by Matt Haig
This was Father Bottom. The Troll Correspondent. He was meant to be the biggest troll expert in Elfhelm. He was now running with his hands in the air screaming, ‘The trolls! The trolls! The trolls!’ And pushing everyone out the way as he did so.
And even in her panic Noosh thought, I really should have had his job.
‘Where shall we run to?’ asked Humdrum, looking petrified.
There was only one answer Noosh could give.
‘To Father Christmas!’
The Chamber Pot
o how did it go with Mr Creeper?’ Amelia’s mother asked from her bed between coughs as Amelia dealt with the chamber pot. The chamber pot was the round white tin pot they used to go to the toilet in. Amelia took the pot and opened the window and poured the yellow liquid out into the street.
‘Oi! Watch out!’ yelled a man below.
‘Oops. Sorry,’ said Amelia. Then she turned back to her mother and lied.
‘It was all right at Mr Creeper’s.’ She didn’t want to upset her mother with the truth.
‘I’m glad you liked him,’ her mother said, faintly, struggling for breath.
‘I wouldn’t go that far, Ma.’
‘Did you get the figgy pudding?’
Amelia said nothing.
‘I don’t think I’ll be able to eat tomorrow, anyway.’
Her mother was clearly struggling, but was determined to speak. ‘He has a workhouse . . . Mr Creeper.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Listen, Amelia,’ she whispered, ‘I am not long for this world . . .’
Amelia could feel the tears in her eyes and tried to blink them away, so her mother couldn’t see. ‘Ma, don’t talk like that.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘But, Ma.’
‘Now, let me finish. When I die I want you to be looked after. I don’t want you out on the streets. And even if you keep up your chimney sweeping you won’t be able to stay ’ere, so I’ve spoken with Mr Creeper . . .’
Amelia felt her whole body go stiff with terror, and it had nothing to do with the bed bugs she could see crawling over the bed sheets.
‘Stop this talk, Ma. You’re going to get better.’
Her mother coughed again. The coughing lasted a long time. ‘You’ll be safe there.’
Amelia put the chamber pot back under her mother’s bed. She stared at one of the bugs crawling on the sheets, going around in circles, before Captain Soot swiped it dead with his paw. She looked at her cat. He looked back at her. Captain Soot’s glassy eyes were wide with shock at the conversation. Amelia doubted that cats were allowed in workhouses. And even if they were, she never wanted Captain Soot – or herself – to end up there. Especially as Captain Soot really seemed to dislike Mr Creeper.
‘Come on, Ma, it’s Christmas Day tomorrow. Magic will happen, you’ll see. You’ve just got to believe . . . Christmas is when miracles can happen. Just wait, I promise . . .’ And Amelia smiled and thought of the letter she had sent Father Christmas. She tried her very hardest to believe a miracle could happen and that – even in a world full of people like Mr Creeper – magic was always possible.
Her Mother’s Hand (quite a short but very sad chapter)
t was an hour later. Amelia knelt and held her mother’s hand. She was getting worse minute by minute. Amelia couldn’t help but think of all the other – happier – times she had held her mother’s hand. Walking along the river. Going to the fair. Or when she had been little and her mother had held her hand after she’d had a bad dream. She remembered her mother’s finger doing circles on her palm as she sang ‘Ring a ring o’ roses’ in a soft voice to help her to sleep.
Her mother didn’t speak much now because it seemed to take too much energy. But Amelia could see from her mother’s frown that she had something to say.
Her mother shook her head. ‘Amelia, my love, I’m afraid this is the end.’
She was breathing slowly. She looked as pale as milk.
‘But you’re not coughing.’
Her mother smiled the faintest of smiles. Amelia could tell it was a great effort for her mother to speak.
‘Life will get better for you one day,’ she told her daughter, as she had told her many times recently. ‘Life is like a chimney – you sometimes have to get through the dark before you see the light.’
And her mother smiled a weak smile and closed her eyes and Amelia felt the hand she was holding grow heavy.
‘Ma, you can’t die. I won’t let you. Dying is absolutely forbidden. Do you hear me?’
Jane Wishart closed her eyes. ‘Be a good girl.’
