Don't Call Me Christina Kringle (16 page)

“And still they call,” said Grandpa, shaking his head. “Fix my shoes, fix my shoes …”

The phone kept jangling.

“I'll get it,” said Christina. “Hello, Giuseppe's Old World Shoe Repair Shop. How may I help you? What? I'm sorry. There's no one here by those names.”

She quickly covered up the mouthpiece and turned to Nails and Professor Pencilneck.

“He wants you two!”

Back at the candy-cane factory, Donald McCracken had his floppy ear glued to the telephone, his beady eyes to the muzzle of Mister Fred's pistol.

“You bring me the wee ones, Nails and Professor Pencilneck, and I will give you and your grandfather a satchel filled with cash—enough money to pay the rent and keep your shop open all year, without the illegal assistance of brownies. What?”

McCracken smiled. Winked at Mister Fred.

“Don't worry, lassie. The two shoemakers will be well provided for. That's right. I found them a wonderful new home filled with cream and cake and, most importantly,
love
!”

McCracken didn't let the silly girl hear him, but he was sniggering when he said “love.”

It was just before dawn when Christina returned to the candy-cane factory on Warren Street.

As instructed, she went around to the rear loading dock with her bulky backpack. She was also carrying her violin case.

She set the book bag down, unzippered the top flap, and looked down at Nails and Professor Pencilneck, the two little men who had worked such wonders for her and her grandfather. They were wearing fluorescent orange jumpsuits, which Grandpa had quickly sewed together with material cut out of an old hunting cap. Their tiny hands and ankles were shackled together with chains made out of Christina's old necklaces and charm bracelets.

“You guys sure about this?” she asked.

“Do not despair,” said the professor. “We shall be fine.”

“It's the only way, kid,” added Nails.

Suddenly, a barn-sized door slid open, revealing the darkness inside the factory.

“Here we go,” said Christina as she slung the pack up to her back.

“Don't forget your violin, kid,” said Nails.

“We're very much looking forward to finally hearing you play a jolly, rollicking tune!” added the professor.

“Inside, lassie!” snarled a voice from somewhere inside the factory. “Now!”

“That's him,” whispered Christina. “McCracken.”

“Yeah,” said Nails from inside the carrier. “We know.”

“Go on in,” urged the professor. “We are eager to see our old friends.

Christina took in a deep breath and slowly entered the darkness.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Christina could make out a row of stacked cages filled with huddled brownies.

Even in the dim light, she recognized her friends. Trixie and Flixie. Buckets, Mops, and Broom. Gustav and Gizmo.

“They get one hour off at sunrise,” said the lanky man who stepped into the morning sunshine pooling beneath a dingy skylight. He carried a battered attaché case and, judging by his thick Scottish accent, had to be Donald McCracken.

Trailing McCracken was a pudgy man in a tight-fitting two-piece sweatsuit made out of clingy fabric that hugged his rolling potbelly. The chubby man had what appeared to be a sparkling silver pistol aimed at the back of McCracken's head.

“Careful, tubby,” said a familiarly annoying voice close to the floor. “You almost stepped on my heel!”

Looking down, Christina saw an uncaged brownie who looked vaguely familiar.

Because the last time she had seen him, Smoothie had oily black hair! Now, he was bald with a bad comb-over and sporting pointy-tipped ears.

“Smoothie?” she said.

He gave her a sleazy wink and a double-finger snap-clap. “That's my name, don't wear it out. You bring any of those sparkly sugar cookies with ya, kid?”

“More importantly,” shouted the pudgy man, his voice ringing off the factory walls, “did you bring me my brownies?”

“Did you bring me the money for my grandfather?” Christina shouted back.

The chubby man motioned with his pistol for McCracken to snap open his briefcase.

He undid the latches and held up the attaché so Christina could see that it was filled with wrapped bundles of cash.

“Okay,” she said, slipping off her backpack and placing it on the floor. “Let's do this thing.”

She unzipped the top of her bag. Nails and Professor Pencilneck slowly climbed out, their heads hanging low, their chain links clinking.

“As you can see, I made them some new clothes. Orange prison jumpsuits. So, even if they wanted to stay at grandpa's, they'd have to leave.”

