Free Short Story - changed every season (solstice and equinox) - Thanks for your interest!
Christmas Eve in False Key
by
Kathleen Spalding
copyright 2017
All Saints church, recently alive with carols, loomed under the starry sky like a sleeping giant. Only crickets and peepers sang now, accompanied by the soft rustles of geckos in the palm trees. Island lore maintained that Spaniards had erected the limestone structure on False Key’s shore five centuries ago, during their first conquests of Florida.
Father McKinley’s own arrival dated back thirty years. He’d come straight from seminary, where everything and nothing had prepared him for All Saints’ unique parish, especially the group who would arrive for tonight’s post-midnight Christmas Eve Mass. Faith is taught by scripture, but learned from practice.
Between church and ocean, Father McKinley waited in the soft breeze by a tiki-hut manger. The ancient, life-sized, wooden nativity figures had been his first discovery here, back when he was naive and ignorant of mystery.
Rapid splashes announced the first arrival. Gray hide appeared, then a white torso, as a streamlined hulk rose from the surf. Arms and legs lengthened. Pausing to take a towel from the stack near the beach, the shape-shifter left cavernous footprints in the sand as he lumbered toward the priest. “Forgive me Father, for I ‘ave sinned.”
Father McKinley smiled at the gravelly Australian accent. “Hello, Chuck. How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain. Every day in the water’s a good one.”
Father McKinley nodded, steeling himself.
Chuck’s large head was bullet-shaped, and melded into his broad shoulders without the formality of a neck. He was imposing enough with his mouth closed. But when Chuck smiled, recessing his black eyes and exposing rows of huge, pointed teeth, the priest struggled to quell a primal terror.
“I’m afraid I do need forgiveness, Father,” Chuck apologized.
“As do we all. What is the nature of your sin?”
Chuck grinned and Father McKinley suppressed a shiver.
“Funny, that word ‘nature.’ Sin’s natural, right?”
Father McKinley nodded, “It is of this world, yes.”
Chuck sighed and his fishy breath enveloped the priest. “Well, on my way here, I ate a couple whose boat’d overturned. They were far out to sea, gonna die anyway, so I reckoned they might as well be me tucker.”
“Oh dear.”
“Then when I got closer to False Key, I ate one of the marlins. I didn’t know he was a shape-shifter ‘til my first bite, but by then it was too late, so I finished him off.”
“We forgive you.” Their heads jerked toward the unexpected voice. A lithe young woman joined them and sat down, cross-legged. “Everything is prey.”
Father McKinley remained silent.
Chuck continued, “And before I started out, I ran across some Chinese bastards finnin’ me mates. So I rammed their boat and tore into every bloody one of ‘em.”
“Some folks just need killing.” The creaking voice belonged to an old woman whose clothes, artistically crafted from discarded plastic, rustled as she shuffled toward them. Her head bobbed up and down as she seated herself beside the young woman. “Darwinism, I say.”
Laughter drew Father McKinley’s attention back to the ocean, where children danced out of shallow waves. “Fifty Hail Mary’s and fifty Our Father’s,” he hurriedly told Chuck. “We’ll talk later, if you want, but the rest are coming now.”
Merfolk and shape-shifters of all species approached from the shoreline. Others, whose average appearance let them live among humans, arrived by footpath, automobile, and bicycle. A family of barracudas emerged from the surf. Although glad to welcome new guests, Father McKinley fervently hoped they could control their predatory instinct around shifters who would normally be their food.
The worshippers settled down on sparse grass in front of the nativity, LED starlight shining on their expectant faces.
Father McKinley moved to the front and found his footing on loose sand, not unlike finding one’s faith in an uncertain world, he reflected. But this was not the time for contemplation. He tucked the thought away, hoping he could remember it for a sermon, and started to recite from the Gospel of Luke. “In those days, Caesar Augustus…”
When the story of Christ’s birth ended, a small child piped up in a breathless voice. “They saw the star, and came to see him, just like us!” Father McKinley smiled, careful to keep his lips closed, knowing a display of teeth might frighten some worshipers.
“‘Tis as first told, far time gone, by them what saw with their own eyes,” an ancient, star-shaped shifter rasped. “Each of my kind’s buds holds memory of the first hearing.”
Father McKinley wished he could talk to her. Perhaps she’d share her ancestral memories after mass.
He retrieved a basket from behind the tiki manger. Breathing deeply, praying for God to take his fear away, he withdrew a bag of bread wafers. Carefully approaching most of the shifters from the side so they could see him plainly, he kept his hand and arm in their field of vision and placed a wafer into each open mouth. Prey species sat with the stillness of trust. Predators’ jaws twitched with suppressed reflexes until his hand was clear. “Christ’s body, broken for you,” he murmured to each creature, with a silent prayer of thanks that no jaws had severed his hand.
Then he brought out trays holding small glasses of grape juice. “Christ’s blood, shed for us,” he repeated as each attendee took a tiny glass.
Returning the trays, he heard another child say, “It doesn’t taste like blood.”
“And we don’t always look human,” an adult voice teased. “Remember? Things aren’t always as they seem.”
Chatter became song when Father McKinley’s clear tenor began the benediction. The congregation’s voices swelled, filling the night.
Their fellowship lasted until dawn. Then the shape-shifters returned to the ocean, waving and calling out, “Peace be with you.” Words Jesus had taught, so long ago.
Father McKinley breathed in salty air and bellowed, “Merry Christmas!”
Watching them go, he wondered how long the Christmas truce between predator and prey would last, wishing it would, knowing it couldn’t. He returned to the manger and said prayers of thanks -- for miracles and forgiveness, for bravery and restraint, and for the Babe who’d grown up with a foot in each realm, bonding Heaven to Earth with his love.
