“Dismissed,” said Satan.
* * *
As the snow lightly landed on the windscreen of Lucifer’s Volkswagen, he blew on it, vaporised it with his demonic breath.
“One bonus of being The Lord of Hell,” he mused.
Abigar opened the road map.
“About forty miles to go, sir.”
His human form was that of a dwarf. He was four feet tall and his oversized head was not quite in proportion with his diminutive body.
“Excellent,” replied Satan. He felt happier already. They were on holiday; and he liked holidays, a lot.
“How long are we going to stay, sir,” asked Abigar.
“Just until Christmas has passed, then we can go home.”
“Three weeks, sir? I thought we would only be gone fortwo?”
“I have a plan, Abigar.”
Satan looked back at his map, a wry smile spread across his cheeks as he gazed at the town of Schanisgueld. At the top of the map, the country name was written in large, black ink letters: FINLAND. He ran his finger up the thin blue road that led to their destination. A faint wisp of smoke rose up from the map’s glossy surface and swirled around the inside of the car.
“Onward to Lapland,” said Satan.
* * *
As the Volkswagen drew up alongside the brightly coloured cottage, the deep snowdrifts that wedged themselves against the walls began to melt, turning to steam. Mighty conifers pushed their way skywards at the rear of the old building, contrasting the plethora of colourful Christmas designs that ordained its whitewashed walls.
By the time Satan and his demonic bodyguard stepped from their vehicle, light brown earth was starting to appear through the melted snow. A fine mist began to settle around the grounds of the cottage.
“This looks perfect, Abigar, well done.”
The tall, dark-haired man looked down at his stunted companion and smiled. “Shall we go inside?”
Abigar rummaged around in his coat pocket for a short while, before pulling out a small, silver key. He waddled into the wooden porch that shrouded the cottage entrance and unlocked its creaky, oak door.
The cottage was amazing. It was just what they had expected.
“The brochure certainly didn’t exaggerate, Abigar. It’s wonderful.”
“Thank you, sir, I thought you’d like it.”
“So, Santa Claus really lived here in the nineteenth century?” asked Satan.
Abigar pulled a glossy travel brochure from inside his coat and read from a circled paragraph.
“It says here, that Santa Claus worked and lived here for nearly three hundred years, fashioning gifts for the children of the world, until one day the world stopped believing. His powers faded, his annual trips stopped, and his reindeer retreated to the north. He died an old and lonely man, right here, in this house.”
“Okay,” said Satan, “so, who has been maintaining the house? The paintwork looks quite fresh.”
“There is still a small amount of residual magic left over in the cottage’s foundations. This remains, even though the old man died long ago. The spirit that was Christmas, still continues with the upkeep of the house, waiting to be used again by Santa Claus.”
Abigar looked at Lucifer with wide eyes.
“It’s a nice story isn’t it, sir?”
“Abigar,” said Lucifer.
“Yes, sir?”
“This year, we will be responsible for Christmas.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“What I mean, Abigar, is that this year, we will do the work Santa used to do. We will make all the gifts and, on Christmas Eve, we will deliver them to the children of the world.”
“Us, sir?”
“Yes, Abigar, I will be Santa and you can be Abigar the Elf.”
The Lord of Darkness laughed at his friend’s new name.
“Sir, pardon my boldness, but this is madness.”
“Madness, Abigar. Why?”
“B… b… because, sir,” gulped the little demon, “you are the Lord of the Underworld, the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer, and Beelzebub the Fallen Angel….”
“Abigar, shush. Be quiet.”
“But, sir….”
“I know all of that. Look,” Satan said, calmly taking Abigar by the arm, “no one will ever know. We might actually enjoy it. We can get back to our duties as minions of Hell, after the holidays.”
“What about the maiming, the killing, the torture – who will command our legions? Who will stoke the human pyres and feed the Bathalock?”
“You worry too much, Abigar. We will only be gone for three weeks and I have left Devachiah in charge. He is perfectly competent to run the place until we get home. We won’t even be missed. Now, run along upstairs and unpack our things.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Sitting back in a large, comfortable rocking chair, rocking quietly in front of an open log fire, The Devil pondered his new name. Santa, he thought, that’s quite close to Satan.
He reached over and opened a large picture book on top of the wooden table next to the fireplace. Inside, there were children’s toys of all shapes and sizes, depicted in perfect detail.
This was Santa’s toy manual. An amazing book, full of colourful dolls and playful carts, speeding trains and flashy cars, magical books that popped up and spoke, and cowboy guns and Indian bow’s.
Over the next few weeks, Abigar and Satan toiled through day and night, to complete the list of toys that flowed down the chimney and out into a large basket by the fire. Not one of them ever burned, Christmas magic saw to that. The two demons hammered, chiselled, moulded, and sewed, until every child’s wish for Christmas delight had been met.
“I think,” said Abigar as he fell back into his chair, “that we have finished.”
“And not a moment too soon,” observed Lucifer. “It’s Christmas Eve and we need to get a move on.”
“So, how do we deliver them, sir?” asked an exhausted Abigar.
“Simple,” said Satan. “Blow into this for me and see what happens!”
