Claus: The Trilogy

by Tony Bertauski

It was quite possible he was hallucinating. Earlier, he’d seen a great white whale emerge from an open lead, only it was orange and winked.

  Maybe those aren’t dogs. Maybe the reindeer found me.

  He hoped they were reindeer, hoped the elven would find him and end his misery.

  A boot appeared in the snow. An Inuit man looked through the bundles of animal skin wrapped over his face, his narrow eyes wary. Pawn stared back with equal suspicion, knowing this man had never seen an elven before.

  The man extended his hand and helped Pawn to his feet. The weather wasn’t kind enough to ask questions. The Inuit packed the strange little man into his sled beneath hides of caribou and polar bear. When the sled turned around and the dogs pulled them south, only then did the burning subside.

  Pawn would soon learn that the farther he travelled, the more the burning would fade until, eventually, it burned no more.

  And that’s when the real work began.

  South Carolina

  2014

  THE PUZZLE

  I

  The children opened their gift on the kitchen table, spilling the puzzle across the surface. One thousand pieces were scattered about, each one unique and colorful, but random. With no connections, they were just pieces.

  Just confusion.

  As each piece was linked to its mate with a satisfying snap, the picture came together. First, there was a ray of light. Next, the horizon. And soon, the wondrous photo came together and it all made sense.

  Clarity, at last.

  J A C K

  November 29

  Saturday

  Searching.

  Sura taps the GPS suction-cupped to the windshield. She gets nothing. It’s no use, not out in the middle of nowhere.

  Slash pines confine the narrow road, their trunks straight as telephone poles. Dappled sunlight reaches the rutted road. Ditches parallel the sides like gutters. No turning back unless she wants to drive in reverse. Mom always said this place was in a different world.

  Sura thought she was joking.

  It’s only one road—no turns, just straight ahead—but she feels like she’s wandering without a clue. Then again, she’s always felt that way, like she doesn’t belong. If she drives for another hour, it’ll just be another day. Only now she doesn’t have her mom to come find her.

  Sura eases through a puddle, this one big enough to hide a gator. The ground scrapes the bottom of her fuel-efficient car. The road is dry on the other side, sloping uphill. The tires fling mud and gravel.

  The hill winds upward through the pine-forest prison, the undergrowth brown and dormant. She begins to give serious consideration to backing out when a gate appears. The black bars are pointed, the massive brick columns smothered in moss and lichen. Garland and tinsel dangle across the entrance, with strands of tiny white lights and bunches of red holly berries. A massive Christmas wreath circles a letter.

  F

  Frost Plantation.

  Everyone knows about Mr. Frost. The locals call him Jack Frost only because no one ever sees him. They don’t know his first name, but if his last name is Frost, then, naturally, his first name has to be Jack, case closed.

  Sura has been out here before but doesn’t really remember much—she was little—but she does recall seeing that letter: the stainless steel edges crisp and the surface spotless. It was the time her mom had taken her to the place she had worked all her life.

  Now it’s my turn to start working. Will it be for the rest of my life?

  “Look, baby,” her mom had said, squeezing Sura’s little knee. “It’s Christmas.”

  Sura thought maybe this was Santa’s house. He lived on the North Pole, she knew that, but maybe he came to South Carolina to summer. But she didn’t see Santa on her trip when she was little. She doesn’t remember what she saw.

  “It’s Christmas,” Sura mutters.

  I wish you were here to say it, Mom.

  The gates are supposed to automatically open. She pulls out her phone, but there’s no reception. She pulls a sheet of paper from her back pocket and flattens it on the dashboard.

  You are to report at 8:00 a.m. Do not be late.

  The clock radio reads 7:59.

  When you approach the gate, look out your window and it will automatically open.

  Sura looks up and stares at the massive magnolias that line the road beyond the gate. Nothing happens.

  “That’s what I’m doing,” she says, but the gates don’t listen.

