by Jeff Guinn
“I think they can,” Leonardo said in a soft but assured voice. “That is, I think they can under the correct circumstances and with the proper equipment.”
Leonardo, Ben, and Willie Skokan were sitting together by the front of the fireplace, and I saw that they had one of Leonardo’s notebooks in front of them. As usual, its pages were full of diagrams and mathematical formulas.
“I don’t think reindeer can sprout wings, Leonardo,” I said as patiently as possible. “Do you know of a herd that has?”
Leonardo was a very serious person. I don’t think he realized I was being sarcastic. “No, Santa, but wings on the reindeer themselves might not be necessary for flight. I’ve been pondering the possibility of flight for the better part of three centuries now, and I’m convinced that flying is a matter of speed and air mass. Look at these sketches in my notebook.” He handed me the notebook, but I hadn’t the slightest idea of what the diagrams I was looking at might mean.
Before I could say anything more that might have hurt Leonardo’s feelings, Ben interjected, “Willie Skokan and I are convinced there must be a way reindeer can fly, too. Of course, it’s not really a matter of the reindeer flying so much as it’s a question of how to put them in a position where they can be attached to the right device that would allow flight.”
“Can you say it more simply?” I asked wearily.
“Let us get some reindeer and start working,” Ben said. “Leonardo and Willie Skokan and I will find a way reindeer can fly, if only you’ll be patient.”
“Santa will be patient, Ben, but I wouldn’t count on American children doing the same,” Layla advised. “Please find some brilliant solution as quickly as you can.”
And so Leonardo, Ben, and Willie Skokan set to work. They sailed back across the Atlantic Ocean to Europe, then went north to the remote Scandinavian snows of Lapland. This was where reindeer roamed, handsome animals standing three and one half feet high and weighing about three hundred pounds. Both male and female reindeer have wide, heavy antlers, and heavy hoofs. Fortunately, they can be tamed, though not easily. Some Laplanders used them to pull sleds. My three helpers could have purchased reindeer from Lapland farmers, but they preferred venturing out onto the frozen tundra and capturing their own.
“We wanted only the very best,” Ben explained when they finally returned to America after a hard trip home. It had taken them nearly ten months to round up eight reindeer Leonardo considered suitable: great, powerful animals whose eyes shone with intelligence. In anticipation of their arrival, we had purchased property in the far hill country of New York State, near a village called Cooperstown. This property was far enough removed from public gaze that we felt it might be possible for Leonardo to conduct his flying-reindeer experiments in relative privacy.
The reindeer were installed inside a snug barn. The rest of us were given boring daily chores to perform—buying grain for their feed bags, raking out stalls—while Leonardo, Ben, and Willie Skokan would put halters on the reindeer and lead them off into the hills for training they wouldn’t describe to the rest of us. Helpers and reindeer never got back until well after dark each night. Sometimes Ben and Willie would be smiling. More often, they’d look tired and frustrated. Leonardo’s expression never changed. He always looked thoughtful.
Christmas of 1826 passed, then Christmas of 1827. We gave gifts as best we could, and children all over America peeked out their windows on Christmas Eve, watching in vain for Santa flying by with his reindeer.
“I don’t think Leonardo can do it,” Felix said sadly as Christmas 1828 approached. “We have to face it: As great as our magic has been, some miracles are beyond us, and flying reindeer happen to be one of them.”
“I still have faith in Leonardo,” Layla replied.
It was just the next night when the three would-be reindeer trainers came trooping into the house with huge grins on their faces. Even Leonardo looked pleased.
“We need Felix to come with us tomorrow,” Ben announced. “He’s not as good a carpenter as Willie Skokan, but we’ll need his help, if only to carry wood and tools.”
“I can come help, too,” I said quickly, but Ben shook his head.
“Just Felix, I think,” he commanded. “We want you to be surprised.”
Felix left with the other three in the morning, and looked tired when he returned with them after dark. His hands were scratched from hard labor. When I asked what kind of work he’d been doing, he shook his head and wouldn’t tell me.
