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Closing his eyes, shaking his head, Zachariah hoped the

two children were a figment of his imagination and that

when he opened his eyes they would be gone…

He opened his eyes…  

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Climbing Boy 21:Sacrifice

London, England

December 24, 1843

The children were still there.

Unable to turn away, Zachariah stared at the children

and, his eyes following the movement, as he stared a petal

fell from the broken rose and as though floating on a ghostly

breeze, fluttered slowly to the ground.

“You! You, boy!”

Coming from behind, the words breaking his trancelike

attention, forcing his eyes from the window, Zachariah

turned back to the counter.

“Aye, laddie!”

A familiar face loomed over him.

“An’ what can I get for ya?”

“Uh, Sir…” Stopping, turning his face from the man

behind the counter, he looked over his shoulder… through

the once-again moisture-coated, distorted window.

The children were no longer there.

Breathing deeply, actually sighing with relief, he turned

back to the man behind the counter. “‘ow much’a your

sweets…” digging into his right pocket, holding his hand

palm up, “might I buy with this?”

Reaching over the counter, the man took the coin from

the boy’s hand.

“Aye, laddie,” the confectioner said, smiling. “I see ya

passin’ by here most every day lookin’ inta’me window, an’

at times I wanna run after ya and give ya sumtin’ from me

shop,” he said in a thick, Scottish accent. “But I never has,

so today, bein’ as it’s Christmas, I’m gonna give ya sumtin’

special.” About to reach above the counter to give the coin

back, but thinking better of it, withdrawing his hand. “Ya

looks to be an’ independent lad what wants to pay his own

way, eh?”

Beginning to say, “No,” but feeling the man expected an

affirmative answer, said, “Yes, Sir. I been taught to pay me

own way.”

“That’s what I thought!”

Putting the coin on the shelf behind the counter, taking a

small square of wrapping paper, the man turned back to

Zachariah. “I knew ya ta be a good, independent lad, an’

‘stead’a me not takin’ ya money, I’m gonna give ya sumtin’

extra! An’ what is it ya be wantin’?”

“Thank ya, Sir!” His face set in concentration, the boy’s

eyes darted from tray to tray.

Well used to this with children and adults, waiting

patiently a few moments, “I know it be hard ta make up ya

mind, lad. Ya wants me to give ya me favorites?”

Relieved of having to make this unsolvable decision, “Aye,

Sir, I’d surely like ya to do that!”

Reaching to his right, the confectioner took a large, dark

chocolate pecan cluster off a tray. Walking to the far end of

the counter, he choose a cherry cream.

The candies were the largest remaining on either tray,

and far in excess of what the boy’s copper would

normally buy.

Returning to Zachariah, twisting the four corners of the

paper tightly together making a kind of bag, the confectioner

handed it across the counter.

“Boy, ya be mindin’ if I shake ya hand? Ya know, for

good luck?”

Smiling, reaching up, Zachariah offered his hand.

Reaching down, the man took hold of the boy’s hand

and, as man to man, the two shook hands.

“Thank ya for the sweets, Sir. A good Christmas to ya.”

“An’ the same to ya, laddie.” Wiping his hand on his apron,

“May the Lord be with ya!” the man said as he turned, “How

may I help ya, Sir?” to take care of another customer.

With his treasure held tightly in his hand, Zachariah

started for the door.

As he did, he couldn’t help but look to the window.

They’re there again, the children!

His heart quickening, hesitating, opening the door,

Zachariah stepped through.

Outside.

Feeling the sudden chill of outside, unwilling to look upon

the emaciated faces of the girl or boy, looking neither to the

right or the left, wanting to be past the children, his eyes

focused on the plumes of the vapor of his breath, he walked,

and as he did…

Their bodies pivoting from the window, the expressionless

eyes of the boy and girl followed Zachariah as he walked

from the shop.

One… two… three paces… For an unknown reason,

compelled to stop, stopping, turning, he faced the children.

Three paces separating Zachariah from the brother and

sister, the two looked upon the little chimney sweep and he

looked back and, as before, the girl stood with her hand

upon the boy’s shoulder, and, as before, the tattered clothing

of the boy and girl moved in a wind that Zachariah sensed

as cold, frigid even, but oddly, could not feel.

The faces of the boy and girl were sunken and gaunt.

Their eyes, set deeply within black hollows, had an intense,

hungry look that thrust to Zachariah’s soul.

Clutching his candy—holding the four ends of the packet

tightly in his clenched fist—he tried to smile… but the

corners of his mouth—twitching with the effort—could not.

Her eyes leaving Zachariah’s face, her head lowering,

the girl looked down, to the tray that hung from the biting

twine held about her neck, to the one remaining rose, to the

rose with the broken stem.

Forcing his eyes from their faces, Zachariah looked at

the flower also… And as he looked, separating, the wilted

rose broke from its stem and fell to the ground.

Shuddering, not knowing what to do and wanting, very

badly, to be gone from these two, turning away, Zachariah

began to walk…

One pace… Feeling the now familiar sensation of the

children’s eyes piercing his back.

Two paces…

Three paces… Wind. He felt wind.

Four paces… Cold. With each step he became colder.

Six paces.

Seven paces… Harder. The wind blew harder.

Eight paces.

Nine paces… The sky becoming blacker by the second,

the moon was near gone and even the brightest star barely

visible. Ten paces.

Gnawing!

He felt a gnawing in his…? Mind. A gnawing in his…?

Heart.

Eleven paces… He knew what he had to do… He knew

what he must do!

Stopping, standing perfectly still, looking upward,

speaking to the black sky, “It ain’t fair!” Imploring, looking

for a reason not to do what he knew he must. Holding his

arms skyward, Zachariah felt the weight of the candy in his

hand. “It ain’t fair!” he repeated. “What ‘ave I got?”

Answering himself: “I ain’t got nothin’ neither!”

And a succession of pictures played through his mind:

Mr. Archibald’s crinkly smile and his offer of a kitten;

The men that had played with him at the factory;

The friendship of Marco, the fishmonger;

The touches and warmth of the many people he’d met on

this night; The smile and tears of the pretty lady;

The silver coin the lady had given him that weighted in

his pocket; And most of all, this coming before all else,

seeing the lady’s face before him, he now knew the face

of his mother.

His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Feeling a stirring in his pocket, stretching his finger

within, he scratched the mouse’s head… “An’ Mousy! I got

you, too, Mousy!”

His shoulders lifting with resolution, straightening his

back, he turned around.

As before, standing as before the boy and girl remained

looking at him.

Snow began to fall as, retracing his steps, Zachariah stood

before the two gaunt, hollow-eyed children.

Lifting her hand from the boy’s shoulder, the girl held it

forward.

Zachariah put his candy—his treasure—onto the girl’s

hand and found, though forced, he could, he did, the little

climbing boy smiled.

Silent, the boy and girl, though, did not smile in return.

Feeling the weight of his sacrifice within his mind, within

his heart, turning, Zachariah began to walk.

Two paces… three paces. Turning back, “A good Chris…”

Gone.

The girl and boy were gone.

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