Saturday's Storyteller: "The figures in the créche began to speak."
by Belinda Roddie
The figures in the créche began to speak. Not that it was the first time they had done so, either. Many people who passed by the small lit up scene during the Christmas season often talked about hearing voices coming from beneath the wiry canopy, drooping with LED red and blue bulbs and silver tinsel. Of course, those same people would blame the noise on tricksters, probably bored adolescents who wanted to pester the more "respected" elderly citizens of the small town.
Tonight, however, was different. The tiny Mexican restaurant that presented the plastic créche was particularly quiet at this hour on Christmas Eve, as the ice began to creep around the corners of the windows panes like Jack Frost's swollen blue-white fingers grasping the evening air in a firm grip. Francisco, the forty-year-old busboy, had stayed late to help Carla clean up after a particularly busy happy hour. Several college students home for the holidays had taken the liberty of clearing out approximately two full bottles of tequila, then festively spewed it all onto the faded gray rug that was also home to ants, tortilla chip crumbs, and dried salsa. Knowing them, they had probably gone straight to the Irish pub immediately after the fiasco, leaving the grumbling waiters to clean up the mess only a little bit before their shifts ended.
After scraping away the last of the bile with an old yellow sponge, Francisco decided to light a cigarette and call his brother, Aarón, so he could pick him up. That was when he first heard the whispers. He tilted his head to the side, the wisps of his fading gray-black hair dangling beside his ear, and only heard the roar of a motorcycle. He went back to puffing.
"Hey."
Francisco jolted. Now that hadn't been a motorcycle. His eyes darted to and fro, looking for the culprit who was probably leaning against the telephone pole smoking a similar brand. But he saw no one.
"Over here."
He realized that the voice was coming behind him and felt his back stiffen, his spine coiled like a hyper wire. He hoped whoever it was didn't have a knife.
"Turn around!"
"I don't have any money."
"No, man, we don't want money. Just turn around."
Francisco, taking a deep breath, turned and found himself staring straight at the créche. While none of the figures moved - the ox and lamb still stark yellow and white against the Christmas lights and the baby Jesus still snuggled up in the plastic hay - he could still hear the voices. He looked at the miniature shepherds, the battered angel radiating puncture wounds and scratches as it sat propped on the side of the manger. And then he realized the voices were coming from the three kings.
They were all different ethnicities - black, white, Indian, maybe? But not Asian or Middle Eastern, as one would expect from three kings of the "Orient." Whatever defined the "Orient" back in the day. They were all dressed in purple and blue and red - always those colors. In other nativity scenes, there'd be greens and oranges, but rarely. Blue, purple, and red were always the most popular in the adjacent neighborhoods and residences whenever the holidays lumbered by.
Thinking the nicotine and the smell of upchucked alcohol had gotten to him, Francisco shook his head wildly. But when his eyes re-focused on the tangle of noble figurines, he heard a voice coming from the "African" king.
"Want some frankincense?"
The shriek that cannon-balled from Francisco's mouth rocketed him up from his perch, his cigarette dropping in two pieces on the ground. He thought about running inside and telling Carla, but Carla was probably crashed out in the kitchen after bravely attempting to wash the typical stack of dishes. He heard a deep, throaty chuckle from the white king.
"Oy. Don't think he likes frankincense." He had a rough Scottish accent. Why did he have a rough Scottish accent?
"What?" the frankincense king objected. "No frankincense? C'mon, everybody loves a little olibanum. Makes you smell lovely."
"Well, yeah, but I bet if I had offered him gold..."
"Don't forget me!" piped up the Indian king.
"Oh, shut up, you morbid bastard. You brought myrrh. Myrrh, of all things."
"Yeah," the frankincense king added. "Way to be a total downer at the party. You honestly thought the parents would appreciate that?"
"Um."
Francisco, at this point, couldn't have found a better word to say at this point in time. He was now debating whether or not he had hit his head too hard on the table while scrubbing crusty guacamole.
"Come on," the myrrh king was muttering. "It's called foreshadowing! I did it for the sake of the story!"
"Story? It was a birthday party, for goodness sake! That kid didn't need a prophecy!"
"Um...excuse me?"
"Ah!" The gold king, despite his plastic face never changing from its stoic painted on expression, sounded pleased. "He speaks!"
Francisco was noticeably trembling. He turned to see if there were any midnight walkers passing by. Anyone seeing a middle-aged Mexican man talking to a créche most likely would have called the police, and given the uneventful atmosphere of the suburb, they'd figure it'd be fun to haul in a potential drunkard or crazy person. Or if they were lucky, both.
"If you don't mind me asking," the bus boy said with a quivering voice, "how can you talk?"
There was a short pause, then a chuckle from the frankincense king.
"You believe in Christmas, sir?"
"Well, yes," Francisco stuttered.
"So you believe in Jesus."
"Yes."
"So in that case," the myrrh king interjected, "you have no problem with believing in angels, a giant star in the sky, and a fourteen-year-old girl getting knocked up by God."
Francisco couldn't help arching an eyebrow. "Well, if you're going to put it so crudely..."
