on the other side of the world.”

Tim looked out the window. “Wow… He was born in that house?”

Four pairs of ears swivelled in his direction, and Tim looked at each horse in turn, wondering why they looked so amused.

Finally, Sport spoke. “The world’s a much bigger place than the Ponderosa, kid. We’ll tell you about it.”

And so, for the next few hours, the horses told how the world was made up of rocky deserts, high mountains and more pine trees than they could count. It was bordered by a great blue stretch of water on one side, and on the other, a noisy city their masters travelled to on many occasions. But the centre of the world was the Ponderosa as the sun hung directly overhead, and the family who lived here were masters of all the land. Tim heard of the horses’ adventures; of the many times they had saved their humans from danger. Tim’s mouth dropped open in admiration and awe, though he couldn’t help being relieved his life was spent sleeping, eating and defending his territory—the barn’s ground floor—from the mouse who lived in the loft.

Despite Tim’s easy life, however, a nagging desire was starting to take hold. He gazed over at the house glowing pink in the early sunrise.

“I wish I could see inside the house.” His tone was wistful.

“Don’t get any ideas, kids,” said Sport. “Animals ain’t allowed there. It’s a sacred space for humans only. Any animals who go in there…” Sport paused and glanced over at his companions. “Well, they don’t come out alive.”

Tim’s mouth opened in shock.

“Except dogs.”

They all looked at Cochise.

“They let dogs in.”

Sport shivered. “That’s true. Horrible creatures, always underfoot, eating and sniffing at ya hooves.” He looked back at Tim. “But you’re not a dog, kid, you don’t wanna be going over there. You’re one of us now, I wouldn’t wanna see anything happen to ya.”

Tim watched as the snow on the ranch-house roof began to shimmer in the new light of day. A light illuminated an upper window and a curtain drew back to show a small boy in his nightshirt staring out with excitement. But as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, and distant shouting could be heard. Tim grew excited. The horses’ warning didn’t deter him. He would see the house, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

*

Tim woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on the top of the stall door, his tail curled around his body. He stood to see what had woken him. Three boys had bundled out of the house and were throwing snowballs at each, their laughter bouncing off the barn walls.

“Look, there’s my master,” said Sport, his ears pricked in the direction of a tall gangly black-haired boy. “His name is Adam, he’s the first-born, and I belong to him.” Tim had not seen Sport look this roused, or proud, in all the hours they had been speaking. “He went away for a long while, but he came back to me.”

“And there is my master, Little Joe. I’ve been his for about a year now, since he was nine years… Oh!” Cochise reared slightly as the smallest of the three boys took a well-aimed hit on the back of his head and fell headfirst into the snow. The third boy, a large round-faced lad as tall as Adam, was doubled over laughing. “He won’t be happy… Oh, there you go.” Little Joe had picked himself up, brushed the excess snow from his clothes and then launched himself at his assailant.

Chubb was chortling as he watched. “And he’s mine. Hoss. You couldn’t ask for a kinder, more loving master.”

They watched as Adam trudged over to the two warring brothers, wrapped his arms around Little Joe and lifted him, kicking, off Hoss who spat the snow from where his younger sibling had been rubbing it in his face. Hoss sat up, still laughing, and soon Little Joe and Adam were laughing too, and the snowball fight resumed.

Tim looked over at Buck. “Where’s your master?”

Buck chuckled. “He has more sense than these youngsters. He will be sitting by a fire keeping warm.”

Adam’s voice carried across the yard. “Come on, we need to feed the horses.”

The sound of feet crunching over snow grew louder as the boys approached the barn.

“Here they come. Right lads, you know the drill.”

Tim watched in amazement as the four horses hung their heads, grew still and feigned sleep. One of Buck’s eyelids opened a crack and noticed the mouse on the stall door. “Hey, son, hide!”

The barn door was opening as Tim scurried across the stalls and launched himself through the air to land on a water barrel. The door was wide open now and Little Joe—a giant to the tiny mouse—was entering with his brothers close behind. Tim squeaked in alarm, fearful of being seen. He ran down the side of the curved barrel and sped across the floor to a stack of feed sacks, squeezing himself in between. With a sigh of relief, he turned and peeped out at the giant people petting the horses.

