Father Christmas
“Honey, dinner time!”
Austin looked up from his schoolwork. “Ok, Mom! Just a minute!” He cleaned whatever work was there on his table and scurried towards the dining room.
His dad, Richard Cooper, was already on his seat, and so was his mom, Samantha Cooper. Austin beheld the food on the table in awe. Steamed hams were coated in a creamy sauce. The roasted chicken was adorned with wreaths and cherries. The macaroni salad was dressed in fruits and creams. The glasses held milk, festive milk, milk that was appropriate for the season of giving. The table itself was decorated for December’s special day. The whole house was ready for the day today.
Austin took his seat. “Wow, Mom! This looks fantastic!”
“The kid’s right, Sam,” Richard Cooper commented. “You’ve overdone yourself this Christmas.”
“Oh, you always say that.” Samantha teased.
“Let’s dig in!” exclaimed Austin.
They dug in, and during the meal Austin paused through chews and swallows to admire the dining room decor. Two dimensional reindeers and snowmen dominated the fridge door and the walls. Several candles, unlit, but cheery enough, were stationed in suitable positions to give the room a festive atmosphere. Green wreaths hung from ceiling corners. These decorations in the dining room, Austin knew, can also be observed in all the other rooms, although the living room, with three decorative socks attached to the fireplace, a green, jolly pine tree entangled by lights, and extra sets of Christmas assortments, enchanted the living room better than any other. From the outside, plastic reindeers and a real snowman owned the front lawn. On the roof, a plastic Santa smiled from his sleigh. The Cooper house was, as the neighbours would say, a real fine piece of Christmas work, but not as impressive as the rest of the other residential homes in the tiny subdivision somewhere in Virginia, USA.
Austin finished his dinner and went to the window to gaze at the snow. It started snowing since the 29th of November. During some days, it would snow in tiny flakes, hail down from the grey sky, or a blizzard would cover the whole area in cold whiteness. Snow was the only precipitation to be feared and cherished in for this time of year.
Today, the frozen mandalas fell lazily and gracefully in the night. In the wake of their passage, Austin imagined—and hoped, and dreamed, and begged—that Santa Clause would ride on his sleigh with his reindeers then come down the chimney bringing gifts with him and Austin could, for the first time in his 10 years of existence, and probably in history, see and greet Santa Clause. He wondered whether Santa Clause would like the cookies he baked for him and the milk he prepared for him and his thoughts turned to the subject of the presents he wished so long to receive this day and he imagined, hoped, dreamed, and begged that Santa Clause himself will personally bestow to him his earned rewards.
Austin gazed through the window until his mother called. “Time to rest now, honey, you know Santa only gives presents to kids that rest well for the night.”
“That don’t make sense.” Austin yawned.
“Doesn’t, dear, and you know that your dad and I won’t let Santa give you presents if you don’t rest well for the night.”
With 10 year old logic defeated by adult supremacy, Austin slouched to his room and lied on his bed. He fought the urge to sleep, but his eyes grew heavy, his mind began to count sheep, and his body slumped in relaxation. Before he fell into darkness and dream, he saw something beyond the window, beyond the snow, within the dark night sky, something familiar, but analysing it very closely, something he, and many, many others, had never seen before. Then he slept.
He watches the boy and waits. He watches the boy’s parents and waits. When they have all gone to bed, he moves. He enters the living room and admires the decorations built for him. He feasts on the offerings left for him. He plants the child’s desires beneath the tree, plants his delicacies within the socks. Then he leaves.
A second passes after he is done with the Coopers.
He moves to another house, every millisecond an action to see, to interact, to relocate. He is done with this one, and continues to another. This next one, though, is different. He searches through the history of every child, and discovers that one of the three children who resides here, in the Johnsons house, is guilty of many childish crimes, and as he rewards the two other Johnsons children beneath their tree, he leaves behind black lumps of punishment to the wicked child. Then he departs.
Ten seconds later, a dozen houses finished, he enters a house, the Terry house, with no fake reindeers or Santas, with no snowmen guarding the lawn or lights shining the way. He is inside, and sees no wreaths or stockings or trees, not even mistletoe. He finds no offerings for him on the table, finds nothing to mark the day today.
He is not surprised by this. During the 1900’s, when he was finally recognized as one of the beloved patrons of Christmas, he would only visit the homes and places that held all the quality and decor of the special day, because that was what everyone believed. He would be there, to do his work, and everyone who had a tree, a wreath, some shiny lights, a chimney, and such would be jolly for the holiday.
But as the next millennium neared, the ones who had no tree to hang their praises or mistletoes to kiss beneath believed, with all their hearts and minds, that you did not need any of those symbols, idols, or relics to receive gifts or punishments. You just had to believe that Santa will be there for you, and that he’ll come not from chimneys or doors, but from people’s hearts. Because of this, he was no longer limited to middle to rich family homes. Now, he can visit hovels and alleys and slums to anyone, adult or child, that knows or believes in him.
He is done with the Terry house. He moves on to another, and in here he stops for a while. He sees another such as him, on the lawn, but not exactly like him. The thing is not as strong or as famous as he. While he was created by thousands, and later on strengthened by millions, it seems as if the thing had existed only through the powerfully combined efforts of four, imaginative kids. It is alive in the way an intelligent jellyfish is alive.
He remembers his friend Frosty, a thing such as the thing on the lawn, but with more power and more popularity. This thing had a different name, a different character and image, but alive and happy with its creators.
He waves a gloved hand at it.
The snowman waves back.
He goes through houses, through subdivisions, through towns, and through cities. Minutes later, the state of Virginia is complete.
