Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (39 page)

Gregor shared dozens of moments in his many centuries with the good Saint Nicholas. And when he had finished, Knecht Rupert stood up and spoke his piece, followed by Fritz, and Sigmund, and Karl, each elf stepping into the speaking place as if he’d been told when his turn was, brightening the blue-gray commons with anecdote, remembrance, and thanks, filling every eye with tears, constricting every throat, and warming every heart.

Finally, Herbert stood upon the well-worn patch of snow. Doffing his cap, he held it before him in both hands, his flaxen hair sweeping across his forehead, mustard yellow in the murky light of pre-dawn. “Dear brothers,” he began, “fortunate are we for having known Santa Claus, fortunate in having worked for him. And fortunate are we in his death. That sounds strange, I know, and not one of us stands here but would give up his life to have him back.

“I look out over a familiar sea of faces. And beyond that sea, beneath a soft quilt of crocus petals, sleeps peacefully the blessed saint who has shaped and guided us from the beginning, from that time when the Father brought us into being out of...well, I suppose it was out of nothing, though we have often wondered, have we not, in late night discussions bunk to bunk, whether we had past lives, glimpsed on occasion in dream, lives different from those we now lead.

“Much praise could I heap upon this good elf.

“But I want to focus on the events which have brought us to this moment. For when I say we are blessed in Santa’s death, I mean that he gave his life for the most noble of causes, first to spare the life of a child, and then to remove one sorry blight from all human souls, taking on the pains they would have suffered in that removal.

“Santa died that others might live.

“Yet even at the end, with the crushing weight of so much misery upon him, his last words were not of himself, but focused still on being generous toward others. ‘I must save her,’ he said. So those near him report. I must save Wendy. Has there ever been in the history of the world so selfless a soul as this our Santa Claus? You will mention the Son, and indeed that is the only comparison worthy of our master, whose actions this night must surely elevate him higher in heaven, into a sainthood above all other saints. We have witnessed his sacrifice. Even the pain of having lost him, as terrible as it feels, celebrates our connection to him. It touches us to the heart. For great joy and sorrow are of a piece. They bless us and make our lives holy and good. This our role model, our beacon of goodness, has gone from us. But our connection to him will never—”

Those listening saw something odd cross Herbert’s features. His mouth opened and closed. His eyes, which had roved amongst them as he spoke, were now stuck at a point beyond them. Over their heads. In the general direction of—

Gasps escaped those who had already turned. Then everyone looked back. And lo, they beheld Saint Nicholas, suit spotless, sitting up, his thighs and hips buried in flower petals, but the rest of him rising red, white, and rosy-cheeked from them, they having fallen to either side of the sleigh, random blobs of color twirling gently to the snow or winking purple and yellow from his beard.

Then the first light of that Easter dawn struck his face, which split asunder with a laugh as deep and jolly as any that had ever issued from him. “Don’t stop, Herbert,” he said. “Go on, go on. I rather
like
what I’m hearing.”

Joy flared then in every elfin heart from the dormant embers of their sorrow. Up into a roar of thanksgiving rose their shouts. They rushed the sleigh, lifted Santa to their shoulders, and tossed about the laughing saint who had returned to life behind their backs. Over and over and ‘round and ‘round did they pass him. Somewhere in the midst of their raucous commotion, Anya emerged from the cottage. A breakaway crew swept her up into the maelstrom, clapping her hands and kissing her hubby and laughing and crying beyond measure as she found him and lost him and found him once more in the continual swirl above his helpers’ heads.

* * *

As soon as they were out of danger, her mom handed Wendy the reins. Then she got to ride beside Chuff, as he had shyly introduced himself, while Mommy sat in back.

At first she had a hard time looking at the imp, he was so god-awful ugly. But the more he spoke—surprisingly modest was he in his speech—the more she warmed to him.

“I’m sure your mother,” she said, “has a little bit of good in her somewhere, like maybe way deep down inside.”

Chuff shook his head sadly. “None. She hurt Chuff. The others hurt Chuff. She egged them on. She drove us to do bad things. Real bad things.”

“Oh.” Wendy, at a loss for a response, slapped the reins lightly against Galatea’s flank. “I hope my daddy’s okay.”

