Princess Claus and the Great Escape

by J L Gillham

  “Fiddle-d-fizz,” I say, remembering the empty sack in one pocket and the candy cane in the other. I forgot to give Tiny his treat. And boy, did he earn it by the way he raced to the arboretum. With a sigh, I make a mental note to give him his treat tomorrow. Then I head to my room.

  I close my bedroom door and head directly toward the telegraph on my desk. Telegraphs are the only way to communicate with the outside world. For the most part, the few scattered around Winter Wonderland go unused. Every day there is a delivery man from the local town. Before he leaves, he gets a list of what to bring the next day. That’s about as much as any of us keep up with the outside world, except for Cole and his family.

  At first glance, I know Cole hasn’t messaged me. Instead of throwing myself a pity party, I sit down and think up the message I’ll send to him. Sometimes just typing out my frustrations is enough, and I don’t even hit the send button.

  I consider word vomiting on the machine that resembles a typewriter, except this one has a roll of paper on the right side for incoming messages. Instead of the English alphabet, each button has a snowflake symbol on it, the official written language of Winter Wonderland.

  Growing up, Cole assumed everyone used a telegraph with the snowflake alphabet. Cole’s family was given two similar telegraphs. When my mother moved to Winter Wonderland permanently after marrying my father, she gave Cole’s mother one of these machines so they could communicate. Fortunately, my messages to Cole are sent directly to his, and not the second machine in his household located in the living room.

  Instead of my fingers flying, I let my hands rest in my lap. He’s probably discovering a new element to add to the periodic table and has more important things to worry about than me.

  I move to sit down on the cushioned stool. With my right sleeve, I wipe the keyboard until the signs of neglect are gone. Playing my favorite instrument and singing are my greatest joy and release from stress. And after the day I’ve had, a little joy wouldn’t be too bad.

  My hands hover over the keys. After a deep breath, I begin playing my newest half-written song, Snow Globe Prison.

  When the walls meant to protect me are closing in,

  Keeping life just out of reach;

  I can’t breathe, I can’t laugh, I can’t even pretend I’m okay.

  In a prison of glass walls I can’t touch but see

  A world not meant for me.

  Will I ever break out? Will I ever be free to live?

  I am shaken. I am broken. I am drifting. My heart is frozen.

  I wish I were strong enough, to shatter this glass.

  I wish I were brave enough, to forge my own path,

  Be courageous, and finally take a chance.

  But I am so afraid.

  I wish I could make, my great escape.

  I STILL NEED TO ADD more verses and the ending of the song. When I’m done, the weight of frustration is still pressing down on me. Usually singing lifts my mood at least a little bit, but not today.

  What if I'm not brave enough to leave? What if it isn't the snow globe keeping me here, but my own fears? I ball my fist. I will find a way out of this prison. And I will see what the world has to offer. No matter what.

  On a table, encased in a glass box, rests a snow globe—not just one of thousands here in Winter Wonderland, but the one. Mom and Dad said the magical dome above that is protecting me from Ebenezer and hiding us from the outside world is based on this snow globe. For years the miniature one was kept in a special section of the library. My parents couldn’t take my nagging anymore. So one day, they let me put it in my room.

  Partly, because it was a compromise. When I was little, I took the nickname “Princess Claus” very seriously and insisted on having my own tiara. Mom has one too; it was a gift from Dad shortly after I was born.

  “If our daughter is a princess, then you are a queen,” Dad had said when he gave it to her. Mom only takes it out on their anniversary, and when I nag so much she can’t get any peace. One day I switched to nagging about keeping the magical snow globe in my room. Both parents eventually gave in and agreed.

  When I can’t sleep at night, I watch the glowing snowflakes glisten as they swirl up, down, and all around. A constant gentle storm. I stare at the snow globe, all my longing and anger pouring into my glare.

  “Let me out!” I shout at the magical object louder than I had intended to.

  I pause as if expecting a response, like Belle in Beauty in the Beast discovering the household objects inside the mansion could talk back. But I am not in a Disney story. And this magical object offers no response.

