Candy Canes and Buckets of Blood

by Heide Goody

  Three thoughts fought for dominance in Guin’s mind. The first was the view she had expressed to Newton earlier: that a Tinfoil Tavistock, remade from new materials, was still Tinfoil Tavistock. That the materials did not make the individual.

  The second thought was about those islanders who believed if they could build their own make-believe radio sets from coconuts and bamboo, they could call down aeroplanes full of cargo and food. The elves had rebuilt their own Santa Claus, much bigger than before (because bigger was better, obviously) and now in their ridiculous, spiteful, stupid hearts believed what they had made was as good as the original.

  The third thought, simplest of all, was this was a giant zombie Father Christmas, or more properly, a giant Frankenstein’s monster of a Father Christmas. Had the bones or body parts of the horrible Mrs Scruples provided the last components?

  As she looked at Santa’s head, strangely out of proportion with the rest of the thing, it swivelled to meet her gaze. The eyes were clouded and vacant. She realised the head had turned because there was a pair of elves on Santa’s shoulders working his neck joint. They manoeuvred a complex set of wires like master puppeteers. Guin guessed the rest of Santa was animated in the same way, so she stepped clear as the huge figure lurched towards the entrance.

  Guin hurried after, overtaking the Santa as it moved between caverns, cheered on by rapturous elves. Guin didn’t miss a beat. She waved to the crowd, proudly stepping ahead, as if this was all her doing and she expected the gratitude of the masses for her efforts. The elves loved it. They made enthusiastic whooping noises as she thrust her beard forward and Santa followed, very slowly.

  ***

  90

  “There!” Newton proudly snapped the final piece of thread. Blinky showed her appreciation by trying to bite his face off.

  Sewing her leg back on had been easier than Newton expected. It was clear the zombie reindeer had very little in the way of pain receptors. Also, Santa’s magic beard hair almost leaped at the chance to re-stitch the tripedal creature back together. Newton was sure his mother would have approved of his handiwork, keeping any quibbles about the quality of his stitching to herself.

  He stood from his task. Blinky flexed her leg.

  “Now, we rescue everybody else,” Newton said, having no idea how to do it.

  There was sound of movement: mass movement from the reindeer cavern along the tunnel.

  “Sounds like everyone’s on the move,” said Newton. “Let’s mingle.”

  91

  Dave peered out between a gap in the crates and stared at the sleigh. He had followed a consignment of boxed up fake baby elves from one part of the elf complex to here. Babies in boxes, boxes on pallets, and now pallets in open top shipping containers on the back of a sleigh.

  He crouched on the damp floor and hid behind some unused wooden packing crates

  This was on a scale he just couldn’t wrap his head around. He thought he glimpsed parts of an aeroplane built into the thing. Something about a long grey part of the frame reminded him of an F-15 fighter jet. And those turbines under the stubby wings must surely have been cannibalised from a downed RAF plane. It was horribly non-aerodynamic, and the tubing and pipes feeding those massive engines must had added several tonnes to the weight. How on earth was it going to get airborne? He dismissed the technical challenge with a heartfelt sigh. That sort of thinking belonged to yesterday, when the world was sane. Right now, he didn’t need to know how this monstrous sleigh was going to get airborne, just accept that it would. The elves had constructed a work of magical engineering madness. Clearly they had been planning this for a long time.

  The cavern stank of grease and oil and— Dave dabbed and sniffed at the puddle at his feet. “Hell,” he whispered.

  The whole place was awash with aviation fuel, or something. The cavern was a monumental fire risk.

  There was movement by a side entrance.

  A delegate of important looking elves came into the cavern. The foremost one, with a luxuriant beard, waved imperiously at the gathered crowds. Dave thought if he dropped a lit match in this place, he’d be able to take out the majority of the elves and their upper echelons in one act. He’d also be condemning himself to a fiery death in the process.