“Merry Christmas, Cooch, merry Christmas Chubb,” Little Joe was addressing each horse in turn with a stroke down the forehead. Hoss was soon following suit. “Merry Christmas Chubb,” he said stroking the animal’s cheek. “We gotta nice treat for you; do you want a nice treat?”

Adam was refilling the horse’s feed tubs with fresh oats. “You know they can’t understand what you’re saying, don’t you?”

Tim could have sworn Cochise spluttered with laughter. He had to quickly pull away from Little Joe’s tender touches and retreat to the back of his stall where, with his head turned into the wall, he struggled to keep his giggles under control.

“Hey, Cooch, come back.”

Cochise took a breath and then, keeping a straight face, he returned to Little Joe.

“Thanks to younger brother, my coat is soaking wet,” said Hoss, and wriggling out of the sodden material, he threw it over the feed sacks, blocking Tim’s view. The mouse let out a squeak of annoyance and climbed up between the sacks until he could poke his head out above the coat’s collar. He watched as each boy fed their horse a juicy green apple.

“Hope you like your Christmas present, Chubb,” said Hoss as Chubb bit down on the apple and ate it in three slobbery bites.

“Adam?” Little Joe managed to make Adam’s two-syllable name much more protracted as he fed Cochise.

Tim saw an eyebrow rise on Little Joe’s oldest brother as he fed a carrot to Buck. “Ye-ess?”

“What’s a miracle?”

Adam dropped his hand for a moment causing Buck to stretch over the stall door in search of the now out-of-reach vegetable. “What brought that on?”

Little Joe ducked his head. “Just something Pa said, about the birth of baby Jesus being a miracle.”

Tim’s ears picked up. This is what the horses had been talking about earlier. What would the young human have to say about it?

Adam fed the carrot to Buck, gave him a pat on the neck and then walked to where Joe was feeding Cochise. He leaned back against a barrel, crossed his ankles and arms and looked briefly upwards in thought.

“I guess you’d say a miracle is something incredible, something that shouldn’t be able to happen, but then it does. And a miracle is always good, it brings what is most needed when it’s needed the most.”

Little Joe played with the long black hairs of Cochise’s mane. “But what’s that have to do with the birth of Jesus? He had a ma and a pa, so why was His birth a miracle?”

Adam shifted uncomfortably. “Um, well, Jesus was the son of God.”

The boy waited for his older brother to continue though Adam clearly felt his statement had explained it all.

At sight of Little Joe’s raised eyebrows, Adam took a long breath. “Well Mary she, uh, she was, um…” Adam scratched at his hairline. “Okay, you know when old Hercules the bull is—”

“Adam.” Joe sighed. “I know how babies are made.”

Adam’s mouth fell open for several seconds before he snapped out of his astonishment. “Alright, well, with Mary she didn’t, um, you know…” Adam’s hands grew animated and his eyes looked everywhere but at Little Joe. “But she had a baby anyway, and that’s why it’s a miracle.”

He blew out a breath, and muttered, “that was one conversation I wasn’t expecting to have today.”

Little Joe frowned. “So, Mary gave birth to Jesus, but she had never—”

“Yes!” Adam jumped to his feet. He patted Joe’s shoulder several times. “You got it.”

Little Joe’s frown deepened. “But that’s not possible.” He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t believe in miracles.” And without another word, he walked past his two incredulous older brothers and left the barn.

“Where did that come from?” muttered Hoss.

Adam shook his head. “I have no idea. Looks like his reached that age when he’ll question everything.” His face quirked into a half-smile. “It’s a phase, he’ll get over it.”

And following their little brother, they left the barn, bolting the door behind them.

But the boys were not alone for Hoss had a small passenger, buried in the depths of his coat pocket. Tim had recognised an opportunity. His desire to see the inside of the house overrode the horses’ warnings and all common sense and he had hitched a ride. His hours-old dream would soon come true.

*

Tim’s first impression of the house, as he stayed hidden in the safety of the coat pocket, was of warmth. His second impression, however, was of wonder.