He does the same procedures in New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and in an hour he completes the whole of the East Coast. In another hour, he finishes with Central America and the West Coast. He meets many more creatures like the snowman, alive with belief; some created for the season, others that were there in America before and after America was discovered. He leaves a trail of gifts and charred displeasures wherever, and whoever, believes in him. He travels North, not far North, and a half hour passes when every home in Canada is judged. He travels South, far South, and Mexico is done in another half hour.
After North America is complete, he traverses farther South, to countries and lands that he had already visited the last few years, although now he visits new places where he had never thought to visit, but that which those people residing there imagined—and hoped, and dreamed, and begged—for him to come. South America is complete in an hour, and he enters Europe.
There, particularly in Athens, Greece, he comes upon a familiar face.
She is standing on the entrance of the Acropolis, where her ancient visage once stood. She sees him with her storm grey eyes pass, and she, one of the few deities in friendship with a man such as he, waves and smiles. He goes down to greet her.
As soon as he lands, Athens changes. The modern buildings are gone, replaced by ancient Greek complexes and Agorae. The old buildings remain, yet now glowing with youth and grace. In the Acropolis, a grand and shining beacon of the pantheon, the Athena Parthenon now stood, guarding the realm of the matron who made it. The city becomes what it once was during the reign of wise and noble kings, when the Greek gods remained strong on their high thrones, a shadow of a surviving past.
“Greetings, Nicholas,” the goddess says, after he had harnessed his beasts and his carriage to a column.
He bows low. “Greetings, Lady Athena. You look radiant this day.”
“As do you shine with power in your day, Nick.”
He gives a warming smile. “You fill my heart with great wisdom, my Lady.”
She looks at him and speaks. “I think it best that you continue your duties. The day is waning fast.”
“I have time.”
“Indeed. So why did you descend here?”
He thinks, and says “I seek council.”
She measures and observes him. “What is it you seek from an elder like me?”
He pauses in deep memory, and speaks carefully. “For many years, I have ridden through the Christmas nights, bearing gifts and coals. I have rewarded the nice and punished the naughty. I have done what is my calling.”
He huffs to catch his breath, and continues. “Yet I feel as if I judge children wrongly nowadays. It’s as if the things I give to the good are worse than coal, and the coal I give to the evil is used to burn brighter flames.”
He looks to the goddess. “Have I finally wronged?”
She calculates him and his words. “Nicholas,” she finally speaks after a long silence, “Every year, I leave my Shadow realm and walk around my former city after Christmas. I see children happy at the gifts you’ve given. I see children cry at the coals you’ve given them. And through it all, I know them to be human.”
“What do you mean?” Nick intones.
“I mean that they, whether child or parent, make mistakes. They can be good of heart and do terrible deeds, while the cold hearted can commit acts of true, humane virtues. They can change from innocent bystanders to sadistic murderers. They can break your soul and heal it again. They are not like us, Nicholas, forever set by their ideals to be what we are. We can never be what we so wish to be, escape our very natures, even with all our powers and might that they have dreamt on us. They see us as infinite, yet we are limited to what they can choose to be. They speak with their voices, think with their minds, and all we can do is follow. We build worlds such as these, yet they are shadows of what we lost, shadows of the real world out there. We are but silhouettes by their design, and when they no longer need us, we are left to fend for ourselves in a land not of our own choosing.”
Nick thinks about what she has said, and has no answers for now.
She smiles. “But do not worry about that, Nick. This is the most wonderful time of the year, is it not?”
He nods. “You are right, my Lady. Perhaps I’ll think about it after today.”
“Good travels, Nicholas.”
He mounts once more and takes to the skies.
He stays clear from the other gods and monsters that have no love or compassion for him. He avoids the gates to their planar homes. He may be stronger than they, and they may not have the same might and powers they once wielded in their glory days, but they are still strong enough to cause him trouble. Besides, he has no grudges against them, even for the worst of them. In his nature, and in his code, he is a holly, jolly man that kids love and parents trust.
Soon, he goes to North Africa, into small pockets of belief that which little hopeful kids and adults believe in his existence. It takes a much faster time to complete North , Central, and South Africa—so few places to dwell upon—and he moves on to—
Wait.
In a field in the night, in the Kalahari Desert. Amidst the dry bushes and the trees and the tall grasses. Within a little village of half-naked, small Africans. There, a child waits for him.
He has heard of the Bushmen of Africa, the San, or Saan, people, but had never visited them until now. They were a very isolated group of scattered tribes. When one takes a closer look upon a Bushman, it is evident that although he or she may have the correct skin colour, the facial appearance and body structures do not resemble much with most Africans within the region, and instead relate more to Asians. It is also evident that they, like many other African tribes, have only what they need to survive in a harsh environment
He observes them closely with interest. None of them are fat or bulbous, nor extremely thin and hollow. Many of them, even the children, he notes, seem fit and healthy. All of them, he notices, are naked, even the women, except for some who have animal clothes or leaves to cover their (as most would call) private parts. As another evidence, although they live through limited tap roots, hunting catches, and natural water, their bellies are quite contented. Although they live in man-made huts around a man-made fire, they are happy at their mobile homes. They are jolly with less and never needed more.
Except for the child.
He wonders how the child came to know of him. The Bushmen rarely interact with the rest of the world, and rarely knows of what lives in that world. Then he notices, within the child’s tent, a dirty, almost ruined pamphlet of Christmas stories. In the front cover, through the mud and the dirt, he saw his own face, smiling.
He looks at the child, at the young girl’s history, her wishes for this day and the deeds she has done. He is intrigued by this girl, for there are very few children who live life in the kindness, love, and respect that she had had experienced and bestowed. He is intrigued even more by how her late father taught her to read English, enabling her to understand the words in the Christmas pamphlet which she had received from him, which, in turn he had received by a great magician from the North. He is perplexed at what the girl wants—such a harmless and useless thing it is which she had heard from another tribesman—yet she had indeed earned the right to be gifted.