“Well done, lassie,” said McCracken, closing up the money bag and placing it on the floor halfway between Christina and the chubby man with the gun. “You learn fast.”

As Professor Pencilneck and Nails shuffled across the floor, Christina followed after them, toting her violin case.

When they reached the halfway point, Nails turned around and sniffled back a tear welling up in his eye.

“So long, Christina. It was nice knowin' ya.”

“And,” added Professor Pencilneck, “a genuine pleasure spending time with you. Thank you once again for allowing we two weary travelers to tarry beneath your roof, if only for a spell.”

“Hello, Mister Fred,” Nails called out to the chubby man with the gun thirty feet away.

The professor clicked his heels and bowed. “Mister Fred.”

“Welcome back, boys!” said Mister Fred cheerily. “You two cuties are just in time for Christmas!”

Suddenly, Christina slapped her forehead. “Whoops,” she said.

“What?” said Mister Fred.

“Is there some problem with the money, lassie?” inquired McCracken.

“No, the money's fine. But, when you guys called last night I was in the middle of a violin lesson.”

“So?” said Mister Fred.

“I never finished it! And since these guys were technically still my brownies last night, I believe they have to help me finish the lesson.”

“She's right,” said McCracken grudgingly. “They can't finish your unfinished labors, Mister Fred, until they finish finishing hers!”

“Them's the rules, pal,” said Smoothie. “Brownies are a bunch of chumps. Gotta do what they gotta do.”

Mister Fred pouted out his lips. “Fine. Hurry up.”

“Thanks.”

Christina snapped open her violin case.

“What were you working on?” Nails asked with a big, broad grin.

“That jolly jig you guys taught me.” She tucked the violin under her chin and started to fiddle a tune.

When McCracken and Smoothie heard the first notes, they panicked.

“Oh, no,” said McCracken, involuntarily tapping his toe in time to the music.

“It's the ‘Scherzo Mesmerozo!' ” gulped Smoothie.

“Oooh,” said Mister Fred. “Catchy little ditty!” He started twitching to the beat, too, his blubbery legs becoming quite rubbery.

Christina fiddled faster.

Now all three of them—McCracken, Smoothie, and Mister Fred—started to dance like Irish river dancers: their arms stiff at their sides, their legs kicking and swinging to and fro, their feet twisting sideways.

“Must … stop … dancing …” McCracken groaned. “Must … not … listen … to … enchanted … brownie … song.” He tried to raise his hands up to his ears but his arms wouldn't budge. They stayed glued stiffly at his sides while his legs kept kicking and his body kept spinning. Likewise, Mister Fred and the little elf Smoothie were locked in a wildly delirious dance!

“I can't stop my feet!” cried Mister Fred.

“Aye,” said McCracken. “None can resist the ‘Scherzo Mesmerozo' once the fiddler calls its tune!”

“We're done for!” screamed Smoothie. “Our bodies will keep dancing and prancing so long as that horrid little girl keeps fiddling that wretched jitterbug of a jig!”

“Wretched?” laughed Christina, fiddling faster. “Why I think it's the holliest, jolliest Christmas song I've ever heard!”

The “Scherzo Mesmerozo” was amazingly powerful.

If Christina slowed down the tempo, the three dancers moved in slow motion. When she picked up the pace, they jittered and jumped and jostled.

Mister Fred was bobbing and boogying so crazily, he dropped his pistol. As soon as it clattered to the floor, Professor Pencilneck and Nails unzipped the orange jumpsuits (which, truth be told, they stitched together themselves) and stepped out wearing their usual costumes.

They weren't dancing. Brownies were the only known creatures who could resist the ‘Scherzo Mesmerozo' (it had something to do with their very shallow inner-ear canals), which is why brownie fiddlers had used it to ward off their enemies for centuries, according to Professor Pencilneck, who taught Christina how to play it.

“Will I start dancing, too?” she had asked during her lessons.

“Only if you want to,” the professor had told her.

And right now, she didn't feel like busting a move; she just wanted to bust her friends out of their boxy prisons!

“You'll pay for this, lassie!” shouted McCracken, hopping up and down in place, kicking up his heels like a demented donkey.

