The snowflake-shaped lights, strung from the curtain rods, glowed in their pale, plastic way. And, outside, the land was in a film of snow. It had only fallen last night ...

"Waechtersbach," said Field. And he bounced her a tiny bit (the tiniest of bits). "Say, ‘Waechtersbach'." A whisker-twitching smile, with his tail snaking behind him. And fur looking well in the light.

As his daughter looked back at him, wide-eyed (and mauve-furred and wonderful). Blinking. Trying to figure it out.

"She can't talk yet. She can't even say ‘mom' or ‘dad'," Field's mother said, "and you're trying to make her speak in German?"

"What's Waechtersbach?" Dandy, Field's youngest brother, asked. His fur was a dusty-tan (as opposed to Field's honey-tan). "Mm?" Nibbling on a sugar cookie. Getting crumbs everywhere. Crumbs seemingly flying from his twitching whiskers as he ate. "Field," he prattled, foot-paws bobbing in place, and shorter tail casting about like a fishing line. "Field, what's ... "

"Those dishes," was Field's patient response, nodding at the cupboards against the walls. The wooden cupboards with the glass doors. Displaying all inside. "Those red, German Christmas dishes grandma collects. That's who makes them." And, indeed, there were hundreds. Literally hundreds of Christmas dishes. The specialty dishes, imported. All the cherry-red with the green Christmas trees in the middles. Every Thanksgiving, they were hauled, by the case, out of the basement, all set up (by Field himself, actually ... he was the only one his grandmother trusted to properly arrange them) ... and at New Year's, they were packed away until next year. But it just wasn't Christmas without those dishes ... and they weren't exclusively dishes, either. There were mugs, bowls, platters ... a true collection.

"You're tuckering her out, Field," his mother said, of baby Akira. Field's mother had never been a doting mother. But a doting grandmother? Perhaps, just a tiny bit ...

"I would know if she was tired."

"Maybe she's hungry, then."

"I would know if she was hungry," was the similar response. "Anyway, Adelaide's got her food." He swayed (slightly) with his daughter. "Doesn't she?" he whispered into the baby mouse-bat's slightly-curved ear (halfway between her mother's angular, swept back ears ... and her father's big, dishy ones). "Doesn't she?"

Gurgle ... chitter!

"Mm-hmm," he went, nose-nuzzling her ear. He gave her soft, soft squeaking sounds.

She squeaked back. As if they were, father and daughter, sharing a private, non-verbal language.

"What's she eat, Field?" Dandy asked. "Field, what's she eat?" He reached his paw for another cookie from the table. Chomp-chomp.

"Milk," Field supplied, knowingly, with a bit of a hidden smile. Milk ...

"Is that ALL?" Chomp ...

"Dandy, don't bug your brother." A frown. "And DON'T chomp your food!"

"I'm NOT buggin' him! When's Addy gonna get here?" Chomp. "An' how else am I s'posed to eat if'n I don't chomp?" was his muzzle-full mumble.

"You nibble," Field advised him, smiling slightly, instructing as a big brother should. "Mouses nibble."

"How come?" Gulp.

"We just do. That's how we eat. We nibble. It's instinct."

"That's not a good reason ... anyway, if it's instinct, how come I don't wanna do it?"

"Cause you're a little stinker. And cause you haven't hit puberty yet," was Field's straightforward response. "Just wait a year, and then you'll wanna be nibbling everything in sight ... even things that aren't food. Like femme furs," he said, winking.

"Ew! Nuh-uh! Anyway ... dunno what you're talkin' ‘bout," Dandy said, dismissing his brother.

"At least he sniffs his food before he eats it," their mother said. "At least he does that."

"Well, how come I'm s'posed to nibble, then?" Dandy asked again, frowning.

Field, shifting Akira in his arms, said, "I just told you." Nosing Akira some more, and adding, "Look, Dandy, do you wanna grow up to be a proper mouse like me an' dad, or do you wanna be like a rat?"

