• • •
At the same time, in a spot unmarked on any map, Santa Claus sat at the table in the cozy home that had once been his refuge, untouched by the trials and difficulties of the greater world. But the problems of the world had intruded even here, and since this past Christmas they seemed to be getting worse with every passing day. Santa rested his head in his hands, leaning on the sturdy wooden tabletop. “Patch gone, and it’s all my—”
“It’s not your fault,” Anya said, gently but with absolute belief.
Dooley, Boog, Honka, and Vout stood before Santa, their faces long with sorrow as they saw the stunned look on his own. Dooley nudged the other elves surreptitiously, and they nodded their agreement with Anya’s words. “Not your fault, Santa,” Honka, Boog, and Vout chorused together. They missed their friend and leader very much but even they had to admit that he had only himself to blame for everything.
Santa looked up at them again, distraught and unconvinced. If only he had suspected how hard Patch would take this. But Patch had always seemed so full of elf-confidence. Perhaps if he had found the right words, taken a moment more . . . “Where will he go? What will he do?” he said, knowing they had no answer either. “The world is no place for an elf!” He thought of the often-harsh realities of the world beyond the North Pole, with its hunger and mistrust and countless varieties of sorrow, which he had worked for so long to brighten in his own small way. The elves had no firsthand knowledge of such things; their world was one of peace and comfortable order . . . though no longer of complete contentment.
Boog frowned with confusion and concern. “The world’s a nice enough place, isn’t it?” he said, trying to imagine his old friend out in its vastness somewhere.
“I mean, we get such nice letters from there, it must be,” Vout added hastily.
“Don’t worry about Patch,” Honka said, his voice firm and confident, trying to convince himself as much as convince the others. “He can take care of himself. He knows the art of elf-defense.” He grinned, comforted by the thought of how often and easily Patch had tossed him and the others over his shoulder into the hay in playful wrestling matches.
But Santa only sighed, shaking his head, and Anya put her hands comfortingly on his shoulders. Nothing would be the same now that Patch was gone. He wondered for a moment whether there was some way they could find Patch and bring him back . . . But he only sighed, without even speaking the thought aloud. No matter how much he might blame himself for Patch’s running away, or want to bring the missing elf back to ease his own sorrow, the fact remained that Patch had made a grievous mistake. He had not taken his responsibilities seriously enough. He needed to learn a lesson or two about maturity and responsibility . . . and perhaps going out on his own was the only way he would ever get it.
Santa hoped fervently that a year which was starting out so badly could only improve . . . and in his heart he wished Patch all the good fortune he could find; and he added a wish that someday the small, impulsive genius would find his way back to his rightful home and the people who loved him.
• • •
But Patch had no intention of returning to the home he had abandoned, at least not until they begged him to and admitted to what he still saw as their mistake. And so, not many days later, the most impulsive of elves found himself walking quite confidently down a street in midtown Manhattan, studying the windows of department stores and shops with frank fascination. Having left the North Pole behind did not mean that he had left his magical abilities behind, and he had made good use of them to improve his travel time, setting an unmarked land speed record from the North Pole to Civilization—in the form of the Big Apple. This was New York City, the legendary hub of commerce, where it was said that the best and the brightest gathered to become successful—and that was certainly what he felt he was, and definitely what he intended to become. He’d prove to Santa, and all of them, that they needed him.
Blasé urban dwellers swirled past him, hurrying home through the evening rush hour, barely sparing him a second glance. A remarkably small man dressed like something out of a Christmas window display was the least of the strange things to be seen on the winter streets of New York; and even if it did strike some of them as odd, the sophistication of the city dweller demanded that they not mention it, even to themselves.
Patch was not in the least offended by their lack of curiosity, since the way he looked did not strike him as odd in the least, and it never occurred to him that they might find him unusual. He stopped short in his wanderings, as something in a store window suddenly caught his eye. Beneath a banner bearing a distinctive logo and the slogan B.Z. TOYS—FOR HAPPY GIRLS AND BOYS was a vast assortment of toys, stuffed animals, and dolls. As he watched, a clerk systematically began to sweep them from the display window in armloads and carry them away. Patch watched in amazement, astonished to think of how wonderful a line of toys must be to be disappearing so rapidly. He turned to the nearest human on the street, the only one who seemed to be standing still besides him. “They must be very popular,” he said, pointing at the toys. “Look how fast they’re selling . . .”
