BY MAX WALLER
Dear Ebenezer,
I am nine years old and have no friends here. Usher Stokes suggested I keep myself busy during the holidays by learning to write letters. Since I have no one to write to, I am writing to you, hoping you might have far more friends than I do.
Though now that I think of it, there are friends of a sort—voices that talk to me at night like ghosts, challenging my thoughts on all manner of things, such as how I feel about the book I’ve been reading lately, A Token for Children, a gift from my father. He urged me to heed the lessons within it before packing me off to board here at Coldgrave Hall.
This book, Ebenezer, has stirred my mind in ways I did not expect, especially during this festive time of year, when the world seems to celebrate. And yet, my thoughts are consumed by its tales. Christmas is meant to be a time of joy, of carols, and the warmth of hearth fires, but here, in these cold, hollow halls of my school, the stories from A Token for Children have painted a far darker picture in my mind.
The book speaks of children, no older than I am now, who meet death with such understanding and wisdom that it both frightens and impresses me. They speak of death not as something to fear, but as a passage to be welcomed with prayer and piety. Yet all I can think of is how cold and lonely it must be to face such an end, all alone. The tales are meant to teach us about morality, about being good, but they weave caution into every thread, warning us against sin with stories where the end is often not happy but final.
One such story tells of a young girl who dies after a life of sin, her final moments filled with repentance and prayer, her death a lesson to others. It is hard not to think of this when, outside, the snow falls silently and I hear the distant peal of church bells heralding this season of Christmas. Should we, then, spend our days fearing our end, ensuring every act is one of goodness, so we might not meet the same fate? The thought of my dying young haunts me more than the ghosts that speak to me at night.
And yet, there is a fascination in these tales, a mix of terror and curiosity. They tell of children who, through their piety, have their sins forgiven at the last moment. But what if one is not so fortunate? What if Christmas and the New Year, with all their promises of new beginnings, come too late for me? The idea that one’s life might be judged so harshly, so soon, is not comforting when the air is filled with the scent of pine needles and mulled wine.
I ponder the idea of Christmas as a time of redemption, much like the tales in A Token for Children. Here, we are taught that birth and death are but moments on a path to salvation. Yet these stories make me question if the joy of Christmas—the giving of gifts and the sharing of cheer—is merely a brief respite from the inevitable. Are we all just characters in our own cautionary tales, each day another step towards an end we must prepare for?
The book speaks of children who die with such grace—their last words prayers, their final acts kindness—and it makes me wonder: what would my last moments be like? Would I be as brave, as good? Christmas, with its promise of light in the darkest season, should fill me with hope, but instead, I find myself looking at the candle on my desk, wondering how quickly it burns down to nothing.
But then, there are moments when the tales seem to whisper a different lesson—one not just of fear but of the importance of living well, of cherishing the moments we are given. Perhaps these cautionary tales are not merely about death but about life: how we should live it, how we should treasure it, even when surrounded by the cold of winter.
In the silence of this school, where the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the whispers of my spectral friends, I have decided I must make my own Christmas. I will find joy in small things: in the way the snow reflects the moonlight, in the stories I can write, not just read. Maybe, in my own way, I can redefine what these cautionary tales mean to me—turning them from shadows of death into beacons of how to live, how to love, how to celebrate life, even when the night is long.
So, Ebenezer, as you read this, perhaps you will think of me—a boy with too many thoughts on death for one so young—trying to find light in the darkness of these stories. I hope your Christmas is filled with warmth, with friends, and with the knowledge that each day is a gift, not just to be lived through but to be lived well.
Yours sincerely,
Ebenezer
December 24th, 1792
Max Waller is a Gloucestershire based writer who has dabbled in film, opera and theatre. Having suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune on the periphery of Hollywood, he is currently developing a fresh new slate of creative projects in 2024 along with several collaborators and hopes to help restore some sanity with his keen weather eye for the cultural zeitgeist, tradition and occasional whimsy. His blog Digital Renegade features an eclectic mix of short stories, cultural essays and personal remembrances.