"Maybe I WANNA be a rat," Dandy answered, with a head-bob. Just to be difficult.

"What a thing to say!" Field's mother lamented, putting a paw to her own forehead. "You do not want ANY such thing," she assured.

"Where's Addy?" Dandy asked again, ignoring everyone, swallowing some of his cookie. And reaching for some punch.

"Her name's Adelaide," Field's mother supplied, sighing. "And you'll have to ask your brother ... "

"How can I ask him," Dandy said smartly, sticking out his tongue, "if I'm s'posed to not bug him?"

"Dandy, put your tongue back!"

"Mm!" he went, still sticking it out.

"So help me, Dandy ... "

And the little mouse did as told, snapping into line. When mother said ‘so help me' ... well, that was a final warning. You best do as she said! Else that Massachusetts-raised temper may flare.

"She's near," Field supplied. He knew. He could feel her in his mind, from elsewhere in this house, his grandparents' house (for this Christmas tea party, two weeks before Christmas). Field, holding Akira, was in the dining room with some of his family. The wooden table was covered with a festive tablecloth, and there were dishes of cookies. Cookies with colored sugars on them, and cookies with icing, and some with cinnamon, and some with lemony powder. Cookies. And a big, elegant bowl of punch. The punch made of ginger ale, sugar, pineapple juice, and frozen orange juice concentrate. So delightfully sweet, and with all those sugary ice crystals floating in it ... enough to make him raise his nose to the air. Enough to make him sniffy-sniff-sniff ...

"Field, I wanna give her a cookie," Dandy said, prattling on, and he extended a cookie to Akira.

Field shook his head. "No cookies," he said.

"She wants one!"

"She doesn't, Dandy."

"I bet she does. EVERYONE likes cookies."

The older mouse bit his lip, trying not to smile. "Will you go and play with your cousins?"

"How come YOU won't go play with your cousins? They're your cousins, too."

"You're just being difficult," Field stated, as was obvious.

"Am not!"

"Dandy, go ... shoo, shoo," said their mother, swiping at the smaller mouse with her paws. "You're gonna scurry me up a wall pretty soon ... "

"What's that mean?"

"It means," Field supplied, winking, "you're driving us crazy."

Dandy just frowned, and he snagged at two more cookies. "Does ‘Kira have fangs like Addy does ... is she a vampire, too?"

"Dandy," their mother warned.

Field just smiled, though. No offense taken. Instead, he egged his brother on, confiding playfully, "You know what?" His eyes darted. "They are vampires, and if you don't do what I say ... "

"Field," was their mother's interrupting injection.

The older mouse stopped. And gave Dandy a wink. "Now, go," he said. "Before you get us BOTH in trouble."

So, the younger, energetic mouse scurried off. Into the other room, dodging chairs and relatives, squeaking out.

Leaving their mother to sigh, to slump into a chair in front of the bay window (where poinsettias and green plants were perched). "That mouse ... "

"I was never that hyper," Field stated, watching him go. "I don't remember ever being THAT hyper ... "

"No," was all his mother said simply, her eyes distant. Pausing. A few other family-furs drifted into the room.

Akira stirred in Field's arms.

He shifted her about, and rocked her a bit, and whispered some things into her ears.

Field's mother watched them.

And Akira, giving a gurgle-chitter, grabbed her invisible, little emotional feelers out at her grandmother, chittering!

Field giggle-squeaked as his mother blinked in surprise.

"She's a playful one," she admitted.

"Well, she likes you. Else she wouldn't have done that."

Akira retracted her feelers, lavender-colored eyes (a mixture of his blue-greys and Adelaide's pinks) ... eyes darting, exploring the ceiling, and then her father's muzzle. Her father's whiskers, and her father's face. She tried to grab at Field's whiskers. To pull at them.

"Hey," Field whispered, smiling, looking down at her. "Whisker-grabber. I bet you like the smell of the cookies, don't you? You can't have one. No ... no," he cooed.