The shabbily dressed wino lounging against the building wall glanced up over the rim of his bottle in surprise as he realized that someone was actually speaking to him. He looked over at the bizarrely clad adult who was standing nearby, scarcely larger than a twelve-year-old, looking at him with a congenial smile. All of a sudden he disappeared. The wino looked at where the elf had stood a moment before, looked down at the bottle clutched in his hand, and back at the empty spot again. The old derelict shook his head and pitched his bottle into the gutter. He turned and shambled away down the street without a word, still shaking his head.
At the same moment, not terribly far away, B.Z. was brooding in his townhouse, getting ready to visit his company headquarters in the morning, the first time since the catastrophic Senate hearings. He knew that a financial disaster of major proportions was already in the process of occurring at the B.Z. Toy Company. For the past few days he had been desperately trying to think of a way he could worm out of the responsibility for it, but he had unfortunately failed to come up with one, or with anything that would get his money back.
But the next morning, despite his depressing lack of inspiration, he boarded his private helicopter and flew out to his company headquarters. B.Z. wasted no time as the helicopter set down on the pad of the Long Island heliport. Muttering to himself, he strode the few steps to his waiting limousine, which bore the same corporate logo as the helicopter. A hulking, heavyset man in a chauffeur’s uniform held the car’s door for him. The chauffeur’s name was Grizzard, and his nose seemed to have been broken in several different places, at several different times. He looked more like a bouncer at an extremely questionable nightclub (which he had been, among other things) than like the chauffeur of a respectable business man. But, then, his employer was hardly respectable.
B.Z. settled into the wide, leather-upholstered back seat of the limo. A built-in bar and a television set awaited his interest . . . and also waiting for him, with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man awaiting the executioner, was his chief assistant and Head of Research and Development, Dr. Eric Towzer.
Towzer cringed visibly as B.Z. dropped heavily into the seat beside him. B.Z.’s glowering countenance turned to him, and his own face became a pale, harried mask of nervous dread. An ingratiating toad by nature, Towzer had found his ecological niche working for the president of B.Z. Toys. He was utterly loyal to his boss—and utterly in his thrall, a relationship in which he normally thrived, like fungus on a rotten log. But that was when everything had been going fine . . .
“Okay, Towzer,” B.Z. said grimly, “give it to me straight.”
Towzer squirmed and tugged at his collar. “The retail outlets are pulling our toys off the shelves so fast you’d think they were disease carriers.”
“Cowards,” B.Z. muttered, disgusted. He glared through the tinted glass of the limo’s window
at the suburban homes passing by outside, where dozens of children were not happily playing with B.Z. toys—all because of their faint-hearted parents and the paranoid United States government.
“An article in the Times said that anyone who gives his child a B.Z. Toy should be arrested as a child molester.” Towzer’s voice took on a faintly nauseating whine of anxiety.
“Swine,” B.Z. snarled. “Cancel my subscription.” He did not suggest a libel suit.
“We’ve got to meet a payroll by the end of the month for two thousand factory workers—” Towzer’s voice actually began to quaver like a defective record.
“Commies . . .” B.Z.’s frown grew even darker as the storm clouds of his temper gathered.
“. . . and our cash flow is flowing the wrong way,” Towzer finished breathlessly, “right down the toilet.”
B.Z. glanced at him, and said sourly, “You sure know how to cheer a guy up, Towzer.”
Towzer pulled in his head like a turtle. “What’ll we do, B.Z.?” he whined, hoping desperately that the “we” would be enough to keep the ax he knew was waiting in B.Z.’s brain from falling on his own neck.
