Martha’s Dance With The Mummer
Outside, snow fell thick and fast, blanketing the cove in quiet. But even with the snow, Boxing Day in Happy Adventure, Bonavista Bay, was sure to be a lively time—it wouldn’t be long before laughter echoed across the cove as mummers made their way door to door.
Martha’s house, though, stood apart. While the rest of the cove celebrated, her home was quiet and still.
In the kitchen, Martha sat alone in her rocking chair, waiting for the sound of footsteps. She knew the mummers would come, if only out of kindness to an old lady who spent too many of the holidays alone.
The fire crackled softly in the stove, and a lamp on the table cast a warm glow across the room. Nearby, a bottle of rum sat unopened, waiting for visitors who hadn’t yet arrived.
Christmas day had come and gone, as it always did, quietly and without fanfare. Martha had long accepted that the holiday wasn’t meant for people like her. It belonged to children and families, to laughter and full houses—not to the lonely and forgotten.
She had never married, her life devoted instead to caring for her aging parents. When they passed—first her father, then her mother—the house became unbearably still. The walls seemed to close in, and the silence settled over her like a heavy blanket. Each room felt emptier, a reminder of all she had lost.
Years had passed, but time had done little to dull her grief. Some wounds, Martha knew, never truly healed.
The memories lingered, slipping in and out of her mind like shadows. Sometimes they brought warmth, fleeting glimpses of laughter and love, of her mother humming in the kitchen or her father reading by the fire. But more often, they came with a cutting sharpness; a reminder of all she had lost, of all that never was. They came more fiercely in the quiet hours of Christmas, when the past felt closer than the present.
She was nearly 88 years old, now. And frail, certainly more frail than she’d been just a year ago.
There was a time she’d been truly happy; a time when she was young and in love.
James was handsome, kind, and fierce in his devotion to her. And he wanted to spend his life with her. That was nearly 70 years ago.
One December, just before Christmas, James had boarded a schooner for St. John’s. Ostensibly, he’d been going to pick up supplies for winter, but he had an ulterior motive. He’d promised to bring back something special for Martha—a wedding ring; a ring that would bind them together forever.
But the promise was to be broken. The schooner would never return to Happy Adventure.
Just as the boat left St. John’s a terrible snowstorm descended on the vessel. The crew tried all they could to save the boat; they searched desperately for a safe port but it was not to be. The schooner ran up on the rocks and no one survived.
James’ body was never found.
And so, Martha had lived the rest of her life in the shadow of his memory. The loss was a constant ache, but it was one she had learned to bear. Except in December… The anniversary of their last day together, never went unnoticed and then, there was Christmas. While the world seemed to anticipate the day, she quietly dreaded it.
So, when Boxing Day arrived, Martha felt a sense of relief—she had made it through the sting of Christmas for another year. Unlike Christmas Day, Boxing Day wasn’t wrapped up in family; it was about community. For as long as she could remember, Boxing Day had meant mummers. Neighbours going house to house spreading cheer. It was the one part of the season she felt she could embrace.
Her parents had always welcomed the mummers into their home, and Martha was happy to keep the tradition alive. She kept the lamp bright in the window, set out a tin of fruitcake, and waited for the sounds of laughter and song to break the silence.
She hadn’t expected it to be much of a celebration, just a pleasant visit with the familiar, albeit disguised, faces of the town.
Then a knock broke the stillness.
She shuffled to the door and opened it. Outside was a crowd of masked figures, shaking snow from their boots and calling out in funny voices. She stepped aside, and they poured into the kitchen, bringing with them a rush of warmth, laughter, and noise. Despite their outlandish disguises—flour sacks, mismatched clothes, and false faces—Martha recognized almost all of them. All but one.
He was tall—taller than any man Martha could recall in the cove. There was something about him, something quiet and gentle, yet timeless, as if he had stepped out of another era. His salt-stained coat hung heavily around him, and his face was concealed by a plain cotton mask. Still, his presence was anything but ordinary. Through the mask, his eyes gleamed, bright and piercing, holding a depth that seemed to see far beyond the little kitchen and the crowd gathered within.
Martha found herself unable to look away. There was a pull to him, a quiet gravity that drew her in.
The tall mummer stepped forward, his boots creaking softly on the worn floorboards. The noise of laughter and chatter swirled around them, but he was a still point in the chaos. And then, he began to hum.
