A Man of Snow
and Other Seasonal Stories
By Erin L. Snyder
A
Man of Snow and Other Seasonal Stories
This
is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and ideas are the
product of the author's imagination and any similarity to real events
or people is completely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2010
by Erin L. Snyder
“A Man of Snow”, “The Real One”, “I’ve Come for the Mail” and “The Worst Gift” originally appeared on http://www.mainliningchristmas.com
Cover
Art and Internal Formatting by Lindsay Stares
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the author, excluding brief passages embedded in reviews or other scholarly works.
I remember those blue eyes, because they were the first things I ever saw. I remember that mocking voice, because it was the first thing I ever heard. “Merry Christmas, Snowman.” Yes, that was what he said. “Now live,” he laughed, staring into my eyes of coal.
I was so cold; there was so much pain. Why should a man made of snow be bothered by the cold? Ha! Men were never meant to be made of snow, and snow was never meant to be made into a man. Snow was never supposed to feel at all. I’d been alive for moments, and I knew this already. I knew because the power that gave me the ability to feel gave me knowledge, as well. Did the one who breathed life into me know this? I doubt he understood the depth of what he’d done, doubt he thought it through. He certainly did not know the full reach of this power, or he’d never have carved the rune that brought me to life.
I knew my creator, for all things are born with such knowledge. A human infant enters the world knowing its mother and, though most soon forget, knowing God, as well. But I was not born of a woman, and God had no hand in my making.
Children had gathered me from the ground, packed me together to give me form. I could feel their hand prints still embedded in my frozen body. But it was Alex Kirley, amateur sorcerer, whose fingers etched the runes in my side. It was he who spoke the word that woke me that cold winter’s night.
“Must hurt,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “Must hurt a lot. Yeah, I can see it. I can tell.”
I wanted to grab him, to strangle the life from his body, but my arms would not move. How could they? They were only sticks. And I was only snow. Magic had given me life, but that was all it gave me. I had no joints, no blood or bile or organs. Shaped like a man, with a man’s capacity for pain and anger, I was still nothing more than snow. Frozen, crystallized droplets of water.
“Well,” he said. “I had my fun. Just wanted to see if it would work. Bye now.” He reached over my shoulder where he’d left the runes and scraped his fingers through them. I wanted to scream in pain as I felt him dig into me, but of course I had no voice.
Then he hurried off with barely a glance. I wonder if he had peered into my eyes again if he would have been able to see that my life endured. The life he’d granted me seeped deeper than those runes. It ran through every part of me, and, no matter how much I wanted it to end, my consciousness clung on.
I was left, alone in the dark, watching him walk back to his car and drive away. I do not think I’ll ever know why he chose me. There are other snowmen – I could see one across the street, standing as perfectly still as me in the moonlight. It looked so happy, so content. But then surely I looked happy, too, as I stood my lonely vigil.
The frigid night drew on endlessly, and the wind grated against me, scraping off bits of snow. I do not imagine that my snow was like your skin; rather, I believe it was more analogous to you being without skin, to having your insides exposed to the harsh winter – no, to have your insides one with the harsh winter. Yes, that is how I imagine it. But I cannot know for sure, because I can no more know what it would feel like to be a man made of flesh and blood than a man could know what it felt like to be made of snow and ice.
When the sun broke over the horizon, I wanted to cheer. For the briefest of instants, the beauty of the sunrise made me forget my pains. What a fool I was, to think the sun my ally.
I learned its true nature soon enough, as it rose about me, as it baked me, scorched me. I sweat and thirsted – yes, a snowman can thirst – as I was roasted alive. But always slowly. When that first day ended and the sun vanished behind me, I had lost but a fraction of my self. Still, I could sense its absence. More than just my body: a part of my mind had melted away. I did not know all the things I had the night before.
The days and weeks that came never grew better. The nights brought the frigid winds and bitter chill, which caked my melting body to itself, until I was coated by ice of my own making. Then the days brought burning warmth, which choked and sculpted me. I could feel the snow fleas as they burrowed into me, worming through me. The sticks that were my arms fell away, and I was no poorer for the loss. A crack appeared one morning on my left shoulder, and the wind bore deeper, until a piece of me fell away to the ground. Still, I could not fight or scream, even as my reason chipped away and, one by one, my memories unraveled, until, in the end, I was a melting heap of slush, and the only thoughts echoing through my fragmented mind were of pain and those blue eyes that had given me life. This, surely, was death.
Oh, but it wasn’t. For Kirley, in his naivety, had toyed with the power of granting life, a power he’d likely stumbled across in his studies without ever comprehending its nature. Because he had granted me life without death. When at last I melted away and sank into the thawing earth, I found the rest of my self waiting for me. My thoughts coalesced, as the whole of my body pulled together. But I reformed without form; a snowman no more, I was a being of water. And, as such, I found I could move. I could seep and flow. I could move the ground, absorb or deposit minerals, and choose my direction.
Things hurt no more: the various shapes I took were one and the same to me. Earthworms and pebbles tickled me, and I found the taste of salt soothing.
I came across a river soon enough and stumbled in. For an instant, I believed I would dissipate in its current and lose the life I’d so newly come to love. But I did not. I found I could stretch out and snap together with ease. I could touch the water around me, speak to it after a fashion, though it did not think as I did. For I still thought as a man, and the river thought as a river. But, oh, the knowledge it held, knowledge of where it had come from and where it would flow, knowledge of its surroundings. Knowledge of pipes and waterways, of cities and sewers, and of paths only water might take. I drank in this knowledge, and I knew at once how I’d use it.
