Peter Sparrow

  New York

  Peter’s time in the New World had taught him many important things. Out of all of them, there was perhaps one lesson that was most important, one belief that had solidified in him over all else: that all people were made of clay. Not literally of course, but rather that humans were malleable beings, shaped and molded by their histories, their surroundings, and of course by other people. Solomon’s clay was hardened and pock-marked, tempered by years of slave labor and whippings at the hands of his brutal masters. So too must it softened at one point, upon receiving his freedom, upon marrying his wife and settling down, upon having a child together. Peter didn’t know anything about her other than that she was dead now. Her passing must have hardened Solomon again, his clay twice-fired in the kiln of unimaginable hardship, even more as he realized his own child suffered from delusions of mania and paranoia that crippled his every thought, making him dangerous and unstable.

  The cruelty of his master’s life was not lost on the boy, despite his young age. To love and to lose, to have everything you had worked for fall apart in front of your eyes. Even now, it continued—Solomon and Leif went every week to the city to defend their right to keep the free blacks’ land. The week after Peter revealed his knowledge of Rehoboam and his subsequent whipping, he was taken along with them. No longer would he be allowed to roam free while the other two went to town. Peter supposed it could have been worse—they could have shackled him to the barn so he wouldn’t get into anything. In fact, he was rather excited to get to see the city again, and had no idea what to expect.

  Unfortunately, that excitement was quickly doused. They went straight to the courthouse, not even stopping for a snack or anything. Once they were inside the courthouse, things went from bad to worse. They sat and waited in a queue for their trial to start. It took two whole hours. Peter was sure he would die from boredom. It didn’t help that he was under strict instructions to not move a muscle or disturb anyone. Peter tried to pass the time like he usually did, retreating into his mind and imagining things to keep his mind busy. But he hadn’t eaten anything, and the growls from his stomach kept interrupting his trains of thought. Sometimes they were loud enough that they echoed in the foyer of the courthouse, and Solomon would scowl at Peter, like he had done it on purpose.

  It also didn’t help that Peter was made to wear one of Leif’s old suits as a hand-me-down, only it was far too big for him. Peter felt like a fool tromping around in them—the sleeves of his shirt dipped over his hands, and he had tripped more than once over his pant legs walking to the courthouse. It was humiliating, least of all because it was so visibly ill-fitting. He felt the gazes of all the passersby as they walked, and even now he caught glances from lawyers and judges as they paced through the courthouse. It filled his face and chest with a horrible heat, and he could feel his cheeks grow bright red, which no doubt made him look even sillier. The best Peter could do, then, was to curl up into a ball and pretend like he wasn’t there, burying his face behind his knees. But Solomon didn’t let him—said he needed to sit up straight in a court of law. Peter figured he needed to wear clothes that fit him right in a court of law, too, but he had learned by now not to speak such thoughts out loud unless he wanted a beating.

  After what felt like a lifetime, they were finally led into one of the courtrooms. Peter followed Leif onto these benches that felt like pews in a chapel, while Solomon went and sat at a table in front of them. He was joined by a white man in a suit. He had long black hair slicked back and tied in a ponytail, and his face was completely clean-shaven, unlike all the other men he had seen here. Peter didn’t recognize him at all, but he seemed familiar with Solomon. When he asked, Leif informed him that he was their lawyer.

  “That’s a good thing, then, isn’t it?” Peter whispered. “That we have a lawyer?”

  “It is,” Leif’s replied. “His name’s Jeremiah Winslow, and he’s the best. Well, he’s the best we can get.”

  “Does that mean we’ll win?”

  “Nobody knows. But the odds are against us. I think the judge has it out for us. People say he’s crooked, you know. Bought out, and all that.”

  Peter didn’t really understand, but he nodded. He and Leif took their spots as the rest piled in.