Field's mother sighed, and sipped (a bit) of some punch. Swallowing. Saying, "I don't know if your father will be here. For this party, I mean. I think he was gonna go home after school," she said. For he was a teacher. And a farmer. "Milk the cows before it got too dark."

"Yeah ... that's okay," Field said quietly. "I'll see him next week, or on Sunday, or something."

"And I guess your sister is driving home for Christmas. I told her to fly, but ... you know how she is."

"Stubborn," was Field's smiling response, meeting his mother's eyes.

"Mm." A nod. And a bigger sip of punch. "I told her ... what if there's a blizzard? Or a snow storm? An ice storm? I don't want her driving from Alabama to Indiana in something like that ... by herself, too. It's ... but at least she's coming home. She didn't come home for Thanksgiving."

"I know," Field said quietly.

His mother continuing, "And she told everyone it was cause I said she couldn't COME home! But it was her choice. She just didn't wanna tell all her friends that ... you know, she didn't wanna go home ... you know, she blamed it on me." A shake of the head. "She acts like she's bipolar. For Halloween, I told her to go as a compass."

"Heh ... "

More family furs filtering in. For cookies and punch, and all that warm, indoor chatter filling the air (and, oh, filling ears).

"You wanna hold her, mom?"

"Sure," was the response, which brought a warm smile. As Field passed her granddaughter to her.

And Field took a deep breath.

This was nice. This ‘tea' party (with no tea). The mouse didn't really have a ‘favorite' holiday. But Christmas was one of the heavyweights, no denying that. The birth of Hope, and the bell-like pronouncement, through crystalline air (where your very breath was given foggy form): the Lord is come!

The culture, no matter how hard it tried, could not cut down that spiritual cry. Couldn't deny the foundations of this.

Field didn't understand those furs who celebrated Christmas without BELIEVING in it. He felt sorry for them ... for what of distinction were they celebrating? Just family? Just giving? Just togetherness? Too generic to change a life, such things. And too easy to dismiss, to take for granted ... merely days after. Until it was time on the calendar to bring it all out of the cobwebbed heart, to remember everything again (the things which should be daily known).

But the gift of eternity, of birth ... Light into darkness!

He liked the Christmas Eve services. In the dark, with the candles (and their flickering, fluorescent flames), and the shadow of the cross that was cast on the farthest wall, and the Nativity scenes, and how, at the end, only voices. No instruments.

Just voices and candles and dark.

Boldly unfiltered, together in purity.

That quiet, collective worship.

That breathing humility.

That peace.

Noel.



They'd gotten their Christmas tree a few weeks ago. Always during Thanksgiving weekend. To a pine tree farm further west in the county, they went. Near Thorntown. Across the railroad tracks.

Field, growing up (and even now), had ALWAYS had a real tree. Fake trees had no substance. One wouldn't display fake flowers for a celebration, would they? So, why display a fake tree for Christmas?

Real life.

Real tree.

So close to nature, farm mouses could have no less. And, besides, he wanted his daughter to have a real tree. That forest-like, pine scent, and the color, and the texture. Just the sight of that tree. Just that it was real. And not made in some faceless factory somewhere. But grown from the very soil from which they were all a part of.

"This one!" the mouse declared, saw in paw. He pointed. "This one," he said again, beaming. His nose pinker from the chill. Sniffing a bit numbly (causing it, maybe, to run a bit). His cold whiskers all a-twitch, and big, dishy ears covered in large, wooly ear-muffs (made specially for mouses). And a hat on. And gloves. And a tail-sock. And a winter coat. And ...

" ... you look like a marshmallow. Or, should I say: mouse-mallow." A toothy, amused grin, her breath visible. "How many layers you got on?"

"It's twenty-six degrees," was the mouse's defense. "I'm just very ... sensitive," he whispered, "to things. Like nipping cold!"

A smile, and a tilt of the head. "I know ... but, I gotta say it: you look like a Christmas present just waiting to be unwrapped. All those layers."

A flush!

