Christmas was coming in the old bookshop. The bookseller felt as if the holiday just marked the ending to another year.

It wasn’t always like that, though. He once festooned the place with lights and garlands. Christmas music would begin playing the day after Thanksgiving. He would root through the shop searching for holiday themed books to put on display near the front.

Dickens, of course. But after the usual longtime favorites, he would go into the cooking and craft sections for books that would bring more color to the display.

This year, Annirosa decided to take charge. She made a big wreath from pine fronds she cut in the woods that bordered the shop. With wire and intertwining, she created an impressive green circle that was nearly three feet in diameter. She made a big red bow and tied it to the bottom. She hung it on the front door. 

“Come out and look!” she said cheerily. 

When he made no indication of moving from behind the counter, she went back and took him by the sleeve. She led him to the front door, and when she opened it, the little silver bell chimed three notes that could have been the opening of “Good King Wenceslas.” She set him a few feet away and turned him to face the door.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think it needs to be rotated counterclockwise a few degrees.”

With a bit of a growl, she stepped to it and turned it a bit. Then she returned to his side and crossed her arms and asked, “Now?”

“I suppose customers expect something this time of year. How much did it cost?”

“It didn’t cost you a penny. And I did it on my own time!”

“It is fine. Very festive. Thank you. I’m getting cold. Can we go in now?”

“I’d tell you where you can go with that attitude…” 

“Look. The delivery guy dumped a package and left with no signature again. Dump and depart.”

“It looks like a poster mailer.”

“Did someone here order posters? Maybe Rudolph-themed?”

“I didn’t. Mathilda and Setanta wouldn’t be able to do anything with posters—not having hands and all.”

Mathilda was a cat. Setanta a dog. But both were excellent booksellers and had extraordinary skills beyond. 

The bookseller bent to the wooden porch floor and picked up the mailing tube.

“This is old,” he said. “It’s got a metal screw lid. About 1920s, I’d say.”

“Where’s it from?”

“There’s nothing on it but the shop name and mine. Maybe it’s a bomb.”

“Let’s go inside and open it! I like mysteries. I’ll make us some cocoa.”

“I’m not THAT cold. I’ll make a Keurig. But first we’ve got to get the shop open. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the hordes of book-lovers that will be pulling into the parking lot soon.”

Annirosa opened the door, and the little silver bell above the door trilled three familiar notes that could only be “Jingle Bells.”

Mathilda was perched atop the counter, pecking away at a laptop. Orders were being printed on the shelf below her.

The machine spit them out, making “Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk!” sounds.

Setanta ambled over, his nails clicking on the black and white linoleum tiles. When he and the bookseller met, he emitted an enormous sneeze. Dog snot sprayed all over the bookseller’s shoes.

“Well, good morning to you too, Setanta.”

The dog flopped to the floor, blocking the bookseller’s way and looking up at him balefully.

“I stayed late and priced a batch of Irish history. Make yourself useful and go stock it while I wipe off my shoes.”

The dog whined pathetically and didn’t budge.

“Oh! That’s right. You’re still exiled from the Emerald Isle. Something to do with poaching, wasn’t it?”

The dog prostrated himself even more and put his two paws over his face in embarrassment. The pathetic tiny whines contrasted with the enormity of the canid.

The bookseller set the poster tube onto the counter and went into his office to turn the “CLOSED” window sign over to “OPEN.”

When he returned to the sales counter, Annirosa was holding the mailing tube close to her eyes as if studying it.

“Can we return it?” the bookseller asked.

“Look at these old stamps. And there’s a postmark. It’s faint, but I read it as ‘December 15, 1923.’” She grinned. “Were you open then?”

“A bit early in the day for insults. Let me see that.”

He took it from her and inspected it.

“It IS addressed to me. But just with the bookshop’s name, city and state. No zip code,” he said.

“Look at the postmark. How old were you in 1923?”

