At the Manger Read online

  At The Manger

  Copyright © 2015 by Peter Orullian

  Cover Art by Thomas Cole

  Cover Design by Peter Orullian

  Interior Illustrations by Katie Garner

  All rights reserved

  The stories in At The Manger are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Publication History

  First published in hardback 2006

  Visit: www.orullian.com

  Published by

  Descant Publishing

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ~ ~ * ~ ~

  “Rarely has [the Christmas story] been done as well as in Orullian’s beautifully written anthology . . . Here we are asked to conjecture how ordinary people might have responded to Yeshua’s birth—and by extension, how we would respond.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly

  “Orullian creatively and imaginatively paints fictional portraits of various Bethlehem citizens to create a larger of Bethlehem and the power of love.”

  —CRA Marketplace

  “An enchanting retelling of the Christmas story from the perspective of various people who visited the babe in the manger.”

  —The Seattle Post Intelligencer

  “If you only read one new book this holiday season, this is the one to pick.”

  — The Tampa Tribune

  ~ ~ * ~ ~

  Contents

  START READING

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Praise for

  THE UNREMEMBERED

  and

  TRIAL OF INTENTIONS

  Books One & Two of

  THE VAULT OF HEAVEN

  “Engaging characters and powerful storytelling in the tradition of Robert Jordan, Terry Goodkind, and Dennis L. McKiernan make this a top-notch fantasy by a new author to watch.”

  —Library Journal (Starred review)

  “A sprawling, complex tale of magic and destiny that won’t disappoint its readers. This auspicious beginning for author Peter Orullian will have you looking forward to more.”

  —Terry Brooks

  “The Vault of Heaven is an ambitious story in the mold of Robert Jordan and Terry Goodkind. Peter Orullian is a name to watch in the field of epic fantasy.”

  —Kevin J. Anderson

  “This is one huge, powerful, compelling, hard-hitting story . . . The Vault of Heaven is a major fantasy adventure.”

  —Piers Anthony

  “A fine debut!”

  —Brandon Sanderson

  “Great fantasy tales plunge us into vivid new worlds, in the company of fascinating characters. The Vault of Heaven is great fantasy. It grips you and shows you true friendship, strange places, and heroes growing to confront world-shaking evil. Magnificent! I want more!”

  —Ed Greenwood

  “The Vault of Heaven by Peter Orullian is a vast canvas filled with thought-provoking ideas on the questions of good and evil that engage us all.”

  —Anne Perry

  “Intricately crafted with its own distinct melody, The Unremembered is a groundbreaking work of epic fantasy.”

  —Bookwormblues.net

  “Sometimes you just need a big, fat fantasy, and Peter Orullian’s remastered edition of The Unremembered delivers everything you’re looking for: a fascinating world, tense action, charismatic characters, and a magic system the like of which you’ve never imagined.”

  —Aidan Moher

  A Dribble of Ink

  Hugo Award Winner

  “The Unremembered captures the unique essence and mystery of music, and weaves it into every line of a compelling and exciting world, while telling a character-driven story that resonates through the ages . . . a work of art on par with the masters of the genre, Jordan, Rothfuss, Tolkien, and more.”

  —Elitistbookreviews.com

  2013 & 2014 Hugo-nominated

  for best review site

  “Engaging characters, complex magic, and expertly written—a whole new kind of epic fantasy!”

  —Suvudu.com

  “Orullian’s Trial of Intentions is a tale of music and magic, of daring and sacrifice, in an intricate and believable world.”

  —Robin Hobb

  “Peter Orullian’s Trial of Intentions is a book enormous in scope and in intricacy, with a welter of political, cultural, and magical intrigues, behind which lies the role of song in preserving a myriad of cultures, all of which disagree with each other to some extent, even as it becomes apparent to the reader that, without some degree of cooperation, all will suffer, if not perish. A challenging story about challenged cultures, and one well-told.”

  —L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “Peter Orullian is a master of dark chocolate fantasy; bitter, harsh and sweet at once. Trial of Intentions grabs us firmly by the breastplate and challenges us to face a world of moral contradictions, stunning characters and harsh choices. An unflinching fantasy.”

  —Tracy Hickman

  “Trial of Intentions is a grand novel, with strong worldbuilding and a sweeping cast of distinctive characters. Orullian is a promising writer, and I look forward to seeing where he takes us in the future.”

  — Brandon Sanderson

  Also by Peter Orullian

  The Unremembered

  Trial of Intentions

  The Vault of Heaven, Story Volume One

  The Sound of Broken Absolutes

  Beats of Seven: A short story collection*

  (*Coming soon from Descant Publishing)

  For Cathryn,

  who makes living a beautiful thing

  to write about,

  and who taught me more about

  the child in the manger . . .

  than anyone.

  Acknowledgments

  WHEN I SET out to write this book, I hadn't anticipated my great fortune to meet so many kind, intelligent, generous people along the way. But without these good folks, you wouldn't be holding this gentle artifact right now. So it is that I take great pleasure in pointing fingers and naming names.

