by Jo Nesbo
LISA FELL ASLEEP singing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” in her head. And then she dreamed the most wonderful and strangest dreams. When she woke up, it had only just begun to get light outside, and her first thought was that all that business about Christmas had just been one of her strange dreams.
“Oh, how lucky!” she said, hopping out of bed and running downstairs.
Her father was sitting at the breakfast table holding a big newspaper in such a way that Lisa could see the entire front page. She stiffened as she read the headline that said in coal-black, all-capital letters: MR. THRANE BUYS CHRISTMAS.
Four Days Left until . . . You Guessed It: Christmas Eve
MRS. STROBE PEERED at the class over the top of her glasses, which were balanced on the tip of her long, pointy nose.
“Unfortunately, I have some bad news,” she said. “As you know, we were going to have a class Christmas party the day after tomorrow, but it’s been canceled because the school can’t afford to spend ten thousand crowns to buy”—she snorted disdainfully and slapped her ruler hard against her desk—“things! Yes, Lisa?”
“Does that mean people who can’t afford to spend that much money won’t get to celebrate Christmas at all? They won’t even be able to whisper ‘Merry Christmas’ to each other?”
“I’m afraid that’s right, Lisa.” Mrs. Strobe pushed her glasses back up her nose again. “Those of you who already know that you can’t afford to celebrate Christmas, could you raise your hands?”
Lisa looked around. She counted one, two, three, four, five, six . . . and then Nilly. She looked back at the teacher’s desk again—and saw that Mrs. Strobe was raising her hand too.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Strobe said with a sigh. “I suppose we’ll have to hope no one buys summer vacation next.”
“What happens if we celebrate Christmas anyway?” a timid, tear-filled voice asked from the row along the window. That was Birte. Birte wore eyeglasses that had a white bandage stuck on one of the lenses. No one really knew why. She’d always had it there, and Lisa sometimes thought that Birte, her parents, and everyone else had gotten so used to it that they’d just forgotten all about it.
“Then the Christmas police will come!” Cecilie said, from the row along the wall. “That’s what my dad says. And they’ll put you in jail, and you’ll have to live on bread and water the whole Christmas season.”
“Yup,” said Konrad in the front row. “And they won’t even release you for New Year’s Eve. Plus, they don’t have any windows in jail, so you won’t even get to see the fireworks. You’ll only be able to hear the bangs and how much fun everyone’s having out there.”
When the recess bell rang, Lisa and Nilly walked out into the schoolyard together. They stood over by what Nilly called the White Pyramid, which was the enormous pile of snow the janitor’s snowplow had created in the middle of the schoolyard. During recess the schoolyard usually echoed with shouts and laughter, especially lately, when children were practicing building snowmen for the big snowman competition in the park surrounding the royal palace on “Little Christmas Eve,” the day before Christmas Eve. But today it was oddly quiet. Children spoke to one another in whispers or stood by themselves stiffly or with their heads drooping. A single voice was heard from the top of the stairs to the gym. It was Birte.
“It’s not fair!” she wailed in her timid, tear-filled voice. “Christmas should be for everyone! It’s not fair. It’s so not fair!”
A snowball whistled through the air and hit Birte’s face with a wet smack. Everyone stared as Birte started waving her hands in front of her. The snowball had hit the other eyeglass lens, the one without the tape. So now they both looked like they had tape on them.
“Nilly, don’t laugh!” Lisa whispered, and pinched his side.
“Ouch!” he said. “I’m not the one laughing. You are!”
And to her horror, Lisa realized Nilly was right, but she couldn’t help herself. Birte looked so funny standing there. But then Birte’s mouth contorted and she started sobbing. And Lisa felt it so deeply in her heart that she started crying too.
“I’m a terrible person,” she said, and ran over to Birte to help her.
“No, here come the terrible ones,” Nilly said under his breath.