  It’s as if a lifetime of memories fills me up like lava until I erupt in a scream. At the same time as I vent all my pent-up steam, the snow globe makes a cracking sound.

  “No,” I cry. There is a new web-like fracture in the glass, and I am the spider who created it.

  “What did I do?” I run my finger over the surface of the snow globe and feel the crack. Surely, I didn’t shout loud enough to break glass. I look to my bookshelf. On the third shelf is a small collection of glass animals. They are my dad’s gifts to me each Christmas. All of them are more fragile than the snow globe. And all of them are still intact. I’ve got to figure out what happened and how to fix it. But first, I need to hide my accident.

  With a glance around my room for a spot, my eyes rest on a crumpled-up sweater. I cradle the snow globe inside the clothing. But where to put it? I decide to use my open and empty go-bag leaning against the wall. It’s an older backpack I designated I’d fill with only the essentials once I figure out how to escape. Then, all I need to do is grab the go-bag and be on my way.

  Maybe once I get out of Winter Wonderland, I can find someone who will help me fix the cracks.

  I lay the wrapped sweater down to rest at the bottom of the backpack. “Sleep tight, and no crying,” I tell the inanimate object. “I’ll be back with a fake replacement soon. I promise to fix you as soon as I can figure out how.” Then I slip the bag under my bed.

  See the snowflake alphabet at:

  http://bit.ly/snowflakealphabet

  CHAPTER SIX

  My footsteps echo while I run down the corridor. Barely any of the wall can be seen, because of all the paintings. The theme for this section is an idyllic Winter Wonderland. Before I make a turn, I hear Nicky’s voice. Without hesitation, I lean back to claim the shadows as my covering.

  I try not to press my back too hard against my favorite painting, the scene of a snow-covered land and sky full of dancing green and pink Northern Lights. However, instead of the painting becoming my leaning post, I feel the wall behind me open like a revolving door. I fall, landing on my back.

  In that moment, it feels like I’m drowning. I gasp for air but can’t get any. Once I realize the wind got knocked out of me, I force my panic down a notch. Finally, I am able to inhale. I scurry back into the hidden hallway, then close the secret entrance. I’m too relieved to be concealed from Nicky to panic at being plunged into an almost complete darkness.

  I look behind me and am rewarded with an inky blackness that seems to swallow up all my courage. I don’t wait one second longer than necessary. Once Nicky is gone, I rush back into the security of light, making sure to close the painting. I make a mental note to return soon with a flashlight.

  However, I’m on a mission and can’t stop now, even if I have finally found a way out of Winter Wonderland. The fractured magical snow globe has to be fixed first. Then, I can return to the newly discovered area and go over it inch by inch.

  As soon as I make a right, I turn my rush into a stroll. Then I enter my shortcut, Santa’s Workshop.

  “Hello,” says one elf. He looks up from his station. He’s rummaging through a jar of black buttons. There is a half-finished stuffed animal resting on the counter.

  “How are you today?” says another one, before I’ve even had time to respond to the first. This elf is carrying an armful of pink and purple cloth, and just came fro
m the one hundred rows of fabric.

  “Hello. Very good. And you?” I ask. There must be at least thirty elves in this room. Make that thirty-one. I see another person traveling down the slide from the second to the first floor. I’d better hurry. Once I’ve made all the necessary small talk, I finally reach the end of the room.

  Less than three minutes later, I’m in the glass room. All four walls have floor-to-ceiling shelves full of trinkets. I make my way to the section labeled “S.” Reaching on my tiptoes, I peer up at row after row of snowballs. There are glass ones, paper, wooden, and even a few made out of metal.

  What I need are elf’s stilts to reach my goal. Then I see a rolling ladder. When I push it, a squeaking sound fills the room. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide against grabbing some oil to stop the sound coming from the wheels. Instead, I run over to the door. Thankfully, unlike the staircase, the door is silent as it closes. After enough squeaking for the wheels to be mistaken as hungry mice being teased by a fishing pole with cheese on the hook, the staircase is in place. I climb to the top and am surprised at how winded I feel. I guess sleuthing and stairclimbing don’t use the same muscles.

