A Shaolin Christmas Miracle
Synopsis
Characters: Kwai Chang Caine, Jennifer, Joseph, Martin, and Paul Blaisdell, Peter Caine.
Violence: None
Story: Another tale from the line of Caine. It is Christmas Eve, and a Shaolin comes
across a man in the snow.
Author: Alisa Joaquin
Disclaimer: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues is a creation by Michael Sloan and distributed by Warner Brothers. This piece of fiction is based on KF:TLC. No copyright infringement is intended or implied.
"Mom, where's pa?" the little boy asked.
"I do not know, my son." The woman looked out the window into the frozen
landscape.
Since their move to this part of the country, everything seemed to have taken a turn for
the worst. No one had expected the torrential rains earlier in the year that wiped out
half the crops in the area. The weaken soil on hills that had been deforested had created
landslides that cost many lives. They had been lucky. Where they lived, pine forest still
prevailed, and yet, even here, the stillness of the winter lanscape with no one to speak
to for at least two miles made for a lonely winter season.
"Mom, do you think Pa will be in time?"
"I really don't know, Joseph. It's been days since your father left. He should have
returned by now. You better go to bed. It's getting late."
The little boy closed the book he was reading and took the small oil lamp to one of the
bedrooms.
"Mom, do you think if I prayed, it might help?"
The young mother walked over to her son amd stroked his head. 'I'm sure it will. I'll come
in later and tuck you in."
The boy entered his bedroom to prepare for bed as his mother looked on. The boy quickly
undressed and knelt bedside the bed.
"Please Lord, bring my father home safely so we can spend Christmas together. I don't
care if I receive anything this year. I just want my father home."
A tear fell silently from the young woman's cheek as she listened to her son's plea and
added her own silent prayer. 'Please Lord, bring my husband home safe.'
The man lay in a snow bank, partially covered in snow. His bundle thrown off to one
side, had been ransacked and torn. There was evidence that the man had put up a fight to
save what he could, but in the end, had been defeated. He would have bled to death if it
had not been for the cold. The men who attacked him were after one thing, but discovering
that he did not carry what they sought, they attempted to take his life instead to prevent
him from telling others. The man was only a mile from his home.
A lone figure walked through the quiet wood. His flute played a song of lament. He could
not believe it had been four months since the death of the young man. Gunned down in the
middle of the street, the young man had thrown himself between the lawmen and Caine. As he
lay dying he confessed to the crime of killing the missionary, keeping his other reason
for being in this country silent. He also made another startling confession. Though the
Manchu had said that Caine was his father, there had been another. After his mother had
helped Caine escape the Imperial guards, she had continued the journey with Caine to the
sea port of Tsingtao, pretending to be husband and wife. It had taken nearly two weeks
dodging guards and trying to find friendly faces that would help before Caine was able to
be smuggled onto a ship bound for America. How that came about, only Caine could surmise
the truth. She had to have given herself freely to the American sea captain as payment for
his silence just as certain as she had given herself to him as payment for her help.
The tune that the priest now played was one of anguish. He had learned even his brother
and nephew had been taken from him, the only other family he had was now gone. Would he
never know peace? As he was walking, he came upon a sight that halted his forward momentum
and brought him back from his own thoughts. He rushed forward and found that whoever had
attacked the man had not been gone long. The man, though cold, was not dead. Quickly ,
Caine lifted the man onto his shoulders and carried him deeper into the shelter of the
trees. He found an exceptionally large pine where the branches hung down to the ground and
was partially covered with snow. Inside, the air was surprisingly warmer than it was
outside. Caine went back out from the shelter and gathered the belongings of the man and
soon returned. Apologizing to the man in advance, he went through the man's pockets and
found a tinder box with matches. Clearing an area of ground he dug a hole, filled it with
pine needles and lit a fire. He then reached up and snapped the driest twigs and branches
that hung within their shelter and added them to the fire. Since the tree was only
partially covered in snow, the areas open to the air would act like a chimney, sending the
smoke skyward so they would not smother in its fumes.
Making sure that the fire would not spread while he was gone, Caine left to gather stones
to put in a ring. Upon his return, he removed from his own belongings a small metal teapot
which he filled with snow and placed it on one of the stones beside the fire to melt. He
then proceeded to examine the man to determine the extent of his injuries. The man had
been lucky. Though he had been shot in the shoulder, further examination showed that the
bullet had exited the body. It must have been fired at close range, the person believing
that that one bullet must have killed the man, and if not, he certainly would have frozen
to death if Caine had not been following this particular path.