He smiled at Abigar and offered him a large elk’s horn that had been mounted above the fireplace.
Abigar took the horn, pressed it to his lips, and blew into it as hard as he could.
At first, they heard a faint resonance. It sounded like a foghorn, but far- off in the distance. Then, it got louder and louder, until the noise was deafening.
Without warning, it stopped and the room was plunged back into serene silence, only interrupted by the crackling of the log fire.
“Abigar, can you start to pack the presents into these two sacks. The one on the right is for the boys, the other for the girls.”
“But, sir, there is no way we will fit all those presents into….”
“Abigar,” Satan interrupted his small companion, “remember the Christmas magic!”
Suddenly, the sound of thundering hooves rattled across the cottage roof. They both knew what this meant: the transport had arrived.
Abigar ran outside, just in time to see Rudolph, the lead reindeer, make a sharp left turn, rear up, and bring the sleigh to a halt, just outside the front door.
“Where’s Santa?” asked Rudolph.
“My name is Abigar the Elf. I am Sata…,” the small demon stuttered; he cleared his throat and then said, “Santa’s little helper.”
The words made him cringe. He was a high-ranking demon in the Fifth Legion of Azryel, not a lowly elf. He took in a sharp intake of air and calmed down.
“Santa is inside… just finishing up.”
“So, where have you guys been for the last century?”
Rudolph glared at the dwarf, suspicious that he was alone.
“Where’s everyone else?”
Before Abigar had a chance to reply, a huge, fat man with a snowy white beard, wearing a bright red tunic and crimson trousers emerged from the house.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he bellowed and grinned down at Abigar.
“Master, you a
re a cunning beast.”
The dwarf bowed low and presented Rudolph and his troupe to Satan.
“Santa, where the hell have you been?” shouted Prancer.
“Drumming up some interest in Christmas,” replied The Devil. “It’s time for a come back.”
“Let’s roll,” shouted Rudolph. He turned his head to face Santa Claus and winked. “Good to have you back, sir.”
It didn’t take long to load up the sleigh. There were only two bags with presents, plus a little food and drink for the trip.
Abigar had the list of names. He had worked out as best a route as he could, but still didn’t see how they would complete the journey in one night.
With a loud snort and a mighty lunge of his head, Rudolph launched himself into the crisp winter’s night. The rest of the reindeer followed, dragging the sleigh up after them. The two demons hung on and enjoyed the ride.
All night long, they delivered presents to houses, flats, caravans, and hospitals.
Abigar kept looking at his watch. He was amazed at how slow time was passing. More magic, he supposed. But, what kind of magic was this?
“Sir, why does the clock move so slowly?”
The Devil looked down at him and whispered, “Good magic, Abigar. This is magic created in Heaven. It’s stronger than any force we can conjure up from hell.” He lowered his voice even further. “And now, my tiny friend, we’ve got it working for us.”
At last Abigar started to understand. His Master, Lord of Darkness, was indeed a genius.
* * *
It was Monday morning, Boxing Day, and Satan was feeling great. He greeted Abigar outside the cavernous entrance that led to the reception area of the ABYSS.
In huge letters, written in human blood, the words: Aamon Brandiel and Yetayroz Sacrificed Souls corp. Today, he was meeting the three owners of the most successful soul reclamation agency in Hell.
“Shall we go in?” The Devil spoke to Abigar in an excited tone. “They won’t know what hit them.”
“Sir, can we do that again next year?”
Abigar looked at The Devil with a longing in his eyes. He was thinking of the children, waking up to their new presents on Christmas morning; presents lovingly prepared over the course of the last three weeks, by two demons, on holiday from Hell. He chuckled and wondered what the people of the world would make of it, if only they knew.
“Send them in,” boomed a voice from an intercom perched on the receptionist’s desk.
The Devil, closely followed by Abigar, strode into the large, bone-walled office on the seven hundredth floor of the ABYSS Corporation.
“Aamon, Brandiel, Yetayroz, nice to see you all.” The Devil nodded at each of the three Fallen Angels responsible for the daily business of the ABYSS. Sir, what do we owe this pleasure to?” asked Aamon.
“I’ve been busy over the past few weeks, working on something a little different,” answered Satan. “I can’t say what… for security reasons, you understand.” He winked at Abigar. “But, I would like to be the first, to see this morning’s reading on the SCS meter.”
“Uh, certainly, sir.” Aamon looked a little confused.
Brandiel pressed a button on his control panel and a screen, fashioned from human skin, lowered from the ceiling.
The lights dimmed.
“Sir, that’s amazing,” yelped Yetayroz. “The SCS is up by twelve percent! B… b… but… it’s Christmas. How…?”
Satan smiled. He felt genuinely happy. How cunning could The Devil get? Was this not his best idea yet?
Later that day, as they sat sipping witch’s blood from hollowed human skulls, Abigar finally asked for an explanation of what had happened.
“Simple,” answered Satan. “Not a single child got the present they wanted. Their parents got into fights! Some even became violent. Score: one – nil for the minions of hell.”
Abigar took another gulp from his skullcup.
