Despite her underlying anxiety at being found out, she indulged often in the momentary luxury of sticking a finger into a sleeper’s mouth to touch the exposed bone of their surviving teeth.
Take Andrew Jonathan Campbell, in mid-snore beside his wife of fifty years. Though his hair was sparse, he was a hearty seventy-six, hiking and exercising and eating right to live out his remaining days in fine fettle. Foolish old coot, she mused. Little Andy ought to have indulged his lusts, made an art out of the pursuit of pleasure. These womb-dropped mortals toddled up into youth, then swiftly aged, drooped, and died, their lives but a finger snap.
She recalled Andrew Jonathan Campbell as a wee tyke. He had believed in her. He had tucked delicious baby teeth beneath his pillow. Even then, as he innocently slept, she probed his lollipop mouth, detesting him, longing to yank out his whole set of choppers and grinders, to devour them in that moonlit bedroom and shove fresh-minted coins beneath his skull, so that he would wake, a rich little boy, to bloody horror. Now, running her fingers across molar and bicuspid, his crowns gold and porcelain in corncrib alternation, she felt that same impulse. Zeus, eight years before, had shut off her ability to despise children in their bedrooms. But most of her visitants tonight were former children, and she reveled in her continuity of rage against every last one of them.
Zeus and Pan had overstepped. This might be her only chance to snuff out all generosity of spirit in humankind, set Pan’s harmonious community to crumbling, and undermine Zeus’s faith in his creation. She anticipated the taste of triumph.
Yet she could not afford to linger. To be sure, magic time would stretch to accommodate that indulgence. But she wanted to be in and out without discovery, without a chance at reversal, and that meant speed. Secrecy, and the critical months of germination ahead, were on her side.
So she whipped Gronk along Santa’s route, flew down, and wrenched each egg-seed about in every mortal who had received a divine implant, replacing each instance of potential generosity with the dark flame of festering pinchedness—all of it done so swiftly and with such stealth that not a spirit in heaven or anywhere else noticed, though of course God, who knows all, knew all—but that’s another tale entirely.
* * *
Later that day at the North Pole, the giftgiving was finished. Finished too the drinking of eggnog and hot cider and mulled wine, as also the feasting on ham and turkey, peas and mashed potatoes, pies pumpkin, apple, rhubarb, cherry, and pecan. The elves had with great vitality taken to the skating pond, whipping Santa off at the end of a long chain of skaters into the snow, then doing the same thing to Wendy, to her mom, and even to grandmotherly old Anya. Great merriment abounded, their celebrations extensive and fervent, raucous with laughter and at times solemn with bowed heads, doffed caps, and hands clasped in prayer and thanksgiving for the special blessings of this Christmas Day.
But night fell at last. Time for lights to be extinguished in the elves’ quarters; for the reindeer, brushed and well-fed, to lay down their heads in sleep; for Santa and his loving wives to share marital intimacies in a magnificent four-poster bed, ivy everywhere entwined; even as Snowball and Nightwind snuggled against a blissfully exhausted Wendy in her bed.
Santa in his red flannel nightshirt had paused long enough, prior to joining Rachel and Anya, to tuck Wendy in and bestow an especially loving kiss upon her cheek, his beard cotton-candying her face with the inviting aroma of roasting chestnuts. When he pulled back, his smile filled her field of vision.
“You’re so beautiful, Daddy.”
“Not half so beautiful as you.”
“I think we did a good thing tonight.”
“We did a very good thing,” he agreed.
“Are you feeling okay with everything?”
“Oh you mean, getting close to grown-ups in such great numbers?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, yes. I have to admit it was sobering, touching all that fallenness. Little wonder they invented Satan to blame it on.”
“I was thinking,” she said, “maybe we should monitor the implants on a regular basis, you know, to make sure nothing's gone wrong?”
“Now, now, young lady. No need for that. We should trust to the archangel. Don’t try pushing the river, a watched pot never boils, and all that. I’ll tell you what. I’ll check in on occasion, just a few mortals. If anything’s amiss, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” she said. “So why is it, Daddy? How come they’re so mean to each other?”
