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It was the winter serenity, the thick layer of snow muffling all sounds except for the wind trying to squeeze through the cracks in a window frame, in the middle of which Father Brown found himself, rather fittingly, on quite a symbolic date of Christmas Eve.
Trudging through peculiar natural terrains wasn't something uncommon when it came to walks (which might as well have been called hikes sometimes) with the priest, who often engaged his friend Flambeau in this activity and usually complemented them with lectures of various degrees of entertainment.
This particular walk was supposed to come to an end already, but hadn't yet, to the dismay of both travellers. Not that long ago, no more than a month, they had been to another forest, cold and black-and-white, and both the story Father Brown told and the journey itself had a definite finale (a mystery unravelled and an inn found), when that day, instead of the story, it was a philosophical discussion, which, as any debater knows, never come to conclusion, and there was no sign of a place of hospitality.
The companions had no doubt at that point that they were walking in circles, and neither showed any wish to continue with a discussion of any subject whatsoever. The chance of meeting someone that could help seemed nonexistent, and even otherwise might not be as efficient as one might think, since this forest, still freezing and monochromatic, was situated in a region of Europe, where even Flambeau with his polyglotism found it hard to communicate. The locals were universally kind, however, and Father Brown prayed that the sight of two blue-faced, shivering, lost-looking men would be enough to convey the right message.
Fortunately, they left for this walk at sunrise (late though it was), thus had some time to waste on wandering before it would get dark, but this time was running out quicker than it would in summer, since the solstice still had its hold on daylight hours.
Flambeau, despite his mighty constitution, suffered more from the cold, for Father Brown's height and general shape gave his heart an advantage and allowed it to spend less effort where Flambeau's had to work harder to pump the blood in and heat his impressive extremities. There was one more contributing factor to this – Father Brown's meadow-green mittens, which did their job better than Flambeau's expensive, yet thermally ineffective leather gloves. At some point the cleric, too tired of concentrating on the painfully repetitive landscape, got distracted by his thoughts, and, upon coming back to reality, noticed this predicament.
"What would you say," he spoke, "if I propose a trade?"
He took off the left mitten, a part of him momentarily regretting it, and offered it to Flambeau, who masterfully attempted to disguise the offended pride with logic.
"My hands are much bigger than yours," he shook his giant head. "I would be happy to accept, but they simply won't fit."
"Ah!" countered Brown. "Here you are mistaken, my inattentive friend."
He looked at Flambeau cryptically, put the mitten under his arm and pulled off the left glove from stupefied Flambeau's hand. It took a little longer for it to have a proper dramatic effect, but the mitten, donned immediately instead, proved Father's point nonetheless.
"You see," informed Brown, "the donator of this pair has knitted them herself, and might have made an error with proportions, but it is understandable, considering she is only ten years old. I myself wouldn't be able to knit a thing even remotely having a shape, so I think it is an accomplishment anyway."
Flambeau looked at his hand, now enveloped in green woven yarn.
"You, though," the priest continued, clearly pleased with himself, "are quite capable of delicate work, I'm sure."
"If by delicate you mean employing sleight of hand, then yes, in certain circumstances. I never tried knitting," Flambeau grunted.
"Every man needs a hobby," Brown shrugged.
Flambeau wanted to argue, but felt his hand getting warmer, so he ignored the statement, both surprised and delighted.
Father Brown, professionally good at reading people, detected this change in his emotions immediately.
"Here, take the other one," he said, and in a moment the exchange was complete. Father's hands drowned in the leather of the gloves, but he didn't mind and hid them in his sleeves.
It seemed only by the grace of God, an hour later, the sun emerged from the clouds and guided the lost to the inn they were initially staying in.
Barely containing their relief, they rushed first to the hearth in the hall, then to the inn's owner to request brandy or its closest local alternative.
Father Brown moved from the hall blindly, because his spectacles fogged instantly upon entering, and now everything around him was blurry. He was happy and finally warm, and it made his mind slow, so he simply forgot he could wipe them. So he stood unaware, while the glass cleared up by itself, and listened to Flambeau conversing with the owner, utilizing both gestures and words of every other language. When he eventually saw the world again, he took the glasses off as if this revelation reminded him of their existence, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. These particular glasses were quite new, and Father hadn't got used to them yet, and the cold made it even worse because the frozen metal stung.
Suddenly, he heard someone cough behind him. He turned around and saw a girl, the same age as the maker of the mittens. She was holding her hands close to the fire and looked almost as cold as the pair were a minute ago.
"I've bad news," Flambeau declared in a low voice upon his return. "Or maybe good, given your religious commitment to asceticism."
Father Brown looked at him through his now clear spectacles and took two snifters that Flambeau brought.
"How do you mean?"
"This young lady," Flambeau pointed at the girl with the hand that held a bottle of brandy which was supposed to fill the snifters, "and her parents found themselves in the same situation that we did, and the generous owner suggested we give them our room and move to a smaller one."