  Thank you, Ephraim and Virginia Orullian. Here is a book you can "get behind." Your support and patience with me as parents is legendary to those who know me. For your superb example of charity, service and sacrifice, I am eternally grateful. These qualities informed me in the telling of these tales.

  To Star Orullian, for your practical disinterest in the business side of my preparations, and for saying "yes" almost before you knew what I meant to ask of you; and for teaching me to sing Christmas carols in the basement when we cuddled close as kids. To Todd and Julie, for a cautiousness that made me think even harder. And to the rest of Ephraim's children for allowing me to haul you into the Rocky Mountains, build a fire, and make you listen to the stories that fell from my pen.

  Then there is Jay Davis. Thanks, friend, for your careful eye and your publishing wisdom—even the stuff I ignored. Mostly, though, thanks for being you. With you yoked to the team, I had less to carry.

  My gratitude to Lizzy Shannon and Lenora Good, for insight and polish that gave context and color to this fictional world. And to Katie Garner, who rendered the images herein.

  Special thanks to Bill Johnson, a master story analyst and delightful conversationalist.

  For accuracy in the details I acknowledge Dr. Winthrop Lindsay Adams, Associate Professor of History, University of Utah; and Dr. Scott Noegel, Department of Near Eastern Languages & Civilizations, University of Washington.

  No Christmas book of mine comes into the world without a big salute to Albert Finney and James Stewart, who remind me all year long to make good choices, Christmas choices. Nor is this page of thanks complete without a nod to Mr. Charles Dickens, both for his fine Christmas stories and his wonderful authorial voice.

  And I'll thank just one song. That's right, "Greensleeves!" Legend has it that King Henry VIII wrote it for Anne Boleyn during their courtship around 1530, but there is no substantial evidence to back this up. The tune, with the original lyrics, first appeared in 1652, but the melody is thought to have originated in the late 1500s. After the American Civil War, William Chatterton Dix used the melody to write the popular Christmas Carol, "What Child is This?" More than any other song, this one stirs my soul.

  My profound appreciation always to Cathryn, for reading, listening, hoping, and for caring about the Yuletide season almost as much as I do.

  Finally, to the child who came and influenced a world. I do you the honor I can with my little pen. Thank you for being my dearest, finest friend.

  Author’s Note

  A FEW YEARS AGO, a dear friend, laden with the responsibility of planning a Christmas celebration, asked me to pen a few stories to be read at his party and thus break the monotony of typical Yuletide festivities. For this one particular party amongst the slew of such celebrations that fill our holidays, he wanted something unique, something to call attention to the meaning of the season.

  Undaunted, as every young writer must be, I wrote three stories in three days: soliloquies of two men and a woman who lived in Bethlehem and stood witness to the Birth of Jesus Christ. I intended for my stories to be given as first-person narratives, the actors and actress to dress the parts and deliver meaningful readings of my words.

  And that’s just what happened.

  Then, peop
le began to request copies of the tales, and the idea burgeoned to create many more stories, and expand those I had already written.

  But perhaps this book starts further back than this.

  As a boy, I looked forward to the tradition in our home of rescuing the Christmas decorations from their dusty basement cupboards. This day always came on December 4th, my sister Star’s birthday. Star was named such because, being born in December, Dad considered her his Christmas star. We ate authentic Armenian food, then set to transforming the house. As always, I battled my little sister for the honor of setting up the Nativity. Most often, we did it together, leading to my purchase of Greg Olsen’s print depicting just such a scene.

  Anyway, I delighted in taking perfect care in the placement of those figurines. As a child, I believed in the personification of any- and everything: from piano legs, to heat-vents, to inanimate Nativity figures. I simply knew that these small bits of ceramic had stories to tell. After everyone was in bed, I sat in front of the Nativity, watching blinking Christmas tree lights reflect in the blank screen of our television, and gazing up at the single yellow globe that lit the straw and manger in aureate hues. And often I believed I could hear that night so long ago echoing forward in time. Or maybe everything is one eternal breath, and attentive as I was, I was able to partake of it in those silent moments of our front room.

  Today, a host of travelers wend their way in my mind, making journeys begun in the stillness of my imagination. I follow along, interested to see where they lead me, grateful that I may witness their grand stories. And when the time is right, I’ll put their journeys down on paper, just as I’ve done here. For they are as real to me as anything I know. Perhaps because I learn from them, perhaps because I want to believe in the worlds they inhabit.

  In this world of Bethlehem as I have imagined it, there lives a carpenter, Luke, with the quandary of performing free work when he is in desperate need of money. His story is partially given to begin the book, and weaves its way through each of the other tales, concluding at the book’s end. As so often happens in our lives today, interdependency grows between the characters of the stories, and Luke’s life touches them all in unique ways, though every story may be read and enjoyed independently.

