The Legend of Holly Claus

  “But the blue. What’s the blue?” Holly persisted, and her father realized, with a wave of sadness, that his daughter had never before seen a large body of water moving. To Holly, water was a frozen substance, white and still, not the splashing elixir of oceans and lakes, streams and waterfalls. Once again Nicholas was reminded that his daughter was imprisoned in half of a life, and he was overcome by a sudden urge to smash the telescope. The telescope would only show her what she could not have. Swallowing hard, Nicholas explained water to Holly, watching her eyes go round with astonishment. When he was finished, she silently turned back to the telescope and looked for a long time at the dancing sea and the quarreling birds.

  Later that night Nicholas and Viviana tried to remember where the telescope had come from. It was perfectly likely, of course, that it had been in that crowded closet for years without anyone noticing. Viviana was almost certain that she had seen it among the great pile of christening gifts; Nicholas was almost certain that it had not been there the day before, but the truth was that they simply did not remember. What did not occur to either of them was that they could not remember because the enchanted telescope had spread a spell, like the thinnest of cobwebs, over the whole household. It was a mild spell, nothing dangerous or obvious, nothing that would give away its author or his intentions—just a little spell that made them all accept the telescope without too many questions. After a few days, Nicholas and Viviana stopped wondering about the origins of the mysterious spyglass and smiled at the sight of Holly gazing through the lens at the vast seas, bustling cities, and exotic landscapes far beyond her frozen room.

  The telescope would only show her what she could not have.

  For Holly, the spyglass was a window into a thousand stories and lives she had never before imagined. Peering into the small lens, she saw children playing tag in a dusty Dakota side yard on a summer afternoon; a proud father boastfully displaying his new son in Zanzibar; a beautiful woman in a violet silk gown swirling across a London ballroom in the arms of a prince. She watched, intrigued, as a resolute cluster of men struggled up an icy gorge in the Himalayas. In Paris a lady demonstrated the workings of the wondrous new elevator to a crowd of awed bankers. One particularly fat banker refused to climb aboard the dangerous contraption. Three thousand people dropped to their knees before the dowager empress of China, whose stiff silken robes glowed like flames above the sea of bowed backs. When Holly was finally pulled away by a scolding goblin, her green eyes still saw a lone figure, free and untamed, tearing across the empty plains for the pure fun of it.

  There was a peculiar feature of the telescope. It seemed only to show the world in its happiest, most alluring guise. Whether Holly trained the glass on a hectic metropolis or a sunbaked Bantu village, she saw only its best possible face: no hunger, no enslavement, no poverty, no greed, no evil, no violence. Through the lens, the mortal world was a place of joy and adventure, where good deeds always met with just deserts, bravery was rewarded with triumph, industry resulted in success, laughter bubbled forth from all, and children were free to gallop wildly across the plains without any goblins to stop them. Lying in her glass bed at night, with the shadows of branches bending above her, Holly put herself to sleep by imagining her life in the mortal world.

  Chapter Nine

  HARD-BOILED EGGS,” HOLLY was saying. “And lemonade and fried chicken and cake.” Tundra shivered. “Fried chicken? Who would eat that? I’ll have something before we go.”

  Holly sighed. “Tundra. Will you at least pretend to eat with us? It’s a picnic. I read about them, and you’re supposed to have fried chicken. Please?” “Oh, all right,” Tundra grumbled. “And besides, you like cake,” Holly reminded him. “You like cake,” Alexia said. “But I love cake. Especially frosting. Do you remember Holly’s eighth birthday?”

  “Vividly,” said Tundra.

  “Remember how I woke up in the middle of the night and told you that if anyone said the word frosting I was going to be sick, and then you did say the word frosting and then—”

  “I remember,” interrupted Tundra.

  “Why did you say it, I wonder?” Alexia looked at him questioningly.

  “I’ve often wondered the same thing,” Tundra replied.

  Holly was in the closet, searching for a basket. “You always take food in a basket on a picnic. Oh, here’s one.” She looked around. “And we need a blanket, to sit on. They always sit on a blanket.”