For now I knew the way to he who’d made me to suffer, he who’d left me to freeze and melt in pain. It took me mere hours to make the trip, to find my way into his home and the pipes of his shower. And here I am now, waiting for him to turn it on, so I can return his generosity in kind. Oh, I will be merciful. His pain will last only those fleeting minutes it takes me to wrap around him and choke the air from his lungs. If I’d eyes of my own, I would take pleasure in staring at him in that mocking way he’d stared at me. But I’d left those pieces of coal miles away, and I no longer needed them to see. No, I have no eyes of my own, but all is well. I am water, and I can show him a reflection of his own blue eyes as he chokes his last breath.
This is the North Pole. Or it might as well be. It’s a tundra, desolate, empty. Cold. The heat’s barely on during the month before Christmas. A week ago, there were so many shoppers it was eighty-five. Day after Thanksgiving, ninety. But tonight, Christmas Eve, it’s freezing. Even under this coat and white polyester beard, it’s freezing.
My legs are stiff from sitting all day, from kids jumping up and down on my lap or kicking me again and again while they swung their feet. It hurts to walk, but at the same time it feels good to be on my feet, to be moving.
I give them everything I’ve got. All that energy, all that time. For what? Ten bucks an hour? A month’s worth of work.
I reach the food court and stumble over to Starbucks. The clerk smiles out of one side of his mouth and calls me Nick. I force a grin and ask for a coffee, taking out my wallet. He waves his hand and tells me to put my money away. “Merry Christmas,” he says, handing over the cup. “On the house.” Like most of us, he’s probably seasonal, and Christmas is just the end of a job. What’s he care if Starbucks is out a few bucks?
I head down a hallway through a door labeled, “Employees only” and find my locker. I open it, set my coffee aside and pull out my real shoes and a blue coat I’ve owned for ten years.
For the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas I don the red and white armor and march into battle. I sit, while kids plead and shout and wet themselves, and for what? Just so they’ll say aloud that they want a goddamn doll or GI Joe while their parents are in earshot.
That’s our part in the whole system, our part in Christmas. There are thousands of us, all across the country, grown men in gaudy red and white costumes you wouldn’t wear to a Halloween party, shirts stuffed with cotton (though every year I seem to need less and less padding). But, in the end, that’s what makes it work. I put up with this, and Tommy gets his damned car and Sally gets her bear. Their parents get to feel like they passed on a bit of Christmas magic, and the mall gets its cut of the profits.
For that, we suffer through the season, picking up colds and developing back problems. And we’ll just be back next year.
Because I am Santa. The real one.
We all are.
Who else would put up with this shit to make sure everyone gets what they want for Christmas?
When he said, “I’ve come for the mail,” it was in a plain voice, deeper than average, but certainly not so deep as to be described as baritone or bass. Nevertheless, one doesn’t expect to hear a voice so deep from a man so skinny as the one who walked into the Torytown, Ohio post office, and Rita Yoring was obliged to give the visitor a more thorough look-over. He was indeed thin, barely the proverbial skin and bones. He was wearing spectacles, which until that very minute Rita always believed to be another term for eyeglasses, rather than a distinct object, but there was no mistaking it: these were indeed spectacles. They had to be. He wore a business suit, not a flashy one, but it had certainly been tailored to fit, and he had a fedora pulled down over the tops of his ears.
“Do you have a PO box?” Rita asked.
The visitor sighed. “No box,” he replied, rubbing his forehead between the bridge of his spectacles and the brim of his hat. “But I represent an organization whose mail you’re holding. I’ve come to collect it and provide a permanent forwarding address.”
“All right,” Rita said. “I can check in back, long as you’ve got proof.” She punctuated this with a wide grin. “Who are you with, Sugar?”
Again, the visitor sighed. Rather than answer, he set a leather briefcase on the counter and undid the clasps. Then, without a word, he handed over a document.
Rita continued smiling politely, since one of them ought to behave politely, and looked at the form. She skimmed the top, looking for the name of the visitor’s company. She found it and read the name. Then she read it again. And a third time.
“Ma’am,” the visitor said abruptly. “If it’s not too much trouble, I am in something of a hurry.”
The woman laughed. “This a joke, Honey?”
“It is not,” the visitor replied, making eye contact so as to remove any doubt. “I’m here for the North Pole’s mail.”
The woman laughed again. “I’ll, ah, I’ll need to run this by George. He’s the–”
“The manager,” the visitor cut her off. “Please do.”
Rita vanished behind a door, giving the visitor another amused look on her way. To his credit, the visitor restrained himself from rolling his eyes until she was gone. There were two people in line behind him, a middle-aged woman trying not to laugh and an older man, who just looked annoyed that he had to wait.
Rita emerged, along with a man the visitor assumed was George. George cleared his throat and stared directly at the visitor. He didn’t say a word and didn’t seem happy. Clearly he wasn’t going to begin this conversation, so the visitor said, “I assume your clerk explained the situation.”
The manager crossed his arms. “All right. What’s this about?”
“As I already explained, I represent an organization which has reason to believe you may be holding some of its mail.”
“And just what gave you that idea?” He tipped his head forward, so he could glare from beneath his eyebrows. Perhaps he thought it made him appear intimidating.
“It’s our understanding that the vast majority, if not every one, of the post offices in the state of Ohio are currently holding at least some of our mail.”
“I’d say every PO in the US of A has a few letters addressed to Santa Claus,” the manager replied. “Must be all those kids.” There was no discernible humor in his voice, and the visitor certainly didn’t seem like he was liable to burst into laughter. Rita and the woman in line, on the other hand, were turning visibly pink trying not to giggle. Even the older gentleman at the back of the line was amused.
