The Legend of Holly Claus

  “‘The Book of Forever,’” she read, ‘“Being the Immortal Deeds of the Inhabitants of Our Land from the Beginning of Time.’”

  The Legend Of

  Brittney Ryan

  Illustrations by Laurel Long

  Colorations by Jeffrey Bedrick

  For Robert

  who has my heart FOREVER.

  To all the children of the world—

  may this book awaken the dream inside.

  —B.R.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  A Note From Holly Claus

  The Characters and Places of Forever

  Gratitude

  Brittney Ryan on the Power of Dreaming

  A Note About the Illustrators

  Prologue

  New York City, 1878

  IT HAD ONCE BEEN a grand house, but not now. The ballroom, where ladies in pink and blue satin dresses had whirled on the arms of mustachioed gentlemen, was gone, and in its place there were three apartments. The rooms had been divided, and then divided again, until the whole of that grand house was filled with tiny slots overflowing with children who didn’t quite get enough to eat, mothers who scrimped and made do, and fathers who left before dawn and came back long after dark.

  Ten-year-old Christopher, alone in a sliver of an apartment near the top of the house, was wholly absorbed in the smooth wood in his hands, his eyes fixed on the creature he saw trapped inside the block. Steadily, precisely, he carved it out. Outside, the afternoon grew darker, and the icy rain began to fall. Inside, the sound of wailing babies and the sour smell of thin soup wafted through the flimsy walls. Absorbed in the magic of making, Christopher noticed none of it. He began to see pointed wings and ridiculous, triangular feet. A curving pull of the blade revealed a long, narrow beak. Sitting back in his chair, Christopher looked at his creation and laughed. It was the most peculiar bird he had ever seen. Just then the sitting room door opened, and Christopher’s mother stepped in quietly. Her shoulders hunched against the cold, but her face held the remnants of great beauty, chiefly in her enormous gray eyes. Now, unwinding the shawls that served her as a coat, she glanced at her son’s intent face and, as if to ward away danger, she rested her hand upon his head for a moment. Then she rustled away to make supper in the dim corner they called the kitchen. She caught sight of a laboriously written letter and envelope lying near the chair and smiled at Christopher’s familiar, awkward handwriting. Stooping to pick up the letter, she began to read.

  Christopher’s eyes were on his bird as he spoke. “Mother? What do you suppose I saw today over at Stuyves—”He broke off when he saw the tears glistening on her face. “What’s happened?” he asked anxiously. “What is it?”

  His mother shook her head. “Your letter, love. It’s your letter that makes me cry, but they aren’t sad tears.” Her son looked at her doubtfully.

  “The letter? But didn’t you tell me that all children write a letter to Santa Claus at Christmastime?” asked Christopher. “Why would it make you cry?”

  His mother dropped to her knees and looked searchingly in his eyes. “Tell me what you see in this room,” she said.

  Christopher looked around the sitting room. “A wooden table. Your chair. A lamp, with a beautiful glass. My books. Lots of books.” He smiled. “You.” He leaned into his mother’s arms.

  “And it’s enough, darling?” asked his mother in a whisper.

  Christopher looked at her questioningly. “Enough? I don’t understand,” he answered slowly. “This is home. This is where you are. It’s more than just enough.”

  Without replying, his mother tightened her arms around him and held him for a long time. Then she rose to her feet, folding the letter carefully into its envelope and slipping it into his pocket. “Mrs. Broder at the bakeshop, my dear boy, has been kind enough to extend our account for another week,” she said cheerfully. “Will you take the carriage to get a loaf of bread, or shall I send the butler?”

  Christopher frowned judiciously. “The horses are getting fat and lazy, Mother. But so is the butler. He’s an awful lazy fellow. So I suppose I had better go myself.”

  “And where’s your scarf, then?” his mother said, catching him by the arm. “It’s dreadfully cold.” She could keep her voice cheerful, but her eyes betrayed her.