He prepares her reward, and then stops to ponder. This girl may believe in him, but she and her whole tribe believe strongly in the gods they have born. When he first came upon this earth, he made numerous accidents with the deities and beasts that disapprove of him interfering with their people. Although he has become stronger than they, with powers equal to Easter, Cupid, the Thirteen, and the lords of Hollow’s Eve, he tries nowadays to stay away from the others, especially holy representations of world-wide religions.
Then he remembers what Athena had said, about change and human nature. He remembers the days when good and evil where so easy to understand. But was he too wrong in his youth? And how was the past different from now?
He begins to leave.
And he cannot.
He feels the girl’s fierce desire for what she wishes for. He knows he cannot refuse the wishes of a child such as this. Even as he calculates the morals and ethics of this new era, he cannot abandon the dreams of a child such as this. He thinks hard, and shrugs indifferently. Perhaps the Bushmen’s gods would pardon him for a tiny present for this one girl in this special day. Besides, what harm can a cell phone do?
He gives the girl her gift and leaves.
And the girl, hearing a strange sound, awakened, went outside, and saw a large, bulky construct in the night sky, pulled by, in the girl’s perspective, smaller figures resembling much like gazelles or antelopes, the lead one lit in a red glow. She observed the forms travelling East, towards lands she will never see, and beyond.
The tribe awakened to the sound of cheers. It was early morning, and the birds sang the gods’ songs and the animals stirred from the gods’ dreams. The Bushmen began to fix themselves and went to where the commotion was. There, the child Ayana was jumping in excitement at what she held in her hands, speaking in the clicking and popping language of the Bushmen with elation.
What is it you weild, Ayana? The child’s mother, Zari, asked through clicks and pops.
A gift from Father Christmas! Ayana clicked. I heard tales of such wonders from the other tribesmen, and from the Christmas tome my father gave, and I so wanted something like this, but the gods did not heed my prayers, so I prayed to the god who owned the thing I desired, the god from the Christmas tales, and last night he gave it to me!
But what is it truly? intoned a bushman.
They observed the object closely with fascination and fear. The thing was a black rectangle of sorts, with a length of 5 and a half inches and a width of 3 inches. One side of its wide surface was smooth, with a small circle on it, and the other side was smoother. On this side, as clear as still water, and blacker than the night, the Bushmen saw their own features. Also on this surface, near the width, was a rectangular outlining. Opposite to this across the surface was an alien symbol the Bushmen could not decipher. On one of the sides of the rectangle were two silver bumps, one of them longer than the other. Yet what amazed them was the material of the rectangle, a hard, light, smooth, clear, and ebony material none of the Bushmen had ever held.
What is it?. asked an elder.
A gift. Ayana repeated. The Odd Thing.
The Odd Thing? asked another.
Yes, for Mesmer-Eyes had told me, it can do many odd, but wonderful, things! Whenever you press this, she pressed the smaller bump on the side, it comes to life!
They stared in awe at once clear, liquidly surface, now blue and glowing as the sky, its face marked with more alien symbols and glyphs only Ayana can read. Yet with all their amazement, they were still wary.
It was Mesmer-Eyes, the tribesman trickster, who told you of its power? The Bushmen asked
Yes. She clicked and popped. He told me that the Odd Thing makes music when I tap on certain symbols. It captures your form and your movements with its eye, and permits you to see them with your own. It shines daylight on whatever it sees. We can speak with creatures beyond our world with it. It is nothing of this earth, but it is of the gods.
Of the gods? a female elder spoke. How can this Father Christmas be a god? We know nothing of him. What can he do that the gods can?
He delivers gifts to the good and burnt wood to the evil. Ayana insisted.
Why have we not seem him do such deeds? many asked. We hear the gods sing to the birds their songs. We see the gods’ white shapes in the sky when they wish to be seen. We know the gods guide us in the hunt, guide us in the search for tap roots and pools. Where is your Christmas god?
Ayana tried to find her answers in the sudden questioning. As she was near defeat, her mother spoke.
He is rare as the gods that enrage the grey and dark skies, the gods that pour water from above and nourish the land and its beasts. He is rare as the lakes and the rivers in this world. He does not do what he does here because we do not allow him.
Yet this Father Christmas could not possibly be our god, Zari. an elder clicked.
Why not? Zari said. We have gods that grow the grasses and the trees; we have gods that aim our spears and our arrows upon our prey. We have gods that permit the hunter-beasts to hunt, and gods to protect us from them. Why can we not allow a god such as Ayana’s to live amongst us?
They all thought in silence, conversed in serious tones, and decided that this Santa god will be allowed among their own gods. The Bushmen were not fully against the creation and discovery of a new deity, so long as that deity does them no ill will.
Yet they were still wary.
We trust in your judgments, Ayana child and Zari mother, an elder woman said, and accept the Christmas god. Yet you trust also the sly words of the tribesman trickster, the one with the changing eyes. He is a devious man, and we do not trust his words.
Zari glanced at her daughter. Can you show them truth to Mesmer-Eyes’ sayings?
Ayana looked to her mother and nods. She began to tap a few symbols, each press changing the images and glyphs on the Odd Thing. Finally, she taps on her chosen icon.
The Bushmen jumped and flinched in shock as they hear the chanting of the San people. They looked about, trying to find their singing kindred, when they turn back to the Odd Thing.