“I promised I’d keep the secret,” he muttered, and fell asleep in front of the fire soon after supper.
Felix began working with Leonardo, Ben, and Willie Skokan in early October. By mid-November, my curiosity was too great to control.
“Tell me what’s going on!” I demanded one night as we all sat around the dinner table. “I can tell by your smiles that even Layla and Sarah are in on the secret. I’m the only one who doesn’t know. Tell me now, quickly—will there be flying reindeer this Christmas?”
“Wait and see, Santa,” Ben advised.
“I’ve waited long enough,” I grumbled, and everyone else laughed.
One morning three weeks later, I was awakened at dawn by Layla. “Put on your warmest clothing,” she ordered. “We’re all going out with the reindeer.” I quickly dressed and waited impatiently while the others ate breakfast. When they finally finished, we put halters on the reindeer and hiked some two miles to the top of the highest hill on the property, where a large, mysterious object was concealed under an equally huge sheet of canvas.
“Are you ready?” Ben asked me, grinning fiendishly as Willie Skokan and Leonardo took hold of the canvas. “Are you prepared to discover whether reindeer really know how to fly?”
“Enough of this foolishness,” I snapped. “I see the reindeer standing right here, and they’re no different than they were when you first brought them to America. They surely can’t fly, Ben. They have no wings!”
“But they will, and besides, this does, too!” Ben announced, and with a theatrical flourish of his hand gestured for Leonardo and Willie Skokan to reveal what was under the canvas.
I saw a sleigh, but a sleigh unlike any that could ever have existed before. It had the usual wide bed, and a long front pole to which harness could be attached. And extending from the sides of the sleigh, not very far but still sticking out, were what appeared to be curved, shaped wings.
“What does all this mean?” I asked.
Leonardo hurried to my side, brandishing one of his notebooks and pointing to a sketch on one page. “You see, Santa, it’s not really the reindeer themselves who fly,” he explained. “The reindeer provide the thrust, the power, if you will, to make the wind flow under the wings of the sleigh and also under the smaller wings we’ve attached to each reindeer’s harness. This wind mass under the wings lifts up the reindeer and the sleigh.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied honestly. “Can you or someone else please use words I can understand?”
Ben said, “In the simplest terms, Santa, if the reindeer can pull the sleigh fast enough, it will fly. And these reindeer can do just that. Back in Lapland, we selected the eight fastest reindeer. When they’re hitched to the sleigh and begin to run, the wings on the sleigh and the harness cut through the air. Enough air gets under the wings to lift the sleigh and the reindeer, too.”
Eager to tell me more, Leonardo added, “We’ve factored in the weight of a load of toys, and also the weight of a driver, who is meant to be you, Santa. I didn’t know how much you weighed, but Layla said she could guess, so I took her word for it.”
I swung my gaze over to my wife. “And how much did you say I weighed?”
Layla smiled. “Don’t ask. Why not just thank Leonardo for his brilliance, and everyone else for their hard work?”
So I offered my thanks, and suggested we might as well take the sleigh and the reindeer back to the house.
“Wait, Santa,” Felix said. �
�Don’t you want to see the reindeer pull the sleigh and fly through the sky?”
“I’m sure you’ve tested the whole process thoroughly,” I answered. “Good for you. Well, let’s go home.”
“Wait, Santa,” Layla said in a tone that made it clear she expected me to do as I was told. “All this work has been done so you can fly this sleigh on Christmas Eve, just a month from now. You must climb aboard the sleigh. Look, Willie Skokan is loading toys on it so the weight will be exactly right. Try it for yourself.”
Before I could protest, Ben took one of my arms, Felix took the other, and they propelled me toward the sleigh and onto its seat. There was a belt attached to the seat, and this was secured around my midsection—“So you won’t fall off,” Felix said alarmingly. Leonardo hitched up the reindeer and handed me the reins.
