22
The Mansion of Father Christmas
I awakened to the smells of baking. For a time, I lay in unbelievable comfort amidst down pillows and flannel sheets. Everything was warm and cozy; even my dreams had been pleasant, with no incubus to haunt me. I felt I could stay here, exactly as I was, forever.
The sounds of someone munching near my ear stirred my curiosity. I opened my eyes.
I lay in a small chamber with cedar walls and a thick burgundy rug. Rose-colored towels sat on a pink-and-white dresser, piled neatly in front of its oval mirror. Next to my bed, Mab sat on a matching pink-and-white chair, munching a freshly baked sticky bun. The smell of the spices and warm dough made my mouth water.
“Morning, Mab,” I said experimentally. “I dreamed an elf brought me soup.”
“An elf did bring you soup, ma’am. And a real, honest-to-goodness elf, too. Not one of those deformed pixies that were on display in that mall of yours.”
“Oh, really?” I slowly levered myself up. I felt whole. “How long have I been asleep?
“Three days. You slept like a babe . . . while the rest of us worked like dogs trying to get ready for Christmas Eve. Ol’ Santa even got Mephisto to do his fair share.”
“That’s a miracle in and of itself! So, it’s Christmas morning?” I asked.
“If anything could be called morning in the land of no sun.” Mab paused while he finished his next bite. “Clever of you to miss the work and wake in time for the feasting. I recommend we ask our host what we came here to ask him, and get out of here immediately, ma’am. No point in dawdling.”
“Certainly! We’ve wasted precious time already. Three days! Who knows what progress I could have made on rescuing my father, or averting the coming doom?” I was interrupted by my growling stomach. “Good lord, I’m starving! Apparently, I’ve only eaten soup for three days. Did you say something about a feast? A Christmas feast?”
Mab frowned stubbornly.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mab?”
“The elven High Council is expected for the feast, ma’am. The further we are from here by the time they arrive, the better.”
“And miss the High Council?” The name alone kindled memories of fireflies and dancing.
“I was afraid you’d say that, ma’am,” Mab sighed, adding morosely, “Oh, why couldn’t you just have stayed asleep one more day!”
Mab retreated while I rose and dressed. I unwrapped the bandages covering my head, but could find no sign of an injury. After brushing out my hair with a coral-handled brush I found on the dresser, I met up with Mab and began making my way through the winding corridors of Father Christmas’s house.
It was a magical place! Wondrous smells filled the halls: cedar, pine, peppermint, sizzling meats. Bells and garlands hung everywhere. I padded across the polished wooden floors in thick red socks someone had thoughtfully left beside my bed. To either side of me, doors opened into workrooms. I glimpsed stately blond elves, garbed like Swiss yodelers, in embroidered lederhosen, standing in rows before long workbenches, each cleaning his tools and scrubbing his spot of bench. Farther along, other doors led to cozy bedroom suites, and one opened on a cedar-lined sauna surrounding a hot tub the size of a swimming pool. Sweetly scented steam filled the chamber.
Around a corner, I came upon a great jet-black door held shut with massive steel chains. Next to that door, a hip-high pedestal held a silver circlet inset with some kind of polished horn.
Nowhere, however, could I find any sign of the kitchen. Finally, I caved and asked Mab.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said warily. “Might not want to go there. That Mrs. Claus is a mean one. If she catches you, she’ll probably make you go feed that bear. Very dangerous business, the bear. Already ate two elves this week.”
“If the bear eats the help, why do they keep it?”
Mab shrugged. “Don’t rightly know, ma’am. Maybe it’s too vicious to get rid of. Maybe they use it to dispose of unwanted help. Either way, I can vouch that the beast is dangerous. Mrs. Claus insisted I feed it last night, and I nearly got my head bitten off. I recommend you find a nice safe place to sit, and we’ll flag down some passing elf to get us something to eat.”
“Why didn’t you just refuse?”
“Refuse Mrs. Claus!” Mab paled. “You haven’t seen her, ma’am. She’s formidable!”