  Christopher wound the woolen muffler around his neck. “I’ll he fine. It’s a very warm scarf. I’ll put it over my head if I get cold,” he said, watching his mother’s face. “I promise.”

  “Don’t forget to post your letter,” called his mother, as the door closed behind him.

  He stood at the door, bracing himself for the cold. As he always did when he was trying to make himself feel brave, he reached into his coat pocket to touch his father’s watch. It didn’t matter that the watch hadn’t worked in almost a year. It had stopped right after his father had died, and there was no money for repairs. His father could have done it; he had loved intricate mechanisms. Christopher stared into space, remembering his father bent over a tiny, broken toy. Christopher wrapped his hand tightly around the watch; it was fine the way it was.

  “But didn’t you tell me that all children write a letter to Santa Claus at Christmastime?” asked Christopher.

  Oh, the cold. On the dark sidewalk, Christopher leaned into the wind, for he had learned that fearing the cold made it worse. You had to act as though you weren’t cold. You had to step lively instead of huddling near the walls—

  Christopher stopped, ignoring his own rules.

  He wasn’t cold.

  He looked around him; there were all the people pushing past him, freezing. But he wasn’t. Christopher looked up toward the Bowery, where the gaslights were gleaming, and then down at the teeming darkness of Second Avenue. By rights, his feet should have been turning numb, but no. Luxuriating in his comfort, Christopher walked to the postal box and dropped his letter in. All grew still for a moment. Suddenly, a great, golden wave of warmth rolled through him, a velvety liquid warmth that coursed from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It had no source and no end, and, standing there in the dark, slushy street, Christopher knew that something extraordinary had just happened to him.

  Chapter One

  IN FOREVER, THE LAND of the immortals, the first snowflake was always silver. Father Christmas watched it swirl and twist from the heavens. It lay, shimmering, on the great crystal stairs that led to the palace. And then the rest came, just a few at first, before dozens and hundreds and thousands spiraled through the air in a lacy ballet. Soon the stairs, the terrace, and the vast gardens beyond were cloaked in snow. The stone nymphs that lolled in the reflecting pool reached up their graceful stone arms and caught the feathery crystals in their palms. The bronze horses at the top of the clock tower touched noses and whinnied, shaking snow from their manes. And the trees on the avenue, usually so stiff and dignified, forgot themselves and swayed back and forth, their branches rippling in the white air.

  Father Christmas—who is known to some as Nicholas Claus and to many as Santa Claus—flung open the window with a shout of exhilaration. Like new, every year. The jolt, the wide, brilliant burst of light that started the seas
on each year. Yes, it was here! Impulsively, he leaned as far out of the window as he could and caught a handful of snowflakes. He spun around and hurled them wildly into the room.

  “Ahem!” A sorrowful-looking goblin brushed the snow from his immaculate jacket.

  “Oh! Melchior! Sorry, old friend, sorry!” called Nicholas jubilantly. “It’s the first snow, Melchior, the first snow! And do you know what this means?” He clapped the goblin on the back, causing him to wince. “It means that the Christmas season has begun!”

  “It means,” said Melchior primly, “that there are letters to read and lists to make, and—”

  “The letters? Are they here? Ah, Melchior, you know how much I love the letters.” Nicholas’s face softened. “That’s where the magic really begins, isn’t it? That’s belief. When they write their letters, they’re believing in something they can’t see, can’t touch, can’t hear. Even if it’s just for a few minutes, they move beyond themselves, beyond their houses and food and finery. Don’t you agree?” he said, turning toward the goblin.

  In Forever, the Land of the Immortals, the first snowflake was always silver.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” sniffed Melchior. “The dragons have delivered four hundred pounds of letters, and the bags are spilling all over the floor of the study.”

  “Melchior!” shouted Nicholas, thrusting his rosy face in front of the goblin s pale blue one.

  “Yes-s-s, Your Majesty?” said Melchior.

  “CHEER UP!”