And there they came, Truls and Trym, waddling through the schoolyard, each packing a snowball. Nilly could only determine that they had gotten even bigger over the last several months. Their jackets were open so everyone could see their T-shirts bulging out over their belts and in between their suspenders. In all caps, the T-shirts said MEMBER OF CHRISTMAS with Thrane Inc.’s three official Christmas rings—in red, yellow, and blue—underneath.
“Any more poor people here who want to steal from Thrane Inc. and our father?” they yelled.
No one responded.
“Didn’t think so,” Truls said.
“Me either,” Trym said. “Didn’t think so.”
“Anyone who is a member of Christmas is invited to join us for eggnog tonight,” Truls said. “Who’s in?”
No one in the schoolyard moved.
“Who’s in?” bellowed Trym, raising his snowball. Several hands zipped into the air.
“Merry Christmas!” Truls said, and with that the Thrane twins waddled back toward the A Building.
Nilly stood there watching Lisa, who had helped Birte brush the snow off her eyeglasses and clothes and put her arm around Birte’s shoulder. And he watched the other kids, who just stood there, openmouthed, watching the twins walk away. Then he climbed the White Pyramid. He struggled his way to the top of the loose snow heap. Once there, he turned to the others and cleared his throat.
“Dear friends!” His voice echoed in the schoolyard.
“Friends?” he heard someone whisper. “Doesn’t he only have one friend?”
“These are cold, hard times!” Nilly proclaimed.
“It’s called winter, you gnome!” someone yelled.
“At times like these we need to stick together. We can’t let them intimidate us. Thrane Inc. took Christmas from us! I urge you to fight the Thranes and any other robbers or slobberers who try to clobber you!”
“That dwarf thinks he’s going to save the world again,” someone said with a dismissive laugh.
Then someone started singing: “Nilly, Nilly bragger boaster! Let’s toast his butt in a chestnut roaster!”
Nilly sighed.
“Would you listen to yourselves?” Nilly said. “You’re only accepting this because you’re scared of Truls and Trym and the Christmas police and Thrane Inc. and . . . grfff.”
Nilly tried to keep talking, but nothing came out. His mouth appeared to be full of snow. And Truls was standing behind him holding him while Trym held another clump of snow, ready to jam it into Nilly’s mouth.
“What was that you wanted to say about us and our dad, hmm?”
“Grfff,” Nilly said.
“More? Is that what you said?” Trym asked. He turned the lump of snow around so Nilly could see the yellow stripe where the janitor’s dog had peed.
“Grfff!!” Nilly screamed, his eyes wide, struggling to free himself.
“He definitely said more,” Truls said, tightening his hold on Nilly.
And with that, Trym stuffed the yellow-striped snow into Nilly’s small, and yet big, mouth.
“How does it taste, you pathetic lout?” Truls whispered into his ear.
“Rye horage wif ubba,” Nilly replied.
“Huh?”
“Rye horage wif ubba!”
“Can you understand what the gnome is saying?” Trym asked.
“You’re going to have to take the snow out,” Truls said.
“There’s dog piss on it,” Trym said.
“Take the snow out, I said!”
Trym made a face and did what his twin brother told him. Nilly gasped for air and then coughed.
“Say what you said!” Truls ordered.
“I said it tastes like rice porridge with butter!” Nilly yel
led.
“Put the snow back in,” Truls demanded.
And with that Trym filled Nilly’s mouth back up and all they heard from him was more “grfff.”
“That’s what happens to anyone who resists!” Truls yelled at the rest of the kids, who had all gathered around the pile of snow called the White (and maybe a bit yellow) Pyramid.
“So buy or die!”
“Buy or die!” Trym yelled, raising a snow shovel into the air. “Buy or die!”
“Exactly!” Truls said. “And remember: Those who die must be buried!”
“Exactly!” cried Trym. He jabbed the shovel into the snow and lickety-split he had dug a deep hole in the White Pyramid. Truls picked Nilly up and stuffed “the little freak of a boy” into the hole.