“Santa!” A harsh voice bellowed from farther down the hall. “Santa! Where’s that man gotten to?”
“What’s that?” I whispered, shaken.
“That’s her,” Mab whispered. “Our hostess.”
“Poor Father Christmas! How can the most generous man in the world have a harridan for a wife?”
“One of the great mysteries, ma’am. Along with why mortals always do the opposite of whatever they’re told,” he commented, as I continued turning corners and peering into chambers.
“Are they here yet, Mab?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The High Council?”
“No.”
“Then, why are you worried?”
“There may be worse things than elves lurking in this house, ma’am,” Mab replied dryly. “Besides, I’d like to avoid another encounter with the bear.”
Despite Mab’s entreaty, the next corner turned out to be the one I was looking for. I stepped around it and into the heat of an enormous kitchen, where we were pleasantly assailed by the scents of fresh dough, of simmering soup with basil and onions, and of soap made with lavender. A dozen elf maidens worked busily, clinking dishes in the huge sinks, striking their long wooden spoons against the sides of the boiling pots as they stirred, or banging rolling pins against new dough on the butcher-block counters. Above their heads hung rows of giant copper pots, as shiny as new pennies.
Bustling through the middle of this, clad in a candy-striped dress and an apron, was Lady Christmas, whom Mab called Mrs. Claus.
“Santa!” she bellowed again.
Now that she was before me, I saw I had been deceived. While her voice was loud and strident, Mrs. Claus’s plump rosy face smiled widely as she called out for her husband, and her eyes danced with merry cheer. I began to warm to her immediately and ceased feeling so badly upon her husband’s behalf. Lady Christmas was no harridan—merely a loving wife with a very loud voice.
Seeing us, she sailed forward and seized my hands in her large, warm flour-covered ones.
“Oh, honey, you look famished. Quick now, girls, fix our guest a plate. You may call me Martha,” she added, smiling kindly.
An elf maid arrived with cups of steaming cider, and a second one brought us a crystal platter of pastries. I accepted the cup and two pastries, as did Mab. A second elf maid rushed in to explain that Father Christmas had been detained but would arrive presently with the ham.
“Careful,” Mab muttered to me under his breath, “or she’ll ask you to feed the bear.”
“Feed the bear! How nice of you to remind me, Mab,” cried Martha Claus. She gestured toward a silver tray upon which lay three bloody slabs of meat. “All right, girls, who will feed the bear?”
Silence. No one answered. Mab’s eyes shifted quickly over the gathered company, and he stepped surreptitiously behind a large pot, out of his hostess’s line of sight.
“No volunteers? Very well, I shall choose. Who was it that dropped a tray on the Gnome King last month? Nimbrithel? I choose Nimbrithel.”
The elf maid in question did not protest; however, all trace of color drained from her face. She was taller than most, and as graceful as a swan, with alabaster skin and ashen-colored locks. Gravely, she unclipped a lovely necklace of silver and dewdrops from around her white throat and pressed it into the hand of her nearest neighbor, whispering a few words only the other elf maiden could hear.
“What is she doing?” I asked Mab softly.
“Her last will and testament. She is choosing who she wants to inherit her stuff if she doesn’t come back,” Mab whispered.
The young elf maid walked solemnly to the tray and, lifting it, cast her sorrowful gaze upon an oak door at the far end of a small alcove. The other elf maidens lowered their heads and stood poised with eerie expressions of poetic sorrow, but no one moved to stop her. Only our hostess did not seem disturbed. Her indifference shocked me. Perhaps I had not been deceived after all. Perhaps, her harsh voice gave a truer glimpse into her soul than her beneficent smile.
“Too bad Mr. Theophrastus isn’t here,” muttered Mab sadly. “He’d put an end to this slaughter. Took out Osae the Bear with one shot . . . or was it two?”
“Lady Christmas . . . Martha,” I said, speaking up. “You can’t send this young woman to her death for no reason. Wouldn’t it make more sense for one of the knights do it?”