“If you’ll consult the documentation I’ve provided, you’ll find everything in order. We’re a very old not-for-profit organization which has recently applied for tax-exempt status with the IRS. You’ll find details about our pending status, as well as legal permission to operate. There’s no reason to draw this out.”
Now George did laugh, or at least chuckle, although there was nothing remotely warm or friendly about it. “That so. I can think of a few reasons. You could spend a lot of time behind bars for this prank, son. So maybe you should give it some thought before you keep wasting my time.”
The visitor straightened his tie. “I know chapter 63 of Title 18 by heart, and I assure you I’m in perfect compliance. And, frankly, I’d appreciate it if you addressed me in a professional manner. The organization I represent is the same as any other. We only want our mail.”
“Maybe you should just give him the letters,” the man in the back of the line suggested. “I mean, it’s not like they’re valuable.”
George leaned around the visitor, as though he weren’t there. “Jeff, all due respect, that’d be like giving out the addresses of half the kids in town.” The man in the back of the line shut up, and George turned his attention back to the visitor. “Besides, we were going to ship those letters to New York. They got a North Pole there, as well.”
“I’m aware of the town,” the visitor said, growing irritated. “We’ve filed for legal action again the township. Under Title 18, chapter 63. Of course. But that’s irrelevant. I represent the actual organization that mail is addressed to, and as such, I have a right to take possession.”
“I don’t care what that paper says. Unless you’ve come in a sleigh driven by eight magic reindeer, you’re not getting near those letters.”
The visitor clenched his teeth. “I came in a van. And I must insist.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m about five seconds away from calling the cops.” George held up his hand, all five fingers extended. The first dropped.
The visitor looked upset. Beneath his breath, he muttered, “Eight years. Eight years of law school,” and two more fingers fell. “Fine! Fine!” His hand shot up, faster than George, Rita, or either of the customers could see. All of them had stepped back instinctively. The visitor was no longer upset or even angry: he was furious.
And then, in a single motion, the hat came off in his hand. He clenched it in his fist. “Are you happy?” he demanded, practically shoving his head into George’s face. “Are you happy now?”
The four people in the post office just stared in disbelief. The visitor shut his eyes, took three deep breaths, and returned the hat to his head. When he opened his eyes, they were still staring. He grabbed his form from Rita’s hand, and she made no move to stop him. When he spoke again, his tone had returned to its previous level, though his voice trembled the slightest bit.
“I’ll take the mail when you’re ready, and I’d like to leave a forwarding address so we never need to go through this again.”
Rita stuttered, “You mean... an address... at the North–”
“In eastern Illinois,” the visitor said, snidely. “It’s a regional distribution center we’re setting up, since mail sent to the actual street address of our corporate headquarters hasn’t been getting through.”
“Oh,” Rita said. “Yeah. I’ll... I’ll go get the mail from the back. Right?”
“Right,” George agreed, still staring at the visitor. “I can take your address.” The visitor pulled out another form from his briefcase, already filled out. As he did so, George observed, “You’ve got a lot of forms in there.”
“Yes,” the visitor replied curtly. “I have a few more stops after this one.”
When he’d been given the mail, amounting to two full boxes, George followed him out to his van. “Look, pal... I’m sorry I had to insist, but....”
“You were looking out for the children in your town,” the visitor said, balancing the boxes on the bumper while he unlocked and opened the back. “As a representative of an organization looking to promote and improve the welfare of children, I don’t begrudge that.” He adjusted his spectacles, while he pushed the boxes of mail inside up against two dozen others. “I’d just like to get through one stop this week without having to remove the hat.”
Edwin Thorester had given up on ever finding the best gift, or even a good gift, for that matter, long before he stepped into the For Corners Gift Emporium. The fact of the matter was simply that a “good gift” was the adult equivalent to Saint Nicholas; namely, that it existed in the heart, that many believed in its power, but no matter how much you were willing to delude yourself, it simply wasn’t real.
He had no compunction against giving the alternative, which is to say a bad gift. In fact, Edwin had made a hobby of giving such presents out year after year. The problem, as he saw it, was that after all this time, he found it increasingly difficult to find yet another gift that might be memorable. He'd given so many, that they seemed to blend together into a blur of trash. And that – being memorable – was the one ideal he couldn't bear to abandon.
He’d already purchased a dozen potential gifts. A potential gift, as defined by Edwin Thorester, was similar to an actual gift, save that rather than being given, it resided in a state of rest. More specifically, his potential gifts were resting in a large, cardboard box labeled, “X-Mas Decorations.” One day, he swore, he would replace that box with a newer, better one, label it “Christmas Gifts in Waiting,” and the poetry of the thing would compel him to give out as many or more potential gifts each year as the number he took in, a feat he’d never once achieved in the five years since he’d conjured the theory and begun his collection.
The larger issue he now faced related to the potential recipient, Elena Jones, the Northeast Regional Manager of Distribution for Klipsin Inc., the subsidiary Edwin worked for. What, specifically, Klipsin was a subsidiary of was a point of some contention. Its current owner, Liir System International, which had purchased Klipsin not four months prior from Irksi Syrus Enterprises for slightly less than two hundred million dollars, was now negotiating to sell the subsidiary to any one of three possible buyers (one of which being the aforementioned Irksi Syrus Enterprises, which, having realigned their corporate structure and rewritten both their mission statement and goals, had reassessed the subsidiary and was now interested in reacquiring it).
But none of that was of any importance to Edwin, who would have felt equally obsessed and anxious purchasing a gift for Elena whether she was the NRMD for a subsidiary of Irksi Syrus Enterprises, a secretary for Liir SI, the reigning dictator of a European nation state, or a line-cook at McDonalds.