  Once there, I find the desired objects. The snow globes are arranged by the color of their base. I am smack dab in the middle, making the silver section within reach. I stretch my arm toward the one that most resembles the replica of the magical snow globe. “Just a little more,” I say aloud. Just then my fingertip brushing against the shelf slips. “Whoa!” I shout, gripping the railing with my other hand.

  It’s then that I look down for the first time. There must be twenty rows between myself and the floor. I know I should make the trek down, push the staircase three feet to the right, then scurry back up the top. Instead, I bite my lip and take a deep breath.

  I reach my hand toward the prize, then decide to take one extra precaution. Once I’ve wiped the sweat from my hand, I try again.

  My fingertips glide against the snow globe. “Gotcha!” I shout as my hand wraps around my treasure.

  A few seconds later, I’m halfway down the stairs when the door opens. To my surprise, it’s Nicky and someone I can’t get a good look at. Why hadn’t I thought to change my shiny silver top? I’m practically a billboard sign begging to be paid attention to. I close my eyes like a child who thinks she can’t be seen if she can’t see you. I hear Tiny’s name mentioned in the conversation, but the sound of my forcefully slowed breathing is all I can focus on.

  When I pry my eyes open, I realize the stranger is clearly not an elf, being that he’s a few inches taller than Nicky. Both of them have passed by my ladder and now have their backs to me. The stranger has dark brown hair that barely reaches his ears. Before I have time to figure it out, they leave through the opposite door. The only regular person from town who visits is the delivery man, Mr. Sander. However, his gray hair is easily recognizable and couldn’t be mistaken for the stranger’s brown hair.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. With my right hand grasping the snow globe, I use my left hand to guide my way down the stairs. Then I make a mental note to grab a sack next time I need to do some thieving. It’s much easier to make a quick getaway when you can use both hands. I race back to my bedroom. Along the way, I slip back into the workshop, and gather all sorts of adhesives.

  Once in the safety of my bedroom, I put everything I’ve newly acquired down on my table. After carefully retrieving the magical snow globe, I try each adhesive. First is super glue. Next is regular glue. I even try tree sap. While that didn’t fix my problem, it sure created a new one. By the end of my sticky tries, there is a maple-smelling missing chunk in my carpet.

  Admitting defeat, at least for today, I return my attention to the replacement. This snow globe is battery powered, so I fill it with new ones and turn it on. After a few seconds, the glitter inside begins churning. Then I return the real thing to my go-bag. I spend a few minutes adding necessities to the bag, then I slide it back under my bed.

  Satisfied with my preparations, I pick up the picture frame of my entire family. In the front, both sets of grandparents sit on chairs. Behind them stand Mom and Dad on the left. Nicky and I are on the right.

  Every smile is authentic. To my surprise, even though Jolly is the grumpiest of the elves, he takes the best pictures. Instead of having us say, “Cheese,” he asked us to say “Reindeer farts.”

  Of course, it got a laugh that died down to smiles. That’s when he snapped the shot. I will miss them all when I finally make it out of Winter Wonderland. Well, all of them except Nicky. Maybe some distance will do us some good. And maybe some distance from home will be just what I need to finally take up the role of the next Santa.

  I put the frame down then frown. Although I’m decent at lying to others, something a future Santa should never practice, I sure can’t lie to myself. If I step one boot outside of Winter Wonderland, I know there’ll be no looking back. Ever.

  Agreeing to spend the rest of my life here in the role of Santa is like asking a bird not to fly or the Northern Lights not to dance.

  An image of my parents realizing I’ve left forces its way into my mind. Of course, Mom will cry and Dad will console her with words reassuring her of my swift return. A prophecy that will remain unfulfilled.

  Wherever I go, I’ll send them a postcard. And as soon as possible, I’ll purchase a camera so I can mail pictures of my adventures.

