On Christmas eve, many years ago, I lay quietly in my bed. I did not rustle the sheets. I breathed slowly and silently. I was listening for a sound—a sound a friend had told me I’d never hear—the ringing bells of Santa’s sleigh.
The reindeer were excited. They pranced and paced, ringing the silver sleigh bells that hung from their harnesses. It was a magical sound, like nothing I’d ever heard.
At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.
“Astarael, the Sorrowful,” whispered Sabriel. Astarael was the banisher, the final bell. Properly rung, it cast everyone who heard it far into Death. Everyone, including the ringer.”
“I looked behind me. He’d dropped his backpack and picked up a stone from the side of the road. He turned and lobbed it toward the bell tower of old First Congregational. I’d never heard that bell ring before.”
“Every day at twelve o’clock, Mr. Parker came to the church. Mr. Parker came to pull a rope. The rope went up to the Birds’ new nest. The rope rang the big bell right under Mrs. Bird’s nest.”
“But his face you could not see, on account of his beaver hat. For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, with ribbons and bibbons on every side, and bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, so that nobody could see the face of the Quangle Wangle Quee.”