For you see, Edwin Thorester deeply loved Elena Jones, which is of itself a point of very little significance, as at any given time no fewer than fifteen men and two women were in love with Ms. Jones, not including the dashing, charming, and brilliant Mr. Jones, who no one could deny had won her hand fair and square.
Elena, it should be noted, feared and despised the Christmas season and had her entire life. It was a holiday whose only purpose seemed to be the opening of the floodgates for gifts from admirers she had no interest in collecting and whose affections brought her only grief and guilt, as though she were in some way responsible for their affliction. She’d made her thoughts on the subject crystal clear, even going so far as to order custom “thank you” notes with her philosophical musings on the subject explained in some detail.
Every year, after leaving his present on her desk (or beside it, when the existing pile already occupied every inch), Edwin would wait patiently for the thank you card to appear. These were the only things from Elena he’d ever received, other than a pen she’d given him on his first day, and he kept them in a sealed plastic bag which was, in turn, kept in a fireproof safe in his basement. The pen he kept on his person at all times, a favor from his lady. Well, from Mr. Jones’s lady, but from a lady nonetheless.
Like any cold war, the search for a perfect gift for Elena had escalated dramatically over the years. Three years earlier, Jonathon Karter, a receptionist from billing, had spent two weeks’ pay to purchase Elena a diamond necklace. She pawned the necklace at her first opportunity and donated every penny to charity. For overstepping his bounds, Jonathon wasn’t given so much as a “thank you” note, nor did she ever mention it in passing. She withheld even the scolding he desired, for what could be better than her attention and emotional reaction?
The event had soured the annual competition for the rest of them. No longer could they outdo each other through expense; now they had no choice but to seek out something thoughtful, something memorable, a gift that would embed itself in memory and withstand the ebb of time.
While the For Corners Gift Emporium had already provided several additions to Edwin’s box of potential gifts, including (but not limited to) one mug advertising a Broadway show which had already closed, a die-cast replica of a New York City Cab complete with a miniature driver sticking his finger out the window, two T-shirts (one bearing the slogan “I [apple] New [heart],” the other with the image of Marilyn Monroe), and no less than three bobble head dolls – any of which might serve as gifts for superficial acquaintances – he was no nearer to finding a present suiting Elena. The die-cast cab came closest, but even this was too trivial for unrequited love.
However, after determining that none of the snow globes were worth his time, a miraculous event occurred. It happened in the bobble-head aisle, and it happened because Edwin had discovered a paint smudge on the bobbing nose of the Hillary Clinton doll he’d selected. This could not stand, so he headed back to swap it out for a one without such an imperfection. The dolls weren’t in any kind of order, though, so he found himself pulling specimens off the shelf and setting them on the floor as he tried to find what he was looking for. He came across three other Hillary Clinton bobble-heads, but they all contained the same paint error, and he began to suspect the store had procured a box of irregulars at a discount.
But Edwin wasn’t one to give up, so he kept digging deeper, until his hand grasped something in the back. Even before pulling it out, he could tell this wasn’t a bobble-head. When he got it free he nearly dropped it in disgust. Even though he nearly lost his grip, the object, being slightly sticky, did not. Edwin set it on the floor, surrounded by the cult of bobble-heads. He stared at it in awe and shock.
It was gaudy. Gaudier than anything Edwin had seen in his entire life. He’d never thought of gaudiness as a quantifiable metric before that moment, but he could see that it was gaudier than the entire remaining contents of the For Corners Gift Emporium combined.
But it wasn’t just gaudy. It was also chintzy, in that way only the cheapest trinkets are. It radiated chintziness: the bobble-head dolls nearest seemed chintzier by far than those further away.
It even smelled funny. A faint but detectable odor of imitation pine and cinnamon wafted off of its plastic sides and into the air. It met Edwin’s nose like caustic gas – it seemed like an imitation of an imitation, bearing no resemblance to the original at all.
It had lights and made noise. It performed no useful purpose, nor filled any niche or need. And yet, it reflected Christmas in its entirety. It was the holiday, as captured in some funhouse mirror, bent and skewed almost – but not quite – beyond recognition.
It was, without a doubt, the worst gift anyone could ever give or receive.
And that made it memorable. More memorable than a hundred diamond necklaces or Tiffany vases or cashmere sweaters. More noticeable than a four-foot tall lit artificial Christmas tree.
He paused for a moment, trying to imagine Elena’s reaction. She would hate it. She would hate him for getting it for her. But then she would think of him. She would bring him into her thoughts, hold him in her mind, if only to spite him. Was it worth it?
He looked down at the cult of bobble-heads before him, and every one of them nodded in agreement.
He wrapped the gift in one of the T-shirts he’d picked out so he wouldn’t have to touch it again, then hurried to the register. The clerk cocked an eyebrow as Edwin unrolled the shirt to reveal his find.
The clerk gasped. “Did you want to buy this?” he asked, after staring for almost a minute in silence.
“Yes,” Edwin said without hesitation.
The clerk swallowed and slowly nodded his head. “It’s been here longer than I have,” he said. “No one ever asked about it before. Ever.”
He reached for it, but paused before touching it, investing a moment to find the least offensive way to touch it. Finally, using his thumb and index finger and holding it at arm’s length, he raised it to the scanner, which spit out a shrill screech. The words “item not found” appeared on the register.
The clerk set the item down at once. “I’ll need to get the owner,” he said, after some consideration. Edwin nodded, and the clerk headed into the back room, glancing back over his shoulder as though he expected Edwin to be gone.