  She steps out of the car. There’s nothing to the left or right of the gate, just more trees and shadows. She could walk around, but the house could be miles away. Plus, there are rumors about Frost Plantation that include words like haunted. Mom never said it was haunted. Then again, she didn’t talk much about it.

  Something scurries through the leaves. There’s a flash of yellow in the dormant undergrowth. It could be squirrels, raccoons, or even hogs.

  Or ghosts.

  Sura backs against the car and looks left. Something flashes on her face. She can’t tell where it came from—

  Click.

  The gates slide into the brick columns, cleaving the F in half. Slowly, the columns swallow the wrought iron until the road is open. She climbs inside the car and eases between the pillars and into the shadows, where dappled light disappears beneath thick, glossy magnolias.

  The road gently curves up the hill. Occasionally, she sees old stalks of sunflowers between the magnolia trunks to her left, their disc-shaped heads worn and dangling, seeds picked from the faces long ago. Light appears where the magnolia’s reign ends.

  A two-story homestead is perched like a castle facing north. A wide porch runs across the front and wraps around the sides. It sits on two thousand privately owned acres and has survived the Civil War. It’s as Southern as a home can be.

  Except for recent renovations.

  No one knows for sure when the mammoth tower was built into the center of the house or why. Reports of the three-story structure suggest that it looks like an obsidian dagger erupting from the cedar shingles, the top surrounded by windows. No one knows how these reports were obtained—even satellite images on Google Maps are blurred—but from what Sura can see, they’re true.

  The road transforms into pavement as she approaches the brick landing that juts from the front steps in a spacious, hemispherical shape. The house and size of the paved landing make her car look like a toy.

  Templeton waits on the bottom step. She assumes that’s him, judging by the way he’s ramrod straight in an unblemished suit, eyes ahead, gloved hands clutched in the front.

  A manservant.

  The wide and numerous steps stretch up behind him to massive oak doors with five-pound brass knockers.

  She stops in front of him, rolling down the window. Templeton stares like a wax sculpture, his mocha complexion smooth. Eyes, green. There’s nothing out there besides a grassy field and, beyond that, crops never harvested.

  “You are late.” He sounds British. He peers at a pocket watch. “On your first day, you are late, Ms. Sura.”

  “I’m sorry. The gate wouldn’t open.”

  “Hm-mmm. Did you read the email?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you would’ve known how to open the gate and where to park your vehicle.”

  Sura spreads out the page and rubs the wrinkles out, but she didn’t grab the second page off the printer. “It doesn’t say.”

  He continues staring. Maybe that’s where she should park. He glances at his pocket watch again.

  “Around back, Ms. Sesi.”

  Sura stares at the steering wheel. When the car doesn’t move, Templeton’s eyelids flicker.

  “What is it?”

  “Sesi is… was… my mom.”

  “My apologies.” He blinks rapidly; his waxy composure softens. “Then shall you drive around back, Sura?”

  Sura follows the road around the east side of the house. The porch wraps around it. Ceiling fans turn betwe
en hanging ferns that should be burned by winter but look green and healthy. Rocking chairs and tiny tables are positioned between windows framed with lacy curtains.

  She parks behind the barn. There’s a back door on the main house but no Templeton. Sura walks back the way she drove, passing through the shadow of tall hedges that line the other side of the road. She looks up at the tower, the black windows angled out.

  Templeton hasn’t moved. When she nears, he takes the steps one at a time, carefully placing each footstep. He freezes at the door, hand hovering over the knob.

  “Take notes, Sura.”

  She pats her empty pockets. Templeton sighs, reaching inside his jacket to retrieve a pad of paper and pencil.

  “Mr. Frost appreciates attention to detail.”

  “I didn’t know I needed to take notes.”

  “Email, Sura. It was in the email.”

  The thick door whooshes open. Sura follows him into a foyer with a glittering chandelier and a highly polished floor. Templeton runs his finger along the table’s surface that’s next to the door, holding it up without looking.

  “Lesson one.”

