Last night I dreamt I fell through a hole in a cold winter’s night, and found myself walking along a mountain lane. There was no wind, just a deep mist that collected all around me, lit by a moon I couldn’t see. Well, I thought it was the moon. The last drinks of the evening had softened my gaze, and this moon, it seemed close enough to touch. It was only when I drew closer that I saw the lamp. An old lamp, black metal, a flame flickering inside. It glowed far beyond the power of its gaslight, as though the sun itself had come out. But then, was it gaslight? Surely such things no longer existed, but then I was not sharp enough to query it more closely at the time.
As I stood in the lamp’s glow a noise greeted me on the breeze. A cacophony of soft yells, half bellowed Christmas carols, the air punctuated by fits of laughter. The noise flowed down the lane behind me, growing closer, coming to engulf me. Though it did not occur to me to be scared. As I turned to question its origin, a crowd of people emerged from the mist. Perhaps twenty in all. They caught me up in their merriment and plunged me forward, back into the darkness. High above them they held lanterns on long poles, which swayed along with their steps, all smelling the better for drink.
A large vase like vessel was passed my way and I drunk without thinking, a hot sour apple taste scorching my tongue, and warming the feet I had not previously realized were cold. As I turned to look around I realized I did not recognise a one. Their dress was unfamiliar, their accents broader than I could discern. They appeared to be fine, however. They did not appear threatening, and I did not spot any ill intent. But then, I was still in my cosy blanket of beer, and it did not occur to me to mind a thing from the rosy cheeked faces, who smiled widely at what must have been my bemused expression.
As we headed downhill we came upon a small church by a crossroads, here we turned left down a steep path. The mist had begun to disperse and I saw that we were entering a small village. In the windows of the cottages candles burned dimly, holly wreaths hung in greeting on their front doors. As we trudged on I realized, too late, that the crowd had burst into song. ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ boomed into the night air. And I, knowing enough from primary school carol concerts, joined in with drunken gusto. We marched on in this way until we got to the village proper, suddenly so clear. The mist having disappeared and the gas lights sparking the shape and size of the place into life.
The crowd, seemingly with a mind of its own, swung its way down a path to a cottage with the door wide open, flames dancing brightly inside. The throng threw me over the threshold, and the song petered out. People I didn’t know greeted me with an offer of drink and mince pies. I probably just should have eaten, but I was already knee deep in whatever was in that strong vase of theirs. So I took on a cup of something hot, and strong, that might have been mulled wine.
Despite the fire and the candles, the cottage itself was surprisingly dark, and empty, but for the people milling about. It was comfortable, yet so strange to me, though I couldn’t figure out why. I thought that I might ask where I was, but the crowd got going again and suddenly I was slurring along to a half-hearted version of ‘Good King Wenceslas’, many of the group not knowing much past the first verse. Then I was being driven back out the door, before I could even summon up the questions that were only just forming on my tongue.
We carried on in the same vein for another few cottages, half-singing and half-drinking, the warmth and the smiles infectious to all we met. Winding our way down into the village I found I had fully soaked myself into the experience, I did not even feel the cold on the tips of my fingers or on the ends of my toes. Though I felt sure it must be there. From wherever this crowd had come, or were taking me, I was unconcerned. I had been happily captured by their warmth.
As we neared the bottom of the hill short discussions were had about where to go next, and which cottages had already been visited. Serious voices found their way over the drunken chuckles, and I found myself being ushered up the other side of the village. A large house sat back on the other side of the valley. The house was lit up from within, and the lights danced off a trimmed lawn, white with frost. There was a sort of party going on and I had the vague sense of being underdressed as we were invited in to stand in a foyer, where gaslight hit Christmas decorations, and the whole room seemed to shine gold.
A couple of the women ushered our rough bunch into a presentable group, working their way around us, straightened coats and hair. Pieces of holly and mistletoe were placed in buttonholes. One of the women stared me square in the face, putting a hand on each shoulder, estimating me. It occurred to me then that perhaps the goodwill had run out for this stranger in their midst. But then she gently pushed my hair behind my ear, securing it with a piece of mistletoe. She nodded, smiling, pleased with her choice.