  “If you say so, Your Majesty,” said Melchior mournfully, and limped out of the room.

  “Goblins, goblins. What shall I do with the goblins?” muttered Nicholas to himself. “Weeping in corners all day long. But,” he went on, brightening, “what would I do without the goblins? Good-hearted creatures, organized and efficient. Never been known to use their magic in the service of evil. Handy in the forest. Tidy. But glum. Every last one of them. Glum.” Nicholas hitched his heavy velvet robe over his arm and strode down the long hallway to his study. On one side a row of windows showed him the whirling snowstorm outdoors; on the other a row of bright mirrors should have shown him the same. However, the twelve Boucane sisters had been up to their usual tricks and had transformed the mirror into a silvery sea for their own amusement. Nicholas didn’t mind; he loved the Boucane sisters. Unlike the goblins, fairies were untidy and hopeless at household management. But they fluttered about on their tiny pink wings and made delicious mixtures of flower nectar and fruit juice, even though they never could remember how to make the same drink twice. Nicholas hurried on.

  Melchior was right. The study was awash in letters. They were strewn over the thick rugs, piled in towering stacks upon the massive desk, tucked in the bookshelves, and heaped upon the soft chairs. There were elegant epistles in thick, creamy envelopes and raggedy scrawls on torn scraps of newspaper; there were letters from Lapland and La Paz, Ankara and Aachen, Copenhagen and Cooperstown. There was one particularly muddy bundle from California and a two-hundred-page missive from a large family of children in Edinburgh.

  Nicholas sighed with satisfaction. He was ready: a lively fire crackled in the grate, and plump pillows beckoned him to his favorite chair. He settled back into cushions, noting that someone had thoughtfully filled his inkwell and arranged a vast scroll within easy reach. He stretched out his arm and plucked a letter at random from the nearest pile. Stiff, proper handwriting on the envelope, no extra rolls or flourishes. When he opened it, he found the staggering letters of a very small child. “Der ClaZ, Clarens has a hors. I want Won to. I Lov you. Miles.” Smiling, Nicholas scribbled a note on the scroll.

  “Dear Mr. Claus, I am taking up my pen in good health and hoping you are the same. Stella says you aren’t real, but Mama says you are. Stella says I should ask you for a planet as a test, but that wouldn’t be fair, I don’t think, because no matter how good I am I can’t have a planet all for my own self not even a little one. I would like a velocipede, but if I haven’t been good enough for that, I would like another doll. Mary Blue, my other doll, drowned last summer, but I gave her a beautiful funeral and cried real tears. Stella says why would Santa Claus bring you a new doll when you threw the old one down the well, but I didn’t. She fell. Hoping to hear of your continued prosperity and recovery of health, I am Your Very Sincere Friend, Molly. Stella says that’s not the right way to end a letter, but it’s in my book. If it isn’t right, scratch it out.” Nicholas shook with laughter as he turned to his scroll.

  “Of course, she did throw that doll down the well, Your Highness,” said a calm voice from the corner.

  Nicholas glanced over to the speaker, a pure white wolf who lay, apparently asleep, on the thick, soft rug. “Of course she did,” he agreed. “Banged her on the head first and then tossed her in.”

  “And the funeral, sire. She made the neighbor children pay to come.”

  Nicholas laughed harder. “Did she? That’s my little Molly! Bless her soul.” He thought for a moment. “It sounds as though we’ve lost Stella, though, Terra.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the wolf quietly. She knew that it always hurt him when they stopped believing.

  “But Molly, now; she’ll be with us a long time,” said Nicholas brightly. “Maybe she’s one of the ones who will last forever.” He reached for the next letter, but his mind lingered on Molly. How he would mourn the day she stopped writing to him. But no, he scolded himself, he would have the pleasure of watching her story unfold. And besides, that’s how it had to be.