"Heh ... " The pink-furred bat was equally bundled. As was baby Akira, who would wrap her covered, winged arms around her mother's neck, giving occasional chitters. And stealing curious glances at daddy.

"So, uh ... this one?" Field continued, motioning excitedly. "I want you to agree on it ... you think it's okay?" His socked tail was snaking about, but was being weighed down with the material, so it had a sluggish time. And his ears rotated in their muffs.

Adelaide giggle-chittered.

"Adelaide ... "

"Sorry. Sorry," she said honestly. "I ... can't help it." Her voice at a breathy, misty whisper. "You're just countless kinds of cute, darling," was all she said, and she took a shivering breath, her white fangs showing. "And, yes, this tree's fine. It's not lopsided, is it?"

"I don't think so ... " He squinted and looked it over. "No ... "

"Alright ... see our tree, Akira? Our Christmas tree," Adelaide whispered, bouncing her a bit. "We're gonna put candy canes and colored lights and homemade ornaments and jumping jacks on it ... "

The child's eyes seemed to shine. As if she was breathing on a spark.

Field, on all fours now, and then wriggling to his belly, squirmed under the bottom branches of the six-foot tree. The branches were full, the green needles being the loose, long kind (not the short, painfully sharp kind).

Saw-saw-saw!

"Honey ... make sure you cut it so it doesn't fall on you."

"I've sawed down trees before ... "

"I'm just saying ... "

"Oh ... oh, do you have my camera? You taking pictures?"

"Ooh ... okay. Yeah, it's in my pocket," she assured. "Gotta sit for a bit," she told Akira, setting the mouse-bat gently down on the ground (where she blinked and craned her neck and watched the scene). "Okay," Adelaide said, camera out. "Have to take my gloves off to work it ... mm ... "

"Make sure you get some good angles," Field said, from beneath the tree.

"I'll take a few, but not for the sake of ... frostbite," was the bat's response, her attention wandering. Her eyes on the small screen of the digital camera, zooming it to the mouse's pert rump, to where his tail jutted out, and where ...

"Hey!" was the squeak, feeling her thoughts.

A giggle-chitter. "Alright, alright ... no zoom-ins?"

"Adelaide ... "

More giggle-chitters. "Anyway, it's no good with all those clothes on ... would ruin the shot." She showed her fangs (which, with his view obscured by those low branches, he couldn't see; but he could guess she was showing them, all the same). "We'll have to unwrap you later," was her playful promise.

"You zoomed back out? You taking pictures? I'm better at taking pictures," he assured, suddenly hotter beneath his fur. "You're makin' me sweat, you know," was his admission.

A hot, little chitter. "I know," she whispered.

"Mm," was the squeaky sound he made. The indications of him losing focus.

"But," Adelaide said, stopping them before the fuse was lit, "I can take pictures, you know. Maybe I don't have your eye, but ... I know how to photograph things. Hold still," was her advice, as she knelt a bit, positioning the camera, and ... " ... you holding still?"

"Can mouses ever hold still? This is the best I can do," he insisted, twitching about.

... click!

"Alright." She looked the picture over. Smiled. "Mm. I'm gonna do one in black and white, since it's so overcast."

Click!

And he started sawing again. Saw-saw-saw!

The bat leaning lower, getting a low, low angle. Click! And then, letting out a breath, she got back to her foot-paws. "There we go," she said brightly. "Got some tree-cuttin' action ... " She put the camera away. And her gloves back on.

Baby Akira watching her mother and father from a sit, eyes darting from one to the other.

"Here," Adelaide said, grabbing tree-branches with her paws. "Cut it the rest of the way. I'll keep it from falling over until you crawl out."

" ... ‘kay."

Saw-saw ...

Chittery!

Adelaide giggled. "You're right," she said. "Daddy looks very masculine cutting down trees. Mm ... "

"I'd come up with a witty response if I weren't on my side beneath a pine," was the wispy, squeaky reply.

Chitters from Adelaide.

And a few moments of silence. Other families wandering about, selecting their own trees. Lots of trees, and lots of sky, and was that a train-call way off in the distance?

