Clara Marie Stahlbaum comes to us in the last days of autumn when she is twelve years old. Her uncle has recently passed, her parents say, and the young girl is suffering from delusions borne from her grief. She claims, they say, to see visions of seven headed mice and her dolls spring to life. She refuses to eat anything and she clings desperately to a toy nutcracker that her late uncle had gifted to her some five years ago for Christmas. Please, her parents beg, we do not know what else to do to help her and she is fading.
Of course, here we understand these sorts of things and we are glad to take her into our care. We will give Clara all of the comfort that she may need and guide her through this time of grief.
She is a small girl, soft and slender with wide blue eyes and pale hands that hold the toy nutcracker tight to her chest. Her father hands us her things, a well-worn carpet bag that is sun soaked and heavy, and a thick burgundy coat lined with fur that she does not need on this warm October afternoon. Her mother pulls her into her arms but Clara does not hug her in return, the nutcracker is crushed between them and one of the arms digs into Clara's ribs but she does not release it. Soon her parents are walking out the door and down the steps, and the afternoon is sunshine yellow but all Clara is is ashen gray. She does not wave goodbye.
We take her hand and lead her to her room. She is sharing with another young girl, a year younger than her, and we settle her carpet bag and coat into the small wardrobe in the corner before we lead her on a tour around the house. Clara is small, but she grips our hand in hers with surprising strength and clutches the toy to her chest with her other.
She does not eat anything that night, but we are used to that and we give her spiced milk instead, which she drinks plenty of, and we lead her back to her room where she meets the other little girl for the first time. The two are silent as we introduce them, but that is no surprise either, and they both quietly ready themselves for bed.
She screams a little more than three hours later, when the moon is still climbing into the midnight sky and we rush into her room. The other little girl is curled tightly in her bed with her hands over her ears, but Clara is thrashing in her own bed and the nutcracker has fallen to the floor. Her feet tangle in the light sheets and she howls as we rush forward to grasp her flailing hands.
"They're coming!" she screams, "they are coming for him! They will eat him and crack him and break him to pieces!"
We hush her and we pet her sweaty forehead and we comb our fingers through her matted hair, but still she struggles. We pick up the nutcracker from the floor and we see that he has a dirty pale pink ribbon wrapped around his jaw to secure it together. We push him gently into her hands and she falters to a halt as she feels the smooth wood of the nutcracker's body under her palm. Her eyes are still squeezed shut but she pulls him into her arms and curls around him with her back to us, rubbing the pink ribbon between her fingers.
"They are coming," she whispers to the wall.
The next morning Clara is quiet at breakfast and she does not touch her spiced milk this time. We take her through daily meditations and a group walk around the gardens, the fall colors are in full bloom and the leaves filter the light gold through a haze of late season heat. The other children are alone within their own minds and they pay no attention to the new addition but we linger alongside her as the leaves are crunched underfoot. Ahead of us, Clara's roommate hums and sings a song to herself, the sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud because, no cloud was in the sky. And they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand. If this were only cleared away, they said, it would be grand! If seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, do you suppose that they could get it clear?
"What is his name?"
She does not answer, but she combs through the wispy white beard that tangles with the pink ribbon around his jaw. The paint that decorates his body is a little chipped, but the red coat still looks neat and his blue eyes are still bright.
"He's a handsome fellow, how is his jaw healing?"
"Uncle Drosselmeyer said he would fix him," she murmurs, "he promised that Fritz didn't do anything wrong, that he would fix him." She presses a gentle kiss to the nutcracker's forehead and smooths over his hair. She doesn't speak for a while but we let her walk in silence. All things in their own time.
"The fifth head is the meanest, that one scares me most of all. I thought he was gone but he's back now and there's no one left to stop him. I thought she would be back to help, I thought we beat him, I thought everything was alright. But Uncle Drosselmeyer hasn't fixed him and the clocks keep chiming and the Mouse King is hungry with all of those heads, and I don't understand what we did wrong. He can't fight if he's still broken, he doesn't have his sword either. Where is Uncle Drosselmeyer?" This last part she says to us, stopping and tilting her head so she can look up at us.
Instead we crouch down to meet her eyes and we gently cup her face in our hands. We tell her that things will get better, just wait and see. This is a safe place and we will never allow any harm to come to the children that are here, we are here to protect her after all. Her Uncle Drosselmeyer cannot be here, but he loves her and wishes he could be, and we are poor substitutes in his absence but may we try to help fix her nutcracker?
She is hesitant of course, we see how much comfort she draws from the toy and how fiercely she guards him. But choices like these are easier in the golden light of late autumn afternoons, and she slowly hands us the nutcracker and lets us lead her inside to the kitchen.