  The rest of the day was somewhat of a blur for Peter. He didn’t understand a second of what was going on. Solomon’s lawyer would talk, then some other lawyer would talk back. Sometimes the judge would interrupt. None of it made any sense to Peter, and worst of all, it was boring. Peter had thought this would be better than waiting outside, but it hardly was. In some ways it was worse—the cacophony of raised voices from both sides gave him a headache, exacerbated by the fact that he couldn’t make sense of a word that was said.

  Strange enough, Leif clearly didn’t feel the same way. Every time Peter looked over at him, he was sitting straight up, eyes locked on the debate between the two lawyers. Peter was sure he’d be standing up if it was allowed—he was barely touching the seat. Though Peter knew it was rude to stare, his eyes kept being drawn back to him, like each subsequent look would give him a new clue into his character.

  Leif’s clay was the one Peter had the hardest time figuring out. It was like it hadn’t fully formed yet, or perhaps it was just constantly changing. At times, he was Peter’s best friend and closest ally. At others, he was Peter’s worst enemy. Even now, his spine still stung from the whiplashes Leif had cracked him with, and yet not two minutes later he had cleaned the same wounds he’d inflicted with such tender and diligent care. It still didn’t make any sense to Peter, even though he had spent most of his nights since then thinking about it. Why was he so friendly to Peter at times, so kind, yet so unforgiving at others? Why did he know that their master was wicked and cruel, yet he still remained loyal to him? Even now, he looked like he’d stand up there and defend him in court if he could. Peter just didn’t understand any of it.

  After another lifetime sitting and waiting, the session of the day was adjourned, and they were finally allowed to leave. Peter had almost fallen asleep more than once, and had to hold his eyelids up with his fingers to keep them open. Over the course of the many hours, though, his boredom won out, and he felt himself starting to drift off. He started up when he felt Leif rustle his shoulder, and shook his head rapidly to wake himself up again.

  “Did we win?” Peter asked.

  “What, you thought it’d be over in a day?” Peter replied. “No, mate, we didn’t win. Things aren’t going well, neither. But we’ll keep fighting.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  The walk home was mostly quiet. Leif looked deep in thought, his eyes lowered to the ground in front of him. Solomon’s brow creased with worry, his pace quicker than usual. Sometimes, Peter wished he could read other people’s thoughts, just to know what they were feeling. This was certainly one of those times.

  Thankfully, Peter didn’t have to go to court this week. None of them did, actually, since the courts were closed for Christmas. You wouldn’t necessarily know it was just about Christmastime at the Peters residence: the boys worked on Christmas Eve just like it was every other day, slaving in the house and out until their bodies sweat and their muscles ached. Peter thought the work would have slowed with the harvest over, but there was seemingly always something to do: some part of the house or barn would break and need fixing, like there was a flock of mischievous little elves that would come in the night just to give the boys more work in the morning.

  On Christmas morning, however, they awoke again, and Peter prepared himself for another day of hard labor. Only, his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Leif come down from the loft dressed in his nice suit rather than his working clothes.

  “Oh,” Leif said, seeing Peter gawk at him. “I should’ve told you. We get the day off today. It’s Christmas, and all that. Come on. We’re gonna celebrate in the house with the Master.”

  It was certainly welcome news to Peter. His muscles still ached from the day before, and he was dreading having to do more work today. His spirits lifted, he walked side-by-side with Leif over to the house.

  “Is it like this every year?” Peter asked.

  “Every year I’ve been here,” Leif said. “It’ll be a nice day, if you let it. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Don’t cause trouble.”

  “You’re damn right. Let’s just enjoy it in peace, please.”

  Peter nodded, but on the inside, he felt conflicted. He knew what Leif meant by not causing trouble: not bringing up Rehoboam. It was the strangest taboo to him, like even saying his name was committing some sort of crime. Even if he was crazy, even if he could even be dangerous, it still didn’t make sense. Besides, that was just what Leif had said. Peter had never seen him be crazy or dangerous in his meetings with him. Instead he was kind. Eccentric at times, of course, even erratic, but was that a crime that deserved such imprisonment? Hell, he was even teaching Peter to read, and doing a pretty good job of it, too.