  “You don’t have any blankets, remember?” said Alexia.

  “Maybe Mama does,” said Holly, and went off to look for Viviana.

  After much assembling of goods and pleading with the kitchen goblins, who saw no reason why plates and cups and forks should be taken out of doors, the three friends ventured out into the palace gardens. Holly led the way, for it was her idea, after all. She had read about picnics in her storybooks—how children liked eating outside even if there were bugs in the food sometimes, and how they played games afterward—and even though she knew that most picnics didn’t take place in the snow, she was determined that hers would meet the standards in every other way. It was a brilliant, icy day, and their feet made crisp prints in the new snow as they trudged through a small meadow to Parian Pond. Surrounded by fir trees, the pond was now frozen to a glassy sheen, and there, on its banks, Holly spread the bright red blanket she had borrowed from her mother. Carefully she set out the plates and cups (she had brought one for each of them despite the fact that she was the only member of the party with hands) and laid the food out on each. Tundra and Alexia looked confusedly at the lemonade and chicken and, after a few polite nudges, left them alone, but Alexia gobbled down egg after egg, and Tundra consumed a monumental slice of chocolate cake. Too happy to eat much, Holly grinned at her companions between nibbles. “I see what they mean,” she said. “It is more fun to eat outside. And we don’t have to worry about bugs in our food.”

  After a while Holly lay back, pillowing her head in her arms, and looked at the light blue sky. Alexia began to explore the edges of the pond in the hopes of finding a duck to annoy.

  Holly glanced up at Tundra. He was staring fixedly into the distance beyond the pond. “What do you see?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Something strange.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “But I go first. Just to be safe.”

  Holly smiled. He always said that. “All right. Your Lordship.” Tundra was officially Lord High Chamberlain of the King’s Household, but his title made him twitch.

  “Let us proceed, Your Royal Highness, princess of the Aubade and of Sherenhalle,” Tundra replied smoothly.

  Holly stuck her tongue out at him, and they walked amiably along the side of the pond toward the black trees beyond. The trees tended to hibernate in the winter, but there were a few whispers and rustles as the wolf and Holly stepped between their branches. “Greetings, Your Royal Highness. Greetings, Your Lordship,” said an old pine tree in dignified tones.

  Holly almost snorted with laughter, and she felt Tundra’s ribs shaking next to her, but they managed to nod their heads regally and walk on. Now Holly, too, began to discern a peculiar happening in the snow-covered field beyond the woods. A small white reindeer, about the size of a regular deer, was repeatedly climbing atop a small mound and hurling himself to the ground below. Despite his repetition of this activity, there was apparently something about it that the reindeer found deeply distressing, for he was crying.

  Forgetting caution at the sight of the reindeer’s distress, Holly ran forward. “What’s the matter, reindeer?” she called just as the deer leaped from his perch. Her call startled him, and he landed more awkwardly than ever. This, evidently, was the last straw, for he broke into resounding howls.

  “I c-c-can’t do it!” he wailed. “I caaaaan’t!”

  “Can’t what, little reindeer?” asked Holly, patting his back softly.

  “Can’t flyyyyyyy!” he squalled.

/>   Tundra’s eyes smiled, but he said gravely, “You don’t have to learn on your own. Very few of you are born knowing how to fly; that’s why there are lessons. You’ll learn how to fly there.”

  “But Don-Don-Donner won’t let me take the lessons,” sniffed the reindeer.

  Holly was indignant. “Why? Why won’t he?”

  This set the little reindeer off into a new vale of tears. “Just look at me! Look at my eyes!”

  “We can’t see your eyes while you are crying so,” Holly said gently.

  The reindeer tried to conquer his tears. He lifted his head and looked into Holly’s face. She saw that he was cockeyed: one brown eye looked straight ahead, while the other veered east. “You see?” he said sadly.

  Holly rubbed the rough fur underneath the reindeer’s chin. “What’s your name?”