"Alright ... I'm ready for the timber," was the mouse's call.

"The timber?"

"The tree. It needs to go ‘timber.' You got a hold of the branches? I'm gonna crawl out ... "

"Got it." Both her gloved paws gripping to pine branches, the green, green needles rubbing up against her coat. An exhale, breath floating away.

Field, then, wriggled out, where he got to his knees and regained his sense of balance ... before getting upright to both foot-paws, and ...

... she let go of the tree, and the both of them gave it a nudge in the opposite direction.

And over it went!

With a cushiony ‘whoosh!'

Akira waved her winged arms.

Adelaide, smiling, scooped her up. "Up you go!" she went.

Chittery!

"Mm." And mother nose-nuzzled her daughter. "Now, we get to watch daddy haul the tree all the way back to the truck."

Field gave a mock ‘rawr!' at his mousey ‘strength' ... as he playfully puffered up (like how a feline would) and grabbed hold of the tree, starting to pull it over the dulled grass and the hardened soil. "Rawr!" was the airy sound.

Accompanied by the chitter-squeaks of Adelaide.



In the truck on the way home. The eighteen mile drive, and the heat on, and the radio on, too (set to the Colts game, which had just started).

Adelaide was driving. The scenery all of barren fields and old farm-houses, and rural roads, and grey clouds.

Akira in her car-seat, sandwiched between her parents.

For Field was on the other side of her, leaning forward a bit (stretching his seatbelt in the process), his un-muffed ears raptly swiveling.

"Peyton takes the snap," the radio announcer called, "hops back a bit in the pocket, looks, looking ... has time. Spots Harrison, throws, and ... oh, and he dropped it! Just through his paws! Maybe thrown a little too far ... and a timeout called by the Colts. Third down on the Patriots' forty-seven yard line ... "

Field sighed and leaned back, wringing his un-socked tail.

"Need a tranquilizer yet?" Adelaide teased.

"Not yet," was the mouse's whisper. He took his Hoosier sports very seriously. The day before, during the Notre Dame game, he'd tripped over the recliner in his victorious jumping. And, now, with basketball and football seasons overlapping! He leaned back, catching his breath. "Mm. We'll have to put up the tree before supper," he said, "and decorate it after, cause ... I mean, we gotta watch the game first, and then ... " He hesitated, looking down at Akira, and then over to Adelaide. Spelling out, "We gotta Y-I-F-F ... we can hold out ‘til after the game," he said.

A smirk. "Mm," was her response. "Can we?"

"Yes," he insisted. They'd stopped at home after lunch and before church ... so, they were ‘settled' for the afternoon. "Stop teasin' me!"

"I never tease to be mean, darling," she whispered warmly. "Calm down. I'll watch the game with you," she assured. She slowed for a stop sign. And looked all ways, and ... drove forward.

A grateful smile. And a sudden, "You want some peanuts?"

"How many paw-fuls did you nab, huh?" She looked over to his lap. The Christmas tree farm had set out a big cattle bucket full of peanuts (still in their shells). They always gave out free peanuts.

"Like, FIVE," he said proudly, his coat-pockets bulging. "And the shells are salted, too ... you, like, suck on the shells, and then crunch them. And then spit out the shells, and you chew on the nuts."

"I know how to eat peanuts, Field."

"Yeah, but these are ... you want some?"

"I'm driving," she said, smiling tolerantly. "Wait ‘til we get home. Anyway, I don't want peanut shells all over the truck."

A nod.

And the radio call: "Timeout over, Colts on the line of scrimmage ... Peyton with the audible, and ... there's the snap. Fake hand-off to Addai, and looks to Wayne, starts to scramble. Pressure converging! Flings the ball! Harrison grabs it at the twenty-nine, scrambles to the ... to the seventeen, fifteen! Down on the eleven yard-line!"

"Yes!" Field squeaked, smiling tentatively. He clasped his paws together.

Adelaide just smiled, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. And watched baby Akira in the middle, snugged in her car-seat.

