A CHRISTMAS CAROLLING
It was Christmas Eve and the daylight was fading quite rapidly now. Everybody was waiting with excitement and anticipation for the night. It was finally the time their busy preparations had been leading up to, the time they had been looking forward to for these past few weeks. A sense of warmth and joyfulness filled the atmosphere as people sat in their homes drinking mulled wine and munching on mince pies. Tuneful choruses of Christmas carols carried softly through the night air while decorative lights glowed delightfully in the darkness. There was a dusting of snow on the ground, bringing a classic Christmas look to the scenery. Large garden fir trees had been adorned with colourful lights. The air was still, yet alive with expectancy.
The hours passed and the air outside seemed to be getting even stiller and quieter. Bedroom curtains were drawn back from time to time, children’s faces gazing out excitedly into the night sky, hopeful of catching a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh, absorbed in excited anticipation. There was a sense of joy and delight that could be experienced by all. All, that is, except for Rodney Screwge, an English teacher at a school not too far away. He was in his mid-forties, bearded and of a very miserable demeanour, bringing misery and despondency wherever he went.
Interestingly, however, he was also quite wealthy, though this was a closely guarded secret of his. Something of a connoisseur of wine, he was the owner of an array of fine wines. He enjoyed, also, on occasion, expensive, expertly made chocolates, produced by Belgian and Swiss chocolatiers. He was careful and selective about the food he ate, often dining on some of the finest food available. He was very committed to his work and to the study of literature and found he had neither the time nor the predilection for excessive indulgence.
Quite deliberately he forced himself, each year, to not believe in Christmas, to reject it in its entirety, dismissing as utterly ludicrous the whole notion of Santa Claus, having no time whatever for all of the attendant revelry and traditions and whatever meaning any of it held. He especially despised the joyful anticipation and the excitement others were experiencing at this time of year. He gained a sense of satisfaction from seeing the streams of harassed shoppers hurrying through the crowds in towns and cities, knowing the pressure of it all was taking its toll, ruining any sense of enjoyment or pleasure they may otherwise be feeling. In spite of this, once the hustle and bustle had died down, the joyful atmosphere of Christmas remained, inspired above all by the multitude of Christmas lights and adornments.
Outside, the decorations, the peaceful stillness and the crisp layer of snow created a delightful ambience. With the cool night air virtually motionless, the cold had little effect.
“Ah, what a load of old nonsense,” muttered Screwge to himself as he traipsed along the road, a few snowflakes coming to rest on the barrel of the shotgun sticking out of the bottom of his long coat, underneath which he carried the weapon.
There had been no particular reason for him having it with him; it was simply that he had been cleaning it but his mind had been so preoccupied with a work of literature he had read recently that he could not have been bothered remembering to put the gun back, instead walking, quite mindlessly, out of the house, still holding it. He was also ever so slightly intoxicated from drinking a twenty-year-old apricot brandy. Upon realising the gun was still in his possession, he had quickly concealed it inside his coat.
While Screwge was well known in his neighbourhood and throughout the town for being grumpy and gloomy anyway, he was known to be especially miserable, disagreeable and morose at Christmastime. Interestingly, however, he was heading for the carol service at the local church, though he was in two minds as to whether he should really bother. He attended it every year, but only in an effort to alleviate the intense, crushing gloom which overshadowed his daily existence at this time of year. It was not because he was at all interested in anything about Christmas. It was merely that all the singing caused him to experience some faint sense of pleasure and enjoyment.
Just then, a heavy rushing sound became audible. At first, he could not determine its cause or from which direction it was coming. Then, on looking upwards, he witnessed the most breathtakingly incredible sight. A sleigh being dragged across the sky, apparently by a team of reindeer, whizzed past overhead. Seated in the sleigh appeared to be a somewhat portly, red-suited figure, who seemed to be in command of the vehicle.
“What the bloody hell is this?” shouted Screwge, in a highly exclamatory manner, astounded at what he was observing. Immediately a sense of anger and discontent at having to accept that it was all true sparked inside him. The very idea that Christmas did indeed have real meaning at once felt distasteful and profoundly uncomfortable. “This is impossible!” he bawled, bemused, his voice mostly drowned out by the downdraught, which sent a substantial blast of air downwards, causing him to feel the air pressure driving into him. “This can’t be happening!”
Grabbing the shotgun, he raised it and fired at the sleigh. The weapon released two loads of buckshot directly into his target. Hastily he reloaded the firearm and fired again. Incredibly, however, each shot seemed merely to dissolve into tiny colourful sparks on impact, four rounds apparently producing absolutely no effect whatsoever.
Screwge was exasperated and confounded. This was Santa Claus’s sleigh; there was little doubt in his mind about that. But this was quite preposterous. He remained insistent with himself that there was simply no way this could be happening in reality. He fired off the one last round he had with him, hoping rationality and the laws of reality would take hold, hoping it would blast a hole in the sleigh. But on impact, the shot simply erupted once again into a mass of colour that just dissolved harmlessly away to no effect, the sleigh continuing on its way. Screwge stared in shock and disbelief.
Looking around, he saw that his surroundings were deserted. Nobody, not a single, solitary individual, barring himself, had witnessed this unbelievable occurrence. He could hardly take it in, barely able to contain his amazement, and was greatly irritated at the fact that nobody else had seen this. Jogging to the end of the road, he looked around but still there was no one, no cars, nothing. He had been the sole observer of this spectacular event. It was almost as though it was meant specially for him.
Just then, he noticed a face staring at him through the curtains, in a bedroom window. All of the noise he had made was surely more than enough to have attracted significant attention. But apart from that one peering visage, there did not seem to be anybody taking any notice. Not a soul had come out to investigate, as he was expecting. He was there alone, in the midst of the silence, the one solitary figure in this scene. The wintry air remained totally still, everywhere silent and serene. He could sense the cold, but the stillness made it far from unpleasant.