“The dead guy?”

“He was pretty spry for a shade, I thought. Maybe there’s hope.”

The bubble about the North Pole rose before them and they slipped through it like the point of a needle through muslin.

“Ooh,” said Chuff. “That felt good.”

“It’s our sanctuary,” said Wendy. “The Father’s hand rests upon it. I don’t know how you’ll be received. But I’ll bet it’s a vast improvement over what you’re used to.”

Rachel piped up from the back seat. “Chuff will be given a royal welcome. Everyone’s likely to be a little subdued, though, at first.”

“Oh yeah. My dad. But I’ll bet his shade pops up. Maybe it’ll even somehow get together with his—”

“Sweetheart, let’s not get our...”

But the buildings and the commons and the skating pond, shiny as mica, came suddenly into view. And a swirl of green shapes resolved itself into ant-sized elves, handing around a cherry-red figure, very much alive, over their heads, and the gaily clad Anya as well. “It’s Daddy! He’s okay!”

Oh my, did Wendy’s spirits brighten then.

Rachel gripped Wendy’s shoulder. “Look at him down there,” she said through tears of joy.

“Isn’t this neat?” asked Wendy, aware how silly she sounded but not caring a whit.

“Uh huh,” agreed Chuff, grasping the curled scroll of the sleigh before him.

Everyone was now grasshopper-sized below. They had spotted the sleigh and were waving wildly and tossing their belled caps into the air, though Wendy was still too high up to hear the jingle of those bells, and their rowdy shouts thinned to faint huzzahs.

But Galatea spiraled in and Wendy gave the reins to Chuff so she could reach back and hug her mom. “Just hold them, is all,” she instructed him. “You can do it.”

He was uncertain at first. Then he gripped them proudly, and the ugliest smile, with a center of pure goodness, beamed from him. He giggled like a little boy about to pee his pants with excitement, and his eyes grew wide.

Down they spiraled. As they runnered to a stop beside Santa’s sleigh, the elves began to stream toward them. Then they noticed Chuff and came to a halt.

“Everybody,” said Wendy proudly, “this is Chuff.”

“Lads,” said Santa, sensing his helpers’ uncertainty, “I’d like you to meet a very brave imp indeed, the last born and least mean of the Tooth Fairy’s brood, who defied his mother, ate of the divine egg—the first on earth to do so—and surrendered to his better angels. Let us welcome this goodhearted fellow to the North Pole.”

And Santa stepped forward (how it thrilled Wendy to see him alive!), lifted Chuff from the sleigh, and embraced him like a returning son.

The commons exploded in cheers.

Then he gathered Wendy to him and she buried her head in his belly, his fresh-baked-bread generosity filling her with contentment. Rachel left the sleigh and joined their embrace, and radiant Anya came forward too, tears smudging her glasses.

“My dear friends,” said Santa, “what a glorious Easter morn has burst upon us. All humankind has waked to goodness. And one utterly lost has been found. Accept Chuff as your own. Fashion him a suit to cover his nakedness. Give him the best bed in your quarters, and the best bench in the workshop. Tonight we shall feast in his honor. From this moment, he is one of us. Gregor, be so good as to lead Galatea to her well-deserved rest. I’ll catch up my family on my adventures, and they shall do the same. Then will we witness the changing of the world of mortal men, the highlights of which Wendy will share with you at tonight’s feast. For I have no doubt, after our yeoman efforts, that change it will.”

Then Wendy walked between her mother and her stepdad, Anya on Santa’s far side, toward the cottage, in the radiance of a new day’s dawn.

Chapter 41. Rebirth, Confession, Redemption

DIVINE MUSE, MORE DIVINE than the Christian God could ever hope to be, grant me now the artistry to depict in vivid tones and textures the great day of awakening on this bounteous earth. In every nation, in every nook, sin-sick sleepers, saved by the hand of Santa from simmering hatred, poked their sleepy heads out of a haze of dreams into wakefulness. Words cannot adequately paint that critical moment, multiplied umpteen millionfold across the globe, when those mortals awoke, and ate of the divine egg, and were in some small but magnificent way redeemed. But with your help, good muse, I shall try, I shall try.