“Mathilda, put a ‘help wanted’ ad on Craig’s List or whatever other ridiculous way we hire nowadays.”

The cat did not look up. She kept pecking away at the laptop, and orders kept spitting out of the printer on the shelf under the counter below her. She emitted a deep rumble that was somewhere between a purr and a growl.

The situation was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. The little silver bell above it seemed to tinkle the first few notes of “The First Noel.” In walked a man bent from the huge velvet sack he had slung over his shoulder. The sack was very worn, but it appeared to once have been dark red. He was wearing big black boots and a voluminous coat, a heavy woolen weave. The coat had a hood that shrouded the man’s face completely. The coat was dusky red.

The man approached the counter, and when he was close, he swung the bag over his shoulder and let it drop on the floor in front of the four speechless booksellers. Out spilled a few dozen books.

The Little Prince. The Littlest Angel. Pooh books. The Wind in the Willows. Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens… 

Setanta rose and sniffed them. 

Annirosa asked, “Are you selling these?”

“Nope. Givin’. Don’t want nuthin’ for ’em.”

“Those look like collectible editions! The jackets are perfect.”

“My own books. Gifts when I was younger. Time to unload ’em. Friend said this was a good place. Want ’em?”

Mathilda leapt off the counter and landed at the man’s feet. She looked up at him from far below, cocked her head, and emitted a deep and rumbling purr.

“We’d really like to evaluate and pay something for them.”

“Don’t have time. Not much time left, I’m told.”

Mathilda was walking figure eights between his boots, rubbing up against him.

“I’m sorry…”

“Nuthin’ to be sorry for. Been here seems like forever. Long enough, I’m feelin’.”

“Can we empty your bag for you?”

“No. You can’t.”

“Can we…”

“Can I just go. ’Nuff left to do ’fore my deadline. Lots of things to deliver.”

With that, he turned and limped toward the front door. His frame was bent as if from great age or fatigue or even pain. Maybe all of them. When he pushed the door open, a strong wind blew in. His hood flew back and a huge mane of white hair was released. It rose and frolicked in the air. The little bell above the door seemed to play notes from “Jingle Bells.”

“Well, that’s the… a package mailed to me long before I was born and this old man dumping perfect copies of vintage children’s classics.”

But Annirosa had run through his office and was looking out the front window.

“What’s he driving?” the bookseller called from the counter.

“There’s no one out there. But I thought I saw a shadow move across the lot and into the trees. Like from a cloud.”

Setanta and the bookseller were looking down at the bag. Mathilda was nuzzling its once-red velvet. 

“Well, they can’t stay there. Setanta, empty the rest of the bag and stack the books so I can review them. Don’t get any slobber on them.”

The big dog whined plaintively and gave a great sneeze, and the bookseller’s pants cuff and calf were mottled with white goo. Snuffling, the dog moved to the books cast upon the floor and began picking up one after another—with his mouth. He stacked them gently against the front of the sales counter.

Just then, the front door opened, and the bell tinkled enough notes for everyone to recognize “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”

“Tom! Tom Hubbard! I haven’t seen you in years. Thought maybe…”

“Maybe I died? Nope. Just slowed to a crawl. Selling off my old stock, but that’s slowed to nothing. Almost. Say… what’s the story on the kid’s books on the floor?”

“Not for sale yet,” the bookseller said. “We are… ummm… just evaluating them for someone.”

“Hmmmm… books like that I might start buying again. It wasn’t that old guy in the big coat, was it? He looked awful familiar—like a bookseller I knew when I was starting out. But he was old then. Real old. And that was fifty-, sixty-some years ago.”

“You saw his face? He had a hood covering it in here.”

“Not exactly, but there was something about him, the entire person, that had to be old Chris.”

“Chris?”

“Chris Nicholas.”

“The antiquarian from the ’50s? I heard stories about him, but he was long gone by the time I started.”

“Chris started in the ’20s—the 1920s—maybe the teens. He was the best non-multigenerational bookseller of the 20th century.”