“This just can’t be happening,” he told himself, experiencing a strange sense of awe.
Repressed, in the recesses of his mind, had always existed the unsettling idea that he was unjustified in his attitude, that there actually was something to this Christmas business after all. He was confused and rather uncomfortable at the apparentness of his long-standing beliefs, the views he had convinced himself must be right, being unfounded and erroneous. This was firm evidence that it all indeed had meaning, that it was all true, that his beliefs were hollow and based on his selfish desire and propensity to disregard Christmas as something meaningless and pointless. In a state of mystified shock, he went on to attend the local church carol service, his voice trembling and faltering on the one occasion when he attempted to join in the singing.
A couple of hours later, he found himself back in his house, barely able to remember having walked home, so engrossed in his own thoughts had he been. The log fire was now blazing away. The purposely undecorated Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room, pine needles continuing to accumulate on the floor around its base. He thought that if he had the tree but purposely left it totally unadorned, it would serve as an affront to Christmas, a way of rejecting it, something to represent his dislike of and disenchantment at the whole idea. It was a symbolic means by which to dismiss the occasion, a physical way of detaching and distancing himself from the whole affair.
He tucked into his fourth mince pie of the night. He was eating these simply because he enjoyed them so much, especially smeared lavishly with delectably sweet brandy cream, as this one was, certainly not because they were traditional Christmas food. He took another sip of mulled wine to wash it down. The wine he had made himself, to a special recipe. It was a warming, flavourful, deliciously spiced, sweet wine, but, again, nothing to do with embracing any Christmas tradition; it was simply a matter of his enjoying the delightful taste. Outside he could hear the elevating volume of carols being sung as the singing neared his front door.
“If those idiots come here they can sing all they like; I won’t be answering the door,” he muttered to himself as the singing caught his attention, before wondering whether they might have seen or experienced anything strange out there in the night.
As misfortune would have it, the carollers stopped outside his front door. Mumbling profanely to himself, he was intent on remaining where he was and pretending not to be home rather than facing all of their Christmas spirit, their eager faces expecting him to reciprocate their Christmas joy and cheer, and probably give them something for their dismal efforts. Actually, while the singing was not outstanding, it was certainly not unimpressive. Rather, it was melodious and harmonious. But Screwge was determined to believe otherwise. He sat there trying to be as quiet as possible, nibbling at his fifth mince pie and carefully sipping the spiced wine while sitting very still, as if to avoid making any sound that would advertise the fact he was home.
On display in his front window were four long, red and gold tubular light decorations that lit up when he plugged them in, which he had twisted into words that read “Get lost” for all to see. This seemed, however, only to make people such as carollers and the odd “Santa” collecting charitable donations all the more determined to call at his house, as if trying to arouse some Christmas cheer in him. On a couple of occasions, he had mischievously placed chocolate money into the boxes they had waved in front of him, for his own amusement, though on reflection this seemed perhaps a little too puerile.
Eventually, after his doorbell had chimed loudly, to his displeasure, on two occasions, the sound of feet shuffling away indicated, to his relief, that the carol singers were leaving.
“Ah, they were all out of key anyway,” he moaned to himself, determined to justify his not having embraced their goodwill, deliberately dismissing the fact that they had actually been quite tuneful and somewhat pleasing to hear.
The minutes ticked by and he soon found himself sitting there staring contemplatively into space. His mind began to enter a detached, pensive state, mostly unaware of anything around him.
He was jarred back to his senses as something rather large over in the corner of the room suddenly caught his attention. His vision drawn sharply in this direction, he was met with the sight of none other than Santa Claus himself, that rotund, bearded, figure unmistakable, attired in his red suit. He was placing presents around the base of Screwge’s Christmas tree, not that Screwge would ever have recognised it as a Christmas tree. If anything, it was an anti-Christmas tree, a statement against Christmas.
Anyway, feeling slightly inebriated from imbibing all of that spiced wine, he got up. Santa turned towards him, looking upon this irritable, miserable individual before him.
“Merry Christmas,” chortled Santa, in his characteristically jolly manner.
“What the hell is this?!” bawled Screwge, demandingly, as he grabbed the shotgun.
He was quite taken aback and rather stunned and confounded, as well as being slightly alarmed and unnerved at the apparent genuineness of Santa Claus’s existence, so much so that he pointed the weapon at Santa, hastily and unthinkingly, reacting to the situation, and squeezed the trigger. A terribly harsh eruption of noise tore into the quietness of the room, but to Screwge’s astonishment, the shot seemed to simply dissolve into a mass of crackling sparks just as they were about to reach their target.
“I see you don’t have too much faith in the spirit of Christmas,” said Santa, his cheerfulness surprisingly undiminished, his mood and demeanour remaining unchanged.
“Who the hell are you?” asked a bewildered Screwge.
He simply could not accept something that seemed to make no logical sense to him.
“Why, who do you think I am? I’m Santa Claus. I must say, of all the people determined not to believe in my existence and to reject the spirit of Christmas, you are by far the worst case I have ever encountered,” said Santa, in a very enthusiastic, friendly manner. “I’ve come here to restore the sense of awe and joy that you once had each Christmas, all those years ago, before you became the cynical, cheerless man I see before me now,” Santa informed him. “Search your feelings. Allow that sense of elation and intense delight you once knew to re-emerge. Life hasn’t driven it from you fully.”
“What? How did you get in here?” asked a confounded Screwge, still desperately trying to make sense of what was happening. “That chimney’s not nearly big enough for you to fit down.”
Santa laughed.
“I’m afraid I never was one for climbing down chimneys, even when they were sufficiently large to accommodate my ample figure,” he told Screwge. “No, that’s all a myth.”
