Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (37 page)

His first instinct was to resist. But keeping the Savior’s example before him, he yielded, clear in his mind that he was fighting only himself. With every blow, the rage and animosity had risen high in them both, matched like mirror images. And now, unlike an opposing adversary might act, he discovered that remaining in a state of peace drained his foe of hostility in equal measure.

Santa had endured far worse pain than his shade-body now suffered. Don’t resist, he told himself. Surrender to him, observe him, love him as your hidden self, and forgive yourself for being not quite the saint legend proclaims.

In giving no energy to resistance, Santa saw clearly the impulse at the heart of Pan, the hoarder, the grasper, the one who uses others to exalt himself. He was able to suspend judgment of that impulse, to own it, which brought it at once into subservience to his nobler side. Far better admit than deny. His compassion grew greater for the sin-sick mortals he had touched that night. In every case, the one thing they had in common besides their bigotry was a denial of their shameful selves, which grew more powerful and perverse lurking in the shadows.

Though the goat god’s musky sweat overwhelmed him, Santa gripped his hairy flanks, suffered the rutting thrust of his thighs, observed without judgment the ravenous glint in his eyes, and affirmed, “This too am I.” Selfishness melded with generosity. The satyr’s bone and blood mingled with his, the lips in rough kiss coming down and in, mouth to mouth, skull to skull, chest to chest, hip to hip, until they became one and the saint took easy command.

“Father,” he murmured as he watched the titanic struggle between the archangel and Hermes and felt the bond between the latter and himself.

Then, remembering Wendy, he glanced out into the world and found his trussed-up stepdaughter and Rachel locked in combat with the Tooth Fairy, her imps everywhere goading and jabbing. Up he sprang with renewed strength and sped from the pit, piercing the gates of brass and the three layers of night. Should he make for the North Pole? No time. And restoration into the body was hardly guaranteed. Besides, he sensed he had more power as a shade to defend his loved ones.

So to the island he beelined, through bedrock and crushed layers of geologic time, parting it in his urgency as though it were insubstantial air and he the pure impulse to rescue the imperiled, come what may.

* * *

Michael tried to flee, now that Santa had gone and his mission was accomplished. But Hermes grabbed the hem of his robes and yanked him back into battle.

“Wait,” said Michael, wincing, “you and I are one.”

“The hell we are,” said Hermes.

His robes were always in the way as they fought, his wings highly uncomfortable to land on when Hermes threw him. As they wrestled, he tried to fix upon an idea, but his thoughts were as mercurial as the attacks coming in at him.

“A truce,” he said.

“No truce.”

Michael kneed Hermes in the gut, then flipped him and flew upon him, nearly brushing against the shades that crowded around. I’ll surrender my mind, he thought. I’ll meet his quicksilver instincts with my own.

And so it was.

The fight became a dance, energy shifting this way and that as the combatants huffed, tugged, closed, and clipped. In the midst of this thought-free effort, Michael honored every movement as his own. And the two became one, an archangel in appearance, but inside, with an equal voice now, the god Hermes. The Father had it right, he thought. I wasn’t just a bumbler. I was wilier than that, for having tricked myself so long.

Pausing above the onlookers, he raised his hands in benediction. “To the extent possible, be blessed, o ye shades. Go thy ways. Our fight is finished. Both won. Both lost.”

The shades stretched forth their bony arms in supplication, one great moan of despair sighing from millions of throats.

“Sorry. I’m not authorized to—”

Realizing that no words would suffice to ease their suffering, he rose from their midst, speeding swift as thought toward heaven. But halfway there, a new call came.

Jeepers, what now? Relief gave way to exasperation, fully felt in a most unheavenly way. But what the hell, he had accepted his trickster side and all that went with it.

Earthward he sped once more, regretting that he had put himself at the Easter Bunny’s beck and call.

Chapter 39. Wendy and Rachel in Trouble

THE EASTER BUNNY HAD BEEN too het up to sleep.

Jazzed by memories of the Divine Mother and the night just passed, he had stroked the velvet strap of the heavenly pouch hanging on the wall. Now he slipped it over his head, so that it rested like a blessing against his back. The thrill of miracle and privilege once more filled his breast. About the burrow he zoomed, bursting with energy.

