He was almost her height and slender. He looked shy, even from a distance. Claus squinted to guess his age. He was pretty good about knowing someone’s age just by looking at them and could sometimes guess their name. This boy appeared to be fifteen years old, yet something wasn’t right.
He was holding her hand.
“My men,” she called. “Working together.”
The hood was usually a deep tunnel of darkness, but Claus could see a sunburned chin and the faint wrinkle of a smile. She pulled the boy in front of her, drawing her arm across his chest.
“Find a chair, one of you,” she said. “Quickly now. Let’s do this properly.”
The helpers scrambled throughout the warehouse’s framework and returned with spare parts. In moments, they assembled a crudely fashioned throne more fit for a warring king than a jolly fat man.
“Sit, go on.”
She wiggled her fingers at Claus. The boy’s eyes were blue and wide. He was biting his lower lip. The seat was hard and lumpy and cold. When he was settled, she took a deep breath and squeezed the boy. He hid his face behind her sleeve. It felt like a shopping mall photo op, only there were no elven to move the line along. The boy hopped from one foot to the other.
From time to time, an excited boy or girl would surprise Claus resting in the living room or slipping a gift beneath the tree. There were things he had for moments like that, things that made them remember the Christmas spirit but forget the fat man in the room.
Not anymore.
“This is my son,” she finally said. “And this... this is Santa Claus.”
She released him like a racehorse. He grabbed the fat man in a desperate hug. His arms barely reached around him. Claus patted his shoulder, his face growing red. The miser rolled her gloved hands and silently mouthed a word at him.
Laugh.
“Ho-ho,” Claus wheezed.
“Very good,” she said. “Sit on his knee, darling. He won’t bite. He’s come all the way from the North Pole just to listen to you.”
“Did you?” the boy said. “All the way?”
“Of course he did. He got your letter.”
“Did you get my letter?”
Words would not come to the fat man. As was often the case since waking on the island, he had none to describe what was happening.
Claus also had no access to the database of letters he received on the North Pole, no assistance in recognizing the boy’s face. He didn’t even know his name. All he could do was pat his shoulder. And lie.
“Of course I did.”
The boy hugged him again and the helpers cheered. The ones with hats threw them in the air. The goldenhairs did pirouettes. The blackbeards shuffled their feet. The boy leaped off Claus’s lap and slid across the ice, and the helpers followed like a herd of tail-wagging puppies.
“Careful, darling. Slow down.”
The helpers grabbed his hands and swung him around like a clumsy ice skater. Infectious laughter trailed behind him.
“Watch what you say to my Naren,” she said while waving at her boy. “You don’t want to be on my naughty list.”
The poopies bared their teeth, and the spies hovered in front of him. They were watching, always watching. Asleep or awake.
A new batch of helpers joined the celebration. Their yellow hair was longer than their beards. The miser clapped and the poopies howled. Naren was still tending to the fallen redbeard. The helper’s cheeks looked healthier, but the eyes were closed.
“I rather like them all looking the same, Naren,” the miser called. “The ones with the red beards are my favorite, but okay. You know what you’re doing. My son has never been happier.”
The boy threw a harmless snowball at her. The helpers slung him across the ice. Back and forth he went, swinging in the melee until laughter caught in his throat. Without special shoes to grip the ice, he began to teeter backwards. If not for a graybeard’s big belly, he would have fallen on his head.
“That’s enough!”
The miser momentarily disappeared in a cloud of steam. She was standing several inches lower when the fog passed, the hem of her cloak soaking in a puddle.
“Come to Momma.”
The helpers guided him into her arm. She folded her sleeve around him like a protective mother goose.
“Naren, the new ones with the yellow hair are a bit too jolly. Did you see what they were doing? They can’t throw him around like that, he doesn’t know how to work the ice. Calm them down; make them more like them.”
She pointed to a small group behind Claus. They were serious, almost glum. Thick snowflakes stuck to their black overcoats. The poopies didn’t care for them. They were the only helpers that made them snarl.