“Then how did you get in here?” persisted Screwge. “The doors are all locked.”
“Why, the same way I get into any house,” answered Santa, “I simply know where I’m supposed to be and I end up there, just like that. It’s magic, I suppose.”
“That’s impossible,” asserted a distrustful Screwge.
“Your refusal to accept all of this doesn’t make it any less real,” Santa pointed out.
“Now hold on!” said Screwge, sternly. “None of this makes any sense. Santa doesn’t make toys and deliver them to people. Kids want the latest computer games and all sorts of commercial brand name clothes and equipment and chocolates. Their parents get these things. Big companies manufacture them. How do you explain that?”
“Back in the North Pole, my team of elves spend their time designing and building all sorts of things. They’re actually exceptionally imaginative and clever. Most of them are virtual geniuses. It was they who designed and built my sleighs. But of course they don’t make any of the things that people receive as presents. And for the vast majority of people, I don’t personally deliver their gifts either,” Santa informed him, his tone then becoming more serious as he was about to impart some very important information that he needed Screwge to understand. “You see, it’s not about whether or not Santa Claus actually exists. It’s about the spirit of the season. It’s all about embracing the spirit of Christmas. I’m a fundamental feature in it all, so people welcome the idea of my existence because they believe in and gain a great deal of pleasure and enjoyment from all that is associated with Christmas, you see.”
Suddenly Screwge found himself soaring through the air in some kind of flying vehicle. Instantly he froze with the sheer surprise of it, grabbing the rail at the side as he flew over houses, quickly realising that he was in Santa’s sleigh. Nervously he peered over the side, gazing down at all the rooftops. Initially he was very uneasy and anxious, experiencing an intense surge of fright as he felt the sleigh swooping and accelerating back up high into the air. Holding onto the side for dear life, he glanced down a few times at the houses below as he shot across the night sky at an amazing speed.
He sat there nervously, his whole body tensing as the sleigh tilted and veered, the team of reindeer at the front dragging it through the air, apparently quite confident of where they were going. He could feel the potent pulling force of their combined power on the sleigh. Santa, he had quickly noticed, was sitting right alongside him. Surprisingly there was no wind blasting into him as it seemed there should have been, with the sleigh speeding, as it was, through the air. Everything around him remained calm and undisturbed.
“What the hell is this?” shouted Screwge, his tone, which should have been an irate, demanding one, mellowed as he realised he was experiencing a sense of euphoria, his anger and negativity dissolving away.
The feeling of joy was still mounting. He could not help smiling, though such feelings were largely foreign to him. He was just managing to repress the urge to laugh. Still slightly tense, he had relaxed considerably, although there was a lingering sense of bewilderment and mystery, which actually seemed quite appropriate.
“How can any of this be possible?” he asked, though now with a sense of intense and joyful wonderment and inspiration, unable to restrain a release of joyous laughter as he spoke.
“You’ll just have to accept that there is such a thing as magic. People are too willing to reject this. They want to be able to understand things. But their understanding of the realities of nature and the universe is limited. Anything they don’t understand or that seems too incredible they dismiss as fantasy. They refuse to believe in me because my existence seems too far-fetched,” lamented Santa. “Anything too imaginative or fanciful is usually rejected. People have little time for magic or anything that exceeds their understanding.”
“But how do you explain all of this?” Screwge asked, persistently, referring to the fact of their soaring through the night air in a sleigh being pulled across the sky by reindeer on Christmas Eve.
“You just have to accept that it’s all part of the magic of Christmas. It’s quite beyond your level of thinking,” Santa informed him. “It transcends your normal reality.”
It was remarkably and strangely calm where they were sitting. Surely there should have been air rushing into them, blowing them wildly and drowning out their voices, but instead it was quiet and very serene.
“But what about all the presents people get?” enquired an intrigued Screwge. “You obviously don’t deliver those.”
Suddenly the sleigh shot upwards, producing a powerful feeling of exhilaration as it climbed high into the night sky before levelling off, Santa giving him a friendly smile. Screwge was still waiting for an answer to his question.
“Don’t I? Perhaps in some cases I do. I came around and left some for you didn’t I?” began Santa’s lengthy reply. “In giving presents, people often pretend, especially with children, that it’s Santa, myself, who’s delivered them. And this idea can seem very real, even if it’s mostly just in the minds of children. So the sentiment of Santa having delivered somebody’s Christmas presents is embodied in the tradition of leaving presents for people. The job is done for me by ordinary people. This tradition embraces the spirit of the season. And that’s what it’s all about; it’s all about the spirit of the occasion, the sentiments and the ideas and the traditions that are associated with it. The real purpose of Christmas is to bring joy and happiness and to promote peace and goodwill. So if you think about it, the reality, or at least the sense, of my existence is felt and experienced through other people. Sadly there are, of course, those who fail to recognise and welcome the meaning and value of Christmas,” Santa then told him, his tone becoming slightly sombre as he mentioned this. This prompted a reflective feeling in Screwge as he realised this description identified him. “But you see, there really isn’t any point in me going around delivering presents when, clearly, ordinary people discharge that role themselves. And you’ve seen how quickly young children loose interest in the toys they receive for Christmas. So me giving lots of presents that will often only be discarded before long would not achieve any valuable purpose. I’m far more concerned with seeking to ensure that the true message of Christmas is delivered to the world. Those who do not understand need to allow themselves to learn what it’s all about. It isn’t simply about materialism, with someone distributing presents to everyone on Christmas Eve. Ultimately it’s not even about delivering presents at all.”
Screwge could not deny that he was thoroughly inspired with happiness and excitement.
“But what about people not believing because they’ve grown out of it?” he asked.
