Claus: The Trilogy

by Tony Bertauski

  He stands at the edge of the chasm. Groundwater has filled it. He feels the depth of its hopelessness, how nothing is alive in that murky hole. He created it—this is his fault. He’s the one responsible for this all-consuming hole in his life. He’s been avoiding it for thousands of years and now he’s staring into its depths. He always tried to fill the holes he felt inside himself, and now there’s one big one he can’t avoid.

  And now what?

  What does he have?

  Nobody. It’s just Jack and the hole.

  “Janack?” someone calls.

  He looks around. Maybe he’s imagining it, but then he hears it again. It’s coming from the garden. Jack steps tentatively across the road, trying not to make noise. He sneaks up to the entrance and slides one eye around the edge.

  “Mother?”

  There she is, standing on the pedestal where an ice statue chiseled into her likeness once stood. Her hands are folded on her belly, the white hair pulled back into the single braid.

  “Janack,” she says again.

  Her face is soft, almost glowing. Her eyes, deeply set in fully rounded cheeks, are smiling blue.

  Jack clears his throat. “Um, your statue… it fell over. There was a storm and, uh, we were going to do another one…”

  She doesn’t say anything. Jack gets the sense she doesn’t care about the statue.

  He looks up and sighs. He wasn’t accustomed to taking responsibility. It’s easier to lie. “It’s just… you see, Pawn didn’t tell me about you and me reconciling before I died, and I don’t remember us, you know, that we were hugging and stuff, so if you think about it, it’s kind of Pawn’s fault.”

  This is hard.

  “Oh, I don’t remember what I said before I died.” He swallows. “Or what you said or what Claus… so, I’m still a little…”

  The words fall off his tongue like dead fish. He sounds stupid and embarrassed. His mother opens her arms. She smiles. That’s all she does.

  Smile.

  Jack’s belly softens. Without thinking about it, without forcing it, the words come out.

  “This is all my fault.” He looks down. “I did all this. I wrecked this whole place and everything in it. I was trying to help the world, you know. Seriously, I was. I don’t like warmbloods…”

  But that’s not true. He knows it. And those words clog his throat until truer ones come out.

  “I screwed up.”

  Something breaks loose. He feels it just below his heart, some silky essence spreading across his chest, rising to his throat. He’s afraid to open his mouth or he’ll…

  “Come to me.” Her arms are still open. Her face, still inviting.

  Or I’ll cry.

  Jack steps through the boxwoods, taking a straight path toward the center. He stops short of the pool of water that surrounds Jocah. It’s no longer ice, but he doesn’t feel hot. He feels just right. His mother’s love warms him.

  He just… he has to say one more thing. He’s got to say this, to admit it. To own it.

  “I killed Pawn.”

  Warmth gushes through his throat and barks out sobs that rack his body.

  “He was my only friend and I made him suffer with that root and then I shoved him in the basement and the house fell and I guess he couldn’t swim or something…”

  He runs out of breath. After that, the sobs take over.

  He doesn’t remember falling into her arms or splashing through the water, he just remembers the grief that fills him, that spills out of him. His feelings of hurt and abandonment rise up, feelings he’s spent all his life trying to hide. He sees them, allows them space.

  Pawn. My only friend.

  And he did all that to him.

  He tries to tell his mother more, tries to make sense of his thoughts, but the words are smeared with sniffles and sobs.

  “What’s wrong with me?” he blubbers.

  His mother wraps him tightly, warmly, while he spills tears into the pool. Through blurry eyes, he sees his blue face.

  “His name isn’t Pawn,” he says. “It’s Jack.”

  He took that from his friend. It’s time to give it back.

  My name is Janack.

  Another round of wailing fills the garden. He hangs onto his mother, her warmth protecting him, filling him, showing him that he’s not bad.

  He’s lost.

  Janack falls asleep in his mother’s arms while the North Star twinkles white, red, and green. He doesn’t feel his breath stop or his pulse silence. The end for the portly blue elven comes like a sweet lullaby.

  -------------------------

  The crow sounds like a horn.

