Devonne Brown

“I love the way the full moon glistens on the snow when it’s deep and crisp and even like this, not a mark on it,” the good king said.

It was St. Stephen’s Day, Boxing Day, the patron saint of stonemasons and bricklayers, the first martyr, stoned to death for blasphemy. He was also the saint one prayed to when one had a headache. Stephen asked a prayer for his attackers, kind of like Jesus did, “forgive them father, they know not what they do,” kind of thing. 

Wenceslas, Wen, as he was called by his friends, was sorry he was having the party that night. Between the blue cold and deep snow,  he was nursing the mother of all headaches. He laughed and prayed to St. Stephen to cure him, like he believed in the legend or something. 

Wen heard the creek of the drawbridge being lowered and roar of the snowplow crossing it, ruining the blue white snow. He hoped no one showed up for the party, but they would. People climbed out of the woodwork to come to his parties, he was the king, for heaven’s sake. 

He watched the snowplow move down the hill toward the main road. A man under the tree line was collecting sticks and branches to fill a sack on his back, kindling. Wen wondered if the poor man knew the difference between royal kindling and regular sticks. He was a royal trespasser, and in the old days, that meant death, he didn’t know what it meant today. He just wanted rid of his headache.