Ark of the Lost Angels

Art from The Lost Christmas Eve by Trans-Siberian Orchestra (Artist: Greg Hildebrandt)

Hello! I believe this month’s creative posts deserve a quick introduction. In 2019, I wrote a short story on Christmas Eve to bring a little cheer and light, to celebrate the spirit and magic of Christmas as it’s my favorite holiday of the year. I wrote another one in 2020, and a final installment in 2021. These stories were heavily inspired by the amazing Christmas music and live show of Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Previously, I had shared them with links to PDFs. This December, I decided to polish them up a little bit, and post them every week leading up to Christmas. So please enjoy the first of a trilogy of silly Christmas stories set in a magic hotel in New York City on Christmas Eve. May it bring a little joy and wonder to your holiday season.

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Most curious, is it, the power that one night can hold. In the city that never sleeps, on a quiet Christmas Eve, a blanket of snow descends. It is on tonight, of all nights, that the barriers between what we know and what is beyond are blurred and allow lost moments and memories to reach their hands out and gently stroke the face of the world we see.

It is on this night that a young man walks down the streets of Manhattan. The cold bites at the few inches of exposed skin on his face, turning his nose a bright red, and making his cheeks sting with the daggers of a thousand icy legionnaires. Familiar sights lose their focus as the snow becomes more intense, and the lights of storefronts and rooms in the heights of skyscrapers whose peaks were already masked by the drifting snow now completely fall away. Every beacon in the storm is gone from his view.

Except for one. For in the gloom stands a building, with an age well over a century, that he swore was condemned three days ago, now with golden glow emanating from within, inviting the haggard traveler in with the promise of warmth, and of more questions than could be answered.

The unspoken invitation is eagerly accepted, and the man enters an old hotel. Outside, the storm blots out any sight of the city to be had. Eager to keep warm and hope for the snow to blow over, the man makes his way to the bar.

Inside is a man at the piano. His skin is dark, cracked and worn from many years of seeing the world turn. His voice, while gravelly, is filled with light and warmth and life. He gently coughs and lets out a great smile.

“Now this is one I taught to Cab Calloway way back in the day!” He laughs before his fingers slide and flit across the keys like dancers in the ballroom of the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg, back in the days of Emperors and grand dreams for a world without war, to the tune of a song the man has never heard before. The crowd, dressed in their finery, sways along and watches the singer, enraptured by his voice and the gentle caress of each and every note.

The man was not a fan of sentimentality. Christmas Eve in his childhood was always a day with parents too busy working to play host or guest to any holiday festivities. Christmas Day was a day of quiet rest. Those parents have since passed on, leaving the man, an only child of only children, all on his own. The only solace the boy had found was in the snow that blanketed the yard. He made friends that would just as soon melt away, but he cherished the moments as they unfolded. His only constant companion in life was music. Though he was a miserable player and an even worse singer, he could appreciate the artistry of others. And the singer at the piano was magnificent to the man’s well-listened ears.

The man steps up to the bar and raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. The bartender, in waistcoat and tie with a dignified mustache, steps up to the man.

“Good evening, sir. You look like you could use something hot.”

“Cocoa, with some peppermint schnapps please.”

“Very good sir, it’ll just be a few moments. Please take a seat over there, and I shall bring it out to you.” The bartender gestures to a couch nearby.

“Thanks.” The man takes a seat, and finally unbuttons his coat and removes his hat. He looks over the bar, trimmed in gold and dark wood. The lights are an old yellow, as though the bulbs had not been changed in many years but had never burnt out. He watches the people in the bar as they listen to the singer, who starts singing a blues number that, once again, the man had never heard before. The warmth of the room does not stand unappreciated, nor does the delivery of the promised hot drink with the alcoholic addition.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Not a dime sir. After all, it is Christmas Eve.” The bartender winks and returns to his post. The man sips his drink continues watching the holiday scene play out in front of him. A woman in a red coat takes a seat next to him. Her skin is immaculate, pale like the snow, and her hair is a true black, flowing down her back like a river at night. Her lipstick matches her coat: noticeably red, but not overpoweringly so, while her eyes are a piercing emerald green. With one glance, the man feels as though this woman could see through any lie he could possibly concoct. Thus, he remains content to silently sip his drink.

“It’s a hell of a night,” she reveals that she has other plans in an oddly clipped voice that sounds outdated at best, and completely archaic at worst. It ranks the among the most pleasant sounds the man has ever heard.