“What it boils down to, I suppose, is that they get in the way of their own goodness. Some of them do it so often that the goodness goes into hibernation. And parts of their waywardness pretend to a loftier virtue, though they are as far from virtue as can be.”
“What really puzzles me,” said Wendy, “are the rich people and the ones in power, mortals with the wherewithal to magnify their goodness, if they would make half an effort.”
“Intolerance escapes no one,” said Santa. He lowered his eyes and looked pained. “The powerful are some of the most troubled souls we dropped in on tonight. In their heart of hearts, they believe the religious platitudes about love and charity. Then they beat the drums of war. Riches that could ease suffering are squandered on weapons.” He paused and brightened. “But let’s not dwell on their shortcomings, not tonight. What we were given to do we have done. Let us rejoice in that.”
Wendy felt the pain in his smile. “I’m afraid you’ve changed,” she said, touching his arm.
His face fisted up tight, but he refused to cry.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay.”
“Once upon a time, they were such good little boys and girls, and they....” He waved it off. “No matter,” he said. “Ah, but how selfish of me. What of my darling daughter? You’ve been witness to the same sleepers as I. Surely you’ve changed too. You seem all right, but are you?”
She smiled. “I’m stronger than I look, Daddy, in my heart and in my determination to do the right thing. Who filled this bedroom with the horrors of their sins? Besides, I put all my focus on supporting you, a nurse to your doctoring.”
“You give me such comfort,” he said. Then he kissed her once more and wished her goodnight.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Sleep tight, you hear? We’re going to have the best year yet. I’ll be all right. I just need a good night’s rest.”
Wendy yawned and nodded.
Concerned though she was, she was fast asleep before Santa eased the doorknob about to soften its click.
PART THREE
Disaster Averted
Chapter 28. Germinations in the Dark
THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, THE ELVES PLUNGED BACK into work, eager, as always, to make the coming year better than the last. Herbert remained the talk of the workshop. On breaks, his workbench was always swarmed with eager listeners. For he spoke nothing but blessings, a skill at which he soon became adept. All the elves, but for Gregor and his brothers, clamored to be the recipient of those blessings.
Wendy split her time between workshop and cottage, helping whatever elf she was drawn to, not planning which that would be but trusting to instinct and spontaneity. At home, Anya taught her new domestic skills or tutored her further in those she had begun to master. And though she appeared to be a little girl, she grew in maturity and responsibility as befitted her true age.
She and Anya were seated now at the kitchen table, pouring over recipes for whole grain dishes. Soon they would tackle quinoa salad, but Anya conveyed first the underlying science, why using all of the grain was far more nutritionally beneficial than just the germ.
“But Anya,” protested Wendy, “I can see why mortals ought to know this. But why us? We’ll live forever, won’t we? And even when we eat badly, we always have more than enough energy for the most arduous of tasks.”
Anya smiled. “Santa has always had a huge appetite, not just for food but for all the good things life affords. He overeats. He binges on sweets, on
fatty foods, on fried crullers and on chips and cookies without number. And he drinks far too much Coke, enough to induce diabetes ten times over in a mortal. In this arena at least, he’s not a good role model for children. But for me, as chief cook and bottle washer, it’s a question of knowing more about foods, how they play together and what effect various combinations have on the body.”
“But that’s on mortal bodies, right?”
“Land sakes, child,” laughed Anya, “you are the stubborn one. We eat the same food as mortals, but its good effects are magnified in us. So it’s part of the art of cooking in this community to optimize healthy foods, because they increase our energy many thousandfold what a mortal needs. Fortunately for us, and especially for Santa, the effect of bad eating habits is not likewise multiplied. He indulges, it’s true. He overindulges. But seeing him so happy at the table, I ask you, how can I say nay to my great big lovable glutton?”
That was sufficient for Wendy, who threw herself heart and soul into the history of quinoa (which she at first pronounced kwa-NO-ah, but which Anya corrected as kee-NWAH), the divine grain of the Incas. She watched it bulk up and soften in boiling water, white mini-tapioca with beguiling little tails. Into the bowl went peanuts and scallions, walnut oil and golden raisins and mandarin oranges. Its taste on the mixing spoon was just short of heaven.