  Where words and terminology of the time of Jesus did not perfectly translate, I’ve adopted terms that today’s reader will understand. But in an effort to create a flavor of authenticity, I have left others, using the biblical term Yahweh for God, and Jeshua for Jesus.

  These stories are dear to me because they speak to what I like best about Christmas, indeed what I believe Christmas is all about: giving of one’s self. The story and life of Jesus Christ is such a story. And I live in the thought that his humble birth was a touchstone for others to offer that which was best within themselves.

  As their stories echo forward in time, I hope they do the same for you.

  Merry Christmas

  Peter Orullian

  The Manger - Part I

  I KNEW IF I did not find work, I might lose her. Not to starvation, but by losing her respect, which is the same as death. Worse still, if I could not find a way to earn money, we might lose our unborn child. I’d not worked in months; tradesmen barked for jobs at every turn, but good work could not be found. Ruth and I had sold most of our finer things to purchase food. Bitterness and anger entered my heart. How could I provide for Ruth? For our child? I desperately pleaded with God to touch the hearts of those I called upon for work to offer me a contract. But the months passed and my tools lay dormant as I watched our home grow barren and my wife grow thin.

  One morning Ruth came home with a lightsome step, singing a tune, and kissed me on the forehead. “Be happy, Luke, all is well.”

  I stared at her dubiously. The lack of food had gone to her head.

  “Don’t look at me so, my love. Our prayers have been answered. I have found you a job.” She spoke evenly, attempting to disguise her enthusiasm as though it was just another natural thing.

  I jumped from my chair, knocking it over in my rush. “Work!”

  “Oh, yes, something I think. Are you interested?” She began to busy herself in preparing supper, maintaining an oblivious attitude to my eagerness.

  “Tell me, woman! I am going mad!” I took her hands and pulled her close to force an answer.

  She ended her charade of casualness and smiled her glorious, everything-is-going-to-be-all-right smile. “Oh, Luke, it is a blessing. Michael Bar-jebus, the innkeeper, has agreed to have you construct some items for his stable. If he is pleased with your work, he will commission you for all his current needs.”

  My hands seemed to drop of their own volition. I hated to look at Ruth’s broad smile with such disdain, but this did not seem to me to be good news. “I am to build for him for free, and then he will decide whether or not to use my services?” My voice grew caustic, stealing the hope from Ruth’s lips.

  “Luke, please. It is a chance for months of work. All you have to do is—”

  “All I have to do is work for free! How do you suppose I will afford the materials to do this?” I demanded, having become the inquisitor. I paced, the heat in my face burning beneath my skin and causing the onset of a headache.

  “We will manage,” Ruth said quietly. “What else should we do?”

  I pivoted on my heel and threw up my arms. “Tell him to take his magnanimity and carry it to Egypt! Suppose he does not like what I build? Suppose he only wants some free labor and stable construction? What if he is using us and has no intention of giving me paying work? No respected carpenter works for free. To do so would set a dreadful precedent. Other tradesmen will shut me out if they hear of it.”

  “The others will take the job if you do not, my love.” She watched me earnestly. “I believe Michael is as good as his word, if a little awkward at times. He can be trusted to meet his obligations.”

  I narrowed an angry gaze at Ruth, feeling incriminations in her words. “And I do not, is that what you mean to say?” I stepped toward her. “Your husband, the carpenter, is not equal to the task of providing for his wife and unborn child, meeting his obligations. Well, perhaps you’d like to wed the innkeeper, play nursemaid to a crowd of vagrants and ruffians? Is that an obligation you’d like to keep?” I glowered.

  “Luke, I only—”

  “You only want to make a mockery of my covenant to keep you in good stead. You’d have me groveling at the feet of other men, abasing myself like a slave or beggar. Worse, you do it for me. What kind of man must he think I am, sending my wife to ask for work, then bargaining to do it for free? How can I show my face to him now, even if he has honest work for me? I’ll end up apologizing for being so desperate? He’ll feel magnanimous giving me work he doesn’t even have to pay for. Is this the opportunity you speak of, Ruth? Is this the blessing?”

  Ruth cowered before my objections. She fled our home and left me to mill in my own suspicion and frustration and anger. I knew she was right, and I did want to trust that all would be well. But there was little to encourage me—everyone seemed to be cutting expenses to make tax payment by census. Homes did not rise with the same frequency as even a year ago. The repairs of my own home had been stalled. But it would not be a home at all if these difficulties of the world drove a wedge between my wife and me. That would be no place to bring a child . . . A moment later I went after Ruth.

  The following day I paid the innkeeper a visit. I resented having to go at all. I felt like a child again, asked to perform a chore, putting my expertise to use for free. I was a craftsman, yet my skill held only enough value to audition for work? It took all my patience to hold my tongue as Michael and I toured his inn. We looked at his personal living quarters, the common room, and the stables. After reviewing everything, he turned a blank look to me. He seemed to possess the ability to make me feel unworthy of working for him, though it may well have been my own discomfort that I was feeling. He had an intimidating brow, and I had the feeling he knew how desperately I needed the work.