After he had clawed his way out of the pocket, and over the collection of coats hung by the door, he had found himself on the top of a sideboard. Hiding under the rim of a bowl of fruit, he peeped out at the interior of the house and stared with awe at the room.

It was like the world outside was inside.

Everywhere Tim looked were evergreen branches. They were curled around curtain poles, woven through staircase balusters and hung from the mantelpiece, along with four bulging stockings. Paper chains hung from the ceiling, fluttering in the heat from the fire.

Most incredible of all, though, was a huge tree. But this was no ordinary tree. It was green like a tree, smelled like a tree, and had branches like a tree. But covering the greenery from the long branches at the bottom to the spindly twigs at the top was a kaleidoscope of sparkling colour. Paper streamers hung down the sides and popcorn on string was draped from branch to branch. Tim’s nose twitched at the sight and smell of cherries and berries hanging within easy reach of grabbing hands. Baubles flashed as firelight bounced off the shiny surfaces. Tim stared and felt his pea-sized heart fill with a planet-sized joy.

As Tim gazed in wonder at the tree, the humans were chattering away out of sight. A sudden dip in volume, however, drew his attention and he ran to the end of the sideboard to see what the humans were doing. His view was obstructed by the wall, so he scurried down to the floor and followed the skirting until the room opened out and he could see the people sitting around a table. The boy, Little Joe, was slumped over his plate, chewing slowly.

“My youngest seems a little preoccupied today. Joseph, is something troubling you?”

The boy looked at his father. “Oh no, Pa, I’m alright. I’m only thinking.” He straightened up. “About Mary and Joseph.”

Tim saw the oldest brother sink over his plate; a hand covering his eyes. But the father was brimming with pride.

“Mary and Joseph? Why, that’s wonderful, son. That’s exactly who we should be thinking of today. People nowadays often forget the meaning behind Christmas, which is to celebrate the birth of Mary and Joseph’s son.”

“But that’s just it, Pa.”

Adam sank lower in his seat.

“Jesus isn’t Joseph’s son. You can’t have a baby unless a ma and a pa—”

“Joseph!” The father took a long calming breath. “Jesus is the son of God. His birth is a miracle which we do not question.”

Little Joe looked down at his plate. “I don’t believe in miracles.”

The father opened his mouth to speak but a shout from a new person, who had entered the room carrying a tray of food, interrupted him. The newcomer let out a stream of words Tim didn’t understand, but then, with a growing sense of horror, he realised all the people were looking in his direction, standing and pushing back their chairs. Oh no! He had been spotted.

Tim panicked. Instead of heading underneath the nearby sideboard, he shot out across the open floor. He heard shouts and stomping feet behind him. Poor Tim. Was it possible for his tiny heart to beat any faster? He suddenly grasped where he was and did an immediate turn towards a shadowy corner of the room, hoping they wouldn’t see him there.

“Mice can sure move fast, cain’t they?”

Suddenly a cluster of tightly bound twigs crashed to the floor in front of him. Tim jumped and froze on the spot. Turning, he saw the shouting man wielding a long pole with stiff twigs attached at the end. Tim’s little heart pounded; his tiny body quivered with fear.

“Please don’t kill it,” cried Little Joe. “It’s only a mouse. It doesn’t mean any harm.”

“It pest,” said the man with the pole. “One mouse mean more mouse. Then mouse all over house.”

“Please, Hop Sing.” The boy was pleading for Tim’s life.

While they were distracted, Tim zoomed towards the corner of the room, to the shadows below the coat rack. But then the broom whomped down again. Tim couldn’t stop shaking; he’d never been so scared in all his short life. The horses were right, animals weren’t welcome here. He’d been so intrigued by the house; he’d ignored the danger.

He stared up at the five giants looming over him. And then he did the only thing he could think of. He played dead. With an extravagant exhalation of air, Tim flipped over onto his back and let his limbs fall limp. Cracking open an eyelid, he saw the humans starring down at him. He held his breath as the father leant over and gently prodded his belly.

“Is it dead, Pa?” asked the round-faced son.