"I won't mind," the priest said. "It doesn't really matter where I sleep if I sleep after finally drinking the brandy."
The Frenchman looked at him sceptically through the lens of information he had and Father hadn't yet.
"There is only one bed in this room," he revealed gravely.
"Oh. But no, I really don't mind," Father Brown said with genuine modesty. "The Virgin Mary didn't even have such a luxury, limited as it is."
After saying it, he blushed a bit, but it was hard to say whether he did it out of shame for comparing himself to such a holy figure or for some other, unknown reason.
"Let us inspect our new abode," said the liquor bearer, and the friends proceeded upstairs.
Provided, as a part of the reparations, with four additional woollen blankets, the friends went to their new room. There they encountered the problem, but, even though it required a particular decision to be solved, it was minor enough to be abandoned until they would retire.
Instead, they returned to the fireplace and spent several hours until the nighttime in pleasant silence and occasional good-natured grunting.
"You know, my friend," said Father Brown at some point, looking at the fire through his now empty shifter like a spyglass, "I can't say I enjoy the Christmas festivities."
"Why," exclaimed the Frenchman, "isn't it the most important holiday for you?"
Brown shook his head and dazed away for a second. The new angle of reflection sent to his eye, then to his tired mind a potpourri of colours, and he felt like he was looking at the Royal diamonds.
"No," he replied finally, putting the glass down, "I don't mean the event itself. I mean the festivities."
"With your ability to be amazed by everything like a child (which I envy so)? Not even presents? Not even Christmas trees and decorations?"
Genuinely appalled, Flambeau picked up his own shifter. With a vague idea that it might show him the way through Father's rationale – or irrationale, if you will – he put it to his eye and turned to the flame. Circling, the sparkles danced in front of him like dozens of little sugar plum fairies, but provided no clarification.
"The whole matter always makes me feel lonely," Father Brown continued, shifting awkwardly in his chair in effort to procure his handkerchief and barely succeeding.
"Nonsense, my Father," Flambeau roared. "Why would you be lonely?"
The short priest sneezed in the handkerchief two times like the tiniest kitten in front of a metal horn thrice its size, earning a rather stern look from the innkeeper.
"Such is the nature of my profession, I think. Be there for everyone."
"You speak in paradoxes again, my friend. I don't see logic here," Flambeau frowned and, with a careless clunk, put his shifter down.
Father rubbed his nose with the square of cotton.
"Maybe, there's no logic," he shrugged, then stooped his shoulders. "Emotions rarely abide by it."
Known for his (in his own opinion, rather logical) expressive emotional displays, Flambeau made a gesture, for no particular reason or meaning and a single consequence: the bottle of brandy, not yet empty but long past from being considered full, fell off the little coffee table like some kind of a glass Icarus. There, obviously, was no challenge for Flambeau's dexterity to catch it mid-flight, but when he raised his eyes back to his little companion after this distraction, he found him already dozing off.
"Well," Father Brown said once they returned to their room, "it seems the majority of the blankets should belong to me."
Flambeau looked at him with justified confusion.
"I thought you are less susceptible to the cold than me. At least our walk proved it to be so."
"It's not about the cold," the priest explained. "They are simply softer than wood."
Flambeau still didn't follow, "What wood?"
"The wood I will be sleeping on," Father said, slowly getting confused too.
"Why would you be sleeping on wood? The bed has a mattress, which seems to be fine."
"Ah! I meant I would be sleeping on the floor."
"I will be sleeping on the floor," Flambeau countered apodictically.
Albeit being an utterly utilitarian discussion, this one also had an air of irresolvability – maybe even more so than a deeply philosophical one – and would have easily carried on till the morning if the competitors weren't as exhausted as they were, and they resorted to the rare uncomfortable silence.
"I ought to pray," Brown said finally, in a spark of something akin to divine inspiration. "Since I don't have to hold a mass today, I'm glad I can – even though it's rather selfish – concentrate on my own little thoughts."
"You deserve to be selfish, my friend," Flambeau insisted.
"Would you like to join me?" the priest suggested, expecting a negative response, only to be surprised by a positive one.
"Of course, my Father," the unbeliever nodded thoughtfully.
The priest looked at the bed, stout and short but wide, just like him, almost a perfect square, much more than enough for two in a different situation, then at the window. The glass was so old, it seemed to have melted over the years and became thicker by the windowsill, and the grills formed the type of unintended crucifix one can only see when they are not looking. It turned the black, impossibly starry night behind the window into the best fresco Father Brown could wish for, and with this beauty in mind, he started the not fully a mass but more than a prayer: that any birth is a miracle, not only of the creation of a new life, but also of a mother's strength and perseverance; that gifts are always welcome, no matter who the giver is; and that with enough determination and clarity, everyone can find a worthy destination.
When this short improvised half-sermon ended, he went silent for a long moment and Flambeau didn't interrupt. Eventually, Father Brown sighed and unclasped his hands. It was enough of an unintended hint for his gallant friend to leap to his feet and help him get up, still with no sound apart from Father's awkward grunt.