  Inside, Solomon was waiting for them. Only, instead of barking orders at them, he handed each of them a mug.

  “Merry Christmas, boys,” he said.

  “Merry Christmas,” they replied.

  He led them over to the kitchen table, and filled their mugs with a steaming brown liquid.

  “What is this?” Peter asked.

  “It’s chocolate,” Leif told him. “We get some every year for the holidays. Drink it. It’s delicious.”

  Peter had never heard of chocolate before. He looked at the swirling dark brown in his mug, somewhat intimidated by it. But he trusted Leif, and so he brought the mug up to his lips to drink it. Only Leif put his hand in between the mug and his face, stopping him.

  “You’ve got to blow on it first,” he said. “Unless you want a burnt tongue, that is.”

  Leif showed him how, blowing over the top of the drink for a while until the steam started to cool. Peter tried doing the same. After a while, he figured it was enough, and went to take a sip. It was still hot, almost enough to burn, and Peter retracted his tongue back, taking sharp breaths of cool air to save the inside of his mouth. Once the worry of burning was over, however, the flavor set in. It was delicious. Despite his instincts to keep his mouth safe, he immediately went back for another sip, then another. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted before. It was bitter and sweet all at once, and the liquid itself was very thick. It was like being able to drink a delicious pastry, straight from the oven.

  “Don’t down it all at once,” Leif warned him. “If you’re smart, you’ll make it last the whole day.”

  “It’s amazing,” Peter said. “Thank you, Master.”

  “Hmph,” Was Solomon’s only reply. He poured his own mug, then started over to the kitchen counter to prepare something else.

  “If it’s Christmas, does that mean we’ll be getting presents?” Peter whispered.

  “I don’t actually know,” Leif replied. “Normally, we just do the chocolate, and then I’m left to my own devices. But I think he wants to make it special this year. He’s even gotten a tree.”

  Leif pointed to the corner of the living room. It looked like the top of a pine tree had been lopped off and hung upside down, its branches decorated with small strips of red paper.

  “What’s it for?” Peter asked.

  “It’s a German thing, apparently,” Leif shrugged. “Heard it’s getting popular in England too. They do all sorts o’ crazy shit over there, don’t they?”

  Peter and Leif shared a chuckle. This is going to be a good day, he thought. Please, God, if you can hear me: let it be a good day. I could really use one.

  Solomon brought a tray over to the table and laid it down. It was covered in slices of cured ham, no doubt from one of the several pigs the boys had carefully prepared for the winter. Laid out with them were some saltine crackers and a hard cheese with a knife to cut it. Peter’s stomach growled just looking at the veritable feast before him. Ever since Solomon gave away his share of food to the Lenape, he had been forced to eat whatever was left of Leif’s meals. Thankfully, Leif was kind enough to save about a quarter of what he was given to give to Peter, but it was hardly enough for a boy his age. Many nights the hunger kept him awake—whenever he was about to finally doze off, a pang in his stomach would remind him. At the very least, he would not suffer the same tonight.

  The boys sat there contentedly, eating their crackers with ham and cheese. Solomon did the same, and drinked chocolate, too. It was the first time Peter had really spent time with his master, if you could call it that. Not that it was all that cordial—the three ate and drank in silence, not speaking a word to one another.

  “Boy,” Solomon said suddenly, waving his hand at Peter. All this time, and he had still never called him by his name. Peter supposed that, like everything else, was a privilege he’d have to earn eventually.

  “Yes, Master?”

  “I have been watching you,” Solomon mused. “And you have applied yourself well ever since them Lenape came. You’ve been working hard, and because it’s a special day, and because the Lord always preaches the virtue of forgiveness, I have decided to give you back the hay to sleep on in the barn.”

  Peter’s heart was so filled with joy it could practically explode. Despite the weeks he’d spent without it, he still wasn’t used to sleeping on the cold, hard ground, and the hunger only made it worse.