“You mean like Maggs and Quaritch and all?”

“Yep. He stood alone. But it couldn’t have been him coming out your door. He’d be 120 years old or older. There was always something strange about him. There was always a twinkle in his eye, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t. Fact is, he did. He knew books better than anyone before or since. Can you come out? I brought some bad dead stock for you. I don’t know why I held onto this Galsworthy collection. I invested in it in the ’60s. Guess I hoped eventually he’d come back in vogue.”

“You don’t want me to look at them. It would only be bad news.”

“There’s no one else that would even look at them as bad news. C’mon. I know you. You’re a sucker for signed limiteds in slipcases or clamshells. Even unsellable ones.”

“Ummm…”

“It’s Christmas,” Annirosa whispered into his ear. “Tom was good to you when you were starting out. Go on out. You may be surprised.”

The two old booksellers—one old and the other older—headed out the front door. The bell above it rung the first notes of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

Mathilda, Setanta and Annirosa looked at one another. Mathilda gave a cat shrug. Setanta a dog shrug. Annirosa shrugged. Then they turned and returned to work. Mathilda printing orders. Setanta removing books from the big once-red velvet sack. Annirosa disappearing into the stacks with a two-wheeled book cart and a sheaf of paper book orders to pull so they could be packed and shipped.

The two men crossed the porch to Tom’s battered old van. It was still running.

“Don’t dare turn it off. Might not start again.”

The rusty once-blue vehicle hissed and rattled, sputtered and groaned. Occasionally it took a deep gasping breath, as if about to expire, and then at the point of death, it roared back to life.

“You should put it out of its misery, Tom.”

“Can’t afford to. I sold a lot of books over the last 60 years, but somehow I just got more books, and the money just turned into more books.”

“Yep. I understand. Story of the old book trade. We all take the V.O.P.”

“V.O.P.?”

“Vow of poverty.”

Over his few decades of bookselling, he had known so many colleagues who lived from book sale to book sale, always putting any money they made into more books. Most lived frugally but were invested in their books and not in “business.” When it came time to dissolve, sometimes their stock was their main asset. 

They stepped to the rear of the van—its motor playing metal music like a far future band. Tom pulled the creaky rear doors open, and the bookseller peered in. The floor of the vehicle was covered with cardboard flats. The flats were filled with early 20th century bindings in perfect condition. 

“Are these ALL Galsworthy?”

“Yep. By or about. And about all the books I have left—at least quality ones.”

The bookseller surveyed the plane of titles, and the van gave a great tubercular “WHEEZE!”

“Tom, I don’t know what to say…”

Galsworthy first editions and signed books had long ago been gold-plated. In what decade had they begun to lose their shine? Sixties? Seventies? Certainly by the ’80s, he was largely ignored in the antiquarian community. 

“Just do what you can. I can’t keep hauling them around. And you’re the only one left who’ll take ’em all at once. Truth is, I need ’em gone.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it. Before he quickly folded it over, the bookseller saw a bright crimson stain. Blood.

The bookseller began counting. 

“I wonder if I’ll live long enough to see Galsworthy rediscovered,” the bookseller thought.

He came up with a figure he felt was generous, considering the market.

The van wheezed deeply, and the engine paused for a moment. 

Another moment. 

Another. 

Then it emitted a painful choking noise before roaring back to life. The whole vehicle shuddered in the process.

Tom pulled out his handkerchief and coughed into it again.

The bookseller mentally doubled his offer. Paused. Tripled it.

“Tom was good to me when I was starting out,” he thought. “Gave me credit. Called me into estates—after he’d creamed them. Taught me trade tricks and secrets.” 

The van was pinging and spluttering, gasping and rattling, grinding and growling.

He mentally increased his offer by another factor.

When he opened his mouth, the offer he made was tenfold the original.

Tom looked him in the eye. Were there tears welling up, or was it pain?