“They’ve been very well trained,” he assured me. “We have a signal that tells them to start running. It involves their names.”
“What names?” I spluttered.
“Why, the names given to them in Clement Moore’s poem,” Leonardo said innocently. “I assumed you wanted to keep everything as close to that story as possible, so American children won’t be disappointed. I’ll whisper the command now, so they won’t hear me and start too soon. Simply shout out, ‘Now, Dasher, now, Dancer, now, Prancer and Vixen; on, Comet, on Cupid, on, Donder and Blitzen!’ Then they’ll run and the sleigh will take off.”
Everyone but Felix backed away, waiting for me to give the reindeer their signal. Even the reindeer themselves seemed pleased at the prospect, as all eight looked back at me with expectant eyes. The small wings on each reindeer’s harness seemed to flutter with anticipation. I sat still and didn’t make a sound.
Felix leaned over and whispered to me. “What’s wrong?”
I whispered back, “I can’t remember the whole signal.”
Blixen
“That’s all right. Just in case, we’ve also trained them to run when the driver shouts, ‘Go!’ ” Felix assured me.
I still didn’t move. “What’s the matter now?” Felix inquired softly.
I told him the truth: “I’m afraid of heights.”
“Well, time to get over it,” Felix muttered unsympathetically. He stepped back and, to my absolute horror, shouted, “Go!”
The reindeer responded instantly. My arms were nearly tugged from their sockets as the reins tightened and the eight-animal team surged forward. They ran madly over the snow, the sleigh bumping along the ground behind them. For twenty yards, I bumped along, then fifty, and I started thinking Leonardo had been wrong, and then the wind began to whistle and the sleigh took a sudden lurch. I looked in front of the sleigh at the reindeer, and then down, and the ground was well below me. Layla, looking no larger than an ant, was waving. I suspected she was also laughing.
The poor man actually had tears in his eyes as I described the wonders of English Christmases past. When I finally finished with the tale of how Washington Irving had suggested I come to London, Dickens pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose in a series of loud honks.
TWENTY-ONE
A Christmas Carol
After I learned to drive a team of flying reindeer prop erly—and it took me a few years, too, with some very embarrassing accidents I choose not to describe here—I made it a point every Christmas Eve to make my last American stop for the night at Clement Moore’s house. The first time I landed on his lawn—not on the roof, because roofs as a rule are too steep to make good landing areas for reindeer—I saw him peeking through his bedroom window curtain. Smiling in spite of myself, I motioned for him to meet me inside.
We ended up chatting for almost an hour, sitting comfortably in his parlor beside a huge Christmas tree, and had such a pleasant time we decided to make a tradition of it. Poor Clement apologized profusely when I told him what great trouble his description of flying reindeer had caused me, but I assured him things had turned out well. In fact, I had even overcome my fear of heights and quite enjoyed soaring through the skies with Dasher and Dancer and the rest of my four-legged friends.
On Christmas Eve 1842, Clement had a surprise for me. I landed on his lawn as usual, tired from my long night’s work and looking forward to the delicious chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Moore always baked fresh that afternoon for me. Clement welcomed me inside and, before I could ask for my cookies, said he wanted me to shake hands with someone.
“Don’t worry, Santa, I haven’t given away your secrets to a stranger,” he laughed. “I think you already know this gentleman.” We went into the parlor and there, sitting beside the warm fire, was none other than Washington Irving.
“It’s wonderful to see you again,” I told him by way of greeting. “Your Diedrich Knickerbocker made me welcome in America after all, with its influence on Clement’s ‘A Visit from Saint Nicholas.’ ”
“Actually, most people have begun to call that poem ”Twas the Night Before Christmas’ after its first line,” Irving corrected. “The original title is well on its way to being forgotten. Still, I’m proud that my book was Clement’s inspiration.”
Clement bustled about getting us all hot cocoa to drink. As he did, I told Irving, “Congratulations, of course, on all your success as an author. You certainly accomplished your goal of becoming world famous and widely read. What was the name of that one book, the collection of short stories, and the title of that popular story in particular?”