Sleep no longer possible, he decided to engage in some innocent voyeurism at the bedroom windows of several non-homophobic couples who had roused one another in the waning hours of night to try a bit of babymaking. There he gawked and gaped, obliging them by giving his nose a twitch at just the right moment for one lucky spermatozoa to be welcomed into a waiting ovum.

On his third such visit, as he observed Anna and Lorenzo Calderon in Taos, New Mexico, the Easter Bunny let two wonderings distract him. He wondered how Santa, whom he had last seen in excruciating pain, was faring. And he wondered why the archangel had not dropped in to give him the heavenly praise he deserved. Perhaps he was being chastised, though he couldn’t imagine for what. Or perhaps his actions this night had so exalted him, that even the top halo-heads stood in awe of him.

Well, he would help out. Two birds, one stone. He had been given permission to summon Michael whenever he wished. And so he did, standing outside the Calderons’ bedroom window, as Lorenzo took a slow hand to his wife's sex and she nibbled on his earlobe.

Beside him hovered the archangel, as invisible and inaudible to the mortal couple as he himself was. “You summoned me?”

The Easter Bunny knew how shamelessly he preened and strutted in manner and voice. Yet how could one so heroic keep from preening and strutting? “I was wondering,” he said, “how Saint Nicholas is doing. At our parting, he seemed on his last legs.”

“You’re concerned.”

“I am.”

“I expect he’ll soon be fine. He died and descended into the underworld. Now, now, there’s no cause for alarm. On the plains of Tartarus, he wrestled with Pan. I flew in from heaven to help but was soon caught up in my own struggle with Hermes. Then the Son came down to show us the way. Santa embraced Pan as his alter ego and sped off to be resurrected at the North Pole. I did something similar with Hermes and was flying heavenward when you summoned me.”

Panic gave way to relief. He nodded, he tut-tutted, he widened his eyes in wonder. “Do tell.”

“Yes.”

Still no praise. Maybe Michael needed a goad. “Santa and I and the little girl did pretty well tonight, I thought.”

“You did indeed.” Michael’s eyes strayed to the couple in the bedroom. “Oh my.”

“Ah, thanks. My mind had wandered.” His nose twitched. “It’ll be a daughter. They’ll call her Maria.”

“Well, if that’s all,” said the angel, “I...”

“What’s wrong?”

Michael scanned the earth. “Santa’s body is still dead. The elves have covered him with flower petals and are making speeches. And his shade is headed for the Tooth Fairy’s island, where Rachel and Wendy are in trouble!”

* * *

Wendy sat terrified on the beach, her limbs bound, her whimpers muffled by a gag so tight it made the back of her head throb. As much as she wanted to look away from Mommy’s battle with the Tooth Fairy, she found it impossible. They clawed at one another, yanked out hair, scored breasts that bled and healed and bled again. Whenever the fight went in Mommy’s favor, the Tooth Fairy’s disgusting imps surged in to poke and pinch her until their mother recovered and renewed her attack.

One of them held back, his leers unconvincing. “Come on, Chuff,” cried the others, cuffing and goading him to act meaner. He was definitely the nicest one. Wendy had seen it from the first. But not nice enough to turn against his brothers and rescue them. Still she was amazed at hints of kindness in him, given his family’s nastiness.

“Well, well,” said the Tooth Fairy, “look who’s joined us.”

Mired in fear, what Wendy saw next brought forth an abrupt surge of hope. “Oh!” she said, which came out “Mm!” For the shade of Santa Claus, his body transparent and the red and black of his suit muted to pinks and grays, had burst up through a sand dune and now surveyed the scene. Wendy thrilled to see him floating in the air, his eyes kind yet powerful. But wasn’t he dead? She glanced north and saw his body lying in state on the commons. Yet here he was as well.

He blew her a kiss. Then his finger flicked the tiniest bit and the gag disintegrated and her bonds fell away.

Wendy tried her mouth. Her arms and legs were stiff from long confinement. Before she could rise, the Tooth Fairy rushed in and bowled her over, her face blotting out the sky.

“Leave her alone,” Mommy shouted, but not before that awful fairy opened her jaws and slammed down, finding Wendy’s front teeth and biting deep into her gums to wrench them free.