The End
by
Kathleen Spalding
copyright 2017
All Saints church, recently alive with carols, loomed under the starry sky like a sleeping giant. Only crickets and peepers sang now, accompanied by the soft rustles of geckos in the palm trees. Island lore maintained that Spaniards had erected the limestone structure on False Key’s shore five centuries ago, during their first conquests of Florida.
Father McKinley’s own arrival dated back thirty years. He’d come straight from seminary, where everything and nothing had prepared him for All Saints’ unique parish, especially the group who would arrive for tonight’s post-midnight Christmas Eve Mass. Faith is taught by scripture, but learned from practice.
Between church and ocean, Father McKinley waited in the soft breeze by a tiki-hut manger. The ancient, life-sized, wooden nativity figures had been his first discovery here, back when he was naive and ignorant of mystery.
Rapid splashes announced the first arrival. Gray hide appeared, then a white torso, as a streamlined hulk rose from the surf. Arms and legs lengthened. Pausing to take a towel from the stack near the beach, the shape-shifter left cavernous footprints in the sand as he lumbered toward the priest. “Forgive me Father, for I ‘ave sinned.”
Father McKinley smiled at the gravelly Australian accent. “Hello, Chuck. How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain. Every day in the water’s a good one.”
Father McKinley nodded, steeling himself.
Chuck’s large head was bullet-shaped, and melded into his broad shoulders without the formality of a neck. He was imposing enough with his mouth closed. But when Chuck smiled, recessing his black eyes and exposing rows of huge, pointed teeth, the priest struggled to quell a primal terror.
“I’m afraid I do need forgiveness, Father,” Chuck apologized.
“As do we all. What is the nature of your sin?”
Chuck grinned and Father McKinley suppressed a shiver.
“Funny, that word ‘nature.’ Sin’s natural, right?”
Father McKinley nodded, “It is of this world, yes.”
Chuck sighed and his fishy breath enveloped the priest. “Well, on my way here, I ate a couple whose boat’d overturned. They were far out to sea, gonna die anyway, so I reckoned they might as well be me tucker.”
“Oh dear.”
“Then when I got closer to False Key, I ate one of the marlins. I didn’t know he was a shape-shifter ‘til my first bite, but by then it was too late, so I finished him off.”
“We forgive you.” Their heads jerked toward the unexpected voice. A lithe young woman joined them and sat down, cross-legged. “Everything is prey.”
Father McKinley remained silent.
Chuck continued, “And before I started out, I ran across some Chinese bastards finnin’ me mates. So I rammed their boat and tore into every bloody one of ‘em.”
“Some folks just need killing.” The creaking voice belonged to an old woman whose clothes, artistically crafted from discarded plastic, rustled as she shuffled toward them. Her head bobbed up and down as she seated herself beside the young woman. “Darwinism, I say.”
Laughter drew Father McKinley’s attention back to the ocean, where children danced out of shallow waves. “Fifty Hail Mary’s and fifty Our Father’s,” he hurriedly told Chuck. “We’ll talk later, if you want, but the rest are coming now.”
Merfolk and shape-shifters of all species approached from the shoreline. Others, whose average appearance let them live among humans, arrived by footpath, automobile, and bicycle. A family of barracudas emerged from the surf. Although glad to welcome new guests, Father McKinley fervently hoped they could control their predatory instinct around shifters who would normally be their food.
The worshippers settled down on sparse grass in front of the nativity, LED starlight shining on their expectant faces.
Father McKinley moved to the front and found his footing on loose sand, not unlike finding one’s faith in an uncertain world, he reflected. But this was not the time for contemplation. He tucked the thought away, hoping he could remember it for a sermon, and started to recite from the Gospel of Luke. “In those days, Caesar Augustus…”
When the story of Christ’s birth ended, a small child piped up in a breathless voice. “They saw the star, and came to see him, just like us!” Father McKinley smiled, careful to keep his lips closed, knowing a display of teeth might frighten some worshipers.
“‘Tis as first told, far time gone, by them what saw with their own eyes,” an ancient, star-shaped shifter rasped. “Each of my kind’s buds holds memory of the first hearing.”
Father McKinley wished he could talk to her. Perhaps she’d share her ancestral memories after mass.
He retrieved a basket from behind the tiki manger. Breathing deeply, praying for God to take his fear away, he withdrew a bag of bread wafers. Carefully approaching most of the shifters from the side so they could see him plainly, he kept his hand and arm in their field of vision and placed a wafer into each open mouth. Prey species sat with the stillness of trust. Predators’ jaws twitched with suppressed reflexes until his hand was clear. “Christ’s body, broken for you,” he murmured to each creature, with a silent prayer of thanks that no jaws had severed his hand.
Then he brought out trays holding small glasses of grape juice. “Christ’s blood, shed for us,” he repeated as each attendee took a tiny glass.
Returning the trays, he heard another child say, “It doesn’t taste like blood.”
“And we don’t always look human,” an adult voice teased. “Remember? Things aren’t always as they seem.”
Chatter became song when Father McKinley’s clear tenor began the benediction. The congregation’s voices swelled, filling the night.
Their fellowship lasted until dawn. Then the shape-shifters returned to the ocean, waving and calling out, “Peace be with you.” Words Jesus had taught, so long ago.
Father McKinley breathed in salty air and bellowed, “Merry Christmas!”
Watching them go, he wondered how long the Christmas truce between predator and prey would last, wishing it would, knowing it couldn’t. He returned to the manger and said prayers of thanks -- for miracles and forgiveness, for bravery and restraint, and for the Babe who’d grown up with a foot in each realm, bonding Heaven to Earth with his love.
The End
