“No, that was something else.” Christmas Rose moved out of the way of a tall black man with a crown on his turban. “I could tell you its name, but that would convey no meaning to you. It’s an industrial chemical; your father brought it home from one of his factories.”
“They shouldn’t have eaten any.” A spasm of recollected sorrow crossed Sherby’s face and was gone.
“Der mama nefer meaned it,” Knecht Rupprecht told him kindly. “Do nod vorget dot, howefer old you lif.”
“You should have stopped them!”
Smoky stirred uneasily at the rage behind Sherby’s words.
“We couldn’t,” Christmas Rose told him; there was a catch in her voice that Sherby was too young yet to recognize. “We were not there, neither Knecht Rupprecht nor I.”
“You could because you’re House!”
“Who I say I am, I am.” Red lights glowed in the eye sockets of Knecht Rupprecht’s bleached skull. “Did I say I vas House?”
The fat man in livery, who had been passing with a tray of empty glasses, halted. “May I be of service, sir? I am House, the butler.”
Christmas Rose said, “This little boy is looking for Father Eddi, House. If you happen to see him . . . ?”
“Of course, madame.”
Sherby tried to grasp the skirt of House’s blue-striped waistcoat, but no resistance met his fingers. “You should’ve stopped them! You know you should!”
“I could not, Master Sherbourne, as long as your father was alive. And as your mother was, ah”—the butler cleared his throat—“the first to leave us, I was helpless until your father’s, hmm, demise. Had you not dawdled over your dinner, I should have been unable to preserve your life. As I did, Master Sherbourne.” He returned his attention to Christmas Rose. “Father Eddi, madame. I shall endeavor to locate him, madame. There should be no great difficulty.”
Sherby shouted, “You can make them go away! Make them all go away!” but the fat butler had already disappeared into the crowd.
As Sherby spoke, there was a stir on the other side of the big room. Knecht Rupprecht, who was tall enough to see over the heads of most of those present, announced, “Id ist der mama und der poppa, Sherpy. So priddy she ist lookin’!” He began to applaud, and everyone present except Sherby and Smoky joined in. Under the storm of sound, Sherby heard the
A thin and reedy voice at his ear said, “A very merry Christmas to you, my son! You wished to speak with me?”
Sherby turned; it was the little man in sandals.
“I’m Father Eddi, my son. Are you Master Sherbourne? That big fellow in the striped waistcoat said you wished to speak with me, and I’ll be glad to help if I can.” When he saw Sherby’s expression, Father Eddi’s own face grew troubled. “You certainly look unhappy enough.”
Sherby gulped, knowing that his mother and father, dead, were talking and laughing with their guests. “I—I sort of hoped some other kids would come.”
“Some have,” Father Eddi assured him. “Tiny Tim’s over there with Mr. and Mrs. Cratchit, and Greg—the doctor’s son, you know, who helped to make the pasteboard star—is about somewhere, and Louisa, the girl who felt sorry for the Little Guest.” Father Eddi paused expectantly; when Sherby said nothing, he added, “I can introduce you to them, if you like.”
“A man . . .” Sherby had forgotten the tall saint’s name already. “A man said you were talking to some other kid. I thought that if I could find you, I could find him.”
“So you can!” Father Eddi’s smile was radiant. “Follow me. He’s behind the tree at this very moment, I believe.” He started away, then stopped so abruptly that Sherby and Smoky ran into him, burying their faces in his insubstantial, brown-clad back. “He’s behind the tree, just as I told you. Every Christmas, he’s behind the tree. Before it too, of course.”
Christmas Rose called, “Good-bye, Sherby! Good luck!”
It was a most magnificent tree, as yellow and shiny as real gold, alive with lights and hung with ornaments that were like little toys, although Sherby was forbidden to play with them. Santa Clauses rode sleighs and airplanes and even spaceships, stepped into redbrick chimneys, swung gaily from the clappers of bells, and carried tiny trees of their own, mostly green. There were jumping jacks and jack-in-the-boxes, rag dolls and snowmen and tiny boys with drums, and lovely silver deer that might have been of almost any kind except reindeer. It smelled marvelous too; Sherby inhaled deeply.
A dark-eyed, rather swarthy boy with curling black hair stepped out from behind the tree. “Hello, Sherby,” he said. “Were you looking for me?”
Sherby nodded. “You know my name.”
“I was at your christening.” The swarthy boy held out his hand. “I’m Yeshua bar-Yoseph. Welcome to my birthday party.”
“This is my House.” Sherby wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“I know,” Yeshua said. “Thanks for letting us celebrate it here, Sherby.”
Behind him, his mother exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve found the Baby Jesus!” She knelt next to Sherby, lifting the skirt of her beautiful gown so as not to kneel on it, and reached for the little blond ceramic doll in the miniature manger under the tree. Sherby knew she wanted to pick it up but couldn’t because she was a holo and it was real.
“Never mind her,” he told Yeshua.
