Scarabella - A Christmas Story by Mark Ivan Cole

Scarabella

A Christmas Story
by Mark Ivan Cole

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Scarabella hadn’t been in the warm little cabin for very long before things started to go wrong. The Yule log in the fireplace collapsed with a crash, sending a shower of sparks up the stone chimney. From her position on the mantle, Scarabella could see it was all happening again. Candlesticks tumbled off the little table and rolled beneath it. The storm outside spit bits of snow through the cracks around the shuttered windows. The heavy oaken door rattled on its hinges, its metal latch loudly banging out a stuttering rhythm that could wake the dead.

It was Christmas Eve, but no one was sleeping. The little old man and his little old wife were sitting bolt upright in bed—stocking caps pulled down over their ears, and quilts pulled up to their cheekbones—their little old eyes wide as they looked this way and that around the cabin.

One of their sturdy wooden chairs tilted first to the left, then to the right, only to topple over backward for no reason. The other one skidded along the floor for a few feet until it ran into the wall and stopped. The cupboard door flew open and a pewter cup fell out, rolling across the floor under the table to join the candlesticks.

Clearly, it was time to do something. Scarabella arched her back, her scruffy black fur sticking out all over. She stretched her front legs, flexed her paws and extended her claws full length before pulling them back in and relaxing for a second before stretching her back legs. Ragged tail high, she turned and walked to the end of the mantle. She hesitated but a moment before dropping down to the floor. The door continued to rattle with every gust of wind from the storm outside. Like a furry shadow, Scarabella crossed the floor and hopped up onto the foot of the bed. She sat down and curled her tail around her paws, her green eyes fixed on the old couple behind the quilt.

“You made a mistake,” she said.

“The cat talks!” squeaked the little old woman.

“You need to listen to me,” said Scarabella, blinking once.

“Aye, it talks!” croaked the little old man.

“Yes,” said Scarabella; “and you need to pay attention. It was very nice of you to bring me in from the cold, but you may wish to reconsider.”

Another pewter cup pitched itself from the cupboard and spun around on the floor. The shutters outside rapped repeated against the cabin wall as if begging to be let in.

“What are you talking about?” asked the little old woman. “You were cold, so we brought you inside so you could be warm. What’s wrong with that?”

Scarabella turned and watched the old metal kettle jump off its hook by the hearth and clang to the floor. “Consequences,” she said, her scruffy tail unwrapping itself from around her paws only to wrap around them once more. “Are you aware of the consequences?”

“What consequences?” asked the little old man.

The cat stared at them a moment, shut her eyes and opened them again. “You don’t know about the Christmas Scourge?”

The chair against the wall scooted a little closer to the door.

The little old couple shook their heads. “What’s the Christmas Scourge?” asked the little old woman.

“It’s not ‘what;’ it’s ‘who,’” said the cat. “It is I: Scarabella the cat, the Christmas Scourge.”

The little old couple looked at each other, confused. “You’re a bit rough around the muff, but I wouldn’t call you a scourge,” said the little old woman. “What makes you say that?”

Scarabella ignored the thump of the second chair tossing itself onto the floor. It was time to get to the point.

“I live in the cave of the great mountain troll,” she said. “The great troll doesn’t like me, but he doesn’t want to let me go. Every Christmas Eve, he forgets, though. He drinks himself into a stupor and I escape.” Scarabella sighed as the candlesticks and pewter cups clattered against the table legs.

“Most of the time, he catches me before I find a warm place to spend the night,” she said; “but on some years, I find a haven before he finds me. Those are the best for me, but the worst for my hosts.”

The little old woman’s brow wrinkled and she lowered the quilt down to her chin. “Why? What happens?” she asked.

Scarabella twitched a torn ear and stared at her. “Everything you see here and worse,” she said; “so, if you don’t mind opening the door for me, I’ll just be going.”

The teakettle rolled across the floor to join the fracas of candlesticks and cups under the table.

“The great troll, you say,” said the little old man, dropping the quilt and folding his hands in front of him. “He doesn’t treat you well, Scarabella.”

The cat blinked once. “No.”

“And it’s very cold out there,” said the little old woman.

Scarabella’s ear twitched again. “Yes.”

The little old couple turned to each other. Neither said a word as they turned away again and got out of bed. The little old woman stepped into her tattered slippers and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders. The little old man stuffed his feet into a well worn pair of boots and pulled a woolen sweater over his nightshirt before wrapping himself in a heavy coat.

Scarabella got to her feet and turned to go.

“Oh, no,” said the little old woman. “You stay put for now.”

“I don’t think you understand what you’re up against,” said the cat. “Your cabin is no protection from my master.”

“We know,” said the little old man.

“And you can stop calling him your master,” said the little old woman.

