I can see Christmas lights and must be approaching some kind of settlement. My mule refused to carry me further and for the last fifty miles I have walked. It is a small village and my hope is that its people will take kindly to a stranger arriving in the night with muddy boots. A dog barks and thunder rumbles through the sky. It’s beginning to rain. “Who goes there?” calls a voice from a house. “I’m but a poor man looking for shelter,” I reply, “do you have a barn to spare?” “What are you, a comedian?” says the voice and I hear the sound of shutters being drawn shut. My coat is getting soaked and I must find a dry place to rest my aching legs. Up the road I can just barely make out a small church and head for it with the mule. I’m freaked out by a giant bat on the steps leading up to the door, but on closer inspection it’s a broken umbrella. A note on the door of the church says ‘Closed for the Holidays’ and I can’t believe my ill luck. I pick up the umbrella and try to fix it. The rain is coming down hard now.

The umbrella is a total loss. Soon it will be Christmas and I’m stranded in this crazy village with a mule that won’t carry me. If I don’t make it home it will break my mother’s heart. It will break my father’s heart. It will break various hearts of various relatives. Further down the road I can see a signpost and head for it with the mule. Standing beside the signpost are two paupers, one with a sheep and one with an ox. The pauper with the ox speaks to me and says: “We are but poor men and we have lost our way.” “So have I,” I say. The rain has stopped and a star shines brightly in the night sky. The signpost says ‘This way’ in four directions and we can’t make sense of it. We decide to use the star as a beacon and leave the crazy village with the ox, the sheep and the mule.

The crazy village is far behind us and we stop for the ox, the sheep and the mule to graze some grass. The star has led us far into the country and we hope that it is the right way and that it is not the wrong way. One of the paupers draws his name in the mud. He cannot write so he draws an X. It is now two days until Christmas and I have two days to make it home.

Dusk is upon us as we spot a shack near the road. A man is hammering away on the roof. The pauper with the sheep says “sit,” but the sheep does not understand. We manage to halt the mule and the ox. “We are but poor men who have lost their way,” I say, “do you have some hay for our animals?” “Come,” says the man with the hammer, “come stay in the shack. There is hay and a roof. A roof that needs fixing.” He hammers away again and we enter the shack. We lie down in the hay to rest our legs and soon we are fast asleep.

We are woken by the sound of a child crying in the night. The child is being held by a woman in the shack. “This is my wife,” says the man with the hammer, “and she has given birth to a newborn child in the night.” We give the family what small posessions we carry for their kindness. A deck of cards, a rattle and a teddy bear. We decide to leave the animals in the shack and go our seperate ways. We must make it home to our families. “Hey guys,” says the man with the hammer as we start off on the road, “Merry Christmas.” I wave at the man and shake hands with the paupers. “Goodbye guys, and merry Christmas.” I follow the road that stretches out before me and somehow I know I will make it home.

The End.