“Well, this isn’t just a friendly visit,” the miser said. “I know you’ve been hard at work and making yourself at home, but I’ve come to make an announcement. Tomorrow is Christmas Day.”
Claus stiffened with anticipation. Without daylight, he’d lost track of time. He hadn’t escaped, the elven hadn’t found him, and now his time was up.
It’s Christmas Eve.
“I’ll bet you’ve been wondering what’s in the box?” She waved at the giant gift then touched the boy’s nose. “You’ve been such a good boy, I thought I’d let you open up a present early.”
“That’s for me?”
“Of course it is, darling. All of this is for you.”
She waved her arms—the warehouse, the mountain, the helpers and snow and Naren and Claus... the entire island. It was all for him. The boy’s mouth moved silently, oblivious to the absurd reality that this was all for him.
But it was.
Claus never quite understood why she was doing this. Her efforts were misguided and hurtful, but what compelled her had eluded him. It was everything that tarnished Christmas—possession and obsession, consumption and greed. He was just a boy; he didn’t know the world didn’t exist to serve him.
An expression of wonder and joy possessed him. He pushed her arm away and walked toward the giant present with eyes as wide as his mouth.
“No, darling. You can’t open it; the walls will crush you. We’re going to call out the magic word and let it open for us. Okay? Could we all begin singing a song? This is a very important moment. Everyone, come along. Let’s go.”
The helpers gathered around. Claus was frozen to the lumpy chair. She waved her hand and led the chorus of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” The helpers’ voices resonated, weaving together like sonorous fingers that tugged at the ribbons’ ends. The walls popped at the seams. A dank odor seeped out.
“Stop!” Naren threw his hands against the leaning wall.
“Naren, I told you to stand away.”
He shouted for the helpers and they rushed to his side. Some of them kept the wall from falling while the others picked up the fallen redbeard. He directed them to move him out of harm’s way.
“All right,” the miser said. “We don’t want to make a mess. Move along, hurry.”
The helpers followed his orders. Gently, they carried the redbeard to safety, taking their time to keep from jostling him unnecessarily. The very serious helpers dressed in black joined them momentarily then returned to stand behind Claus.
“Are we done? This is a big announcement and you’re fussing over a helper.” The miser sighed. “We need to start over.”
She muttered the chorus, first to herself then to the others. With a wave of her hand, they joined in. Even the serious ones sang.
The walls moved slowly at first but gained momentum. The miser hugged her son. The helpers hugged each other. Naren observed from far away as the four heavy plated walls crashed on the ground.
The floor thundered and debris was crushed. Snowflakes spit from the onward rush of wind, spattering Claus’s cheeks. The chair suddenly tipped back. One of the legs collapsed. He fell like an old man slipping on ice.
The serious helpers were there to catch him.
They lifted him into a sittin
g position. There was pressure against his head and a sudden sense of vertigo. He’d hit the ground harder than he thought. The miser impatiently waited for him to get up.
When he waved off the helpers and sat on a pile of snow, she said something muffled and garbled. Her words were all mixed up, like he’d been swimming. He knocked the side of his head to clear his ears.
“Merry, merry!”
Claus expected something as ugly as the mountain or as childish as the boy. But it was much more practical than that, so much so that it raised the short whiskers on his neck.
He didn’t expect a sleigh.
The sides glittered fire plug red with the illusion of yellow flames licking the front bumper. The golden rails were curled in the front, where reins lay empty. A timesnapper was mounted on the back. Over it, the conveyor’s shadow continued to churn the gray glop into a bedazzled bag.
The glop was fundamental matter that would form the essence of an idea—any toy or object or thing of desire. The bag contained a space-expander to hold it all. She could reach inside and pull out whatever she imagined.
All she needed was a glove.