The little old man stepped past the fallen chairs and shuffled over to stoke the fire. The wind howled in fury and the door shuddered in its frame, but a warm light filled the room as he stoked the coals.

“My dear, I think we could do with some tea before we start,” he said, retrieving the kettle from the floor and filling it with water from the bucket by the fireplace.

“Tea would be just the thing,” said the little old woman. She brought a little bag over to the hearth and sprinkled some leaves into the kettle, swinging it over the glowing coals. The little old man picked up the cups from the floor and handed one to his wife. Then they both sat in their chairs and waited for the tea to steep.

The candlesticks continued their chasing game beneath the table, the windows rattled incessantly, snow continued to blow in through the walls, but the little old man and the little old woman imply ignored them.

Scarabella cocked her head to one side. “If you’ll just let me out, this will all be over,” she said. “I’ve caused you enough trouble already.”

The little old woman shook her head and beckoned to the cat. “If you’re willing,” she said; “just come sit in my lap a bit until the tea’s ready.”

Scarabella watched the candlesticks crash into the wall and then hurtle themselves across the room to disappear under the bed.

“Come on,” said the little old man. “The tea will be ready soon enough.”

The cat shrugged. “If he finds me like this, he won’t be happy,” she said as she hopped up into the little old woman’s lap and found a comfortable spot to lie down. This was both the best and the worst place yet. Never before had she so wanted to stay and yet been so certain that she really should leave. The little old woman’s wrinkled hand stroked her uneven fur, and the little old man’s fingers scratched gently behind Scarabella’s ears.

When the tea was ready, the little old woman lifted up the cat and set her down on the old rag rug, not too close to the fire. “You just rest there, love,” she said, as her husband poured a little tea into their cups. She swirled it around to let it cool a bit and then took a sip. “Ah, yes,” she said. “This will do.”

The wind was picking up outside, shaking the whole house as it passed by. The door seemed to be trying to wrest itself from its hinges. The latch banged insistently.

“He’s coming,” said Scarabella, trying not to sound as scared as she felt. “I really should go.”

The little old man smiled and cleared his throat. “Yah, tea’s just the thing.” He drained his cup and stood up. Then he looked over at his wife. “Ready?”

She smiled and stood beside him. She hummed a note, barely audible over the wind and the rattling windows and door.

“A bit high for me, I think,” said the little old man. He hummed a different note and she nodded.

They began to sing, she with her mellow, reedy alto, and he with his husky, round baritone. They sang of happiness. They sang of home. They sang of peace and joy and harmony.

As they sang, the storm outside grew louder and stronger. Great trees cracked and fell in the surrounding woods. Ice and snow blasted against the walls of the little cabin. The shutters outside finally tore free and the windows were soon coated with white. The bolts in the door hinges shimmied in their holes and the latch slipped sideways little by little.

Still the old couple sang. They sang of hope. They sang of trust. They sang of plenty. They sang of giving and receiving, of sharing and sacrifice.

Scarabella could not sit. She stood stock still, ears cocked, her tail moving randomly of its own accord. She stared at the battered door, every bit of her black fur on end.

But nothing came.

The storm raged outside, scraping against the cabin walls, shivering every timber and loosening every peg and mortice.

Still the old couple sang. They sang of grace. They sang of light, of love, of forgiveness and truth.

As the last notes ended, the storm stopped.

The forest lay silent. Everything was still, save for the flickering flames of the Yule log in the hearth.

“Well,” said the little old woman; “that should do it.”

“Yes,” said the little old man. “Let’s see, dear,” he said to his wife. “There should be some of that tea left.”

She handed him the little pewter cup and sat back down in the sturdy chair as he swung the kettle out. She patted her lap. “So, Scarabella,” she said; “you’ll be staying then?”

Scarabella glanced around the room. All was quiet. “What did you do?” she asked. “He didn’t take me. What did you do?”

“Once you said it was a troll, we knew we would be fine,” said the little old man. He handed one steaming cup to his wife and sat down with his own.

Scarabella hopped up onto the little old woman’s lap. “What did you do?” she insisted.

The little old woman smoothed the cat’s patchy fur. “We sang the truth,” she said. “Trolls cannot abide that.”

“But weren’t you afraid?” asked the cat.

“To begin with, yes,” said the little old man. “Fear doesn’t last long in the presence of love.”

“We’ve gently dispatched many a troll with this method,” said the little old woman. “All it takes is a song in your heart.”

The little old man smiled. “And a little tea,” he said. “But you didn’t answer, Scarabella. Will you be staying then?

“We’d consider it a gift,” said the little old woman.

Scarabella settled into the little old woman’s lap. “I’ll be staying then,” she said. The warm little cabin hummed quietly with the crackle of the Yule log and the purr of the Christmas cat.