_______________________________________________________

 Knowing he had a choice, looking at Zachariah,  Johnson hesitated, and…

Forgetting that just a short while ago he’d beaten him.

Forgetting that just a short while ago he’d stood above the bleeding, cowering boy with his fists clenched and had been prepared to beat him to death.

Forgetting this, Johnson felt betrayed at Zachariah’s willingness to go with the stranger.

The fire having dimmed again, his eyes shifted from the somewhat strange-appearing face of Zachariah to the mound of coins that lay on the table before him and, hefting the lady’s coin in his hand, he weighed…

The boy?  The money?

The Climbing Boy: 25; London, England; December 24, 1843

Of course, he thought, I could keep Zachariah and the gold coin. But, glancing at the shadowy figure that sat across from him, once again Johnson felt the stranger was something more—or something less—than human, and he shuddered, because knowing were he to keep the boy, under that pretense, the stranger would certainly come knocking on his door again and that was something he did not want to happen… ever.

“Johnson,” the stranger demanded. “Enough money?”

Startled, bolting in his seat, he looked at the dark figure. “Yes.” Johnson muttered softly, then looked to the stranger’s side, at the boy, and speaking louder, “Damn ya, it’s enough! Damn ya both! Now get out’a me ‘ouse, the both of ya!” His voice rising with anger, “Take ‘im an’…” he began to cough, “get out!”

Slowly, as if terribly saddened, rising wearily from the chair, turning away from Johnson, the stranger walked to the door, opened it, stepped through and without another word closed the door behind him, allowing Zachariah and Johnson their goodbyes.

Standing across from the man that had been his only family for almost as far into the past as he could remember, “Master Johnson, I…” The boy had an urgent need to speak to the man, to thank him for providing what little he did have, to…

 Feeling something he hadn’t felt in the past, Zachariah felt a need to tell Johnson that he wasn’t angry for the beatings, to tell Johnson that he forgave him for the years of mistreatment, and for killing Mousy, so, “Master Johnson, I…”  But…

Holding his hand forward, silencing the boy, Johnson lifted the bottle of gin and, deliberately looking at him from above its smooth, rounded circumference, drained the remaining liquor, then, slamming the bottle onto the table, causing the coins to jump. “Get out’a ‘ere!” Gesturing drunkenly, shaking his fist at the boy. “Get your bloody arse out’a ‘ere or I’ll give ya what for!”

“Master…”

“No!” Shaking his head negatively, “Ya ain’t mine no more!” Waving him away, his voice rising. “Go on with ya! Go to ya new master! Go!”

His shoulders slumping sadly, the boy walked slowly to the closed door, pulled the door open and, pausing before stepping out of the shack, Zachariah looked back at that which had been his home and at he whom had been his father. “Master Johnson,” still, the boy tried speaking to the man one last time… But….

Hunched over the table, counting, stacking his money, Johnson seemingly no longer noticed the boy.

“Zachariah, come, lad.” Speaking softly, the stranger beckoned from outside. “The night’s growing late.”

Looking at the hunched figure at the table, “Goodbye, Sir.”

There was no response.

With one last, “Goodbye,” stepping through the doorway, putting the hat onto his head, feeling a lifting of his spirit, Zachariah pulled the door to the shack shut behind him.

“Lordy!”  The darkly overcast sky was gone.

As earlier, the velvet sky was pitch black and the full moon shone brilliantly to the accompaniment of millions upon millions of radiantly gleaming stars, and, as far as Zachariah could see, the earth was bathed in creamy whiteness, for all within sight was covered with sparkling crystals of pure, white snow.

Waiting, the stranger held his hand to the little boy.

 He looked up as the door closed behind Zachariah and, as though the closing of the door signaled a change in his life, Johnson knew, instantly, that now and for the rest of his life, for so long as he lived, he would be alone…  Alone! Always!

 The one room shack suddenly felt larger and colder and drearier, and empty… so empty!

An overpowering loneliness overtaking him, “Oh, Lordy!”  he cried aloud and, looking to the ceiling, Johnson paused, for these words, these words that he’d heard the boy speak so many times, seemed to reverberate in his mind.  “Lordy! What did I do?”

The realization that he was alone—truly alone—that Zachariah was forever out of his life, was almost more than he could endure.  “Why’d I do it? Why’d I give me boy away?”  Me boy?  Pausing again, Me boy? Thinking in amazement that he’d never thought of Zachariah as ‘his boy’ before.

Looking at the neat stack of coins on the table, bitter tears stinging his eyes, Was it worth it? he thought, Giving the…Giving me boy away for this!

Fearful of the answer, lifting the “gold” coin he attempted to find reassurance by biting it… then by hefting it, but only felt the coin’s coldness…  A coldness so intense that it seared his flesh. A coldness so extreme that the coin dropped from his hand onto the stack of coins, knocking them into a jumbled mound.

His head spinning, his eyes came out of focus.

The three bottles of gin, along with what he’d been given to drink in the pubs he’d visited throughout this day now taking its toll, he tried to focus his eyes, but couldn’t, and nodding onto his chest, his head suddenly became unbearably heavy.

“Tired. So tired!”  Wearily lifting himself from the chair, Johnson stumbled across the room where he fell, unconscious, onto his cot.

The smoldering wood became glowing ash… then dust.

The shack became dark… then frigidly cold.

In his sleep…  Even in his inebriated sleep, Johnson sensed an overpowering loneliness.

The Climbing Boy: 25; London, England; Christmas Day 1843      

Awakened by the cold, “Zachariah!”

Remembering,  Johnson’s first thought was of the boy.

