Sheila had tried to round up as many of the Defenders as she could.
She'd been shocked to discover that many of them were elderly or infirm, but pleasantly surprised to discover that old age was no impediment to power. Why even now, as they all stood in the middle of a Polar blizzard of ferocious proportions, a dour faced Welshman who had introduced himself as Gwydion was keeping the area round warm and free of snow using only the power of his mind, though he could do nothing about the sound of the wind which blew in a fury outside their bubble of safety. Meanwhile, one of the old ladies was searching the ground for any sign of the missing wrestler and communicating telepathically with her friend who had stayed at home, wheelchairs not being designed for the polar climate.
'Over here!'
Rodrigo was jumping up and down about twenty meters away. He was obviously standing in a dip in the ground, because only the top of his head was visible even when he jumped. Sheila bobbed her string impatiently where it was tied in Cupid's belt as the little man flew towards the boy. She knew she should make allowances for the little man's injuries, and there was no doubting his courage in coming to help in the first place, but she couldn't help wondering how even Señor 105 could have survived in this inhospitable world.
She pushed such worries out of her mind as Cupid reached Rodrigo. He stood above a hole in the ground, miraculously kept free of snow, even though the iron plate which presumably normally covered it had been left open.
More miraculously still, Rodrigo was helping someone climb out of the hole. Sheila caught a brief glimpse of dark red but before she could say anything, Cupid shouted 'Pitch!' and launched one of his arrows through the air. At the same time, she felt rather than saw several of the Defenders behind her tense and prepare their own attacks.
'STOP!'
Rodrigo swatted the little arrow out the way and put himself directly in front of the red-skinned man. 'It's not Pitch!' he shouted, frantically, above the deafening wind. 'It's Santa!'
One hand still held before him in warning, he stepped to the side to allow everyone to see the rotund, bearded figure emerging from the hole. His hat was missing, and his red coat and trousers were dirt stained and torn, but it was unmistakably Nick, the leader of the Defenders. Sheila allowed her string to become slack with relief, then tensed again as there was no sign of Señor 105 emerging behind him.
'Where is 105?'she asked, but Nick just stared at her. As though a switch had been flicked, the wind died away entirely, and everything around them was completely silent and still. Like a well-loved painting, Sheila was aware of every pore on Nick's hands, every spot of dirt on Rodrigo's sweater, every crease and wrinkle in the old man's face. The only sound she could hear was the slightly heavy breathing of someone standing behind her and the soft, yet crisp crump of feet shifting in the packed snow. She stared at Nick, imploring him to have the answer, begging him to be able to help.
Then he pointed over her shoulder and the shooting began.
The North Pole, Back in the Seventies
105 was surprised but pleased to discover that he stayed conscious during his latest passage through the portal. I must be getting better at this, he thought. Instead, he watched Pitch tumble head over heels in the air in front of him. Inside the portal, it felt like floating inside a child's kaleidoscope, as the air was filled with sparkling lights which twisted and folded in on themselves in a series of precise geometric shifts. It was this ever-changing light pattern which at first made him doubt the evidence of his own eyes but after staring at the red figure he was certain; Pitch's suit was becoming more tattered and his skin rougher and more hide-like by the minute. A jolt in whatever it was that made up the interior of the portal spun the demon round, exposing a face twisted in a snarl of hate, seconds before a rip appeared in the near distance, beyond which 105 could make out something huge and white, with smatterings of color breaking up the otherwise pigment-free landscape.
With barely a sound, the two men exited the portal and landed beside one another in a soft, cold snowdrift. Before either could do or say anything, someone started shooting at them.
Later, when everything was done and dusted, a shame-faced Cupid admitted that he'd lost the plot entirely when Pitch had materialised from the air behind him.
'I'm peaceful, man,' he said, picking at the fastener on his diaper and refusing to meet anybody's eye. 'Ask anyone. Cupid's a mellow head, they'll say. Never hurt a fly, they'll say. Smoother than Moroccan grass and cooler than Fat Freddy's Cat. But, you know, the red guy did a helluva number on me. On me and on the little green dudes. Helluva number. So I freaked out, panicked a bit, lost it. Like I said.' His already quiet voice became even softer, until it was a barely audible mumble. 'Probably shouldn't have shot the cat, though. That was definitely not cool.'
