A Christmas Like Djaq's

[sylvi10]

Title: A Christmas Like Djaq's
Word Count: 5,044
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Djaq, the gang; implied Djaq/Will
Summary: Snow and trees, caves and Englishmen. And mistletoe. And Christmas.
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing.


It was Djaq’s first winter in Sherwood Forest. She had only just gotten used to the unbelievable amount of rain in England when the weather turned cooler and the days shorter, and the ground hardened almost overnight. Soon she was waking to an enchanting layer of silvery frost that dusted the grass in the fields, the bare branches on the trees, and any withering flowers or leaves that still remained. The frost resurrected the dull, the dry, and the dying and glorified them with a shimmer that hinted at new possibilities of beauty and life. It caught the pale light of the morning sun and sparked it into glittering brilliance, making all the world dance in front of her eyes.

Then, too soon, the frost had gone, replaced by frozen water that fell in light drops, covering everything-and it did not go away.

Now she was becoming accustomed to the fog of her breath on the brittle air, the dark mornings and long nights, and the slippery patches that once had been puddles. (Her backside had been so sore for a week following her first encounter with ice that she resolved to never again mistake the smooth and glassy surface.) She was learning to anticipate snowfall from the gray, low-hanging clouds that swelled in the sky, the glow that ringed the moon, and an unidentifiable scent in the air-something clear that spoke of freshness even as it warned of the sharp edge of cold, painful and deadly. Snow itself she found to be beautiful, nearly indescribably so, especially when the mid-day sun glinted off whitened hills and fields, reminding her of nothing so much as the brightness of the desert, the same blinding glare. But the snow and cold made life difficult for all. Food was scarce, sickness spread among the peasants, and the outlaws had finally been driven to the gloomy shelter of the cave to wait out the winter.

They were gathered there now on what Djaq had heard them refer to as Christmas Eve, a Christian celebration of great importance, she believed, based upon what she had seen of the preparations taking place in the villages. Simple decorations of greenery and bright berries adorned the plain houses, and children ran and played with excitement as they laughed a little louder. A song could be heard on the lips of even the eldest and feeblest of villagers, those who had already seen their share of Christmases but had lived to welcome one more.

The outlaws had been doing their best to make this Christmas a day of joy and plenty. All week, they had trekked through snowdrifts and wind to deliver food and wood because Robin would not tolerate anyone going hungry or cold at Christmastime. Weary now from these efforts, and so not in the best of spirits, they gave each other as much space as possible in the crowded interior of the cave that was filled with food stores, firewood enough to last for several days, and all of their belongings.

Robin fletched arrows in one corner, while John polished his quarter staff in another. Will sat near the fire in order to see his carving, and Allan lay wrapped in blankets close by him, sleeping off an illness. Djaq quietly ground dried herbs and mixed remedies in a small area that the others had come to recognize as her own little infirmary, its makeshift shelves overflowing with carefully labeled boxes and bottles, bundles of clean and neatly rolled bandages, and various roots and leaves hanging to dry.

Only Much grumbled as he stirred a pot of stew that looked to be more water than vegetable, and precious little meat-if any. He started on his familiar lament. “I hate the cave. It is dark, and it smells. This is not where I hoped to spend my first Christmas back in England. I should be in Bonchurch Lodge now.” He stopped briefly to glance around, but the lack of an attentive audience only seemed to encourage him to continue more stridently. “Yes, Bonchurch would be nice at this time of year. I would have a roaring fire with a boar turning on a spit, a lovely spiced wine, and some of the lightest, finest bread you’ve ever tasted.”

“This cave is a good place,” said John sharply and emphatically, without looking up or stopping in his work. “It is as good as where the Lord spent his first Christmas.”

Djaq was surprised to notice Much snap his mouth shut and return quickly to stirring his pot, but before she had time to ponder this new mystery, Allan woke coughing. She went to him and helped him sit up against the wall of the cave, while the rest of the gang looked on in mild concern until he quieted, then returned to their tasks. All except for Much.