Do you hear? Zari states in their perplexed expressions, and beaming with pride at Ayana. The Odd Thing sings our people’s songs, and the songs and the singers belong to the gods. The tribesman trickster speaks truth, and the gods, and the Christmas god, has blessed us with their gift.
After more demonstrations of the Odd Things powers, with its eye accidentally hurting the eyes of a curious Bushman, with its blue face revealing white and blue and greener places , many of the Bushmen clicked and popped questions concerning the Odd Thing.
Can it fly farther than stones or spears or arrows?
Can show us the gods and their homes?
Will the rains come when the Odd Thing sings?
Can it break the skulls and bones of prey and predator?
What do the markings say?
Will it guide us to tap roots and water pools?
Can we see as it sees?
Will the gods accept such a thing?
Ayana heard these questions, replied to her mother, and Zari would be the one to answer to the Bushmen. Some of the questions had a yes for an answer, the rest as a no, and most as an unknowing shrug. As the questions ceased, and some of them were still unsolved, the Bushmen decided to experiment.
The New Year began with bangs and lights in other countries as the days moved on, but the Bushmen knew nothing of this. They did not know whether today is Valentine, or yesterday was Christmas, or tomorrow will be Halloween. Every day was another day as before and after, and the following 20 or so days after a New Year they never knew were spent in experimentations and discoveries.
The Odd Thing did not bring the rains when it sang. It was never used for bringing fruits down like throwing sticks, never used to break the skulls and bones of prey and predator, for Ayana warned that it was a fragile thing, and could break itself instead. It did not guide them to tap roots nor water pools. It did not smoothen snake skins and animal pelts, did not sprout new trees, and did not summon the gods nor made contact with the outlanders of faraway places (Ayana had also warned that the Odd Thing would not catch the invisible strands of communication in the Kalahari Desert).
The Odd Thing was accepted by the gods, for the Bushmen kept using it for many days henceforth. Whatever and wherever its vision saw, the Bushman would see the day in the night. If they witness themselves and their recent acts, the Odd Thing would show. If they desired the music of beasts and birds and men, the Odd Thing would sing. If they wanted to see the lands of dream, the Odd Thing would let them. Only Ayana was allowed to wield the Odd Thing, for she alone understood the words of the Odd, and knew how to operate the Thing.
As the days passed, the Bushman used the Odd Thing more and more. They were happy to have a gift such as this, and they thanked the gods and the Santa god for what they had received. They played with it, laughed with it, sang with it, and shared with it.
Then the unthinkable occurred.
It was another day. The sun was high, the land was hot, the beasts and the birds took to shaded shelters as did the Bushmen in a grove of wide trees. Ayana was using the Odd Thing to capture a family image when one child asked if he could use it. Yes, she said, and gave it to him, told him to hold it like this and keep it steady, make sure that the eye looks upon your target. The boy child giggled at his little game when a girl child came to use the Odd Thing as well. The boy child was reluctant to it to her, a feeling he had never felt before, then Ayana asked him to kindly let the girl child have a try. The boy child gave, and slowly became irritated—a feeling he only felt when baboons came to play tricks—at how long the girl child was taking to us the Odd Thing. He suddenly took it from her after a long wait and plays again.
Now the girl child felt something she could not name, a burning desire for retaliation.
Click, click, pop, click. said the girl child, complaining that she was not done yet with the Odd Thing.
Pop, click, pop pop, click. said the boy child, telling the girl that she was taking a long time to finish her duty, and he was the one who asked first
Click click click, pop, click, pop. The girl child replied haughtily, her tone and voice raised in further protest.
The two children kept complaining, and the commotion, something that the Bushman, a normally jolly, sinless, peaceful band of hunter-gatherers, ignorant of civilized flaws, had never witnessed, nor knew as an argument, a quarrel, stopped their work and watched the event enflame. There was no word in the San language for “mine”, but for the first time, those two children wanted the Odd Thing for his and herself.
Ayana tried to reason with them, tried to stop what was happening, but she could not thwart destiny. Angry speeches became a furious power struggle for the Odd Thing.
Pop pop, click, pop, click click pop, pop, click. said the girl.
Click pop click, pop pop click pop, click, pop, click! shouted the boy.
CLICK, CLICK, CLICK POP CLICK, POP POP, POP!
POP CLICK, POP CLICK CLICK, CLICK, POP, CLICK CLICK!!!
POP!!!
CLICK!!!
SMACK!, cried the Odd Thing.
There was silence. A deep, shocked, guilty silence that the Bushmen, who once knew nothing of civilized flaws, had never heard. Birds stopped singing. Beasts ceased to roar. The wind died. The grasses and the trees rustled no more. Then it broke in the sobbing Ayana, her head, bleeding tiny rivulets, in pain for her interference. But the greatest agony was felt by the two children, their clenched hands wielding the Odd Thing, fresh with blood, their hearts and spirits a guilty and pitiful desert.
The tribe gathered around the campfire. The night was silent, and only the cracking inferno kept the darkness alive. Yet this did not improve the mood of the Bushmen. They sat there, in contemplation, remembering the events a few hours ago. The brash children were forgiven, and they in turn forgave the victim. Yet this too did not lighten the mood. One of the men tried to throw the Odd Thing back to the sky, back to the gods, but it kept returning, kept coming back.
Now here they sat, watching not the flames but the Odd Thing, wondering.
It is an Evil Thing. someone finally uttered.
Everyone nodded, and some of them looked at Ayana.
The girl became frightened, her healed but hurting wound enhancing the terror, and her fear only engendered more guilt to the Bushmen.
Zari grew angry. Please, this is not her doing. Has she not suffered enough?
You are right, Zari. They popped. Forgive our error, but what can we do? Father Christmas gave her the Evil Thing, and now it haunts our people.