And that was the last thing Amelia’s mother ever said to her. There was no sound to be heard except the tick tock of the clock out on the landing and the sound of sadness weeping out of Amelia.
The Barometer of Hope
ather Christmas walked hurriedly through the workshop. Elves were swarming around him.
‘Is that the infinity sack?’ a short barrelly elf asked him, pointing to the sack he was holding.
‘Yes it is, Rollo.’
‘It doesn’t look very big.’
‘No, it isn’t big. But it is infinite. You could fit a whole world in . . .’
And then the ground started to shake. Elves looked at each other with wider than usual eyes. Hobby horses clanked onto the ground. Toy carts slid back and forth across the stone floor. Rollo fell over hundreds of balls rolling across the floor and landed on his – fortunately large and cushiony – bottom. Then it went quiet and still again.
‘What was that?’ said Rollo.
‘I’m scared,’ said Dimple.
Bella started to cry.
Father Christmas turned to everyone.
‘Just a little tremor, folks. Nothing to worry about. Even the ground gets excited near Christmas! Carry on as normal. We have a very big day – and night – ahead of us.’
And then Father Christmas swung the infinity sack over his shoulder and travelled up the chimney to the top floor of the workshop tower, to the Toy Workshop headquarters.
The moment Father Christmas stepped out of the chimney and into the Toy Workshop headquarters he saw the wise old elf Father Topo standing on the stone floor and stroking his long white moustache.
‘All well, Father Topo?’ said Father Christmas.
‘Not exactly, Father Christmas. Didn’t you feel the ground shake just then? I thought the whole tower was going to collapse.’
‘Well, I felt a little tremor. But it will be fine. It must be all the magic in the air.’
‘Hmmm. About that,’ said Father Topo. ‘Look at the Barometer of Hope. ‘It should be bursting with light.’
He pointed at the Barometer of Hope, a small round glass jar positioned on a pole in the centre of the room.
The Barometer of Hope usually glowed with a dazzling display of multi-coloured, gently moving light. Green, purple, blue. These lights had been scooped up by Father Christmas from the Northern Lights in the sky above Finland. On Christmas Eve the light should almost be blinding, since it was fuelled by magic that grew out of hope and the goodness of elves, humans and all creatures.
But when Father Christmas looked up at the Barometer of Hope on this day there was just a faint wisp of glowing green, flickering like a weak flame.
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ Father Christmas said. ‘It’s glowing a little bit. It will pick up through the day. Come on, Father Topo. Cheer up! All the letters are still getting through!’
Just at that moment the normally smiling Mother Sparkle, from the letter room, ran into the headquarters, breathless. ‘Something’s going wrong! None of the letters are getting through to us. I’ve just heard from the letter catcher. They’re not getting over the mountain.’
Father Christmas smiled. ‘Oh well. The letters aren’t getting through and there is a little glitch with the Barometer of Hope. It’s not going to stop Chri . . .’
A distant but quite loud noise interrupted him. A roar
ing, crunching kind of noise. Father Christmas headed to the large window. In the distance he could see devastation on the Street of Seven Curves.
Whole houses were collapsing or disappearing into the ground. Elves were running along the cracking street in terror. Father Christmas gasped, and in no time at all Mother Sparkle and Father Topo were by his side.
Father Topo pulled his telescope from his top pocket. He saw a family running amid the chaos. And one of them was just in his underwear.
‘Oh no. Noosh, Humdrum, Little Mim.’
Noosh was Father Topo’s great-great-great-great-great granddaughter and the elf he loved most in the world.
It wasn’t just the Street of Seven Curves that was under attack. The buildings of the Main Path were going under too. Workers from the Bank of Chocolate ran for their lives just before the bank was swallowed up into the ground.
Father Christmas could see something else. Where the Bank of Chocolate had once stood. He saw something crash through the heap of bricks and dust. First, a huge swathe of what looked like wild black hair was poking out of the ground. And then, slowly, a warty forehead. The kind of forehead that could only belong to a troll.