“Are we going to have to listen to that again all night long?” he complained, speaking to Djaq but glaring at Allan. “I tell you, I cannot sleep when he does that.”

“Oi! It’s not my fault, you know,” wheezed Allan. “I’ve been helpin’ Djaq bring medicine to all those sick villagers, an’ now I’m sick, too, with whatever they ‘ave.”

“Djaq isn’t sick,” observed Much, as if Allan’s poor health was some sort of personal failure derived from low moral standards.

“Yes, it is true that I am not sick,” said Djaq as she brought Allan a steaming cup of herbs and honey, ignoring the way he grimaced and wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disgust. With the intention of diffusing a potential argument between him and Much, she continued, “But I did not fall in the river, as Allan did, and that has made his cough worse.”

“Ha! You fell in the river!” said Much a bit wildly and with evident delight. Then, bemused, “Why did you fall in the river?”

Allan suddenly became quite interested in the previously distasteful medicine. When he replied, he spoke deliberately into his cup, his words muffled and only just audible. “I was crossin’ it, and the stones were icy.”

“Why were you crossing the river, Allan?” asked Robin, spotting an evasion and immediately joining the conversation in order to pounce upon it.

This time Allan looked at Will as he answered. “I wanted somethin’ on the other side,” he muttered darkly.

Will kept his face lowered to his carving, but Djaq thought she noticed a quick smile tug at the corners of his mouth, although it might have been just a shadow cast by the flickering firelight.

“Well, I hope it was worth it,” prodded Robin, but Allan would say no more.

Djaq, sensing that Allan was lacking in his customary good humor-customary, at least, where everyone but Much was concerned-knew he must be feeling tired and unwell, and so she sought to change the subject from this teasing. She returned to the topic John had raised, having not yet puzzled out a satisfactory explanation for Much’s chastened reaction. “Tell me, where was it, then, that your Lord spent Christmas?”

It was John who answered her. “He was born on Christmas, in a barn.”

Djaq was taken aback. She knew of the prophet Jesus, who was called Issa in the Qur’an, and she had learned a great deal about Christian beliefs through both her education and her intimate exposure to Englishmen. But her interest had primarily centered upon how and why this religion was at war with her own. She did not know all of the Christian stories, nor had she read their holy book, and so this particular piece of information was new and startling to her. “In a barn?” she said incredulously. “How could such a thing happen?”

“Well, ‘e was poor, wasn’t ‘e?” croaked Allan. “’e was just a poor carpenter’s son.”

“Your God,” said Djaq slowly, making sure that she understood correctly. “Your God was the son of a carpenter?” As she finished, she turned to stare at Will.

This time Will looked up, wide-eyed, and opened his mouth to speak, but any protests or explanations he might have attempted were drowned out by Allan’s raucous laughter, which soon enough turned into another uncontrollable bout of coughing.

“Not funny, Allan,” John admonished when the fit had ended. Then John briefly related the Christmas story in his simple way, and everyone stopped what they were doing to listen, although all but Djaq knew it well.

She found herself unexpectedly moved by the idea of the poor family with no friends and nowhere to spend the night, their fear and desperation driving them to seek shelter in the only available place, the young mother giving birth to her child among the sounds and smells and warmth of the animals. How remarkable that the God of such proud and righteous Christians had come from such a humble birth! Witnessed by shepherds, worshipped by kings.

Then another thought occurred to her, and she voiced it without thinking. “This Prince of Peace, as you call him, He is the reason for your Crusades?”

John bowed his head, the tranquil spell of his story broken, and for a moment no one answered her. Djaq was confused by everything about these Christians and their many contradictions, but right now she mostly felt sorry that she had asked this question, that her curiosity to know and to understand had somehow hurt her friends. She saw Robin and Much retreat into themselves, lost in grim memories of their time as Crusaders, haunted by all of the bloodshed they had seen and by guilt for all of the death they themselves had caused. From Will’s frown and the distressed look on Allan’s face, she knew they were remembering that it was Englishmen, like themselves, who had killed her brother.