The clerk was only gone a few seconds before reemerging with the owner, an overweight, elderly man, who walked with a limp. He made his way to the register and looked down at the items Edwin had chosen. “You’re here to buy it,” he said.
“Yup,” Edwin replied.
“For a gift, right?” he asked, watching Edwin’s face for any sign that he might be lying.
“Yup,” Edwin said again.
The old man drew a deep breath. “I... can’t just give it to you for free,” he said, sounding like he wanted to, more than anything, but some force or geas prevented him. He thought for a moment. “Nine ninety-nine,” he said at length. “Yes. It’s nine dollars, ninety-nine cents.” He stopped breathing for an instant while he waited.
“Okay,” Edwin said shrugging. The clerk worked the register to add the other items, and the entire purchase came to fifty-four, eighty-nine (the T-shirts were two for ten dollars, and the cab was half-off; everything else was full price).
Edwin paid with three twenties, and the clerk bagged his purchases, saving the worst gift in all the world for last. He opened a plastic bag and lowered it around the object so he wouldn’t have to touch it again, then he handed it to Edwin. His body was tense until Edwin took it, and he relaxed the instant his burden was gone.
“Thank you,” the clerk said, handing over the receipt. “You can bring anything back within seven days with receipt for returns or exchanges.” It was a mantra, spoken quickly and without meaning.
The owner butt in. “Anything except....” He didn’t finish his sentence, nor did he point or lower his gaze from Edwin’s eyes, but it made no difference. The meaning was clear.
Carrying his bags, Edwin hurried out and headed to the subway. The platform and train were crowded, but no one came near Edwin or his bags.
When he reached his apartment, he emptied his other objects into his box of potential gifts, with the exception of the T-shirt he’d used to carry it in the store – that, he threw away. Then, laying out a newspaper on his floor, he tipped the last bag over, using it like a glove to set down the worst gift. The plastic of the bag peeled away with the sound of tape coming off a roll. It was as though the gift didn’t want to let go.
In some ways, it didn’t seem as awful anymore, and Edwin wondered if perhaps he’d been swindled. But the longer he stared at the gift, the worse it seemed. After the first five minutes, he felt himself grow dizzy, and he almost fell. After that, he brought a chair, so that he could sit and look at it.
It was as though the gift looked back.
At last, he went to his closet and emerged with a roll of wrapping paper printed with green holly leaves. Wrapping the gift was an endeavor. The paper kept tearing and sticking to the present, but after four layers he managed to get it on. The package still bore its shape, but nothing else – not even the smell – came through. Whatever power the gift had, it was suppressed by the paper. Finally, Edwin found a label and wrote, “To Elena, From Edwin, may you never forget me,” and he stuck it on.
He brought it with him to work the next day, but did not give it to Elena. He could not have said why he hesitated or what he was frightened of – after all, the worst case scenarios were the best outcomes he could hope for – but, whatever the reason, he found himself hiding it in his own desk drawer for the better part of a week, all the while tokens from other admirers appeared and disappeared from the area around Elena’s chair.
Finally, on the day before Christmas Eve, he came in a half hour early, took it to Elena’s desk, and returned to his own. Immediately, he ran back to her desk, made sure no one was looking, and stole it back. This repeated six times in as many minutes, until the woman who sat next to Elena came in and turned on her computer. For better or worse, and perhaps by the whim of fate, she’d entered while the gift rested in front of Elena’s computer, and there it remained until Elena arrived herself and brushed it, along with four others which had been left late the previous day, into the large canvas bag she took to the office for just this purpose every day for two weeks before and one after Christmas.
She didn’t open the gift until she got home, when her husband asked what she’d been given. “They sure love Christmas at Klipsin,” he said, as though everyone received as many presents as she did. He knew better of course, but he did his best to help her feel normal. She shrugged, and pulled the paper off the first of her presents, an ornament of an angel riding a muskrat, an animal she’d once made the mistake of jokingly remarking was her favorite. Her husband looked it over, made a note of who’d given it to her, then dropped it into one of the muskrat boxes.
Next was a set of simple holiday glasses, which her husband convinced her were decent enough to go in the kitchen and see use. She silently resolved, then and there, never to let the giver, Fredrick Ulrich, know he given her something of use, as she was unsure how he’d react.
“Here’s a weird one,” her husband chuckled, holding out a peculiarly shaped gift. “Says it’s from... Edwin. He the one who got you the framed picture of the wolves last year?”
Elena shrugged. She seldom kept track of such things. She pulled at the paper and found it fighting her, as if glued down. In the end, she wound up peeling it off like an orange, to reveal the thing within, which she quickly set down, pushing it away from her. Neither she nor her husband said a word. They simply sat there, staring at it. The other gifts, both those she’d opened and those she hadn’t, were entirely forgotten.
“I don’t... I don’t get it,” her husband said in the barest of whispers.
She didn’t react or speak. She just sat completely still, hardly blinking, until her husband covered it with extra wrapping paper and convinced her to go to bed. The second she’d left the room, he threw it in the trash and dragged it to the curb. As far as either of them were concerned, that should have been the end of it.
Four days passed before Elena had to be back at work. When she returned, she discovered that Edwin was wisely keeping his distance, never approaching or even daring to look at her. She resolved not to send him a “thank you” card, even as she realized that she’d forgotten to write any such cards up, despite the fact she’d always given those out right after the holiday.
When she returned home that evening, she noticed the trash was piling up at the curb. She asked her husband about this, and he replied that the garbage men had forgotten to pick it up that morning, but that they’d certainly remember on Tuesday.
