Candy Canes and Buckets of Blood

by Heide Goody

  56

  Guin finished her toy with time and materials to spare. She had constructed the plush toy as her whims and instincts dictated. As she sewed and stuffed and adorned, the name and character and back story of Starfish Eglantine came to life. Eglantine was a starfish out of her natural environment, trapped in a cold and hostile world, far from any friends and any help. But Eglantine was not afraid. Although her body was squishy and vulnerable, she had made her heart into a stone and refused to be frightened by the horrors around her.

  Guin did not think she and Eglantine could be friends. Eglantine was too tough and embittered, but there was a grudging respect between Eglantine and Guin, between Eglantine and Wiry Harrison. Tinfoil Tavistock did not like Eglantine. The quadruped of indeterminate species was unnerved by the faceless creature’s steely manner. But that was understandable: Tavistock was only a child.

  Eglantine observed with cool approval as Guin used her spare time to surreptitiously gather supplies. The flexible lengths of wicker Guin had used for supporting Eglantine’s arms could also be fashioned into serviceable elf crosses. Guin made four, held together with twists of wire, and pinned them to the inside of her top. She found three small blades and was wondering how she could conceal them in a roll of cloth when, from nowhere, the elf Gerd bounded onto the nearest workbench.

  “Hæltu!” she screeched and pointed at Newton. “Tími erk loð, buggerlugs.”

  Newton dropped the … thing he was making – a tuft of white stuffing still poking out of its rump – and stepped back from the bench.

  Gerd strode up and down the bench, the curled toes of her tiny boots quivering with each step. She bent over Guin’s creation, peered at it through her half-moon spectacles and then prodded and poked it.

  “Hver it það?”

  “It’s a starfish,” said Guin.

  “Starfiskur?”

  “A starfish.”

  “Star … feeesh?”

  Gerd turned it over, gave it an experimental bite like she was testing gold and then tossed it back down on the bench in a manner that was not entirely dismissive. She walked over to Newton’s work. Guin knew it was meant to be a bunny rabbit. She’d seen the plans.

  “Hver it það?”

  “Um, it’s a rabbit,” said Newton nervously.

  “Du kani?” Gerd picked it up, poked it and ripped off one of its eyes. “Ger stykki rot.” Gerd pinched and pulled and picked at the toy, all the while venting a litany of criticism which needed no translation.

  “At least you can see it’s a rabbit,” Newton muttered. “It’s not like it’s some weird blob thing like that,” he said, pointing at Guin’s starfish.

  “It’s not a competition,” said Guin.

  “It probably is,” said Newton, instantly adding, “But I’m glad you won. You’ve done really well.”

  As if to emphasise his words, Gerd picked up Guin’s efforts and tucked it under her arm. Newton’s work was kicked unceremoniously onto the floor. Newton automatically picked it up.

  “Poor thing,” he tutted.

  “Sometimes,” said Guin gently, “some animals are in just too much pain to let them go on living.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying it might be kinder to let it die,” she said.

  “Þú ud þú,” snapped Gerd, gesturing for them to follow. “Timi ger næxta verk!”

  “Time for the next test, I think,” Guin translated.

  Newton wasn’t listening. “Kinder to let it die,” he muttered. “Let the dog drown. All you want to do is kill things.”

  Outside in the cavern, they passed by the stall in which the mad-eyed zombie reindeer stood.

  “You like my rabbit, don’t you, Blinky?” Newton said, waggling his work at the undead creature. “You do, don’t you?”

  Blinky lunged forward. With yellow teeth he savagely ripped the toy from Newton’s hand.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said, defensively.

  ***

  57

  Gerd the overly critical elf stopped outside a door in the tunnel. This door was thick and looked like it had been repaired a number of times. She pulled it open with some effort and led the way inside. Newton had to bend to get through.

  It was another workshop area, although not as gaily painted as the toy workshop. There were no fake painted windows on the walls, only intermittent scorch marks: little starbursts of sooty residue.