“Yeah.”

“Rather glad you found this place. It is no fun to be caught out in a night like this.” She removes her coat to reveal an elegant dark green dress, one that matches her eyes, trimmed in gold. The man muses to himself about her Christmas motif being a tad on the nose but does not comment aloud. It would be rude to admit that he has been staring.

“The snow didn’t make it easy.”

“This old hotel is difficult to find as it is.” The man gives her a quizzical look.

“How do you mean? It was on the street like everything else.” Now the man is certain that the strange feeling this woman gave him the moment she sat down is justified.

“Only those who need this place may find it. Time is a great teacher. And with that, I must be going. He’s playing my song, and you have someone asking for your help.”

The woman smiles and stands up, walking to join the patrons by the piano player. Meanwhile, in the entrance to the foyer of the hotel stands a young girl waving to the man and gesturing for him to come forth. He finishes off his cocoa and sets the empty mug down, questioning what else this unusual night would bring.

“Can I help you?” He asks, warily. The girl has a cheerful, mischievous demeanor, with every tiny giggle causing her chestnut brown hair to crest and ripple down the back of an elegant grey coat in a very old style. She shakes her head and takes off towards the other side of the foyer. The man shakes his head and follows. A glance at the windows confirms that the snowstorm has only grown in intensity. The choice between the biting cold and the folly of a child is rather simple, and he follows her through the entrance to the old theatre adjacent to the hotel.

The theatre is grand, and old, with a foyer of its own with rich red carpeting, ornately engraved golden walls, and a chandelier that captures the flashes of snowflakes tumbling to the ground in the lights of the city outside. In the corner is a Christmas tree, decked with tinsel and garland and ornaments of every color, and topped with a star that the man swears is actually glowing. The girl tugs at his sleeve, as the crowd that almost drifts into existence around them shuffles their way into the theatre itself, in top hats and coats or elegant dresses wrapped with furs. The man finds himself carried inside by the crowd, the girl clinging to his sleeve, and is given a program for the night’s entertainment: a film, one which the man had never heard of before. He takes his seat, the lights fall, and the curtain draws open, the gates to a fantastical world.

On the screen, the Winter Palace of Saint Petersburg appears, lit from within by candlelight and chandeliers presiding over a December ball. The Emperor steps away from the crowds for but a moment to tell a soldier that he must seek out the Rat King and free his prisoner, a beautiful young princess. The Rat King, so named for his penchant of scavenging and using underhanded strategies to advance his power, has captured a German princess and intends on marrying her to give the Rat King the power of her domain, so that he may conquer everything he wishes. The soldier nods and rides. For days, he traces his journey from Russia all the way to the forests of Germany. He asks the mayor of a village about the attacks as soon as he arrives, guided only by the light of the silver moon.

“It was horrible,” the mayor whispers, fear gripping him the way a python ensnares its meal, “the Rat King and his six knights ravaged the town, in search of the Princess. She fled her castle when her parents were slain. The last I heard, he moved west of here.”

“Many thanks, I must ride at once,” the soldier replies and sets out on his quest once more. On the path through the forest, the first knight stops him.

“You shall not pass.”

“If you will not allow me, then I will force my way through.” The soldier raises his sword, and the knight merely laughs. They charge each other, the sounds of grinding swords and obscene battlecries echo throughout the forest, giving even the most ferocious wolf tribes strong pause. The battle lasts for seemingly an eternity, but the knight is vanquished, and the soldier continues on with his quest. Coming across the great city of Leipzig, the soldier takes the night to rest and listens to rumors of the Rat King’s travels. He discovers that the Rat King’s party traveled north, and by daybreak, so does the soldier. While riding, another of the knights makes his attack. The two parry and slash as their horses race across the land, with one lucky blow allowing the soldier to carry on his mission. After two days’ travel, and the defeat of another knight, the soldier finds his way to the Rat King’s castle.

“Only those who are worthy may find their way into this castle. Those who should fail shall find only death” the gatekeeper warns.

“Then I shall not fail” the soldier declares and makes his way inside. Upon ascending the first tower, the soldier encounters the fourth knight. Taking mighty leaps and bounds towards the soldier, the knight’s assault is unrelenting and unforgiving, and the soldier finds his advantage to be completely lost. At the mercy of a merciless opponent, the knight forces the soldier back, and back, and back, until he is forced out of the tower, landing on the ground below.

