Jack doesn’t know exactly what any of that means or where it’s coming from, but he doesn’t get in the way. He lets the words rise up from a distant memory of someone he used to be, maybe when he lived on the North Pole. Bitter hate fills his chest like a salty fist, the knuckles drumming his heart.
“Let me tell you something, warmblood. You and all of your friends are just cogs in a machine. You’re just another ball of lint sticking to the world’s sleeve. One of these days, you and the rest of these ugly warmbloods will be just like candy on the street, waiting to be swept up.”
Jack swats the candy from Pickett’s hand and grinds it under his heel until it’s powder and plastic.
Pickett towers over him and his fist is about to follow. It’s not that he doesn’t try. Willie gets in the way and Sheldon pulls Pickett back. Spittle flies from his lips; foamy flecks of anger carry a rant strewn with cuss words. Everyone forgets about the parade until Pickett storms down the sidewalk, occasionally looking over his shoulder, still cussing.
Jack waves at him.
“You making friends?” Willie says.
“Yeah. Whatever that means.”
“Well, it ain’t that.”
Jack crosses his arms over his belly; his shoulders slump. The hatred ebbs away and he can’t remember why he felt like that or even what he said. It came from somewhere deep, like he tapped a reservoir trapped under miles of bedrock. The anger came shooting out of his mouth like an oil well spilling black gunk.
It felt good.
Felt right.
He tries to rekindle the flame by kicking Pickett’s candy into the road. When it doesn’t work, he growls at the fake-smiling wavers in the glittery shirts, shakes a fist at the little kids in scouting uniforms, and spits on candy. He takes his tank top off to let his belly loose and the chest hairs unfurl.
Nothing works.
A fire truck turns the corner, strands of garland draped over the front, lights flashing. Men with rubber boots and heavy jackets throw more disgusting candy that Jack shoves into the gutter, using his foot like a paddle.
And then something clicks.
There’s a man in the bucket extended high above the fire truck. He has a white, curly beard and wears a furry, red coat.
He’s laughing. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Who’s that?” Jack asks.
“Who?” Willie asks.
“That! That… that man.” He almost said warmblood.
Willie looks to where he’s pointing. “You’re talking about Santa Claus?”
Santa Claus?
SANTA CLAUS?
The words rattle in his head. The memories swirl out of the depths like dark sediment, threatening to rise above the fog of forgetfulness. He should know that name; he should know who he is. He’s somebody.
Claus is someone he knows.
Jack stays on the curb long after the parade ends, trying to remember, trying to put it all together.
J A C K
December 8
Monday
Mr. Frost steps outside wearing a long, dark coat. A tube buried in his mustache hisses chilled air into his nostrils. It doesn’t interfere with the scent of the land, only makes breathing more tolerable.
A perfect night for a stroll.
The land appears haunted in the pale light. There were nights when he could swear he saw ghosts wandering the hills, sometimes with muskets. He’d purchased the plantation before the Civil War and immediately freed the slaves, letting the rice fields go fallow. The enslavement of humans by their own kind was unconscionable.
Mr. Frost looks back at the house—Christmas lights sparkling along the edges—and thinks one could make the same argument concerning the toy factory. But the helpers love to work like a sled dog aches to pull.
He tries to scratch the root, but the coolsuit restricts his movements; he can’t reach it. The itch spreads over his scalp and reaches the crown of his head like ghostly fingers. Unlike the illusions that walk the lunar landscape, this one is very real.
The root contains a ghost.
He grabs a thicket of hair behind his ear. His fingers are almost to the itch when the coolsuit tears. The cool night air feels like desert wind on his exposed flesh. He inspects the damage on the back of his hand.
Microscopic tubes hiss liquid nitrogen that circulates throughout the coolsuit to keep his body temperature at a constant minus twenty degrees. In the early days, when he was first developing the coolsuit, he wore a helmet. He felt like an alien. It wasn’t until he perfected the cooling halo around his neck that he ventured outside more often.
He puts a sealing strip over the damage, temporarily stopping the leak. He’ll make this a short trip. And no more reaching for the root.
Just let it itch.
The endless strands of Christmas lights illuminate the live oak grove at the far end of the northern field. By the time he crests the hill, his back aches. He shouldn’t feel this old. It’s only been a couple hundred years since he left the North Pole.
Citrus trees are to the east, aligned near the bottom of the slope like skeletal features: Mother Nature’s ironwork. Ordinarily, he’d walk through the rows until he reached the old rice field, sit in his favorite chair, one of twisted branches.
Not tonight.
His thoughts weigh like boulders. He doesn’t have the strength to lug them down to the water and back.
He reaches deep into the coat pocket, retrieves a metallic pebble, and drops it on the ground. The earth undulates. Tufts of brown weeds spit out of the soil, replaced with a verdant layer of sod that forms a lush chair.
Mr. Frost rests his bones with a long sigh. All that is weary relaxes. The root, however, keeps peace at an arm’s length, wriggling beneath his scalp. With his technology, he still can’t escape the root.
Because the root is technology.