  The white-gloved fingertip is clean.

  Templeton’s footsteps echo. Sura begins taking notes.

  The kitchen is somewhere near the center of the house and smells like freshly peeled shrimp. It looks big enough to feed an army. Pots, pans, and accessories dangle from the ceiling. The stainless steel counters shine, the shelves crowded with containers of spices, herbs, and flour. Somewhere, water is running.

  Someone is humming a merry song.

  “Hello?” Sura takes a few steps.

  The water stops. So does the humming.

  A short, doughy woman comes around the corner, mopping her hands with a dishrag.

  “Oooooh.” Her wet lips form a donut. “Goodness gracious.”

  Sura points over her shoulder. “Mr. Templeton told me to find Ms. May—”

  “Get over here.” Her dialect sounds Eastern European. Not exactly Russian, but something. “Get over here so Ms. May can get good look at you.”

  Sura walks carefully while the woman’s eyes twinkle and a smile warps the smudge of flour on her cheek. She reaches up for Sura’s face. Her hands are soft and warm. They smell like cookies.

  “You look just like her,” May whispers, her eyes tearing. “Just like your mother.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “I’m so sorry, love. So, so sorry for you. Your mother was dear friend and beloved woman. I weep for her absence.”

  Now Sura is tearing up. No one ever said sorry like that, not with so much emotion. Not with hands that smell like cookies.

  “How old are you now?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “It was just yesterday Sesi brought you here to see Mr. Frost. How old were you then? Two? Three?”

  Sura shrugs.

  “I think you were two, yes. You were very small, clinging to Sesi like barnacle.”

  Sura didn’t see May at the funeral, but there were a lot of people she didn’t know. Almost all of them. They were friends from the yoga center, the quilting group, and the YMCA. But no family.

  Sura didn’t have family beyond her mom.

  “Where are you staying, love?”

  “Friends.”

  “You can stay with Ms. May if you need somewhere to sleep. Understand? You stay as long as you like.”

  Sura nods.

  “Okay, good.” May claps and smiles. “You are hungry, yes?”

  “Mr. Templeton said—”

  “Bah! Don’t worry about Templeton. He is all rules, rules, rules. You come to Ms. May when your belly is talking. It is lunchtime and you are skinny.” She pulls a stool up to the counter. “You eat!”

  Sura slides onto the metal stool while May pats her arm, her smile cutting into her pudgy cheeks. A chocolate chip mole sits just to the side of her left eye. She snaps a cloth napkin from her apron and tucks it into Sura’s collar.

  She pinches her cheek and hops away.

  Sura isn’t hungry. She hasn’t eaten much more than a salad since her mom passed away. Hunger helps Sura deal with her suffering, makes her forget how much it hurts.

  Pots and plates rattle somewhere on the other side of the kitchen, where Nat King Cole sings about Jack Frost nipping at your nose. May hums along. She comes back with a glass plate and a sandwich four fingers tall.

  “What did Templeton show you?” May asks.

  Sura takes a bite and swallows. “He walked and talked and then showed me an orientation video on the history of the plantation.”

  May rolls her eyes.

  “It wasn’t bad.” She takes another bite.

  “Okay, yes, maybe that’s okay. Plantation is very huge and no one knows who built house. Did Templeton quiz you? I have answers.”

  May laughs and so does Sura. It goes on for a long time. It feels very good. Sura finishes the sandwich while May cleans.

  “Templeton didn’t say how Mr. Frost got the house. Was the inventor his grandfather or something?”

  May shrugs. “Your belly is full?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Anything for my little Sura.” She pinches her cheek again and sweeps up the empty plate. May begins humming with the music.

  “Templeton wants me to study the kitchen.”

  “What’s that, love?”

  “I’m supposed to study the kitchen.”

  “You supposed to listen to Ms. May. It is kitchen, nothing special. You relax while I finish, and then we talk more.”