We gather the necessary materials and we allow her to perch on a stool directly at our side so that she can watch as we perform gentle surgery on her precious toy. It takes us a little less than an hour to complete and when we are finished, we tie the little pink ribbon that used to secure his jaw to his wrist instead. Clara grins for the first time since she arrived as we hand her the now healed nutcracker, she cradles his gently, petting his hair and his beard once more.
We think that now is as good a time as any for an early supper and Clara continues to surprise us as she gladly accepts the warm potato soup we offer her alongside her spiced milk. Afternoon spills into evening and the night draws in close and cold.
There are more screams that night, and the night after that and after that still. But there are always screams, the children here are troubled and their troubles always come out at night, and so there are screams. We do our best, soft blankets and spiced milk and warm lullabies go a long way to soothe whatever worries at each child, but Clara is different.
She wakes more often than not in the middle of the night, and while she still warns us desperately that the mouse king is on his way she also remembers that her nutcracker is fixed now and settles easily each night when we tuck him closer to her. She no longer refuses to eat, but she eats very little and refuses any of the sweets we offer her.
Soon enough, the last of the leaves fall and winter ushers in gales of snow and ice that confine many of the children indoors. But that is no worry to us as we set about decorating for Christmas and we are all eager to see this old house lit up in the bright festive colors of the holiday. Many of the children do their best to help, one of the boys insists on hanging strands of fairy lights across the house despite his fear of shadows while one of the other little girls sits at the piano practicing every day even though she is deaf and mute.
Clara does little to participate in the preparations and she spends her time in the kitchen checking the mouse traps that she helped us lay and searching the pantries for any tell-tale lingering crumbs. We know her parents will not visit her for the holidays, many of the parents prefer to stay away and hers are no different. It is why she is here with us after all. But we love all of the children and we try to share the magic of the season with them.
It is Christmas eve and we gather the children together as we light the tree in the main room downstairs. We have prepared a celebration of music and dancing and soft pastries for each child. Clara stands in the corner, hugging her nutcracker to her chest, and she does not join in the singing but instead watches with steady eyes the movement of the other children as they laugh and dance.
"They are here, they will come for me and for him. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed, they are here," she whispers to herself. "Where is the clock that chimes the rising stars? Where is the sugar that dusts the fairies? The mouse has eaten everything and he will steal him away and he will destroy this world and where will I be then?"
"Come Clara," we interrupt her, "you are safe here and it is Christmas, please, come and celebrate with us." We gently take her hand and lead her to the brightly lit tree. There are presents wrapped and laying beneath. "Look, can you see your gift? That one is from us, and tonight, Santa will come and there will be more for you to open in the morning," we gesture to a small red package with golden ribbon that we have placed with care beneath a ballerina ornament that spins and catches the light and refracts a pattern of stars across her cheeks.
But she has no eyes for the lights or the ornaments or the presents and she tugs at our hands and there are tears down her cheeks now. Already there are a few children put to bed and so we gently lead her upstairs and leave the rest of the children to celebrate. We tuck her tightly beneath her blankets as she shivers and clutches at her nutcracker. There is nothing we can do to ease her fear except sing a Christmas lullaby and leave a light on in her room.
"Goodnight Clara, Merry Christmas."
That night we hear nothing from Clara's room, but we think nothing of it. Nightmares do not care for the magic of Christmas and we are busy calming and soothing the other children. When we check in on her room, she and her roommate are both sound asleep and breathing easily. It is a quiet night for the both of them. There are others that are not so lucky but we are quick to help them and soon enough it is our turn to be tucking into bed.
There is nothing but quiet in the long hours after midnight that stretch towards Christmas morning. We have dimmed the lights and wound the clocks and we are on the verge of sleep when the peace is shattered by breaking glass and a sobbing scream that is quickly cut off. We rush towards Clara's room but we find it empty, the bedding is tossed to the floor and her roommate huddles in a ball in her own bed. When we ask her where Clara is, she says nothing and rocks back and forth with her hands over her ears.
We frantically check the other rooms, some of the others have woken to the shattering noise and add their shouts and screams to the growing chaos of the night. We reach the kitchen and find it flooded with light, the burners on the stove are all turned on full and the flames add a sweltering heat to the bright room. Every mouse trap is triggered and they lay scattered across the floor, and they are surrounded by the toy soldier collection of one of the boys. The sabers and the guns lay abandoned next to the bodies and there are crumbs spilled across the battlefield of the kitchen. Clara is nowhere to be seen and as we search the kitchen for her, we find the source of the sound that woke us. The large window that looks out over the back garden is broken with pieces glinting like stars in the firelight and the moonlight.
The only thing we find are small splinters of broken red painted wood and a dirty pink ribbon caught on the edge of the glass. The clock chimes the hour in the hall and the screams of the other children continue to rise.
Clara and the nutcracker are gone.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
:) Kathryn
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