Father Christmas saw a rock flying through the air, coming from beyond the hills. It was heading – wait, oh no – it was heading straight for the Toy Workshop. It smashed through the window. Father Christmas pushed Mother Sparkle over and landed on top of her as the rock landed on the floor. Now, Father Christmas was a lot larger and heavier than an elf, so he squashed Mother Sparkle, but it was better, and softer, than being squashed by the rock. He got to his feet and went to the control desk and looked at the buttons and pressed the red one that said, in really little letters, ‘VERY Serious Emergency!!!’
The bell above his head at the top of the tower started swinging at hyperspeed.
DINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONG DINGDONGDINGDONGDING . . .
And it was then that Father Christmas noticed the Barometer of Hope had smashed on the floor. The last green wisp of magical light rose towards him and disappeared into the air right in front of his face.
The Flying Story Pixie
o, this was Elfhelm on Christmas Eve.
Shaking earth. Troll heads smashing up from below. Rocks and stones flying overhead. Buildings collapsing. Christmas puddings flying out of the Figgy Pudding café. Chocolate coins scattered on the ground. Elves carrying their children and running. The Sleigh Belles carrying their instruments on their heads, to avoid the raining rocks.
‘Elves!’ boomed Father Christmas. ‘Run to Reindeer Field! Everyone! Head to Reindeer Field!’
Father Topo was hugging Noosh and Little Mim, beside Father Christmas.
‘Oh no,’ said Humdrum, as the ground started to wobble beneath their feet again.
Noosh covered her son’s eyes. Then the bulk of the Toy Workshop collapsed into the ground.
Father Christmas saw something rising out of the wreckage. One, then two, no, actually three trolls. These weren’t big übertrolls. They were untertrolls, only three times the size of Father Christmas and nine times the size of an average elf. Well, technically there were four of them, because one of them had two heads. Another had only one eye. The third looked quite normal, for a troll, except for the one large yellow tooth sticking out from the side of her mouth. But each had warty rough skin and rotten teeth and dirty rags made from goatskin for clothes.
The one-eyed troll held a rock high in the air and let out a deep thunderous roar. He was looking at the one remaining building in Elfhelm that wasn’t yet destroyed. The five-storey office of the Daily Snow. He was about to throw the rock.
‘Listen, trolls, we mean you no harm,’ Father Christmas said.
The two-headed troll grabbed the one-eyed troll’s arm.
‘No, Thud,’ the two-headed troll said. Thud shrugged and put his arm down.
‘Thank you,’ said Father Christmas. ‘We just want a peaceful Christmas. We have no interest in the Troll Valley. Please . . .’
It was just at that point that Father Christmas heard something fluttering above. He looked up to see a creature a similar shape as the Truth Pixie, but this creature had wings and was much smaller. Four wings in total. Two sets of two. They were light, the wings, and you could see through them. They shone like glass, and the sun gleamed off them.
‘A Flying Story Pixie!’ said Noosh, who knew her pixies almost as well as she knew her trolls.
This pixie was circling around and giggling as she looked at all the mess the trolls had created. She flew down close to Thud’s head. Father Christmas saw this, and thought it was strange. Then the pixie disappeared, fast through the sky, heading into the trees on the snowy slopes of the pixie territory.
‘Be no Christmas this year!’ said Thud blankly. ‘No Christmas!’
‘What is your problem with Christmas?’ wondered Father Christmas, perhaps a little unwisely, as Thud was still holding the rock. ‘I thought trolls liked Christmas.’
Thud said nothing. Instead, he looked in the distance, somewhere towards all the elves in Reindeer Field. Then he made a massive grunting sound as he threw the rock high, high, high in the air. Everyone stared at the rock as it kept on going.
‘Oh no,’ said Father Topo, into Father Christmas’s ear.
But Father Christmas could see where the rock was headed. Not to the elves, not to the reindeer, not to the Daily Snow, but towards the field where his sleigh was parked. The rock landed with a smash that could be heard a mile away.
Thud and the other trolls stamped their feet in a crazy fashion, as if doing a kind of wild troll dance.
‘It’s a signal,’ Noosh said. She’d read about stomp signals in The Complete Trollpedia while training to be a journalist.
Below the earth there was another loud troll roar.