At first, the sound was barely audible—a low, soft melody that grew steadily, filling the room. The tune was mournful yet soothing, rising and falling like the rhythm of the tide. It carried a haunting beauty, tender and timeless, as though it had been born of the sea itself. The sound wrapped around Martha like a warm blanket on a cold night, stirring something deep within her. She felt herself pulled backward through the years, to a time when the house was alive with voices, laughter, and love.
In that moment, she felt alive—truly alive.
The soft melody carried her away, and suddenly she was with James again. She could see his face glowing in the golden light of the setting sun, hear his laughter ringing out like music, and feel the warmth of his hand in hers. She was young once more, barefoot on the beach, the sand soft and warm beneath her toes. The whole world felt safe, comforting, and full of love. It was a memory so vivid, so real, that it swept away the years and the loneliness.
The tall mummer’s song continued, gentle and steady, like a heartbeat. He extended his hand toward her, and without a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
They began to dance, slow and graceful, moving together as though time had no hold on them. Martha’s body moved easily, her aches and years forgotten, as if her bones had remembered how to be young. A smile spread across her face, tentative at first, then brighter. And before she realized it, she was laughing—a clear, joyful sound that filled the room.
The mummers paused to watch, their chatter fading as they took in the scene. No one in the cove could remember the last time Martha had looked so happy, so full of life. For a moment, she wasn’t the lonely woman knew.
“Who is he?” one mummer whispered.
“I don’t know him,” said another. “I’m sure he wasn’t with us by the gate.”
Everything about the stranger seemed off. He looked like an old photograph, his clothes seemed to belong to a different generation. Most unsettling of all were his eyes; they were too bright, too knowing.
If something was wrong, Martha didn’t notice—or perhaps she didn’t care. She was completely lost in the dance, her smile glowing brighter than the lamp flickering on the table. Nothing else mattered in that moment.
When the dance came to an end, the tall mummer bowed deeply before her. With a quiet grace, he lifted her hand and kissed it gently, his touch as fleeting as a whisper. Then, without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small object. He placed it carefully in her hand and folded her fingers over it, his gaze lingering for just a moment.
Without a word, the stranger turned and stepped out into the night. His boots barely made a sound on the snow-covered porch as he disappeared into the swirling storm. The other mummers hesitated, glancing nervously between one another, then hurried after him. By the time they reached the gate, the tall man was gone. His footprints had vanished into the drifting snow.
Back inside, Martha sank into her rocking chair, her breath unsteady as she finally dared to open her hand. Nestled in her palm was a ring—a simple gold band. Her heart stopped, and the room seemed to blur around her. It was the ring she had seen so many times in her dreams, the one she thought she would never hold. For seventy years, she had believed it lay at the bottom of the North Atlantic, lost with James when the sea had claimed him.
Tears welled in her eyes, but they were not of sorrow. They were tears of wonder, of a connection she thought had been lost forever. As she cradled the ring in her hands, a warmth spread through her, filling the empty spaces in her heart. Somehow, she knew—James had found his way back to her.
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in seventy years, a profound sense of peace settled over her. It was as if every ache, every sorrow, every long and lonely year had been lifted away.
Morning came, the sun climbing steadily into the pale winter sky. But no smoke rose from Martha’s chimney, a detail that didn’t go unnoticed in the cove. It was the kind of sign that sent a ripple of worry through the community.
When her neighbours finally entered the house, they found Martha still in her rocking chair. Her face was serene, her hands folded neatly in her lap. On her finger was a simple gold ring, gleaming faintly in the early light.
The story of Martha and the mysterious mummer spread quickly through the cove, whispered over fences and shared by lamplight. Everyone had an opinion about what had happened that night. Some insisted the tall stranger had been Death in disguise, hidden in plain sight. They said he had come for Martha right before their eyes, to take her to the other side.
But if it had been Death, he hadn’t come cloaked in darkness or fear. No, he had come to her with warmth and light, with a gentle touch and an embrace as soft as a song.
For Martha, there had been no question, no doubt. As she slipped the ring onto her finger that night, she had known the truth. The stranger wasn’t Death—it was James. He had finally come home to her, just as he had promised so long ago.
He had come to offer his hand, knowing the time was right, knowing that they could be together again at last. Martha had accepted it without hesitation, ready to dance once more with the man she had never stopped loving.
From now on, there would be no more lonely Christmases—only the warmth of his embrace, the joy of shared laughter, and the music of their hearts, forever intertwined.
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