And, in back of the pick-up, the Christmas tree, all bound and wrapped and waiting to be adorned.



Adelaide finally filtered into the dining room. "Hello, all," she said, nodding at Field's relatives. And at his mother. "I see you got saddled with a mouse-bat."

"She's no problem at all," Field's mother assured. "Except, I just can't get used to those mind-tricks she does ... not used to anything like that."

"Just her flightier side," Adelaide said gently, reaching for a cup. And reaching for the ladle in the punch bowl. Stirring the liquid, and the crystalline chunks of sugary, gingery punch. "I've had this before, haven't I?" she asked, looking to Field.

"Yeah. It's got a hint of pineapple. You liked it."

She scooped herself a serving, and sipped. "Mm." Eyes lighting up. "I remember. I gotta get the recipe."

"Well, I know the recipe," Field assured. "I just hesitate to make it on my own. It's a special holiday punch. A party punch. I don't think it should be casually made ... "

"Well, here," Adelaide said carefully, "is a cup for you." Giving her mate a cup-ful of punch. "Now, we can toast," she said, smiling. And she clinked her white cup against Field's.

"What are we toasting?" he asked quietly.

"Everything," was her response, as she delicately sipped of the punch. Peering at him over her cup.

A shy, whisker-twitching smile, and his eyes darted. And he reached for a cinnamon cookie that was cut like a star.

"I like these ones," Adelaide said, pointing. "The lemon drops."

"I like all of them except the gingerbread ones. They're too gingery."

"Ginger ale. Gingerbread. I can imagine ... "

All the decorations sparkled. The stockings and the lit, ornamented tree in the next room, and the tinsel hanging from the ceiling, and the lights strung across the curtain rods, and outside, the snow. Falling, now. Again. Ever so lightly. Adding to the blanket that was already there.

"Mind if I take her in the other room?" Field's mother said, of Adelaide. "I've been sitting in this chair for too long ... "

Field nodded.

"Sure," said Adelaide. "Just don't let her fly away," was her addition, giggle-chittering at the image. The baby, of course, couldn't fly yet.

So, Field's mother filtered off.

And Adelaide watched her leave, and whispered to Field, "She left cause we were being too ‘lovey-dovey' ... didn't she? We were making her uncomfortable?"

A flush. A nod. "Yeah ... my family's not big on, uh, public emotional displays."

"I'd noticed." A small smile, and she scooped herself some more punch. "We should really try making this on our own. Maybe on Christmas Eve, or ... you know, or something. It's really good." Her pink eyes scanned the plates of cookies. "I think my parents said they'd be here just after five, so ... "

"Okay," was his nodding response. And he looked out the bay window, and sighed. "Mm." A pause. "It's pretty," he whispered, and he looked to her.

She looked back. "Yeah," was her returned whisper. "It is."

Their eyes staying on each other. Swimming in seas of colored irises and deep pupils.

Until Dandy scurried back in, interrupting them with, "Why're your eyes all big like that?"

Adelaide, looking down, confided with a smile, "Cause they're dilated."

"How come?"

The pink-furred bat just winked, and playfully demanded of him, "How many cookies have you HAD, young mouse? You're positively bulging!"

"What?" was his retort. "Am not! I'm not even big!"

"If you eat any more cookies, you will be."

"Nu-uh!"

"Don't ... don't encourage him," Field said, giggle-squeaking. Adelaide loved to egg on Dandy. And Dandy was ever one to stubbornly argue (even if the argument was about nothing).

And, soon, Adelaide's parents arrived, and Dandy filtered off, and ...

... in the warm, warm glow of Christmas-time, and in the falling of the white, white snow, the furs basked in familial company. Senses lit by the food, and all the chatter, and ...

... oh, all the lights! And all the life!

And, thus, in the midst of it all, nobody noticed when Field and Adelaide slipped off (for just a moment, mind you) to stand under the mistletoe in the kitchen doorway, kissing quietly.

Kisses that tasted like punch. Only sweeter.