Lordy! Momentarily unable to comprehend what he saw, the sight of this beautiful, properly dressed lady sitting flat on her rear directly in front of the fireplace so startled him that, his eyes bulging, his mouth dropping open, not knowing what to say, “Mum?” he questioned and, looking at his filthy hand, not knowing if she’d accept his help if he offered it, “Mum,” he repeated, and…

 The Climbing Boy: 8; London, England;  December 24, 1843  

Sitting flat on the floor, the lady saw the look on his face and Zachariah’s look of amazement was so complete it was actually a look of stupefaction. Thinking of the situation, My Lord, in her mind picturing how she must look to the boy, giggling, “My, Lord!” she said aloud, then laughed, and as she began to laugh so did Zachariah.

Their laughter growing louder, harder, the lady attempted to stand but, weak from laughing, “My, Lord!” she only succeeded in falling again.

Catching his breath, rising from his knees, soot and ash dropping from his clothing, “Mum,” forcing himself to stop laughing, “le’me ‘elp ya.” Offering his hand, Zachariah came out of the fireplace.

The boy looked so pitiful, but yet the situation was so funny that the lady could not stop herself and began to laugh even harder.

“Mum,” reaching forward.

Hesitating, the lady looked at the boy’s filthy, soot engrained hand… then clasped it tightly, and as their hands touched the laughter stopped.

“Mum?” Helping the lady to her feet, he held her hand a moment longer than necessary, then reluctantly let go.

She looked at her hand, which now was coated with soot, then looked into the boy’s face, and the two pair of blue eyes stared at each other until, after what in reality was no more than an extended second or two…

“Zachariah,” she said, forcing her eyes from his, “would you like something to eat? That man, your, uh, ‘owner,’ was kind enough to allow me permission to give you something to eat.”

“Me owner?” If there is a distinction between the two, Zachariah did not know it. “Master Johnson’s not me owner, ‘e’s me master, an’ yes, Mum, I’d surely like somethin’ to eat!”

“‘Master’! That man shouldn’t be master to a dog! He doesn’t have sense enough to…” Seeing a look of confusion on the boy’s face, stopping, she changed the subject. “Zachariah, if you’d like to stop working, I would truly like to give you something to eat.”

“Mum, I’m awful ‘ungry an’ I thanks ya, but me work’s almost done an’ soon’s I finish this…” parting the overlapping cloths he stood aside to show her that the fire wall, the back wall, was finished and all that remained were the two smaller and considerably cleaner side walls. “The rest is easy, an’ I’d just as soon finish so’s I might rest up ‘fore Master Johnson comes back, an’, if it’s all the same to you, might I eat then?”

“I understand. Whenever you’re ready, come to the kitchen.” Her maternal instinct still at play, without thinking, the lady rubbed the top of the boy’s bristly head, turned, and as she walked through the door into the kitchen, wiped her hand over the front of her apron leaving a wide black streak on the starched, white material.

Other than a push, a slap, or worse from Johnson, rarely touched by another human, the heat of the lady’s hand warming the boy from his head to his toes, Zachariah watched as the lady left the room, then, sighing once again, went back into the fireplace and, wanting to finish quickly, increased his effort. Soon both sidewalls were brushed clean and all that remained was to sweep up the debris that was lying on the floor and cart it to the compost bin. Feeling his stomach growl, Do this later, the boy thought, his stomach growling again, after I eat.

Coming out of the fireplace, Zachariah removed the cloth screens, folded them and, carefully folding it from the outer edges inward so as not to spill soot onto the floor, folded the large cloth that lay directly in front of the fireplace. Going to the front door, stepping outside, shutting the door behind him, he shook all three, refolded them, and placed them alongside the door.

While outside, the boy removed his scarf and coat, shook both and, using the scarf, rubbed his hands, face and head in an attempt to remove as much loose dirt as possible.

Back in the house, “Mum,” in the parlor, “Oh, Mum, I’ve finished!” he called.

Opening the door to the kitchen, standing within the open doorway, “Zachariah, come in here, why don’t you.” “Oh, no, Mum! I wouldn’t want to get your things an’ nice floors all dirty,” he said sincerely. “Please, Mum,” he asked, pointing to the fireplace, “mightn’t I eat ‘ere?”

