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Christmas eve

December 14, 2013

CHRISTMAS EVE

“it’s yours,” he said, handing her a brown-wrapped package.
“What is it?” arched eyebrows, inquisitive expression.
“Your stuff, you know.” She shook her head, hair a cloud of chestnut mist, eyes puddles of grey paint.
“Sorry, but I really don’t know what you mean,” an injection of laughter into the voice, the softening of her words by the constriction of her throat.
“All your memories, yours to open, to examine and ponder.” Her face paled, her cheeks burned.
“I don’t know what you mean.” A shake of the head, the involuntary twitching of a nerve at the corner of her eye.
“You are Miss Polly Boyd?” he asked. She nodded her head and he looked relieved, the man in the smart suit and tie. “Look love, you do know where you are don’t you?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Well, please humour me, tell me. Open your eyes and switch off your imagination. Confusion mounting within her like a marauding beast that is made of mud and water.
“I..” a dry throat. “I was on the motorway and you, you stopped me and gave me this package.” She fingered the brown paper that responded with a satisfying crackling sound.
“Go on Polly,” the man urged, kindness in his voice, warmth in his smile. “Remember, deal with facts, not fiction. Your subconscious is still active, imagination still trying to burst in.”
“What are you talking about?” something approaching fear in her voice.
“It’s ok.” Soothing voice, an arm on her elbow. “Just tell me in your own words. Just explain where you are and where you were.”
“ Umm…” she hesitated, twining a strand of her hair between thumb and forefinger, teasing it into a curl. “Driving down the motorway.”
“And now?” the man asked, a pleasant smile complementing the twinkle in his eye. The woman shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She looked around, eyes wide, mouth half open in consternation. “Can you tell me what you see?” he asked gently.
“A room, a desk with you sitting behind it. A parcel on the desk in front of me.”
“That is impressive, well done!” he smiled broadly and scratched the back of his head with a pencil. “You sit in a comfy leather chair and I sit behind a desk on a cheap swivel one. We are in a room, yes?” she nodded her head. “But can you tell me why we are here? It is important if this is to work.”
“If what is to work?”
“If our meeting is to be a success the answers must come from you.”
“I was driving home,”
“Good, go on,” he patted her arm.
“And then this,” she looked around the bare white room and tapped the oak desk.
“Come Polly, you must admit it before we move on with the process.”
“What process?” she wiped a tear from her eye.
“Love, I know this is hard and strange, but please trust me. Do you know where you are?”
“No of course not! I was in my Renault, and then here, what’s happening?” the man reached under his desk and gave her a tissue. “Who are you?” she sobbed.
“I am the in-betweener. I am customs, passport control if you will. I am here to help you, to help you understand clues and solve mysteries. I am here to make sure you are processed properly; that you move on or go back.”
“Back where, to work? Are you occupational health? Look I’m sorry but I really did have a bad back, I couldn’t sit…”
“No, no. It’s ok. I am the in-betweener, I’m not from any governmental agency. My name is…” he drummed his fingers on the table. “My name’s not important. Now Polly, answer me a few questions. Can you do that?” she nodded her head.
“Good. Firstly, what is the last thing you remember?”
“I told you I was driving on the M42 and then…” he pushed the parcel towards her.
“Your memories. Open the first box.” With trembling confused fingers she peeled away the layer of brown paper and revealed a cardboard box. “Read the label please,”
“D- 10mins. 24/12/08”
“Good. Now under the label is a flap, open it like an advent calendar and gaze inside.”

A car, motorway. The sound of a radio playing music. The hint of frost, the promise of fog, the grass verge beginning to silver. For five minutes Polly watched herself driving the car before the man asked her to peel away the flap labelled, “D-15secs. 24/12/08.” Now the grass was white with frost, the traffic slower. Thick fog hung in the air, lights defusing glow strange and hypnotic.
“I would close the flap if I were you, I think you can guess the rest.” She didn’t hear him, her eyes were glued to the small square hole, to the strange interior of the box where she saw her car skid and smash into the central reservation, her body joining the tangled mess of metal and concrete that took her life in a blink of an eye.