  Those thoughts were pushed out of his mind by the arrival of Father Christmas: a homemade giant on ponderously slow legs. It moved into the cavern like a Day of the Dead carnival monstrosity, a next level Wicker Man.

  That thing deserved to burn, he thought.

  ***

  92

  As Esther crept away from the sleigh she made a wide detour around the busiest area. Some sort of enormous figure was being led across the cavern and onto the sleigh. With a jolt she realised it was a Father Christmas.

  It reminded her of the worst examples of fairground artwork. Fibre-glass models of clowns, horses and cartoon characters that were supposed to add a sense of fun to the rides, but invariably made them sinister and creepy. Its body was as big as some of the shipping containers, and the tiny head at the top swivelled and stared in a way that was deeply disturbing. An elf swung round the front of Santa’s head on a rope. It looked as if were attending to some last-minute maintenance, whether mechanical or cosmetic was difficult to tell.

  At least that would hold everyone’s attention while Esther made her exit, but she was keen to see what was going on. She circled round the sleigh to take a look.

  A team of reindeer – God, it must have been a hundred-strong at least! – was being led up to the front of the sleigh and harnessed up. Two abreast, with a shaft and leather tackle binding them to the monstrous vehicle. Esther felt a momentary pang of self-recrimination as she thought what Newton would say about her blowing up the sleigh with reindeer attached to it.

  But they weren’t even real-life reindeer, she immediately countered. And Newton wasn’t here to see it. Except he was! She caught a glimpse of his curly mop of hair among the many reindeer.

  “What are you playing at?” she whispered desperately.

  ***

  93

  Guin was still trying to process the sight of Santa’s sleigh. It was incomprehensibly huge.

  Of course, she thought, a massive Santa required a massive sleigh. Like everything else the elves had in this place, it was an unsettling parody of a sleigh. Its enormous size; the badly-executed mess of its construction.

  While the puppeteered Santa was steered to the front of the sleigh and lowered onto his seat, the elves nearest to her ran through an itinerary for the sleigh’s upcoming journey. Maps detailing a route across the world were passed around. Guin was sure the maps weren’t quite right. Was Japan actually that shape? And was Australia really that close to India?

  An elf pointed at containers and then the corresponding locations on the map. “Þal turt superlegt?”

  “Superlegt,” Guin agreed.

  She became aware of a small scuffle amongst the massive herd of reindeer and turned to one of the elves, an arrogant, questioning look on her face. It scuttled off to investigate.

  It was then she saw a figure by a stack of packing crates by the wall. Her dad! She almost yelled out in delight. He was doing a bad job of hiding but none of the elves had spotted him yet. She gave him a surreptitious waist-high wave.

  ***

  94

  Dave gasped when he realised his own daughter was the head elf. He was gripped by a terrible fear. She had placed herself among those creatures! Simultaneously he was filled with a chest-swilling pride that Guin was keeping her cool while the elves literally bowed down before her and obeyed her every command. She was smart, and far more adaptable than he’d given her credit for: fitting in as if she’d been born to it.

  Seeing she had his attention, she made a number of subtle gestures. She pointed at herself and the sleigh and made a swooshing fly-away motion.

  Dave nodded.

  He didn’t exactly approve of taking a ride on that thing. Elf-Airways looked like they had a horri
bly slapdash approach to vehicle maintenance and air safety. He looked around, saw all the elves were principally occupied with either the Father Christmas creature, the reindeer or the packing of yet more shipping containers, and dashed across the cavern floor to the sleigh. He slipped between two container crates (nearly tripping over some of the cable mesh binding the whole thing together in the process) and climbed on board in the shadow of a patched up jet engine.

  ***

  95

  Guin watched her dad break from cover and head for the sleigh. She would have watched him longer, but a band of elves was marching back from the ranks of reindeer. Newton was held between them. One held a knife to his throat, or would have done if it was tall enough. It actually held a knife to his kidneys.

  “Hanst mið reindýrum,” an elf said.

  Guin nodded, understanding.