Ayana once said that Father Christmas rewards the good and punishes the evil. One of the Bushmen exclaimed. Does this, the Evil Thing, mean that we are evil?
No! Zari proclaimed. Perhaps we misunderstood this. Perhaps…..
She looked to her daughter for answers, and spoke her thoughts to all. Perhaps this is a wicked god, like the one that laughs with the hyenas, or the one that plays tricks with baboons.
Or the one that is Mesmer-Eyes. said a Bushman.
All of them began to agree, but Ayana looked to her mother. But this cannot be! Father Christmas is a good man! It said so!
Dear child, her mother said, maybe the Christmas god is a good man, and maybe he is a wicked one. But whatever may be, the Evil Thing is an evil thing, and it must return to where it was.
But he gave it as a gift!
Daughter child, gifts are meant to be given back.
Ayana pondered, and she looked at her people, more afraid at her gift than any man eater, raging storm, or long droughts.
She nodded.
It was decided.
That very night, since they had no idea whether the day was right to commune with the Santa god, as Ayana advised, they prayed to their own gods.
And they hear their people’s call.
It was two months before the next Christmas, and Moscow was colder than ever. The creature stood on top of one of the many Gothic churches of Russia, its façade dominated by gargoyles. The creature resembled much like a gargoyle—it had the impish size and build of them—except that its silver blue body was composed of a billion ice fractals instead of stone or cement. Its hair, eye brows, fingers, toes, and nose were icicles that fidgeted in dancing, mesmerizing movements. Its playful eyes were ever changing snow-flakes. It had a smile that could freeze gangsters and psychopaths. It had a long, cold, and entertaining history of fun and games.
It was no longer as famous as it was in the olden days, but it still had cold breaths to play more tricks on those it loved to play upon.
Its nose pricked suddenly high, smelling an ever so familiar scent. It leapt from the church, bidding farewell to his statuette brethren, and rode the northern winds. It glided with the gale towards his target, and found the fat bastard sitting on the edge of a roof gazing at St. Petersburg.
It landed quietly behind the man, careful not to disturb him or the snow.
To the creature’s disappointment, the man, without turning, spoke. “Hello, Jack.”
Muttering a silent curse, Jack responded. “Heyyah, Nicky. What brings you to Mama Russia?”
Nick stayed quiet.
Strange, thought Jack, as it noticed Nick’s slouching posture, as if he was Atlas weighing the world at its coldest region, in the frozen space of emptiness.
“Ok,” Jack said, sitting beside Nick. “Confess your sins, sonny boy.”
Nick frowned at it. “Are you speaking in jest, or do you know what I have done?”
Jack frowned and made a slight grin in turn. “You’ve actually done a naughty thing?”
Nick glared, and gazed back to the fantasy buildings of Moscow. “I believe so.”
Jack nodded. “Sorry to hear that.” He was indeed sorry, but deep inside he was laughing all the way and simply did not want Nick to know, as to not offend him. He had witnessed Nick’s wrath in WWII, and did not desire a vengeful blizzard aimed at him.
“So”, Jack began, just to lighten his mood, “Mind telling me what exactly you did?”
“I was unaware of the act initially. I heard it from the Thirteen, on their day.”
“Ironic. Probably wanted to give the unlucky news on the unluckiest of times.”
“Indeed. A black cat told me the specifics.”
“Mind telling me those specifics?”
Nick thought for a moment, and sighed. “Well, first of, just to insure the clarity of the story, it began last Christmas. All was going well as usual as I helped the nice and left coals to the naughty, although there were two occurrences that were of significance.”
“They were?”
“First was when I went to Europe, and had a little conversation with Athena.”
“Oh, her, Smart Alec.”
“Please, Jack, show some respect to her. She is a goddess by right, and a wise and just goddess she is. But continuing further on, we talked, and such conversation, forgive me, is quite personal in degree, so I shall keep the whole affair confidential only to myself, if you please. Yet, still, the talk we had has no affects in the current dilemma of mine, and what truly brought me shame was when I embarked on my mission to Africa.”
“What’s wrong with Africa? I thought a lot of people liked you there.”
“They still do, of course, and I did what I did in Africa. I was about to depart towards the Middle East when I……”
“When you what?”
“I felt the child. She was calling to me, and I could not resist her. So I came”
Jack understood the statement in a much different context. “Goodness, if you’re into that sort of fetish and stuff with kids these days, you might as well not have told me anything! Sure, I’m a naughty guy, but not that naughty!”
“What? No! Enough of your candour and wiles! Listen well, and keep silent. Now, where was I?”
“Child harassment. African child harassment.”
Nick ignored the comment. “I heard the child call to me. I found her, Ayana was her name, a child of a Bushman tribe, and I gave her the gift she asked for. A cell phone, it was, with unlimited battery—as she somewhat wished—which she heard from some other tribesman….”
Nick stopped talking and looked at Jack.
The creature had the face and the experience to beat any poker player. It had the knack and the nature to hide its true thoughts and emotions from the most skilled readers. But Nick noticed things not from simple intuition and observation, but through his power to understand, sympathize and empathize, with others. At the mention of the child, the Bushman tribe, the mysterious tribesman, and the cell phone, Nick felt Jack’s shock, sudden guilt, and the urge to get the hell out of dodge.
The creature’s thoughts were quickly erased and hidden, but Nick saw it all.
“Jack….”
“A cell phone, eh?” Jack said, knowing that Nick knew, and trying to evade the main and dangerous topic. “If you don’t mind askin’, what brand? Personally, I’d prefer—“
“Jack. What did you do?”