“Ah well, they dismiss the reality of my existence and refuse to believe as it doesn’t fit with their uninspiring, unimaginative, rational, mundane view of things. Unfortunately there isn’t much room for the idea of magic in people’s thinking nowadays,” Santa explained. “They could believe if they wanted to, though. It’s like believing in anything. Many people give up believing because they don’t see any definite, tangible evidence. But whether it’s real or not, a belief or an idea can still manifest itself through other people, in what they do. It doesn’t matter whether I’m real or not. It’s what people do at this time of year because of me and because they believe in my existence, or at least the idea of my existence, that is important.”
“But adults know you’re not going to be visiting their houses. How can you expect them to believe in someone who doesn’t actually turn up like he’s supposed to according to the traditional belief?” Screwge enquired, having become enraptured by the sense of joy he was experiencing.
“As I said, it’s not about whether I genuinely exist. It’s about the spirit of the whole thing. It’s about the idea of Santa Claus being experienced as a result of the way it’s manifested through the actions of other people. Essentially it is about the joyfulness and pleasure that can be brought about through sharing gifts and being together as a family and enjoying the traditions and activities of the season. I don’t actually have to be there visibly, in person, for that to happen now do I?” replied Santa.
“Then what are you doing flying over people’s houses if you don’t actually deliver presents to them?”
“In many special cases I, in fact, do. But it’s not about me bringing presents,” Santa said, stressing this crucial point.
“I know, I know; it’s about the spirit of the whole thing, the spirit of Christmas,” said a now more illuminated Screwge.
“As long as everything that Christmas represents, with all of its meaning and traditions, continues; as long as the idea of my existence remains; then things are as they should be. All I have to do is allow myself to be seen on occasion and give out a few gifts on Christmas Eve,” Santa informed him. “And if people don’t believe in Santa, they can always suspend their disbelief as they do when watching films or any sort of fiction.”
‘This Santa Claus character is certainly very wise and enlightened,’ Screwge thought to himself, impressed by his wisdom, friendliness and ability to inspire happiness. He felt remarkably at ease here. In fact, his mind was so relaxed that it was not long before he lapsed into a semi-conscious state.
Abruptly he came to his senses some time later, realising that he was now standing in a field, in the midst of a quite wonderful snowy scene. He vaguely recalled disembarking from the sleigh. He remembered being aware that it had remained behind him, but as he looked around it was no longer anywhere to be seen. What was present was a large house adorned with Christmas lights and alive with the pleasing sounds of musical instruments being played. The air felt very refreshing and seemed to have an invigorating and revitalising energy to it. His intuition kept telling him he was in the North Pole. Checking his watch revealed the time of five-to-eleven. He was sure this was exactly the same time it had been when Santa had arrived at his house. But that had been some time ago.
Up ahead on the snow-covered land were reindeer, visible in the darkness. Rather curiously he did not feel in the least bit cold. Wondering what to do next, he remembered he had that expensive cigar in his shirt pocket, which he had intended to smoke later on that night when he could no longer fit in any more mince pies nor imbibe any more alcohol. Inserting it into his mouth, he realised he had no matches or lighter.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself as he began approaching the reindeer.
Obscured by the dimness of the night, they were becoming clearer as he neared where they were, though nothing was truly dark here on account of the brilliance of the snow.
They turned their heads to see who it was coming towards them. Stepping into their fenced-off enclosure, he went over to one of them. It looked at him, observing him, and he began stroking it. To his mild surprise, as he reached out his hand it did not step away or exhibit any signs of nervousness or wariness towards him. As it appeared to be enjoying being stroked he began giving it a good scratching about the neck, for which it was very grateful.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me where the bloody hell I am,” said Screwge, quite frivolously, to the reindeer, the following occurrence taking him by complete surprise.
“What, fail geography did we?” asked the reindeer, looking towards an astonished Screwge. “You’re in the North Pole. Though I wouldn’t say that was a terribly hard thing to guess,” it continued. “This, of course, is the home of Santa Claus.”
Screwge moved back suddenly in shock, stunned by this talking reindeer and falling over in the process, the cigar dropping out of his mouth.
“What the hell is this? How is it you can talk?” asked a bewildered Screwge, rising to his feet.
“Look, we’re magic reindeer. Is that really so hard to believe? You’ll find most things about Santa Claus and what he does are magic,” was Screwge’s answer.
He considered this for a moment. Really it was not so amazing when he thought about it in light of what he had experienced so far.
“Hmmm. So where is Santa now?” he enquired.
“While you were wandering around lost in a state of bemusement and amazement, and oblivious to your surroundings, he took off again in his sleigh and left,” the reindeer informed him. “He’ll be in some other country by now.”
“How does he manage to visit every destination in just one night? I know it’s all magic but he’s still attending so many different places in what is surely far too limited a period of time to allow for everything that he does,” asked a puzzled Screwge.
“Well now, this is where having a PhD in theoretical physics can come in quite handy,” explained the reindeer, its bells giving that characteristic tinkling sound as it shook off the snow which had accumulated on its antlers. “Santa operates mostly in a different quantum gravity state. This affects the surrounding spacetime in such a way as to cause time in the world around him to pass extremely slowly relative to himself. Because he operates outside of normal time, he can do everything he needs to, regardless of how long it takes, with hardly any time elapsing in the rest of the world. Except, of course, when he returns to normal time, when he wants to be visible to people.”
“So does he actually want to remain invisible to people? I mean, surely it would be better if the people he’s visiting, or around whose houses he’s riding in his sleigh, could see him. Then they’d all believe, in him and, I suppose, in the spirit and meaning of Christmas.”
“No, no, it’s simply that it’s just not possible for practical reasons for him to be visible all the time.”
“So when he turned up in my house, was he in my time dimension or was I in his?” asked Screwge, this question suddenly occurring to him.
“Oh, you’d have been in his, the same one that we’re all in here,” answered the reindeer, clarifying this point.