Coming a step or two closer, the lady looked at the boy.

Standing before the fireplace, his coat and scarf were lying at his feet and, out of the long-coat, seeing the tattered, threadbare appearance of his trousers, his shirt, Zachariah appeared to be even smaller, even younger, and even, if at all possible, more pathetic then she’d originally thought.

Not wanting to cause the boy any discomfort, “All right, sit down and rest. I’ll be in shortly.” She did want to speak to him and would rather he came into the kitchen, but was able to understand why he’d feel more comfortable here.

Sitting on the raised hearth, looking about the well-appointed room, the boy’s eyes stopped at the large, sheet draped, cone-like thing standing in the corner.  Noticing something glittering at the top, standing, he crossed the room. It’s a star. A five-pointed star! Curious, “Mum!” Still, a child, curiosity getting the better of him, “Oh, Mum!” he called.

“Yes, Zachariah?” Coming through the door, she saw him staring at the star.

“What is this thing, Mum?”

What is this thing? Thinking, how could he not know? Going to the cone, she carefully removed the sheets.

His eyes widening, “Oh… It’s beautiful! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” thinking, other than you… “Oh, Mum, what is it?”

“Zachariah, you’ve never seen a Christmas tree? What does that man do at Christmas? What do you do at Christmas?”

Staring raptly at the tree, “Master Johnson, ‘e don’t ‘old with Christmas,” Zachariah answered, “so mostly we do nothin’.” Correcting himself, “I don’t do nothin’. Master Johnson, ‘e gets drunk. ‘e say’s that rich fools likes to buy the likes of ‘im drinks on the day afore Christmas.”

“Oh, yes,” suspecting as much, “that’s the ‘important appointment’ he wasn’t able to miss! I’ll surely be giving your Master Johnson a bit of my mind when he returns!”

“Oh, Mum, no!”  Fear showing on his face, “Please! ‘e told me not to be sayin’ nothin’ to ya ‘bout where ‘e’s gone off too. Please don’t tell ‘im I told ya!”

Seeing the fear on his face, in his eyes, “Zachariah, no! I would never say a word that would make trouble for you. No! I’ll not mention a word. Rest now till I come back. I’ll finish getting your food.”

Relaxing, “Thank ya, Mum.”

Going back to the hearth, sitting, staring across the room at the Christmas tree, putting his elbows on his knees, he held his head by cupping his chin between the palms of his hands. Leaning forward, putting the weight of his body onto his arms and knees… Zachariah’s eyelids drooped… closed… fluttered open, then closed again. He forced his eyes open… then they closed.

His mind goes to his comfortable place… To his clean place.

He is younger, no more than three years old. Straddling her waist with his legs, his head resting on her shoulder, his arms about her neck, he is sitting on his mother’s lap. He cannot see mama’s face because the mama of Zachariah’s dreams, as in his memory, mama always has her face hidden in deep shadow.

“Ah, Zachariah,” her voice sweet music to the ear of his mind, “my little Zachariah,” she coos, winding a finger into one of the tight curls over his ear, and…

Now, for the first time in his memory, in his dream, in this dream…

Mama…

Putting both sweet-smelling hands onto her baby’s cheeks mama holds his face and…

Mama’s face came out of the darkness and…

Mama…

Zachariah is able to see her face, for mama’s face is the face of the lady and he looks at her closely, wanting, needing, to etch mama’s face into the eye of his memory. To never forget again!

To never allow the face of mama to be unseen… to never be hidden in shadows.

“Zachariah,” softly, “my little Zachariah.”

Zachariah feels her warm, soft lips on his forehead. Mama. Mama’s hands, Mama’s lips feel so warm, so loving.

“Zachariah…”

Softly, “I’ve brought you your meal…Zachariah.”

The boy’s legs relaxed, his elbows spread and, his head slipped from between his hands falling onto his chest and, his eyes opening, Zachariah’s head snapped up, and…

Above him it was the face of his dream, and for a moment he thought it was mama and, “Mama!” he said happily. Then, his eyes focusing, looking to his right, looking to his left, he remembered.

The lady saw his joy, then the sorrow. “Zachariah, I’m sorry to wake you, but I’ve brought your food.” Kneeling before the boy, she placed the tray onto the floor before him.

