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“You smell nice, Papa, but Maman smells much nicer!”
Laughter rang out at his son’s words. The ice broken, the group moved inside the house, chattering naturally about the journey, the weather, and the coming celebration.
That afternoon the Yule log was lit using a charred piece from last year’s log, thus carrying their Yule luck onwards for another year. This was a tradition continued for a hundred years or more in an unbroken chain.
As dusk fell, Gabriel helped his son to hold the long wooden handle of the brass chestnut pan and showed him how to shuffle and toss the nuts around in order to roast them evenly. The children made cones from paper which they filled with cooked chestnuts daubed with knobs of butter, and they handed them around to each of the adults before sitting informally upon the hearthrug to eat their own messy, buttery treats.
* * *
Upon their return from midnight mass, Gabriel and Angele tucked their exhausted son into bed for the first time together. A lump formed in Gabriel’s throat as he watched her place a tender kiss upon Christopher’s cheek, his small arms entwined about his mother’s neck in a hug. He murmured a sleepy, “Goodnight, Papa…” holding his hand out to Gabriel, who went and knelt beside the bed, stroking his son’s hair back from his forehead.
“Papa, if you and Maman are named for angels, then surely I should change my name to one, too?”
“Ah, but your name is also very special, Christopher. It means The Anointed One. It has been used in our family for many generations. Your grandfather, and my father, were both called Christopher, and it is also my second name. Sons in our family alternate between being named Christopher, like you, or Gabriel, like me.”
His son listened to this explanation with the owlish eyes of a child who was overtired yet determined to fight sleep.
Gabriel glanced outside. Snow had begun to fall again. He scooped his boy into his arms and walked to the window to show him the spectacle. Angele joined him, resting her head against his shoulder, and the three of them watched the hypnotizing swirl of white as a blizzard descended.
“This is but the first of many Yuletides we shall spend together, my son. Go to sleep, Christopher. Tomorrow we shall make merry and celebrate as a family, brought together at last by the magic of the season.”
Gabriel noticed that his son’s eyes had closed, his breathing even. He slept safe in his father’s arms for the first but not the last time.
“Quickly, fetch the puppy and its basket from our chamber,” he said softly. Placing Christopher onto the bed, he covered him, tenderly tucking him in.
Angele disappeared, returning a moment later with a basket containing a small brown and white puppy curled up asleep in the middle of a woollen blanket.
“Are you certain that this is a good idea?” she whispered, positioning the basket on the floor opposite the bed.
“All boys should grow up with a dog as a companion. He will be so excited when he awakes on Christmas morn to find his new friend, you shall see.”
Angele squeezed his arm. He looked down, returning her smile. Perhaps his son had a point about their names being blessed, who knew? Silently he promised to light a candle in chapel tomorrow and on every Yuletide in the future, to give thanks for this year’s special gift, the return of his beloved wife and son.