Of course, they didn’t remember on Tuesday, and her husband swore he’d call their councilman to complain. She stopped him and looked him in the eye. “Would you have taken it?” she asked. When he looked away, she nodded. “I have a favor,” she said, immediately regretting her words. Her husband would never refuse doing her a favor, and she’d wanted him to do this of his own freewill or not at all. “Would you go to the curb and recover Edwin’s gift for me? I’ve decided....” She’d meant to say she’d decided she wanted it or something of the sort, but she couldn’t force the words past her lips. Instead, she said, “I’ll go, if you won’t, but we can’t leave it there.”
He nodded, knowing full well she was right. When he reached the curb and removed the lid, he found that the garbage bag was torn open and the gift was poking through. This didn’t surprise him in the least, nor did he wonder how this had happened. He was wearing work gloves when he picked it up, having resolved to never touch it again. Briefly, he considered driving to the river and throwing it in, but he became convinced that, should he do so, it would somehow kill every fish on the Eastern seaboard.
Besides, Elena hadn’t asked him to do this; she’d asked him to bring it to her, so he did so. He almost stopped by the bathroom to clean it, but in the end he decided the trash had made it somehow less repulsive and presented it as is. With her permission, he locked it in the shed before they both went to bed.
Neither of them slept a wink that night. They merely laid in bed staring at the ceiling.
Elena went to work the next day and spent most of her time glowering at Edwin, who seemed both horrified and gratified by her reaction. She told this to her husband in passing that evening, while they both watched the shed door through an open window, as if at any moment it would explode open.
He simply nodded when he told her this, then he went to their bedroom to find her address book, stopped by the closet to get his hunting rifle, and, without a word, walked out to his truck. Elena cried while she watched him go, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. As soon as he’d driven off, she shook off the reverie which held her and grabbed her phone. She pressed the key marked nine and even got as far as the first one before she stopped. By this time, she’d looked up at the closed shed door, and it seemed to hold her. She didn’t set down the phone, nor did she complete her call. She merely remained where she was, unaware that time was passing or anything might be happening.
Meanwhile, her husband had located the address of Edwin’s apartment in Brooklyn in Elena’s considerably large index. It was late at night, and there was no traffic on the road: he made the drive in less than twenty minutes. He got out, rifle in hand, and marched to the door, well aware that someone behind him was already backing away and calling the police.
He buzzed Edwin’s apartment and heard a hopeful voice say, “Hello?”
“It’s Cory,” he said. “Sorry. I’m Elena’s husband.”
“Oh,” the voice said through the intercom, sounding disappointed. A second later, the door buzzed loudly, and the lock disengaged. Elena’s husband strolled up the stairs to Edwin’s apartment and found the door unlocked.
Edwin was sitting in the center of the room. He looked at the rifle and nodded. He stood slowly and only said, “I’d hoped... I hoped she’d come herself.”
“I’m sorry,” Elena’s husband said, not because of what he was about to do, but because she hadn’t. He shut the door behind him. Then he shot Edwin in the chest and waited to make sure he was dead. He walked to the kitchen next and used the wash cloth to clean his prints from the gun. Then, deciding that was stupid, he grabbed the rifle to make sure his prints were back on it, and he used Edwin’s phone to call the police. He knew they were already on the way, but he wanted to make sure they went to the right apartment and didn’t disturb anyone in the building more than they’d already been disturbed. His constant concern for others was one of the qualities that had convinced Elena to marry him.
The police came and arrested Elena’s husband with very little fanfare. In the end, he was so helpful, polite, and direct, they forgot to handcuff him when they drove him to the station, where he explained, in some detail, why he’d killed Edwin Thorester, a man he’d never previously met. His story baffled them, of course, as they’d never seen the gift in the question, and moreover hadn’t met his wife.
His court-appointed lawyer, a man by name of Ulther Wilkins, wound up recovering the artifact from the shed. He drove it to the courthouse himself and introduced it as evidence during the trial. That, along with testimony from Elena, moved the jury to return a verdict of not guilty, which surprised neither the judge nor prosecuting attorney.
It should be added that Uther paid a heavy price for this victory, as he felt obliged to get rid of his car afterward, and was never able to find a buyer who’d pay anywhere near its full value (though no one could point to any flaw or reason for this). The Joneses didn’t escape unharmed, either, as the court required them to retake ownership of their property.
Elena made the decision to display the gift on their mantle, and there it would stay. Though it continued to cause the couple grief, the gift did find some rest in its new home, and it haunted them significantly less than when they’d tucked it out of view. In their will, they decided the gift should remain in their house, and that the house should go to whoever among their friends or family might claim it. However, as they’re still alive, there’s no telling who – if anyone – might take that offer.
As for Edwin’s funeral, he’d never had much in the way of friends, and he came from a small and distant family. His father was too sick to leave Charlotte, and his brother was unable or unwilling to pull himself away from work to attend. But the event was not without mourners: the sixteen men and women who shared his infatuation, along with dozens of others who had at some point, went in their stead, and every one of them was jealous of Edwin, who would stay in Elena’s thoughts until the day she died.
None of Elena’s admirers ever bought her a gift again, not out of a sense of propriety or fear, but rather because they knew it had always been a competition. And none could doubt that, at long last, the contest had found its winner.
It was Tasil’s idea, of course, Tasil’s obsession. “I know how to get us out of here,” he said, that day in mid-December, while we sat whittling in the stables. Tasil could always whittle. There weren’t many things he couldn’t do, in fact. He could have made toymaker easy, maybe even worked his way to master designer or higher, if he’d cared enough to try. But titles and success never interested him, and building toys meant nothing. I think it would have been different if he could have given them away himself, but that was always the problem. Anything he made would just be wrapped and handed over to the loaders. Wouldn’t have mattered if someday there’d be a child who’d receive his toy, who’d love it, cherish it, and all that – if he couldn’t be there to see the look on their faces, it was all meaningless.