Finally it was Robin who spoke. “We take up arms and go to war in His name, yes, but I would not say He is the reason. Men are responsible for conflict with other men, no matter in whose name they fight.”

Seeking to change the subject once again, hopefully to something more cheerful, she said, “Tell me about your celebration of Christmas.”

It was a good choice of topic, and the lads stumbled over one another’s words in their attempts to describe the Holy Day and its traditions to her. Descriptions of food and decorations, poorly sung verses, and unfamiliar words like yule and wassail left her in a confused daze until she finally cried out, “One at a time, please!” and clapped her hands over her ears.

Laughing, Robin set aside his arrows and leaned forward with his elbows resting upon his knees and his fingers steepled together in front of him. Seeing the boyish look upon his face, the others deferred as much to his leadership as to his eagerness and sat back to listen.

“I will tell you about my favorite Christmas,” he began. “It was the last Christmas that Much and I spent in Locksley before we left for the Holy Land. As was our custom, we held a feast for all of the villagers, and then several of the noble families were invited to dine at Locksley Manor. We were all dressed in our finest, and Thornton had decorated the house with ribbons and evergreens and candles burning in every corner. I seem to remember that it looked especially festive that year.”

Robin‘s voice had grown vague and distant, and he stopped to gaze at the wall of the cave, all the while seeming to envision a scene long past and one that would not, perhaps, come again. Then he sat up straighter and smiled playfully, and his eyes took on an impish gleam.

“Thornton had hung a sprig of mistletoe from a beam in front of the fireplace, and I waited all evening for Marian to pass beneath it. I remember she wore a dark red dress, and her hair was pinned up off of her neck. She was as beautiful then as she is now, and just as spirited. Her eyes caught the candlelight every time she looked over at me, but she never ventured towards that end of the room.”

Looking round at them all, Robin shrugged helplessly and said, “She must have known the mistletoe was there.”

While the others listened with anticipation, Djaq realized there must be something she was failing to grasp about the significance of mistletoe and its placement, but she waited to see where Robin’s story would lead, for certainly this mystery would become clear in the telling.

“It was getting on towards the end of the evening, and most of the other guests had already departed. I was growing desperate and was about to lose my chance. Marian and her father were already at the door, putting on their cloaks, when I called her back to present her with a gift. I said she must come to the fireplace to choose from among the two carved horses that Dan Scarlett had made. She was so pleased with them that she forgot all about the mistletoe and stood right beneath it as she looked at the horses. And that was when I kissed her.”

The others chuckled kindly at Robin’s amorous triumph, and he concluded his tale, saying “Then I gave her both of the horses because in truth, I had asked Dan to make them especially for her.”

“I am familiar with mistletoe,” said Djaq with a slight frown. “It has some medicinal value, but why must Marian stand beneath it so that you can kiss her?”

“It is a custom during this time of year for people to exchange kisses under a sprig of mistletoe,” explained Robin, his grin still lingering with the pleasure of the memory. “In such a situation, one person cannot refuse to kiss the other.”

Djaq briefly wondered if Marian would have wanted to refuse otherwise, and if mistletoe wasn’t really just an excuse for young couples to kiss in a socially acceptable manner.

“Well, I certainly wish I could have refused,” Much intruded upon her musings. “Master, do you remember Susan, the kitchen maid?”

“Twice as many years as you and twice as much facial hair?” said Robin with a snicker.

“Ah, yes, I see that you do. Well. I was reaching up to remove the mistletoe the day after that very Christmas party when she surprised me there, and let’s just say, there weren’t even any nicely carved horses to make up for it afterwards!”

