Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84Plough Quarterly • Winter 2017 69 Suddenly he awoke. Somebody had knocked at the door. He rubbed his eyes. I have been sleeping, he thought. I had a wonderful dream about the Christ Child. He looked at the table. There was the chessboard. The two rows of white men and the two rows of black men stood neatly on opposite sides of the board. Yes, it had been a dream. “Come in,” he said. A servant came in. “Dyhema, here is a little boy. He says . . . ” Dyhema stood up in astonishment. “A little boy with his mother?” “No, he is alone. But he says his mother had an accident. She has sprained her ankle. She is waiting in the snow about half a mile away. She sent the boy for help.” Dyhema laughed. He thought, of course it is not my daughter. And then he said, “Send the servants out with the horse and cart. Make a room ready and bring her here. Send for the doctor. Bring the boy here.” The servant went out. A moment later a boy of about nine came in. Dyhema stood up. He was strangely moved. The boy looked – yes, he looked just as he himself must have looked long, long ago. “What is your name?” “Sigurd,” said the boy. Dyhema sank back into his chair. He closed his eyes. Sigurd, that was his name. His daughter had called her son after him. But what about the Christ Child? It was a dream, of course. But dreams are lies, nonsense. But still, there was the boy. His grandson. No. He would not receive his daughter. He stood up and went to the kitchen. Only one old servant was there. “Where are the others?” he asked. “They are all with their families, of course, and two have gone out to fetch the poor woman,” she said. “I do not want her here! They must take her somewhere else!” “Dyhema! On Christmas Eve you are going to refuse a poor woman your house! Very well. You are responsible. But I cannot go out and through the snow. Who will tell them?” “As soon as they are here, call me. But don’t let the woman come into the house.” Dyhema went back to the living room. The boy sat near the fireplace. When Dyhema came in he stood up and, going to him, the boy said, “Are you my grandfather?” “Of course not,” Dyhema said angrily. The boy looked sad. “Then I have come to the wrong farm. You know, Mummy said, when she fell down, ‘That light over there is the farm. Run over there and ask for help.’ But it does not matter. When Mummy comes here