All I want for Christmas...
Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Ben. Living in a sweet and nice country, populated with the kindest of people, he possessed all one could long for. Every day he went to school, learning diligently about those things big people like to tell. Reading, writing, he liked doing all of it. But most of all, he loved history.
Who, as a boy, would not like to hear stories about the great deeds and adventures of men in eras long bygone? Stories of valour, love and the toil of war? From the blazing heat of the Arabian desert where brave knights fought under the Holy Cross to the peaceful pastures of Oxfordshire where the farmers happily harvested their wheat, he drank up everything he read or heard and stored it carefully in his young heart.
In these years he used to write a lot himself. Every night, he came together with some friends that shared his passion for telling the tales of the past on a square in the middle of their little town. There they sat for hours, under the old and knotty branches of the oak that had guarded the place since time immemorial. They exchanged their stories, laughed and were as happy as one can be. It seemed like these golden times would never end; not until they became wise and mature and started their studies at a vague and remote place called university.
Ben thought that this was the best that could have happened to him. Happily, he went there, learning more and more about the wonderful world that we use to call history. As the weeks passed by, though, his old friends under the ancient oak saw less and less of him. While they continued their merry meetings, Ben was consumed by towering piles of books and assignments that seemed to eat all of his time. He thought that he would be happy when he spent all of his time learning for his exams, that the best one could get would be a high grade for one of these.
But at one of these afternoons, he felt more miserable than he had ever felt in his whole young life. The sky was dark, and his heart was yearning for the kindness and warmth of a good friend. He hadn’t written a story for weeks, hadn’t seen his friends for months.
At that moment, he jumped from his chair and cowered in a corner, scared to death by the shining and large shape of an old man who had suddenly appeared in his small room. The man came closer, smiled and offered a hand to help him on his feet again.
Shivering, but somehow knowing that he need not fear this strange creature, Ben asked: ‘S-sir, who... who are you?’
The man’s large belly started shaking and he had to grasp the table in order not to fall because of the great laughter that had come over him. A loud ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’ filled the air until he finally managed to speak: ‘My poor lad, don’t you know? I am father Christmas! I am here to enlighten the darkness, to bring joy to those drowning in misery. And you, Ben, certainly need me!’
Ben’s eyes started to shine as he recalled the old stories they had talked about as children. ‘Sir, what do you think I should do to find happiness again?’
Father Christmas sat down, and with his warm, deep voice said: ‘Remember where your heart truly lies, Ben. Is it in these books, the paper you are writing on or the vague idea of a mark they give you? Is that what you came here for? No, my little friend. You came here for history, for the joy of telling the tales of the past! Well, do so and be happy again!’
And thus he left, leaving a new Ben there in his room. From that moment on, Ben would go to the little village in Oxfordshire at least once a week, meeting his old friends and making joy as they told their tales. And so he lived happily, ever after.
TotW 170 Christmas Contest: Fairytale of New York - SUBMISSIONS