  “Thank you Master,” Peter said. But as he did, a thought came to him, something that made his happiness disappear. It was a terrible guilt that haunted the back of his mind. I shouldn’t bring it up, he thought. Leif told me not to cause any trouble. But I can’t just ignore it. I’ve got to say something.

  “I… um…” Peter began, trying to think of the words. “I’m very thankful for your gift, Master. You’ve been very generous and forgiving. But, if I could, I’d like to ask for something else instead this Christmas. I’ll give the hay up if I have to.”

  His words caught Leif by surprise, and he gave a quick glance at Peter, as if to ask ‘what the hell are you doing?’ Solomon's right eyebrow raised and curved in a mix of curiosity and tempered anger.

  “Choose your next words very carefully, boy,” Solomon said, his voice stern.

  Peter swallowed.

  “I know it isn’t my place to ask for things, Master,” Peter began. “But we’re having such a nice time right now, aren’t we? Eating this food, drinking this chocolate… it’s all wonderful. And I just… I’m sorry for saying so, Master, but I’d just like to invite Rehoboam to come and enjoy them, too, is all.”

  Just like that, the joyous and reverent air of Christmas morning was gone, replaced with a tension as thick as the chocolate. Leif gripped his Sweat beaded on Peter’s forehead, and part of him regretted ever bringing it up. But despite his best instincts, his clay had been molded into a rebellious shape. Time after time, he had been yelled at, beaten, and tormented, all with the express purposes of training him into something more docile and diligent. But every lashing he’d been given had only had the opposite effect. He was surer now, more than ever, that the way Rehoboam was treated was wrong. He was surer now, more than ever, that Solomon locked him away to protect him, that there was a part of his Master that was kind and loving. He risked so much to speak his mind, and yet, after all he’d been through, he did so freely, unafraid of whatever would come from it.

  “I told you to choose your words carefully,” Solomon snarled, gritting his teeth. “I give you back your bed, out of courtesy, out of forgiveness. And this is how you repay me?”

  “I know, Master,” Peter replied. “I don’t mean to cause trouble. I promise. I just… well, it’s just Christmas. Don’t you want to spend it with your own son?”

  Solomon opened his mouth, but stopped for a second. In that fraction of a moment, Peter saw something in his Master’s eye—that hesitation was one borne from guilt and regret. It pained Peter to see it, to know the revolutions of this unending cycle of hurt. And in his heart, Peter believed that he was the only one who could stop it. He took advantage of his master’s pause, and continued.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “I know why you keep him in there,” he said. “But I think you’re all wrong about him. He’s not dangerous—he’s nice. He’s my friend. He’s even started teaching me to read. If you’d just let me talk to him, I could—”

  Solomon raised his hand to cut him off.

  “What did you just say?” He asked.

  “I… I said that we’re friends,” Peter stammered. “And he’s taught me to read. Well, not all the way, but a little. He’s a very good teacher—he’s patient with me, even when I make mistakes. And it makes me want to learn even more, you know, because of it.”

  Solomon sat there in silence, clearly pondering something. Leif looked to be in straight up shock, like a cat who had just fallen in water.

  All of a sudden, to Peter’s surprise, Solomon stood up.

  “Wait here,” he said. He stomped through the room and over to Rehoboam’s door, unlocking it, and disappearing inside. Peter smiled. Maybe this’ll work. Maybe he’ll get to come and join us.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Leif hissed next to him.

  “I’m sorry!” Peter exclaimed. “I know you don’t like him. But I can’t just sit here enjoying chocolate and crackers when another friend of mine is sitting all alone in his room on Christmas. It’s not right.”

  “He’s not your friend. And if you think he is, you can forget about being friends with me.”

  “But I don’t want to stop being friends with you. You’re my good friend, too, Leif. My best one, in fact.”

  “I don’t care. Don’t you know by now that you don’t get what you want in life? The fucker tried to kill me. I don’t care what you say—either you’re his friend, or your mine. You can’t be both.”