The boy hugged the miser then Claus then three or four helpers before running around the sleigh. He climbed onto the railing and slid across the bench, his fingers exploring the fancy dials and switches. The poopies plowed through the deep snow and made a lap around the sleigh, tugging the thick harnesses in front of it.
The miser’s hands were folded over her heart. Steam puffed out from the hood like droplets evaporating on a hot stove.
“All you had to do was answer a letter, Nicholas,” she said. “And none of this would have happened.”
Letter. Claus received millions of letters. If he knew the boy’s name, he might know what she was talking about. Even if he did, even if he could recall the exact letter she was talking about, it wasn’t going to change anything.
“This isn’t about a letter,” he said.
“Not anymore.”
She went to the sleigh and sat next to her son. She explained what the instruments did and how to read the gauges. The poopies were still playing tug-of-war with the harnesses. There were no bells on the straps and far too few buckles for reindeer.
“Is this Santa’s?” The boy peeked at Claus.
“No, darling. This is ours.”
“Does that mean we’re going to—”
“It does. It’s going to be a big night.”
All this time, Claus really believed she would let him return to the North Pole in time to make his annual trip. This was all a negotiation. She wanted him to bring the elven to the island because she loved Christmas. She wouldn’t let it fail.
He had it all wrong.
She had a sleigh and a bag. And she was taking her son with her.
“Guess who’s coming with us?” she said.
The boy looked at Claus and burst into tears. He buried his face in her cloak. “This is the greatest day of my life.”
“I know.”
She hugged her boy as the snow fell around them. Some of the snowflakes even rested on the miser’s cloak without melting. The moment would have made quite a dystopian Christmas card that only she would love.
The boy broke away to squeeze the wind out of Claus. The miser gathered her poopies and watched her boy weep with joy. Claus wished he could celebrate with him. The boy had nothing to do with this. Nothing at all.
“Thank you for being so understanding.” She patted the fat man’s shoulder. Her breath was hot exhaust in his ear when she whispered, “You’re coming with us.”
“This isn’t what the world needs.”
“It’s what my son needs. And you need to lose a few pounds. Change is hard, Nicholas, but it can’t be stopped. Merry, merry!”
A cheer rose up from the helpers. Naren had revived the redbeard and watched him join his fellow helpers. They really had no idea why they were cheering. If they did, they would stop. The boy tried to join them, but the miser wouldn’t let him.
“I need you to stay here, Naren. Your daughter is back in the master suite. You can text her to make sure. I’m sure she’ll text you right back.” Strange, the way she laughed. “Trust me, she’ll be safe until we’re done, and then you can join her. Besides, the redbeards love you. So does my son. I can’t thank you enough. None of this could have happened without you.”
Naren looked tired.
“Walk me out.” She took his arm.
Claus’s bottom was frigid. He sat in stunned silence. His stomach was a block of ice. The realization of what she was doing touched every part of him with icy paralysis. She wasn’t going to relocate the elven. She was relieving them of their duty.
She’s taking over Christmas.
The reindeer wouldn’t do her bidding, but there weren’t enough harnesses to accommodate all nine of them. There appeared to only be two, and that wasn’t enough to carry the sleigh all night in a timesnap.
She was going to fail. Claus was helpless to stop it. And then he heard a voice inside his head that would change everything.
Don’t turn around.
CLAUS
32
It wasn’t difficult to act natural. He couldn’t move.
The words slid into his head like slivers of cold pain. Tears fell from drying eyes. In a brief moment of clarity, he recognized the pressure coming from behind his ear, the familiar buzz.
Thought transfer.
It was a device the size of a flattened gumdrop. Once pressed against the scalp, it would perform a brain scan. The elven used it to stabilize brain abnormalities or stimulate auditory functionality for the hearing impaired. It was calibrated for elven minds, not human. If it was applied to Claus’s scalp—typically just behind the ear—it would hit him like a hammer.
Right now, his head was ringing.
