The elves were distinctly less enthusiastic. “If he stares at us all the time, we kick him out again,” one of them muttered.
“Exactly!” giggled the others. “Boom — and out!”
“You are really the most dreadful creatures!” Matilda scolded. “There’ll be no gingerbread for you, not a single piece. Understood?”
“Oi, hold on a sec!” The elves threw their hammers to the ground. “We work, we get gingerbread. ‘Understood’?”
Niklas was still looking out the window. Children are the best cure for Santa sadness, he thought. And Santas are good for sad children. So …
“I’ll ask him in.” Determined, he walked over to the door and opened it. “Good evening, my friend!” he called. “Would you like to come in for a bit?”
The boy ducked his head and looked around. He took a couple of steps toward the caravan — and then one back. “Dinnertime,” he muttered.
“Ah yes, I understand.” Niklas nodded, disappointed. “Your parents are waiting.”
“Oi, shut that door!” the elves shouted from inside. “Our fingers are freezing off.”
The boy peered past Niklas into the caravan.
“Hello there!” Matilda flew onto Niklas’s shoulder and gave the boy her most angelic smile.
“I — um — I — I’ll just ask — my parents,” he stuttered. Then he turned and ran across the street toward one of the garden gates.
It didn’t take him long to come back.
Matilda was making hot chocolate when they heard the knock on the door.
“Come in!” Niklas called. He was still mending his coat.
Hesitantly the boy stepped into the caravan. A small music box stood on the table, tinkling a Christmas tune, but the elves had vanished.
Niklas pushed out a chair. “Do sit down. Matilda is just making you some hot chocolate. You do like hot chocolate, right?”
The boy nodded and picked up a tiny shoe from the chair. He placed it on the table as carefully as if it were made of glass and sat down. Emmanuel brought him a bowl of gingerbread, smiled shyly at him, and then fluttered back to his baking tray. The boy stared after him, his mouth wide open.
“What’s your name?” Niklas asked.
“B … Ben.”
The large dresser by the table started rattling.
“Oh, just come out!” Niklas called. “Does the boy look like a spy?”
“Those silly elves keep seeing spies everywhere!” Matilda said as she placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of Ben. But the boy’s eyes were on the tiny men, who were climbing out of the dresser’s bottom drawer.
The largest one hopped toward him and stood right in front of his left shoe. He crossed his short, stout arms and glared at the boy suspiciously. “See, Niklas?” he said. “The human is staring at us. Grrrr!” The tiny chap made a face and poked out his green tongue.
Ben gave a start.
“These are my Christmas elves,” Niklas explained. “I’m afraid their behavior isn’t terribly polite. But they don’t really mean it, right, Rufflebeard?”
The elf was still scrutinizing Ben.
“He looks too stupid to be a spy,” he finally observed. Then he turned around and strolled back to the others, who had started to bang at a large wagon wheel with tiny hammers.
Ben stared into his mug and shyly took a few sips of Matilda’s hot chocolate. He almost choked when the carved gnome standing next to the sugar bowl made faces at him.
“Those elves are so impertinent!” sighed Matilda, sitting down on the edge of the table. “Just ignore them. How do you like my hot chocolate?”
Ben nodded, staring at a small nutcracker stalking around stiffly on the top of the wardrobe.
“Not much of a talker, is he?” one of the elves called. The others giggled.
Ben turned as red as a Santa’s coat.
“And what a nice change that makes!” Matilda shouted angrily at the elves. “If you kept your mouths shut more often, there wouldn’t be so much trash coming out of them.”
“Will you stop it, please?” Niklas moaned. “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if our guest wanted to leave right now.” He turned to Ben. “I really must apologize. Sometimes I think they just enjoy arguing. By the way, my name is Niklas Goodfellow. These are Matilda and Emmanuel and those badly behaved elves are called Specklebeard, Coalbeard, Goatbeard, Firebeard, Fuzzbeard, Rufflebeard, and so on. I have to admit, sometimes even I forget some of their names.”
Ben nodded, still taking everything in.