In the early days, the root was more active. It no longer burned but rather took control of his nervous system, forced him to do things against his will. It was maddening to be a prisoner in his own body, a puppet that was tethered to a parasitic brain inside his head. Mr. Frost was slowly losing his grip on sanity.
But the artificially intelligent root had the ability to learn. Making Mr. Frost obey its wishes by force was not productive. His health declined and, had it not released him from its iron will, he wouldn’t have survived.
Mr. Frost regained control of his body by the mid-1800s. He had assumed the root expired and soon began to prosper as a citizen among humans. Although he could’ve returned to the North Pole—the elven would’ve understood; they would’ve showed him mercy—he felt compelled to stay where he was. He invested well, patented many inventions, and built factories below ground to distribute products. Holidays were particularly profitable and Mr. Frost soon devoted all his efforts into his favorite one: Christmas.
As the saying goes, he made more money than God.
Occasionally, the root would itch—a reminder it was not dead—but it never slowed him down. One morning he decided he had the ability to reincarnate Jack. He had the technology and Jack’s memories were stored in the root, all he needed was a body to put them in.
It didn’t seem that difficult.
He was on a mission: bring his best friend back from death. He manufactured the incubation lab, worked feverishly into the night, sometimes falling asleep on the laboratory floor. He quickly had success and was well on his way to reincarnating Jack. It was all very exciting. He was able to replicate Jack’s DNA script and began artificially reassembling it. There were times he went to sleep in his own bed only to awaken hard at work in the lab, as if he’d walked in his sleep.
It was the early 1900s when he developed Freeda. He needed her to analyze the massive amount of data and manage much of Frost Plantation’s assets.
And then, one night he realized… the root duped me.
His realization began when he suspected his own thoughts. He lay awake at night, observing the strange compulsions that ran through
his mind, seeding themselves in his body. He would wake with the sudden urge to ship new technology across the world or tweak the coding in Jack’s newest incubation.
When Mr. Frost sat quietly and allowed his thoughts to settle, he realized that the root had been whispering to him all this time. He believed them to be his own thoughts, had mistaken it as his true identity. The root had fooled him into buying into its desire to bring back Jack; it compelled him to bring Freeda online to watch him because it knew he would eventually discover the psychological hijacking.
It was too late.
Worst of all, Mr. Frost saw the master plan. Jack would finish what he started in the North Pole. He would bring an end to what he called “The Plague of Warmbloods.”
And Mr. Frost would help him. If he refused, Freeda would convince him otherwise. She had control of his nervous system. While the root knew that a carrot was more productive, sometimes pain was very convincing.
The lines between master and slave had become very blurry. His free will had been abducted.
Who is the true slave?
Mr. Frost leans back in his earthen chair and stares at the moon just above the horizon. After all that he’s endured at the expense of Jack’s self-centeredness, he worries about him. He was alone and scared. Mr. Frost sometimes wonders if that concern for his friend originates from the root, if those thoughts are his and not implanted. He doesn’t want Jack to needlessly suffer.
He knew there was good in Jack.
The orchard steamers begin to hiss. White clouds seep from the ground, elevating the temperature around the trees, keeping them from dipping below their tolerance.
It must be getting cold.
Mr. Frost closes his eyes. Start Jack’s next incarnation, Freeda.
Yes, sir.
And fetch Templeton. He could use some assistance. It’ll be a long walk back. He’d rather not do it alone.
With pleasure, sir.
In the meantime, he’d lie in the sodden throne beneath a sparkling sky. He’d savor the musty scent of the distant pluff mud. He’d dream of sugarplums like he did when he first came to this land, dream of a day when the root stopped twisting into the bottom of his brain.
Voices rise in the distance, joining the orchard’s hiss. In the toy factory below ground, the helpers sing.
J A C K
December 9
Tuesday
Jack pushes the black sunglasses up his nose and leans against a pink building. The paddle-sized feet and curly chest hair spouting out of his white tank top make it impossible for him to go unnoticed, and Marion Square—where warmbloods seem to flock like spawning krill—was the last place he wanted to be.
But he needs to know about Santa Claus.
He’d lain awake half the night, listening to eighty-some residents snore like engines while he searched his foggy memory for a white man in a red suit. He woke with nothing.
Claus.
The memory is just out of sight, like a phantom itch taunting him to reach for it, vanishing when he does. The red coat, the white beard. Jolly ole St. Nick, someone said. He lives on the North Pole, stupid.
Claus, Jack thinks. Claus will know.
Jack needs more information about Santa Claus and there’s only one person he can trust. He needs to know why this fat man in the red coat lives on the North Pole, and why everybody loves him, and why does Jack think he knows him, because maybe, just maybe, those answers will help him remember.
Like who am I and why am I here?
The sidewalk is mostly clear of tourists that always look back after they pass the strange, little man with sunglasses. Jack takes advantage of the lull and leaps across the sidewalk, his scaly soles grinding against the curb and into the street—
“AHHH!” Jack cringes.
A beast snorts humid breath down his neck, its hoofs clapping the concrete. Jack closes his eyes, expecting the thing to swat him with an enormous rack of fuzzy antlers because reindeer hate him—
Wait a second.