Picture then the slumberers. Divide them into two camps. Those who had slumbered unvisited, whose hearts had not been touched by Saint Nick because they were free of homophobia; they slept the sleep of the righteous, though they were by no means sin-free in other regards. And those from whose hearts the up-ended egg had been extracted, whose nostrils were filled with the redemptive aroma of chocolate made from the Divine Mother’s milk, waiting at arm’s reach. It is to them that our story must turn.

Initially, they woke to emptiness and sorrow. For their hearts had been touched by the immortal saint, whose coming death they felt in their bones. Thoughts of suicide occurred to them then, for a world lacking Santa Claus is hardly worth the candle. But the chocolate egg’s allure and the strong sense that death was losing its hold over him quickly dispersed such thoughts. So attuned was each egg to its mortal, that its aroma, perfectly engaged in magnificent molecular intercourse with the mortal’s olfactory nerves, made it seem as though the eating and the comforting had already begun.

But oh, the first taste. When lips kissed chocolate, when teeth broke with a twin snick the shiny brown surface, when the heavenly air trapped inside escaped to delight the nose, and the taste buds rioted in exultation—then did they realize how famished they had been for so many years. Before them, in their hands and in their mouths, lay a confectionery opportunity, a means to unburden themselves of a terrible vice which many had thought a virtue. Carla Shengold of Boise, Idaho, a clinical psychologist, understood as she bit into her egg, how hard it was to overcome prejudice, to turn one’s back on it and never entertain it again. As she chewed, she knew herself blessed by miraculous chance, and wished for a houseful of such eggs to obliterate each of her failings.

At the first swallow, renewed love for humankind filled these awakened ones. In particular, generosity of spirit toward those of a non-heterosexual bent bloomed in them, an acceptance and an embrace. Marveling at the abundant variety of God’s creation, and the diverse nature of adult love, they saw through faux-religious demagogues—and these same demagogues acknowledged their longstanding delusions and wept with relief to let them go. They observed as well, with utter clarity, their own sexuality, recognizing that none of them, when it came right down to it, was one hundred percent heterosexual. Each felt some measure of attraction toward his or her own gender, and many were surprised and delighted—though, but an hour before, they would have been mortified—at the intensity of that attraction.

But I have not yet revealed the miraculous synchronicity that surrounded that first bite. For every one of these eggs was tasted worldwide at the precise instant that Santa Claus opened his eyes to the first light of dawn and inhaled his first post-resurrection breath. For generosity of spirit is all one, in mortal and immortal alike. And the childlike acceptance and embrace of human beings different from oneself keeps Santa Claus alive in our hearts.

Thus did they eat, savoring the aroma and the taste, filling their bellies, and satisfying with this divine food their hunger after righteousness. And when they had taken the last bite, something even more astounding took place.

Now, the Father had accepted the archangel’s overreaching—which from the beginning had of course been part of his master plan—and saw that it was good. But the exposure and healing of so much ill will in mortals skyrocketed him to heights of rancor, impatience, and guilt over his sorry creation. So unlimitedly divine the potential, so damnably devilish the reality.

He therefore chose this moment, at the final taste of heavenly chocolate, to clone himself as umpteen million burning bushes and give them the tongue-lashing of their lives.

Now some say the Father elected to manifest as a voice from the flames because an unmediated glimpse of the Almighty drives mortals insane. Balderdash. In fact, it was because God at the height of his wrath cannot keep Zeus from showing, the chiton, the hairy chest, that swarthy Mediterranean cast to his skin.

Better then to be a voice.

Which voice, into ears made receptive by reborn generosity, poured these words: “O ye sinners, made less sinful by one thin hair this Easter morning, damnable have ye been and damnable remain. You would pretend to know my thoughts, conforming your phantasm of me to your absurd prejudices.

“Not simply in this, your now-abandoned ignorance about sexual orientation, but in ways even I find it hard to keep up with, you cling to foolish religions, fighting and dying and hating and preening and judging and praying, holding up this or that book as sacred scripture, but freely interpreting it into a tangled mishmash, even as you deny doing so. Now hear me. No book is more sacred than any other. No idea is worth the taking of a mortal life; nor the shedding of one drop of human blood; nor the easy sneer of judgment, behind which sneer you have the temerity to presume God stands foursquare.