  Newton looked at the tubs of knick-knacks and assorted junk: false teeth, car keys, teaspoons and the kinds of cheap Happy Meal toys even a charity shop would turn away. He looked at the lengths of cardboard tubing, the paper, the quills and the rolls of festive crepe paper.

  “It’s a Christmas cracker workshop,” he said.

  Gerd began to give a long speech of which Newton understood absolutely nothing, although mentions of ‘jóli’ and ‘sprenging bume’ and ‘hæla fyni’ sounded like they ought to mean something.

  “Þúátt sjöog fim mínútur,” said Gerd.

  “Something-five minutes, huh?” said Newton.

  “All hal góra skeggi,” said Gerd.

  “All hal góra skeggi,” Guin replied and the elf left them to it.

  “Why do I feel we’re being auditioned for jobs we don’t want?” muttered Newton.

  “Getting the job might be better than being rejected.”

  Newton went over to the piles of paper by the quill and inkwell: the joke writing station.

  “Maybe,” he chuckled, “I should write, ‘Help! I’m trapped in a Christmas cracker—’” He tailed off, realising the cracker they’d opened at Mrs Scruples’ dinner table, with that same lame joke, had come from this very workshop.

  “She said they were locally sourced,” said Guin, clearly thinking the same thing.

  Newton shook his head. “The people of the town were in league with the elves.”

  “Or under occupation.”

  “I think we’d best get on with it,” he said.

  With little discussion, they decided upon a division of labour. Newton would do jokes. Guin would select toys to go inside the cracker and wrap them up.

  “Snappers,” said Newton.

  “What?”

  “The bit that goes bang.” He looked round and saw a heavy chest of blackened wood beneath the heaviest concentration of scorch marks on the wall. Newton went to have a look. He lifted the weighty lid. Inside were not just strips of cracker explosives but several jars of interesting chemicals. And, by interesting, he meant dangerous-looking.

  Avoiding the sticky gluey edges of the badly made cracker strips, Newton carefully lifted out a dusty jar with a faded label which was barely legible. “Silver nitrate,” he said.

  Guin had found an open book on the work surface nearby. “Silver nitrate, when combined with nitric acid and ethanol can form crystals of silver fulminate,” she read. “Silver fulminate is explosive and very toxic.”

  Newton looked through the chest. Sure, there were bottles of nitric acid and ethanol too.

  Guin continued reading. “Only very small quantities of silver fulminate should be prepared at once or else—”

  “Else what?”

  She shrugged. “The rest of the page has been burned away.”

  Newton looked. The hardback book was entitled O-Level Chemistry for All Schools’. It looked very old and, indeed, a whole corner of the book was nothing but blackened char.

  “Yeah, let’s be careful with this stuff then,” he said, leaving the jars well alone. “Maybe if we need to go all A-Team later, we can use it for something.”

  “What’s an A-Team?” asked Guin.

  Newton wasn’t sure. “It’s something my mum says when she tries to make things out of stuff not meant for that purpose. I think it’s from an old film, starring that guy from Taken. You know, the guy who has a ‘very particular set of skills.’”

  “Sort of like Bob the Builder,” said Guin.

  “Possibly,” said Newton. “But wi
th more explosions.”

  ***

  58

  In the charity shop, Dave grabbed more coat hangers while Esther set to work with a needle and thread. She covered the teardrop shapes with the flesh-coloured leather and sewed them onto the ear warmers. She popped the finished article onto her head, covered it with a bobble hat and looked in the mirror, turning her head to view the effect.

  “Elf ears. Very good!” said Dave.

  “Let’s do yours now.”

  They both paraded their finished outfits up and down. Dave grinned. “These stupid leggings are really uncomfortable, but I think we make pretty good elves, all told. Let’s go and see what they’re up to!”

  “There’s just one small thing that we need to fix,” said Esther.

  Dave gave her a questioning look. She beckoned him over and plucked a pair of lightweight shoes from a rack. She used the scissors to cut away the back of the shoe and then applied it just above his knee. With the needle and thread she sewed it onto the leggings.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re way too tall to be elves,” she said.