“I’m dead,” she said, face in hands. “But why am I here? This isn’t heaven it’s a shit! I can’t spend eternity in a bare bloody office!” she began to laugh hysterically.
“No of course not, I don’t expect you too. This is, as I said, the first stage, like customs or passport control. In your memory box we find a reason why you are not in heaven or limbo.”
“What?”
“Yes, this box contains within it all the memories, matters, events of your life. Everyone has one; they are in a great vault, each in a chest of silver that is unlocked automatically by a fragment of soul that is released on death. I must say my dear, you are handling this really well. And yes, this is a shitty office, it is the default area but you can change it, you can be anywhere and I can look like anything you want me to look like. Just use your mind, it Is much more powerful now it is released from its jelly.”

She sat opposite Richard Gear, the table between them strewn with flowers. The sea lapped gently at the shore, the sun setting, the sound of a Spanish guitar and the clinking of glasses.
“Interesting,” the man said. “A fantasy?”
“Kind of,” Polly smiled.
“That’s fine if it makes things easier for you. Now listen. You are with me because you shouldn’t be dead, it is our job to find out the reason, the loop-hole that will send you back to your body and to your life.”
“But I can’t sit here for thirty-six years gazing into a cardboard box!” she said with exasperation.
“Have you ever saved the life of man or beast?”
“I don’t think so. Look Richard, I mean, in-between or whatever it is you are called. I am really, really hacked off and confused. Is this some sort of joke?” He shook his head thoughtfully.
“Open the window on the box marked BEST MEMORY. This will show you something private, something only you know about, something that was locked in your subconscious.” She hesitated and then opened and peered into the square that the tab revealed.

Polly saw herself as a young girl. She lay in bed, a stocking hanging at the foot of her bed, the soft glow of moonlight and snow light lighting the room. Silence; nothing stirred. Then the sound of bells and the crunch of footsteps in fresh snow. She got out of bed and opened the curtains just enough to see. There, in her back garden a man stood, his clothes red, his beard glistening. She couldn’t believe her eyes, excitement mounted inside her and then he was gone. Slowly and quietly she walked downstairs, and there he was standing in the snow-glow, kindness in his eyes and perfectly wrapped presents at his feet. When he saw her he froze, cheeks red from the cold, one mitten fallen to the floor, red hood sprinkled with snow. And then he spoke to her. “Hello Polly, my name is the holly king. I am the spirit of winter, the god of Yule, the gift giver and the changeling. Feel no fear from me for I am pure and humble. Know that I am, know that I will always be; despite disbelief and the might of the single god, I will always enchant the hearts and souls, I will live in the holly, in the oak and mistletoe, and one night in a year I will walk and fly, giving gifts of warmth and joy. Tell no mortal my true name, for it is sacred. Know only that I am, and that I am always in your heart.” With this he gathered his sack and his mitten and made for the front door. Polly followed him and watched him walk through the solid wood.

Speechless with amazement she went to the front window and saw him standing in the snow beneath a street lamp. Then with a mixture of fascination and horror she saw him remove his hood. Where a white beard was, holly grew, and from the top of his head antlers stretched towards the moon. Then, remarkably he began to change, his holly covered skin turning to fur, his arms and legs elongating into the limbs of a mighty stag. Then he ran and leapt into the air, majestically cantering through the night sky.

“What happened on Christmas morning?” the man who looked like Richard Gear asked gently when he noticed the tears on Polly’s cheek.
“I came downstairs on Christmas day and saw my presents/ On the spot where the.. where the man had stood, a sprig of holly lay. Later I went into the front garden and saw hoof prints.”
“Do you believe that what happened was divine?”
“Yes, a secret I have always kept because I was sure nobody would believe me.” The man opposite her morphed into the likeness of her father, and the ocean-side bar was replaced by a cosy living room with a roaring log fire.
“Who am I now?” the in-betweener asked.
“You look like my dad.” Fresh tears polished her face.
“What would you say to me if I were your dad?”
“That I love you, that I am sorry for not telling you more often. That I wished I picked up the phone more often and visited more.”
“Open the window marked D-22years. 04/08/1986.”