This was greeted by several loud guffaws, and even Djaq giggled and shook her head, for surely Much had not expected any real sympathy for his long-past ordeal, however lacking in romance it may have been.

Will had been listening quietly and smiling gently, as was his way, but now he spoke up excitedly. “I remember those horses,” he said. “My father loved to make carvings and toys like that whenever he got the chance. He was a great craftsman, but he was an artist, too, and when times were better he would carve figures in front of the fire during the evenings. I remember one Christmas, when Luke and I were just children, that he gave us a whole army of horses and knights and archers that he’d carved himself.” In sudden wonder, he added, “He must have worked nearly a full year on those.”

Then he grew more serious. “The Christmas I remember best, though, was the one when Luke and I helped my dad make a rocking chair for my mother. We wanted her to be able to sit in comfort in the evenings. We worked on it in secret for months.”

Djaq thought that she had never heard Will say so many words of a personal nature all at one time. Wondering at his sudden sadness, she asked, “Did your mother not like it, Will?”

His eyes were bright when he looked over at her. “She loved it,” he said simply, his voice low and full of sincerity, as if he spoke only to Djaq. “She sat in that chair every night for years, sewing and mending clothes, and we would gather round her with our own work and talk. That chair was the center of our home.” He stopped to swallow, and his next words contained a small amount of harshness, as if fighting back emotion. “My dad got rid of it when she died. I never knew what he did with it-sold it or gave it away. He just couldn’t bear to look at it . . . after she was gone . . . empty.”

Djaq reached out and took hold of Will’s hand lightly in her own. She let go when he dropped his eyes to where their hands were clasped and then lifted them again with a look so honest and questioning that it made her feel uneasy, though she could not have explained why or in what way. Still, she nodded kindly at him.

Robin let the silence that followed Will’s account continue for just a minute before saying, “What about you, John? What was your favorite Christmas?”

John frowned and furrowed his brow. He sat so long without speaking that Djaq began to think he would not, but at last, he said heavily, “My first Christmas with Alice. We were living in drafty cottage with a smoky fire, but I had everything I wanted. I had my Alice. I remember-” He paused and, shaking his head with a sigh, went on in a softer voice. “I remember she sang while she put our meal on the table. After we ate she sat on my knee, and I held her with my arm round her waist. We talked and laughed and let the candle burn low. And for that one night we didn’t have a care in the world. I had everything,” he repeated, “and I knew it.”

“That is a beautiful memory, John,” said Djaq.

John grunted and looked away. “Much,” he said gruffly. “Your turn.”

“My favorite Christmas?” said Much, glancing nervously in Robin’s direction. “My favorite Christmas was one year ago, when I knew that Robin was going to live and that we would be coming home.” He nodded once with finality.

“That’s it?” demanded Allan. “You never shut up, but now when we ask you for a story that’s all you ‘ave to say?”

“Robin was going to live,” repeated Much with careful enunciation and pointed resentment. “It is the best Christmas I can remember, and I’m sorry if that is not good enough for you.”

Allan merely shrugged and lifted his eyebrows-innocent enough gestures that were surely calculated to antagonize Much, who turned away, crossed his arms, and pressed his lips tightly together as if he would say no more.

Then Much spun back around and leveled his wooden spoon at Allan. “But if you insist, then I will just tell you this. After what we thought was a Saracen attack on the King’s camp, my master’s wound took an infection, and he suffered from a fever for weeks. He did not know where he was. He did not even know who I was. He kept asking after the King and Marian and his father. The army had moved on without us, and I had never felt as alone as I did then, I can tell you, far my home and with my master not expected to live.”

He paused to take a shaky breath before continuing as if determined to speak a difficult truth. “During all the days I tended to Robin, and through all the nights I stayed by his side, I tried to force myself imagine what my life would be like without him, and I could not do it. I prayed that he would live because if he died then surely I would die, too.”

He began to stir his stew ferociously, and Djaq was certain she saw a tear fall into it.