  “Guin!” said Newton, recognising her. “It’s me!”

  Hanður að die!” asked another elf.

  “What happened to you? Did they turn you into an elf?”

  Guin wished the boy would shut up. She stayed in character.

  An elf made a slicing motion with its knife. “Drepan staba nú!”

  Guin nodded in full agreement and held out her hand for the knife.

  “Mi—” She tried to order in her mind what little she knew of the elf language. “Mi slautra him-ni myssjálf.” She sneered at Newton and indicated the elves should hand over the prisoner to her.

  “Please don’t,” said Newton. “Guin. It’s me. You’re Guin, remember?”

  She gestured for the elves to put him on board. When one of them queried her, she scowled at him and made a surprisingly effective finger-walking pantomime to suggest she was going to throw him overboard once they were airborne.

  The elves cackled.

  “No, please,” said Newton. “You shouldn’t have eaten all that reindeer moss! You don’t know what it’s done to you!”

  She gestured for the elves to take him away. Newton kicked and wriggled.

  “There’s no point struggling,” she squeaked in her best attempt at an elf attempting English. “We are going to sleigh you.”

  Newton looked at her. She gave him the smallest wink. The teenager’s eyes lit up. He still struggled, but now it was an act. He allowed himself to be dragged up a ladder and onto the sleigh’s steering platform.

  ***

  96

  Esther was having trouble processing what she was seeing.

  Dave had just scurried into the rear section of the sleigh. Further ahead, though mostly out of sight, she had seen her son taken at knife-point onto the front of the sleigh and (although it had taken her long enough to realise it) the bearded elf with him was little Guin.

  Her family, through accident rather than design, were now all aboard the sleigh. All of them, all in one place and with the means of escape. Which was brilliant, except for the fact Esther had just planted a bomb on the sleigh.

  What was she to do now? Could she get her family off, or could she remove the bomb before it departed? Both options were fraught with risk. Esther couldn’t face the idea of choosing the wrong one. She sighed: the only thing to do was to get back on the sleigh and get to the bomb as quickly as she could. If she disassembled it, at least she could buy some more time.

  She climbed under the rear of the vehicle, picking her way carefully along the length of the sleigh.

  ***

  97

  From atop the sleigh Guin spotted Esther and smiled. They were all here, so if she could get the sleigh to fly them out of here, all would be well. Once they were outside, they could dump the sleigh and put a stop to the elves’ stupidity.

  Santa was now front and centre of the sleigh. The cockpit area was a gigantic bench in front of a foot well as deep as she was tall. Fat reins of woven white fibres ran hundreds of metres from the lead reindeers to the lip of the sleigh. The reins were clamped into Santa’s meaty hands. Arranged on what could only be called the dashboard were numerous buttons, levers and dials. They had clearly been ripped from other machines and welded or taped into place. They must, she assumed, link to the wires and tubes to the engines further back on the vehicle.

  High above, the zombie Santa’s jaw worked up and down as if it had just remembered how to chew.

  Next to Guin, bound and guarded by elves, Newton murmured, “It’s Dando, the man taken by the elves and the Wild Hunt.”

  Santa’s eyes rolled, and as much as a decapitated head could strain, his head strained. “Would any of you good sirs happen to have about you a cup of mead?” it asked hoarsely.

  An elf up on the shoulder of the meat puppet slapped the head to shut it up.

  Guin decided the head was just freaky. Tinfoil Tavistock gently reminded her that she shouldn’t be hasty to judge others. She turned her attention to her elves and indicated that they should leave now.

  They consulted each other in alarm. “Þaðer mora ah lada!” one argued.

  She made a dramatic slamming gesture to show that she was not waiting for anything else to be loaded. “Við – um, go? – fara nún!”

  She expanded on it with wild circles she hoped expressed the near-impossible task of going around the entire earth in the course of one night. They elves bowed and withdrew, shouting that they should finish up to the loading teams.

  She whispered aside to Newton. “You think you can steer this sleigh?”

