The Christmas Rose

A Selma Lagerlof legend retold by Gramps.

He had not seen her at first, curled like a fawn against the south wall under the espaliered quince.

Brother Bernard had been hard at work in the garden all day. Although it was late autumn, there was never a lack of pressing tasks. Everything in its time. Seed pods to gather, bulbs to dig and store in the monastery cellar for the winter, the dried stalks of annuals to be pulled and tossed on the compost heap outside the cloister wall.

It never ceased to amaze him how most of the brothers were content to walk the long rows of blossom fragrant in the summer sun, deep in contemplation of the lilies of the field no doubt, never giving a thought to his ceaseless single-minded and solitary campaign against encroaching chaos.

Chief among these dreamers was the Abbot Hans himself. A slight and saintly wisp of a man, he moved through the monastery like a child. Wherever there were tensions or troubled thoughts a tender touch of his wizened hand, or a gentle glance from his upturned eyes would restore peace. His whitened head barely reached the brawny shoulder of Brother Bernard who loved him fiercely and would have given his life for him without hesitation.

He straightened his aching back and looked again toward the south wall.

The late afternoon sun raked across the rough-hewn sandstone, picking out irregularities in the surface and gilding the last of the unpicked yellow fruit. There she was, still as a stone, the rough sackcloth of her primitive dress blending with the sepia toned stalks. There was no mistaking the matted black hair and grubby bare feet — one of the feral outlaw children, come from the forest to beg, or to pilfer whatever was not nailed down more likely.

The cold weather brought them down, and he for one was sick and tired of it. With a few strides he swooped to her side and collared her with a meaty hand. With a few more he was at the side-gate.

Out with you, you little varmint!

But no sooner were the words out of his mouth, than the way was blocked by a towering presence. Brother Bernard stumbled back a step.

Drop her you fool! Do you not know who I am? I am Mother Robber, and if I say the word my husband will burn this monastery to the ground!

Mother Robber took another step forward and stood with feet braced and eyes snapping fire. Clearly ready to take all comers no holds barred.

How dare you? Brother Bernard’s voice rose to a shriek. This is a cloister garden! No woman may enter!

But now he became aware of an insistent tugging at his sleeve. Looking down he saw Abbot Hans. And sighed.

Be still brother. I am sure they have simply come to gaze upon your garden. It is known far and wide as the most beautiful this side of paradise, yet few have ever seen it.

Brother Bernard bowed his head. Abbot Hans looked with compassion at the small feral child, who peered at Brother Bernard from the folds of her mother’s skirt, her large eyes pools of mistrust.

Mother Robber still stood with feet braced and head high. She swung her head slowly, surveying the garden with an expert eye. One corner of her mouth lifted with amusement and a trace of contempt.

I am sure the reputation of this place is well deserved, but you would consider it a bed of weeds if you had once seen a garden I know.

Brother Bernard began to bluster, but Abbot Hans laid a hand on his arm.

There is a legend of old which I heard once as a child. That deep in the mountains at midnight on Christmas Eve the Thuringian Forest blooms each year to celebrate the Savior’s birth. Can it be that this legend is true?

After a long silence Mother Robber spoke.

On Christmas Eve, come to the outlaw camp in the forest. Bring only one companion. And you will see what you will see.

And with that, she turned on her heel and was gone.

And so it was that Christmas Eve found Abbot Hans and Brother Bernard trudging up the steep fields behind the cloister toward the forbidding forest with only starlight to guide them. The winter wind blew bitterly, and Brother Bernard’s heart was heavy with misgivings. He bore a sack of bread and cheese from the monastery larder and followed in the footsteps of Abbot Hans who carried nothing but a staff and seemed almost to skip across the frozen furrows.

As they approached, a small shadow detached itself from the forest fringe and soundlessly slipped to the side of Abbot Hans. It was the outlaw child, her large eyes like stars. She took Abbot Hans by the hand and wordlessly disappeared into the trees.

Brother Bernard followed, groping in the darkness.

After some time, he perceived a distant point of light, and made toward it like a moth to a candle flame, finally stumbling into a small clearing.

The light came from the doorway of a small hut, and entering it, he found Abbot Hans and the girl sitting by a fire. Mother Robber was bent over a pot in which she was stirring what appeared to be stew. She glanced up and gestured with her eyes toward the corner of the hut. Not knowing if she meant him to deposit his load, or to seat himself there, he did both.

