By Cosmata Lindie
Maurice Saul was at a crossroads, literally and metaphorically. The time was half past eleven on the evening of the thirty-first of December 2019 and he was sitting on a cold stone bench at the crossroads just out of town waiting for the Devil to come. Behind him the broad, black asphalt road led back to the series of mistakes his life had disintegrated into over the past year. Before him the road continued straight on into the night to a yet unseen destination. A light drizzle had fallen earlier and its black surface glistened dully under the pools of light thrown by the line of streetlamps; their misty, yellow halos getting progressively smaller as they marched in a long unbroken line beside the roadway, finally disappearing into the vanishing point in the distance. The roads on either hand, with their rows of yellow unblinking eyes, led to their own isolated destinations, but Maurice was not concerned with them. All of his interest was focused on the point where the roads met and departed. He had heard that if you went to a crossroads at midnight the Devil appeared and was prepared to bargain with whoever was there. The price was always the soul of the mortal but Maurice was at a point in his life where his soul had become of little use to him and bartering away its immortal burden seemed a small price to pay in return for a chance to atone for the myriad of sins committed to save what was left of his life.
The night was dark, the darkness pressing in like the walls of a tunnel against the halos of the streetlamps; it was windy, the stars hidden behind thick, scudding clouds; and it was cold, a deep, heavy chill that sat solidly on the darkness and condensed into beads of moisture that fell in steady drops from the lampposts and gathered in a clammy film on the stone bench. None of this troubled Maurice, on the contrary, he welcomed it as a reflection of his own inner turmoil; he was the night and the night was him and now he sat at the crossroads waiting for the Devil to show him a way out. At his back a tree with a few sparse but sturdy limbs leaned over the bench he was sitting on. If the Devil did not come, then that tree’s knotty arms would suffice. In a small bag beside him was a carefully coiled length of rope.
He shut his eyes, seeing behind closed lids the hurt and angry face of Ruthel as she held her two children by their hands, marching them out the door and flinging a single, resolute look behind her as she slammed it shut for the last time. He saw the cold accusation in her eyes then and he continued to see it every moment after in the imprint of her face and eyes that she left with that single backward look.
He opened his eyes; an old man was standing a few feet away. His back was bent and his long, white beard, tinged yellow from the streetlights, hung almost to his ankles. He was wrinkled and wizened and a thousand sorrows sat upon his brow, but the laugh lines were deeply creased beside his mouth and his eyes sparkled even in the murky light. He was dressed in a torn and faded garment, its tattered hem ending just below his knees and he leaned heavily on a golden staff. He did not look behind or before, left or right, but fixed his eyes intently upwards. Maurice was not alarmed; he had been expecting something, but this old man was not what he thought he’d see. A minute passed with neither man moving or speaking then, as if to himself, the old man spoke.
‘It will soon be the hour of midnight! Then he will come!’
Maurice decided he needed to say something too.
‘Excuse me, Sir, are you the Devil?’
The old man looked surprised. ‘Do I look like the horned and hoofed one?’ he asked quietly.
Now it was Maurice’s turn to look perplexed, the old man’s head, except for a few wispy strands of silvery hair behind his left ear, was bald and smooth. His feet were shod in soft looking sandal like shoes; there were no signs of hooves, cloven or otherwise.
‘Well, no,’ he said, ‘but who else comes to a crossroad at midnight?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ returned the old man.
‘Well, who are you?’ Maurice asked.
‘I am the Old Year,’ the man answered, ‘I am waiting for my brother the New Year to arrive so I can hand over this scepter to him and finally take my rest.’ He looked at the bench, ‘It is not yet twelve o’clock and I might as well rest my tired legs while I wait. I have journeyed without pause these twelve long months and I am all worn out.’
Maurice made room for the Old Year, who eased himself down with many a creak and protest from his old, tired bones.
‘What’s all this with meeting the Devil anyway?’ he asked, as the creaking subsided.
Maurice decided there was nothing to lose, he was prepared to give his entire soul away so what difference would it make to unburden some of it right now? And who better to than the very year in which everything had all gone so terribly wrong? So, like a sinner in confessional, Maurice told the Old Year all that had gone wrong for him over the last twelve months, the bad decisions and worse choices, the consequences, the hard realisation that he had no one to blame but himself for the irredeemable mess his life had become and, finally, his conviction that since his soul was of no use to him anymore, he was willing to use it as a bargaining chip in a last ditch attempt to make things right again and gather back even some of the pieces of his former life.