  Leif’s words hurt Peter, but he understood. He wouldn’t like Rehoboam if he’d tried to hurt him, either. But at the same time, Rehoboam had never even shown an ounce of that side of him to Peter. There has to be a way, he thought. There has to be something that I can do to make everyone happy…

  Peter heard the door open behind him, and whirled around. To his surprise, Solomon was there, and Rehoboam was with him. His heart soared with elation for a moment, but it was short-lived. He looked down, and saw that Rehoboam’s wrists were bound in handcuffs. Leif bristled just at seeing the man, and Rehoboam’s eyes grew wide at seeing Leif.

  “Hold on,” Peter said. “Why have you got him in irons?”

  “It’s what must be done,” Solomon said.

  “No, it isn’t. I’m tired of this.”

  Peter stood up from his chair and walked over to Rehoboam.

  “Hi, Rehoboam,” he said, waving at him.

  “Hello, Peter,” the unkempt man said.

  “We’re all having a wonderful celebration for Christmas. There’s ham and crackers and chocolate, and we even have a tree, I suppose. Would you like to join us?”

  “Well, it’s not Christmas,” Rehoboam replied. “Christ wasn’t born today. It’s supposed to be Saturnalia, held for the Roman god of time. That’s what the Masons don’t want you to know—they’ve cloaked a pagan holiday in deceit and convinced you it’s—”

  “That wasn’t the question,” Peter interrupted him. He crossed his arms angrily—he had had enough of all this. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Solomon’s own widen in surprise at how frank he was being with his son.

  “Do you want to join us for the celebration or not?” Peter asked, matter-of-factly.

  Rehoboam hesitated for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes drifting over to the table of food and drink.

  “I would like to,” he said sheepishly.

  “Good. But there’s one condition first.”

  Rehoboam’s eyebrows raised in confusion.

  “What is it?” He asked.

  Peter pointed back at Leif.

  “You have to apologize to Leif for attacking him,” he said. “And it’s got to be a real apology, and he’s got to accept it. Otherwise it’s just going to be you two staring at each other all day like you’re going to hurt him again, and I won’t have that. Do you understand?”

  “It’s not my fault,” Rehoboam said. “Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Salomonici. He’s from the Temple of Solomon.”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s from Ireland, for God’s sakes, and he’s just a normal boy, like me.”

  “But his ancestors are Templars.”

  “No, they aren’t. His ancestors are Vikings.”

  Rehoboam looked at Leif, confused.

  “So you aren’t Catholic?” He asked.

  “Of course I’m bloody Catholic,” Leif returned. “Cause I’m a true feckin’ Irishman, not like the bastaird Cromwell and his new breed of ninnies.”

  Peter could see Rehoboam’s body tense up.

  “Stop it,” Peter said. He smacked Rehoboam on the hand. Rehoboam looked back down at him, his attention captured again.

  “Listen to me,” Peter continued, pointing a finger at him. “Leif isn’t whatever you think he is, and even if he was, which he isn’t, it doesn’t matter. He’s my very good friend, and if you consider me a friend, you’ll be nice to him. You do consider me a friend, don’t you?”

  “Sure, I suppose.”

  “Then apologize to Leif. Right now. Or you can go back in your room, and you can forget about me visiting you again. And that’s a shame, too, because I rather liked reading with you.”

  Rehoboam hesitated a moment. He craned his neck, making a loud cracking sound that startled Peter. He didn’t even know a person could crack their neck like that. Rehoboam scratched his hair, and looked over at Leif. It was like he couldn’t share the boy’s gaze for more than a second before looking away elsewhere.

  “I’m sorry for choking you,” Rehoboam suddenly muttered, looking at the floor.

  “Look at him when you say it,” Peter instructed him. “And say it like you mean it.”

  To everyone’s surprise (including Peter’s), Rehoboam listened.

  “I’m sorry for choking you,” he repeated, louder this time, and he managed to look at Leif for a solid ten seconds.

  “And for breaking my arm,” Leif shot back.

