The Heretic

The Royal Canadian Academy

The Heretic written by The Gargoyle

Review:Bury:The Idea of Progress (R.F.)

From The Canadian Forum December 1920

Jean Paterson, from the mature age of six years and nine mionths, with every intention of being kind, could not help conveying to Billy Watkins, who had only lived six years and five months in this wicked world, an overwhelming sense of his own immaturity and inexperience.

Billy admired Jean speechlessly. He said it with all-day suckers and other precious things. Jean was not fat and podgy and flaxen-haired. Her slim black-stockinged legs twinkled adorably. She had a slim black pig-tail with a red bow that whisked about enchantingly as she danced to school. Billy was square and solid, with two big freckles on his pudgy nose, and a slow reluctant smile.

But a cloud lay on Billy's horizon. He dreaded the approach of Christmas. The rift within the lute had opened last year when he had refused to accompany Jean to the annual ritual of the great Santa Claus procession that wound yearly up the sacred street from the great house of Cardwell. Jean's suspicions of his strict orthodoxy had been aroused, but a providential cold which had kept him from school for two days of first-class tobogganing weather had changed her suspicions into pity.

"Billy Watkins", said Jean, in the intervals of sucking one of Billy's weekly offerings, "will you come with me and see Santa Claus on Monday?"

The sword of Damocles had fallen. Billy stood dumb, shifting from foot to foot in mortal agony, fumbling unthinkingly with the chestnuts in his trouser pocket. Jean's voice took on a sharper note of expostulation as she repeated her question. Billy knew that his hour had come. He must confess his faith and pay the price. Slowly and stubbornly, as Jean pierced him for the third time with her insistence, he muttered, "That isn't the real Santa Claus, father says so".

Speechless with righteous horror Jean flashed her lightnings upon him. Then, "Billy Watkins, you're a wicked story! He is the really Santa Claus! I hate you. Here, take your horrid sucker!" and as Billy's hands remained glued in his pockets she cast the symbol of his deathless affection into the gutter and stamped, yes, stamped twice in holy rage.

That afternoon Jean walked home with Sidney Bloggs, who wore a velvet suit with white collar and cuffs, and put out her tongue, her lovely little pink tongue, at Billy as she passed him glowering dumbly.

On Monday Billy could hear the shouts of the enthusiastic devotees as the false Santa Claus passed up the streets, showering gifts upon his deluded votaries.

On Tuesday Billy took up his station at the corner of Wellington and Main to see the real Santa Claus, guaranteed genuine by his father's word, pass up from the rival establishment of Robinson's.

The crowd was smaller, the adherents of the true faith were a little remnant compared with the throngs that worshipped the false god, but their enthusiasm was sincere and undoubted. For a brief hectic moment Billy forgot his martyr's crown and shouted himself hoarse. Then just as the triiunphal chriot passed, the eye of Santa Claus beamed upon him, upon him, Billy Watkins; the hand of Santa Claus waved unmistakably to him, and tossed a mysterious gift towards him. Billy forgot all the maternal injunctions to keep on the side-walk and dived for the parcel. Something hit him hard. He felt sick and dazed; he was lying on the street with a horrid pain in his leg, and someone was picking him up gently, while a throng of curious peering faces surrounded him. Then came sudden ecstasy. The ring broke and the very Santa Claus, for whose sake he had suffered so sorely, was holding him, carrying him, and whispering in a voice which seemed strangely familiar, "Billy, Billy-boy, say you're not hurt, it's daddy!" He tried to smile and then forgot about things in general.

He woke up in his own small bed. He couldn't move his leg, but otherwise he felt jolly. He had a sense of discovery, a general feeling of lightness. His mother opened the door, and said, "Billy, would you like to see a little girl who is very sorry for you?" Behind her Jean sidled shyly in and came up to his bed. She had a parcel in her hands. His mother slipped out again. Jean looked sideways at Billy. Billy looked straight at Jean and smiled his slow smile. Jean edged a little nearer the bed and put her parcel at the foot of it. Then she twisted her fingers and looked sideways at Billy again. Billy continued to smile invitingly.

"Billy," she began stumblingly, "I'm ever and ever so sorry." Then she dropped to a whisper, "Billy, it was, it was — all because you didn't believe in the real Santa Claus. He was real, I saw him, he gave me that, and I brought it for you, just to show." She broke off and waited. Billy said nothing, there was nothing to say, he only smiled. Then his mother came in and carried Jean off.

Billy lay and looked at the parcel she had left. He didn't want to open it. A glow of pity crept over him, He forgave her for walking home with Sidney Bloggs. How could she know what he knew? She couldn't help it. Billy lay still and hugged himself with the inward satisfaction of the true believer. He knew the real Santa Claus.

The Gargoyle.