B.Z. stared at him for a moment that stopped his heart. And then, “Fire Simmonds!” B.Z. ordered in an explosion of inspired fury. “Tell him he’s got one hour to clean out his desk.”
“Simmonds?” Towzer said blankly. “Vice-President of Operations Simmonds?”
B.Z. nodded in satisfaction. “Put the blame squarely on him. Put out a statement.” He had never liked Simmonds, anyway. You couldn’t trust a man who wore a bow tie. He was sick of looking at it.
“But . . .” Towzer said feebly, still reeling from the suddenness of B.Z.’s decision, still barely able to believe that his own neck was safe. “Simmonds has been with the firm for thirty years.”
B.Z. grinned with evil satisfaction. “If you can’t stand the heat,” he gloated, “don’t work here.” It was the credo he lived by, and it had always served him well.
The limousine stopped briefly at the security guard’s station at the entrance to a large industrial complex, and then continued into its grounds. The car drove up and stopped before the single office building, flat roofed and graciously landscaped, which lay among the sprawl of the much larger buildings that were clearly used only for manufacturing. A large billboard towering above the complex read, B.Z. TOYS—FOR HAPPY GIRLS AND BOYS.
B.Z. launched himself from his limousine and entered the offices like a charging rhino. He swept through the reception area, not even acknowledging the startled employees he passed or their obsequious greetings. Taking the elevator to the top floor, he headed straight for his own private office, which was hidden discretely behind heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the hall.
“Miss Abruzzi!” he roared, as he neared his secretary’s desk, just outside his office.
“Yes, B.Z.?” Miss Abruzzi chirped, instantly on the alert. Neatly and conservatively dressed, like her boss, she was a thin, tense, pale woman; her physical appearance was mostly the result of having been the personal secretary of a raging bully for years—as was the permanent nervous tic that jerked at the corner of her mouth.
“No calls!” B.Z. stormed, in passing. “No visitors! No nothing!” He jerked open the door to his office and barreled through, slamming it so hard behind him that the pictures on the wall rattled and swayed. Miss Abruzzi sighed and rose to set them straight one more time.
B.Z. crossed the vast solitude of his office, his heavy footsteps making little sound on the deep rust-colored pile rug. He looked neither left nor right, ignoring the wood-paneled space around him, which had recently been expensively redecorated in black and gold, his favorite colors. One wall was covered with plaques and photos of himself in better days, in grinning proximity to the wealthy and powerful; the wide range of plaques were awards presented to his company over the years, by people who had mistakenly taken B.Z.’s pronouncements of quality and craftsmanship at face value. On a shelf below the plaques and pictures was a display of the former bestselling toys in the company’s catalogue—including a special display case featuring an award he had been given for the now-notorious flammable doll and infamous nail-and glass-stuffed panda.
B.Z.’s heavy black-and-walnut desk was oversized, and rested upon a subtly raised platform, so that anyone who sat across it from him was seated considerably lower, with all the accompanying psychological feelings of powerlessness and smallness. (Behind his back, his employees muttered that his office had been designed by the well-known Mussolini School of Interior Decoration.) His vast black leather desk chair sat with its back turned to him, as if it were looking out the tall windows behind his desk.
As B.Z. entered his private sanctuary, letting his face go slack, and thinking that he was alone at last, a voice said suddenly and quite distinctly, “Keeping banker’s hours, eh? I thought you’d never get here.” The leather chair swiveled around.
B.Z. stopped short, gaping in disbelief. There, smiling confidently and even putting his pointy-toed boots up on his desk top, was an apparition out of one of his catalogues, a toy elf come to life.
“Who the hell—” B.Z. began indignantly. “Miss Abruzzi!” he bellowed. But his voice could not penetrate the solid walls and door of his office. Realizing it, he rushed forward, reaching out for the intercom switch on his desk.
The elf waved a hand casually, as cool as an ice cube in December. “Don’t bother with that,” he said pleasantly. “If anybody comes in, I’ll just vanish.”
B.Z.’s eyes bulged; his face struggled to look more outraged than it did already. “You’ll what??” he snarled, suddenly becoming certain that this oddly dressed stranger must be some kind of madman.