Certain he is dead, the soldier’s eyes open to find none other than a fairy tending to his wounds. She is fair skinned, with dark hair, and a dress of green trimmed in gold. The soldier, in utter disbelief, cannot help but deliver a wry laugh.

“Are you the Sugar Plum Fairy?” He scoffs.

“To the children,” the fairy responds with a harsh tone, “But to you, I am a guide sent by those who wish your quest to succeed. You cannot triumph over the fourth knight, for he is too powerful. You must take this watch, it shall protect you. It was created by a wonderful inventor, and I enchanted it myself.” The soldier takes the gift, made of gold, and inscribed with a rose inside of a snow globe. The soldier makes his way through the castle once more. Up and up the towers until the fourth knight makes his return. The two clash once more, drawing even with each and every blow until the soldier closes his eyes and feels the power of the watch flow through him, and slowly, but surely, turns the tide. The fourth knight falls out the other side of the tower, into the icy river below. The soldier reaches the second tower. The final two knights attack as one, forcing the solider to use all of his might and cunning to stay alive. He pits the two knights, brothers, against each other, forcing them to each work twice as hard as they expected until they are exhausted. Drawing on the power of the watch once more, the soldier bests the both of them. He makes his way, a solitary march, up to the final tower: the domain of the Rat King.

“You are a great warrior to have come this far,” the Rat King greets with a sinister, bellowing laugh that echoes like thunder, “but you are a fool among fools if you think as though you may best me in the seat of my power.”

“If only you were so lucky I came all this way to fail now,” the soldier responds and makes his attack. Swords clash while the stained glass windows behind the throne turn the chamber into a kaleidoscope of reds and greens and blues and whites as the moon shines down upon it all. Far below and far away, the people are asleep in their beds with pleasant dreams of peace and comfort, but in the tower, two great powers roar against each other, in attempts to prove their supremacy. The swords crash and grind against each other once more, sparks fly, igniting the curtains. As the duel grows more intense, so do the flames that threaten to consume the duelists. Finally, after an eternity, the Rat King makes a mistake and the soldier sends his sword across the room, locked away by the powerful inferno. He makes one final leap, and the soldier throws himself to the floor, as the Rat King sails over him and vanishes in the inferno. He turns to the door in the room that has no clues as to what is behind it and forces it open. Behind it is the princess.

“You have come to save me?” She asks.

“Yes! We must hurry!” The soldier scoops her up and runs out of the tower, making his way out of the castle as the foul fortress begins crumbling around them. Once outside, the pair make their way to the soldier’s horse. The princess looks him in the eye.

“You have saved me, and now I am yours.”

“I did not save you for your heart, I saved you to protect so many others. Doing what this world asks of me is all I wish for.”

“And that is why I shall promise myself to you.” With that, the princess plants a kiss on the good soldier’s lips, and the story ends.

As the end titles begin to scroll, and the lights rise over the audience, the man feels a weight lifted from his shoulders. A small smile creeps out at Christmas majesty, only taken when his small companion is tugging at his arm once more. With a sigh, he rises from his seat and the unlikely pair make their grand return to the hotel. The atmosphere is still subdued, but by the bar, the wizened singer is still belting out holiday tunes, and the man cannot help but smile a bit brighter. The girl leads him over to an elevator. The lift, complete with a uniformed operator, standing with a gold-trimmed red jacket, black trousers, and a peaked cap, is as ornate as the foyer it services. The operator offers a pleasant smile, and the man cannot help but smile back.

“What floor should I take you to sir?” The operator inquires. The man shrugs.

“I’m following her,” he states, causing the smile of the operator to grow wider. With a mischievous grin of her own, the girl flashes ‘12’ on her hands, and the operator sends the elevator upwards. The gate opens to a wonderfully regal hallway, with white walls and gold trim, and warm golden lights hanging above, with red carpeting below. The girl takes the man’s hand and leads him to the far end and up one final flight of stairs. Many men believe the number thirteen to bring bad fortune, however this particular man embraced its unluckiness and finds comfort in it. Indeed, inside the old attic, somehow dusty and yet clear as a summer’s day all at once, the man finds treasures of lives – and Christmases – past. On a bookshelf right next to a copy of what is supposedly Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony is a storybook. The girl pulls it off the shelf and hands it to the man. He raises his eyebrow at her.