  “What?” he whispered back.

  She was about to discreetly suggest driving a sleigh must be quite like riding horses when there was a shout from behind. Bacraut was approaching across the cavern floor. He was in bad shape. The beating he had received following her leadership challenge had left him bruised and limping. His wounds were the sticky red of cranberry sauce.

  He yelled at her almost incoherently. She thought it was just a matter of revenge but then she realised he was pointing towards the back of the sleigh.

  “Ik móðer!” he yelled. “Ik móðer en á sleð!”

  Guin realised Esther had been spotted. Bacraut and the elves on the floor raced towards the sleigh.

  “We’ve got to go!” yelled Guin.

  “What?” said Newton.

  She pulled at his bonds and freed his arms. “Fly!”

  ***

  98

  Newton grabbed the reins. They were crazy heavy but Newton was able to lift one and send a small ripple down it to the front reindeer.

  “Go!” he yelled. “Mush! Yah!”

  Ahead, reindeer shifted listlessly. The front-most one walked a little.

  An elf, seeing what he was up to leapt down from the giant Santa body. Guin intercepted the elf and grabbed it, diverting its trajectory so that it pitched over the side of the sleigh.

  “Go!” she yelled.

  Newton was gripped with a mad and sudden notion. The reins were made of Father Christmas beard. It was the hair that gave the reindeer the power of flight, yet it was human blood that had propelled Blinky upwards. Life blood and magic hair.

  He picked up a dropped elf blade, stabbed his own hand (perhaps more enthusiastically than necessary) and smeared the blood on the reins, shaking them again.

  “Ya! Onward Blinky!” he yelled. “On Scromdir and Bultaða! On Sleipnir and Kicgut! Hlager and Paugir and, er, Dancer and Prancer and … all of yous! Mush!”

  The power of Santa’s magic flowed down the ropes. The reindeer moved. The sleigh jolted, sluggishly resisted and then, with a massive Titanic hitting the iceberg groan, began to move forward.

  ***

  99

  It was disconcerting to be beneath the sleigh as it started to move. Chains clanked and twisted. The container above Esther’s head moaned like it was full of ghosts. The flatbed truck next to her struggled: over-burdened wheels turning and grinding on the rails.

  She did not want to be here when the sleigh built up speed. The bomb could explode at any moment. She needed to get to it as quickly as possible, or get herself and the three survi
ving humans in this town as far away from it as possible.

  She ran forward to the next intersection between sledge carriages and began to climb.

  ***

  100

  From his position high up on the front of the sleigh, Newton could see the confusion among the elves in the cavern. The sleigh was hauling out: many of the elves cheered. Hats were whipped off and either waved or tossed in the air.

  Elsewhere, urged on by the hobbling Bacraut, other elves were running to the vehicle, clambering up onto its side.

  Amid this confusion, other elves just focused on their jobs. Cargo-loaders attempted to thrust last minute parcels on board. Reindeer handlers encouraged their beasts forward. Santa puppeteers puppeted.

  “We’ve got to go faster!” said Guin. “They’re going to catch us. Isn’t there a whip?”

  Newton looked at her horrified. “Whip them? I’d never use a whip on Lily.”

  She looked back at him with equal horror. “Who uses a whip on their girlfriend?”

  “Lily’s my horse!”

  Guin frowned. “You said she had an Instagram account.”

  Even in the panic of escape, Newton felt it vital he fish out his phone and flick to the app. “Horses can have Instagram! Look at her!”

  He was struck once more by the thought that, unless they did something about this current situation, not only would his family, old and new, be dead, but he would never see Lily again. Nor Yolanda who worked at the farm.

  He scanned the instruments before him. There were any number of switches and toggles. It would be dangerous if he just flicked some at random.

  But there were four in a row marked TURBINS. One to four. That seemed promising. He flicked them all. Far, far back something started to whine. Emboldened, he saw another labelled AFTABURNA. He flicked that too.