For the longest time, she could not bring herself to touch down. She scored her breasts until they bled, tore out clumps of hair rooted in bloody divots of scalp, and shook her fists at the heavens, shouting her defiance of Zeus, the Fates, and scores of others who fell into the hopper of her invective. They were all to blame, every last immortal arrayed against her.
“Blustering thunderer!” she railed. “You think you’ve won this round. But I have more tricks in store. What they are I cannot say, but they will be terrible—and I’ll start with these eggs.” Glaring earthward, she dive-bombed them, anticipating the impact, the delicate shells smashed into shards, and the shock rippling through the heavenly host at her affront to the Divine Mother. But as she neared them, so repellent was their stench that she glanced off just before impact.
“Boys,” she screamed at her bewildered imps. The loss of her last-born was a bitter pill. She would miss kicking the little shit around. “Hear me well. You are to fetch me the skulls of bad little boys and girls, as many as you can carry. When you chase them down, squeeze the rich red nectar of fear from their bodies. Hold it in your mouths—don’t dare swallow a single drop—for my delectation when you return. Now go.”
They hesitated, consumed with hunger for their eggs.
Through them then like a fury she raced, seizing each of her bastards and pinwheeling him into the sky, Gronk first, the others swiftly following. And out into the world of mortals they spread, seeking mischievous tykes who roamed the streets, tearing into them, chasing them into alleyways or across moonlit parking lots, snapping their leg bones, sucking up the marrow, imbibing their cries of pain, wrenching off their heads, peeling back the flesh, and tucking the still-warm skulls under their arms, then hunting down the next little miscreant.
Cheeks bulging, arms a-topple with precarious pyramids of fresh skulls, they sped back to the island, where their mother continued to swirl above the circle of eggs in a whirlwind of a fury. She babbled incoherently, out of her mind with rage at her deflected revenge.
In a mad parody of communion, the Tooth Fairy gagged down whole skulls like horse pills, one imp’s armload after another. With a savage kiss, she drank terror from their mouths, its taste blistering her throat with bile. Once an imp was deskulled, she discarded him and reached for the next, eager to quench her unquenchable thirst. And when she had bolted Gronk’s offerings and quaffed from his lips a long slow chaser of fear, she tossed him aside as well and positioned herself precisely above the circle of eggs.
Through her digestive tract slithered her dreadful meal, turned to currency in her colon, bone to gold, soft first, then solidifying into serrated disks. Out from her fundament flew a great clatter of coins, raining down in flurries upon the eggs. Each bore the face of a screaming child, panic on one side, pain on the other, flipping end over end. Heavy suckers they were. If an incisor might convert to a quarter, each skull became a hundred-dollar gold piece.
She expected her monetary payload to pock and pelt the eggs into oblivion. Instead, as each coin reached its target, the stamped urchin’s face relaxed, the child’s spirit emerged and evaporated upward into bliss, and the smooth-faced coin melted, coating with gold leaf one small part of the shell, until all thirteen eggs had been gilded thick, not one patch of chocolate showing.
Dismay lay heavy upon her sons’ faces. Those who tried to rush in before the gold hardened proved too late. A few broke their teeth in their attempt to batten on the inaccessible food. They skittered away, holding their jaws and wailing. Others sat stunned, bewildered, and disoriented.
Down flew the Tooth Fairy, her anger spent. “Scan this beach,” she said. “Commit it to memory. Never are you to return here again, on pain of death. Our island is vast, many its miles of shoreline. One day, I will figure out how to shatter these abominations to kingdom come. On that day, we will reclaim this place. Until then, get you gone!”
Before their mother’s command, they scattered.
The Tooth Fairy gave a last look around and went to brood in her mountain cave. Her frenzied dance of defiance, she knew, had sprung from utter impotence. Thwarted from unleashing chaos on the world of mortals, she had let it out here.
Her time was not yet, but it would come.
She would send Gronk out to spy again in a few hours, not this second. There were times to act and times to simmer in the juices of hatred. And she knew one from the other.