  Guilt invades my happy thoughts of scuba diving in Australia. Rather than deal with it, I sing. After ten minutes, I feel worse not better.

  Eyeing my metal tin with Dad’s sleeping powder inside, I decide to grab it. After slowly opening the lid so that the contents inside don’t spill out, I fill the glass cup halfway with the powder, then the rest with water from a pitcher, and stir.

  It only takes a few seconds for Dad’s sleeping powder to work. Though usually for kids who discover him, he lets me use a small dose when I have trouble sleeping. And there’s never been a harder night to sleep than tonight.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, I stretch and yawn at the same time. I’m about to go back to bed when I feel my throbbing cheek. An entire night without my rash medicine might not have been such a good idea. I reach for the green triangle on my bedside table. Though the gooey aloe on my face makes me shiver, the soothing relief it brings is worth the chill. As I let the balm work on my still-aching rash, I ponder the same old question. Like an inmate with a life sentence, I contemplate how to break out.

  Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? In less than three minutes, I’ve covered myself from black ball cap to black lace-up boots, remembering how I’d wish I could’ve blended better when hiding in the shadows and dangling precariously from the ladder yesterday. I’m too excited to let the aloe completely dry on my skin, but the anticipation of my newest idea is worth sliding the sweater over my gooey face.

  I attach my utility belt to my waist just to be prepared. Making the shadows my accomplices, I dash, crawl, and leap from one to another to avoid being asked any questions.

  The only elves who should be up now are those tasked with breakfast duty. All of them will be in the kitchen and easy to avoid. Our family takes up a small wooden table in the front of the dining hall, where the elves have all their meals. The large room is decorated with snowshoes made of wood from birch trees that were retired after much use. There’s also an assortment of handmade stockings, each with one of the elves’ names on it.

  It’s doubtful anyone from my family will be up yet. Mom, Dad, and Nicky usually rise shortly before it’s time to eat. And there’s zero chance I’ll run into any grandparents.

  Both sets of my grandparents have log cabins to the north of the main building. My mother’s parents are Sylvia, whom we call “Grammy,” and Ronald, nicknamed “Grampy.” They moved to Winter Wonderland around the time my mom married my dad. My paternal grandfather was the Santa before my dad. He now goes by Grampa. Carol, my
paternal grandmother, simply goes by Grandma.

  After breakfast in their own cabins, the men spend the rest of the day ice fishing while the women bake treats or talk about the current story in their book club of two. Sometimes I stop by during the day, but no matter what, I see my entire family of eight for a large dinner at the dining hall. That is, unless it’s near Christmas and everyone’s busy with preparations. Or because I am distracted by my escape attempts. Then I have to rustle up leftovers or a sandwich to eat in my room.

  My parents, brother, and I each have a bedroom in the main building. When I was five and asked why I didn’t live in a cabin too, Mom answered so that we’d be closer to the elves’ daily dose of homemade treats. Eventually, I realized the true answer is because my parents thought the main building added an extra measure of security somehow, possibly because it’s a little less isolated than the cabins.

  Secure in the knowledge I can sneak out, I throw on a loose jacket that I can still zip up despite wearing my utility belt. Then I exit Homebase and head west. It’s a straight shot to my destination with a clear line of sight. It takes a few minutes to reach the only structure between the main building and the one exit. That little building is not much more than an outhouse for the sentries on post to use. When you go inside, there’s no need to pinch your nose closed. Good old cold weather masks the unpleasant smells.

  Once I’ve arrived at the outhouse, I press my back against an exterior wall. Straining to listen, I want to see if there’s a possibility I can make an early bird breakout through the entrance to Winter Wonderland. Thirty yards away an elf is standing ramrod straight inside the magical dome. I can barely see through the tunnel that is ten feet long to spy another elf just outside the border. What looks like a shimmering tunnel fills the emptiness between the elves. It’s what I base my hypothesis on about the magical barrier being ten feet wide. Just then I hear shouting.