“Sold,” he said. “To a good home.”

“I’ll go in and get Annirosa to come out and help us unload. She’s making cocoa if you want to come in for a bit.”

“No. I better get moving before Old Blue quits on me. Besides, I gotta get the grandkids presents. Books for sure. Already got ’em. That’s easy. Been saving ’em aside for years until they were old enough. I guess this is the year. And now I got some money, I can get ’em toys and stuff.”

The bookseller pulled a blank check from his wallet and wrote it out. 

“Is it too late to make part of it cash?”

The bookseller pulled a sheaf of green from his wallet and handed it over with the check. 

“This is a personal gift from me to you. Let’s call it interest on all those times you gave me credit in the early days. I’ll go in and get help. Glad it’s not raining.”

The bookseller crossed the porch. When he opened the front door, the bell chimed “The Holly and the Ivy.” He crossed to the counter.

“Annirosa! Where’s Annirosa?” 

He looked down and saw Setanta surrounded by 11 stacks of books. Each was about 3threefeet high.

“Setanta! What a mess! I only asked you to empty the sack. Where’d these come from? ANNIROSA!”

The dog whined and looked up at him balefully. Mathilda leapt down from the counter high above him and landed between them. She looked at the bookseller defiantly, her hackles raised. Her eyes glowed green with a light from within. 

Setanta stuck his muzzle into the velvet sack and extracted a book. The Wizard of Oz. The sack still bulged as though it was full. 

Annirosa appeared from the stacks.

“Did I hear you scream my name?”

“I did NOT scream.”

“Mathilda?”

The cat strode between her and the bookseller and stared up at him defiantly.

“I… umm… was just in a hurry. Old Tom isn’t well, I think, and I wanted to get his van emptied as fast as possible.”

“Well, that’s different. I’ve told you that you should install a paging system.”

“It’s on the ‘To Do’ list,” he said as the four of them headed out the front door. 

On the porch, they saw the once-blue van’s taillights blink as it came to the parking lot exit. It paused, as if making up its mind which way to turn. It swung a little right and then swayed left. Its rusty bumper scraped the pavement with a screech.

“I hope it doesn’t fall off.”

“Fixing that curb is on your ‘To Do’ list as well, is it not?”

They surveyed the porch floor built of unstained two-by-fours. It was paved with flats of books.

“I don’t think there were this many in Tom’s van. Glad it’s not going to rain. We can bring them in as Matilda catalogs them.”

The cat emitted a rumbling purr-growl.

So the day began at the old bookstore. 

Two very old visitors. Two very different loads of books. 

Annirosa and the bookseller each carried a flat of books in and set them on the counter. Mathilda leapt up and sashayed past the Galsworthys as if they were beneath her. 

“Wait a minute,” Annirosa said. “Not all of these are Galsworthy. Here’s The Time Machine… and it’s inscribed to Galsworthy from Wells. Here’s Doyle. Sherlock Holmes. Inscribed. And there are more…”

“Tom! I gotta catch him. He might want some of these back.”

“I don’t think so. I think he knew what he was doing, even if you did not.”

Mathilda had wandered back along the counter and was appraising the first two flats. Her whiskers were erect and her ears pricked.

Setanta had flopped to the floor and pushed his muzzle into the velvet bag. 

The bookseller walked to him, knelt, and began scanning the piles of books.

“Why, these are wonderful. Narnia. The Hobbit. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Where did all these come from, Setanta?”

The dog whined softly and pulled a book from the sack. The bookseller reached for it and the dog let him remove it from his mouth. It was completely dry.

“The Little Mermaid. In Danish. It looks like a first.”

“And over here,” Annirosa whispered. “Rackham in vellum. A dozen of them.”

“Well, we can’t leave them here. And this giant velvet sack. It can’t stay here blocking the counter. You were supposed to be emptying it, Setanta.”

The dog emitted a soft, painful “yowl” and flopped his head upon the floor. He opened his eyes and looked balefully up at the bookseller.