“There,” Truls said. “From snow you came and to snow you shall return, you freckled pygmy!”
Trym covered the hole over with snow, and soon Nilly was gone. When the hole was totally filled in again, Trym patted down the snow with the shovel.
“Anyone else who doesn’t want to buy a bunch of stuff for Christmas?” Truls asked.
He received no response, because the bell rang right then.
In only a few seconds the schoolyard was emptied of kids. Apart from Lisa, who crawled onto the snow pile and started digging.
She dug and dug as fast as she could and finally she felt something hard. A head? But it wasn’t moving! She took off her mittens so she could feel what she was doing as she scraped away the snow. Yes, some familiar bright red hair came into view. She kept scooping away snow until she was looking down into the opening where Nilly was sitting. He sat with his legs crossed and his chin resting on his hand as he stared thoughtfully ahead.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Lisa asked, breathing hard.
“I’m thinking,” Nilly said without looking up.
“You’re . . . thinking?”
“Yes, my dear Lisa. I’m thinking that we have to do something. Think of all the poor little kids who have been looking forward to receiving Christmas presents all year long, the ones whose parents don’t have ten thousand crowns. I mean, they have to get something.”
“But how?”
Nilly nodded slowly and said, “Exactly. How? That’s the question.”
“I think only the wisest person I know can answer that one.”
“Don’t I know it,” Nilly said. “But you’re going to need to give me a little time to think, my dear Lisa.”
“I . . . um, wasn’t thinking of you, Nilly.”
He finally looked up at her. “Not me?” He made a face. “Oh, right. You mean Doctor Proctor?”
Lisa shook her head, held out her hand to him, and pulled him out of his snow pit.
“THANKS FOR ASKING me, Lisa, but that’s a tough question,” Juliette said, stirring the porridge. “So, what you’re saying is that either a kid’s parents need to spend ten thousand crowns on Christmas presents or else they can’t buy any Christmas presents at all?”
“Yes!” Lisa said. “And they’re not allowed to eat Christmas dinner, either. Or have a Christmas tree. Or an Advent calendar. Or go caroling. Or anything that has anything to do with Christmas!”
“Hmm,” Juliette said, lost in thought, and gazed out the kitchen window at Doctor Proctor, who was shoveling the front walkway.
“What if the kids could just get a small present,” Lisa said. “Just something to make the day special, something to look forward to.”
“She doesn’t really mean a super-tiny present, though,” Nilly said. “Maybe something like a new PlayStation or a drone with a camera would be enough, though. Right?”
“No!” Lisa said. “I mean something small. A pair of mittens, a book, a . . .”
“Boooriiing!” Nilly pulled his cheeks down with both hands so the red under his eyes was visible.
Juliette opened the window and called, “Victor! The porridge will be ready in a minute!”
Doctor Proctor held up his hands in exasperation and gestured at how much snow he still had left to shovel. Juliette shrugged and shut the window.
“You guys need to go talk to the king,” she said. “He’s the one who sold Christmas, so maybe he knows how to get it back.”
“Why would the king even sell Christmas?”
“He needs money to fix up the basement of the palace,” Nilly said. He was sitting up on the kitchen counter and watching Doctor Proctor, who had set down his snow shovel and was scratching his head and looking at the gate.
“How do you know that?” Lisa asked.
“I read it,” Nilly said.
“Where?”
“In the bathroom.”
“I mean, where did it say that?”
“In a magazine, one of those homes-of-the-rich-and-famous articles. The king has a reaaaaally big basement, but he has mold. In the basement, I mean. So he has to renovate the whole shebang.”
Lisa scrunched up one eye. “Can I see this article, Nilly?”
“No, it’s . . . uh, used up.”
“You can’t use up reading material, silly!”
“I did say that I was in the bathroom when I read it. It got used to . . . well, you know.”
Lisa made a face. “You use magazines as toilet paper?”