Everyone had agreed that no real damage had been done, which obviously made Cupid feel a little better. In retrospect most of the Defenders had been much more surprised when Pitch, bleeding from the flesh wound in his leg made by Cupid's bullet, stood up and Santa - showing a surprising turn of speed for an over-weight, elderly man who had just spent three days down a hole – jogged over to him and punched him full in the face, knocking him out cold.
'Well, damn.' Cupid hastily shoved his pistol inside his diapers and swung over to the unmoving figure of Pitch, stretched out in the rapidly melting slush like the world's least well thought out snow angel. 'You got some right hook, Nick my man.' He shook his head in appreciation.
Nick, meanwhile, exhibited no signs of remorse. The look on his face clearly said he had that coming and nobody was particularly inclined to disagree.
Nobody except, perhaps, Señor 105, who stood over the demon with a puzzled look on his face. He squatted down and ran his palm carefully over Pitch's rough skin, then rubbed the tattered jacket he wore between two fingers. 'We need to wake him up,' he announced finally, looking up and catching the eye of each person standing in a rough semi-circle round him.
'Easily done, my Lord,' said the Welsh wizard, Gwydion, already making shapes in the air with his hands.
'Hold his arms and legs,' 105 hurriedly ordered those nearest him and moved out of the way so that his instructions could be carried out. Only when the demon was securely held did he nod to the wizard who, with a final flourish, brought his hands firmly together.
Pitch woke up and immediately strained against those who held him down.
105 leaned forward so that he could be seen clearly. 'Stay still or you'll end up hurting yourself,' he said. 'I need to speak to some of these people, then we may be in a position to do something about that matter which we discussed earlier.'
He spoke as much for the benefit of the listening Defenders as for Pitch. The thing he was about to suggest was likely to prove a hard-sell to this particular audience.
It took about an hour to set up, but finally Mother Night was satisfied. The four sides of the portal were lying separately on a section of the ground which Gwydion had cleared of snow. Each piece was precisely six feet distant at its closest point to any other piece, with markings on the hard dirt connecting the whole to create a large enclosed square. Pitch, securely tied, lay in the exact center of the square, twisting his head this way and that, snarling and snapping at everyone who came within his eyeline.
'You're sure this will work?' 105 had asked the same question a dozen times during the past hour and each time Night had said Maybe and left it at that. In theory she knew that splitting the portal up then connecting it again as she had should send it into what she had decided to call a physically static time loop; anything caught inside would regress back in time without actually going anywhere. 105 had said that Pitch was a different being in the past; intelligent, polite, thoughtful. Urbane even, he said. Something to do with spending so much time as concentrated evil. It was bound to affect him, according to 105. Night wasn't sure she understood but Courage said it made sense and that was good enough, so far as she
was concerned.
She glanced expectantly at 105. He nodded and she murmured the incantation. Inside the portal, the hard ground became softer as the underlying ice withdrew. Grass blossomed, and a small bush briefly flicked in and out of existence as time rolled backwards. The change in Pitch was almost as extreme. His suit swiftly cleaned itself, becoming fitting, as his body too thinned out and his skin became smooth and less brightly red.
'Now!' 105 said.
Night said another phrase and the portal abruptly stopped functioning.
'Well I must say that feels much better!' Pitch sat up and stretched. 'Many thanks, my dear,' he said to Night, who harrumphed and concentrated on packing away her equipment.
The demon cast about for 105 and, finding him, raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'So, is this your solution then? Make me a nicer, but still essentially pointless, devil?' He shook his head. 'I wish I still had my little demons, you know. Lost them in the middle ages, unfortunately. At least if I had them with me I could go out in a blaze of glory. Attack this shower of sanctimonious goody two shoes, for a start. But I don't even have my damn dog now.' Suddenly angry, he stood up and glared accusingly at the wrestler. 'You should have killed me! This solves
Senor 105 and the Secret Santa Page 11