Tasil needed something real, something in front of him. Truth is, I think that’s why he chose to work the stables. At least the reindeer could be seen. At least they were real.
I brushed him away at first. “Not again. Remember when Clipp found you trying to hide on the sleigh? I thought he was going to tell Old Red.”
“Yeah, that was stupid,” Tasil admitted, losing interest in his sculpture, which was a fair lot better than anything I could do, and tossing it into the dirt and muck of the stable floor. He folded his knife closed and stuffed it into the pouch he’d inherited from our father. “I was desperate then. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’re desperate now,” I said back.
“Yeah. But this time I’m thinking.” He reached over and gently pinched my chin with his fingers, raising my head so I’d look in his eyes. He had a wide grin, almost from ear to ear. Whether he was thinking clearly or not, he was excited. “Look, Cly, I’ve got a plan. A real plan this time. We can make it out this Eve.”
“Forget it,” I said. “Even if I wanted to, they go over the old man’s sleigh with a doll’s comb. It’ll never work.”
“God, you’re thick! I told you getting out by the sleigh was a dumb idea. I’ve got no desire to try that again. No, we’re taking one of the extra deer and making a saddle. Got him picked out and everything.”
“Come on, they’ll see us on radar before we even reach the wall. Then they’ll just use the Weather Stone to make us land or send someone after us.”
“They won’t see us, because we’re not going over the wall. We’re going under. On Eve, the guards will be nogged out of their minds. It’ll be dark, and we’ll be gone before anyone notices we’re missing. We’ll go through a tunnel, walk the first mile, and take off when we’re outside the Weather Stone’s range.”
“You’re nuts,” I said. “It’d take you a month to dig a tunnel.”
His grin just got wider. “Nah. You’re wrong on that count Cly. I pulled it off in under two weeks.”
That shut me up. “You… what?”
“I told you, Cly, this isn’t like those other times. This is real. The tunnel’s built, and I’ve already picked a deer. Jothie. He’ s too small for the old man, but he’s tough, quick, clever, and he’s got nothing that glows. He likes you, too, trusts you.”
“It won’t… it’s not going to work. We’ll just get lost in the snow.”
“You know the tales. We head south, we hit the world of children. Can’t be that long, if Old Red makes the circuit in a night.”
“Yeah, well the old man does that thing with time.”
“Bah,” Tasil scoffed. “Tricks and games, Cly. It can’t be far. Listen to me. This is going to work. It has to, because I can’t keep going like this, cleaning cages and working for the old man. I’m sick of this life.”
“But… this is where we belong,” I replied.
“Don’t you dare,” he said. “I never want to hear anyone tell me where I belong or where I don’t again.” He gripped me by both shoulders. “Don’t you get it? We don’t have to be slaves.”
“We’re not slaves,” I said softly. “We’re here because it’s where we’re supposed to be. It’s to keep us safe.”
“It’s to keep us working. If we’re not slaves, why is there a wall? Why aren’t we allowed to leave the shop?”
“It’s not safe out there. What about the monsters?”
“Deershit,” Tasil said. “The old man goes out every year, comes back with empty sacks and stories of how good the children are, how much they love our toys. It’s not until we ask to go, too, that the other boot falls. Then it’s all wars and killers and monsters. Well, I’m not buying any of it. All that, all the monsters and stories, that’s to keep us in line, keep us working so he can visit the children alone. But it’s a lie, Tasil, it’s got to be. If children are so innocent and kind, then what’s to keep the bears and tanks and all that from getting them? It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.”
“He can’t just be making all that up,” I said. “I wonder about the world outside, too, but Claus wouldn’t do that to us.”
“You’re deluding yourself. Claus thinks he owns – thinks he owns everything. He wants to keep the world for himself. Well, he can’t have it. I want to see children. I want to live around them, make them toys and give them out whenever I choose. And I want you there with me.”
I’d like to say I went for the children, that everything I did was for their sake. And I did like the idea of seeing them, of mattering to them as something real and not just a story of a story. But the truth is I went because Tasil’s my brother, and because he’s looked after me since the year our father died in an accident in the stuffed-animal warehouse and we lost our mother to cancer. I went because Tasil was the smartest, strongest elf I’ve ever known, and I knew I either had to turn him in or go along. And the one thing I could never do is betray Tasil.
* * *
It was the coldest damn Christmas Eve I could remember, and I kept biting my tongue to keep myself from telling Tasil we should put it off ‘til next year. I knew there was no point; we’d come this far, and he’d die before giving up.
We snuck towards the stables, avoiding the occasional guard enforcing curfew. But it was Christmas Eve. There were pairs of elves tiptoeing around the whole compound, looking for forgotten candy canes or extra, discarded toys they could give to their own young. There were parties spilling out of the huts, elves throwing up into the snow, and the occasional group of teenagers hiding and daring each other to run across the half-mile of tundra and lay a hand on the wall before running back.
Tasil led on. It wasn’t hard to avoid running into anyone. Sure, the guards were out, but better than half had been drinking, just like Tasil predicted. The rest, if they saw us at all, took us for guards ourselves and kept out of our way.
The stables were supposed to be empty, but we almost tripped over Kylip and Pellia as soon as we opened the door. Kylip was one of the other stable elves, and Pellia was one of the dock managers. I was wound so tight, I almost blurted out an apology and confessed what we were up to. Tasil wasn’t quite so thrown.