“Have you noticed something?” Niklas asked.
“It’s bigger inside than … than on the … outside,” the boy stuttered.
Niklas smiled. “Exactly. All real Santa caravans are like this.”
“Santa?” The boy looked at him incredulously. “Santa caravan?”
“Yes.” Niklas milked a small wooden cow Matilda had placed on the table and poured the milk into his coffee. “I am a Santa Claus. Yes, I know” — he stroked his stubbly chin — “I don’t really look like one. I’m still quite young for a Santa, but …” He pulled a white woolen beard from a drawer underneath the table, hooked it behind his ears, and slipped into his threadbare red coat. Then he got up and pulled his hood over his hair.
“Does this look more like it?”
Ben nodded. His eyes hung on Niklas as if he were seeing him for the first time.
“Isn’t he the most wonderful Santa Claus?” Matilda piped up. “The most wonderful of all!”
“Yes, the wonderfullest Santa of them all,” sneered Rufflebeard, throwing his hammer into the corner. The elf hopped onto the table and planted himself right in front of the startled boy.
“The angel is right — for once,” he whispered. “Forget about the rest, Niklas is the last true Santa. But if that lot in there, behind that door, had their way” — Rufflebeard pointed to a white door at the opposite end of the caravan — “our dear Niklas would have been turned into chocolate a long time ago.”
“Oh be quiet!” cried Matilda, while Emmanuel covered his face with his wings.
“Well, he’s right, Matilda.” Niklas took off the white beard and hung his red coat over his chair.
“Why? Who’s behind that door?” Ben asked anxiously, and stared at it. The door was barred with three strong bolts in the shape of pinecones. A bell hung from the handle, and an elf boot was wedged into the keyhole.
“It’s not a very nice story!” Niklas said. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Ben nodded, his eyes still on the White Door.
“OK then,” Niklas sighed, “if you’re sure.” He sat down again and crossed his legs. “Maybe it’s time to tell at least one child what really happened to Christmas.”
The Great Christmas Council
Two weeks before last Christmas,” Niklas began, “the weather was as wet and icy as today, and I caught a terrible cold.” “Terrible indeed!” Matilda twittered, taking another piece of gingerbread. “He was sneezing constantly. The whole caravan shook.”
“We were just wrapping a few Christmas presents,” Niklas continued, “when suddenly there was this knock on the White Door.”
All eyes turned toward the bolted door. Only Niklas kept staring into his coffee mug.
“It was a giant Nutcracker. He ground his teeth and grabbed me by the collar, announcing that the Great Christmas Council had summoned me.”
“The Great Christmas Council?” Ben asked. “The gathering of all Santa Clauses.” Bugbeard made a disgusted face. “But only one of them has any real say there — Gerold Geronimus Goblynch.
Ever since that scoundrel has been in power up at the North Pole, Christmas has turned as sticky as honeyed toast!”
“Oh, that Gerold is such a creep!” Matilda shivered. “He bought snowmobiles for all the Santas and turned the reindeer into salami! He convinced most of the other Santas to forget about the children’s wish lists and only take orders from the grown-ups — against advance
payment, of course. And on Christmas Eve they deliver everything at the press of a button.”
“Terrible!” Ben mumbled.
“Terrible?” screamed Rufflebeard. “If you think that’s terrible, just listen to this. This is our new Christmas anthem. Gerold composed it himself.”
He grabbed Niklas Goodfellow’s spoon and swung it like a walking stick while he tap-danced across the table and sang:
Christmas, golden feast of money.
When the profit pours like honey!
Forget the wishes, throw them out,
One less thing to worry ‘bout.
Surely happy little children
Are really not our aim,
Children don’t have any money,
So the parents are our game.
Spend a fortune on the presents,
So we tell them every day,
Or the love of your sweet children
Will on Christmas melt away!
Yes, their love will melt like snowflakes
Underneath your Christmas tree,
Only Gerold Goblynch’s presents
Grant their love eternalleeeeheeeeyy!
