The town was called Madison, like no fewer than two dozen cities, towns and hamlets scattered all over the United States. It was a once-prosperous logging town, nestled between a mountain cove and a river bend, some five or six miles from where I had abandoned my loyal little Volkswagen, the only companion--and home--I had had since I left San Francisco more than a month before. After 6,000 miles on an aimless drive across the country, the poor thing finally could not go any farther, and had to be left behind, along with all my worldly possessions that I could not carry on my back.

It was Christmas Eve, and a steady snow had been falling all day long, turning the river valley and the steep, rocky mountains around it into a winter wonderland to my Californian eyes. The bone-chilling gale had finally died down, but it was still bitterly cold. I was drawn to the tiny town by the beckoning haze of thin smoke rising from the dozens of chimneys on its rooftops. It looked, and felt, like a town where a man down on his luck could find understanding and compassion.

I walked into town right around dusk, when the strings of Christmas lights began to twinkle on the snow-covered eaves, trees and hedges. Hardly a single soul was in sight in the quiet, narrow streets except a few children having a good time in the fresh white power, whose laughter and exuberant shrieks were muffled by the continuously falling lumps of snowflakes. Through the misty windows of houses lining the main street, I could see men standing in the warm glow of fireplaces, women and children busying themselves around richly decorated Christmas trees, and gray-haired grandmothers putting the finishing touch on their generous feasts. Everything I saw and heard reminded me of the cherished yesteryears of Norman Rockwell.

I headed straight to the town center, where the Victorian-style town hall shared a neatly landscaped public square with three churches. In front of the town hall, an at least 100-year-old cedar had been decked out with colorful lights and turned into a giant Christmas tree. In the center of the square, bathed in the festive glow, stood a tall wooden cross, which was not unusual in this conservative region. I was startled to see, however, the naked form of a young woman hanging on the cross in the pose of a classic crucifix.

Without knowing it, I picked up my pace toward the cross. On the edge of the square, a few dozen feet from the cross, I came upon a parked police car, in which two officers sat eating donuts and drinking coffee. As I approached, the officer on the driver side, a fresh-faced young fellow dressed smartly in brand-new uniform, rolled down the window and waved in my direction.

"Merry Christmas, Santa!" he said.

Instinctively, I looked behind me, but quickly remembered that I was wearing a red and white Santa Claus hat, the last item I had salvaged from my abandoned car.

"Merry Christmas to you, too--ho ho ho!" I answered in the most cheerful voice I could muster.

"What happened to Rudolph and the rest of the gang?" the policeman bantered good-naturedly.

"The bank took them back," I played along, "and the sleigh, too. Things aren't going so well up north, you know."

"Yeah well, not so well down here, either," he murmured, and rolled up the window as I passed by. "You have a great holiday!"

I stopped right in front of the cross, and looked up at the woman displayed helplessly on it, using a sleeve to shield my eyes from the falling snow. In fact, it was a bit of a stretch to call her a woman, for she looked no more than 20 years old. Her slight figure, with small and pointed breasts, slender arms and legs, and a tiny waist, made the massive wooden limbs of the cross appear all the more overwhelming in contrast. Instead of being nailed to the cross, she was bound to it by coarse ropes wrapped around her bruised wrists and ankles, which suggested that her crucifixion was intended for punishment rather than execution. But on a cold, snowy day like this, I could not convince myself that it was much of a blessing.

A steel collar on her neck, two small rings in her light-colored nipples, and a diamond-shaped brand on her inner thigh identified the girl as a chattel slave. Yet she had about her, even as she hung motionlessly on the cross, a distinctive air of gracefulness and elegance that was rarely found in a slavegirl, especially one as young as she was. Her torso and thighs were crisscrossed with dozens of raised purple welts left by a whip, and short trickles of blood had emerged where the whipmarks crossed one another. Mixed among these new welts were many faint old scars. It was instantly clear to me that the girl had not led an uneventful life even before this ordeal.

Her head was hanging over her chest, spilling the straight, shoulder-length blond hair around her seemingly calm, angelic face. A thick blanket of snow had gathered on the back of her head, the topside of her outstretched arms and shoulders, and her bent legs. The exposed parts of her torso and limbs glistened in the twilight with small streams of water from melted snow, and miniature icicles had formed from the ropes binding her wrists and ankles, and from her delicate toes. Her crescent-shaped eyebrows, long eyelashes and golden triangle of pubic hair had turned white with a sprinkle of frost. Her nude body were ghastly pale, but her slightly upturned nose, smooth cheeks and dainty hands and feet were reddened by the sting of the cold wind.