“’Twould, if we could spare any more knights. But the truth is, we can’t. Knights are hard to come by,” she replied cheerfully. “We used to have a trained bear feeder. Alas, he met an unfortunate bear-related fate. Don’t worry, she’ll most likely survive. Seven out of ten do.”
“Why not just kill the creature?” I asked.
“What? Kill Santa’s bear! I say!” Our hostess exclaimed in horror.
Nimbrithel, the doomed elf maiden, reached to open the door. As she gave the kitchen behind her one last look, our glances happened to meet. Gazing into her eyes, which were as reflective as mountain pools beneath a cloud-covered sky, I was struck by the grace with which she accepted her fate. For an instant, I felt as if it were I standing in the doorway, my hand on the knob, calmly prepared to risk my life rather than shirk my duty.
Then, I was myself again.
“Give me the tray. I’ll take it!” I stuck my hand into my pocket and felt the reassuring cold of my war fan.
“Absolutely not!” snapped Mab.
From the doorway, Nimbrithel spoke, her voice devoid of emotion, “If it pleases you, Mademoiselle, that is too cruel a fate for our guest. I shall go.”
“No . . . please, allow me. I shall take it amiss if you do not,” I replied coolly. Crossing to where she stood, I pulled the tray from her hands.
“Very well, if you insist. Nimbrithel, give her the tray. You are reprieved,” chimed my hostess.
“Ma’am, no!” cried Mab, alarmed. “Even I nearly got chomped on. Please, ma’am, it’s too dangerous.”
“He is vicious,” offered the reprieved elf maid, “You know not what you will be facing.”
“I have faced demons,” I replied grimly. “I do not fear bears.”
“No, Miss Miranda!” cried Mab. “Let me go. I survived once.”
“I’ll be just fine, Mab. . . . ”
“At least, let me come with you.”
“And risk it eating both of us? No, I can handle this, Mab.” I strode toward the door, “Besides, as you have so often reminded Mephisto, you are not my bodyguard.”
He backed off slowly, glowering. “Well, okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . and be careful on the ice.”
Nimbrithel took a thick red wool cloak with a lining of soft downy white from a peg by the door, draped it over my shoulders, then opened the stout oak door.
“Carry it out just beyond the edge of the building.” She added in a sad, soft tone, “I shall not soon forget what you have done for me this day. Long after the bear has gnawed on the last of your bones, elves shall recall your name in song.”
Holding the tray firmly with one hand and curling the fingers of my other hand around the silver fan, I waited while Nimbrithel unlatched the heavy oak door. Then I stepped out into the yard beyond.
The sky and the earth blended together into a pure pearly white, broken only by the brown blur of the tall palisade that surrounds Father Christmas’s house. The assault of the arctic chill was immediate; however, the cloak the elf maid had draped over my shoulders proved to be surprisingly warm. I suspected it was woven from the beard-hairs of fire giants. Huddled beneath it, I went quickly along the side of the house to the open area where she had told me to leave the food, watching warily for any sign of motion.
Rounding the corner, I came upon a great black bowl. I slid the dripping meat into the bowl and propped the tray against the wall. Then, I began looking for the vicious creature that claimed so many lives. I was determined to kill it and protect Father Christmas’s people from future mutilation.
I moved slowly forward, keeping a sharp eye out for a large furry shape. The snow beneath my boots was a maze of prints, both human and bear, so there were no clues there.
As I came around the corner of the building, I saw it: a huge white polar bear, nearly indistinguishable from its frosty background. The monstrous animal was twelve feet tall, even larger than Logistilla’s bear. Stepping back around the corner, I hesitated only long enough to make sure it had not seen me. Then, with one hand gripping my weapon and the other clutching the cloak that protected me from the biting arctic cold, I ran forward, determined to slice the beast’s head from its shoulders in a single try.
As I raced toward the gigantic polar bear, my quarry slowly raised its head and spoke.
“Oh, ja. Looks like snow?” asked the bear. His voice was calm and peaceable, and he spoke with a Swedish accent.