“Much, my friend,” said Robin in a tenderly accusing tone. “You never told me.”

His voice tight, Much said, “Yes, well, I did not like to think of it. I still don’t.” Then he raised his head again, and he appeared to be calm and almost wondering. “But then you recovered and grew stronger, and we made plans to return to England. So that Christmas, when I went to mass, I knelt down, and I thanked God. Because I had only one prayer, and He had answered it.”

Robin was on his feet at once and crossed the cave in two quick strides, pulling Much into a firm embrace and releasing him only when Much began fussing about his stew burning.

Allan had been pensively rubbing his chin, not paying attention to this exchange of affection. When he moved his hand away, he looked around at the rest of the gang and said, “You know, I was gonna tell you about me and Tom’s first Christmas after we left ‘ome. We stole a huge roast goose from this nobleman who tried to beat us with his horse whip just for bein’ on his property-”

“Ah, yes,” said Much under his breath. “That sounds like an A’Dale sort of Christmas. Thievery and violence. Very appropriate.”

But Allan went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Thing is, then I realized-this Christmas is all right.”

“What?” cried Much in disbelief. “You mean this right here? Right now?”

“Well, yeah.” Allan seemed almost as surprised by his own words as Much.

“We’re in a cave, you’re sick, and all we have to eat is watery stew.” Much demonstrated his final point by letting the broth trickle sloppily off of his spoon and back into the pot.

“I know,” said Allan, “but I was thinkin’. At least it’s kind o’ peaceful here. No one’s fightin’, an’ I’m not worried ‘bout wakin’ up in the mornin’ to find all my stuff gone. It’s a cave, yeah, but it’s safe an’ warm. Your cookin’ means I’m goin’ to fall asleep with food in my stomach tonight, and Djaq’s takin’ care o’ me with all her herbs an’ stuff, and . . . well, I guess that’s all right.”

His last observation was so nearly a question that Robin immediately affirmed, “It is all right.”

“It’s just nice to have other people around,” finished Allan. “Lookin’ out for each other an’ stuff. You know?”

“Yes, I know,” said Much, walking up to Allan and handing him a steaming bowl of stew.

Later, Much collected the empty bowl from Allan’s hand without comment after Allan had fallen asleep. Will spread an extra blanket over him and then lay down nearby as the others quietly settled themselves for the night.

Djaq remained awake for some time, listening to the sounds of their hushed breathing, the whistle of the wind as it found its way through small openings in the cave, and the comforting crackle of the fire and the occasional hiss of evaporating moisture from the burning logs. In this quiet-almost as close to alone as she ever got these days-she granted herself a brief moment of sorrow for all that she had left behind or lost forever, for all that she still grieved and all that she regretted. There were things that had happened to her and things she had done that she would carry with her for her entire life-not all of them good, many of them deeply sad-but she felt herself grateful to have even these memories.

She reflected that so many of the Christmases the others had described were tinged with the bitterness of loss, but still they held onto what was best in their lives, even when their stories could not help but call attention to what was missing, never to be recovered. Like Much with his ever-present memories of fear and loneliness and Will with his once-happy family, now gone. Like the future that Robin had twice turned away from and that John had lost. Like the past that Allan would not talk about. Djaq knew all of it and was still learning how to live with the memories of her own sufferings.

Perhaps one day she would tell some of her own stories-the beautiful as well as the painful-expose them to the tempering glow of the firelight, share them until they twisted into meaning and shaped themselves into an essential part of a life she could live.

But not yet. For tonight it would be enough to acknowledge them and then tuck them away against a future she could not yet imagine.

When she had done so, she found she could allow the feelings of friendship and love that she carried for all of these men to wash over her for the very first time on this, her very first Christmas.

~*~*~

The next morning, as the gang prepared for the daily food drops, Djaq noticed Allan and Will off in a corner of the cave together. They were seated with their backs turned, but she could tell from the tilt of their heads and their inquisitive glances down at their hands and then back up to each other that they were studying something with great interest and apparent confusion. Curious, she moved quietly closer in an attempt to see what they were doing.