* * *
After the elves had helped Anya to her cottage, they stood in the commons looking dazed and confused. They had said their farewells to Santa, whose body remained in the sleigh, covered with snow crocuses. Gregor and his brothers had long ago led the reindeer to their stalls, rubbed them down, fed them, and drawn thick drapes over the windows to prevent the coming brilliance of sunlight on snow from disturbing their rest. They were concerned about Wendy and Rachel, of course. But they were too numbed by Santa’s death to share that concern with one another.
It was odd. Though they avoided looking at their master’s corpse, each elf felt connected to it, each knew precisely where it was behind his back. How could they go on? No groomed successor waited to assume the mantle of leadership at the North Pole. Immortals weren’t supposed to die. And if no one delivered toys, what was the point in making them?
Gregor stood, arms folded, observing his aimless brethren. He had been tricked out of his sanctimony, humiliated to the depths, and briefly ostracized. Then they had taken him back, showering him with all the kindness and generosity in their natures. Well and good. He had deserved what he got. Indeed, he had deserved far more. But that didn’t mean he had to put up with their endless moping and pining.
“I have something to say,” he said. Heads turned. His gimlet eye narrowed. “Gather ‘round, I don’t intend to shout. But I’m going to speak, loud and long, about the greatest saint that ever lived. And what he meant, what he means, to me. He was a grand chubby old fellow, generous through and through, who liked you just as you were. Now I’m not the easiest joe to get along with. Everyone here knows that. But he got along with me. He got along with all of us. He was our father, our brother, our friend—one on one and right on your level, looking you smack-dab in the eye so that you felt, well, ‘put together’ and squared off from top to toe. Damn fine soul, that fellow yonder. We’ll not see his like again.”
Gregor shared dozens of moments in his many centuries with the good Saint Nicholas. And when he had finished, Knecht Rupert stood up and spoke his piece, followed by Fritz, and Sigmund, and Karl, each elf stepping into the speaking place as if he’d been told when his turn was, brightening the blue-gray commons with anecdote, remembrance, and thanks, filling every eye with tears, constricting every throat, and warming every heart.
Finally, Herbert stood upon the well-worn patch of snow. Doffing his cap, he held it before him in both hands, his flaxen hair sweeping across his forehead, mustard yellow in the murky light of pre-dawn. “Dear brothers,” he began, “fortunate are we for having known Santa Claus, fortunate in having worked for him. And fortunate are we in his death. That sounds strange, I know, and not one of us stands here but would give up his life to have him back.
“I look out over a familiar sea of faces. And beyond that sea, beneath a soft quilt of crocus petals, sleeps peacefully the blessed saint who has shaped and guided us from the beginning, from that time when the Father brought us into being out of...well, I suppose it was out of nothing, though we have often wondered, have we not, in late night discussions bunk to bunk, whether we had past lives, glimpsed on occasion in dream, lives different from those we now lead.
“Much praise could I heap upon this good elf.
“But I want to focus on the events which have brought us to this moment. For when I say we are blessed in Santa’s death, I mean that he gave his life for the most noble of causes, first to spare the life of a child, and then to remove one sorry blight from all human souls, taking on the pains they would have suffered in that removal.
“Santa died that others might live.
“Yet even at the end, with the crushing weight of so much misery upon him, his last words were not of himself, but focused still on being generous toward others. ‘I must save her,’ he said. So those near him report. I must save Wendy. Has there ever been in the history of the world so selfless a soul as this our Santa Claus? You will mention the Son, and indeed that is the only comparison worthy of our master, whose actions this night must surely elevate him higher in heaven, into a sainthood above all other saints. We have witnessed his sacrifice. Even the pain of having lost him, as terrible as it feels, celebrates our connection to him. It touches us to the heart. For great joy and sorrow are of a piece. They bless us and make our lives holy and good. This our role model, our beacon of goodness, has gone from us. But our connection to him will never—”
Those listening saw something odd cross Herbert’s features. His mouth opened and closed. His eyes, which had roved amongst them as he spoke, were now stuck at a point beyond them. Over their heads. In the general direction of—
Gasps escaped those who had already turned. Then everyone looked back. And lo, they beheld Saint Nicholas, suit spotless, sitting up, his thighs and hips buried in flower petals, but the rest of him rising red, white, and rosy-cheeked from them, they having fallen to either side of the sleigh, random blobs of color twirling gently to the snow or winking purple and yellow from his beard.