  “Meteor.”

  “Can you see? With your eye, I mean?” asked Holly.

  “Yes,” answered Meteor defensively. “Well, mostly. Maybe not things in the distance. But the others could do that, and I could just pull. I’m very strong,” he added.

  “But Meteor, you have to be able to see into the distance to pull the Christmas Eve sleigh,” began Holly. “Because there are so many stops to make, you know.”

  Meteor hung his head. “I know,” he said miserably. “I know. And there are lots of other reindeer who would get a chance before me anyway. I guess I just want to fly. I don’t have to pull the Christmas Eve sleigh. I just want to fly. And Donner says I can’t.”

  Holly glanced toward Tundra. He nodded. “Listen, Meteor,” she began, kneeling to look into his face, “we can help you learn to fly. Tundra and I can go to the flying classes, and then we’ll tell you what we learn. We’ll repeat every word Donner and Comet and the other teachers say!”

  Meteor sat down on his haunches with a thump. “You’re Princess Holly,” he announced, looking very pleased with his discovery.

  She nodded.

  “Well!” Meteor looked her up and down. “Not at all what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?” she asked curiously.

  “I thought you—you …” the reindeer trailed off guiltily

  “What? I what?” Holly asked.

  “I heard, um, that you—well—you were an, um, invalid,” Meteor stammered, trying to find what he considered to be a tactful word.

  Holly stared at him. “Invalid? Do you mean my heart? My heart has to stay cold all the time, so I can’t go out much. Except when it’s like this outside. What do the immortals think is the matter with me?”

  “Lots of people say that—that it’s your heart, just like you said,” Meteor assured her hastily. “But—but—nobody sees you, you know, so they imagine things.”

  “What things?” Holly persisted.

  “Oh, just silly things.”

  “What things?” Holly repeated.

  “Well.” Meteor looked at the ground. “I heard that you were tiny, the size of a fairy or a pixie. Some folks say that you can’t walk, and some folks say that you were stolen away by a wicked witch years ago and that’s why—” He concluded abruptly.

  “And that’s why what?” Holly pressed. It had never occurred to her that the citizens of Forever thought about her at all, much less that they could have fabricated such strange tales about her.

  “That’s why the king doesn’t come among us the way he used to—because he’s busy trying to win you back with dark enchantments,” mumbled Meteor.

  “That,” snapped Tundra, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know. But you asked.”

  Holly was quiet. She looked up to the smooth, white sky. It would begin to snow again soon. Finally she dropped her green eyes to Meteor. They were filled with tears. “Will you tell them?” she begged. “Tell the people that you saw me, and that I’m not tiny or stolen or any of those things. It’s only my heart, because it has to be cold, that’s why they don’t see me. And my father isn’t learning dark enchantments; he’s just taking care of me.” Tundra butted his nose against her head in sympathy. Holly blinked her eyes very hard. “Now,” she said in a stronger voice. “Let’s talk about these flying lessons.”

  The next day Holly slipped casually into the stable where Donner was teaching an excited group of young reindeer the basics of flying. She climbed atop a swinging gate and perched there, looking innocent, as the deer were lectured on the importance of the running start and the correct alignment of the back. She lay upon a bale of hay with a straw in her mouth while Comet led the practice leaps.

  “He says it’s all about believing in yourself,” she told Meteor later that afternoon. “Donner talked on and on about wind speeds and the force of gravity near Earth’s surface and how fast you have to be running before you can get airborne, but Comet just said that you have to believe that you can fly. And I think he’s right. The ones who were muttering to themselves about wind speed and gravity kept falling, but the ones who were confident made long, beautiful jumps into the sky.”

  So the practice sessions began and, as long as the weather held, Holly and Tundra met Meteor in the little field behind the pond each afternoon. There Holly would repeat the day’s lesson and coach Meteor in his practice leaps. Day after day he jumped doggedly through the snow, sometimes achieving a graceful arch, more often producing only a spray of ice and a tangle of kicking hooves. Many times in a single afternoon, Meteor would pick himself up out of the snow, his fur damp with effort, stumble to his feet, and croak, “I think I’m getting it.” Holly and Tundra, looking on, frequently doubted that Meteor would ever attain his goal, but they never doubted his dedication.