  The sky is blemished only by fading white tracks left from airplanes crisscrossing at ten thousand feet.

  The helpers are pressed all around Sura, keeping her toasty and comfortable. Their bite-sized snores merge like an endless mantra, tempting her to fall back asleep. She watches a commercial airliner slowly draw a white line across the blue sky, this one traveling south.

  Max is gone. The crow calls again.

  The tree root makes for a poor pillow, slightly bruising the side of her head. She sits up. Little bodies tumble off her but aren’t roused from slumber. Sura rubs her eyes. The scene across the field quickly reminds her that reality can be cold and hard. A titan has taken a bite from the earth and stomped a hole in her life.

  Joe is dead.

  The image of his face will haunt her for the rest of her life: the waxy complexion, the vacant stare, his lips stiffly uttering his last words.

  “N’ayez pas peur.” Don’t be afraid.

  Those words will play in her dreams every night, will follow her every day. The hole in the earth is nothing compared to what she’ll feel forever.

  There are no tears left.

  The truth shivers inside her. She thinks of crawling beneath the sleeping helpers, closing her eyes, and dreaming of some place warm, safe, and wanted. But that won’t help.

  And she’s awake.

  Sura stands up. She has to hopscotch her way through sleeping helpers. She steps out of the tree’s shadow. Frost glitters on the grass where tracks lead away. Max must’ve left sometime during the night. It’s not safe. The ground looks soft and the chasm deep. If he fell, there’ll be no saving him, and she’s lost so much already.

  She exhales faint clouds.

  How did this happen?

  Where will the helpers go?

  Where will I go?

  Sura follows Max’s path, the tracks etched in the frost. She hugs herself against the morning breeze, her clothes damp. She keeps her distance from the pit as clods break away from the sides and plunk into the deep water.

  Birds flutter in the trees and squirrels dig through the fallen leaves. Whatever happened affected the house and laboratories. Even the barn is gone.

  She slows as the space between the trees and the chasm narrows. The edge of the great hole stops short of the road that once circled the house. A flighty sensation of vertigo tugs at her. She brushes against the hedges as she approaches the garden entrance.

  Voices.

  Sura holds her breath. Her pulse is loud in her ears.

  “We stayed at the southern end of the plantation,” Templeton says. “There wasn’t much sleeping.”

  Someone answers him, but it’s too soft to understand.

  “Sit down,” Templeton says. “You’re weak.”

  Sura crawls the final steps and peeks around the opening. She stays low enough to not be noticed. Templeton is near the center of the garden. He’s wearing a puffy coat and a stocking cap. His face is smudged with dirt.

  “The transfer,” he says. “It was complete?”

  She can’t see the other person, but he speaks louder. “Missing memories,” he says.

  The voice trails off. Templeton listens patiently. Sura thinks about crawling closer, but that’ll give her up, and she’d like to find out who is down there.

  “What happened to Sura?” Templeton a
sks.

  The other person says something. Templeton’s expression doesn’t change when he says, “We’ll search for her when the others get here. What about Joe?”

  Sura clutches the grass. She holds her breath, raises up slightly, but can’t hear. Maybe he didn’t say anything. Templeton, though, dips his head. It’s not much, maybe he’s just tired. He’s not even standing upright.

  “You’re cold,” Templeton finally says. “Take off your shirt.”

  Take off your shirt?

  Templeton bends over to help. Max lets out a yip. The fox is down there. Templeton can’t be talking to Mr. Frost. It doesn’t sound like him. And Mr. Frost doesn’t get cold.

  There’s mumbling. It goes on for quite a while this time.

  “It’s all complete,” Templeton finally answers. “Everything worked as you planned. The house, the laboratories, everything. It’s all been dissolved entirely. Janack’s impatience and greed worked as you thought it would. He attempted to get it all and it backfired.”

  “Did Freeda survive?” the unknown person asks.

  “Like I said, everything is gone,” Templeton says.

  “And the human race?”

  “They are none the wiser. The initial launch harmed no one, including the family. However, they lost everything in a fire.”