As I touched the mistletoe, oddly touched by the gesture, the crowd boldly burst into a rendition of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’. I could tell, this time, we were to take it seriously. As we continued, more people appeared from the neighbouring rooms, seeking to join in. Being the braver for drink, we probably gave too much. And by the time we were done, we were spent, happily accepting offers of mulled wine and hot lemon water before emerging back into the cold. It was then, on the doorstep, when I hit the night air, that I felt the change. The dark was punctuated, by flakes of snow.
Slow and melodic, they seemed to fall one at a time, as though some unseen force were sprinkling them from the sky. I walked out on to the lawn and let the snowflakes fall against my face, they were as soft as feathers. As I looked around, I noticed the crowd too had stopped to admire them. The village seemed cloaked by dark around us, but on the lawn of that great house the world seemed to light up. We stood that way for some time. Drunken party-goers came out in force, and they too were stunned into silence.
When I looked down, and around at my new friends, I saw a young man from the party, standing alone. He was soft-faced, barely twenty. He saw me watching him and caught my eye, shyly, and moved towards me. As he approached me I watched as his eye snagged on the mistletoe behind my ear. I grinned to myself. He stopped in front of me, just a foot away, his eyes caught in a question. What a thing, to have a young man want to kiss me. I couldn’t remember the last time a man looked at me this way, and I loved it. Before he could move away, and before I could question myself, I pushed myself up onto my tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips.
It was the smallest of pecks, but it was soft and warm, and it had the effect that I had sought. Even in my drunken state I noticed that the world had paused for a moment. It was not him that caught me, but something about the moment. So gentle, and meaningful, and meaningless, but kind. When I drew back I saw the shocked daze in his eyes, his lips and cheeks blushing into a rose red, and I smiled at the reaction I have procured. He paused for a moment before breaking into a grin. The blush grew across his cheeks and he turned away, glancing back at me once, before going back into the house. What a night I was having.
Around me, in their softened silence, the crowd drew together and headed for the gate. I followed them back down into the village, as they held on to each other, murmuring reassurances about the year that had passed and what they would do in the year to come. We drifted into a clearing at the bottom of the valley, at a small well in the village square. People from the neighbouring cottages had begun to gather, holding lamps high above them, they watched the snow fall.
My previously drunken comrades huddled together, seriously, as if this alone is what they’d be readying themselves for. Then, as if the atmosphere itself were speaking to us, the opening bars of ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ erupted into the still winter night. I was taken aback, stunned into silence, as the lightness of their voices hovered above us and seemed to take flight. I looked up, into the falling snow, as though I might watch the sounds fly away.
But they did not. Instead, the singing deepened, and the sound rolled around the square. The gathering crowd catching the words and holding on to them, rooting them to the spot. I have no words to describe what I felt in that moment, but I believe it was the most profound moment I have paid witness to. It was like a kind of magic, and I wondered how I had come to be so present and part of a Christmas that was not my own.
I closed my eyes and lost myself in the moment. A simple, pure, kind of Christmas, like I am sure I had never known. Even though there was nothing more special here than the people, the songs, and a few drinks to get us on our way. In that, a well of warmth had opened up, a deep desire to gather together. They had made Christmas, with nothing, but themselves. It was something heavenly. And then, it was gone.
My memory after that is blurry, almost blank. I do not remember what happened. I do not know if I drunk more, if there was more singing. I do not know how the dream ended. If it was a dream. I am unsure. When I woke this morning my shoes lay caked in mud, my hands were sticky with an apple scent, and on the floor lay a sprig of mistletoe. I know it is foolish, and that I should not be sentimental or think magically about such things. But it makes me wonder, and gives me hope, about the existence of such strange things. I only hope that it will happen again. Perhaps, next Christmas, I will see my friends again. And we will sing to the heavens, until snow as soft as feathers, falls down from the sky.
Unstuck Monsters 