“So it’s not really magic then is it?” mused Screwge, discerningly, trying to reason all of this. “It’s more the application of extremely advanced scientific understanding and presumably of some sort of phenomenal technology.”
“Essentially you are right. ‘Magic’ is ultimately something of an imaginative term. It gives a more inspiring and uplifting feel to things,” the reindeer explained. “Of course, the underlying reality of it involves extraordinarily sophisticated and advanced scientific knowledge and capability. But it’s so far beyond anything the everyday world can comprehend that, in a sense, it is, and certainly can feel like and appear like magic. From any ordinary viewpoint, it practically is magic. It’s quite beyond practical science as the world knows it.”
There was a pause. Screwge was still feeling enthralled by this entire situation.
“Say, do you have a name then?” he asked this reindeer with whom he had struck up this rather fascinating conversation.
“Of course. I’m Prancer,” answered the reindeer.
“I thought Prancer was a member of Santa’s sleigh-pulling team. What are you doing down here?” asked Screwge.
“Well, Santa always has reindeer who are trying to make it onto the team for Christmas Eve. We all have a traditional sleigh-reindeer name. That way a crew can always be made up to comprise a reindeer of each name, to be in keeping with tradition. And all of us here are on rotation throughout the night as it does take a very long time for Santa to visit all of the places he goes to.”
“So where’s Rudolph?” enquired an interested Screwge.
“Oh, there are a couple of Rudolphs around here somewhere. They’re the ones without the antlers,” explained the reindeer.
“Er…” began Screwge.
“No, Rudolph hasn’t got a shiny red nose, just a good instinct for direction,” Prancer, to whom it was obvious what his next question was going to be, told him. “That ‘red-nosed reindeer’ story is just a myth, I’m afraid.”
“Well, that’s, er…very interesting,” declared Screwge, rather spellbound by all of this.
The delightful scenery enraptured him. The moon was shining brightly in the night sky. The brilliance of the thick snow, lying undisturbed across vast areas of land, reflecting its light into the darkness, gave a soft, ghostly illumination. Outside the large, solitary house behind him, there was an inviting, warm, gentle glow coming from all of the coloured lights. And all of this was in complete silence, save for the odd tinkling of bells.
“Hay, there must be some very special reason for you to have been brought here,” remarked the reindeer. “Only particularly special cases get flown out here to Santa’s home in Lapland at Christmas. And by the man himself, no less.” This last point carried great significance. “There must be some issue of greater importance than just you as an individual.”
“Well,” responded Screwge, thoughtful of the circumstances of his presence here. “I had a very negative attitude towards Christmas. I slighted and snubbed it all. I saw nothing in it; couldn’t be bothered with it. Even had an undecorated Christmas tree just to purposely not decorate it, as a tangible way of rejecting the whole thing,” he said, chuckling with the realisation of how foolish it now seemed to have done this. “People were well aware of my complaining, miserable, miserly, selfish attitude, particularly towards Christmas,” he went on, describing the way he had acted and felt at this time of year.
“What about charity and goodwill to all; peace and joy, the spirit of Christmas?”
“When I looked at things, I never saw a world that embodied or inspired in me any of these qualities. Anyway, that was just my general demeanour.”
“That’s precisely why Christmas is so important,” the reindeer told him, his tone becoming more emphatic and sincere. “It brings to the world a sense of hope, a sense that there is something better, something magical.”
“Clearly I was a very stark representation of the rejection, the dismissal, of the importance of the meaning and the message of Christmas. And I suppose that was something that had to be addressed,” said Screwge, reflectively. “Now I can go back changed completely, and impart to others, and make them more aware of, the reality and true meaning of it all. As known as I am for rejecting the whole thing, people will be astonished to see and hear me conveying glad tidings and wishes of goodwill and joy at this time of year, advocating merriment and giving, and ardently embracing and promoting the whole thing. People will have to consider the idea that there must be something really special about it all to have caused me to be exhibiting such behaviour. I suppose most don’t take it that seriously anyway, though,” he continued, thinking about the typical attitudes he had noticed in people during the Christmas season, “at least not in the sense that they appreciate, or that their behaviour reflects, its true value. To them it’s just a time for partying and eating and drinking. They involve themselves with the commercial side of it, getting lots of presents and supplying themselves with copious amounts of food and alcohol, but that’s all it means to them. There’s no real sense of the wonder and magic, except where children are concerned, of course. The feeling that there is anything particularly special about it seems to be lacking.”
“Yes, clearly you’re here because you represent the antithesis of what Christmas is all about. They want you to go back and be more cheerful and inspirational, more generous and unselfish,” the reindeer pointed out.
A contemplative pause followed.
“What if this is all just a dream?” asked Screwge.
“Does it matter? Would that diminish any of the understanding you’ve gained from it all?” asked the reindeer, rhetorically, demonstrating some very wise thinking.
“I suppose, essentially, it wouldn’t. But then if none of it was real…”
“You’d still have learned the lesson. Why don’t you go and meet some of the people inside the house?” he was then invited.
“Are there elves in there? Santa’s little helpers?” asked Screwge, almost jokingly, as if this seemed too fanciful to be true.
“Why don’t you go and have a look?” said the reindeer.
Screwge made his way over to the house, treading a path through the thick layer of snow, hearing it crunching as it compacted underfoot. As his feet scrunched through the snow, the colourful lights increasingly came into focus. Glancing back, the reindeer had returned to being once again just shadowy figures in the dimness. He knocked on the door of the house, and moments later it opened, revealing the mass of colour and activity inside. The elf who had answered it was a little over four feet tall.
“You must be Screwge,” he said, looking up to meet Screwge’s downward gaze. “We’ve been expecting you. Come on in.”
“Are you an elf?” Screwge enquired, looking for confirmation of this as he entered the house, finding himself among a multitude of elves and other people.
