An awkward silence followed this remark. Then Arthur chirped, “Um … I’ve got you all a present. After all the hard work I wanted everyone to have fun for Christmas! Ta da!”
He pulled a box out from under his chair and displayed Christmas: The Board Game to his family. Arthur glanced at the happy family on the back of the bright box and the slogan: Fun for ALL the Family. Guaranteed Festive Cheer!
At that moment, the elf Bryony was sweeping the Dispatch Deck on the S-1. Because the S-1 was so big, Bryony rode the Gift-wrap Recycling Machine. She was almost done cleaning the deck when something jammed into the rotating brushes. Bryony climbed down to find the problem. Among a pile of wrapping paper scraps, there it was. She gasped in horror. A present had been missed!
Meanwhile, the cranky Clauses seemed anything but festive. Before they could even start to play Arthur’s game, the other three Claus men started fighting over the tiny silver Santa figure.
Grandsanta exclaimed, “I’m Santa!”
“No, I’m Santa!” Steve asserted. “You took the piece out of my hand!”
Santa said, “Well, I am actually Santa, so I rather think I should have it.”
Steve replied, “Well, yes, you’re the nonexecutive ‘figurehead.’”
Santa seized on this. “Exactly! The figurehead.”
“He means a fatty with a beard who fits the suit,” Grandsanta spat bitterly.
Arthur tried desperately to make peace. “The other pieces are good, too! Or, I can make extra Santas for everyone.”
“Why don’t you be the candle, Steve?” Santa suggested. “All those bright ideas, eh?”
“Fine!” Steve exclaimed. “I’m the candle, Arthur’s the turkey, and you, Father, are, of course, Santa. Grandsanta can be this charming relic.” He handed Grandsanta a tiny sleigh. Then Steve rolled the dice.
“Relic? RELIC?” the old man shouted. “I did the whole Christmas in one of those, and I didn’t need a trillion elves to help.”
Steve sighed. He was so sick of having this same argument. “The world’s a bit more complicated than in your day, Grandsanta, with about a billion more children. And we don’t just fly about throwing leadpainted toys down chimneys.”
With a burst of arctic air, Mrs. Claus came back inside. She banged the snow off her boots and tossed a small, smelly bag into the trash before taking Dasher off his leash. She unwound her scarf and approached the table.
Grandsanta rolled the dice. As his tiny sleigh landed on a certain square, Steve said, “That space sends you back to Lapland.” He moved the sleigh back to START.
Grandsanta complained loudly. Then Mrs. Claus looked at her husband, who had somehow acquired a stack of tiny toy gifts without even taking a turn yet. “Where did you get those?” she asked.
Santa yawned. “Just moving things along. … Do I win?”
Grandsanta exclaimed, “Cheats, the pair of you!”
When Mrs. Claus took off her coat, Arthur reacted in alarm to a huge claw rip down the back. “Mum! Are you OK?”
Mrs. Claus shrugged off the deadly danger. “Polar bear, dear. Big silly. Good job I did that online survival course, or it would’ve been one less for turkey next year.”
Indifferent to his daughter-in-law’s narrow escape, Grandsanta griped on, “Christmas has gone completely downhill. You’re a postman with a spaceship!”
Steve sputtered, “My S-1 festivized the world at 1,860 times the speed of sound!”
Grandsanta huffed. “Christmas 1941. World War II. I did the whole thing with six reindeer and a drunken elf. Got shot at—twelve direct hits! Lost three reindeer—and still managed to do it all and bring home a buffalo for Christmas dinner.”
Arthur had heard that story many times, but he never tired of it.
“I could still do it now!” Grandsanta shrieked. “Just gimme a go!”
Steve shrieked back, “In a heap of sticks?”
Santa chuckled, “Goodness me!”
It was Grandsanta’s turn to sputter in outrage. “Heap of … Oh, it’s funny is it?! Let me up and at ’em! I’ll show you, Robbie the Robot!”
Grandsanta’s arms flailed as he struggled to pull himself out of his chair. He knocked the game board over with his cane, scattering pieces all over the floor.
Mrs. Claus sighed. “Every Christmas, it’s the same thing!”
BLEEP! Steve’s pager suddenly pierced the air with its shrill, electronic whine. Steve scrambled to check his Hoho3000. The message he found shocked him so much, Steve gasped and ran into the hall.