  “I want—”

  Templeton raises his hand. “Already taken care of. An anonymous donation will arrive this afternoon, along with presents for the young girl. I believe her name is Cindy.”

  Sura’s elbows ache, her knees throb. It feels safe down there, but she can’t take the chance. If she’s wrong, if that’s not Mr. Frost…

  If only Joe was with her. They could get back in the truck and camp until they knew it was safe.

  “So I must ask,” Templeton says. “Jack is dead?”

  Sura waits for the answer. There is none. Templeton is looking in the direction of the wishing room. He lets out a deep breath like he’s held it for far too long. For the first time, he looks relaxed.

  There’s a squeal.

  It comes from the south side of the garden. May is standing in the entrance, hands over her mouth. She’s not bundled up like Templeton, but she’s just as dirty.

  “Is it true?” she asks.

  Templeton almost smiles.

  May runs carefully around the boxwoods, arms swinging to her sides, her squeal interrupted only by brief inhalations. She gets to the center and bends down, disappearing from Sura’s view.

  “Careful, May,” Templeton says. “He’s delicate. You’ll snap him like a twig.”

  May finally stands up and hooks her arm around Templeton’s elbow. She wipes her eyes.

  “It’s over,” she says. “It’s finally over.”

  Templeton pats her hand.

  “Where’s Sura?” she asks. “Joe?”

  Sura can’t hear the answer. She sits up and there’s a sudden yip. Max shoots through the boxwoods and lands in Sura’s arms. She falls over.

  Templeton shades his eyes. May covers her mouth again. The squeal is twice as loud this time. She lifts her arms and doesn’t bother with the path; this time, she pushes straight through the boxwoods. She struggles with the last row, so Sura goes to her to be crushed in a cookie-smelling embrace, smothered in May’s heaving chest. She no longer cares if it’s safe or not.

  It smells like home.

  “Come now, May,” Templeton calls.

  May releases Sura to wipe her cheeks. Sura blinks the world back into focus and sees Templeton waving them down. May clings to Sura’s arm like she’ll never let go. They wind their way to the center.

  The mysterious guest is slumped on the bench. He’s short, skinny, and his chest is covered with hair.

  Green hair.

  The face is vaguely familiar: the short nose and deep eyes. The whiskers, also green, are tightly curled against his face. His upper body is matted with thick, green hair.

  He lifts his tired hand, beckoning her with a single curl of his finger. Templeton takes the shirt off the bench. Sura slowly takes a seat. He smells organic. Leafy.

  He smiles weakly.

  Sura recognizes the eyes set in the shadows of bushy brows. The icy blue twinkle.

  “Mr. Frost?” she asks.

  His smile grows.

  May collapses on Templeton’s shoulder, heaving great wallops of sobbing joy. Templeton hands her a handkerchief.

  Mr. Frost takes Sura’s hand. It’s coarse, slightly damp. He holds out his other hand for Templeton. He takes it and holds May’s hand. They form a ring—two of them standing, two sitting.

  “I am so grateful.” Mr. Frost’s words are scratched and tearful. A breath wheezes into his lungs. “To call you family.”

  Their hands tighten.

  “Joe isn’t here,” Sura says dryly, afraid to let her emotions rise.

  Mr. Frost bows his head. Templeton and May do the same. They remain in silence for a full minute. Mr. Frost lets go and, with Templeton’s assistance, he stands. Mr. Frost takes a moment to balance himself like a newborn calf before tenderly walking with Templeton at his side. Slowly, they go to the north side of the garden and stop at the entrance that leads to the wishing room.

  Mr. Frost whispers to Templeton.

  “Come along,” Templeton says. “You, too, Jonah.”

  Jonah is standing in the southern entrance where May had entered.

  Mr. Frost disappears into the tunnel. May starts to follow, but Sura’s stuck to the bench, afraid to grasp the strange, tangible hope that seems to float around her. If they think seeing Joe in the wishing room will make her feel better, then they’ve lost their minds.

  It’ll only hurt worse.

  “Come on, love.” May gently takes her arm.