“Why, of course I am,” came the slightly surprised reply, as though to the elf this was so obvious he wondered why anyone would even need to ask. “As you can see, we’re quite busy. What we do on Christmas Eve is the equivalent of a whole month’s work, but takes up only around half a day of normal time in the outside world. Though this is only at Christmas, of course. Obviously, for the rest of the year, we have to function in normal time. And we must keep ourselves informed of what’s going on everywhere in the world,” the elf told him. “We have to find out everything.”
As he mingled with the other elves, noticing several ordinary people, he was subject to a stream of Christmas greetings. He almost felt like he was some sort of special invitee everybody had been expecting.
“What am I supposed to be, some kind of special guest?” he asked, quite surprised by the attention he was receiving.
“Indeed. All of our guests are regarded and treated as special,” declared a nearby elf clutching a clipboard, whose task it was to check the arrival of the people who were supposed to have come.
“What am I here for?” Screwge enquired, curious as to the exact purpose of his having been invited to join in the elves’ Christmas celebration. “Come to think of it, I was basically kidnapped, you know,” he added as an afterthought, though not terribly serious or concerned about this.
“Dear me, there’s no point looking at things in that way,” the elf told him. “You’re here because there was something about you, something in your character or your nature or behaviour. There is some reason why you needed or deserved to be brought here.”
“Have a mince pie,” offered another elf, in a rather encouraging and jocund manner, passing him with a tray piled high with warm, enticing, freshly baked mince pies. He could tell just by looking at them that they would be marvellous to eat.
“Christmas celebrations and merrymaking, you see, had their origins in the Pagan winter rituals and customs of revelry and rejoicing of many centuries passed,” another elf explained. “Since then it has come to be a religious celebration of the birth of Christ. Many new ideas and customs have been adopted over the centuries and old ones rethought and reworked. Christmas gained much of its importance because of the way it has always drawn families together. The traditions we associate with it today are the food, family gatherings, festivities, presents, general enjoyment and, of course, goodwill to all.” Such things as this, Screwge had only ever vaguely acknowledged. To him they had held but superficial significance. Never really had he given it much thought. Christmas had been the subject of little contemplation for him over the years. “Essentially it’s about the values and meaning it all embodies, the giving, the joy, and how all of this translates into what we do,” the elf explained.
“How long am I supposed to be here?” Screwge enquired, purely out of curiosity. He had no real reason to entertain thoughts of leaving.
“That, my dear fellow, is entirely up to you,” was his answer. Screwge still seemed slightly restrained, the elf sensing this. Screwge’s normal, well-established psychology and character had not been completely overcome. “On your journey here, did you at any point wish to be returned home?”
“Well, no,” replied Screwge. “I was so caught up in what was happening and so taken by surprise, so astounded by the entire experience, that the thought of going home never occurred to me. I was just so overwhelmed.”
“So there hasn’t been anything too disagreeable about the experience then,” remarked the elf, as if encouraging him to recognise how enjoyable this all was.
“Well, no, I suppose not,” Screwge agreed, realising how at-ease he was now, though somewhere in the back of his mind was a lingering trace of discomfort at having to accept this.
The whole atmosphere of this place had a vibrancy that seemed to fill everyone and consume everything. A log fire glowed intensely, the large Yule log crackling and snapping away while the Christmas tree was bathed in a warming glow by the soft radiance of its own lights. It all created a powerful, uplifting and inspiring effect. There was an abundance of cheer, happiness and merriment in the air. Screwge, though it was quite contrary to his nature, found himself still feeling rather joyous and exuberant, despite efforts to question this in himself. There was an abundance of food, mainly cakes and sweet things. There seemed to be mince pies everywhere, stacked lavishly on trays. Chestnuts were roasting on the crackling fire. It was a classic Christmas experience, just as the picture-postcard scenes outside were all characteristic, classic images of Christmas.
“I must say, there’s definitely something very special to all of this,” remarked Screwge. “Much as I thought I should feel reluctant to acknowledge it, this is simply and undeniably a wonderful, perfect celebration of Christmas. It really is everything it should be. There’s even the exquisite scent of roast turkey wafting around the kitchen,” he said gleefully, simply unable to retain any vestige of his dismissive and joyless attitude any longer. “You simply couldn’t have it more ideal than this,” he enthused.
“So what do you think about Christmas now then?” he was asked by the elf.
“I’ll have to admit there’s unquestionably something quite marvellous about it all if you can make it like it is here.” Screwge had been forced to confront the reality of what Christmas was truly about, though it felt somewhat strange and foreign to him to be feeling like this. “I never felt any inspiration to make anything of it before, let alone understand that it could or should be approached like this.” He paused. “But what about all the people who aren’t able to enjoy it?” he then asked, thoughtfully.
“Terribly sad and unfortunate,” the elf responded. “All we can do is promote the spirit of Christmas as best we can and try to bring that sense of joy and the feeling of Christmas to as many people as possible. Everyone, to some degree, can potentially feel the delight and excitement this time of year brings if they really want to. It’s always there, just waiting to be embraced. Just look at yourself now. Previously you rejected the Christmas spirit, but being here has allowed you to appreciate it properly and fully.”
“And I can go back and spread this knowledge to others,” Screwge had come to realise, knowing he was to return home and endeavour to make people more appreciative of the true joy and meaning of Christmas. “Not that they won’t be astonished at seeing me so enthusiastic about Christmas,” he added, aware of how his new, entirely reformed attitude and demeanour were going to seem to his neighbours and those who knew him.
“Which is precisely why it will have such impact. For you to be exhibiting such elation and radiance at Christmas, and spreading its joyful message of peace and happiness and generosity will give it that much more potency. People will be prompted to think that there must really be something to it for you to be so cheerful and merry about it.”