“Well, I’ll start by putting this sack in the storeroom. I’ll empty it myself if I have to.”

He bent and grasped the neck of the sack and lifted.

“Ooofff!”

It wouldn’t budge. 

“This weighs a ton!”

And he tugged again. Nothing.

“Wanna give me a hand, Annirosa?”

But she had settled cross-legged on the floor and was looking through the books. 

“Charlotte’s Web. Anne of Green Gables… There’s nothing later than the 1950s. And these all came out of that sack.”

“It doesn’t look any less full. And it certainly weighs a lot. Setanta pulled all these out of here?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Maybe it can’t be emptied.”

“A bottomless sack?”

“Apparently. And each one I’ve looked in has an inscription.”

She held out an early 19th century binding opened to the endpapers. Mathilda leapt down to the floor and stood on her hind legs, her front paws propped on the young woman’s shoulder.

The bookseller leaned down and read aloud.

“Ex Libris. Chris Nicholas.”

It was signed boldly in red ink with a flourish. 

“It’s the Brothers Grimm. First German, I believe,” Annirosa said, getting to the title page. 

Pippi Longstocking. Little Women. Heidi. And all were inscribed by the long-ago bookseller. 

“Okay. Okay. Setanta, stop trying to empty the bag. I believe it might be bottomless. Annirosa, let’s you and I start carrying these stacks into the office. Maybe the two of us can drag the bag in there.” 

A few customers dribbled in and looked oddly at the mess on the floor, but no one commented. The odd bookstore held no surprises because it always held surprises. 

The old bookseller soon found himself spinning around trying to manage things and take care of the customers all at once.

One customer cracked a joke about the trick dog and cat show. Mathilda growled and her tail stood erect, flicking. Setanta just ambled off down the History aisle with a Churchill tome in his mouth. 

A regular commented to Annirosa about the lack of holiday decor.

“He went all out again this year, didn’t he?”

“His heart’s in the right place,” she replied.

Things were in such chaos that he accidentally called Annirosa “Althea.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shaken. He broke away into his office and closed the door behind him. He stood with his back pressed to the door, his hands holding the doorknob. He looked at the ring upon the wall.

“I could run away,” he thought. Then he shuddered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “No. They’re my family now.”

He forced a smile on his face and went back out into the shop.

“Time to run a ‘help wanted’ ad on whatever that website is called,” he said as Annirosa was ringing up sales and he was bagging. 

“I have been—for weeks. I think most people are intimidated by this place.”

“Why? If they’ve never been here before…”

“Maybe it’s the line, ‘Must like working with a cat and dog.’ No one takes the job seriously. I could try to reach out her—through Barbara—or other … ‘friends.’”

“No. Things will settle down in a few days when we get this Christmas stuff out of the way. She knows the door is open.”

The day finally wound down. All the Galsworthy and related books were brought inside. The office was a maze of thigh-high stacks of vintage children’s books. 

Mathilda was chewing on her front paws—likely sharpening her claws dulled by pecking away at the laptop keyboard all day.

Setanta was snoring on the floor in front of the counter. Occasionally, he would twitch violently and pantomime hunting in his sleep.

“Probably dreaming of chasing Irish Elk, just like the good old days,” the bookseller said.

“Irish Elk have been extinct for 7,000 years in Ireland. Do you think Setanta has been alive for…”

“No one has said exactly WHEN Setanta was banished, have they?”

“We always thought it was legend.”

Eventually the lights went off and the “OPEN” sign was flipped to “CLOSED.”

“I must leave,” Annirosa told him. “There’s a meeting tonight.”

“Best not to ask what kind of meeting,” the bookseller thought. 

“Let’s go for a walk, Setanta.” 

The dog rose, his tail wagging furiously—thumping against the wooden front of the counter like it was a drum. He made his panting smile and headed quickly for the door, his nails clicking on the linoleum. 