Dear oh dear, Jack was in the crosshairs now. He had to escape from this as smoothly as possible. So, he changed the topic, not too far from the main point of the story, nor focusing on the dilemma at hand. He kept his cool and his impenetrable face, occasionally letting it come out in his less suspicious expressions of pure innocence; and most importantly, barricading his thoughts and emotions from Nick’s continuous onslaught with happy, concerned thoughts.
“Jack!”
That failed. Okay, new plan. Jack feigned utter outrage at how Nick, of all decent and honest people, was invading the personal privacy of others! And not just upon Jack, but also almost everybody in Christmas! Doesn’t everyone these days have the right of privacy? “Even you, Nick, wouldn’t tell me your little talk with some holy weaver! Shame on you. Can’t you leave me be? Even I have feelings!”
Nick, for almost a split, hopeful second, felt hurt at the accusation, but quickly realized who he was talking to. “JACK…..” He warned one last time.
Jack thought of changing the entire subject, or averting Nick’s attention to make him forget it. Jack thought of running by first blinding Nick with a little spell and an illusion to make a quick getaway. Jack was good, very good, expert mode good, in fleeing from tough characters, and Nick was becoming tougher than a mountain.
Yet his long, somewhat real, friendship with Nick got the better of him. Nick was there when everyone else wasn’t, and Jack might have been in slight offense to the aid, it was grateful. It owed Nick a lot.
“Fine! Alright! Calm yourself, man. Okay, now, I confess, I kind of know the kid you’re referring to, and I might have told her the phone thing.”
“What do you mean? She acquired the existence of the device from…..”
He stopped, and looked at those ever changing, hypnotic eyes.
“You….”
“Me?”
“Mesmer-Eyes!?”
“It’s, uh, supposed to be Mesmerize—THE GREAT AND POWERFUL NORTHERN WIZARD—but during my trip south the locals thought my name was about my eyes instead of what I do, and thus am I Mesmer-Eyes. Have to admit, though, Mesmer-Eyes does seem better than Mesmerize.”
“I cannot fathom this. How could you have gone to a land like Africa?”
“Firstly, nobody ever said that I can’t go there, and so I can go wherever I wish. Secondly, Mesmer-Eyes is there, not Jack Frost. I’ve been building a legend of my own by becoming a famous magician but essentially with my tricks and my charms. When I’m in places where Jack Frost doesn’t exist but where Mesmer-Eyes is well known, I become THE GREAT AND POWERFUL NORTHERN WIZARD!”
“And you still retain your character as another character?”
“Sure! Not physically, though, but mentally and power wise, Ok! I must admit, as Mesmer-Eyes, I do occasionally forget some things my original me always knew, and vice-versa when I’m Jack Frost, but yeah. I’m good!”
Nick nodded. “Like Sid.”
“Sid? Oh, yeah, the Buddha. Exactly! Same guy in general, but different versions in different places.”
“And how have you come by a child such as Ayana?”
“Well, one day, I thought of showing my magic to a bunch of tribesmen in South Africa. Not to spread my belief, but just to have a bit of fun. As I presented my magnificence, I kind of made a cell phone appear in my hand, and to make things more interestin’, I told my audience some wonderful and odd tales of the phone, which I called the Odd Thing, just to keep things mystical. Everyone else was kinda frightened, but Ayana—nice and curious kid—listened with fascination at my glory and what the Odd Thing was. I told her, personally, more details about the cell phone, out of my kind heart. Thought it might not harm the kid, just give her a happy memory of me and the rest of the world.”
“You were mistaken.”
“Yeeeaaaah. I’m sorry. Truly, I am, and you know that.”
Nick stopped him there, for another thought occurred to him. “Ayana, she knew about me because she read it from a Christmas pamphlet, which she received from her father, and which her father, in turn, received from a great magician from the North…..”
“Oh. Oh dear.”
Both beings said nothing for a long time.
“Look,” Jack broke the tension. “Really, I am sorry. I was completely unaware what would happen. If the Fates or the Norns or any other religious future-teller had told me what would what, I wouldn’t have gone to Africa! Hurting kids like her is not my thing. Again, sorry. My bad. But anyway, what happened to her and her tribe?”
“Two children fought over for your ‘Odd Thing’ and Ayana was harmed in the conflict by trying to stop it. She’s fine, do not worry, only a minor head injury, but that kind of quarrel, even an innocent one between simple children, is quite uncommon in San society.”
“The tribe?”
“They’re coping to this new situation, but now they’re doing fine, and they’re back to their simple and innocent lifestyle. Past dilemmas have been forgotten.”
“The phone?”
“The San gods have thrown it to the edge of their world. At first, like me, they thought it to be harmless until their people called to them to be rid of it.”
“And us?”
Nick paused. “After I had heard of what I had done, I came before the San gods in their Shadowrealm to ask forgiveness. I explained that it was a mistake I would never make again, explained who I am, and they let me go….for now. They may have forgiven, but they will never forget.” Then he looked pointedly at Jack. “As for you, I’m thinking.”
“About?” Jack did not like where things were going.
Nick said nothing, and gazed back at Moscow, or at somewhere else. “When you play tricks on people, bad people worse than you, with true, evil treachery in their hearts, do you know whether they are, in fact, innocent?”
Jack was confused. “What? Of course I know. I can tell, the same way you can tell if kids are naughty or nice.”
“Yes, but what if a person you saved from a cold blizzard or a band of bullies makes a mistake that is worse than what you saved him or her from? What if you gave a just and kind person his or her great gift, because he or she had earned it, and uses it for some sort of mischief that same person is unaware of, or does not care? What if someone you knew changes into a stranger? A fiend? A convict?”