By this point, they had made their way into the kitchen, Screwge attracted by the incredible, enticing aromas; full, powerful, concentrated, distinctive scents, so intense he could virtually taste them.
“You know, where I come from, I’ve noticed that Christmas is becoming subject to fashion trends. If people decide that certain elements of it are no longer fashionable, such as the Christmas tree, which some think is becoming outdated, where’s that going to lead?” Screwge asked, raising the subject of future developments in the ways Christmas is observed.
“The true meaning of Christmas must be preserved. It can be represented and celebrated through whatever practices people choose. Traditions evolve; people come up with new ideas and new ways of thinking. Things change, but we won’t let valued customs fade or be easily forgotten. Those concerned with fashion and artistic expression can do what they want to do, but nothing can affect the core meaning of Christmas. It may become quite lost or obscured in many cases, and a lot of things might well distract us from it, but nothing can really diminish it; it will always be there,” the elf informed him. “Come, have a look around. Meet some of the others,” Screwge was then invited, in a very hearty and exuberant manner.
Mingling with the other elves and the people who were there, he found himself
being treated exceedingly well, as were all of the guests, as though they were each known personally. Telling people all about himself had the effect of reflecting just what sort of character he had actually been, causing him to realise all the more profoundly just how miserable, disagreeable and uncharitable he had been at Christmas, and just how much his attitude and his feelings had altered. Everyone was in high spirits. The elves were invariably very amiable and hospitable. After all, it was they who organised it for him to be brought here.
He remained there for quite some time, drinking eggnog and brandy, and being offered more and more mince pies. Exquisite chocolates were in generous supply and they insisted he indulge. They turned out to be the most superb, delectable sweets he had ever tasted in his life. The provision of delicious food seemed never-ending. Strangely, however, no matter how much he consumed he never felt full or that he was mixing too many different, contrasting flavours and ruining his palate, preventing himself from properly appreciating and enjoying individual tastes and flavours. It never even felt like he was overindulging. Instead, he enjoyed every scrumptious mouthful, no matter how numerous they were becoming. He found himself conversing with others who had also been brought here like he had, others who had lost their sense of what Christmas is really all about, having either dismissed it outright or become overly concerned with its purely material aspects.
Accepting an invitation to tour where the elves carry out much of their secret work, and observe some of the very covert projects to which their time is devoted, Screwge was conducted to what appeared to be the top of a large slide. With a mild sense of apprehensiveness he sat down in accordance with the directions he was being given, and following a rather exhilarating ride, found himself in what turned out to be a massive subterranean complex. It was interesting, he thought, that with all of their sophisticated technology they would be using something as primitive as a slide to gain access to their underground facilities. Clearly these elves had a great sense of fun.
From the bottom of the slide, he was escorted firstly to a large room in which he counted four drawing boards along with several desks and a number of laptop computers.
“This is where we carry out the design work for the various projects we like to undertake. We develop new propulsion systems for the sleighs, new snowmobiles, new designs for snow-sleds; things like that,” his guide informed him.
These elves patently had an enormous wealth of technological and scientific knowledge and resources at their disposal. From here he was led through into a much larger room, which appeared to be a laboratory. There were more computers, microscopes, test tubes and all manner of equipment and machinery.
“This is where all our research is conducted,” the elf told him, though it was clear that Screwge would have very little hope of properly understanding the functions of any of the apparatus he was looking at.
Any explanation would almost assuredly be quite beyond his comprehension.
Next he was ushered through into a yet larger room, the elf informing him that this is where they build their prototype systems and carry out testing. Here, there were several impressive-looking vehicles and what he could only suppose were engines of some description.
“This is the prototype for our most advanced propulsion system yet,” revealed the elf, noticing Screwge subjecting one particular item to some scrutiny, obviously fascinated though quite mystified by it.
Adjoining this room was a sizeable production facility, producing everything they had put into development. Finally he found himself accompanying his elf tour-guide to where all of what had been built here was kept ready for use. This was the largest section of the complex. Here, he saw some very impressive-looking land vehicles for use in the snow outside. Also housed in this area were another sleigh and numerous spare parts. In fact, there were enough spare components to actually assemble many more of the craft that were present here. Screwge was wildly impressed by all of this and in awe of how such a large underground facility could exist here.
“Seen enough?” he was asked by the elf as he was wandering round taking it all in.
Satisfied that he had, he was taken through to a staircase that returned him to the main house, where he rejoined the festivities.
After what seemed like a very long time indeed, Screwge felt it was finally time to leave. Approaching an elf, he enquired as to how he might go about returning home. Interestingly, regardless of how long he was spending here, he never even began to feel bored. In fact, he wished his time there could go on and on, but he knew he had to go at some point. The elf conveyed his wishes to another, who then informed Screwge that he would be called when the sleigh used specially for returning people arrived back.
A short while later he was on it. The journey seemed to pass by quickly, and before he knew it he was back in his own living room. It was four minutes to eleven, more or less the same time at which he had left. Even though he had gained some superficial appreciation of how this was so, it was still rather amazing.
Immediately he felt inspired to decorate the Christmas tree, feeling overjoyed at the thought of it being Christmas. To his great delight, he saw that Santa had indeed left presents for him beneath the tree. Excitedly he tore away the wrapping and ribbons, revealing boxes of Christmas tree decorations. He discovered there were long pieces of scintillating gold tinsel, gold and silver bells, an assortment of coloured baubles and also a set of lights. With almost childlike exuberance and glee, he spent the next forty minutes or so decorating the tree, becoming totally engrossed in this activity.
Suddenly realising how preoccupied his mind had become, he looked sharply at the clock, seeing how long he had been engaged in this task, quite oblivious to anything else. Looking back at the nearly completed tree, he observed it with a feeling of having done something worthwhile. Now it was looking quite splendid, having been so elaborately ornamented. Lastly, after adding a few finishing touches, he plugged in the lights and flipped the switch. Fifty bright lights became instantly illuminated, each reflecting in the baubles and bells, and giving the tinsel that extra, colourful glow as it glittered.