  One freezing day Alexia accompanied them to the practice field. She had set out with them many times before, but, having a distractible nature, had been diverted time and again by ducks, squirrels, and, once, a badger. She had, therefore, never met Meteor nor assisted in his lessons. Now she threw herself into the project, shouting out inspirational words and useless suggestions as the reindeer dashed up and down the runway that Holly had smoothed out of the snow for him. But when Meteor returned from his eighteenth attempt, Alexia curled her tail haughtily around her feet and regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You’re not trying,” she said.

  Meteor looked at her, shocked. “Of course I’m trying, you silly goose! I’ve been working my legs off for weeks!”

  “You might be more encouraging, Lexy,” said Holly.

  Alexia lifted her nose obstinately in the air. “But he isn’t trying. He’s hoping, but that’s not the same thing. He’s running down the whatchoocallit saying to himself, ‘It would be wonderful if I flew this time,’ but what he really needs to be saying is ‘I’m flying, I’m lifting up, I’m in the air!’“

  Holly looked at her in amazement. “Why, Lexy, I think that perhaps you might be right!” She turned to Meteor, whose face was sulky. “Meteor, let’s try Alexia’s idea. Say to yourself that you’re flying and do your best to believe it. Think about lifting off the ground, how it will feel to have the air rushing by all around you. Don’t think about anything else!”

  “It won’t work,” he muttered.

  “See,” sneered Alexia. “He doesn’t really want to fly.”

  “I do too!” Meteor burst out. “I want it more than anything!”

  “Not more than you’re scared of failing,” she retorted. “You don’t want to really, really try and fail, so you don’t really try.”

  Tundra shook his head at her lack of tact, but his eyes held new respect for the fox. Holly, too, realized that somehow Alexia had seen to the heart of Meteor’s problem. But now she stroked Meteor’s hanging head. “Meteor, dear,” she whispered, “we’re all afraid to fail. I am too. But it’s only us here, and we love you whether you fly or not. So go ahead, go ahead and try with your whole soul.”

  Meteor lifted his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

  He wheeled around and trotted briskly to the top of the runway.
He rubbed his nose in the snow—that was one of Donner’s tips—and squinted down the length of the field. He paused for a moment, thinking, and began to run.

  They all knew even before he lifted his forelegs that he was going to get it this time. There was something new in his gallop, in the determined posture of his head, in his charge forward. When he finally made the leap, it looked as though he wasn’t even aware of it. All he was thinking about was flight itself, the dazzling swirl of air beneath him and the lightness as his body overcame gravity—and then, suddenly, it was happening. He grazed the straggling bare branches of the bushes that clustered at one end of the field and simply kept on running, up and up, higher and higher, until the trees that ringed the pond were little black brushes behind him. He wheeled in the sky, and the sun glared full in his face. For one exhilarating moment, he believed that he could fly to the sun itself. Then he looked down. Holly and Tundra and Alexia were far below, cheering and yowling encouragement, their upturned faces glowing. Meteor smiled back at them—and plummeted to the ground in a matter of seconds. Fortunately he landed in a soft bed of powdery snow. While he was shaking himself off, his three friends clambered to his side through the thick drifts.

  “Good work, fine work, my lad!” Tundra congratulated him.

  Alexia bounced at the wolf’s heels. “See? See? Wasn’t I right? See?”

  Holly, at a disadvantage with regard to number of feet, came last, flapping her arms wildly as she struggled through the powder. “That was splendid! Marvelous!” she cried, falling into a snow bank. She popped up, still grinning. “Tremendous! Anyone would think you’d been flying for years!”

  Meteor walked lightly over the snow and knelt so that she might steady herself upon his back.

  “Thank you,” she said, grateful for his assistance.