Polly saw her young self sitting on her backdoor step, stroking a stray cat. The animal, a thin tabby beast purred contentedly and rubbed himself against her jean-clad legs. “Why show me this?” Polly asked the man who looked like her father.
“Consequences. There are always consequences to our actions. For good or ill, something always happens, always affects the line of fate. Because you showed kindness to this stray animal. Because you fed and watered it, made its miserable life happy you made a difference. On this day,” he jabbed a thumb towards the box. “On this day you saved his life. Watch.” From beneath the side of his chair he produced another box. On it there will hundreds of tiny labelled windows. “This is the consequence box. Pick a window and open it.” Slightly confused she peeled open a flap and gazed inside.

The same tabby cat came to the doorstep, but Polly wasn’t there. It meowed balefully and Polly’s face appeared at the front window. Polly waved at the cat and then disappeared. Disappointed, the cat sat on the grass and cleaned itself before walking into the street. The driver barely felt the impact as the cat, its mind full of lonely thoughts sauntered into the road and was killed instantly by a Ford Escort.

“You see,” the man said. “You have saved a life, maybe many lives. When you were sic you picked up shattered glass from the street; glass from a broken bottle of beer. If you hadn’t have done that a dog would have cut her paw. The same dog would have then caught an infection. The dog, a fine animal would have suffered and would have been unable to complete its guide dog training. It’s future owner would have got a different dog, a dog who would bark at a horse, spook it and send its rider crashing to the ground.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it? If you don’t believe me open every window and gaze into the box.”
“So I am here in this place because without knowing it I saved two lives?”
“That’s why you are here, but it is not why you have another chance.”
“Tell me why I might have another chance?”
“Because you will open the window marked D+3years. 03/08/2011.”
“Hold on. What is the significance of the cat and the woman on the horse?”
“It is for you to tell me, to discover through the box.”
“I’m fed up of gazing at myself.”
“The cat? Nothing. I simply use her as an example to prove that even the smallest kindness has consequence. The woman on the horse went on to win many competitions, including an Olympic medal and the dog went on to become a fine guide dog, saving his owner’s life by refusing to cross a busy road when a car was coming. The woman lives a happy life, the blind man likewise. In fact, your small act of kindness when you cleared up the glass set in motion a mighty wheel called fate. A wheel that spins and sends forth threads of decision that cause many things to happen, possibilities to live and die, flourish and nourish others.”
“So I am here…” she looked around; they were back in the office again, bright white walls and a desk and two chairs. “I am here because I stroked a cat and cleared up a broken bottle? That’s ridiculous!”
“No,” the man sighed. “That is one reason. The real reason is in your very being. But it is up to you to discover it and say it.” Polly shook her head, frustrated and confused,

“Something about Christmas?” Polly said eventually.
“Go on…”
“Well, I kept the best secret, I told no living being about that night many years ago when I saw…”
“A god!” he clapped his hands. “Yes. You had knowledge of the divine. You knew the true nature and substance of the entity some call Santa. But tell me, what do the presents signify?”
“I don’t know, I’m really confused.”
“Look Polly, you are here for a reason, you here because something, someone doesn’t want you to die, that means you have a reason, a purpose.”
“Presents,” she mused. “Maybe I am to give somebody a present, a gift.”
“Go on…” he urged, patting her elbow.
“Maybe I am to… I don’t know.”
“That will do, you’ve tried hard enough. You will discover the purpose.”

* * *

“I’ve just got home,” Polly said, the phone crackling with static.
“Good, I was worried, you should have been home hours ago, you shouldn’t be working late, not on Christmas Eve.”
“People still get sick, illness doesn’t respect the calendar. .”
“Hard shift?”
“Tiring.”
“We worry about you, especially driving in this weather,”
“I know Emma, you’re right. The roads were dangerous, fog and frost, I nearly skidded on the motorway on a patch of ice, god knows how I avoided it, but I did.”
“Christ, be careful.”
“I am, I mean I was. Look sis, I’m going to have a glass of red and then go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ok, night.”
“Oh hold on, I’m so sorry, how’s Mike?”
“He’s Ok, not too bad.”
“Good. Is he having any time off over Christmas?”
“Not much, oncology waits for no man.”
“Course. Send him my love.” Polly hung up and poured herself a glass of wine.

She woke, sweat on her face, fear in her stomach her heart thudding. She could hear a noise downstairs. She reached for the telephone and then stopped, her fingers falling short. With a deep breath she pulled on her dressing gown and walked downstairs.