The elf shrugged. “Vanish. Like this.” And he disappeared.
B.Z. swayed, wondering whether he was going blind, or merely losing his own mind. He stared around the room. “Hello?” he said uncertainly, almost hoping there would be no answer. It must be the strain getting to him . . .
But from somewhere off to his right the cheerful voice said, “Hi.” And abruptly the elf reappeared, perched now on the smooth brass mantelpiece of the office’s decorative, nonfunctional fireplace. He smiled his same benignly amused smile.
“How did you do that?” B.Z. demanded, finding it difficult to speak with his jaw still agape.
The elf shrugged, not bothering to answer. “You make toys, right?” he asked.
B.Z. squinted, suddenly on his guard as a new and worse possibility than his own insanity, or his visitor’s, occurred to him. “Are you from the Federal Trade Commission?” he asked nervously.
The elf shook his head. “No, I’m from the North Pole.”
B.Z. frowned, his relief changing instantly back into prickling irritation. “Look, junior, I’ve got enough on my mind without having to deal with an escaped lunatic.”
Patch raised his eyebrows, a bit taken aback that this seemingly ignorant human should know about what he now saw as his daring departure from Santa’s realm. His legend must be traveling even faster than he was, he thought with satisfaction, having no idea at all what a lunatic was.
“What are you?” B.Z. bellowed, losing all patience.
Patch shrugged again. “Isn’t it elf-explanatory?” He gestured down at himself, at his colorful clothes, with a sweeping gesture.
“Howzzat?” B.Z. snapped, thoroughly nonplussed and thoroughly exasperated.
“I’m an elf.” Patch held out his hands, shrugging.
B.Z. grimaced. “An elf. You mean like a fairy?”
Patch drew himself up a bit huffily. There was really no comparison, as far as he was concerned. “No, I’m not a fairy. I’m an elf,” he declared. Maybe that comment about his escape had just been a lucky guess, after all.
“What’s your game?” the toymaker demanded, looking and sounding a little frightened now. B.Z. had somehow expected this whole scene to dissolve like a bad dream at any moment, but it just wasn’t happening.
Pa
tch found it odd to be asked about his taste in sports at an important moment like this, but these humans were nothing if not peculiar. “Nine-pins,” he answered politely. “Do you play?”
B.Z. struck himself sharply on the forehead, as if trying to shake something loose. “Why are you here?” he asked, trying desperately to ask a question which would elicit a rational response.
Patch brightened, and smiled again. “I gather you’re a great toy-giver. I’m a great toy-maker. We should get together.”
“Why would I do that?” B.Z. growled, instantly suspicious again. He didn’t care if this guy could disappear or not—these parasites and hangers-on were always coming around, looking for a way to snatch a piece of his profits.
“Well, you know the old saying—” Patch said whimsically. “‘Heaven helps those who help their elf.’ ”
B.Z. shook his head. “Why me?”
Patch held out his hands. “I want to help you.”
“Why?” B.Z. asked again, knowing there was no such thing as a free lunch.
To his surprise, the elf’s face fell. His voice dropped to a tremulous murmur as he said, “So Santa Claus will appreciate me.”
B.Z. grunted in disgust. “I was right. You are a lunatic.”
Patch raised his head indignantly. “Don’t you believe in Santa Claus?” he asked. “Surely a toymaker, of all people . . .”
“Why should I?” B.Z. said petulantly, staring at his feet. “He never brought me anything.”
Patch nodded to himself, understanding now. Santa never ignored a child unless there was a good reason. “That’s because you probably were a naughty boy,” he said with mild reproach.
B.Z. didn’t answer for a moment. A slow smile began to spread across his face as he remembered wings pulled off of countless helpless flies, kittens dropped into sewers, little girls’ new party dresses pelted with oily mud . . . “Yeah,” he said musingly, “I guess I was no angel.” His mood brightened by the happy memories of his childhood, he looked up again, and said more congenially, “What did you have in mind, elf?”
Santa Claus The Movie Page 12
