by R E McLean
No reply.
Alex stepped forwards, bracing herself for the thwack of an elf’s face into her chest.
“Mike?”
“Alex?”
It wasn’t Mike’s voice; it was her dad’s.
“Dad! Say my name again, so I can find you.”
“Alex. I’m over here, lass.”
She stumbled towards the sound of his voice. “Again,” she urged him.
“Right here. You’re getting closer.”
She took another tentative step, holding her arms out, feeling for his hands. Her palm hit something cold, and solid. The cage.
“I’m touching the cage, Dad. Which way are you?”
“I’m right here.”
She felt something brush her wrist. She fumbled in the gloom. At last they were grasping each other’s hands.
“It’s good to see you, Dad.”
“You too. Although maybe not like this, eh?”
“What happened to you?”
“He was snatched from the grotto,” said a deep voice, English-sounding.
“Ignore him,” said Duncan. “He’s always interrupting.”
“No, I’m not.”
“See what I mean. Shut up, Santa, alright?”
“Same to you, Santa.”
“Please, let me talk to my dad,” Alex said. The English Santa muttered under his breath.
“What happened?” she asked.
“One minute I was sitting in the grotto. They made it out of discarded Tunnocks wrappers. Very impressive. Sparkly.”
Alex could well imagine a grotto fabricated from the wrappers of Scotland’s favorite chocolate cake (or biscuit, depending which side of the Tunnocks divide you were on).
“But how did you get here?”
“Hear me out, lass.”
“Sorry.”
“Like I said. One minute I was sitting there. Trying to stretch my legs after having an eighty-three-pound fifteen-year-old sitting on my lap and asking for an annual subscription to Playboy magazine. Cheeky wee bugger. Anyway. When I straightened up, I wasn’t there anymore. I was here, surrounded by the most argumentative tribe of Santas I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Seen lots of tribes of Santas, have you Dad?”
“You know what I mean. So how did you get here?”
“Long story. But I’m here to take you home. You and all the other Santas.”
“All of us?” The English Santa again.
Alex turned towards the patch of darkness where his voice had come from. “If I can, yes.”
She knew she was here for the Macy’s Santa, the Ur-Santa. But after what Horace had said, maybe each and every Santa here was a little fraction of the Ur-Santa. Even the one in the mankini.
“So how are you going to get us out then?” Another voice. Deeper, more Santa-like.
“I don’t know.” She considered. “Is Mike in there?”
“Who’s Mike?”
“My colleague. The one they snatched just before the lights went out.”
She looked upwards. It was as dark overhead as it was in front. She couldn’t remember which way the staircase was.
She tried clicking her fingers. One fairy light came on, right above her head.
She stood on tiptoe to look at it. It was in a deeply tasteless shade of magenta.
She clicked her fingers again. Another light, green this time, fizzed and popped. She held her breath but it went out again.
She lowered her heels and looked towards the Santas. “Can you all give me a hand?”
“What with?” asked Duncan.
“Maybe if we all click our fingers, then a light will come on for each of us. More, if we’re lucky.”
“Worth a go.” There was a pause. “Santas, did you hear her?”
“Hear what?”
“Pass the message on. In exactly ten seconds, I’ll click my fingers. Then we all click, like a Mexican wave.”
“If it’s a Mexican wave, then you need to agree that we share the gift-giving job with the Wise Men.”
“Whatever,” said Duncan. “I share my gift-giving duties with a pimply twenty-three-year-old wearing a name badge. Wise Men have to be an improvement.”
“Gracias.”
Alex heard the message ripple through the crowd. Voices sprung up: deep, shrill, in as many accents as she had freckles on her nose. She recognized at least three languages, although there were more, one of which seemed to consist of guttural clicking sounds.
“Ready,” said the Mexican Santa.
“Perfect,” said Duncan. “You first, Alex.”
She clicked her fingers. Duncan followed suit. The sound of his fingers snapping was followed by a ricochet of snaps.
She looked up at the magenta light, holding her breath. After what felt like an age, the light next to it (orange with a yellow center) flickered into life. Then the next, and the next, and the next. A wave of light rushed across the ceiling above the cage, in the same way it had earlier.
She jumped for joy.
“Ow.”
She’d hit her head on the low ceiling.
“You alright, lass?”
She rubbed her head. “I’m fine.”
She wished she’d been wearing her elf hat; even its flimsy fabric would offer some protection. Then she tried to remember what had happened to it. To it, and the candy cane she’d slipped inside it for the jump. Sarita had told her to keep it safe. She’d have to be very hungry to resort to eating that.
The Santas glowed under the lights. They stood facing her, smiling. There was hope in their rotund faces.
Slumped on the floor next to Duncan. Leaning against the bars of the cage, was another Santa. She bent down. His eyes were closed, and he clutched a familiar elf hat.
“Mike?”
Twelve
Chicken
“Mike! Mike, wake up.”
Duncan was level with Alex, crouched on the floor on the other side of the iridescent bars. He smiled at her.
“He your boyfriend, lass?”
Alex gave him a look. “How many times do I have to tell you, Dad?”