He stood, moonlight and frost light bathing the room, breathless magic light, air that is cold and redolent with the possibilities of miracle and myth. “You live,” he said simply, voice low, tranquillity burning in his eye. Polly nodded meekly. “Do you have it?” he asked.
“Have what?” she cleared her throat, a girl again, vulnerable and afraid.
“My gift to you.” For a moment her head felt empty and confused.
“Oh, the holly?” she asked. The man-god of endless wakeful vigil filled eves smiled and nodded. “Yes I still have it safe.” She went to a sideboard and fished out the gleaming sprig.
“You are a healer, a giver of gifts,” the Holly King announced.
“Well I’m a doctor, so,”
“You are the one who was saved from Jack’s cold curse.” Polly nodded weakly, incomprehension dawning like a dark rain-filled morning. “This night you shall do a deed, give a gift. This night you shall be a part of tale and legend, myth and lore. Will you come with me Polly the healer? Will you travel with me through the dark places of the soul to the enchanted places of being and begun?”
“I, I don’t understand anything you are saying. Who’s Jack? What must I do?”
“Jack Frost,” he nodded towards the window. Polly gasped when she looked out. In the darkness stood a tall thin man, spindly limbs and elongated body, sharp, face pale, and gaunt, a faint sparkling blue . He tapped on the window and left icicles trailing from his fingers. He capered in the moonlight, a strange jig beneath a street lamp, sparks of white and pale blue crackling in the air. And then he walked on, his cold breath hanging in the air, his frosty footprints bearing witness to his passing.

Polly sat, a large glass of brandy in her hand, the Holly King standing in the corner of the room, his red cloak and coat dusted with snow. “This is a rare night, a special night, a night that occurs very rarely. We have been waiting for you Polly Boyd.”
“Haven’t you got presents to deliver?” she asked, gulping.
“Time has no power this night. I transcend the invention of the mortal.”
“Who waits for me?”
“The Fisher King. It is Yule, he waited all year for a boon.”
“Isn’t the Fisher King a film?”
“He is a King in this land of men and beasts. A King who needs a healer, and that healer is you Polly Boyd.”
“Why?”
“Our druids and ancients have failed. Our kin and knights, warriors and witches have gathered sacred herbs, have made medicines and potions but all for naught. Arthurus Castus the Great Bear himself has decreed that all mortals must try. You are a mortal, so you must try.”
“Why are you concerned with the affairs of men. You are a god for god’s sake!”
“Because they care about me, it is only polite.”
“You talk about things that exist only in fantasy books!”
“Does it make them any less real? You may not see them in physical form but they exist in their plain, in their time. They are all about you, inside you, around you.”
“Parallel dimensions?”
“Your words mean nothing to me Polly Boyd, but if your science accepts such things then maybe your religion, your colt of proof can be satiated by coming with me.”
“I must be bloody mad, or dreaming.”
“No, you are neither, you are simply experiencing winter’s joy, Alban Arthun’s promise.”
“How do we reach your Fisher King?”
“Come,” he held out a mittened hand.

They stood, mortal and immortal, woman and god. “Be still and be not afraid of my form,” the Holly King said. With this he disrobed, took of cloak, coat and hood, trousers and boots to reveal himself. Where hair grew, holly sprouted. Where skin should cling to flesh, mistletoe and oak leaves grew. His limbs were of oak, his eyes holly berries, his fingers twigs and his clothes winter foliage and sparks of gold that rose into the air. Then he fell to all fours and his limbs elongated. Brown fur grew, dappled with grey, the holly fell away from his head and proud antlers spread towards the heavens. And there he stood, a mighty and majestic stag, silent and still. Not quite believing her actions Polly standing on her garden wall sat upon the stag’s back and waited.

And then it came, a rush of air; her lungs empty, above her the stars seemed close and bright as they revolved in the heavens faster and faster, smearing their white light across the black sky and causing her eyes to blur and water. Below her the land spread, white and distant, and then it fell away and left only darkness, intractable and aloof.