  “And for breaking your arm.”

  That was it. He actually apologized for it, and it sounded like he meant it, too. Now it was Leif’s turn. Peter looked at him expectantly.

  “Fine, whatever,” Leif said angrily, raising his hands. “I guess I forgive you. I’m clearly outvoted on this.”

  Peter grinned. He had done it!

  “Then he doesn’t need these,” Peter said to Solomon, motioning to his handcuffs. Solomon hesitated for a moment, clearly apprehensive at the thought.

  “It’s Christmas,” Peter reminded him. “You can’t keep your son chained up on Christmas.”

  “Fine,” Solomon said. He motioned the cross over his chest, then unlocked the bindings.

  “Thank you,” Rehoboam said to his father, rubbing his wrists. Solomon just stood there gawking, like he had never been thanked by his son before.

  “Come and sit down,” Peter said. He led Rehoboam over to the table, sitting him across from Leif. Rehoboam began to grab some of the ham and eat it. Leif just stared at Peter, which made him feel a bit guilty, but not nearly as much as he would if he’d kept quiet.

  “Did he really teach you to read?” Leif suddenly asked him.

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “I know all my letters now, for the most part. But I’m still figuring how to put them all together, because they make different sounds when combined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, for example, the letter C looks like this.” He drew the letter in the air so Leif could see. “And the letter H looks like this. Now normally, the letter C makes a ‘cuh’ sound, like in the word ‘can’t’. Or sometimes it makes the sound of its own letter, like in ‘ice’. And at the same time, H makes a ‘huh’ sound, like in ‘hat’. But when you put C and H together like this, it makes a ‘chuh’ sound, like in ‘chair’ or ‘church’. Isn’t that odd?”

  Leif listened to him with what could only be a rapt jealousy. Peter felt bad for him.

  “Rehoboam could teach you too, I bet,” Peter said. “Wouldn’t you, Rehoboam?”

  “You can’t read?” Rehoboam asked Leif.

  “Well… not really,” Leif replied, like he was ashamed of it. “So what?”

  Rehoboam’s face cleared, becoming completely stoic.

  “But you can read in latin.”

  “No, I can’t bloody read in latin! Who the hell can?”

  “The Knights Templar.”

  “I already told you, I’m not a bloody Templar, you queer fuck! Jesus!”

  Rehoboam’s brow furrowed, like something was upsetting him. Peter started to worry. Maybe this was a bad sign. Maybe things were starting to head south.

  “No,” Rehoboam said. “No, you clearly aren’t, if you can’t even read in latin. All the scripture’s in latin. So you can’t read scripture?”

  “Fuck no,” Leif said. “I haven’t even been to church in years.”

  Rehoboam turned to his father.

  “You don’t take them to church?” He asked.

  “Not allowed in church anymore,” Solomon replied, downing a cracker. “If you remember right.”

  “Well, that wasn’t my fault. It was a bad church. They worshipped the antichrist.”

  “They did not. They’re a normal church, with good people.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t see the signs, but they’re all over.” He pointed over to the Christmas tree. “Like there, for example.”

  “What?” Peter asked. “How on earth is that a sign of the antichrist?”

  “It’s an inverted triangle,” Rehoboam explained matter-of-factly. “A triangle has three sides, representing the holy trinity. When turned upside-down, then it represents an unholy trinity. Just as the pentagram, as an inversion of the heavenly star, is the symbol of Satan.”

  “I see.” Peter was desperate to move on from this topic of conversation. He knew that once Rehoboam got started on something, it was hard to get him off of it.

  “Well, Rehoboam, would you teach Leif how to read, too? You could do it at the same time you teach me. It wouldn’t be that hard to add a second student, right?”

  Rehoboam thought for a moment. He took a sip of the chocolate.

  “I guess not,” he said.

  “And Leif,” Peter said. “You’d like to learn how to read, don’t you?”

  “I… I would,” Leif said.

  “So it’s settled, then,” Peter said with a smile.