It’s a horse, not a reindeer. Reindeer don’t pull carriages full of warmbloods; they haul sleighs full of elven. Reindeer are genetically engineered beasts with webbed legs and helium bladders. And one of them has a red nose, a bright red nose that burns with hatred, rage, and anger directed at Jack, because he did something to somebody…
It doesn’t matter.
“Hey, buddy!” a guy shouts. “You all right?”
Jack pulls his tank top down to cover his belly and picks up his sunglasses, sliding them up his nose. They’re staring. Of course they are.
He crosses the street, looking both ways this time, and lurks beneath a sprawling live oak, reflecting on what just happened. He remembers that reindeer fly and that they hate him. He’s not surprised they hate him—he’s noticed that he has that effect on warmbloods—but flying reindeer is the dumbest thing he can think of. Reindeer don’t fly, any more than cows tap dance.
Flat-out stupid.
He decides to ignore that, to pretend it’s not a memory, just some sort of hallucination, because if he believes it, then he really is crazy. He’ll believe only what he wants to believe, see only what he wants to see. He’ll decide what’s real.
Because that’s sane.
The game tables aren’t too far away. It’s mostly men staring at black and white pieces on a checkered board and whacking a clock.
Jack waits for an opportunity to cross the sidewalk unnoticed, but that’s not going to happen. He treads into the open. To his surprise, no one notices. They’re absorbed by the games.
He drags his feet through the mulch and stops near the table where Willie buries his fingers in thick chords of black hair. Willie mumbles while he studies the checkered board. He comes down here to play this game, to sharpen his mind. He tells the residents it would do them good to play, that it beats standing on a corner wolfing down cigarettes.
Jack inches up to Willie’s side. His opponent slams the clock and startles Jack. Still, no one seems to notice him. This place isn’t so bad. Willie leans closer to the board, his eyes level with the plastic pieces and his ear right about level with Jack’s chin.
“Willie,” Jack whispers.
The observers finally take notice of him. Their frowns fade into looks of confusion and curiosity. Now they’re staring. Willie just moans, waving him off.
Jack taps his shoulder. “Willie.”
Willie snaps out of his reverie and looks directly at Jack, black chords hanging in his glazed eyes.
“What’s up?” Jack whispers.
“I’m in the middle of a game, Jack. Can you not see that?”
“It’s kind of important.”
Willie looks around, like maybe he’s imagining this, maybe the others don’t see this. They see it, but they’re not really believing it, either.
“I’ll talk when I’m done,” Willie says. “Now step away.”
Willie waves at him like he’s a fly or a baby or something equally annoying. Jack takes one step back and takes another when Willie waves emphatically.
The stupid game continues.
It’ll probably be tomorrow when it’s done because every move takes fooooooorever. Jack could probably walk to the North Pole and find Santa Claus before the game is over. He narrows his eyes, staring at the board. He takes one step closer.
Some of the pieces are pointed; others look like horses or castles. He watches the moves and hears people whispering about what move should be made. They’re each trying to smash the piece with the cross on top. The one called king.
Closer.
Ten moves takes an eternity, but it looks like the game is over. Willie’s got it won. Even Jack—he figured out the game in about ten minutes—can see that. But then Willie grabs the wrong piece.
“Willie,” Jack whispers.
Willie—hand hovering over the board with a pointy piece between his fingers—looks over.
Jack points at one of the horses.
“Dude!” the opponent say
s.
“Hold on, hold on,” Willie says. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Jack, another word and you’re going to the curb. Understand?”
Jack doesn’t say anything.
Silence resumes. Willie starts to lower the pointy piece and stops. The others study the board. They look at the horse. They look at the king. And then they all see it.
They look at Jack.
Willie’s opponent abruptly leaves but not before pointing, cursing, and using hand gestures Jack doesn’t understand.
“Come on,” Willie says. “Let’s walk.”
He grabs Jack’s arm and pulls him away from the table and the dirty looks. They walk under the trees and Jack’s suddenly freezing and his arm hurts.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
Willie is a sore winner. And he didn’t even say thank you.
He walks faster than Jack can keep up. When he lets go, Jack rubs his arm even though it doesn’t hurt anymore.
“Can we go out there?” Jack points at the sidewalk crisscrossing the open field. It’s chilly in the shade.
Willie stomps ahead. Jack has to run to catch up.
“What’s so important,” Willie says, lips pursed, “that you had to ruin my game?”
“I got a question.”
“And how do you even know how to play chess?”
“Um, I have a brain?” Jack says more than asks.
Willie looks up at the sky like he doesn’t get paid enough. Jack doesn’t get it. The game was logical. Once he knew how the pieces moved, the rest was cake. In fact, if he thought about it, he had the two tables next to Willie’s game figured out, too. And he wasn’t really looking.
“What’s your question?” Willie asks.
“What’s Christmas?”
Willie stops at the crosswalk in the center of the park. His head is about to explode. “You can’t be serious.”
People are watching. Jack pushes his sunglasses up. He feels safe behind the dark glasses but notices he feels even safer next to Willie. Jack stands in front of him, looking up, waiting.
Claus: The Trilogy Page 31