Only a few elven had ever used the technology for thought transfer, though. And they had used it all their lives. They hadn’t said a word since the day they were born.
All three of them.
The helpers followed the miser out of the warehouse and were now returning to the sleigh. They circled one of the gift walls that lay flat on the ground. Together, the redbeards and yellowbeards and blackbeards grabbed the edges and lifted. The serious helpers dressed in black were there, too.
Claus didn’t look at them.
They had been standing behind him when the gift opened. The walls had knocked him over and they helped him up. He hadn’t noticed their hands against his head, or the thought transfer device placed behind his ear.
That was when his head began to ache.
They joined the others in lifting the massive wall. Slowly, they moved it away from the sleigh, inching along like a big-footed centipede. Dropping one edge on the floor, the helpers tipped it forward. It slammed against the mountain and triggered a landslide of miniature legs.
The helpers sang a merry song as the spiders dissected the wall like ants taking apart a discarded candy cane. The serious helpers returned with the others to move the second wall, eyes cast down, mouths set in grim lines.
There were three of them.
Pain lanced behind Claus’s eyes as information pried its way into his head. An audible surprise escaped him. He pretended to hiccup.
Follow the map, he heard.
A grid appeared to overlay his vision. Elements were labelled and paths laid out. A lighted line led toward the back corner of the warehouse.
When the helpers began hauling off the third wall, he stood up. His knees were weak. He leaned on the fallen chair and blinked the world into focus. The map projected over his normal eyesight. Claus wandered off, shoulders slumped and head hung low—he assumed that sadness and despair would be his normal attitude—and watched a dot move on the map.
The helpers’ song soon faded behind him.
SNOW WAS FALLING AGAIN, piling onto flat surfaces. It dampened the warehouse activity, wrapping him in a cocoon of frigid solitude. A dusty cloud of spies mingled wi
th the snow, whooshing past his ears like phantoms.
By the time he reached the destination, he was beginning to doubt the voice in his head. The headache had receded. There was nothing but crates in this part of the warehouse. They were stacked so high they disappeared in fog. At the bottom of this massive pile, a crate was missing.
An opening stood darkly.
There were no tracks leading around it. Claus dropped on his hands and knees. It wasn’t just a missing crate. The one behind it was gone too, and the one after that. The stack above it was so high that it seemed impossible for this much of a gap to be an accident or even remain without collapsing.
The map directed him to crawl inside.
He hesitated. If this was an unintentional gap, he could be buried beneath the weight. No one would find him. The map glowed brighter and the dot began blinking.
Claus crawled inside and lay on his back.
Whether he imagined the map or not, he was exhausted. The spies could report his nap. It wasn’t out of the ordinary. He frequently woke up in various parts of the warehouse. The miser wouldn’t be surprised to see him sulking.
She’d expect it.
Despite the adrenaline, he soon drifted into a shallow sleep that was cold and cramped. Perhaps the thought transfer was stimulating a serotonin release to keep him relaxed while he waited. Visions began spilling into his thoughts. He had a thousand questions.
They answered them.
The triplets had found a long, red hair at the site of his disappearance. DNA analysis led them to an abandoned house, where they confiscated a computer and identified a rare but harmless radioactive isotope, the same isotope found at an abandoned research and development site of Avocado, Inc.
Scanning the planet, they located several sources of the radioactivity, but none as hot as the one emanating from an island in the South Atlantic. The confiscated computer identified the spit of land. It was the last search Heather Miser had done before disappearing.
The triplets arrived on the southern shore a day ago.
They used a back-reflecting net to move through the island unseen. Ronin waited for them to return. They picked up Claus’s body-heat signature in the warehouse. They cut their way inside and built a tunnel beneath the crates. The weight of the cargo was supported by a thin matrix of fibers that looked like spiderwebs. It took nearly half a day for the triplets to build it, having to do it in regular time. Their timesnapper would have been detected.
Rise of the Miser: Claus, #5 Page 22