She lay, face down in the snow, mind scrambled, senses blurred and confused. Slowly she heaved herself to her feet, She found herself in a deep forest; the canopy snow-laden and glistening. The moon hung in the sky, full and magnificent, bathing her in a pale glow and causing the icicles that hung from the branches to glow and glisten like diamonds. Shaking from the cold and the shock she walked on until the forest thinned and a frozen river shone ahead of her. She was about to turn away and look for another path when something caught her eye. The man, old and bent sat on a log, his legs covered by a wolf pelt. In his hands a spear was poised, at his feet a dead salmon lay on the ice. As quick as lightning, through the hole in the ice, the spear disappeared, and impaled upon it, a lithe silver body struggled. The man laughed to himself and then with care and respect dispatched his prey. “Excuse me,” Polly began, clearing her throat. For a breathless moment the man froze and then spoke;
“Speak woman,”
“I, I have no idea where I am. I feel stupid and cold.”
“Who do you seek this night of yuletide merriment?”
“I don’t know his name. They call him the Fisher King.”
“Why seek you the King?”
“I, I’m a doctor, I’m here to examine the gentleman.”
“Then go to his hall, he will arrive presently. Follow the river to the clearing of the dell sprites, then seek the eastern path through the snow gardens.”
“Is there no quicker way?”
“Yes, capture a wild horse or beg the ice fairies to carry you.” Close to tears Polly walked on, barely taking in the beautiful enchantment of the countryside that surrounded her.

Exhausted, cold and very scared, Polly stopped. Around her trees soared and the snow-covered ground stood like a white silk blanket. The silence was broken by a voice that made Polly jump. “Hello?” Polly said hesitantly, “Is there anyone there?” she clutched her medical bag to her chest,
“Why do you wander the wild places when cold snow covers the ground?” the voice asked. Polly looked around but she could not see the source of the voice; the only living thing nearby was a snowy white owl that sat on the high branches of a majestic oak.
“I, I am lost,,” she replied with a whisper.
“But now I have found you, u are no longer lost.” For a moment Polly fancied that the owl’s beak was moving, that the owl was actually speaking to her, the she checked herself, realising that she must me mad.
“Where are you?” Polly asked meekly. The fluttering of wings, the sound of snow falling to the forest floor. The owl stood, perched on a lower branch, large eyes staring at her. “You, you’re an owl!” Polly croaked, the last semblance of verisimilitude deserting her.
“That is so. Tell me, where are you bound and who do you seek?”
“I’m looking for the Fisher King, I have to give him the gift of healing.”
“I see,” the owl said, a frown in his voice. “Tell me” he continued. “Do you believe in magic?”
“I have to, if I don’t I should be on medication!”
“I shall take that as a yes. Do you know one named Moon Dancer?”
“No.”
“She is what mortals call fairy. She lives in the woods near the stones of truth. Moon Dancer told me that one day a mortal dressed in strange garments would pass this way, and that I and the other beasts should show her courtesy and whit.”
“That’s good, but can you help me, I want to do this thing and get home.”
“Of course I can help you. Follow me and I will set you on the correct path. Once on the path you must stop and watch for the procession, once it has passed, follow the path to the hill, there you will see the lights from the feasting hall.” With this the owl flew to the next tree, Polly following.

The owl long since gone, Polly stood, shivering, the path ahead of her barely visible. She was about to walk on when a tiny light caught her eye. Straining into the darkness the light appeared to move from side-to-side and it appeared to get closer and closer. Polly stepped off the path and gazed at the approaching procession, an image of beauty and pure magic that took her breath away. A wooden carriage the size of a shoebox bedecked in holly and mistletoe, tiny flickering tallow lanterns on its roof and windows being pulled by a pair of tiny white unicorns, their horns and manes decorated by flowers and ribbons. In the carriage four tiny people sat, their clothes perfect, their faces divine. Behind the carriage warriors marched, men the size of acorns dressed in leather armour and carrying spears. Behind them people rode white mice, voles, stoats, badgers and squirrels, and above them warriors riding bats swooped and soared. Bringing up the rear winged people walked and danced, their clothes colourful and beautiful, light shining from their very essence, wings beating silver and gold sparks from the air. Polly watched with wrapped fascination as the precession dwindled into the distance.

She stood, exhausted and relieved in the shadow of the feasting hall. From outside she could see the light and hear the music and the merry-making; on top of the hill under the constellation of the Great Bear white clad oak-bearers chanted and somewhere in the forest a wolf howled at the distant moon.