Everything she did, in cottage or workshop, was enhanced by memories of Christmas Eve’s extended delivery and of Santa’s sacrifice in becoming intimate with the failings of grown-ups. They had succeeded. She just knew they had. Once the egg-seeds took hold, the world would be at least a tiny bit transformed. And she placed absolute trust, as Santa had advised, in the archangel.
Outwardly, she cultivated patience.
But inside, she jumped up and down like a child basking in the glow of Christmas giftgiving. For her stepfather had given her the greatest gift of all as she grew beneath his tutelage: generosity of spirit, self-sacrifice, and the best role model one could wish for. Over and above the spiritual good that would come from the implantings, he had shown her the spirit in which she ought to carry out any assigned task.
Already she had begun to rethink her annual Christmas Eve visits. Perhaps among the hundred boys and girls she chose should be one or two who, though not strictly good by Santa’s definition, had the potential to be good, and might, by virtue of her visit, realize that potential.
She vowed that next autumn, when came time to assemble her list, she would scan the world’s children with a new eye.
“All right,” said Anya, “now we cover it with clear wrap and into the fridge it goes. Rachel and Santa will bubble over with oohs and aahs at the dinner table tonight, see if they don’t. Tomorrow, we’ll tackle a kasha casserole.”
“Kasha? What’s that?”
And Anya launched into a disquisition about kasha, also known as buckwheat, while Wendy happily nodded, only half listening, and thanked God all over again for resurrecting her out of the death she had endured into such a delightful state of immortality among such delightful immortals.
* * *
A few days later, Santa suffered a bout of anxiety. What if the egg-seeds were duds? From a distance, he had scrutinized several of them germinating in various mortal chests—though, alas, he had failed to notice their change in orientation. And observing these same mortals day by day, he had seen only the infuriating persistence of their prejudice toward those whose sexuality differed from their own.
So restless was he that he summoned the archangel on a solitary walk the afternoon of New Year’s Day. He stood on the precise spot in the Chapel where the Father had joined him to Anya and Rachel in holy wedlock. Before he could voice his concern, Michael said with a hint of exasperation, “These things take time. Fret not, worthy servant. Neither fidget nor be unduly concerned. Only the most dramatic of miracles, instigated directly by God Almighty, result in immediate change.”
“When then, o great archangel?” Try as he might to keep impatience out of his voice, there it lurked, glaringly obvious to elf and angel alike.
Michael’s laughter filled the Chapel with heavenly light. “By Good Friday, the change that is to spring forth Easter morning should be evident. Until then, banish all concern. Focus on toymaking. In the fallen world, it often happens that seeds of goodness, once they are pressed into the soil, take time to germinate and come to fruition. Things may even worsen, or appear to worsen, before the delicious uptick of permanent improvement takes hold. Ease thy mind and be comforted.”
Santa felt the angel’s palm upon his brow and released a gentle cry at his touch.
“You have done well,” assured Michael, “and such doings cannot but result in a worthy outcome. Leave off staring at the ice on the river, or at tilled and planted soil. For in due time, the one shall melt, the other yield to a thrust of sprouts surging joyous sunward.”
“So I shall, good Michael.”
Then the angel rose and vanished, the comfort of his touch lingering all that day and far into the next.
* * *
“What are you whining about?” The Tooth Fairy gave Gronk a vicious smack. He tumbled backward upon the sand, grains flying. “Come here!” Gronk scurried back to cower before her. “Of course we have a prayer,” she said.
“But you didn’t see the archangel.”
“Zeus’s minions put on a good show. Don’t be spooked. It’s nothing but smoke and mirrors. Tell me more about the do-gooders dropping their guard.”
“Well yeah, as far as I can tell—and I’ve been listening in on whole heaps of conversations—they think they’ve won. They’ve resumed making toys and being one big happy family. My midnight whisperings have helped upset Santa’s elves, so things are well launched on that front. My job there, I’d say, is pretty much done.”