“Genius,” he said. “Pure genius!”
John Everson
FROST
WHEN THE FOG turned to frost, David’s life, for an eternal second, froze. And then, like an icicle slapped from a gutter to smash onto the whitened asphalt below, David’s life fractured. And reformed in a forever altered pattern.
* * *
“Look, Dad,” David tugged at his father’s shirtsleeve. “There are snowflakes on the plane window!”
Merle Currier nodded with disinterest at his son’s discovery of the physical effects of altitude.
“It’s just the humidity on the window that’s turning to ice,” he mumbled, eyes barely leaving his paper. “When we left Dallas, it was hot and muggy. It’s freezing in Minneapolis, so we must be getting close.”
David looked up at his father with a less-than-appreciative eye. “Looks like snowflakes,” he grumbled.
Merle didn’t answer, but instead turned to the next page of the Wall Street Journal.
David began to hum. Tunelessly. In just the way that he knew would get a reaction. It didn’t take long.
A large paw released the edge of the newspaper for a moment and cuffed the boy firmly on the head.
“Cool it, David,” his father growled.
The boy huffed to himself. The whole trip had been like this. For brief moments, his father would condescend to stoop to David’s eight-year-old level and play. But then just as quickly, the older man would disappear into the reams of newsprint that seemed to carpet his bachelor’s apartment, or pick up the phone and speak in clipped, hushed terms to whoever was on the other end. And David was expected to sit still on the couch and watch TV. And not make any noise. Or he’d be going to bed early.
David went to bed early a lot.
Last night was a good case in point. After a quiet (boring) dinner of warm-it-up-in-the-oven-from-a-box chicken and canned beans, father and son had moved into the living room. David toyed with his TW-4 truck, revving and crashing the silver and blue metal cab into the base of the television stand. It made a satisfying thud.
“Cool it, David,” came the gruff rebuke from the couch. So he had. His dad was watching some tedious TV show with a group of old men sitting around a table. They talked about things like “stock growth” and “strategic ventures” and “capital,” though they didn’t say of what state. David grabbed for the channel changer.
“Don’t touch that, David,” his father had warned.
But he had touched it.
He picked it up and methodically punched every button that he could.
Twice.
His dad didn’t even yell that loud. One big, hairy hand grabbed David’s own and relieved him of the remote control. The other heaved him up by his pants and levitated him straight to bed.
David didn’t like visiting his father much.
Then again, he couldn’t say that living with Mom was any picnic either. She was always yelling at him, and sending him to his room.
Just before coming on this trip, she’d been sitting at their kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and talking and laughing on the phone with her friend Rachel. She had been promising all day to play Nintendo with him, and instead she was on the phone for an hour! He had given up on the video game, and started idly punching around a beach ball he’d dug out of the hall toy closet. When it bounced over the kitchen chair and knocked Mom’s can of Coke into her lap, she’d stopped laughing. She hissed something into the phone, set it to the side and said the two words he had come to know so well: “You’re grounded!”
When she’d brought him to the airport and left him with the stewardess to chaperone on the plane flight to his Dad’s, he thought she looked relieved to see him go.
If he could, he’d divorce the both of them himself. He’d heard of a kid doing that somewhere, but he had no idea how. Lawyers’d cost a lot of money, he figured. Way more than the $3.82 he had in his pocket. He pushed his hand in there and felt the change, warm and slippery against his hip. He stole a glimpse at his dad, who seemed to have hair in all the wrong p
laces. It stole out and over the elastic collar of his Vikings sweatshirt, snuck through the pleats in his gold watchband, and even peeked out of the sides of his ears. Dad had tiny hairs poking through the holes in his wide-pored and pudgy nose, and a couple of stray silver hairs strained above his thickened eyebrows. But above those eyebrows rose the creeping lines of bare flesh. If you looked at the top of Dad’s head, you could see right through the hair to the scalp beneath. David felt a rush of disgust overcome him, and turned back to the window. Dad was gross!
The frost on the window had lengthened since just moments before. An intricate webwork of crystal and lace traced patterns of winter across the inner glass of the double-paned – but somehow still flimsy-looking – airplane window. David stared at the filigree, following its paths and crosscuts, marvelling at its delicate beauty. He raised a finger to the window, tracing the currents in the pane of snow. But as his finger touched the window, the frost on the other side of the glass jumped.
“Hey, watch it!” a tiny voice bellowed.
The frost beneath the pad of his index finger suddenly swirled, twined and coalesced. And just above his finger, a small figure grew. It was white, but with glints of red and blue and green. It looked like a man, but a tiny one. Really tiny. Not more than an inch tall.
David yanked his finger away from the glass.
“Hey, who are you?” the boy asked. His voice trembled a little as he spoke.
From behind the rustle of the newspaper his father shushed him. “Who’re you talking to, Davy? Keep it down. People are sleeping.”
David repeated his question in a whisper. “Who are you?”
“They call me Kyla Kulmavoetud.”
“What kinda name is that?” David asked.
The tiny creature grinned. His teeth were crystal sharp, his eyes flashed the blue of frozen air. David could almost see right through him.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 117