Grandsanta called after him, “Oh yeah, run away now that you’re losing.”
ARTHUR FOLLOWED, WONDERING what could have upset his brother so much. Was Steve still angry about the game—or their father’s decision not to retire yet? Arthur pushed the little metal Santa into his brother’s hand. “You keep this,” Arthur said. “Then you can be Santa next time.”
The two brothers stood in a hall lined with portraits of Santas through the centuries. Frame after frame filled with jolly, cherry-cheeked men, all the way to their father, followed by an empty space.
Arthur assured Steve, “It’ll be you up there soon, I bet. You’ll be great!”
Steve shivered in the draft from the open door and exclaimed in annoyance. “How many times, Arthur? It’s the North Pole! Shut the doors!”
Arthur shrugged sheepishly. Mission Control was nearly empty.
Steve stared at his Hoho screen, his handsome face creased with concern.
“I secured the gift, sir. Gift secured!” Bryony the elf saluted proudly. Her free hand clutched a package that was obviously a small bicycle, despite its perfect wrapping. Peter stood beside her on the dock, looking exasperated with the enthusiastic elf.
Steve moaned, “It just can’t be! The system is foolproof!”
Bryony did not know what to say. When not on cleaning detail, she was a gift wrapper. So she added some important good news. “Present wrapping is intact, sir!”
Peter ignored the zealous elf and agreed with his boss. “It must be an error.”
Bryony gushed on about her exciting discovery. “I spotted the sticky tape glinting in the shadows, sir. I’m actually trained in wrapping, and I said to myself, ‘Bryony, the wrapping looks okay, thank goodness, but that present should not be lying in the …’”
Steve interrupted impatiently. “Yes, yes, thank you.”
Arthur, overhearing the conversation, looked over his brother’s broad shoulder. He exclaimed, “Oh no! Did someone get the wrong present? That’s awful! Whose is it?” He hated to think of any of the many children who believed in Santa being disappointed.
Peter scanned the gift’s tag and reported, “47785BXK did NOT ‘get the wrong present.’” He typed the child identifier number into his Hoho, then added, “ … or … um, the right one.”
Arthur gasped. “The child got … nothing? At all? No!” in his horror, he shouted, “A child’s been MISSED?!”
Steve tried to calm his excitable brother. “Not necessarily.” He still refused to believe his advanced, modern system could be flawed. But even as he spoke, the giant Gift’s Delivered Counter clicked back from all zeroes to 000,000,001.
Arthur shouted even louder, “A CHILD’S BEEN MI …”
Steve interrupted, “Arthur! Do you want to wake the whole North Pole?”
Arthur agreed, “Good idea!” He ran to the door and shouted the shocking truth even louder. “A CHILD’S BEEN MISSED!”
“ARTHUR!” Steve shouted in exasperation. But it was too late.
Santa came down the hall, yawning. “Everything alright?”
Steve admitted, “There’s been … a glitch.”
Arthur marveled at his brother’s dismissive tone.
“A GLITCH? WE’VE MISSED A CHILD!” Each time he shouted it, the tragedy seemed even more unthinkable!
Santa was surprised. “Really? Dear, oh, dear,” Santa muttered. He hoped this would not involve any personal blame—or having to go out in the
cold again. He added, “How on Earth did you manage that, Steven?”
Steve was irritated. How dare his father grab the credit and evade the blame. “Me?! I thought this was your mission!”
“Oh, no, no, no, this is your department,” Santa replied hastily.
Arthur felt as if he was having a nightmare. Who cared who was responsible? The important thing was making sure the child received a gift before morning. He demanded, “What are we going to do?”
Santa blustered. “We must … um … we must … what must we do, Steven? Do I need to get my boots back on?” Just the thought of this made the tired, old man yawn.
“Absolutely not!” Steve declared, to Santa’s relief. “A loss of delivery is deeply regrettable. But the mission was a success!”
Arthur could not believe his big ears. “But we CAN’T leave out a child on Christmas!”
Peter tapped more keys on his Hoho.
Steve sighed, as the data reached his screen. “Sunrise at destination is 7:39 a.m. There’s no way to get there on time. Except, of course, in the S-1. But it just traveled seven million miles! It needs months of engineering checks! We could damage it!” Realizing the S-1 didn’t mean as much to everyone else as it did to him, Steve added, “And risk the lives of the elves!”
