My Mystery Zone
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The man in the red suit was a mystery to me. I didn’t know him at all, but suddenly he appeared before us like an apparition out of legend and folklore—like the ghost that rides upon a phantom horse or a swamp demon from a haunted bog. He entered our world from another place, unknown to most people; it’s said that his home is somewhere above the clouds.
But he took no time to explain himself when we first encountered him on that cold December day in Wisconsin. If anything, he seemed as surprised by us as we were by him. All we knew about the man with the black beard and white hair and the tattered red suit was that he had been riding around in a sleigh pulled by reindeer for years now.
It made sense—we’d seen many such things over the years, but never one so clearly defined: a man who lived in this world and yet belonged to something else. We could not ask questions because there wasn’t enough time; besides, my father did not believe in asking too much of anyone.
So instead, we simply followed his lead. For the next few days, we traveled together with him, and though I often thought of trying to ask him how he came to be here, it felt unwise. And besides, he already had a name: Santa Claus. He would answer to that, and nothing more.
It began when we arrived at the town of Stenay. My father had arranged for us to stay with an old friend, who owned some land near where we lived. Our friend had also served briefly during the war between the United States and Germany; my father told us that the friendship had begun back then.
When our friend invited us into his house, he asked if we might bring a gift for his son, a boy around my age named Abel. “He has everything he needs,” our friend explained, “and he does not really have any friends.” We agreed and brought along two gifts that my brother and I had selected carefully: one was a toy soldier, the other a small model airplane.
The toys were chosen carefully because they looked like what we imagined these boys would need. They both had names—I remembered them clearly even after all these years—and each of their parents died in the war.
“You may find it strange, but Abel will thank you for this gift later on,” our host informed us as he gave us permission to leave. He went on to say that Abel had grown up without a mother, and his father had been left alone to raise him. He never married again, and Abel never formed any lasting friendships.
He remained a loner. “The boy’s best friend is his father, and he is old now and cannot spend much time with him anymore. He spends most of his time working in the fields, and Abel has nowhere else to go. At least now the lad has a friend, and one who won’t desert him.” He paused and turned to look at us while we stood in a corner of the room, waiting for him to continue.
After a moment, he added, “Your father and I both fought in the war. I can understand your leaving now because he is old, but why do you want to return?”
At first, we did not know how to answer. Then my father spoke. “We’ve come back because Abel knows nothing but war—war that is everlasting, and not always pleasant. This boy has done well, but he will appreciate having a friend who doesn’t talk or act differently than others, someone who understands him better because of what he’s been through.
We’re going to give Abel a friend who will last, and not just until Christmas.”
His words were true, but only in part. There was more to it than that, and once we returned to the farmhouse, we talked about it. My brother and I had seen the same thing as my father, and we were amazed by it—it was like looking into a mirror of ourselves, except that it had a different reflection.
We had known there would be children in the war zone, and we had tried to help many of them, but we had never met one quite like Abel. In truth, we did not know if our own lives would ever be the same again.
That evening, we sat in front of the fire and played cards with our friend. He taught us one of his games, which we enjoyed immensely. At one point, my father looked at us and said, “This is your last chance. Do whatever you want to do. You can either play another hand of poker, or we’ll call it a night.”
My brother and I looked at each other. What he meant was that we could leave right away, and probably never see this place again. Or we could stay and hope that we could make a difference. The choice was obvious.
“Let’s play one more round,” we said.
“All right then, let’s get this over with,” our friend replied, laughing. My father didn’t join in. Instead, he sat quietly for a long time before speaking again.
“Tonight we are going to tell you a story,” he finally began. It was a simple tale, but it made perfect sense to both of us. “It is told in the village of Trier-Santé, where a young man named Peter spent his youth. One day, Peter’s father came home from work early and found that Peter had not yet completed his chores. As punishment, my father beat him severely.
By the time my father finished, the boy’s face was swollen, and he had lost consciousness. His father carried him upstairs, and as he held him in his arms, he noticed that a piece of paper had fallen out of his pocket. The boy had written on the page, ‘Father, forgive me.'” My father paused for a moment. “Peter’s father threw the note away, but it was too late. Peter was already gone. He was dead. He died that morning.”
We stared at him. My father continued, saying, “Some people believe that the boy was actually murdered, but others think he died of some disease. Either way, the family buried him without a funeral or ceremony, and then they forgot about him.” Again, he paused for a moment.