“Isn’t a tad late for you?” In response, she crosses her arms and sits down next to a Christmas tree. The man sighs and sits down in the chair next to it. As he opens the tome, the attic comes to life, the warm glow characteristic of the old hotel turns the room from a crypt of lost memories to a celebration of those who made them. The tree lights up with colors of all shades, ornaments reflecting and refracting the colors. Atop this tree, however, sits an angel, with a cascading wave of brown hair that flows down her dress, interrupted only by her wings raised proudly in flight, and with a pleasant smile on her face, but a mischievous glint in her eyes. He looks back at the girl, patiently awaiting the tales within the book, and the man sighs once more, but his smile grows ever so slightly wider. He looks back at the book and is surprised at the colorful illustrations. Every stroke was placed with care, to bring life to the story he begins reading.

“A long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away, the Wizards of Winter presided over their season. It was by their artful expressions that the land was bedecked for the cold, giving majesty to what is felt by most to be a nuisance.

These Wizards summoned snow to blanket and quiet the world around them, allowing all they served and protected a few months of reflection, and to serve as reminders to everyone across the land to set aside time for their families and for themselves. Time is something that nobody ever gets enough of, and Wizards know that best of all, for they have seen many lives ignite, and glow, and then fade away.

The grandest of their gestures, however, was to celebrate the Winter Solstice, the beginning of their stewardship of the world each year. The Mystic Balls, celebrated in every castle and palace across the land, became grand nights of enchantment and wonder, of dancing and feasting, of delighting in the company one may fail to appreciate during the rest of the year.

It was on such a night, when the anticipation had finally turned to glee at the celebration that the Knights of Summer had made their decree. For they believed that introspection was a waste of one’s time, that adventure and excitement should rule the year. That each and every person should put their efforts towards action.

Such a declaration was insanity. For every life needed balance. The world, to maintain harmony, needed balance, that the circle of nature must be allowed to continue. To disrupt that would bring discord, despair, and destruction onto the people below. The Knights did not care, they believed in blazing a path forward towards their destination. The Wizards, being reflective and wise, knew otherwise.

The disruption caused the Solstice celebration to crash to a halt. With the decree of the Knights, now man turned against fellow man. Some argued for the Wizards, some for the Knights. Families and marriages and friends were torn asunder, and the joy and laughter and life was replaced by anger and screams and strife.

All hope seemed lost, until a young girl cried for it all to stop. She saw what her elders did not, that every advance had its cost. She asked those warring sides what it would mean for a great push, if the soldiers knew not what they were pushing for, or against?

The question stunned all in the room, except the Wizards. They knew why balance must be kept, in the world and in the heart of every person. There can be no birth without loss, there can be no attack without strategy, their can be no efforts without planning. To give time in the year for each aspect of life allows that life to be fulfilled.

And with the simple questions of a curious young girl, without her mind made up, the civil war dissipated just as soon as it began. And with that, this year’s Mystic Ball resumed. The dancing began once more to the music that the band struck up. The adoration of family and friends returned just as quick as it had melted to anger and conflict. And the Wizards were certain that the world would be safe in the hands of the children, so long as they never lost their hearts.”

The man looks up from the book to find the child sleeping. He smiles warmly and breathes in the scene around him. He stands up and replaces the book on the shelf, but when he turns back around, the child is gone. As he searches every corner of the attic, the glow of Christmas subsides, and the dust that had disappeared now makes its return. The man shakes his head and returns to the stairwell, eager for one more drink before he leaves this curious place.

As he returns to the foyer, he notices that the bar is all dark, and the patrons have all left. He begins to leave when the unmistakable sound of a piano drifts towards him. Perplexed, he follows the music deeper into the hotel to find a ballroom out of a fairytale. The man’s eyes widen as he notices that the ballroom is not just from any fairytale, but the one he just read. The distinctive pattern of the hardwood floors, the red and white curtains that are trimmed in gold, the location of the band and the golden glow characteristic of the hotel all look as though they were stolen straight from the page. He looks back to the musicians and notices that the strings on the bandstand are accompanied by the pianist from the bar. The dancing of his fingers across the ivory keys mirror the movements of the dancers across the stately pattern of the ballroom, as if the dancers and the pianist were in a dance of their own. No longer old Christmas-themed blues songs, the pianist plays grand waltzes and soaring melodies that add to the majesty and magic of the evening. A tap on the man’s shoulder breaks his trance.