“Claus’s beard! Kylip, what the hell’s going on?” Kylip and Pellia rolled over, blushing. Pellia’s blouse was unbuttoned, and they had started removing their stockings. Pellia pulled her blouse closed, and looked up. I couldn’t tell whether she was angry, embarrassed, or amused – it was probably a bit of all three.
“Tasil,” Kylip blurted, “look, I can explain. We just… we came here to talk, and we’d had a touch to drink, you know. Anyway, I know this looks bad—”
“Shut up,” Tasil said. “Look, my brother and I have some work to do. Get lost, and we won’t say a word of this to Clipp.”
“Uh, okay,” Kylip said, pulling on his stockings.
Pellia, having a little more sense, mouthed a “thank you” to my brother, and both of them hurried off. As soon as they were gone, I exhaled. My brother just laughed.
“Good for Kylip,” he said. “Keep a watch on the door while I get Jothie.”
At some point between the stables and the wall, our escape stopped feeling like a game and started feeling a whole lot more real. Until then, I hadn’t even realized it was a game to me. I’d been scared the entire time, ever since Tasil fast-talked me into it. But there had been something thrilling about it, as well. It was the kind of fear elicited by an adventure. Somewhere on that long stretch of barren tundra, in the face of frigid wind and shards of hailstones, I felt the other kind of fear creep up in the pit of my gut. I pulled a mint leaf from my pouch and slid it onto my tongue to quiet my stomach. The last thing I wanted to do was get sick and make matters worse. No matter how I felt, I didn’t want to take this from my brother, who stared that storm in the eye, who seemed to be suppressing a laugh with each step, as he led Jothie by the reins. That was to be my gift to him. No matter what happened, I wouldn’t ruin this for Tasil. Even if it cost our lives, I wanted him to have this moment.
Before long, the ice wall was looming over us. I’d never seen it up close before, certainly not this close. Only the specialists – the patrols, guard elves, radar experts, flight trainers, and their ilk – were allowed to actually work at the wall. Some brave elves make the run when they’re young, but I was never brave enough. I shivered to imagine Tasil coming here alone for weeks on end to work on his tunnel in the dead of night.
“You there! Stop where you are!” The command came from our left and a blur moved in the snow.
“Hello, and Merry Christmas,” Tasil called back, taking a few steps towards the approaching figure. He looked back at me and said, “Cly [I cringed to hear him use my name], keep Jothie calm for a moment. I’ll explain.” His voice was so steady, so direct, I thought for moment this must be some accomplice he’d neglected to tell me about. Inside I knew better, but I kept telling myself to keep from panicking.
Tasil, for his part, kept on, until he and the guard elf were shades in the snow, silhouetted by the distant rainbow of holiday lights shining from the complex. I could barely see them, but I could hear perfectly.
“Hello,” Tasil said again. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. It’s Tasil. My brother, Clybrill, is attending Jothie back there.”
“No one’s allowed out on the Eve without permission,” the guard said. “And you’re not on the list.”
“We wouldn’t be,” Tasil said. “We’re here on Clipp’s order, though. Jothie’s going to be an alternate for third right next year, but he’s had some issues with inclement weather. We’ve been out with the storms, trying to get him accustomed, get him up to the task. Surprised we haven’t met up before, to tell you the truth.” Tasil’s voice never wavered.
“Then why aren’t you on the list?”
“Well, Clipp’s been sending us out last minute, only when the snow’s been harsh, you know. Much to my brother’s annoyance. Oh, we’ve got papers, of course. Hold on. They’re with Jothie. Cly,” he called to me, “Could you get the letter Clipp gave us from Jothie’s saddlebag?”
“What?” I called back, confused. “I mean, where?”
“It’s in… oh, never mind. I’ll find it.” He started back, wading briskly through the snow. “Sorry about that,” he said over his shoulder to the guard, who followed him close behind. “My brother’s a tad absentminded, some days.”
They reached us, and Tasil started digging through the saddlebag. “I’ve got it,” he assured the guard. “It’s just buried a bit.”
The guard was standing beside Tasil, but he turned to look at me. I tried to meet his gaze, but had to look down. I could feel him staring, so I blurted out, “Cold night.” When I looked up he was still looking, trying to make sense of me. He knew this wasn’t right, could sense that I was hiding something. I figured out later that Tasil had expected that, counted on me looking suspicious. Because as long as the guard kept his eyes on me, he wasn’t watching my brother pull out a small shovel.
There was a crack as it met with the guard’s head, and the elf tumbled into the snow. Jothie reared up, and I did the only thing I knew to do, the only thing in this world I’ve ever been good at: I calmed him. “It’s okay, boy,” I said, gently pulling the reins taut and forcing the reindeer to look me in the eye. Behind him, I heard the guard let out a yelp. “It’s fine,” I said, and now it was my voice that didn’t waver. I’d never had any control when speaking to elves, but I could lie to an animal. Animals always believed me.
Tasil grunted, and there was another thud as the shovel struck again. I never looked away from the deer, never looked back, even when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “We need to move,” Tasil whispered. “We need to keep going.”
“Is he okay?” I asked.
“The guard? Sure. Just gave him something to sleep off. They’ll find him, get him inside, and he’ll be right by Christmas morning.” Once again, his voice didn’t waver or shake.
“We should help him,” I said, still staring at Jothie. “We can’t leave him here.”
“Cly,” Tasil said, “please. We need to keep moving.” I looked up so I could see his eyes. He was afraid.
“Okay,” I said. And we went on without ever looking back at the elf lying in the snow.
Tasil didn’t say a thing when we reached the wall. He just led us to a false wall of snow, which gave way when he pushed. I looked in at his tunnel and bit my lip. “Jothie can’t fit through there,” I said.
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