“I thought you might have expanded your tastes.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“So does that mean you’ve got a girlfriend instead? Is she here with you?”
Alex blushed. “No.”
“Not here? I’m sorry.”
“No. No girlfriend.”
“Ah. Maybe this fella would suffice while we’re looking…”
“Dad. I don’t go for guys. All right?”
Duncan raised his hands. “I just want you to be happy. To meet someone nice.”
Alex thought of Sarita. An image of the MIU’s material scientist in a close-fitting and skimpy Santa suit had been popping into her head unbidden. It did it again now.
She felt heat rise up her neck.
Duncan winked. “I won’t say any more. But bring her home some time, yeah? Next visit?”
Alex lowered her eyes. She hadn’t returned home in her two years in San Francisco, unable to bear the thought of entering the house where her mum had been murdered. Her dad, she knew, was disappointed, but chose not to say anything. He was a stoic Scotsman, despite all the whisky he drank, and not given to displays of emotion.
She murmured assent and he grunted.
“So. How are you going to get us out of here, now we’ve got illumination?”
Alex looked up at the ceiling then down at Mike. He was still unconscious.
She reached through the bars. Her elf hat was loose in his hand. She grabbed it.
“Fancy,” said her dad.
She stuck out her tongue. “I didn’t take it back to wear it.”
“Why then?”
“This.” She pulled the candy cane out of the hat’s folds. It looked like a normal candy cane, red and white stripes and the customary hook.
She inspected it, feeling for buttons or pressure points. Nothing happened. She shook it.
&nbs
p; “It’s just a candy cane,” her dad said.
She shook her head. “Sarita gave this to me. She wouldn’t have done so without a reason.”
“Who’s Sarita?”
The blush spread further up her neck. “Our materials scientist.”
“What’s one of them?”
“Just another scientist.” She remembered that as far as her dad was concerned, she was still working in the Physics faculty at the University of Berkeley.
“Oh. Pretty?”
She waved the candy cane in his face. “Shall we get back to trying to rescue you?”
“I was wondering when you’d say that.”
A tall, rotund Santa with a full, genuine-looking beard was standing next to her dad. His suit was of a fine velvet and shimmered in the glow of the fairy lights.
“Which Santa are you?” she asked.
“The Macy’s one.”
“You’re the ur-Santa? The real one?”
“In your universe, yes.”
She gulped. “Cool.”
“Did you enjoy the hobby horse I left for you when you were six? I got your letter.”
Duncan cleared his throat. “She thinks that was me and her mum.”
The ur-Santa laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He cocked his head. “So, did you like it? My elves went to a lot of trouble.”
“So it’s your fault then,” Alex said.
“You didn’t like it?”
“Not the horse. I loved that.”
It was true: she’d played with the thing until its paint wore off and its mane of once-thick hair was reduced to something you’d see on the back of a particularly ugly pig.
“I mean the elves,” she said. “They’re pissed off. You’re working them into the ground.”
“They love it,” the ur-Santa replied. “They sing all day while they work.”
“What do they sing?”
Santa shrugged. “No idea. It’s in Russian.”
“You don’t speak Russian?”
“I dropped it when the Communists banned me. They wouldn’t let the sleigh in, set up extra checkpoints on Christmas Eve.”
Alex tried to imagine what was weirder: the Russians setting up anti-Santa checkpoints or the fact that she was standing in a cellar in a parallel universe arguing with the ur-Santa.
The Santas were squabbling again. Someone muttered Elves, schmelves and another shouted something about holly. She heard a punch land.
“Oi, you lot!” she yelled. They quietened.
“That’s better,” she said. This was the unruliest bunch of Santas she had ever seen. Worse even than when Rory McAdams and his mates had put on Santa hats and hung around Gretna’s outlet village scaring the tourists.
“Does anyone here speak Russian?” she asked.
“Er, me.” A hand went up.
“I need your help.”
The Santas parted to let their Russian colleague through. He was thin, dressed in a long blue fur-trimmed coat. His beard was thick and flowing, almost down to his waist.
“Yes?”
“Can you translate something for me?” She turned to the ur-Santa. “Can you sing it?”
He looked at her like she’d asked him to swap outfits with the mankini Santa.
“Sing?” he asked.
“Well, hum it. Whatever. Just give us an idea of what the song might be.”
The ur-Santa cleared his throat. He started warbling. Instead of the rich, deep-throated tones she’d been expecting, it was a sound that reminded her of a chicken being forced to sing Jingle Bells.
“I know that,” said the Russian Santa.
The ur-Santa stopped singing. He looked sheepish.
“What is it?” asked Alex.
“It’s a revolutionary song. From 1917. The Bolsheviks spread it.”
Alex folded her arms across her chest. “See? Not happy. Not happy at all. They were planning a rebellion, and we’re stuck in the middle of it.”
Thirteen
Splat
Alex shook her head. He may be the ur-Santa, possessed of the ability to travel all the known worlds in one night, but when it came to people skills, he was clearly one elf short of a workshop.
“I’m getting you out of here,” she said.