“Yup, and I don’t recommend it,” Nilly said, squirming. “They’re stiff and too glossy. My mom doesn’t want to spend money on toilet paper. She says we have to save up ten thousand crowns so that she can go shopping so we qualify for Christmas membership.”
Out the window Nilly saw Doctor Proctor suddenly smile and then pull a familiar little Baggie out of the pocket of his blue lab coat.
“Poor Nilly,” Juliette said.
Then she looked out the window to see what Nilly was looking at. She cocked her head to the side. Doctor Proctor poured a little of the powder into his mouth and then bent over with his hands on his knees and his lab coat pulled up over his bottom, which was aimed at the gate.
“Who knew the King of Norway even owned Christmas?” Lisa said.
“Maybe he had a deed of registration,” Juliette said.
“What’s a deed of registration?”
“If you acquire something very big and expensive, like a house or an entire forest, you can go to the registration office, which will write up an official document verifying that you are the owner of that house or forest so that no one else can just come say ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ And then the registration office keeps a copy of that document in case you happen to lose yours and someone comes and says that they own your house or your forest.”
“That’s smart!” Lisa exclaimed. There was a bang outside the window.
“Supersmart,” Nilly said, and pointed. “He just used fart powder.”
Doctor Proctor straightened up and turned around to see how it had worked. Fart powder had proven to be an invention that could be used in a variety of ways, and now all the snow had been blown clear, all the way to the gate, with one single mega-fart.
He blinked a few times. Snow was still swirling in the air, and everything was pretty white, but were there really two snowmen over by the gate?
Yes, there really were: two chalky white, completely identical snowmen, although one of them had a Fu Manchu mustache and the other a handlebar mustache. And a police car was parked right behind them with a flashing blue light on its roof and the words CHRISTMAS POLICE™ on the side.
Handlebar cleared his throat and then hawked a loogie.
Fu Manchu opened his mouth wide and then sneezed forcefully.
That caused the snow to start falling off their faces and clothes, and two police uniforms came into view.
“Sorry,” Mr. Fu Manchu said, “but that was a monster fart.”
“A truly impressive fartsplosion,” Mr. Handlebar said. “It’s not every day you get something like that in your face.”
“Nope, that’s for sure. Yes, indeedy.”
“And it didn’t stink. Kind of a show fart, the kind of thing a person m
ight wish for, for Christmas, right, Rolf?”
“What I do smell, however, Gunnar, is something that bears a nasty resemblance to CHRISTMAS PORRIDGE™.”
“And since we’re the CHRISTMAS POLICE™, we’re unfortunately going to have to ask to see your saucepan, your recipe, and your CHRISTMAS MEMBERSHIP CARD™, Mr . . . . ?”
“Proctor, Victor Proctor. Come in.”
The two policemen followed Doctor Proctor inside, and Juliette was just placing the casserole pan on the table when the three of them walked into the kitchen.
“Bonjour,” she said with a smile. “Will you be joining us?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Mr. Fu Manchu said. “We came because there was a suspiciously Christmassy aroma coming from this home.”
“And that looks suspiciously like a Christmas porridge,” said Mr. Handlebar, who had stuck his head halfway down into the casserole pan.
Only now did Nilly, Lisa, and Juliette notice that Doctor Proctor was wearing handcuffs.
“I’m afraid we have no choice but to arrest you, ma’am,” Mr. Fu Manchu said, having pulled out a magnifying glass to carefully inspect a completely normal calendar that was hanging next to the door. “And the porridge.”
“What are you guys doing?” Lisa cried out.
“Our job,” Mr. Handlebar responded. Then he opened a second set of handcuffs and turned to Juliette. “Please calmly hold out your hands, ma’am.”
“This isn’t Christmas porridge!”
The policemen turned to the little redheaded boy who had hopped up onto the dining table next to the casserole pan.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“This isn’t Christmas porridge!” the little boy repeated.