  Sura walks with heavy feet. She reaches the north archway and refuses to go any farther. Jonah is at the end of the tunnel, facing the entrance to the wishing room. Light floods out of the opening.

  Jonah steps inside. His wail is joyful.

  “I’m not going, May.” Sura steps back. “I don’t want to see him in there. He won’t be real; he’ll just be in my mind and that’s not… it’s just an illusion, May.”

  May takes her hands to keep them from shaking, to keep her from running away. Nothing in that room is real. Joe will just be a dream and she doesn’t have the strength to dream like that. Not right now.

  If I see him in there, I’ll never want to leave.

  “I have to wake up,” Sura says.

  But May’s expression never falters. In fact, it grows warmer. With tears brimming, May looks down the tunnel. Sura follows her gaze.

  Jonah steps outside of the wishing room; a smile that looks foreign on his face is wide and toothy. He reaches back, helping someone step through the opening. He steps tenderly like Mr. Frost.

  It’s Joe.

  Joe is outside.

  A chill crawls over her, tingling her scalp. Her lower lip begins to flutter. She wants to believe it, wants to let go of May, but she’s been fooled by dreams before. Sura looks up. The North Star is still visible, but it’s not twinkling strange colors. It’s not twinkling at all.

  Jonah lets go of Joe. He walks on his own, stepping gingerly towards Sura. His arms and face have a thin coat of curly, green hair. Sura’s afraid to move, afraid to blink, or he’ll disappear. Afraid she’ll wake up.

  He steps into the sunlight and extends his hand. Sura hesitates.

  “N’ayez pas peur,” he says.

  I am awake.

  -------------------------

  Mr. Frost shivers.

  “Let’s get you into the sunlight,” Templeton says.

  The others have already left the garden, their voices shouting somewhere on the other side of the hedges. Max yips continuously. All of them, so happy.

  Because it’s over. It’s finally over.

  Templeton holds Mr. Frost’s hand, guiding him away from the wishing room. The new body is so frail and light, the feet not half the size
of what he’s walked on his entire life. He will never slide on his soles again.

  They step into the garden. He turns his face upward, searching for the sun. Green hair unfurls in the direction of light, warmth reaching his core. The photosynthetic gene splice was meant to temporarily stabilize the body. He could make it permanent, use it to help humans feed themselves with sunlight, but that would create a new species. Mr. Frost is done with that.

  It’s over.

  He feigned surprise when Jack escaped the laboratory without his memories. He had the yellow-hats guide him outside when Freeda was occupied. They set him free.

  Mr. Frost had won the yellow-hats’ loyalty long ago. He accidently discovered the loyalty gene shortly after the helpers were first born. Freeda had programmed them to serve her. Mr. Frost made a slight alteration in the yellow-hats’ gene sequence. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it took decades to accomplish without Freeda knowing.

  Without the yellow-hats, the ending would have been very different. They were the ones that put the pictures where Sura would see them—her mom’s box and the one on Joe’s refrigerator. They were the ones that lured her into the toy factory so that Mr. Frost could arrange for Jack to see her outside Walmart, to feel her presence.

  Janack was right about one thing: Mr. Frost despised the warmbloods when he still lived in the Arctic. Had Mr. Frost remained in the Arctic, had the root not forced him to live among the humans, to know them, to love them… well, again, the ending would have been different.

  And if Janack lived with them, even for a short while, then he would know them, too. That’s why Mr. Frost let him escape, to let him live with the humans. Perhaps, in the end, it had some effect. Mr. Frost will never know if Janack watched the attack with glee or horror. Did he try to stop it? Did he feel his heart grow? Did he feel love?

  If he did, that will make all the difference.

  Mr. Frost’s feet feel like boat anchors. Templeton guides him around the perimeter of the garden. “Careful,” he says, helping him up the stone steps. “This is your last body.”

  They stand at the crater’s edge. On the other end, near the live oak grove, the others are mobbed by a sea of brightly hatted helpers. When Freeda went down, they were released from her command. They’re all “yellow-hats” now. Max nips at their heels like a worried shepherd, keeping them from a watery drop.