The old man listened to the end then said, ‘It’s no wonder I have felt my feet dragging so much during my journey, your troubles have been a weight on my shoulders all this time.’ He ran a hand over his nearly bald head and several strands came away in his hand. He glanced at them and smiled.
‘Just a few minutes left to the Old Year,’ he said, holding the long silvery treads up for Maurice to see. ‘Each strand is one minute of time, I had a full head of hair when I started out but now it’s nearly all gone and when the last one falls my brother will arrive!’ He threw them into the air where they sparkled like tiny fireworks for a moment before disappearing.
Maurice felt his heart give a little jump, just a few minutes left!
Then the Old Year said, ‘Actually, I am afraid I have bad news for you, the Devil will not come tonight. Midnight on the thirty first of every December belongs to the Old Year and his brother, but stay a bit as I feel some responsibility for what you went through during my watch. The New Year will be here any moment and remember Maurice, there is no such thing as an irredeemable life.’
Even as he spoke, the last strands of hair sparkled and evaporated from his head. He rose from the bench and stepped into the middle of the crossroads. There was a disturbance in the air overhead, then, as if an invisible door had opened, a woman appeared out of the thin air carrying a bundle in her arms. She shook the bundle out in the air as one would shake out a bed sheet or table cloth and out rolled a fat, bouncing, naked baby boy. He whooped and cheered as his feet touched the ground and at that very moment the skies over the towns and villages far and near lit up with fireworks and rockets, as their inhabitants bid the Old Year good bye and welcomed in the New Year. The Old Year grabbed his baby brother’s chubby hands and the two of them danced a wild polka in the middle of the crossroads, kicking up their heels and stepping in fine style. Then the woman who had been looking on and smiling clapped her hands.
‘It is now exactly midnight,’ she announced, ‘Let us have the handing over so you my son, who has journeyed without rest may finally lie down.’
‘Quick! Quick!’ exclaimed the New Year. I can’t wait to start my journey! I have so many plans, so many resolutions! I can already feel myself growing!’
The dance ended, the fireworks were still shooting up into the dark sky and showers of sparks in every colour of the rainbow rained from the heavens. The Old Year took the golden staff and held it out to the New Year.
‘This Scepter of the Resolve I now give to you,’ he said.
The woman stepped forward and threw a white mantle adorned with many small golden tassels along the hem, over the baby’s shoulders.
‘The Mantle of Hope,’ she said. ‘Every new year needs to be well covered with this, wear it well my newborn son.’
The Old Year cleared his throat. ‘Before we part ways,’ he said, ‘let me introduce Maurice, whose year has been a most miserable one. He is at the end of his rope right now and I won’t be able to rest easy knowing that his tribulations are connected to me.’
Maurice got to his feet and the two newcomers turned to stare at him.
‘Poor dear,’ said the woman. ‘I am Mother Time and these are my sons.’
‘Mother Time? Maurice asked. ‘I always thought it was Father Time!’
‘Time gives birth to the New Year,’ said the woman. ‘It goes against every natural law for a man to give birth, don’t you think?’
‘But you look too young to be so old!’ said Maurice. Indeed, the woman was beautiful and very young looking.
‘Time does not age,’ explained the Old Year, ‘only the years do. Every thirty-first of December our mother Time gives birth to the New Year, if Time grew old then nothing would be new ever again.’
‘But why is he at the crossroads?’ The baby cut in impatiently, he was already showing what the temperament of the New Year was going to be. ‘We were expecting to find only you my brother, no one else is supposed to be loitering at such a place on such a night. The business of the year is being delayed!’
The Old Year quickly filled them in on the situation that had brought Maurice to the crossroads. The woman looked at him with pity when the briefing was done.
‘You poor thing,’ she said again. ‘This must be resolved immediately. Indeed, my sons cannot remain here together for much longer. You see, at this moment time is at a standstill and prolonging this could lead to unforeseen and dire consequences.’
Maurice looked up to where the fireworks were now hanging motionless in the air. He looked helplessly at his three companions.
