| On the
island, a north wind was blowing, cold enough to freeze one's breath. The
stormy sea kept pounding against the high cliff where Spiridoula lived in
a stone cottage.
Inside the cottage, thick logs crackled cheerfully in the fireplace and a fat hen simmered in a pot. Everytime Spiridoula's mother lifted the lid to peek at the hen she was cooking, Spiridoula got a whiff of the delicious aroma. It was Christmas Eve and Spiridoula's mother was preparing the holiday dinner. She had covered the dinner table with a colourful new tablecloth and had made a plateful of melomakarona. But neither Spiridoula nor her mother seemed in any hurry to sit at the table. After checking the boiling hen every few minutes, the mother would walk to the window and look out. Spiridoula's little nose remained tightly pressed against the other window. |
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Again and again her breath would cloud up the glass and she would wipe it clear with her hand. "When do you think Daddy will be home?" asked Spiridoula. "He'll be here any minute," replied her mother, sighing softly as she bent over the pot. "I can't wait! I am so excited about seeing the doll he promised to bring me," Spiridoula continued. "Do you think she'll have blond hair or brown hair? And what colour will her eyes be?" "I don't know, darling. Didn't we agree to be patient until your father arrives?" "Yes, but why is he so late?" "Because the sea is rough and it is very difficult for the steamboat to dock at our small port." "Oh, Mother, you mean Daddy might not come home at all tonight? I want to see my doll!" Her mother did not reply. She knew that Spiridoula was too young to understand the dangers of a stormy sea.
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Her father was a ship captain and was often away for a long time. But he wrote every week. Spiridoula would watch impatiently for the mailman, running down the steep cliff to meet him as soon as she saw him approaching. Her mother waited anxiously onthe front steps. Once she had the letter in her hand, she would pull a hairpin from her braid and, her fingers trembling with excitement, she would open the envelope. Then she would read the letter aloud, slowly and carefully, line by line, while Spiridoula listened attentively.
After mentioning where he was, what he was doing, that he was in good health, and asking about the family, the father would write about the countries that he had visited. Each letter repeated that he couldn't wait to be home with his wife and daughter. In his last letter he added a special page for Spiridoula, telling about the beautiful doll he had bought for her. All he asked was that she be a good girl and wait until Christmas when he would bring home the doll.
After her mother read this page, Spiridoula begged her to please read it agian. And so her mother did, again and again, until Spiridoula knew every word by heart. She never tired of hearing the letter. It held the same pleasure for her even after twenty readings. And then, there were the questions.
"Mommy, what will my doll look like? What colour do you think her hair will be? Will it be long or short, straight or curly? Will she be wearing a little silk dress? Will she have white shoes? No, I want her to have red shoes and a pretty umbrella."
Endless questions which always received the same answer: "Be patient, my dear, just wait until Christmas and then you will see for yourself."
At last Christmas had come, but not the boat bringing her father home. the sea became angrier and stormier. The north wind became stronger as if it were trying to blow the cottage into the sea. Then came rain mixed with hail hammering against the windows.
The logs had completely burned, leaving only hot ashes in the fireplace. The hen was ready, but neither Spiridoula nor her mother were hungry. Spiridoula was still at the window watching, waiting, hoping.
| Her mother knelt in front of the Iconostasi lighted by a holy candle, and prayed to the Virgin Mary to bring back her husband safely. Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as it got later and the storm continued to rage. She prayed with all her heart and soul that a miracle might save her husband on this holy night. |
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At that moment, she heard a weak knock on the locked front door. Her heart began to beat faster and faster. She turned the key in the lock and pulled open the door. There stood her husband, his clothes clinging to him, wet and covered with mud. He was so tired that he could hardly drag himself to a chair near the fireplace. Spiridoula's mother asked her to hurry and get dry clothes for her father. Then she piled fresh logs in the fireplace and relit the fire. After a while, when the father had recovered a little, he told them what had happened. His boat had run into a big storm and was unable to continue its voyage. The crew was forced off the ship on the far side of the island. He had walked the long distance home to save his family from worrying about him. On the way, he had gotten lost and had wandered for hours in the rain and mud. While listening to him, Spiridoula's mother kept making the sign of the cross and thanking God for helping her husband to reach home safely.
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Spiridoula said nothing. She just kept looking at her father, somehow hoping to see the doll he had promised to bring home with him. She was so disappointed that she could think of nothing else. She had waited so long for the doll, the beautiful doll with red shoes. "Spiridoula, come here." Suddenly, as if he had read his daughter's mind, her father looked her in the eyes, and said softly, "I am sorry that I didn't bring you the gift I promised. Your doll was lost in the storm. But the next time I go to sea, I will bring you another beautiful doll." Spiridoula watched her father's face. His eyes were sad yet filled with warmth and love. He seemed so tired, so old. Suddenly the doll didn't seem very important. Spiridoula jumped into her father's lap and hugged him. "Don't worry, Daddy," she whispered, "I am happy that you are safe at home." Without saying another word, the captain tenderly kissed his daughter. And Spiridoula thought that she had indeed received the most splendid gift of all on this holy night.
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