"Let me finish. But you can't believe that a few guys stuck in a nativity scene could talk?"
"...It hadn't occurred to me it was a possibility."
"My good man, if you believe in miraculous pregnancy, you can believe in anything," the gold king laughed. "Isn't that right, boys?"
There was a unanimous agreement from the other two plastic figures. Francisco's new theory was that he had been drinking the tequila, and that the presence of the ruddy-faced college kids had been nothing short of a booze-induced hallucination.
"Why can't the other ones talk?"
" 'Cause they don't feel like it, silly," the myrrh king replied. "Joseph and Mary are a bit busy, the angels are preoccupied, and Jesus...well, he's an infant. You do the math."
"So are you really the three kings?" Francisco asked. "Like...the spirits of the kings in this place?"
They laughed again. The busboy was having difficulty finding the comedy in it all. He turned his gaze toward the street to see if a black truck had whizzed by. Nothing yet. Where was his brother? Still watching TV? Drunk? Dead?
"We're not their spirits, no," the frankincense king was saying as Francisco begrudgingly - and uneasily - turned his attention back to the créche. "And for your information, they weren't kings. They were wise men. Magi."
"But weren't the magi kings?"
"Technically, they were priests," replied the gold king. "But I'm guessing you don't look at Wikipedia much."
"So...you're just..."
"Talking nativity scene figures." And for a moment, Francisco thought he caught a glimpse of a black marked smile. "Merry Christmas."
A truck engine suddenly bellowed. A horn screeched. Francisco was turned white from the headlights.
"Friend of yours?"
"Yeah," Francisco replied. "My brother."
"Better go before he thinks you're crazy."
Aarón's impatient expression could clearly be seen behind the fogged up windshield. Francisco slowly struggled to his feet. His apron bristled in the breeze.
"So after all this," he muttered, "why were you talking to me? To send me a message? To remind me of miracles during Christmas?" Of course, he was talking out of the corner of his mouth as this point, mumbling, if you will. So Aarón wasn't weirded out.
"Pfft, no. We were just bored. But yeah, have a good Christmas. Drink, eat, kiss a girl under the mistletoe. That sort of thing."
"Franky!" Aarón yelled out his now open driver's seat window. "Let's go! ¡Vamanos!"
"Better go, kid," the gold king growled.
Francisco gladly obliged, heading toward the car and throwing himself into the passenger's seat. Aarón, thankfully, didn't ask questions, not even after Francisco shuddered as he heard one last voice emerging from the crowned statues sitting somberly beneath the myriad of Christmas cheer.
"I still think he should've taken some frankincense."
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
The figures in the créche began to speak. Not that it was the first time they had done so, either. Many people who passed by the small lit up scene during the Christmas season often talked about hearing voices coming from beneath the wiry canopy, drooping with LED red and blue bulbs and silver tinsel. Of course, those same people would blame the noise on tricksters, probably bored adolescents who wanted to pester the more "respected" elderly citizens of the small town.
Tonight, however, was different. The tiny Mexican restaurant that presented the plastic créche was particularly quiet at this hour on Christmas Eve, as the ice began to creep around the corners of the windows panes like Jack Frost's swollen blue-white fingers grasping the evening air in a firm grip. Francisco, the forty-year-old busboy, had stayed late to help Carla clean up after a particularly busy happy hour. Several college students home for the holidays had taken the liberty of clearing out approximately two full bottles of tequila, then festively spewed it all onto the faded gray rug that was also home to ants, tortilla chip crumbs, and dried salsa. Knowing them, they had probably gone straight to the Irish pub immediately after the fiasco, leaving the grumbling waiters to clean up the mess only a little bit before their shifts ended.
After scraping away the last of the bile with an old yellow sponge, Francisco decided to light a cigarette and call his brother, Aarón, so he could pick him up. That was when he first heard the whispers. He tilted his head to the side, the wisps of his fading gray-black hair dangling beside his ear, and only heard the roar of a motorcycle. He went back to puffing.
"Hey."
Francisco jolted. Now that hadn't been a motorcycle. His eyes darted to and fro, looking for the culprit who was probably leaning against the telephone pole smoking a similar brand. But he saw no one.
"Over here."
He realized that the voice was coming behind him and felt his back stiffen, his spine coiled like a hyper wire. He hoped whoever it was didn't have a knife.
"Turn around!"
"I don't have any money."
"No, man, we don't want money. Just turn around."
Francisco, taking a deep breath, turned and found himself staring straight at the créche. While none of the figures moved - the ox and lamb still stark yellow and white against the Christmas lights and the baby Jesus still snuggled up in the plastic hay - he could still hear the voices. He looked at the miniature shepherds, the battered angel radiating puncture wounds and scratches as it sat propped on the side of the manger. And then he realized the voices were coming from the three kings.
They were all different ethnicities - black, white, Indian, maybe? But not Asian or Middle Eastern, as one would expect from three kings of the "Orient." Whatever defined the "Orient" back in the day. They were all dressed in purple and blue and red - always those colors. In other nativity scenes, there'd be greens and oranges, but rarely. Blue, purple, and red were always the most popular in the adjacent neighborhoods and residences whenever the holidays lumbered by.