The door was opened to the opening notes of “Silent Night.”

Setanta took off across the wooden porch and crossed the parking lot into the woods. 

The bookseller walked slowly to the front and braced himself, putting both hands on the railing. There was a full moon. When he slowly raised his head to look at it, he said, “What the…?”

A tiny shadow seemed to be moving across the lunar face thousands of feet above. 

He pulled off the reading glasses he had forgotten to remove. When he looked again, there was nothing other than the moon in the sky.

“Dirty eyeglasses,” he said aloud, and he pulled out a shirttail to wipe them on.

Out in the woods, Setanta began howling—baying at the moon.

The bookseller called to him. “C’mon, big guy. You sound like the hound of the Baskervilles, and you know that didn’t turn out well.” 

The night was silent and still as December 22nd turned into the 23rd. Snow started falling, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Setanta came cantering across the parking lot, leaving enormous footprints in the dusting of snow. He leapt onto the porch, skipping all three steps, and sat erect next to the bookseller. His head was level with the man’s collarbone.

“Beautiful night, Setanta.”

“Woofff…” the dog said softly in assent.

They stood for a bit and watched the moon rise. Then the bookseller said:

“I should head out before the roads get bad.”

They crossed the porch, and the dog pulled the front door open using his mouth. The bell sleepily played “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

He pulled down the seven light switches, and the store went dark but for a few security lights and moonlight pouring in the windows.

“I won’t wake Mathilda.”

The cat was curled up on her cushion. She rumbled softly and contentedly.

“It was a busy day.”

“Woof,” the dog whispered. 

---

December 23rd was hectic but lacked mysterious visitors. The internet orders were fewer. People rightly surmised that anything mailed wouldn’t arrive on time. 

Mathilda had been up early cataloging the Galsworthy collection. She had put aside a few books with particularly interesting inscriptions and signatures.

A first edition of J. M. Barrie’s The Little White Bird. The inscription read in part:

I have become attached to the characters introduced here. Namely Peter Pan. I am tempted to let my imagination take flight and write more about the little boy who never grew up.

Do write me and let me know your thoughts. I would value your opinion. I do not wish to appear frivolous or flighty.

Yours, etc…

There was a short run of early P. G. Wodehouse in glowing humorous, colorful jackets with jibing inscriptions encouraging Galsworthy to “…lighten up, old chap…”

Tucked into one of the last Forsyte books were a half dozen letters congratulating him on the Nobel Prize he was awarded in 1932. Likely they had never been replied to, as he died soon after. 

The letters were mostly from other notable authors. There was also one from Winston Churchill.

“Well! Good finds, Mathilda. Setanta, please bring her more of the Galsworthy collection. I do hope I see Old Tom again. I’d like to write another check. Maybe he could buy more reliable transportation.”

The store opened on time. People shuffled in after kicking snow off their boots on the porch. There were about a dozen sellers, as well—hoping for a little cash for their books in order to buy some last-minute presents.

December 23rd at the shop ended early. Only a few last-minute shoppers came in late—desperate for gifts.

“What should I get for a 13-year-old niece? She likes fantasy.”

“Has she read The Dark is Rising? We have an early edition in a perfect dust jacket. It’s only 15 dollars—less than a new trade paperback,” Annirosa offered.

She sensed the woman’s hesitation.

“I can ask the owner to give you 20 percent off—it being Christmas and all,” Annirosa said, putting the book into the auntie’s hands.

“You think she will like it? She reads Harry Potter a lot.”

“I’m sure she will. You’ll be a hero to her for discovering it.”

The day ended, and all four of the booksellers exhaled heavily when the knob on the front door was turned to engage the lock.

“It will soon be Christmas Eve. What are you doing, Annirosa?”

“I am flying off to be with family.”

“Need a ride to the airport?”

“Airport? Why would I go there? Let me make us some cocoa. It will be down into the teens tonight.”