  “Wait – we’re going to shuffle around on our knees?” Dave asked.

  Esther nodded, her head bent in concentration. She fixed the other shoe and gave Dave’s legs a critical stare. “Go, on, see how it looks.”

  Dave got down onto his knees and moved about. He tried shuffling at first, then experimented with lifting his knees to make the walking more realistic. It looked very uncomfortable.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about technique,” said Esther tactfully. “I’m hoping we won’t come under too much scrutiny. Let me fix my own shoes and we’ll be ready to go.”

  A few minutes later they made their way carefully out of the shop, using their hands to brush the broken glass out of the way as they shuffled out onto the street.

  “Hurdy, gurdy, gur,” murmured Dave.

  Esther tutted, falling silent as they drew in closer to where all the elves seemed to be congregating. She trawled her memory for the elf language that Guin seemed to have picked up so quickly.

  “Ek man, dum de dum ... svín,” she tried.

  What did it mean? She couldn’t remember. She had to confess Dave’s elf speech might be just as effective. She pulled up short. That was a really racist thing to think! Was she a racist?

  “Dave, am I a racist?” she asked quietly.

  “You refuse to eat in Italian restaurants,” he said.

  “That’s because it’s just pasta and pizza,” she said. “Any idiot can cook that. I don’t hate Italians.”

  “We’re going out for pizza when we get out of here then,” he said, as they approached the square.

  The party was in full swing. There was scratchy music coming from somewhere, like the sound of an orchestra composed entirely of broken violins. Elves were swigging drinks from little cups and shoving cakes and sweets into their mouths.

  “I feel ill just watching. Everything they’re eating is at least ninety percent sugar,” Esther said.

  “Shhh.”

  They sauntered in, on their knees, trying to stick to the gloomier areas and nodding at elves who looked their way.

  “Hurdy gurd,” nodded Dave.

  “Svin svin ekki mek,” said Esther.

  Esther thought it would have been nice to believe their disguises were amazing. It was more likely the elves were too drunk, or that now they were off-duty, they didn’t give a toss about human interlopers.

  Dave squeezed her hand. “Look,” he whispered. “The stage.”

  An elf walked to the front of the raised area and raised his hands for silence. He started to speak in the strange elvish language, and Esther listened hard, trying to discern any meaning. She almost convinced herself tiny fragments were English-like, if someone spoke English with Dave’s weird hurdy gurdy accent.

  “Enemy? Is he talking about an enemy?” she whispered to Dave.

  Dave gave her a blank look.

  A cheer went up from the crowd; Esther and Dave joined in. Everyone raised their snacks and drinks in an obvious toast to something. Esther didn’t have a cup so raised an invisible one instead.

  The elf reached into a leather bag that hung by his waist. He pulled out a big folded sheet of paper.

  “I’ve seen those plans before,” said Dave.

  “What?” said Esther.

  “Catheter had them.”

  The elf on the stage ripped the plans in half to raucous applause. He threw them to the floor and stamped on them.

  Dave and Esther looked at each other.

  “We need them,” said Dave.

  “Right.”

  The elf on the stage hadn’t finished. He fetched something else out of his bag. It looked like a wisp of sheep’s wool. He cradled it reverentially in his hand before holding it up for all to see. There were oohs and aahs from the crowd. He then used something from a small jar to apply the thing to his chin. He strode from side to side of the stage, sticking out his chin so that everyone could see.

  From the crowd, some of the elves started chanting. “All hal góra skeggi. All hal góra skeggi.”

  Esther really didn’t think a stick-on beard was a good look, but she reminded herself she wasn’t one to body shame someone for their choice of facial hair.

  Dave nudged her and nodded to the left of the stage. Another elf was climbing up, although it clearly wasn’t easy, given the extent of his injuries. He had clearly suffered extensive burns: his clothes hung off his livid body in singed rags. What was not clear was how he’d come by the other injuries. It looked very much as if half of him had been crushed: one limp arm dragged behind, like an empty flap of skin.

  “Bacraut,” whispered Dave. “We put him in a trouser press.”