  She’s right, there’s nothing out of the ordinary, just giant ovens and massive skillets, an enormous refrigerator and countless drawers. All of this for one guy? The only thing out of place is a rack of heavy coats next to a door.

  May puts on an oven mitt before opening the large refrigerator. She pulls out a tray with a metal dome and slides it on the counter.

  “It is time to deliver lunch.”

  “That’s my job?” Sura asks.

  “Today, yes. Mr. Frost wants to meet you, so you deliver lunch and speak.”

  The dome is covered with ice crystals. Sura touches the surface and yanks her hand back, so cold it burns.

  “Ah, ah. Put glove on.” May comes back with a thick, white coat and holds it up.

  “Am I going into a freezer?”

  “Put on, love. You need.”

  Sura slides her arms into the sleeves. May latches the buttons before holding up a stocking cap. “It’s safer to be warm.”

  May shakes the wool stocking cap.

  “And this.” May puts the oven mitt on her hand. “Do not look inside dome. Understand, love? You go to Mr. Frost, he will take. You can talk, that is all.”

  Suddenly, Sura’s stomach isn’t happy with the food. She’s dressed like she’s trekking through Alaska. Even on South Carolina’s coldest day, she’d sweat.

  “Is he really Jack Frost?” Sura feels stupid.

  “No, love. He is not Jack.” May guides her to the door next to the coat rack. “He has different first name than Jack.”

  “What is it?”

  “We call him Mr. Frost.”

  “So there is a Jack?”

  May opens the door to an elevator. Her smile disappears. It makes her cheeks look heavy. “We don’t talk about Jack.”

  May ushers her into the elevator that’s shaped like the inside of a Coke can.

  “I’ll be waiting when you are finished,” May says.

  The door slides shut without a sound, not even a click at the very end. Sura’s reflection is distorted in every direction. Her brown hair flairs out like hay, framing her round face and slightly narrow eyes. Sura attempts to pet her hair into place.

  She’s always wondered if she has Inuit in her blood—she never gets cold—but she knows nothing about her heritage. Her mom was a “never look back” sort of person.

  There are three buttons about knee level, which seems kind of low. The one in the middle is lit.
She carefully balances the tray on one hand and reaches down—

  The top button lights on its own.

  Her stomach gently drops. The elevator begins to rise.

  Sweat pricks her skin beneath the heavy coat, but the cold seeps through the bottom of the platter and penetrates the mitts, stinging her palm.

  Her breath turns to fog.

  At first, it’s just a wispy trail. But when the elevator stops, white clouds are streaming through her lips. The seamless door begins opening and doesn’t stop. It continues sliding all the way around her until it meets back where it started, leaving a slim rod that’s sucked into the black floor.

  The floor beneath her feet is a brightly lit circle. Beyond that, it’s dark. It’s hard to see, even after her eyes adjust. If she wasn’t standing on a circle of light, it might be easier.

  The light dims, as if it heard her thinking.

  She’s seen the top of the tower from outside. It doesn’t look that big, not like this. It seems as if she’s in the center of a circular room that’s hundreds of feet across. Seems impossible and maybe it’s an illusion.

  Christmas music is playing somewhere. Tiny red and green lights softly illuminate various areas. Monitors and images appear on desktops and wall mounts. There’s a fish tank to the left, a blue-white light shining on a long, black fish. Next to that is a desk with a short, fat statue.

  The ceiling twinkles with stars, even though it’s daytime. Oddly enough, the sky swirls with bands of green and blue, like the Northern Lights of the Arctic. Maybe it’s just an illusion.

  Her hand is numb.

  She looks around for a table, chair, or something to put the platter down on. She takes it with both hands and decides to slide it on the floor. Her first step disappears outside the circle, gently touching the black floor. She leans forward—

  Slips.

  She lets go of the platter with one hand and catches her fall, but the domed lid clatters. She stops it with the inside of her elbow and grabs the knob before it crashes. The smell, though, wafts out. It’s raw, pungent, and ten times the smell of shelled shrimp.