With a big grin Rufflebeard bowed in front of Ben and then dropped onto his bottom, slightly short of breath.
“Th-that’s a horrible song,” Ben stuttered.
“They’re playing that all the time in Goblynch’s Christmas Palace in Yule Land,” Niklas said. “It continuously blares out of the huge loudspeakers Gerold’s Nutcrackers have installed all over the place.”
“Tell him about the elves.” Matilda’s face had flushed an angry red. “Tell him what Gerold did to all the poor elves.”
Niklas sighed. “That’s the saddest part. Gerold has convinced most of the Santas that only humans can provide presents for human children. He persuaded them that elves were no longer up to the job.”
“Slander!” the elves growled, and started hammering so angrily on the wheel that sparks flew up to the caravan’s ceiling.
“One night,” Niklas continued, “Gerold had his Nutcrackers drive all the elves out into the snow. Just like that. Nobody knows where they are. And now the Santas only deliver factory-made toys to the children.”
“But some of us were smarter than greasy Goblynch!” Rufflebeard boasted. “And not all the Santas were convinced by his ‘golden feast of Christmas,’ so we persuaded them to let us hide in their coats.”
“Just seven,” Matilda said quietly. “And one of them was Niklas.”
Niklas Goodfellow nodded. “Seven Santas against many hundreds — who all thought Gerold’s Christmas was a wonderful thing. Seven who continued in secret doing what we had always done. The elves made our presents. The angels listened to the children’s dreams and collected their wishes — the ones you cannot fulfill with money. And then the seven of us brought real Christmas presents to the children. At first, Gerold didn’t notice anything. But then four Santas suddenly disappeared. Two others were dragged before the Great Christmas Council by Gerold’s Nutcrackers and were slapped with a prohibition order forbidding them to carry out any Christmas work. Now they polish the Christmas Palace. Well …” Niklas took a deep breath. “… That left only me. Until that night just over a year ago when there was a knock on my door as well.”
Ben had been listening so intently he had obviously almost forgotten to breathe. “What happened then?” he gasped, clearing his throat.
“This huge Nutcracker just took Niklas,” Emmanuel said. “He grabbed him and dragged him to the Christmas Palace.”
“We were so worried!” Matilda sobbed. “So we flew after him.”
“And three of us hid in Niklas Goodfellow’s pockets,” Rufflebeard added. “Me, Firebeard, and Specklebeard.”
“And then?” Ben looked at Niklas with big eyes.
The Santa shook his head sadly. “They put me on trial. The list of charges was longer than my arm. Gerold Goblynch had dictated it all himself.”
“Un-Christmas-like behavior,” Bugbeard listed. “Annoying behavior toward parents, destruction of presents, loud and silly singing and dancing under a Christmas tree …”
“… illegal employment of Christmas elves,” Emmanuel continued, “conspiring with angels, continuous disobedience toward the Great Christmas Council.”
“Yes, and the worst …” Niklas got up and poured the coffee dregs into the sink. “The worst charge was that I was unable to distinguish between nice children and naughty children. Most of the time” — he cleared his throat and looked rather sheepish — “most of the time I do tend to be nicer to the naughty children than to the well-behaved ones. It’s always been like that with me.”
“Some parents kept complaining about him.” Bugbeard chuckled.
“But the children liked him,” Matilda said, pouring Niklas some fresh coffee. “And how they liked him!”
“Not all of them.” Niklas sighed. “Some were quite disappointed with my presents.”
“Why?” asked Ben.
Rufflebeard somersaulted onto the top of the coffeepot. “Niklas didn’t always bring the presents the little monsters had wished for.”
“Would have been too boring!” Niklas smiled.
“The Great Christmas Council was not happy with that at all,” said Emmanuel. “Niklas Goodfellow is full of quirks and surprises. They never knew what he would do next. And so they barred him from working as a Santa.” “For life,” Niklas added quietly.
“Instead — he was supposed to enter orders into the database.” Matilda beat her wings with indignation. “For the rest of his long, long Santa life.”