As soon as the teapot began singing it's praises, Caine added some herbs to let them
steep. He then poured the liquid into a cup, took the herbs and divided them into two
clothes. placed them over each of the wounds, and wrapped them into place with a third.
All this time, he continued to feed wood to the fire to keep their shelter as warm as
possible. He then picked up the cup after it had a chance to cool somewhat and coaxed the
man to drink, knowing full well that even the herbs that worked on the wound from the
outside would do the man some good in the inside. As Caine tried to pour the tea into the
man's mouth, his companion came slowly awake, aware that someone was helping him.
"Uhhh, who are you?"
"Please, do not talk," Caine said gently. "You need rest. You were
shot."
"I can't stay here, I need to get home, my family . . ."
"You must rest. You will begin to bleed again if you move."
"Are you a doctor?"
"No."
The man gazed at his rescuer and could tell that the man certainly was no doctor, but was
at least partially Chinese.
"My name's Martin Blaisdell. I was heading home when I was attacked by three men.
They were after money, but . . ."
"They did not get what they wanted."
"No. Thanks for your help, my friend." Suddenly, the man remembered his bundle.
"Oh, I almost forgot. My backpack. They . . ." Before the man could finish his
thought, Caine brought the man his pack. Blaisdell went through the bag and discovered
that each of the items had survived their rough treatment by the three attackers.
"Oh thank God. I thought . . . Well, you see, it's Christmas Eve and . . . Well,
never mind. I'll probably not make it home until tomorrow with this wound anyhow, even
though I only live a mile from here."
"Perhaps you will make it home after all."
Caine checked the man's wounds and could see that the herbs had helped to keep them from
bleeding further. Any possible infection that might have settled in was being drawn out
and in a few days, the wounds would be healed. The dressing would need to be changed at
least twice, but he would provide the man and his wife with the necessary herbs and
instructions before he would be on his way again. After bundling the man tightly in his
coat to keep him warm, Caine gathered some snow and dowsed the fire. He then shouldered
Blaisdell's pack as well as his own meager belongings and helped the man to his feet.
Jennifer Blaisdell paced the floor, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
This was the latest her husband had ever been gone. She added more wood to the fire to
keep it from dying and stared blankly at the small Christmas tree that stood in the
corner. She and her son had gone into the woods just three days ago looking for the
perfect tree. Joseph had been so excited, hoping to surprise his father with the fine tree
that he had picked out. Jennifer had baked gingerbread cookie men to hang on the tree
while Joseph worked on stringing popcorn. Pinecones were decorated with bits of ribbon and
an old abandoned bird's nest was nestled within the branches. Finally, Jennifer had
brought out the beautifully carved star that had been in her family since her
great-grandfather. Last of all, they had hung a special Christmas stocking on the mantle
of the fireplace, a stocking that she had made when Joseph was just a baby. Jennifer hoped
that stocking would not go empty this year.
A knock on the door brought a lump to Jennifer's throat. Who could be at her door this
hour of the night?
"Who is it?"
There was a muffled answer and Jennifer threw open tho door to admit her wayward mate.
"Martin! Oh, Martin where have you been?"
The man clung to his wife, grateful that he was home at last.
"Owww!"
"You've been hurt," concern showed deeply in her eyes.
"It's nothing."
"Where have you been, we've been so worried."
"It doesn't matter. I'm home, that's what counts." Martin Blaisdell turned back
toward the woods. "Mister, would you like to come in?"
"And when my grandfather turned to invite the man in, he was gone," Paul
Blaisdell said.
"And he never knew the man's name?" a young Peter asked, his eyes growing wider.
"No. The man never told him. He did notice that the man carried a flute and he
dressed like some of the Chinese that lived in the area. But he never saw the man again
after that night. The only thing the man left with him was a small metal teapot. That very
same teapot that sits in your mother's kitchen which she uses only for special
occasions."
Peter grew silent. The man that Paul had described in his tale sounded so familiar. He
almost could imagine his own father wandering the countryside, helping everyone he would
meet along the way. If only his father were here to share in the tale, but his father was
gone, dead now for four years.
'Maybe some day I might be able to do what that man did, help someone in need. I promise,
Father. I will try to follow the lessons you taught me, to help others who are weaker than
myself. And someday, maybe we'll find each other again.'
End
Back to Temple Tales
Sign Alisa's Guestbook / View Alisa's Guestbook