“It truly is late, but I was wondering if you could spare time for one dance before you go.” The lady’s face is familiar to the man. He places her as his mysterious companion in the bar from earlier in the evening. Now, she wears a silver and blue gown, and her hair is the silver color of snow reflecting the lights at night. The man smiles.

“If you insist.” His smile returns once again, and unlike the distant manner with which he conversed the first time, he is at ease, at peace, having found the magic within this wonderful old place. They drift across the ballroom, allowing the music to make their decisions for them.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The lady asks, with a glint in her eye.

“No, but I think I found what I needed to.” The lady smiles at his response.

“That is why you have come to this place. As I said before, only those who need this place may find it.” The tune ends, and the man’s spirits fall. “You really should be on your way.”

“I don’t suppose you would come along, would you?” She laughs at his question, the chimes of bells at Christmas mass, such as the one going on at the grand old cathedral across the street.

“I cannot come, but I can walk you to the door.” She smiles warmly and walks to one of the tables around the edges of the ballroom. She reaches into her coat and withdraws a golden watch. The man recognizes the inscription on the back: a rose within a snow globe.

“That’s impossible,” he breathes.

“It is for you. A reminder to hold tight to that which you have learned here tonight.”

“What if I forget anyways?” The lady only smiles warmly as the unlikely pair walk to the door. Sighing that his adventure is at its end, the man turns back to get one last look at the wonderful old hotel. The lady waves to him.

“Farewell.”

He steps out of the hold hotel and into a young woman. They both apologize for the mistake when he notices what she looks like. Raven hair tucked behind a white knit hat, in a long red coat which matches her lips, with an emerald sweater that matches her eyes, and finished with a beautiful necklace of an angel holding a snow globe with a rose inside of it. The man smiles.

“That’s a beautiful necklace!” He compliments, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the watch and showing it to her. They lock eyes and smile as they realize the connection.

“Thank you, I received it as a gift,” she begins to answer before he speaks up.

“From someone who helped you get what you needed?”

“From someone who helped me get what I needed,” she drifts off. The man chuckles.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks. She looks aside and looks back to the man and offers a warm smile of her own.

“Absolutely!” He gestures for her to follow him, and she grabs her bag and pulls it behind the two of them as he leads the way to an old city bar nearby. “This snowstorm canceled my flight home, they say it won’t let up for a few days,” she explains her situation to him. “There’s no hotel that’s open for any reasonable price.”`

“Well, I have a spare bedroom in my apartment if you need a place to stay.”

“That’s awfully forward,” she laughs as they think about the mysterious connection they share.

“Something tells me it’s what you need.” The pair make their way to the bar, where outside the man finds a little girl, with brown hair that flows down her back, and a mischievous glint in her eyes, shuddering in the cold.

“What’s the matter?” the man asks.

“I’m cold and I have no place to go,” the girl practically whispers, all she can manage in her frost-clad state. The man offers his hand.

“Come inside with us, I’ll get you warmed up. Anything you want.” The girl’s eyes light up with sheer joy at the prospect of hot food, and the three enter the bar. The place is old, with worn wood all around, and light fixtures above with a glow, as if someone had not changed the bulbs for many decades, but they had never faded nor burnt out.

“So, where are your parents?” The woman asks gently. The girl looks up at the two.

“They’re gone.” The man places his hand on her shoulder once she says this, all too familiar with what she feels.

“Well, I have more than enough room for you where I live. It’s a hell of a night.”

“No fun to be caught outside in a night like this,” the woman chimes in. The man smiles as he steps up to the bar, and raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. The bartender, in waistcoat and tie with a dignified mustache, steps up to the man.

“Good evening sir. You look like you could use something hot.” The bartender pauses a moment, and says, “Let me guess. Cocoa, with some peppermint schnapps?” The man smiles, taken aback. He then nods, then looks at the girl.

“And whatever she wants.”

“Are you sure mister?” The girl asks.

“Of course! After all, it is Christmas Eve.”

And so, on tonight, of all nights, when the barriers between what we know and what is beyond, blur, and allow lost moments and memories to reach their hands out and gently stroke the face of the world we see, that we learn the best lessons of Christmas. That the magic which surrounds all of us, that we feel on Christmas Eve, is around us all the time. That the memories of those who learned so many of these lessons are always there. All we have to do is listen to them. All we have to do is open our hearts and let that magic in.