  At the other end of the table, Solomon opened his mouth to speak for a moment, but stopped. Clearly, both he and Leif were just in shock at Peter’s uncanny influence over his son.

  “What would you want to read if you could, Leif?” Peter asked him.

  “We get letters and legal papers from the courts,” he said. “Mister Winslow reads ‘em for us and translates, but because none of us can read, we can’t tell if he’s hiding anything from us or not. I’d like to be able to read ‘em myself, and help Mister Winslow.”

  “That’s a noble cause, then, isn’t it? I think you’d be a good lawyer, Leif. I watch you pay good attention in the courtroom, while I can’t understand any of what’s going on. Besides, you’re always arguing with me, aren’t you? And I’ve never won once.”

  To his surprise, Leif blushed at the compliment. Peter just smiled. All of this was working out. Despite the risk, despite his fear of all the things that could go wrong, none of them had turned out that way. The four of them ate their ham and cheese and crackers, and drank their chocolate, enjoying the quiet peace of Christmas morning.

  Afterwards, Solomon went and got presents for the boys. Peter was shocked that he had gotten them anything at all. This whole day had turned out as a wonderful surprise, and Peter couldn’t help but wish for more days like this in the future.

  Both Peter’s and Leif’s gifts were the same. Both of them got nice new suits of brown tweed. Peter pulled his jacket up and put it on. He had never owned such nice clothes in his life, and these actually fit him. Well, at least somewhat—they were a bit too big still, but Peter was a scrawny thing, anyway, and he was sure he’d fill into them once he’d built up more muscle.

  “Oh, thank you, Master!” Peter said. “These are wonderful.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Leif repeated

  “Don’t thank me,” Solomon said. “It’s bad enough what they whisper about us in court. I will not have our reputation dragged through the mud just because you look like unwashed heathens.”

  Peter smiled. He knew by now that was Solomon’s way of saying ‘you’re welcome’.

  Next was Rehoboam’s turn. Solomon gave him a small package wrapped in paper. It made Peter happy to know that Solomon had gotten him a gift even before Peter had negotiated for his release, and reaffirmed his belief that Solomon did care about his son, regardless of what he said or did.

  Rehoboam opened it. It was a small little booklet with aged papers. Rehoboam thumbed through its contents.

  “The seller tells me this is a rare one,” Solomon said with pride.

  Rehoboam just nodded, finishing picking through the pages. He then turned and handed the booklet to Leif.

  “What?” Leif asked.

  “I didn’t get any gift for you,” Rehoboam said. “So here.”

  “You can’t give him that,” Peter said. “It’s your gift.”

  “Why not? It’s about Cromwell, the famous lawyer*. It’s a better gift for you than for me.”

  Peter didn’t have anything to say to that.

  “Well… al–alright,” Leif said. He nervously took the booklet, wary of his master’s response. To the boys’ surprise, Solomon said nothing. He looked just as surprised as everyone else.

  Peter suddenly felt horrible—Rehoboam’s admission had made him realize something important.

  “I… I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t know we were doing gifts on Christmas… I should have gotten one for each of you. But I don’t have anything. Please forgive me.”

  Leif and Rehoboam just shrugged. Solomon looked at Peter for a moment. None of the usual bitterness was in his face—in fact, it was the softest Peter had ever seen.

  “That’s alright, boy,” Solomon said. His eyes fell on his son, and Peter could see his dark eyes shine happily. “I think you’ve done just fine.”

  And for the first time ever, Peter saw a smile spread across his master’s face. The rest of the day came and went, with all of them spending it in pleasant leisure. Through it all, all Peter could think about was his master’s smile. It really did suit him.

  End Notes:

  *Despite what you might think, this is not about Oliver Cromwell, but a lesser-known Cromwell: Thomas Cromwell. He served as Chief Minister to King Henry VIII until his beheading in 1540. It was widely believed that his execution was unjust, based on false charges, leading the poet Michael Drayton to write about him in the booklet gifted to Rehoboam.