Startled, I tried to slow down and slid helplessly instead along the slick icy surface. The bear regarded me curiously, making no move to rise. I saw now that it sat slumped, its enormous clawed paws crossed over its round lap, gazing at me with coal black eyes and what could only be described as a bear’s version of a benign smile. He made no move to attack.
“Are you . . . Did . . . ?” I stammered, belatedly regaining my footing.
“Told you the ‘vicious bear’ story, did they? Tsk-tsk.” The bear shook his head. “They should not do that. It is unkind.”
“You’re not vicious?” I asked carefully.
“I am gentle as a kitten,” he replied.
Recalling Tybalt’s kittenhood, I did not find that metaphor particularly reassuring. However, I folded the fan and slid it back in my pocket. “I see . . . Mab said you tried to kill him.”
“The Aerie One with the fedora? They played the same trick on him. He hit me on the nose with a truncheon before he realized his mistake. But he was very polite about it afterwards.”
“What! You mean Mab knew?” I cried, flabbergasted. Mab had tricked me on purpose? The very idea!
“Would you care to play cards?” asked the Swedish polar bear.
“No, thank you. It’s a tad cold for me,” I said, surprised the bear was not deafened by my chattering teeth. I pulled the cloak tighter, and retrieved the silver tray.
“Nice chap, that Mab. He played a hand,” the bear commented philosophically. When I would not relent, he said kindly. “Thank you for bringing my breakfast.”
“My pleasure.”
Stepping back into the blessed warmth of the kitchen, I stood hugging my arms and waiting for the chill to subside. Martha Claus smiled cheerfully and took the tray from my chilled fingers. The kitchen elves kept to their tasks, though many were smiling and a few giggling outright. And Mab . . . Mab was leaning against the alcove wall, whooping like a loon.
“You set me up, Mab!”
“T-true, M-ma’am,” he said, hardly able to speak due to laughter, “but, y-you gotta admit. I-it was funny.”
“I admit nothing of the sort!”
Before I could continue my tirade, the elf maids presented me with a wonderful-smelling breakfast laid out on a silver tray, and Mother Christmas whisked me off to a charming little table by a window through which I could see the bear, who waved.
Mab and I eventually left the kitchen and went in search of Mephisto. We found him in a little chapel looking out on fields of ice, where he knelt in prayer. When Mab exclaimed this seemed out of character for the harebrain, Mephisto replied hotly that it was Christmas, and only heathens did not go to Mass on Christmas. Mab pointed out no Mass was being performed, to which Mephisto replied that this was not his fault.
For myself, I was relieved to see my brother could kneel in front of a cross without his feet smoking.
I knelt beside him, and the two of us gave thanks together for the bounty we had received during the previous year. While we prayed, Mab wandered about, examining the crucifix and sniffing the altar.
Father Christmas found us on our way back from the chapel. He no longer wore the Coca-Cola Santa outfit we had seen at the mall. Instead, he looked much as I recalled him from our meeting during Queen Victoria’s reign: scarlet raiment under dark green robes trimmed with ermine, high black boots, and a crown of holly encircling his white hair. He carried his staff, a tall length of polished wood from which living holly leaves sprouted, and some mischievous elf had woven a sprig of mistletoe into his long snowy beard. When he smiled, warm crinkles appeared around his blue eyes, and I was suddenly reminded of my father. Saddened, I realized this would be the first Christmas I spent without Father in a hundred and twenty-three years.
“Ho-ho-ho!” he greeted us.
Mephisto did a somersault in mid-air, landing like a gymnast with his arms spread.
“Presents!”
Father Christmas laughed jovially. “Just so!”
“Even me?” Mab asked, surprised, when Father Christmas seemed to include him. “I thought you didn’t give gifts to my kind.”
“I have made an exception upon this occasion of your visit to my home,” Father Christmas replied.
“Oh . . . that’s nice.” Mab was both pleased and dubious. Leaning toward me, he whispered rapidly, “Was I supposed to get something for him?”
I shook my head.