Another finger flipped him onto his stomach.

“Yes, quite dead. As a doornail.”

The smallest boy knelt at Tim’s side. “Did we have to kill him?”

“Come on, son, come back to the table. Hop Sing will get rid of it.”

“Can I do it, Pa?”

There was a pause. “Go on then. Put on your coat and boots. But don’t be long about it.”

Tim watched the humans retreat. There was a rustle of clothing behind him and then, oh so gently, Tim was lifted into the air by the tip of his tail, his body hanging below. Out into the cold air they went, with poor Tim feeling more uncomfortable with every bouncing step. It was like his tail was being pulled out of his body.

Eventually, he could stand it no longer, and, well, he couldn’t help himself. “Ouch, my bottom, it hurts!” he cried.

Before he knew what was happening, Tim was flying through the air to land in a soft, wet cushion of snow. He rolled onto his belly, a paw rubbing his sore behind. But then the boy was crunching through the snow towards him and peering down. Tim gasped and threw himself onto his back, hoping his previous ploy of pretending to be dead would work again. He let a hind leg twitch dramatically before falling limp.

“You…you spoke!” said Little Joe.

Tim said nothing. He twitched his leg once more.

“Hey, I’m not falling for that again. You spoke. I heard you. You’re alive, and you spoke.”

Oh goodness, how would Tim get out of this one? He could only hold his breath for so long. He felt himself being gathered up in gloved hands and lifted to within inches of the boy’s face.

“If you keep pretending to be dead, I’ll…I’ll give you to Hop Sing and his broom.”

The boy wouldn’t, would he? Tim had no choice. With a sigh he rolled over, sat back on his rump and looked up at his captor.

Little Joe’s face lit up with wonder and disbelief. “You can understand me. Say something. Please.”

Tim said the first thing that came into his mind. “You hurt my tail.” And he reached around to rub his bottom.

Little Joe’s mouth formed into a perfect circle and his eyes bulged. “I don’t believe it. Animals can’t speak.”

“Every year on this day we can.” Tim covered his mouth. “Oh no, I think I’ve said too much.”

“Animals can talk on Christmas Day?”

Tim sighed and hung his head. “It was a secret. They’ll be so cross with me.” His eyes glanced at the barn as he clasped his paws over his mouth.

“Who will?” But Little Joe had seen where Tim had looked, and a wide smile formed on his face. “Cochise!” He ran to the barn, the mouse tucked in a cupped hand against his chest. He threw open the door and ran to the horses who had been watching the events in the yard through the misty window. They had all turned quickly away, acting nonchalant and bored as the door burst open.

“You can speak! You can speak! Oh please, talk to me.”

The horses stared back at the excited boy in front of them, looked away, glanced up at the roof, snorted, shook their manes, did anything to act as though they had no idea what he’d just said.

Little Joe’s gaze flicked from one horse to the next, his eyes sparkling, his body bouncing as he stood. But he was greeted with silence. His excitement started to falter, his wide smile dwindling a little. Lifting his hand to the nearest stall door, he let Tim climb off his palm.

“The mouse spoke to me. I know you can too.”

Cochise’s head lifted in shock, and Little Joe was on to him in a flash. “I knew it. You understood me. Please Cooch, please speak to me.”

Tim’s tiny shoulders slumped where he sat, too ashamed to meet the stern gazes of the horses. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. He was hurting my tail and the words slipped out.”

Still, the horses were silent.

But then Tim knew what he had to do. He ran to where Buck had turned himself around in his stall; his bottom nudging the door. Tim stepped across onto the horse’s back and ran the length of his spine to whisper in the buckskin’s ear. “He needs this, Buck. Remember what he said earlier; he doesn’t believe in miracles anymore.”

If Tim could have seen Buck’s eyes from his position, he would have seen them moisten and shine. After a moment, Buck turned in the stall and lifted his head over the door. “It’s true, young sir, we can speak.”

Little Joe gasped. He laid a gentle hand on the horse’s neck and looked into his eyes. “I don’t believe it. How can it be so?”

“Once a year, on this day, we speak. Only today.”

“But why?”