Jack chuckled incredulously. “Is this what Athena droned on you? Filled your head with Aristotle-Plato mumbo jumbo? Philosophy One-O-One and such?”
“Please, be serious for a moment and try to give a straight answer.”
Jack thought in frozen silence. “Honestly, I have no answer at all. None. Anything from my mouth isn’t worth anything to any philosopher. I don’t give a damn about those kinds of things” He huffed and puffed clouds in front of him. “And to tell you the truth, why would I? Why would anyone? I do what they think—believe—I should or shouldn’t do, and I’m happy all the way. A bunch of rich, rude suckers have ice down their pants because of me, and everyone they pissed off laughs with me. I’ve given warmth and treasures to those who deserve a second chance in the worst winters, and they made everyone happy like me. If you ask me, people shouldn’t be concerned too much with their guilt and self-pity and get on with life! Go the distance! Make your day, come what may! Suck it up!”
“But you’re who you are because they say what you are.” countered Nick. “Don’t you feel as if, in some occasions in your work, you got it wrong? As if you’re not satisfied as you are?”
“They never said we were perfect. And they’re no different. Besides, it was only one mistake! Learn from it, they say! And Nick, honestly, is there anything wrong with being Santa Clause?”
“Many impersonators of me would say so.”
“But you! You. Are you sad, as you?”
Nick needed no time to think. “No. I am happy as I am.” Then he droops some more. “Only because they say I must.”
“And you hate it for that? Would you be truly happy if you became like, like your brother, Krampus? Do you even remember what Jack Skelengton did, how he brought you to the Hollows so that he can become the new Santa? So that he can understand what it’s like to be something he’s not?”
Nick understood.
“And anyway,” Jack continued. “If you do want to change, do what I did with Mesmer-Eyes! It’s not easy making a new name for yourself, and there are probably other ways to change, but, yeah, it’s a change. Not easy. And about that thing with human wrongness, just, um….” He thought of something quotable to say, something deep and meaningful. He’ll definitely be famous for famous quotes. Bingo. “Just remember who made you. Made us.”
Nick sat in contemplation. “I must admit, Jack, although your words do seem without worth to any philosopher, you have given me solace for my sins.”
“Gotcha.”
“Not much that you’ve stated and argued were sound nor accurate, but was good enough. In truth, you’ve surprised and helped me.”
“See? I’m Jack Frost.”
They sat there, seeing a world they never knew existed.
Then Nick stood up and brushed the snow off his coat. “Alright, let us depart.”
“What?” Jack was very suspicious as Nick walked towards his sleigh.
“I thought of what you should do to atone, and you must come with me.”
“But—“
“Suck it up, Jack.”
The creature was both offended and proud. “Fine.”
As they boarded Nick’s vehicle, they froze.
A nearby radio was playing music. The lyrics were in Russian, but they knew the language and the song quite well. They once loved it very much, but now….
“Where nothing ever grows,
No rain, no rivers flow,
Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?”
“Jack,” Nick said, “if you don’t mind?”
Jack snapped his fingers. The sound it made was like the sound of crystal bells, and it rang when the radio fizzed and died, and ranged on when the two were airbourne.
The tribe was asleep. All the beasts, the birds, and the trees were asleep. Above them, the bright glares of the gods and the San heroes governed the night.
In the little hut, Ayana dreamt. She was standing in the eye of a storm. High above was a clear, serene sky, circled by the gods on their great hawks. All around, chaos raged. Beneath those dark thunders and wicked lightning strikes where the things the Odd Thing once showed her, the world as it is with its cities and factories and systems, all of it drowning, burning, falling, rising. Amongst the madness were conflicts and wars she had experienced with the boy and girl children, when they fought over the Odd Thing. But this was worse. This was beyond worse. This was beyond any storm that any Bushman, or any man, woman, or child, on this earth had ever experienced. This was the end. All around her, within the calm, others like her huddled together, watching the world die.
Ayana awakened from her frightful dream. It was now after midnight, but she did not know this, nor cared. She began to stand up, cautious not to disturb the others within the hut. She walked outside, closed her eyes, and breathed long. All was silent and peaceful as it should be.
Jingle, jingle, jingle.
She opened her eyes. In front of her were two beings, one a big, barrel-chested man with white hair, a beard, and spectacles, wearing a strange red, but occasionally shifting to blue, costume; and the other was a tall man with a body forged of shining and glimmering obsidian, skin fashioned out a lightless midnight, with eyes of constantly changing, blue mandalas.
Nick looked at Ayana, the night as clear as the day, and for the first time, he saw a child who was afraid of him.
Nick raised his gloved hands in a gesture of peace, hoping the child won’t flee or scream, and spoke in clicks and pops. “Ayana, please, do not be scared. I mean you no harm, and I wish only to speak to you.”
“Father Christmas.” She popped and clicked in her language, which both beings understood.
“Yes. I mean you no harm, Ayana. Please, may we speak?”
She wanted to run from this predator, awaken her tribe of the danger at hand. But she looked at Father Christmas, weighed the words he said. Many of her people had said, after the events of the Odd Thing, that Father Christmas was a tricky god, and can fool anyone with his tricks and wiles. She believed them, for this same god had given her the Evil Thing. Yet now, seeing him here, she saw no evil or wickedness in him. She may be a child, but she could tell when some creatures where playing tricks on her, like baboons, or men, or people like Mesmer-Eyes. Father Christmas was not like them. He was never like them.
Besides, she was curious as to what the Christmas god would say. So she did not flee or scream, and allowed the god to speak his mind.