Admiring the tree, he finished off his glass of spiced wine before retiring to bed, where he simply lay gazing at the ceiling, his mind brimming with thoughts. At some point, he must have lapsed into a deep sleep before realising that it was morning. But this time it was different. It was, of course, Christmas morning, and Screwge was filled with a great sense of joy and pleasure. He felt inspired to go out and share with other people his profound sense of happiness, people in whom he knew he must attempt to arouse some appreciation of the true spirit of Christmas.
He was constrained, however, by the knowledge that a very careful approach was required, lest his ebullience and eagerness serve only to encourage people to view him as though he were insane, or at least acting very strangely, especially if he were to attempt to relate what had happened to him on Christmas Eve. Of course, he had no intention of imparting such information to anyone, at least not with a view to trying seriously to convince anyone of its truth. He was far from certain himself that it had really happened. It could well have all been a dream, although an extremely vivid and lifelike one.
He opened his front door and looked upon the snowy Christmas scene before him, quickly realising he was still in his pyjamas. Fortunately his neighbours’ curtains were all still closed and no one had seen him. He looked around, reassuring himself of this before closing the door. Re-emerging later on, this time fully clothed, he went for a stroll around the neighbourhood, simply to soak up and enjoy the atmosphere. The layer of snow on the ground was not very deep, nor, thankfully, was the ground particularly icy, so there was no real danger of slipping. It was still slightly dark, the dimness accentuating the decorative lights adorning the houses.
Later that morning, he made his way up to the church to attend the Christmas Day service, with his renewed interest in Christmas. Very jocund in his manner, to people’s astonishment he wished them an enthusiastic and heartfelt “Merry Christmas”. Before leaving the church, he stood observing and admiring the rather grand Christmas tree by the altar.
Back in his own street, he wished several of his neighbours a very merry Christmas. Unsurprisingly they were left astounded at Screwge’s behaviour. This was quite extraordinary and they wondered if he might be drunk, or indeed, under the influence of something stronger. But he was not in the least worried by this. He had experienced and been shown things of which others could only dream, assuming it had all really happened. Now he was more enlightened, able to understand the true meaning of it all.
Screwge called at the house of one of his neighbours, a jovial character who had in previous years invited him to join his family for Christmas, only to be met with a characteristically sullen rebuff. So it was more than a little surprising when Screwge turned up on his doorstep bursting with Christmas cheer.
“Merry Christmas!” bellowed Screwge, much to his neighbour’s astonishment. “Look, I know I haven’t been so keen on Christmas in previous years…”
“That’s something of an understatement,” was his neighbour’s reaction, though he detected no pretence or ulterior purpose of any sort from Screwge.
“But things have changed. I’ve been shown the true meaning of Christmas,” he told his stunned neighbour, knowing that he could hardly reveal his visit to the North Pole in Santa’s sleigh, though he would have to account somehow for the startling transformation in his character and attitude towards Christmas.
“But how exactly? What’s brought about this dramatic conversion?” he was then asked by his highly intrigued and fascinated neighbour.
“I have come to realise the joy that can be experienced, and the pleasure of giving and expressing goodwill at this time of year,” Screwge replied. He was trying to speak in a very sincere and genuine manner, realising the probability that people would tend not to take him seriously, that they would be unconvinced that he had changed so dramatically. “I wish I could explain how it happened. Perhaps it was something I saw on television, or maybe something I read, that gave me that jolt of inspiration that made me realise I had to change, that I could get so much more out of being a different person at Christmas.” He was trying to suggest plausible but deliberately vague ideas, as though he could not really pin it down to any one particular thing or provide any definite answer. “Anyway, look, I’ve got plenty of mulled wine and several other very good wines. I also seem to have a lot of other things such as cakes and luxury Christmas crackers. I was wondering if that offer to join you for Christmas still stands.”
“Well, of course,” replied his neighbour, still noticeably stunned. As Screwge had hoped, the offer his neighbour had made every year for the past ten years to come round for Christmas dinner still stood. “We’ll be having Christmas lunch at around one. Feel free to come around at any time.”
“Okay, I’ll be here at, say, twenty-to-one if that’s all right,” said Screwge as he left.
Upon seeing various people in the street, he wished them a merry Christmas, much to their amazement. He visited the few neighbours he thought would be hospitable to him, delivering them presents in the form of expensive wines. Many were now talking about this profound transformation their neighbour had undergone, barely able to believe what had happened and wondering as to its cause.
“This is a time of goodwill and peace and generosity,” he told people, exuding enthusiasm and self-belief.
At twenty-to-one, Screwge arrived on his neighbour’s doorstep laden with wine and food. Immediately he was met with a warm greeting and welcomed in.
“Mr Screwge is here,” his neighbour announced to the rest of his family as he entered. While waiting for lunch to be served, he told the story, in more or less exact detail, - there was little need for any embellishment - of what had happened to him on Christmas Eve to his neighbour’s young children. He told it so convincingly, with such genuineness, that he had everyone virtually convinced. They were almost ready to believe this incredible story, particularly in light of the startling way in which his previously morose and unpleasant demeanour had somehow evaporated. Indeed, there seemed little else, despite it sounding too fanciful to be true, that could adequately explain the extraordinary transformation he had undergone.
At one point, he was sure he caught a glimpse of one of the elves sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room over by the Christmas tree. No sooner had he noticed it than it disappeared. In reaction, he had voiced his surprise, exclaiming what he had seen, hopeful that someone else had witnessed its presence. Suddenly realising that nobody else had, he was quick to act as though he was only joking, lest he appear completely and worryingly insane.
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