“I’m glad there’s no more snow. At least the roads are cleared. I think we got eight inches last night.”

Annirosa began clattering mugs and spoons.

“I’ll get Mathilda a saucer of milk,” the bookseller said.

The cat leapt off the counter and began making figure eights around the bookseller’s feet.

“Don’t trip me, Mathilda, or you’ll be wearing your treat!”

“Mrrrrwowrrr…”

“We cannot give Setanta cocoa nor milk. What would you like, Setanta?” Annirosa asked the dog.

“A wee dram of Irish, to be sure. I’ll get the bottle and some seltzer water,” the bookseller said.

“Whiskey is okay for a dog?”

“He’s not exactly a ‘dog’ dog. More like an earthly element.”

Setanta was already on it. He disappeared and quickly returned with the neck of a liter bottle of Teeling in his mouth. His enormous, heavy tail once again thumped against the shop counter like a drum.

Annirosa rolled her eyes, as did Mathilda. 

The mugs of cocoa were set atop the counter along with the saucer of milk. Setanta rose on his hind legs and put his forepaws on the counter indicating he wished to join them. Annirosa bent and lifted the large soup bowl filled with bubbling water onto the counter. The bookseller ceremoniously poured a shot of the Irish whiskey into it. 

“And a wee taste for me in the cocoa. I need something take the edge off that treacly stuff.”

“Well, here we all are, together at year’s end.” Annirosa said. “What are we all thankful for?”

“I’m thankful for you three. It has been an eventful year. We have saved a lot of wonderful books and spread the gospel of the printed word to yet another generation. May next year be even better and certainly no worse. Here’s to us and absent friends! Cheers!”

They clinked mugs. Setanta began lapping from his bowl. Mathilda pushed her saucer of milk a little farther away to avoid the splashing.

The evening ended early. Annirosa had some last-minute weaving to do at home. 

Mathilda leapt up to her shelf behind the counter and curled up on her cushion. 

The bookseller headed into his office. Setanta followed a bit unsteadily. 

He sat on the carpeted floor and began exploring the stacks of children’s classics. Setanta flopped down behind him and rested his head upon the man’s shoulder, watching as the books came into and out of the bookseller’s hands. 

They spent a few hours playing with the wondrous rare books. Man and dog. Setanta would occasionally woof softly when the bookseller found something especially exciting.

The bookseller would occasionally sip a bit of Irish neat from a snifter. He had a brought the bowl of seltzer and whiskey in, and occasionally Setanta would rise and take a couple laps.

It was getting late—about 11:00—when Setanta signaled that he wanted to go out. He could get out on his own, but the bookseller feared a passerby might be frightened by the giant wolfhound out loose. Setanta opened the door, and the little silver bell above it played some notes from “O Tannenbaum.” They crossed the porch together, and then Setanta leapt over the railing like it was a steeplechase. He landed on the pavement and loped across it into the woods.

The bookseller leaned against the railing and mused on the past year. It hadn’t been so terrible.

“Could’ve been worse.”

Then he felt some tingles on the back of his neck. He sensed something was in the air above the bookshop. He leaned over the railing and looked up.

Nothing.

Still… 

Setanta noticed something, too, and began baying at the heavens. The dog trotted across the lot and leapt over the three steps onto the porch. His body language made it clear he wanted to go back inside. 

Once inside, the dog trotted to his bed and flopped onto it. He crossed his paws over his muzzle and was soon asleep.

As he passed her shelf, Mathilda opened her eyes dreamily and blinked three times, then went back to sleep. 

The bookseller went into his office and groaned.

“Too many books.”

Surveying the mess, he thought, “Nope. Not enough space.”

He stepped over to one of his glass bookcases where he kept his better books. He knew just where they were. His slipcased set of Dickens Christmas Books. All first editions. He pulled out the Christmas Carol and sat down at his desk. He opened it gently and settled into reading. 

After some time, he started getting sleepy and noticed the clock on the wall above the door read 11:58.