“And so I stole Goblynch’s reindeer, Twinklestar — the only one that hadn’t been turned into salami — and fled.” Niklas grinned. “They chased after me in their snowmobiles. A reindeer may not be as fast, but luckily for us it’s a hundred times smarter than a snowmobile.”
“They couldn’t catch us!” Rufflebeard laughed. “That bunch of dopey lamebrains.”
Niklas leaned back and sighed. “Not yet, my dear Rufflebeard, not yet.”
Ben looked at him, deeply worried. “But what happens?” he asked. “I mean, what happens if they do catch you — these Nutcrackers?”
Niklas shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“They turn him into a chocolate Santa!” Emmanuel whispered into Ben’s ear.
“Nonsense!” Niklas called out. “All nonsense. I would make a miserable, scrawny chocolate Santa.”
“And what happened to the other four? The ones that vanished?” Matilda was so excited, she had the hiccups. “Engelbert Firgreen and Sigmund Graybeard and Rupert Salix and Albert Sweet. Hmm?”
“Yes, yes,” Niklas groaned.
“Eaten!” Rufflebeard croaked. “Tear off the wrapping, head off, eaten! And that’s what’s going to happen to you, Niklas, as soon as someone betrays you.”
“Betray?” Ben choked on the gingerbread he’d just put into his mouth. “But who would …?”
Niklas Goodfellow shrugged. “Other Santas. That’s why I usually only work in areas that are of no interest to them, you know? Where parents don’t order much because they don’t have much money. The Great Christmas Council is not very strict in those areas. Here, though … I think you kids on this street get quite a lot of presents, don’t you? And big ones, too — bicycles, PlayStations, huge dollhouses. Am I right?”
Ben stared into his mug … and nodded.
“That’s what I thought.” Niklas sighed. “That’s why this is quite a dangerous street for me.”
Everyone was silent.
Until Ben finally asked with a timid voice, “How much time do you … I mean … when will the other Santas get here?”
“If we’re lucky they may have already collected their orders,” Niklas replied. “That would give us until Christmas Eve. But if not …” He shook his head.
“Sometimes they do come back before Christmas Eve — to get the orders from the late deciders,” Matilda whispered. “More and more people can’t
make up their minds what to give one another for Christmas.”
A clock on the wall chimed eight times. A miniature Santa Claus came out, bowed, and vanished.
“Eight already?” Ben jumped up. “I have to go home.”
“Pity.” Niklas got up and showed him to the door.
“Can I — may I come back?” the boy asked, standing on the rotten stairs.
“Of course! We’ll be looking forward to it,” Niklas replied. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah!” the elves shouted.
The angels waved, and even the carved wooden gnome and the grumpy-looking little nutcracker gave Ben a friendly nod.
Christmas Plans
Ben ran across the dark street and opened his garden gate. Before he went in, he cast a suspicious look down Misty Close, but everything was silent except for the rain. No snowmobiles appeared from the darkness, no gruesome Gerold Goblynch crept through the wet hedges, no giant Nutcrackers ground their big teeth at him. Only Niklas Goodfellow’s caravan stood all by itself by the side of the road, small shadows moving behind the brightly lit windows.
Ben’s parents were sitting in the living room, looking at travel brochures. Christmas in the sun. They’d been going on about it for weeks. And for weeks Ben had been trying to put them off the idea. He just hadn’t been very successful. The only reason they hadn’t booked the trip yet was because they couldn’t decide where they wanted to go. Ben’s mother wanted a small hotel; his father wanted a big one. Ben’s mother wanted mountains; his father wanted the beach. Ben’s mother wanted luxury; his father wanted a bargain. That’s the way it always was. Ben’s only hope was that by the time they came to a decision everything would be booked up. And he made sure that the brochures they were most interested in kept disappearing.
“Dinner’s on the kitchen table,” his mother called as Ben walked in. “Your father was just going to call Will and ask him how long it takes the two of you to solve one math problem. And did you see anybody at that strange caravan? Mrs. Heatherstraw told me she saw a man in a shabby red coat come out in the middle of the night.”