The ur-Santa pushed his shoulders back. He was huge, an imposing presence nothing like the Santas she’d encountered in shopping malls and school fairs in her childhood.
“No. The others first. You’re my insurance policy.”
“But I need to prepare for Christmas.”
“You can’t do that without your workforce.”
The ur-Santa opened his mouth but then closed it again, chastened. Mike stirred.
“What’s going on?”
“This eejit has created a Christmas revolution,” Alex replied.
“Which eejit?”
She pointed at the ur-Santa. He lifted his chest even higher, refusing to be cowed by a short ginger Scotswoman.
She sniffed. “Let’s use this thing.”
She twisted the candy cane. It felt soft and smooth in her hand, and had lost the customary stickiness.
Nothing happened.
“D’you think that’ll do something?” Mike asked. He was pulling up to his feet now, rubbing his forehead. A swelling the size of a satsuma was forming.
“Sarita gave it to us for a reason.” She stroked it, then twisted it again. She pulled it at both ends. Nothing happened.
She frowned at it.
“It’s not an ordinary candy cane,” she said. “It can’t be.”
“Only one way to find out,” said Mike.
He was right. She closed her eyes and brought it to her lips. She closed her teeth over it. It was hard. Her dentist would rub his hands with glee if he could see this.
She squeezed her eyes shut and bit.
There was a splat sound. She opened her eyes. The Santas were looking around, muttering.
“Again!” one of them cried.
She took another bite. Another noise, a whoosh this time. A ripple of applause came from the crowd of Santas.
She crunched into the cane again and again, taking tiny nibbles. With every bite, there was another sound. Some were accompanied by a flash of sparkly light from deep within the crowd.
The crowd was thinning. With each bite, a Santa disappeared. She sped up, crunching through the candy cane until only her dad and the ur-Santa were left.
She hesitated. Her dad was smiling at her, his eyes wet. She wondered if he’d remember this.
The ur-Santa’s bushy brows were knotted, like two longhaired white cats fighting over a morsel of catnip. She glared at him.
She bit. Her dad gasped then disappeared into thin air. There was a pink flash of light and a single note that sounded suspiciously like it had been played on bagpipes.
There was only a morsel of the candy cane left. One bite.
The ur-Santa gestured at it. “Go on.”
“No. You need to fix this.”
“You certainly do.”
They turned to see a throng of elves swarming into the cellar behind them. They were advancing quietly, the only sound the faint jangling of the bells on their shoes and hats.
“Bite it. Now,” the ur-Santa said.
She turned to him. “You want to be a coward? Is that what all those children think of you?”
His eyebrows started fighting again. He twisted his mouth at her.
She felt a small hand on her arm, and another on her leg. She pulled away but more hands had landed on her, tugging her back and forth.
Mike had sunk into the crowd of elves, shouting at them from deep within the throng. The fairy lights were dimming and her vision shrank to a small patch of light containing just her, Horace and the ur-Santa.
“Kosh her.”
Horace shifted to let one of his colleagues through. He was holding a rubber mallet.
“No! I can help!” she cried.
The mallet hit her face and the world went b
lack.
Fourteen
Santa Baby
Alex woke to find herself in a low-ceilinged room. She sat up, rubbing her head.
Mike was next to her, his legs chained to the wall with something that looked like tinsel but was as strong as steel. Beyond him, the ur-Santa filled half of the room, his head brushing the ceiling.
“What happened?” she asked. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” said the ur-Santa.
“I didn’t mean you.” She reached out to Mike. He was pale, and the exposed skin where the tinsel-steel encircled his leg was raw.
She stood up, then regretted it when she hit the ceiling. She collapsed to the floor. Stars swam in front of her eyes, twirling and sparkling red and green.
Behind the ur-Santa was a small door. She crawled towards it, shoving his fat legs out of the way. He grunted at her.
She hammered on the door.
“Let us out! We can help you!”
A hatch in the door slid open and a rosy-cheeked face appeared. “Be quiet, prisoner. We don’t need you.”
“But you do. I know what’s happening. I’m on your side.”
“You’re protecting those two Santas. Including the big guy.”
“He isn’t a big guy.”
“Look at him.”
“He may be imposing, but inside he’s smaller than any of you. He’s treated you like crap, hasn’t he? Working all the hours, three hundred and sixty-four days a year?”
The elf frowned. “If you think you’re going to get around us by pretending to—”
“I’m not pretending anything. I can see what he’s been doing. I know about your songs.”
“How?”
“There was a Russian Santa in that cellar.”
Another face appeared at the hatch: Horace.
“Hey, Horace,” Alex said.
“Don’t Hey Horace me. You’re one of them. We’re still deciding what to do with you.”
“Let me out. Let me talk to you. Me and my colleague.”
“You freed the Santas. With that cane of yours.”
“Not the ur-Santa. He wanted me to send him off, but I refused.”
The hatch closed. She heard muttering. It increased in pitch, turning into angry shouts.
It opened again. She pasted on a smile. Mike was behind her now, having climbed over the ur-Santa’s legs. The ur-Santa was singing Santa Baby to himself.