‘Stand back, everyone,’ Noosh warned, knowing what the sound was.
Then – pow! – a giant fist burst up through the ground. The grey fist alone was the size of one huge untertroll.
Humdrum was now crouched in a ball on the ground doing his breathing exercises while Little Mim said, ‘It’s all right, Daddy.’
‘Urgula, the Supreme Troll Leader,’ whispered Noosh. The fist disappeared back down into the ground, leaving nothing but a hole. Then the three above-ground trolls jumped, one after the other, down the hole. And the ground shook when they landed in the cave somewhere below.
Father Christmas looked around at all the worried elves and the destroyed buildings and the collapsed Toy Workshop and waited for a few moments. Everything was still. The trolls had left them alone.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said.
And he heard Little Mim’s faint mumble as she looked at the state of Elfhelm. ‘Everything’s gone.’
Father Christmas watched as a bouncy ball dropped out of the wreckage and rolled towards his feet.
Not quite everything.
A Knock at the Door
own in London, a tall, well-dressed almost-skeleton stood at the door of 99 Haberdashery Road. Wearing a long dark coat and top hat. He was carrying a Bible and a shining black cane. His eyes were as grey as the creeping London fog on the street behind him.
Amelia tried to shut the door but Mr Creeper was too quick.
His face was really close. She saw him better than ever. His eyes had dark heavy bags below them. His damaged nose was as bent as a knee. His cheeks were so sucked in he looked as if he was entirely made of skin and bone. ‘Never close the door on a gentleman. I am here to help you.’
Captain Soot was beside Amelia’s ankles. He flicked his tail in a kind of warning.
‘I don’t like you,’ the cat hissed. ‘I know who you are and I don’t like you one little bit. And I’m glad I ruined your rug.’
‘I am sorry about your mother,’ Mr Creeper said, not looking sorry or sad at all.
‘How did you know?’ Amelia said, looking down at his trousers. They were different to the ones Captain Soot had ripped earlier.
�
��Word travels to me.’
‘Well, thank you, sir. Merry Christmas, sir.’
‘So you aren’t going to say sorry? For sticking your chimney brush in my face? For refusing my custom? For being a violent little brute?’
Amelia went to shut the door again but Mr Creeper grabbed her arm, tight.
‘Go away and leave me alone, you smell-fungus!’
‘You heard her,’ miaowed Captain Soot.
Mr Creeper’s smile had curled like a dead leaf under his broken nose. ‘No. Oh no. Unfortunately that is not possible. You are coming with me. You see, I have but one passion in this life. And that is the correction of mistakes. And your mother wants me to correct you. She told me that. You have too much of your father in you.’
Amelia knew her mother would never have spoken about her father in that way.
‘It’s my calling. At the workhouse we teach discipline. You are part of us now. It’s time to take you away.’ His nails dug into her arms.
No, it isn’t, thought Amelia.
She looked down at Captain Soot, her eyes pleading for help. The cat looked at her intensely then trotted off into the living room.
Good plan, Captain Soot, thought Amelia.
Amelia yanked her arm free from Mr Creeper’s tight grip and ran as fast as she could, into the tiny dark living room.
There were only two choices. The rotten old window or the small fireplace. Captain Soot was already at the fireplace.
‘Good cat.’
There was no way Mr Creeper could manage the chimney.
‘Get back here!’ said Mr Creeper, his long, crooked face glowering with hatred as he entered the room. ‘You little mucksnipe!’
‘Never!’ spat Amelia as Captain Soot hissed the same thing. She scooped Captain Soot up off the floor. ‘All right, Captain, let’s go.’ She crouched into the fireplace and disappeared into the darkness of the chimney.
Amelia placed her cat on her shoulder. ‘Stay still, and no claws,’ she said as she started to climb up using her elbows and pressing her feet against the sooty wall. It was extremely narrow, even by chimney standards, and the wall was crumbly and hard to stay steady against. She felt Mr Creeper’s hand grab her foot. For a scrawny man he had a very tight grip. He started to pull her down, and she felt the rough pain as her elbows scraped the chimney wall. Heart thudding, she kicked him away, three hard kicks, and lost a boot in the struggle.