“That can’t be right,” Allan was saying doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what Much told me,” answered Will.

“Yeah, but it’s Much, isn’t it?” said Allan without any real malice, squinting at something in front of him.

Will just shrugged in response.

“I don’t know, mate. Somethin’ ‘ere just doesn’t make sense. I mean, ‘ow do you s’pose it works?”

“What should I do then? Should I give to her?” Will sounded slightly miserable. With a resigned sigh he said, “I suppose then at least she can tell us.”

At that, Will glanced back over his shoulder, meeting Djaq’s gaze, and Djaq realized that she must have something to do with the discussion taking place. She quickly turned away and resumed her preparations, but not before she heard Allan’s whispered, “Go on, then.” The next thing she knew, Will was standing next to her.

“Uh, Djaq,” he said hesitantly, and then pressed something into her hand. “I made this for you. For Christmas.”

She looked down to see a small wooden . . . horse? No, not quite. Was it a . . . ?

“Will, is this a camel?”

“Yeah, at least, it’s supposed to be,” said Will, somehow managing to sound both dejected and hopeful at the same time. “Much said a camel was like a horse with a hump on its back. Is this right?”

She took pity on him. “It is very . . . like a camel,” she said, choosing to look intently at the carved figure rather than at Will.

He nodded in relief, accepting her words as approval. “I thought maybe it would remind you of your home. In case you missed it, you know, being here where everything is so different.” He swept his arm about him in a vague semi-circle meant to indicate snow and trees, caves and Englishmen. “Anyway, I hope you like it.”

“It is lovely,” she said with true feeling. And it was. It was exquisitely carved, with careful attention to details like the hair of the mane and tail, its hooves and muscles, and it felt smooth in her hand. The only trouble was that it looked more like a horse with a round back than an actual camel. Will could not have known that, though, and she was touched that he would do this for her.

“Thank you, Will. This is very thoughtful of you.”

His task completed, and apparently with greater success than he had dared to hope, Will had begun to back away as Djaq was speaking. Then he stopped abruptly and raised his hand to where something swung from the roof of the cave, brushing against the top of his head. When he brought his hand down again, a small plant with white berries rested in his palm. They both stared at it, then at each other.

“Mistletoe?” asked Djaq.

All at once, she became aware that the other outlaws had stopped their activities and their conversations in order to watch this awkward interaction. Even Allan remained uncharacteristically speechless in spite of the wide grin and expectant look on his face.

Full of gratitude and a sudden joyful sense of mischief, Djaq made an impulsive decision. She stood on her tiptoes and stretched up to gently kiss Will at the corner of his mouth, letting her lips linger there just a moment longer than simple gratitude would require. Then without waiting to notice his reaction, she took the mistletoe from his hand and embraced each of the outlaws in turn. Much blustered in surprise and embarrassment, John seemed oddly pleased as he bent to hug her back, and Robin just laughed and wished her a Happy Christmas. Lastly she knelt down by Allan, pressed her lips quickly to his, and squeezed him so tightly that she heard him gasp.

When she moved away, she watched from the corners of her eyes as Will dropped to the floor beside Allan.

“Well, was it worth it?” asked Allan. “Me fallin’ in the river, I mean?”

Will just grinned back at him.

Allan picked up the mistletoe from the ground where Djaq had left it, dangled it over Will’s head, and threw an arm around his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, mate.”

Djaq knew then that if the time ever came-that time in her yet to be imagined future-this was the story she would tell of Christmas. A tale of a small band of Englishmen, poor and honorable, who cared for those less fortunate and looked after one another. How they had welcomed a stranger into their odd little family and accepted her. And she understood all at once what a wonderful gift they had given to her, for they had not only saved her life, they had offered her a new one and provided her with so many reasons to live it.