Then the first light of that Easter dawn struck his face, which split asunder with a laugh as deep and jolly as any that had ever issued from him. “Don’t stop, Herbert,” he said. “Go on, go on. I rather like what I’m hearing.”
Joy flared then in every elfin heart from the dormant embers of their sorrow. Up into a roar of thanksgiving rose their shouts. They rushed the sleigh, lifted Santa to their shoulders, and tossed about the laughing saint who had returned to life behind their backs. Over and over and ‘round and ‘round did they pass him. Somewhere in the midst of their raucous commotion, Anya emerged from the cottage. A breakaway crew swept her up into the maelstrom, clapping her hands and kissing her hubby and laughing and crying beyond measure as she found him and lost him and found him once more in the continual swirl above his helpers’ heads.
* * *
As soon as they were out of danger, her mom handed Wendy the reins. Then she got to ride beside Chuff, as he had shyly introduced himself, while Mommy sat in back.
At first she had a hard time looking at the imp, he was so god-awful ugly. But the more he spoke—surprisingly modest was he in his speech—the more she warmed to him.
“I’m sure your mother,” she said, “has a little bit of good in her somewhere, like maybe way deep down inside.”
Chuff shook his head sadly. “None. She hurt Chuff. The others hurt Chuff. She egged them on. She drove us to do bad things. Real bad things.”
“Oh.” Wendy, at a loss for a response, slapped the reins lightly against Galatea’s flank. “I hope my daddy’s okay.”
“The dead guy?”
“He was pretty spry for a shade, I thought. Maybe there’s hope.”
The bubble about the North Pole rose before them and they slipped through it like the point of a needle through muslin.
“Ooh,” said Chuff. “That felt good.”
“It’s our sanctuary,” said Wendy. “The Father’s hand rests upon it. I don’t know how you’ll be received. But I’ll bet it’s a vast improvement over what you’re used to.”
Rachel piped up from the back seat. “Chuff will be given a royal welcome. Everyone’s likely to be a little subdued, though, at first.”
“Oh yeah. My dad. But I’ll bet his shade pops up. Maybe it’ll even somehow get together with his—”
“Sweetheart, let’s not get our...”
But the buildings and the commons and the skating pond, shiny as mica, came suddenly into view. And a swirl of green shapes resolved itself into ant-sized elves, handing around a cherry-red figure, very much alive, over their heads, and the gaily clad Anya as well. “It’s Daddy! He’s okay!”
Oh my, did Wendy’s spirits brighten then.
Rachel gripped Wendy’s shoulder. “Look at him down there,” she said through tears of joy.
“Isn’t this neat?” asked Wendy, aware how silly she sounded but not caring a whit.
“Uh huh,” agreed Chuff, grasping the curled scroll of the sleigh before him.
Everyone was now grasshopper-sized below. They had spotted the sleigh and were waving wildly and tossing their belled caps into the air, though Wendy was still too high up to hear the jingle of those bells, and their rowdy shouts thinned to faint huzzahs.
But Galatea spiraled in and Wendy gave the reins to Chuff so she could reach back and hug her mom. “Just hold them, is all,” she instructed him. “You can do it.”
He was uncertain at first. Then he gripped them proudly, and the ugliest smile, with a center of pure goodness, beamed from him. He giggled like a little boy about to pee his pants with excitement, and his eyes grew wide.
Down they spiraled. As they runnered to a stop beside Santa’s sleigh, the elves began to stream toward them. Then they noticed Chuff and came to a halt.
“Everybody,” said Wendy proudly, “this is Chuff.”
“Lads,” said Santa, sensing his helpers’ uncertainty, “I’d like you to meet a very brave imp indeed, the last born and least mean of the Tooth Fairy’s brood, who defied his mother, ate of the divine egg—the first on earth to do so—and surrendered to his better angels. Let us welcome this goodhearted fellow to the North Pole.”
And Santa stepped forward (how it thrilled Wendy to see him alive!), lifted Chuff from the sleigh, and embraced him like a returning son.
The commons exploded in cheers.