A small wooden plaque was affixed to the upright post above the girl's head, undoubtedly to proclaim the offense or offenses she was being punished for, but the writing was completely obscured by a thin film of wind-blown snow. I could only guess, and quite futilely, at what crimes this innocent-looking young slavegirl could have committed to deserve such a merciless retribution on the eve of the most wonderful day of the year.

After a few minutes, my presence brought the girl out of her private world of pain and misery. With much difficulty, she lifted her head and rested it wearily against a shoulder and the cross. She took a few shallow gasps of the chilly winter air, and eventually managed to stammer out, in a voice hardly more audible than a mere whisper: "Help...me..."

I wondered what I could do to alleviate some of her suffering, no matter how slightly, and suddenly remembered the half bottle of whiskey I had stashed away in my backpack. But first, I wanted to check with the lawmen in the car behind me. Being a stranger in a strange place, I did not want any trouble.

I took out the whiskey bottle, and turned to the police car. This time, it was the officer on the passenger side who rolled down the window. He was a middle-aged, heavy-set man with a graying moustache, perhaps the town's police chief, or at least a senior commander.

"May I?" I waved the whiskey bottle, and motioned to the girl on the cross.

"Well, I'm afraid she's got two more years to go before she can drink legally," the policeman answered hesitantly, but then changed his mind. "Oh what the hell--go ahead. It's Christmas Eve, and the poor girl is not going to be opening any presents tomorrow morning."

I found a ladder lying nearby, leaned it against the cross, and climbed up. The girl stared at me with fear and uncertainty in her eyes, and twisted and writhed in a pointless gesture to get away. Obviously, I was not the first visitor she had received on the cross, and none of the previous visits had been charitable in nature.

"Don't worry," I told her, looking directly into her light brown eyes, and held the bottle to her lips. "I'm not going to hurt you. Here, take a sip. It'll help."

Her lips, slightly purple from the cold, trembled and finally parted. Gently, I fed the bottle into her mouth, and poured a shot of the whiskey. She tried to swallow, but most of the liquor ended up spilling from the corners of her mouth onto her bare chest. Her jaws must have been frozen numb.

I made another attempt, and once again most of the whiskey went to waste.

"Well, I don't think this is working," I said with a sigh. I took a sip of the whiskey myself, looked at what was left in the bottle, and stuffed it into a pocket in my parka. It would be some time before I could afford to buy another bottle.

I remember the Santa Claus hat I was wearing, and decided that it would make a nice Christmas present for someone who needed it much more than I do. But first, I had to get rid of the snow that had collected on the girl's head. The fresh flakes were brushed away easily, but the tiny crystals of ice underneath that had frozen to her golden locks took quite a bit of work.

I put the hat on her with both hands, as if crowning a queen or a princess. It did not fit snugly, but it looked very beautiful on her.

I removed my gloves, and cupped her icy cold cheeks in my somewhat warmer palms. Then I leaned forward, and kissed her on the equally cold lips.

"Take care now, you poor sweetheart."

I thought of wishing her a merry Christmas, but chose otherwise.

As I slowly made my way down the ladder, I heard her small voice trying to say something. I looked up, just in time to see two large teardrops rolling down the corners of her eyes.

"Thank you," she said.

I decided to leave Madison.

Walking along the deserted street leading out of town, and listening to a church choir rehearsing Christmas carols somewhere, I could not help wondering about the doe-eyed girl on the cross. What was her name? Where was she from? I could have asked her. But then again, I was not sure she was in any condition to answer my questions.

Was she born into slavery, or was she the victim of unfortunate circumstances later in her life? Did she have someone who loved her, and someone to love? Did she have brothers and sisters? Were they also slaves? Where were her parents? Did they know that their beautiful daughter was suffering this cruel torture, alone, naked in a snowy winter evening, on Christmas Eve?

On the outer edge of the town, I crossed path with a snowplow busy clearing the main highway that linked Madison to the outside world. In its cabin sat a round-faced man with a white beard, dressed in full Santa Claus gear.

"Merry Christmas!" the man shouted to me from an open window, but I only nodded at him.

As the snowplow roared past me, I turned around and looked back. The church steeples and the giant Christmas tree were still visible from a distance, as was the shadowy shape of the cross. The image of the crucified girl was blurred by the falling snow, but I could see clearly the red hat I had placed on her head, like a little dancing flame amid a whitewashed world.

"Merry Christmas," I said under my breath, "and God bless you."