“You sure? This isn’t one of those things like leprechauns, where they make you shoes, but if you don’t pay them, they stick you with two lefts?”
“No,” I laughed. “Father Christmas is no elf, despite what the poets might say. He is generosity itself. One of the very few we can accept gifts from without fear.”
“Still,” muttered Mab, “I’d feel better if I had something to give him.”
Father Christmas led us to a huge feasting hall. Garlands of pine boughs decorated the walls, and the doors were hung with mistletoe. Long oak tables had been set with plates and silver. Three lovely elf maidens carrying large cornucopias walked about the hall, filling the long fluted cups. At each setting, they tipped the horn of plenty and commanded, “Cornucopia, make red wine,” or “Cornucopia, make brandy.” The requested liquid poured from the mouth, filling the glass.
“That’s nifty!” Mephisto bounced over and peered up one of the long hornlike devices. “Does that thing make food, too?”
“Oh, yes,” the elf girl replied sweetly. She spoke with a heavy Swedish accent. “Though I only know how to make sweets. Mrs. Claus, now, she can make roast beef and shepherd’s pie and piping hot mashed potatoes come from the cornucopia.”
“Cocoa all around!” called Father Christmas jovially.
The graceful elf girl ran lightly off, returning quickly with four huge red-and-green mugs. She then produced hot chocolate, complete with thick foam and whipped cream. At Mephisto’s request, she even coaxed her cornucopia into making marshmallows. Father Christmas gestured for us each to take a sweet-smelling cup, and led us across the great chamber to an enormous hearth where a huge fire burned, as great as any Guy Fawkes Day bonfire.
To our left was a living spruce so large that a hole had been cut in the roof to allow the tree to tower over the house. Gold tinsel and frosted red-glass balls, each containing its own tiny light, hung from its branches. Beneath the tree, atop the red-and-white skirt that surrounded the trunk, lay presents wrapped in green paper and tied with pink ribbon.
Mephisto rushed forward and began tossing presents to and fro, looking for one bearing his name. Mab approached more slowly, scanning the pile more dubiously. I would have walked forward, too, but Father Christmas bent down beside me and spoke quietly in my ear.
“Your gift will come later, dear child.”
Mephisto’s box contained a black cavalier’s hat with a tall indigo ostrich feather.
“Well . . . that’s dumb!” he pouted. “When we were at the mall, you promised me the thing I most wanted!” Cheering up, he added, “But then I did get my staff back, and that was what I really wanted. So, maybe a stupid hat is not so bad.”
“Mephisto!” I cried, shamed by his rudeness.
“Miranda . . . it’s a hat! That’s as bad as getting presents from Logistilla. She always gives clothes—icky presents.”
This was too much. “Mephisto, Logistilla makes invulnerable clothing with magic woven into them. That’s hardly something to complain about!”
Mephisto stuck out his tongue. “You can have your opinion. I have mine. But I wouldn’t want to be a spoil sport, or rain on your Christmas parade, so,” he gave Father Christmas his biggest smile showing all his teeth, “thanks anyway, Santa-Baby!”
“You’re welcome, Mephisto,” Father Christmas replied, not in the least dismayed.
Mab opened his package, revealing a waterproof notebook and a tiny silver space pen of the sort that provided its own pressure. “Hey, now I can write underwater. Bet that’ll come in handy!”
I turned to reprimand him for his manners, as well. Then I saw the big grin splitting his face. His comment had not been intended as sarcasm. Mab was genuinely delighted with the pen.
As Mephisto put the pink bow back on the hat box and began waltzing it about the large hall, I turned to Father Christmas.
“Has Mab explained why we came?”
He nodded his snowy head. “Yes. You wish to look into the Scrying Pool of Naughty and Nice, which my elves watch to compile our famous list. It would be my . . . ”
A bell rang in the distance. Father Christmas stood and swallowed the remainder of his hot chocolate, wiping the foam from his mustache. “You must excuse me. My guests are arriving. As soon as they are comfortably settled, I will come and find you.”