Then he gathered Wendy to him and she buried her head in his belly, his fresh-baked-bread generosity filling her with contentment. Rachel left the sleigh and joined their embrace, and radiant Anya came forward too, tears smudging her glasses.
“My dear friends,” said Santa, “what a glorious Easter morn has burst upon us. All humankind has waked to goodness. And one utterly lost has been found. Accept Chuff as your own. Fashion him a suit to cover his nakedness. Give him the best bed in your quarters, and the best bench in the workshop. Tonight we shall feast in his honor. From this moment, he is one of us. Gregor, be so good as to lead Galatea to her well-deserved rest. I’ll catch up my family on my adventures, and they shall do the same. Then will we witness the changing of the world of mortal men, the highlights of which Wendy will share with you at tonight’s feast. For I have no doubt, after our yeoman efforts, that change it will.”
Then Wendy walked between her mother and her stepdad, Anya on Santa’s far side, toward the cottage, in the radiance of a new day’s dawn.
Chapter 41. Rebirth, Confession, Redemption
DIVINE MUSE, MORE DIVINE than the Christian God could ever hope to be, grant me now the artistry to depict in vivid tones and textures the great day of awakening on this bounteous earth. In every nation, in every nook, sin-sick sleepers, saved by the hand of Santa from simmering hatred, poked their sleepy heads out of a haze of dreams into wakefulness. Words cannot adequately paint that critical moment, multiplied umpteen millionfold across the globe, when those mortals awoke, and ate of the divine egg, and were in some small but magnificent way redeemed. But with your help, good muse, I shall try, I shall try.
Picture then the slumberers. Divide them into two camps. Those who had slumbered unvisited, whose hearts had not been touched by Saint Nick because they were free of homophobia; they slept the sleep of the righteous, though they were by no means sin-free in other regards. And those from whose hearts the up-ended egg had been extracted, whose nostrils were filled with the redemptive aroma of chocolate made from the Divine Mother’s milk, waiting at arm’s reach. It is to them that our story must turn.
Initially, they woke to emptiness and sorrow. For their hearts had been touched by the immortal saint, whose
coming death they felt in their bones. Thoughts of suicide occurred to them then, for a world lacking Santa Claus is hardly worth the candle. But the chocolate egg’s allure and the strong sense that death was losing its hold over him quickly dispersed such thoughts. So attuned was each egg to its mortal, that its aroma, perfectly engaged in magnificent molecular intercourse with the mortal’s olfactory nerves, made it seem as though the eating and the comforting had already begun.
But oh, the first taste. When lips kissed chocolate, when teeth broke with a twin snick the shiny brown surface, when the heavenly air trapped inside escaped to delight the nose, and the taste buds rioted in exultation—then did they realize how famished they had been for so many years. Before them, in their hands and in their mouths, lay a confectionery opportunity, a means to unburden themselves of a terrible vice which many had thought a virtue. Carla Shengold of Boise, Idaho, a clinical psychologist, understood as she bit into her egg, how hard it was to overcome prejudice, to turn one’s back on it and never entertain it again. As she chewed, she knew herself blessed by miraculous chance, and wished for a houseful of such eggs to obliterate each of her failings.
At the first swallow, renewed love for humankind filled these awakened ones. In particular, generosity of spirit toward those of a non-heterosexual bent bloomed in them, an acceptance and an embrace. Marveling at the abundant variety of God’s creation, and the diverse nature of adult love, they saw through faux-religious demagogues—and these same demagogues acknowledged their longstanding delusions and wept with relief to let them go. They observed as well, with utter clarity, their own sexuality, recognizing that none of them, when it came right down to it, was one hundred percent heterosexual. Each felt some measure of attraction toward his or her own gender, and many were surprised and delighted—though, but an hour before, they would have been mortified—at the intensity of that attraction.
But I have not yet revealed the miraculous synchronicity that surrounded that first bite. For every one of these eggs was tasted worldwide at the precise instant that Santa Claus opened his eyes to the first light of dawn and inhaled his first post-resurrection breath. For generosity of spirit is all one, in mortal and immortal alike. And the childlike acceptance and embrace of human beings different from oneself keeps Santa Claus alive in our hearts.
Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes Page 30