“I’m here to see the king,” Polly said to the warrior who stood at the huge oak doors that stood ajar.
“Who are you? Which tribe are you from?” the warrior asked, axe and sword glinting.
“I am English and my name is Polly.”
“Never heard of that tribe but your name is like holly so it is sacred especially this night. Show me your proof of entry and audience?” for a moment Polly panicked; then she produced her sprig of holly from her pocket and offered it to the guard.
“Very well, go in.”

Never had she seen such sights. The hall was huge, a roaring fire flung out golden light and waves of warmth. Holly and mistletoe decorated the walls and oak leaves the floor. Blazing torches of every colour flooded the room in puddles of glorious light. Tables groaned under the weight of food; venison, boar, chicken and a hundred different sweetmeats and sauces. Men drunk mead and ale, women danced and minstrels played on lute, harp and flute. She tried to look unobtrusive as she pushed her way through crowds of people and made her way towards a large chair that she was sure would house the king.

“You?” she said, to the man in the chair, his legs covered by a wolf pelt. “I met you in the woods, I thought you a normal man, why didn’t you say something?”
“I am the Fisher King, you saw me fishing, it is not my fault your mind is simple. You should have asked me who I was.”
“I have come a long way to be here,” she cleared her throat trying to speak over the clamour of the gathering, but trying not to draw attention to herself.
“I know you have. Many have tried to heal my ills, but all have failed. Maybe you have potions that I do not, maybe you can heal me and in doing so ensure you live in your world and time.”
“Pardon?”
“He has told me all. Your in-betweener is a powerful being. You have been Chosen to serve, you have been chosen to survive the ice, we each have gifts to give and receive.”
“Very well,” she began business-like, trying to treat him like a normal patient, trying to use her professional training as a shield against the indignity of disbelief and fear. “What seems to be the problem?”
“My legs.” Polly pulled aside the wolf pelt and saw red, inflamed, swollen legs.
“I see. Do you have pain in your ankles or knees?”
“Yes.” she touched his legs gently and beads of sweat erupted from his face. “And my toes. Can you help me?”
“If you were in my world I would run tests. I think you have a build up of uric acid, in other words, gout.”
“Never heard of the word, it sounds like sorcery.”
“You need to watch your diet,”
“I eat fowls, fished and beasts. I drink wined, mead and ale, it is wholesome and natural!”
“You need something called Sulindac, it is a drug, a capsule you swallow.”
“Where do I get such a thing?”
“Boots or Super drugs,” she said under her breath.
“What?”
“I do not have any with me,”
“That is of no consequence, I can obtain some now I have the name of the potion.”
“how will you get it?”
“I know people who can operate in many plains of existence. They are entities you may be familiar with, for your culture calls them elves.”
“What?”
“Yes, these small folk can obtain human artefacts. How do you think the entity you call father Christmas obtains his presents? The elves steal them of course.”
“I am so confused…”
“Don’t be, you have given me the word, the word has power for it gives me knowledge. How much do I take?”
“Ummm, one capsule per day.”
“Very well. Thank you Polly, you shall have a gift in return.”

• * *

“Polly, you ok love?” Emma asked, her face pale and drawn.
“I’m fine. What happened?”
“You hit a patch of black- ice. You skidded, but you are going to be fine, it’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago. You have a little concussion but you’ll be fine. I am so relieved, I’ve been so worried, your car is a rite-off.”
“I don’t understand”
“It’s ok,” Emma stroked her younger sister’s hair. “You’ll be out soon, you can spend Christmas with us.”
“What day is it?”
“It’s Christmas eve.”
“Oh god, I have to do something but I can’t remember what,” a tear born of confusion and disappointment glistened at the corner of Polly’s right eye.
“Don’t worry love, everything will be fine.” Emma brushed Polly’s cheek with a kiss. “Hold on, what’s this?” she noticed something lodged between the pillow and the headboard. Reluctantly she fished it out. “Holly, lovely fresh holly with berries, what’s that doing there?” Polly shook her head and held her hand out for the prickly leaves.
“I don’t know, but it feels nice. Emma, do you believe in Father Christmas?”
“I’m a bit old for that,” Emma laughed.
“I do.”Polly smiled and kissed the green sprig.

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