“After a few years, a new person moved into the house. She was a widow with two sons, and she quickly became pregnant again. Six months later, she gave birth to a daughter. Her husband had been killed in action, and her boys were still very young. For a long time, the family was happy together; however, after the mother passed away, the sons grew up and went their separate ways.”
I listened in silence. Finally, my brother said, “Thank you for telling us this story. And thank you for inviting us here.” He turned to look at me. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I said.
The three of us got up. Our friend followed us, but instead of sitting down, he walked around the room. He stopped where the door was and looked outside. Without warning, he began to cry. My father stood up. “What is it, Abel?” he asked.
Without answering, our friend picked up a small box and opened it, revealing a toy soldier. He handed it to my father, who took it and stared at it curiously. “This is one of the toys that your grandfather gave to you when you were a child,” he explained. “When we found it in the barn, we thought that you might like it.”
Our friend nodded. Then he said, “Take care of it, Father. Your friend Abel will return.”
***
In the morning, we packed our bags and left the farmhouse. After walking in silence for a while, my brother said, “Abel is a good name for him.”
“Who is Abel?” I asked.
“A character from the Bible,” my brother answered. “He was the son of Jacob, and he was killed by his brothers. But God saved him, and he lived to serve Him.”
“Do you believe that?” I asked.
My brother shrugged. “Your father tells stories for a living, so perhaps we shouldn’t pay too much attention to what he says. Besides, I don’t know much about religion. When you grow up in a town like this, there isn’t much reason to study it. We have enough trouble just trying to survive.”
I agreed. “There is nothing wrong with being practical. If we try to understand everything, we’d be overwhelmed. All we need to do is figure out how to live each day, and the rest will take care of itself.”
As we headed back toward the main road, my brother said, “Now that we’ve seen these places for ourselves, we should go back to the city. I’m sure your father wants us to be safe.”
“But why?” I asked. “Why does he want us to stay inside? What has happened to make him afraid?”
My brother shrugged. “Maybe the stories are true.”
“Stories?” I repeated. “You mean the ones we heard tonight?”
“Of course, those stories. People talk about them all the time. They say that monsters roam the countryside, and that evil spirits walk through the woods. Maybe they’re real, maybe not. The important thing is that we get home soon and that you don’t forget to bring the doll.”
“She’s very special to me,” I answered.
My brother smiled. “Yes, she is. You must never let anyone else touch her. That would be a terrible shame. Now, hurry up. It’s almost dark.”
The night was cold. In the distance, we could see a light moving slowly. I followed my brother, and we walked quickly to catch up.
One of the lights grew closer until we saw that it belonged to a car. As we approached, I could hear my father’s voice coming from inside. “Don’t open the door,” he shouted. “Keep going. Don’t stop no matter what happens.”
For a moment, my brother hesitated. Then he shook his head and said to me, “Father doesn’t want us to bother Mother.” He pointed to the car. “Let’s keep walking.”
That night, as we slept under the stars, I dreamed of my mother. She came to me in a dream and told me something strange: “It’s not far now, Joshua. One more step and you will see her.”
I woke up shivering. My brother was already awake, staring into the darkness. “Is it snowing?” he asked, looking up at the sky.
“No,” I replied. “We’ll find shelter before long.”
As we walked on, we kept glancing behind us to see if we were being followed. At one point, the forest suddenly disappeared, and we emerged onto a narrow path. There was a single farmhouse nearby, and we hurried toward it. As we approached, we could see that the door had been opened. We entered cautiously; then we went upstairs to put our feet in warm water.
Later, we returned downstairs to eat some soup. While I was eating, I glanced at a clock hanging above the fireplace. It showed that it was midnight. I was startled. “Where did the day go?” I whispered to my brother.
At that moment, my father appeared in front of us. His face was flushed. “How did you find this place?” he asked. “It wasn’t easy for us to find you.”
“There was nowhere to hide,” my brother answered. “The land is empty, and the trees are barren.”
My father nodded. “I guess we can’t expect miracles.”
After we ate, my father said, “Tomorrow, we’ll leave for the coast.”
My brother and I looked at each other.
“What’s wrong?” my father asked.
“Nothing,” my brother answered. “It’s just that I thought we might stay here instead.”
My father frowned. “This is where we’re supposed to be. No matter what happens, you must remember that this is just the beginning.”
The End