The loftiness of the moment, however, was quickly lost when the aching in the bones of both men not very subtly reminded them that they were awfully tired.
Thus, the bedding debate rekindled.
Yet, soon, after several arguments from both sides it was mutually determined that fitting the entirety of the Frenchman's long body on the blankets would prove a worse challenge than Brown's own, thus making the overall thickness of the bedding much more scarce, and neither could argue with this logic and what it implied.
"We could always both sleep on the bed," Flambeau charitably said, changing slightly the point he wanted to prove. "There's absolutely no need for you to always settle for humbleness."
The priest considered it, his expression queer and somewhat sad, then shook his heavy head.
"Yes, the three magi are often depicted sharing a bed, but I must decline after all, my friend."
"Your stubbornness is frankly intimidating to me," Flambeau earnestly confessed, "and please don't take it as anything other than a compliment. I am once again falling victim to the power of your conviction – it's a jest, of course, do not worry. But let me help you with setting up, it's the least I can do."
Father Brown let him. He stood awkwardly, watching the process and wondering wherever this particular simple, yet doubtless skill could've been acquired.
Then, they settled on their respective seats: the priest on the blankets, fidgeting at first like puppies stomp in little circles until they find the most comfortable position, and the former criminal on the bed in a position that seemed less than comfortable, with his taper-candle-like legs hanging from the bed bent in the knees. Still, he fell asleep almost immediately, filling the room with the harmony of Gallican snoring. Father Brown, on the other hand, spent some time trying to do so as well, then pondering why he couldn't, then inspecting the ceiling for each single plaster crack for twenty minutes straight, feeling both exhausted and frustratingly insomnial. Nevertheless, he knew a remedy for such a state, a rather effective one (and, thankfully, seldom necessary). He got up, cuddling in a single blanket like an actor in some sort of queer chrysalitic pantomime, sat at the foot of the bed and began another prayer, similar in its form and goal to the little dialogues children have with God, or their saints, or Saint Nicholas in particular.
Naturally, Father Brown wouldn't be able to reproduce the responses he got, but neither could he say for sure what questions he had asked this time nor how many, for as soon as he closed his eyes and sheepishly addressed the Holy Newborn, sleep finally caught up with him.
When Father Brown woke up, he found it strange that the portion of the ceiling above him looked different from the one he spent staring at mere hours – albeit hours of good, sound sleep – ago, and the reason for that had surely nothing to do with the fact it was dark then, and now the room was filled with grey light. Then it dawned on him.
"Ah," he whispered and got up from the bed he was lying in the whole time, carefully not to wake his companion who was still very much leisurely asleep.
Father Brown couldn't tell from the view through the window what hour it was exactly because the flurry outside made it almost impossible, and the only conclusion – so peaceful and different from morbid deductions he was forced to make lately – he could draw was that the weather wasn't changing any time soon. It put him out of humour somewhat, and the prospects of travelling home (first on foot to the nearest railway station, then on a train to Calais, then, finally, on the ferry to Albion, though it most likely wasn't as white as their current location) seemed to him just as grey now. The frost is one thing, and the powder snow combined with nasty wind is quite another, especially when one's (in this case, Father Brown's) face isn't adorned with such a marvellous, and most importantly, warm moustache as Flambeau's was.
As he was wont to do, he eventually realised with a start how deep in his thoughts he was and found himself in the pose of prayer that fitted his mind as a well-worn glove.
"Are you asking for better weather?" Flambeau laughed – repeatedly, Father Brown gathered, since he felt the question had already been asked a second before he came to himself.
"It's only a habit," he replied, and added unconvincingly, "every weather is a blessing of its own sort."
"Sure, Father," Flambeau only said, because there was no need for other words to convey the irony.
The priest concentrated for a second on the wind singing its winter song through the cracks in the window, then shook off the rest of morning haziness and said almost cheerfully, "Shall we?"
With the two small bags of their luggage in their hands, the friends went downstairs, thanked the innkeeper, exchanged bows with their accidental evicters, and left for the road. The wind wasn't as bad as it seemed to them from the inside, but still, without any preface or attention to Brown's sounds of protest, Flambeau took his scarf and put it around the cleric's neck instead of his own.
"It's only fair," he said with the same gentle, almost apologetic intonation as yesterday, and Father only smiled, nodded with gratitude and sank into it so only his eyes were visible above its edge. No soul outside witnessed it, only snowflakes, which one might argue, have souls of their own, but they didn't know either that this smile stayed on the priest's face, hidden up until their arrival to the station.
This short trip was also habitually supplemented with a conversation, which, this time, consisted mostly of Flambeau's queries about the priest's past, and the latter's plenty, though sometimes boring little anecdotes.
One of such, coincidentally, revolved around Christmas, and the Frenchman asked another question, this time related to the present.
"Do you feel lonely now?" he said with worry that matched his usual sanguine disposition rather badly.
"Oh, no," Father Brown joyfully answered, "I am positively not lonely at all."