“Like hell it is.” She glared with such scorn, he was forced to look away. “Easter morning, you say?”
The Tooth Fairy picked an implant victim at random, some slumbering loser named Sadie Morgan, a Cincinnati slut with a luscious mouth, a penchant for tribalism both religious and political, and a wicked heart soon to grow wickeder. Into her capacious chest the Tooth Fairy peered. There sat the egg-seed inverted, the tendrils of its roots pushing deep inside her. Thin and pink they were, pulsing with evil intent. Impossible that Santa would not eventually notice. But at the rate the egg-seeds were germinating, a few weeks might be all that was needed. By then, extracting them would be impossible.
“The implants are coming along,” she said. “It won’t be long before...”
Then impatience bubbled up inside her and spilled over into rage. Gronk scuttled away, though not before she landed a savage kick to his belly and flew up frenzied into the air. “They ought to work at once! That fat little bastard is sure to catch on. He’ll squeal to Hermes, go straight to Zeus, or twist the eggs back about and send his elves to stand guard. I like my mayhem swift. None of this germination crap!”
She pointed an imperious finger at Gronk. “You will keep spying on the whole namby-pamby crew until the mortals wake unto wickedness. Continue the whisperings. Make them more invasive. I don’t just want the little shits to feel bad. I want them to do vile things to one another. We will not be trumped, you hear me? If you notice any alarm raised in anyone up there, rush to inform me. Will I beat you for bad news? You bet I will. But delays in reporting will go far worse.”
She swooped down and seized his arms in a vise grip. A grin knifed across her face. “Succeed, and Mommy will give you a special treat, one your brothers will never enjoy.” The grin vanished. “Fail, and you’ll fall to the bottom of the heap in my estimation, even below mewling Chuff. I’ll set your sibs on you, withhold my charms for all eternity, give you nothing but scorn, and make your life a living hell. Now go!”
Hurling him into the air, the Tooth Fairy watched him spin and flounder, then catch himself and arrow away like a smear of grayish light. She despised Gronk, as she despised all of the bastards Zeus had got
upon her. But they had their use. Through them might she topple Pan, or eventually Zeus himself, dealing a deathblow to his cherished creation.
Her stomach growled. She craved teeth. In her mountain cave, a bowl of molars, ever replenished, waited. Munching them, she would sit brooding in her bone chair, converting calcium to coins, and watching the details fall into place on the devious playing field of her mind.
There she sped upon the instant, preoccupied with mayhem.
Chapter 29. Intolerance Among the Elves
WEEKS PASSED. GREGOR REGAINED THE UPPER HAND at the North Pole, instigating a weekly series of harangues, during which he heaped scorn and ridicule on the act of nosepicking and excoriated the practitioners of same. Especially did he scapegoat the six previously exposed cross-nosepickers, and Fritz above all. Even Herbert’s star, which had risen to astounding heights when he found his voice, Gregor tarnished anew, and a subtle shunning took hold.
One night late in February, Fritz had had enough. “After lights out,” he confided to the persecuted, “wait half an hour, then make your way to Santa’s hut in the woods.” Gustav and Knecht Rupert nodded at this, as did Franz and Johann. Herbert began, “May the Good Lord be with us in—” but Fritz stopped his mouth, lest his enthusiasm alert the forces of repression that something was afoot.
The hut lay far off in a secluded part of the forest behind the elves’ quarters. It had once been used by Santa for...well, they weren’t quite sure for what. But his helpers had remodeled it as a honeymoon cottage and it now provided an occasional getaway for Santa and his wives. A raging fireplace, a huge bed, and absolute stillness nestled amongst the trees—no better refuge from the workaday world existed at the North Pole. The summoned elves flumphed down on the bed to sprawl and listen. Herbert wore about his neck a new camera he had created that very day.
Fritz paced. “I’ll get right to the point. I’m fed up,” he said. “We’re all fed up with the judgmental bent of our confreres, are we not?”
Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes Page 22