“I think you mean The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon,” Irving laughed. “You might remember I was living in England when I wrote that one. And the story in it to which I’m sure you refer is ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ I have to admit I’m surprised it was so popular, what with its references to a headless horseman and so forth. Perhaps it will become closely associated with that so-called holiday of Halloween, the way Clement’s poem is eternally linked with Christmas.”
The three of us chatted until almost dawn, when I rose to take my leave before Clement’s countless children and grandchildren spilled down the stairs to see what presents Santa might have left for them. As I gathered up the handful of sugar lumps Clement always gave me as a parting present for the reindeer, Irving asked me, “Now that you’ve conquered America, so to speak, what do you want to do next?”
“It continues to trouble me that Christmas is still so poorly celebrated in England,” I replied. “My friends, I tell you that once upon a time there was no country that enjoyed happier Christmas holidays. Oliver Cromwell and his henchmen ruined that, and I won’t be completely at peace with myself until British Christmases return to their old, joyous heights.”
Irving looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I received a letter not long ago from an English writer whose work I admire. In it, he said how much he’d enjoyed a short story of mine about a mythical Christmas celebration at the home of a fictional English squire, and how he was determined to restore the tradition of wonderful Christmas holidays in his country. His name is Charles Dickens. He might be of help to you, and you could be of help to him.”
Within a month, I’d written to Dickens asking to visit him in London, identifying myself only as someone who shared both his enthusiasm for the Christmas holiday and his desire to again make it a special part of British life. In October, having received a warm and enthusiastic invitation to Dickens’s home, Layla and I sailed back to England. We had a happy reunion with Arthur when we docked, and the next morning I strolled across London to meet with Charles Dickens.
Please understand that, except on my holiday gift-giving excursion, whenever I was out in public I wore ordinary clothing so as not to draw attention to myself. My full white beard and somewhat stout stature never seemed to remind anyone I passed of Santa Claus. But the moment Dickens opened his front door and saw me standing on the step, he immediately said, “You’re Father Christmas!” Remember, this was the name by which I’d once been widely known in England, and what I was still called by the remaining English children who were allowed
to believe in me and expect my Christmas visits.
“Not so loud!” I cautioned. “May I please come in?”
“Of course!” Dickens boomed, and ushered me into a very nice home. “My study is just to the left. Please make yourself comfortable sitting on this chair, not that other, which has seat-spring cushions which sometimes cause discomfort.
“Well, Father Christmas is here in my own home! I knew you really existed, I just knew it! There’s been too much joy surrounding the holidays, too much happiness for there not to have been someone special involved for countless centuries! You really must tell me all about it!”
I did, and Dickens sat listening for hours. Sometimes he’d interrupt with questions, but mostly he nodded. The poor man actually had tears in his eyes as I described the wonders of English Christmases past. When I finally finished with the tale of how Washington Irving had suggested I come to London, Dickens pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose in a series of loud honks.
“Father Christmas, please help me find a way to restore proper Christmases to England,” he pleaded. “Although I’ve tried, I’m afraid my own poor talents aren’t equal to the task.”
“How have you tried?” I wondered.
Dickens frowned, an expression I later learned was usual for him. The man truly had an odd face, pinched around the eyes and dominated by one of the largest noses I’d ever seen. Even Dickens’s hair was strange, very thin on top and thick and curly around his ears.
“As you know, I’m a writer,” he explained. “By most standards, I’m a rather successful one, too. Some of my novels have sold very well, particularly Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, and The Pickwick Papers. But the public likes my books better than it does the other causes I promote, namely better working conditions in the factories and better treatment of the poor. These are hard times for the less fortunate, Father Christmas, and that’s a fact. This is why I think it’s so important for Christmas to become glorious again, so everyone, young and old, rich and poor alike, can have at least one day of the year where problems and differences are put aside and everyone can celebrate together.”