‘I can come back tomorrow night; maybe the Devil will be here then…’
‘No,’ said the woman firmly. ‘Bartering a soul away on the first day of the New Year is a very bad way to start the year. I am accompanying my older son to where all the previous years, now retired, are resting. We will be retracing the same path he took over the past twelve months. If you wish, you may come with us back to the beginning, when things began to unravel for you; maybe you could start anew from there.’
‘Is that possible?’ Maurice felt, for the first time in a year, a ray of hope like a small light reaching down into the darkness of his soul.
‘Yes,’ said the Old Year. ‘As I retrace my steps, Time will be going back with me. You may be taken back to whatever point you choose. Be warned though, it all happens very quickly, and once there you cannot change your mind. You get one chance only.’
‘So I will be reliving the same year again?’ Maurice asked.
‘No,’ said the Old Year. ‘You cannot live the same year twice because I cannot make the same journey twice. You will be living the same year for the very first time.’
‘Will I remember any of what happened before?’ A puzzled Maurice asked. ‘So, you know, I will know what not to do…again?’
But the Old Year shook his weary head. ‘No, you will not remember anything because none of it would have happened. You may very well do the exact things you did before since you will not have done them as yet.’
The ray of light in Maurice’s soul dimmed. ‘This is confusing,’ he mumbled. ‘I could go with you and either make the right choices now or screw up all over again because none of what has already happened will have yet happened…’
‘Look,’ said the New Year, sounding quite irritated now. ‘We don’t make the rules; we just follow ’em. You could go back with the Old Year and live your old life new again, or you can just come with me and see what the New Year has to offer. Instead of trying to redo the past you can create a brand new future instead. You can make new resolutions with the benefit of hindsight to guide you this time.’
Maurice stood in the middle of the crossroads. Behind him were the Old Year and the shambles his life had become during that year. He was now being offered one chance to prevent it all from happening, but how would he know what needed to be righted if he had no idea what he’d be doing wrong? Before him the baby figure of the New Year stood, his oversized, tasseled Mantle of Hope pooling on the ground around him, his hand clutching the golden Scepter of Resolve with a firm grip. The road he was taking led to the unknown, whatever it brought with it was still untried. Yet Maurice was sure of one thing, he had no idea where the New Year was heading and if he chose that road he did not really know what he would do, but what he knew with absolute clarity were the things he would not be doing on that new road. His mind was made up; he collected the bag with the rope and asked the Old Year to drop it into the first garbage bin he passed on his way back, for Maurice would not be taking that into the New Year with him. He bowed politely to the Old Year and his mother and thanked them for their kindness to him in his time of need and then he turned to the New Year, who was dancing impatiently from foot to foot, eager to begin his journey of the next twelve months.
‘He’s got potential,’ said the Old Year, as his ageless mother took his arm to guide his frail body to the place where all her many sons now rested in peace.
‘And his soul is still his own,’ she responded and they were gone, as the crackers and fireworks once more filled the night with noise and colour.
‘Here, carry this for a bit as we walk,’ said the New Year, handing the gold scepter to Maurice. ‘It is still a bit heavy for me right now but I will grow as we walk.’
Maurice took hold of the scepter and felt a new courage enter his heart. The yellow streetlamps lit up the black shining road under their feet as Maurice Saul and the New Year walked together, and the darkness on either hand did not seem as thick as it had when he sat alone at the crossroads waiting for the Devil to appear.
A few cars passed but none stopped for Maurice and his odd companion. As they walked the New Year grew taller and Maurice grew sleepier until he was stumbling on every other step. Finally, the New Year, who was now the size of a small child, paused. Beside the road a large tree spread its leafy branches over a patch of clear ground.
‘Here, rest a while Maurice,’ said the New Year, ‘you can catch up with me in a little while.’
Maurice tried to protest but he was very tired. He lay back against a large root jutting out of the ground. Just before he fell asleep he felt the New Year push something into his hand,
‘Hold on to this Maurice Saul.’
When Maurice awoke the first faint light of early dawn was already in the air. There was no sign of the New Year but whatever had been thrust into his hand before he fell asleep was still clutched tightly there. As Maurice unfolded his fingers a golden tassel from the Mantle of Hope gleamed brightly on his palm. As he looked at it he began to laugh quietly, then he rose, tucked the tassel deep into one of his pockets, straightened his clothes as best he could and started out. It was the first day of the New Year, the next town was still a few miles away and he didn’t want the hot sun to find him still on the road.