“Thank you, my dear.” He inhales deeply to clear his thoughts. “When I first came to being, I thought my existence was a mistake. It’s strange for a thing like me, or like Mesmer-Eyes here, to think that way, but in this case I was intruding on a day that was already owned by another. Jesus Christ, his name, a better man than me, which Christmas was named after. I did not understand why I had to work my duty when a man like Him, a man of a great belief, was there for everyone. This never bothered me much, during my first years, but as the decades went by, I worried. But now, now I know. Or, at least, I have an assumption, and it came to me when I realized what I had done to you and your tribe. I cannot explain well enough for you, or anyone for that matter, to understand fully my idea. All I can say is that I am here, because I am, and I do what I do, because I do it. No one else can, and no one else could or would. On this day, I say that I am sorry for failing you, and I promise, on all other days to come, to try my best not to repeat this ever again. I know who I am, and I am that I am.”
Father Christmas looked at Mesmer-Eyes expectantly.
The tribesman trickster seemed uncomfortable. “Uh, er, yeah. Whoops. Forgiveness.”
Father Christmas kept the glare.
“Okay, okay!” Mesmer-Eyes looked intently, but smoothly, at Ayana. “Look, Ayana, I am also sorry, real sorry, for telling you about the phone, um, the Odd/Evil Thingy, and sorry about giving your dad the pamphlet, and, yeah. Other religious quotas Santa here said. Whoops.”
Ayana looked at them and smiled. “Thank you, Father Christmas and Mesmer-Eyes. I know you have done wrong, but so have I, and I wish to say sorry to you for bringing you all here. You may say otherwise, but I was the one who called to you,” she pointed at Nick, “and listened to you.” she pointed at Jack. “I am sorry.”
They stood there beneath the starry night.
Ayana spoke once more. “Will there be any more gifts today? This Christmas?”
“For you and your tribe?” Father Christmas asked.
The girl nodded.
Father Christmas shook his head. “No. You already have enough.”
Ayana smiled.
Then Nick and Jack turned around towards a large figure on the ground. “Good days to you, dear child, and to your tribe.” Nick said.
“Bye.” Jack said.
They boarded the sleigh and took to the night sky. Ayana watched them until they were but black shapes in a red aura in the darkness, until they were just another star in the sky, until they were gone.
In the North, Nick prepares his journey. He checks and rechecks his carriage and the twelve beasts that shall pull it. He familiarizes the new pattern of directions, where he should go first, then next, then next, until it is done. He recounts the children he must visit. He bids his elves farewell. Then he mounts and flies high, leaving his Shadowrealm behind.
He goes south to Iceland. He delivers gifts and coals in the few cities and towns there. In Reykjavik, he stops to look at a wanderer in the streets, his hand wielding an oaken staff, his figure obscured by a broad blue hat and deep blue cloak. Two ravens are perched on his shoulder. Two wolves trot by his side. The traveller looks up to peer at Nick with his one blue eye.
If Odin hadn’t an eye patch covering the bloodied hole that was his left eye, most people would find it hard to distinguish between the Lord of Asgard and Santa Clause.
Same beard and hair. Same hardened but soft faces. Same kind of smile and the twinkle in their eyes, although the All-Father’s is sometimes sombre than Father Christmas’. The High One’s cloak is blue, and Santa Clause is traditionally seen as wearing blue. There are rumours that Nick was said to be a personification of Odin, that the Catholic church or some other group had merely used the visage of the Aesir Chieftain to create Santa Clause. Nick feels that these rumours held truth, for often he has painful memories of himself hanging for nine days and nights on a great tree, his side pierced by his own spear, as the worlds revealed their secrets. But like all things in myth and legend, facts are based on the belief of facts, and Nick could not tell whether this truly held truth.
Nick wished sometimes to be like Odin, to understand what it’s like to be something he’s not. He fantasizes being Odin, feasting forever in the halls of Valhalla with the brave and the strong, knowing the future to be a great, final battle between all things good and evil, waiting for that very day, for the end……
Not anymore. Not now, on this day, on Christmas day. High up in the air is Santa Clause, Father Christmas, St. Nicholas. On that sleigh, pulled by the twelve reindeers, there is Nick, a wise and jolly Nick, a Nick that knew of the true meaning of Christmas. There is more of Nick than there ever was before.
He waves a gloved hand at the Gallows-God.
Odin waves back and smiles knowingly.
Nick is finished with Iceland. He moves on to America. He is back again in Virginia, doing his duty in cities, suburbs, towns, then subdivisions. As he sojourns in one of these subdivisions, he sees a familiar ice imp on a roof.
He pulls over in the air next to the creature. “Mind if I hitch a ride?” the frost gargoyle asks.
Nick scooches over to give Jack a seat. “I don’t mind at all.”
Three seconds later, a dozen houses done, they enter the Cooper house.
Nick and Jack are in Austin’s room, gazing at the sleeping child.
Jack looks up at Nick. “Well?”
Nick stares at Austin in concentration, then his face suddenly darkens. With his booted -foot, he savagely kicks at something beneath the bed, within the shadows.
The monster lurches in pain at the blow and slunks back towards the Hollows.
“Hmm,” Jack says, regaining his wits from the surprise attack. “Thought you never got any grudges against others.”
“The Bogeyman is an obvious exception. I still have nightmares of bed bugs biting me.” Nick resumes his work.
He sees the boy’s actions this year. He notices the boy’s new traits. He observes the records, the history, the character. He judges, and finally decides.
He turns around, goes out, and mounts on his sleigh. Jack is there in an instant.
They are airbourne, and Jack finally comments. “You didn’t explore the house.”
“Correct.”
“You didn’t eat the cookies and drink the milk he left for you.”
“Indeed.”
“You gave him nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nick says nothing for a long time. “Because it was the right thing to give him.”
There is nothing more to say. Together, they ride across the winter night.