Bryony told Santa, “I’ll go, sir! Bryony Shelfley, Wrapping Operative Grade Three, sir!” Her tiny heart stirred with excitement at the thought that she might be able to serve on this vital, dangerous mission.
“I wasn’t called up for field duty this year. I served out the mission in Gift-wrap Support, wrapped 264,000 presents in three days, sir! If you want that bike delivered in a full state of enwrapment, then I’m your elf!”
“No one is going!” Steve stated.
Santa started to object, “But this child …”
“… is a margin of error of 0.000000001514384 percent.” Steve flashed perfect teeth in a perfect smile. “WOW. I mean, hello? Where’s the champagne? That’s incredible! My department has delivered the most outstanding Christmas ever!”
Santa felt uncertain and even more tired than before. “Oh, uh … well done us!” he agreed with his clever, older son.
Arthur felt unmoved by the impressive percentage. “But the kid got no present.”
Numbers confused Santa, but he knew this was not good. Sensing his father’s indecision, Steve quickly added, “It’s a statistical anomaly.”
Arthur countered, “The child’s been good all year!”
Steve spoke smoothly, “Arthur, no one feels this more than I do. But Christmas is not a time for emotion. We’ll get 44785BXK a present within the window of Christmas. We can messenger the item to arrive within five days.”
Arthur shrieked, “That’ll ruin the magic!”
Steve chuckled at his silly younger brother. “If there was any way to make the drop tonight … but it can’t be done.”
Arthur turned to their father, full of faith that Santa would make things right. But the old man just yawned and said, “I won’t sleep easy after this, Arthur. But there it is. It can’t be done.”
Steve patted Arthur’s bony shoulders. “Go to bed, little bro. Merry Christmas.”
Then Steve and Santa walked away, leaving Arthur and Bryony to stare in stunned silence at the giant counter’s lonely “1” beneath the golden motto, “In Santa We Believe.”
Arthur raced to the dock and snatched the gift from Bryony. As he ran off with it under his arm, the concerned elf shouted after him, “You’re compromising the wrapping!”
RIP! Bryony cringed as the paper snagged on a door, but Arthur was gone. He had to know the identity of 47785BXK.
Finally, he found the letter and postcard stamped with that unlucky designation. Arthur read the letter and recognized the postcard from Gwen Hines of 23 Mimosa Avenue, Trelew, Cornwall, England. He instantly remembered the little girl whose friend thought Santa’s mission was “impossible,” the good little girl who wanted the “pink Twinkle Bike.”
Arthur looked at the clock near his shrine to Santa Claus. 5:24 a.m. Could Gwen’s friend be correct? Was delivering her gift really “impossible”? Arthur’s thin shoulders slumped with abject defeat.
At that moment, Steve stared at a red designer suit neatly trimmed with white. This would have been his Santa suit. But … he hung it back in the closet and switched off his light.
Meanwhile, Santa hung up his well-worn suit and wondered, “This figurehead thingy … I’m not just a fatty with a suit, am I?”
“Of course not, dear,” Mrs. Claus assured him mechanically. How could she tell her husband that his eyes had lost that special twinkle?
Santa fretted on, “And retire … what would I do all day?”
“Well, we could spend more time together, maybe take up gardening,” Mrs. Claus suggested. “It’s a little tricky at the North Pole, but there’s a lot you can grow in containers. And there’s Steve … and Arthur …”
Santa sighed. “Arthur. Oh, dear. What a puzzle.” Would his second son ever be good at anything?
Santa said, “I’m still very much up for the job, you know.” But his Ho, ho, ho faded out into a huge yawn. “Night, dear,” Santa muttered, just before he became lost in snores.
IN THE DARKNESS, tiny lights flickered in the flashing eyes of Arthur’s reindeer slippers. Too miserable to sleep, Arthur stared at Gwen’s letter by these blinking lights.
“It can’t be … it just can’t be …” Arthur muttered over and over again, until finally he slammed his head on his desk, dislodging the shelf full of Santa knickknacks.
“What’s all this kadoodle, young man?”
Arthur turned; he was surprised to see Grandsanta and Dasher in the doorway. He waved Gwen’s letter and explained, “It’s this little girl: She’s been missed!”