“The cage keys are on his belt!” Christina shouted, sawing her bow back and forth and back and forth across the strings.

Nails and Professor Pencilneck scampered over to where McCracken, Mister Fred (who was sweating profusely), and Smoothie were furiously dancing up a tsunami of twisted limbs. Nails boosted Professor Pencilneck up to his shoulders where the professor snagged the unhooked McCracken's key ring with his cane.

“Eureka!” said the professor. “It is time to free our friends!”

He quickly dismounted from Nails's shoulders (doing a nifty double somersault on the way down) and raced over to the locked cells.

“Hang on, Trixie!” shouted Nails. “We're comin', babycakes!”

Christina kept fiddling. The brownie-nappers kept dancing. And Nails and Professor Pencilneck kept opening cage doors, freeing Trixie and Flixie first, of course.

“My hero!” cooed Trixie.

“Sorry, doll. No time for smoochie-facing. I got locks to unlock.”

“Maybe later?”

“Definitely.”

When Flixie was set free, she didn't ask permission. She kissed Professor Pencilneck smack on his lips. When she did, his glasses fogged up.

“Can I bake you some cookies later, Professor?” she purred.

“Indubitably,” the professor stammered back.

“You guys?” cried Christina, trying hard not to laugh, which might cause her to skip a note and somehow ruin the stupefying magic of the bewildering tune. “We need to hurry!”

“I'm on it,” said Nails, scurrying down the row of cages, unlocking locks, swinging open doors.

“Move smartly, everyone,” said Professor Pencilneck. “Kindly exit to your left in an orderly fashion.”

“But,” said Mop, climbing out of his cage, “we can't leave with the rising of the sun. This factory is full of human chores that have been left undone.”

Yep. He was rhyming again.

“They tried to pay me for you!” shouted Christina, dipping the neck of her violin to point out the briefcase stuffed with cash lying open on the floor.

“Well, if they tried to pay her for us, then we all have good reason to take the bus!”

“Huh?” said Nails.

“He means we can leave,” said Broom.

“Then why's he talking about a bus?”

Broom shrugged. “Poetry. It's supposed to be confusing.”

“Well, we ain't got time for confusion right now,” said Nails. “Okay, people. Let's hustle! On the floor and out the door.”

“Sheesh,” said Broom. “Now you're doing it!”

All the brownies dashed toward the slid-open door and the loading dock.

“Thanks, Christina!” cried Bobbin.

“You're the best,” said Spindle.

“Look at me,” shouted Mops. “I'm free!”

When the final freed brownies had scurried to safety, Christina focused on the three maniacs dancing like marionettes being manipulated by hyperactive puppeteers who'd eaten too much birthday cake.

“Stop fiddlin', I beg ye!” gasped McCracken.

Mister Fred, whose jiggling, jowly face was turning the color of cranberry sauce, was drenched with sweat. Smoothie looked like he might need to change his name to Shakie.

“What'll we do with these guys?” she asked Nails and Professor Pencilneck.

“Easy,” said Nails, pulling a striped straw out of a secret sleeve sewn into his carpenter's apron. “We pixie dust 'em!”

“Indubitably,” said the professor, unscrewing the top and bottom of his cane, which was actually a hidden pixie dust dispenser.

“Ready?” said Nails, biting off both ends of his dusting straw.

“Aim!” cried the professor.

“Fire!” shouted Christina.

Glittering gold powder shrouded the three dancers in a sparkling cloud. The three creepy conspirators slumped peacefully to the floor. Serene smiles filled their otherwise sweaty faces.

Christina, whose bow arm was starting to ache, quit fiddling.

“I shall quit hunting brownies forever,” said McCracken dreamily.

“I shall only sell that which I make,” said a very laid-back and loopy Mister Fred.

“And I shall take a bath,” added the dazed Smoothie.

Both Nails and Professor Pencilneck blew across the hazy barrels of their pixie dust peashooters.

“What was in those tubes?” asked Christina.

“
Extra-strength
pixie dust,” said Nails.

“Enough to tranquilize a whole herd of elephants,” added the professor.

“Or,” said Nails, “one Mister Fred.”