Standing at her side there was a small child whom,  bythe look of him, had just awoken from a nap and now bashfully hid his face in his mother’s skirt.

Seeing the child, Zachariah smiled.

“Albert,” prying her son’s face from her skirt. “Albert, this is Zachariah.”

Albert looked at Zachariah. Seeing his dirt-encrusted face the child bounded back in fear and, grabbing his mother’s skirt again, twisted behind her back and began to cry.

Vanishing, Zachariah’s smile was replaced by a look of extreme pain as he realized that it was his appearance that had caused such fear in Albert… He, too, began to cry.

Pulling the little boy from behind and beneath her skirt, lifting him into her arms, stroking the back of his head, “Shhh,” the lady whispered in the child’s ear. “Don’t cry, my little Albert. This is Zachariah, and he’s just a little boy, too. He won’t hurt you… Shhh.” Making a half turn she looked at Zachariah and, seeing his tears, a thickness came to her throat and, her eyes becoming moist, also, This won’t do! she thought. This just will not do! The three of us here bawling. “Albert!” she said sternly, attempting to force her own tears down. “Albert, stop crying! This is Zachariah and he will not hurt you!” Thinking a moment, she added, “Zachariah’s here to clean our chimney so when Saint Nicholas comes with all your presents he won’t get himself dirty sliding down the chimney.”

At this both boys stopped crying.

Saint Nicholas? Zachariah thought.

“Saint Nicholas!”

“Yes, Albert, so he won’t get his nice red suit all dirty when he comes down the chimney.”

His fear of Zachariah momentarily forgotten, “Saint Nicholas coming?”

“Yes, tonight, Albert. Saint Nicholas is coming to visit tonight and Zachariah,” looking at him, “is cleaning our chimney so he won’t get dirty.”

Wiggling from his mother’s arms, standing in front of  her, looking at Zachariah, smiling, “Saint  Nicholas come tonight!” Albert said.

“Eh, Mum,” looking from Albert to the lady, “who’s going to, eh, slide down the chimney?” he asked disbelievingly . 

“Why, Zachariah, I’m surprised at you!” Surely, she thought, he must be jesting. But then again, he had no idea of the tree, the lady further thought. And for the sake of Albert, “Don’t you know that on Christmas Eve Saint Nicholas comes to the homes of all good children?” she asked.

“No, Mum. Why’s ‘e come?” he asked sincerely.

Once again amazed at Zachariah’s lack of spiritual knowledge, the lady hesitated because it was beyond her comprehension that there was a child anywhere that did not know of Saint Nicholas. But he doesn’t know, she thought. The poor child does not know! How sad. Once again, for the sake of Albert, “He comes to bring presents.”

“Presents?” In the same disbelieving tone: “Who’s, eh, who’s ‘e bring presents to?”

“Children… The good children.”

“‘e brings presents to the ‘good children’! All over London?” he asked incredulously, thinking, I’m good. Why ain’t ‘e never brought me a present?

Sighing, she glanced at her son. “No, Zachariah, Saint Nicholas brings presents to good children…” hesitating because she knew how ridiculous it would sound to the boy, “…all over the world.”

And it does. “The world?” The size of the world and the amount of people occupying it far beyond his understanding, but knowing the world is big and that it is occupied by a lot of people, “The world! ‘e, this, uh…?”

Hesitating, “Saint Nicholas,”  the lady said.

 “Yes, Mum. ‘St. Nicholas,’ ‘e brings presents to all them children, all over the world! An’…” Zachariah’s personal experience telling him this is impossible, but feeling rather sure that the lady would not lie to him, “‘e, eh… ‘slides down’ all them chimneys?”

“Why, uh… yes.”

After all, why would she lie to him. “Who-ee,” said in absolute amazement, “‘e must be one dirty bloke.”

Albert had listened to this exchange looking at Zachariah, up to his mother, and back to Zachariah, his head turning as each spoke.

“Zachariah…” For the sake of Albert she wanted, very badly, to end this conversation. “You’d best eat before it gets cold.”

Patting her son on the behind to get him started, the lady followed. When she reached the kitchen she entered, turned back, and watched the other boy through a slight opening of the door.

To be continued