Staring through the darkness to the far side of the shack, to the boy’s pallet, he saw…

Something was there.

There was a shadow, a shadow that was darker than the pre-dawn blackness.

Squinting, Johnson rubbed his knuckles over his eyes.

There appeared to be a figure on the boy’s pallet, sitting up, back against the wall.

A dream?

I must ‘ave been dreamin’. Cold vapor flowing from his mouth, “Oh, Lordy,” Johnson said aloud, “it ain’t never ‘appened! Thank ya, Jesus! Thank ya!”

Coming off his cot, rushing across the room he dropped to his knees next to Zachariah’s pallet.

“Zachariah! Zachariah me boy!” he cried. “I’m so sorry! So sorry for the way I been treatin’ ya. Things’ll be different. Soon’s it’s light, in the mornin’, we’ll go to the factory an’ ya can ’ave one’a Archie’s kitt…”

A fissure opening in the thick bank of black clouds allowed a beam of moonlight to stream through the shack’s only window… onto the pallet of Zachariah, where…

Propped against the wall was the burlap and rag pillow, and…  “Zachariah? Zachariah!”

“No! Oh, my Lord!” Johnson’s cries echoed through the cold, lonely night…

“Zachariah!”

          London, England: Christmas Eve, 1843: The Halo of Light

The two walked through the glistening night, and the cold, yet balmy breeze, and the gentle kiss of falling snow.

But for the crunch of snow all was still—still and quiet.

Protectively, lovingly, the stranger put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

The stranger’s touch warmed Zachariah with a comforting warmth he remembered only from the dream of the embrace of his mother.

Coming off the dirt path, the two walked onto the cobblestone road and within moments arrived within the sphere of the warming yellow glow of a gas-lit street lamp.

Stopping, removing a glove, holding Zachariah’s chin gently in his bare hand, the stranger tilted the boy’s face upward, and…

Looking at Zachariah’s clean, angelic face the stranger’s face broadened into a wide smile, and…

Looking up, Zachariah could not help but smile in return, for…

Reflecting in the soft glow of the street lamp, the stranger’s eyes fairly twinkled, and his flowing white beard seemingly shone with an iridescent glow.

Nearby, there was the impatient rustling of hooves and the tinkle of small bells.

Reaching his hand to Zachariah, “Come, lad,” the stranger said. “It’s near Christmas and there’s many that await us this night.”

Hand in hand, the two passed from the yellow glow of the street lamp and silently walked upon the snow-covered, cobblestone road.

And the brilliantly shining moon, reflecting onto the round crown of the top hat formed a luminous…

Halo of light.

                                          Epilogue

Boston, Massachusetts: Christmas Eve, 1910

 Twisting on his grandfather’s lap, looking at him, “But Papa,” the little boy says, “he’ll be so dirty!”

Lowering the book he’d been reading to his grandson, the old man peers at the boy over the rim of his spectacles.

“Saint Nicholas, Papa!” the boy points to the fireplace. “How does Saint Nicholas stay clean when he comes down the chimney?”

Mulling the boy’s question, “How does Saint Nicholas stay clean?” the old man repeats.

“Yes, it’s all sooty and so dirty there, Papa!”

Gazing at the burning fireplace, the remembrance of a story his mother had once told him comes to mind, a story about, “A little climbing boy that looks much like you,” she had said. “A little climbing boy that became an angel and the helper of Saint Nicholas, because, after all, how does Saint Nicholas remain clean?”

Placing the book and his spectacles on the table alongside the chair, lifting his grandson, the old man turns the boy in his direction.

“There was a story my mother—your great gra’mama—told me when I was, oh, even smaller than you….”

When you lived in England, Papa?”

“Yes, Stephen. When I lived in London, your great gra’mama told me a story about a little climbing boy… Do you know what a climbing boy is?”

“No, Papa.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? Well, I’ll explain in the story. Anyway, Stephen, this is the story about a little boy who became an angel and the helper of Saint Nicholas, and that little boy had light hair and blue eyes…”

“Like me, Papa?”

“Yes,” tousling the boy’s hair, “just like you.

“Well,” the old man continues, “a long time ago there came to our home in London a little climbing boy by the name of…” trying to remember, he stops. “Ah, yes!” Albert says, “Zachariah…”

                                                                        END

 Author’s Note:  The Climbing Boy had been optioned for a new Christmas Classic back in 2010. The option period was for eighteen months and for this option period I was paid the grand sum of $1.00. Yes one dollar, but I was absolutely thrilled that my story was going to be made into the new “It’s A Wonderful Life”. 

Well, of course, that’s not how it turned out.

The Climbing Boy being what is called a “period piece” requiring more money for production and as Hollywood money was extremely tight at that time production companies opted for more of a “sure thing”, like maybe another zombie or vampire movie, or Sherlock Holmes or a remake of some film that was popular in the fifties or sixties.

So, the eighteen months drawing to a close, a new contract was drawn up and this time I acquired the assistance of a “show business attorney”.  And this time, as my attorney costs were about twelve hundred dollars, thinking if the production company had some money invested they’d possibly work harder in finding the capital needed, also, to help cover my attorney fees, I asked for one thousand dollars and…

Well, needless to say they did not accept my request and the option was dropped.

In the meantime, a fantastic—in my opinion—screenplay had been written with the rights to the screenplay belonging to myself and the writer of the screenplay who happens to live in London, who now has two produced screenplays under his belt and is doing all within the scope of his knowledge and contacts to, once again, get this, in my opinion (of course) wonderful, original story onto the big… or possibly the small screen.

This said, I thank you for reading along and sincerely hope that you did enjoy, “The Climbing Boy.”

                                                             Mark