Then her attacker was flung back, caught in Santa’s distant gesture. Wendy’s teeth sprouted anew in instantly healed gum tissue. The pain lifted. “You’re immortal,” said Santa, his words a gentle whisper in her ear, though he hovered at the spot he had first appeared. “You have far more power than you imagine. Imagine anew.”

That simple assurance burst Wendy’s internal bonds, so that she threw off her timidity and found that same strength that allowed her mother to sustain bodily injury, secure in the knowledge that swift regeneration would repair all damage. No longer did stiffness hobble her limbs. Being hurt still terrified her, but it was as if she were in a dream and knew she was dreaming and that nothing could ever really hurt her, not permanently. Meanwhile, every wound would remind her that she fought on the side of good. She leaped up and dove into the fray, the imps stunned at her boldness.

Then they too piled in, Santa’s shade as well, and all was a chaos of violence and shouting, of attacking and being attacked, until Wendy could barely see the sky for all the blood and all the bodies colliding and tearing at one another.

* * *

“Trouble? What sort of—?”

The Easter Bunny followed Michael’s gaze. There before him arose the hellish shoreline of his nightmares. Erased memories flooded into his mind. Santa had shown him this past shame, but once more he had forgotten. How he had flown to the Tooth Fairy’s island to snitch on Santa Claus, telling her of Santa’s preference for the mortal woman Rachel, the very woman whose flesh she now scored. And how the Tooth Fairy had ravished him, turning the sand red until he agreed to be her henchman, to spy on Santa and help her harm his loved ones, even Wendy’s kitten Snowball.

“Dear me,” he said, placing a paw, its leather chilly with fright, against one cheek as he watched the pitched battle. “You’ve got to help them.”

“I can’t. The Father’s got me on a tight leash. No more interventions unless he expressly commands it.” The Easter Bunny was shocked to see Michael’s confidence flag. Then a peculiar look, the bold look of the trickster, stole across the archangel’s face. “You, of course, are under no such constraint.”

“Goodness gracious, what could
I
do?” Inside, Anna and Lorenzo Calderon had settled back into sleep.

Panic seized him. “The Tooth Fairy will be apoplectic. Fighting’s simply not my style. For all my stature, at heart I’m just a sweet little bunny rabbit, more fit for kootchy-koo than clash and clobber. I could never strike anyone. Though I suppose, if push came to shove, I could shoulder the imps away from Wendy and her mom and...well I guess Santa’s shade doesn’t
need
defending, though even with his powers, naughty appears to be triumphing ever so slightly over nice.”

“They could use reinforcements. There, you see? The jolly old elf’s calling me again. You go instead. I’m forbidden.”

“But how could I possibly help? I mean, other than chittering nervously, clearing my throat, and saying, ‘Unhand that woman, you vile creature,’ I don’t see what—”

But as he spoke, he observed his right paw idly stroking the plush velvet strap at his chest, and an idea came full-blown into his head. The chocolate eggs from this pouch were anathema to the Tooth Fairy and her imps. Why not simply—?

“You’re on to something, I see.”

“I am. But there’s no time to explain. I’ve got to go. All due haste, you know. Your help? It’s been...helpful. Oh, most. Have a safe journey heavenward. Give my regards to the blissful folk and to the harp strummers. Wish me luck. I’m off. Oh wait, what if this no longer works?” He gestured behind him and at once a huge chocolate egg appeared between his paws. “Good. This one belongs to you, o angelic friend. Take, eat, indulge. All right, this time I’m really off.”

With that, the Easter Bunny shot past Michael, hurtling in a beeline toward the island of his onetime lover and dominatrix.

* * *

Santa knew the frustration of the disembodied. Though he was distinctly visible and audible to all and felt as much proprioceptive presence as in life, down to breathing, sweating, and the occasional urge to belch or fart, blows passed harmless through him. A slow-learning imp who dove at him ended in a sprawling heap on the sand. But that went both ways; he found himself incapable of laying hands on any of the attackers.

Moreover, though his finger flicks were powerful indeed and he could mold them minutely to his designs, the Tooth Fairy and her imps adapted quickly to them, coming back almost as soon as they were flung off. And he was unable to deliver his gestures as fast as the fight demanded. They needed time to recharge. But with fourteen assailants who, no matter how far inland or how high into the sky he threw them, surged swiftly back into the fray, he could but diminish slightly the attacks on Rachel and Wendy.