Thinking the nicotine and the smell of upchucked alcohol had gotten to him, Francisco shook his head wildly. But when his eyes re-focused on the tangle of noble figurines, he heard a voice coming from the "African" king.
"Want some frankincense?"
The shriek that cannon-balled from Francisco's mouth rocketed him up from his perch, his cigarette dropping in two pieces on the ground. He thought about running inside and telling Carla, but Carla was probably crashed out in the kitchen after bravely attempting to wash the typical stack of dishes. He heard a deep, throaty chuckle from the white king.
"Oy. Don't think he likes frankincense." He had a rough Scottish accent. Why did he have a rough Scottish accent?
"What?" the frankincense king objected. "No frankincense? C'mon, everybody loves a little olibanum. Makes you smell lovely."
"Well, yeah, but I bet if I had offered him gold..."
"Don't forget me!" piped up the Indian king.
"Oh, shut up, you morbid bastard. You brought myrrh. Myrrh, of all things."
"Yeah," the frankincense king added. "Way to be a total downer at the party. You honestly thought the parents would appreciate that?"
"Um."
Francisco, at this point, couldn't have found a better word to say at this point in time. He was now debating whether or not he had hit his head too hard on the table while scrubbing crusty guacamole.
"Come on," the myrrh king was muttering. "It's called foreshadowing! I did it for the sake of the story!"
"Story? It was a birthday party, for goodness sake! That kid didn't need a prophecy!"
"Um...excuse me?"
"Ah!" The gold king, despite his plastic face never changing from its stoic painted on expression, sounded pleased. "He speaks!"
Francisco was noticeably trembling. He turned to see if there were any midnight walkers passing by. Anyone seeing a middle-aged Mexican man talking to a créche most likely would have called the police, and given the uneventful atmosphere of the suburb, they'd figure it'd be fun to haul in a potential drunkard or crazy person. Or if they were lucky, both.
"If you don't mind me asking," the bus boy said with a quivering voice, "how can you talk?"
There was a short pause, then a chuckle from the frankincense king.
"You believe in Christmas, sir?"
"Well, yes," Francisco stuttered.
"So you believe in Jesus."
"Yes."
"So in that case," the myrrh king interjected, "you have no problem with believing in angels, a giant star in the sky, and a fourteen-year-old girl getting knocked up by God."
Francisco couldn't help arching an eyebrow. "Well, if you're going to put it so crudely..."
"Let me finish. But you can't believe that a few guys stuck in a nativity scene could talk?"
"...It hadn't occurred to me it was a possibility."
"My good man, if you believe in miraculous pregnancy, you can believe in anything," the gold king laughed. "Isn't that right, boys?"
There was a unanimous agreement from the other two plastic figures. Francisco's new theory was that he had been drinking the tequila, and that the presence of the ruddy-faced college kids had been nothing short of a booze-induced hallucination.
"Why can't the other ones talk?"
" 'Cause they don't feel like it, silly," the myrrh king replied. "Joseph and Mary are a bit busy, the angels are preoccupied, and Jesus...well, he's an infant. You do the math."
"So are you really the three kings?" Francisco asked. "Like...the spirits of the kings in this place?"
They laughed again. The busboy was having difficulty finding the comedy in it all. He turned his gaze toward the street to see if a black truck had whizzed by. Nothing yet. Where was his brother? Still watching TV? Drunk? Dead?
"We're not their spirits, no," the frankincense king was saying as Francisco begrudgingly - and uneasily - turned his attention back to the créche. "And for your information, they weren't kings. They were wise men. Magi."
"But weren't the magi kings?"
"Technically, they were priests," replied the gold king. "But I'm guessing you don't look at Wikipedia much."
"So...you're just..."
"Talking nativity scene figures." And for a moment, Francisco thought he caught a glimpse of a black marked smile. "Merry Christmas."
A truck engine suddenly bellowed. A horn screeched. Francisco was turned white from the headlights.
"Friend of yours?"
"Yeah," Francisco replied. "My brother."
"Better go before he thinks you're crazy."
Aarón's impatient expression could clearly be seen behind the fogged up windshield. Francisco slowly struggled to his feet. His apron bristled in the breeze.
"So after all this," he muttered, "why were you talking to me? To send me a message? To remind me of miracles during Christmas?" Of course, he was talking out of the corner of his mouth as this point, mumbling, if you will. So Aarón wasn't weirded out.
"Pfft, no. We were just bored. But yeah, have a good Christmas. Drink, eat, kiss a girl under the mistletoe. That sort of thing."
"Franky!" Aarón yelled out his now open driver's seat window. "Let's go! ¡Vamanos!"
"Better go, kid," the gold king growled.
Francisco gladly obliged, heading toward the car and throwing himself into the passenger's seat. Aarón, thankfully, didn't ask questions, not even after Francisco shuddered as he heard one last voice emerging from the crowned statues sitting somberly beneath the myriad of Christmas cheer.
"I still think he should've taken some frankincense."
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
Comments
Post a Comment