Sport raised his head. “We’ve heard that question a lot today, kid.” Little Joe ran to face him. “It’s because of the child born on this day. Every year all the animals in the world are granted this right, so we can celebrate, too.”

“But how come no one knows? Surely a cat or a dog,” he giggled and looked at Tim, “—or a mouse—would have given the game away already.” Tim hid his face as the other horses laughed.

“Would you believe it if one of your brothers said a chicken had said good morning to him?”

Little Joe thought about it and then shook his head. “I guess not.”

“There you go then, kid.”

A line formed on Joe’s brow. “But I still don’t understand. This shouldn’t be possible.”

The wise Buck spoke. “It’s a miracle, son. You don’t need a reason for a miracle.”

A shout from outside drew their attention. “Little Joe! Where are you? Your dinner’s getting cold.” The father was standing on the porch.

Little Joe ran to the barn door. “I’m coming, Pa.” He turned back. “I wanna stay here with you and hear your stories and find out everything about what it’s like to be a horse, and—”

“Your place is with yer brothers and pa,” said Chubb.

Little Joe sighed, but it was a happy sigh. “I’d better go then. Bye Buck, bye Sport, bye Chubb. Sorry about your tail, Tim.”

He stopped in front of Cochise who pressed his nose into Little Joe’s shoulder. “You’re the best master a horse could have,” said Cooch. “You are as a brother to me.”

Little Joe wrapped his hands around the horse’s neck and squeezed. “I love you, Cooch.”

At the barn door, he turned at Chubb’s voice.

“Little Joe, tell Hoss to cut back on the flapjacks an’ biscuits, would yer, he’s gettin’ heavy.”

Little Joe laughed. “I’ll tell him, don’t know if he’ll listen.” And pulling the door shut behind him, the horses watched as he ran across the yard to his home.

“Pa, Adam, Hoss!” they heard him cry. “I was wrong, I do believe in miracles. I do!”

The door opened and three faces peered out. “What brought about that change of mind?” asked the father as Little Joe stamped the snow off his boots.

The boy glanced back at the barn and smiled. “No reason.” And pushing past his brothers, who shrugged their shoulders in bewilderment, the door closed behind them.

The horses exchanged glances.

“Job well done, boys,” said Buck.

Tim leapt off Buck’s head onto the stall door. “I don’t know about you, but I need to sleep.” Indeed, it had been an exhausting day for the little mouse. He’d discovered he could talk, made new friends, and then experienced a hair-raising adventure to the other side of the world. He was worn out. He found a warm, cosy corner in the hay pile, and curled up to sleep. As he drifted away, he could hear Cochise regaling his fellow horses with a joke about a horse, a sheep and a leprechaun walking into a saloon, but the mouse was asleep before the punch line.

*

Minutes before midnight the four horses and Tim stood expectantly, watching the sky.

“This is it, boys, for another year,” said Buck. “It’s been a fine day, a fine day indeed.”

“I coulda done without Cooch’s joke, but other than that.” Sport winked at his younger companion.

“Hey, I had a whole year to work on it.”

“I’m not sure comedy’s your forte. Have you considered stunt riding? The tricks that kid has you doing, you’d be a shoo-in.”

“Hey fellas,” Chubb had one ear directed towards the house, “I can hear the chimes of the clock.”

Their chatter died away.

“Thank you,” said a tiny voice. They looked down at the little mouse. “This has been the best day of my life. I couldn’t have shared it with nicer friends.”

But as Buck opened his mouth to answer, a shooting star flew across the heavens and, instead of a voice, a throaty neigh echoed around the barn.

A mouse scampered away to find its nest. Two horses began to chew at their feed whilst a third lay down in his stall for a long deep sleep. Only a buckskin stayed where he was, staring at the sky. He could feel a curious sensation that made his ears twitch and his head alert. But it soon faded and before long, his eyes closed and he fell into a doze.

For four horses, a mouse and a small boy it had been a day of miracles, but only the boy knew it. A miracle had returned his sense of wonder. It would never leave.

 

Link to 2019 Advent Calendar – December 17:

Reflections by Cheaux