“Time to go home.”

He put the book on the desk, bent and began pulling on his boots when he heard the unmistakable sound of boots being stomped on the wooden porch. 

“Someone here? Shaking snow off their boots?”

He went out and opened the door. The bell played a somber “O Holy Night.”

There was a man standing in the dark. 

“May I help you? We’re closed.”

“It is Christmas Eve!”

“I know. Just turned midnight.”

“I came to say Merry Christmas. And to say goodbye.”

The voice was familiar but deeper. And the words and syntax were from another century; another era.

“Goodbye? Do I know you?”

“You did.”

The man stepped forward and into some light bleeding out through a window. He had on a large dark red cape. It had a big hood that all but covered his face. The clothes beneath seemed quite bulky.

“Tom? Tom Hubbard?”

“Tom crossed over today. You can call me Nick now.”

“But you look and sound like Tom.”

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I was. I’ve been given a new task beginning tonight.”

“Tom, you shouldn’t be out on a night like this. It’s bitter cold. It’ll hurt your lungs.”

“HO! HO! HO! This is the night I am meant to be out! I am the new one. Old Chris Nicholas was worn out. It WAS he that brought you that sack of books yesterday. He has moved on, and I was chosen to take his place.”

With that, he opened his cape and was resplendent in the familiar red and white fur suit with a big shiny black belt.

“Santa Claus?”

“HO! HO! HO! And you have been especially good. I brought you a present.”

From somewhere in the folds of his cape, he withdrew a large clamshell box and handed it to the bookseller. The spine label read:

Shakespeare
First Folio
1623

“Chris Nicholas said to give it to you. It was his. As were all those books in his bag.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Perhaps you are to be the next.”

“You mean Chris Nicholas was…”

“For many years. And now my time has begun.” He smiled. “Well, I must fly! I have only this one day to make my appointed rounds.”

“You mean those books in my office were Santa Claus’s children’s book collection?”

“HO! HO! HO! And Merry Christmas to Setanta and Mathilda. I see you peeking out the window!”

Indeed, the cat and the dog had their noses pressed against the office window. Their breath was creating foggy patches on the glass.

“I have presents for you two, too!” 

He reached into his cape and withdrew an enormous bone.

“The thigh bone of an Irish Elk. This should occupy Setanta for hours.”

He reached in again and withdrew a small round metal tin. He handed it to the bookseller. There were only two words printed on the tin’s lid.

“Nine Lives?”

“Yes. She can reload. She has used up a few in recent times—mostly in your service.”

“But how?”

“She will know.”

Then from behind the bookshop came the unmistakable sound of sleigh bells.

“I am being summoned. MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all. And to you all, a good night!”

With that, he nimbly hopped over the porch railing and disappeared around the side of the building.

“On Dasher! On Dancer. On Comet and Blitzen!”

There was a loud “WHOOSH” and the ringing of thousands of bells.

The bookseller rushed to the other side of the porch and leaned out and looked up. He saw the silhouette against the moon of a team of reindeer pulling a large sleigh packed with gifts. An arm raised in a salutation.

“HO! HO! HO!” echoed in the far distance.

The bookseller walked to the front door. When he opened it, the little bell played notes that were clearly “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

He crossed to the counter, and Setanta came skidding to a stop, eyeing the enormous bone in the man’s hand. 

“But it’s not Christmas yet.” 

The dog gave a low growl, and the bone dropped to the floor.

“Mathilda, I’ll set your tin atop your bed. Let me know if you need help opening it.”

The cat hopped up to her shelf, which was nearly eye level with the bookseller. She glared at him with glowing green eyes.

The bookseller headed into his office with his gift book still crooked under his arm.

He went into his office and set the folio down on his desk.

He laughed until he cried, and cried until he laughed again.

“I wonder what comes next?”

---

Thus began Christmas Eve in the old bookshop. 

Maybe next week there will be another story that tells what happens next.