Grandsanta exclaimed, “Ha! So much for your brother’s fancy-pants technology!”
“No, Steve and Dad racked their brains, but it’s impossible!” replied Arthur.
Grandsanta was skeptical. “Is it now? Missed a child! Dear, oh, dear, sends shivers down me shins.”
Arthur glanced at the clock again and imagined Gwen. “In two hours she’s going to wake up, tear downstairs, search under the tree, and …” He couldn’t bear it. “But there’s NOTHING THERE! She won’t understand. She’ll think she’s the one kid in the world who Santa doesn’t care about.”
Grandsanta was only half-listening. His wrinkled face glowed with excitement as his aged brain hatched a plan. “D’you know, Arthur. There is a way!”
But the young man felt lost in melancholy. “It’s impossible!”
Grandsanta scoffed. “They used to say it was impossible to teach women to read!” Then he added slyly, “Follow me.”
The old man led his grandson down a dark hall toward the Abandoned Toy Depot in a dusty, unused section of the vast North Pole complex. Arthur’s slippers blinked, and his flashlight beam cast a lonely cone of light in the blackness. Dasher whined nervously as they walked past rusty shelves under a sign that read Dolls and Toys.
Grandsanta unlocked a large door that creaked slowly open. Arthur’s flashlight beam discovered a familiar shape coated in shiny red paint. On a brass plate, he read three letters that spelled the name EVE. The old man switched on a single bare light bulb that hung above the antique sleigh.
Arthur gasped in wonder and disbelief. “The sleigh! The actual sleigh!”
Grandsanta sighed. “Hello, Evie.”
“I thought it was scrapped years ago!” Arthur exclaimed.
Grandsanta grinned mischievously. “So did everyone else.”
“Can I … ?” Arthur’s fingers reached eagerly toward the legendary object, longing to touch the smooth wood. “Icelandic birch, Arctic balsa, built in 1845, able to reach 50,000 mph at a height of 40,000 feet!” Arthur’s stomach lurched just at the thought of such speed and height.
Grandsanta wheezed as he struggled to lift a large, rusty drum. Arthur hurried to help him wrestle it onto the
sleigh.
The peeling label read Potash of Carboniloroxy Amilocitrate. Arthur recognized the formula for the sleigh’s special fuel. “Oh! Magic dust!”
Grandsanta nodded. “Mined from the Aurora Borealis.”
Arthur felt confused. “But … she doesn’t still … go?”
Grandsanta grinned. His cloudy old eyes twinkled as he threw open another door. Beyond it, through a fine net of cobwebs, Arthur saw stables where eight reindeer shuffled in their hay like restless horses.
“Not just a hobby,” Grandsanta said. “Greatgreat-grandchildren of the original eight!” Then he took a brass horn off a hook. He blew into it, but no sound emerged, just a dead mouse. Grandsanta’s wrinkled old cheeks puffed as he blew the horn again. This time Arthur and the reindeer heard a weak-yethauntingly-beautiful note.
“Wow!” Arthur whispered reverently.
Grandsanta called out, “Dancer! Prancer!” He struggled with his faded memory. “Er … What are the others called? Bambi? John! You there, with the white ear! And you and you and not you, you bag of fleas!”
Arthur felt uncomfortable as the reindeer responded to the old man’s command. “Uh … oh … er … I’m not really good with big animals.”
Grandsanta dismissed his fear. “Piffle!”
Arthur laughed nervously.
Grandsanta said, “Don’t get bit. They can smell fear. Let’s hitch ’em up.”
Suddenly Arthur was up to his elbows in antlers. “Ah, uh … excuse me …” He told his grandfather, “You can go to Gwen, on the old sleigh with the reindeer and the magic dust and everything. It’s a miracle!”
“You’re coming, too, lad.”
Arthur froze. The journey combined all his worst fears. “Me?! On THAT? Up THERE? Pulled by THEM? No, no, no way!”
Grandsanta protested. “I’m 136! I can’t do it on me own, I need an elf!”
Arthur objected. “I can’t fly a sleigh! I can’t even ride a bike without training wheels!” His mind raced for a solution. “I know. Let’s wake Steve. He’ll …”
Grandsanta shook his head. “What if he stops us? Gwen’s forgotten.”
Arthur felt touched by his grandfather’s concern. “You really care!”
Arthur Christmas Page 3