  The carved clock ticked on through the afternoon. The snow whirled against the windows in feathery plumes. The fire crackled and popped. Terra, now truly asleep, sighed comfortably. Nicholas, burrowed in his chair, read letter after letter. Many of them made him smile; a few made him laugh out loud; but each one was precious to him, for it told him the story of a child he knew and loved. Kostya was trying to be considerate of others and a new butterfly net would help; Astrid was certain she could be good if only she had a set of paints; Santiago admitted that he had behaved terribly about the cat, but regretted it and wanted some soldiers, please; Elena and Concetta were bent on becoming pirates, so they needed some books on the subject; Silas planned to go west as soon as possible and would require a small wagon. On and on it went, thousands of children, each alive to possibility and dreams.

  The door opened, and two bright blue eyes peeked around the edge. “Tea?”

  Nicholas looked up, pleased at the interruption. “Viviana! Yes, of course, tea! Come in! Sit down!” He waved his arms to indicate that she could have any chair she pleased and then noticed that every seat was covered with letters. “We’ll find a spot, my love! Come in!”

  Viviana cleared a little place for herself near the desk. After deftly sweeping a pile of letters into an empty basket marked Correspondence, she placed a tray of tea and sandwiches on the desk and poured two steaming cups. Perched on the edge of her chair, she surveyed the letter-strewn study in silence. She removed one hairpin from her coil of auburn braids and jabbed it firmly back in place. Then she stood. “I’ll just see if I can organize things a bit.”

  This was a ritual. Every year Viviana came into the study and brought order to the chaos, all the while tactfully pretending that Nicholas didn’t really need her help in the least. Nicholas pretended not to notice as she bustled about the room. He bent his head over his letters, reading absorbedly, while she gathered up envelopes, retrieved letters from odd corners, and made neat stacks out of untidy heaps.

  The dragons must have just thrown the bags into the room, Viviana thought, pulling a bundle of letters from under the sofa cushions. They always got overexcited by the first snow. She gazed around the room. She even spied a ragged envelope up on the picture frame. She pulled over a worn stool and climbed up to get it. From Sarajevo, she noted, glancing at the postmark. And what’s that on the top of the clock? Good gracious. A very wet letter. Poor little thing must have written it in the rain. I’ll just look under the c
arpet. I do hope none of these are left from last year—

  A sudden hoarse sound interrupted her thoughts. She looked up, startled, and saw something she had not seen since her mortal life ended centuries before: her husband’s tears. Tears were falling down Nicholas’s cheeks. In his hands he held a thin sheet of paper, and as Viviana wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he silently held it up for her.

  “Dear Santa Claus,” it began. “You know I have never written. I could never think of anything I needed or wanted for Christmas. But this year I had a different idea. What do you wish for Christmas, Santa? You always answer children’s wishes, but what about your own? Isn’t there one thing in the world that you wish for but do not have? If you will post a letter back to me, I will do all that I can to bring your dream to life. Respectfully, Your friend, Christopher C.”

  “Well,” said Viviana softly. “Well.”

  “No one—” Nicholas cleared his throat. “No one has ever asked me what I wish for.”

  “He’s a very special boy, that’s clear,” said Viviana. Then, gently, “Do you have a wish?”

  “Me?” He looked at her in confusion. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You who give children their dreams. Do you remember your dreams?”

  “Sometimes,” said Nicholas slowly, his thoughts reaching back into lost time.

  “Do you dream of a child?” Viviana whispered.

  “A child?” Nicholas went still. Isn’t there one thing in the world that you wish for but do not have? That you wish for? Yes, of course, of course! Like a great, golden wave of sunshine, a wish burst upon him in a shower of light. A child. He wanted a child, a child who would make their life complete, who would share the love that streamed between his heart and Viviana’s. He looked with wonder at the letter that his wife held. How could he not have known? Astonishing, astonishing that this flimsy piece of paper with a child’s scrawl had the power to change everything. Entwining his fingers with Viviana’s, he looked across the cozy room to the snow-covered world outside and realized that this was a letter that would change the Land of the Immortals for all time.