  Esther thought she saw one of the nearby elves give Dave a sharp look. She elbowed him and munched down on a candy cane, trying hard to fit in.

  Back on the stage, Bacraut approached the elf with the beard. There was clearly some sort of disagreement in their brief exchange, but Bacraut didn’t look very threatening with his injuries. Beardie laughed at him and turned away, still proudly displaying the beard to the crowd. Bacraut growled and used his good hand to pull a huge knife from a sheath.

  Bacraut lunged forward and stabbed Beardie repeatedly in the back. Once on the ground, Bacraut turned Beardie over by kicking his twitching body. He slashed at the exposed belly. He pulled out lengths of intestine, held them up and yelled something at the crowd that clearly conveyed the message the young pretender was no longer in a position to usurp authority.

  “Trouble in elf-town,” muttered Dave.

  Bacraut put the knife away. He bent down to pluck the wispy beard off the face of the dead elf and stuck it onto his own face. As he did so, the injured Bacraut seemed to straighten and find new energy from this symbol of power on his face. The crowd erupted in applause, having held its collective breath while the drama played out.

  Bacraut waved to the crowd, basking in the adoration, or fear; Esther really wasn’t sure which. After a few moments, Bacraut clapped his hands and a box was brought on stage by two helper elves. It was a sturdy red cardboard box, bound in gold ribbon. The helpers placed it before Bacraut.

  He spoke to the assembled crowd. Esther understood almost nothing, although his affected and exaggerated manner suggested he was acting something out. Bacraut gave a big tired stretch as he talked to the elves and rubbed his eyes as though he had just awoken. He strolled over to the box, expressed pretend surprise and pulled on the ribbon.

  A hush had fallen over the audience.

  Bacraut lifted the lid away and feigned delight at whatever was supposed to be inside. He pretended to lift something out, something heavy and wriggling. He beamed at it and held it close, suddenly gasping in horror as the imaginary thing began to choke him.

  “He’s quite the actor,” Esther whispered to Dave, then uttered a small “Ow!” as someone trod on her lower leg.

  She looked back. A
n elf, crowding forward, had trodden on her trailing lower legs. Esther muttered a wordless “Don’t worry, no harm done.” The elf was a millisecond away from nodding and moving on when the creature realised elves didn’t have extra bits of leg trailing behind them.

  “Erir du footurna?” it said.

  “Er, Dave,” muttered Esther.

  Dave turned, saw and, making matters much worse, leapt to his feet. The look of horror on his face an instant later, in other circumstances, would have been comical.

  Dave tried to laugh. “Oh, look,” he said. “I appear to have suddenly grown taller.”

  He grabbed Esther’s hand and they ran for it. They kicked, flailed and knocked over elves as they went. Their stitched on shoes flapped at their knees as they ran. As they knocked elves into each other, fights broke out. Elfin alcohol had definitely been consumed in volumes throughout the celebration.

  Esther tried to snatch some of the plans off the floor. An elf, its eyes full of malicious intent, leapt at her, scrabbled, missed and then latched onto her arm with its teeth. Esther howled at the pain, shook the elf off viciously and ran to catch up with Dave.

  “Tree!” panted Dave, grabbing an armful of prickly branches on the massive Christmas tree in the centre of the square. Esther joined him, pulling with all of her might. Together they toppled it onto the elves who were chasing them, rather than fighting each other. It bought them a few precious seconds, but they were definitely not out of danger. There was a pair of elves, sprinting around the edges of the tree, who would easily catch them in no time.

  Dave lifted a mead barrel from a stall and bowled it at the pursuing elves. It caught on the kerb and glanced slightly off-course, taking down one of them. The other elf skipped free. Dave grabbed a second barrel and raised it.

  Esther glanced at the elf. She wasn’t sure, but it looked just like the one who had bitten her. Well, they all looked the same really—

  “Oh, God, I am a racist!” she said. With an anger that was divided equally between the elves and her own preconceptions, she helped Dave slam the barrel down on the elf, crushing it so completely that when liquid seeped out, Esther didn’t for a second imagine it was just mead.