The silence in the hut was profound. Brother Bernard found it oppressive, although the Abbot appeared quite at home, holding his hands toward the fire. The child leaned against his side, her head on his knee.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the hut, Brother Bernard was able to make out a low jumble of blankets and furs in the opposite corner, from which the wary wolfish eyes of Father Robber gleamed in the firelight.

This is madness, he thought. We have walked into a trap. Cautiously he laid Abbot Hans staff within easy reach, pulled his knees up to his chin, and resolved to keep watch from the shadows.

Brother Bernard awoke with a start and looked wildly about him. The fire in the hearth had gone out, and Abbot Hans and the others were nowhere to be seen. Seizing the staff, he leapt to his feet and strode to the doorway.

Outside the hut, the forest was bathed in a strange unearthly light, like sunlight filtered through fathoms of seawater. Every tree and bush stood out clearly, but no shadows were cast on the smooth surface of the snow.

Witchcraft, he thought, I must rescue Abbot Hans before all is lost, and rushed from the hut.

And now, as he ran, small buds burst from every twig and a haze of green filled the forest. The snow rolled back like a carpet and his footfalls were muffled by mounds of moss.

He became aware of the twittering of songbirds from every side, the woods were awakening and stirring, small creatures peered at him from the hollows of roots and trees.

Abruptly he came upon the others, and stopped, heart pounding, half hidden behind an ancient tree.

The Abbot stood facing the forest, the hood of his cowl thrown back over shoulders. A half-step behind him, the outlaw child leaned against an enormous sprawling bear, her grubby fingers scratching amiably between its ears. The parents were seated on a log, Robber Mother stroked a small rabbit in her lap. An air of companionable calm filled the small clearing.

Without warning, small white blossoms erupted from every twig and the birds burst into song as before the dawn. And like a rushing tide, a carpet of flowers bloomed from the forest floor. Wave upon wave, a silent surf in every conceivable color and hue. The air was filled with a fair perfume, a warm breeze lifted and stirred the hair of the child, who stood in rapt delight with face uplifted.

All this Brother Bernard observed from behind his tree, his mind filled with a dark foreboding. How could this be a holy miracle when it was shown to sinners and outcasts such as these?

Slowly the birdsong began to subside, and a deep expectant hush fell in the forest. Mother Robber rose to her feet, gazing into the distance beyond Abbot Hans. Father Robber stood at her side, his arm around her waist. Their heads tilted toward each other, touching.

The light seemed to gather itself in the east and cast long golden beams toward them through the trees. Every small bird and animal looked toward the light. The outlaw child’s eyes were like flames.

Abbot Hans fell to his knees, trembling arms outstretched. The light crowned his white head with fire.

Just then a white dove, perhaps emboldened by the stillness, fluttered from a tree branch to Brother Bernard’s shoulder. With a wild, unreasoning fear he flung out an arm and exploded with an oath.

On the instant the forest was plunged in darkness, and breathtaking cold returned like the slap of icy water.

Brother Bernard groped forward in the blackness until he felt the prostrate form of Abbot Hans outstretched on the freezing ground.

Hours later, the gray predawn light found Brother Bernard at the monastery gates, tears streaming down his face, the frail body of Abbot Hans gathered in his arms.

In the days that followed, the brothers mourned their beloved Abbot and built his coffin.

When the body was prepared for burial, it was discovered that a small bundle of roots was held clutched in the Abbot’s hand, scooped from the freezing forest floor at the very moment of his death.

These they planted at his feet, in the grave that Brother Bernard had dug in the very center of the monastery garden.

When springtime came, a clump of unfamiliar glossy green leaves sprang up, but though Brother Bernard tended them carefully throughout the summer, they never bloomed.

Another autumn came, finding Brother Bernard still broken hearted. And when the outlaw child failed to come to beg as the cold closed in, he spaded in his garden and once again took a sack of bread and cheese and headed to the forest, only to discover the robber camp abandoned.

Brother Bernard spent the remainder of his life as a hermit in the forest. It is said that when he was frail and old, the small animals and birds were unafraid of him and wandered freely in and out of the hut eating scraps from his table.

The Thuringian forest never again clothed itself in blossom to celebrate the Savior’s birth. But every year at midnight on Christmas Eve small white blossoms push up through the snow at the foot of Abbot Hans grave.

This is the Christmas Rose.

Wherever it is planted, it blooms each winter to remind men of the coming springtime when God’s love will rule the earth and all darkness and fear will be no more.