Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (45 page)

Wendy visited her hundred children, taking each one on a wondrous sleigh ride to wherever they pleased; granting them glimpses of their futures and firing just a bit higher the gentle obsessions that lead to great things; and finally tucking them in and, just before vanishing into magic time, giving them a kiss on the forehead which wiped away the memory of their frolic but left a tingle that remained with them forever after, even unto their deathbeds.

But by prearrangement, Wendy added a hundred-and-first visit that night, a little boy she and Santa dropped in on after the toy shelves at the North Pole were depleted and Santa’s pack lay spent against his back.

Through the door of Jamie Stratton’s bedroom they passed. Jamie had turned nine since the previous Christmas and now teetered on the edge of unbelief in Santa Claus. But when he opened his eyes to the wondrous beings before him and his nostrils filled with the rich scent of pine needles and hot apple cider and cinnamon, he instantly recalled Wendy’s visit the year before, and his spirits soared at the sight of an utterly convincing and all-embracing Santa.

I’m home, thought Jamie.

By which he meant far more than simply being in this house in the bosom of a loving family, though he meant that too. His new sister—ultrasound had confirmed her gender—would arrive by the last week of February, or early March, tops. His mother and father had changed from loving to
ferociously
loving parents. The new church seemed to have enlivened them overnight and removed some great fear; of what, he had no idea. All of that was wondrous indeed. But here stood Saint Nicholas and his daughter. There could be no mistaking them. For a good long time, Jamie’s mouth refused to close; his eyes, to return to normal size.

He got to toss back the covers and meet Santa’s reindeer and feed them carrots. Powerful beasts they were but extremely gentle, smelling like farm animals, yes, but with a special bouquet full of nobility and grandeur and nature at her most magnanimous. Into the night sky they carried the trio, passing over Paris and Mount Rushmore and the Grand Canyon, along palm-swept Tahitian shores, across vast arctic wastes which were not wastes at all but filled with wonders of their own, sweeping past tall minarets and opulent Russian palaces, circling the moonlit castle of mad King Ludwig of Bavaria, gliding by the Sphinx and the pyramids and every notable landmark Jamie could summon out of his geography book. Best of all, they made special trips to the workshops of violin makers and saw and got to gently handle and play instruments from the workshops of master craftsmen like Guarneri and Stradivari, Vuillaume and Fagnola and Guadagnini.

When the trip was over and they whisked Jamie back to his bedroom, they told him he could keep his memories of this night, if he swore never to reveal them to a soul.

“Wow, that’s neat,” he said. “But how come I get to keep the memories? I thought you said everybody always forgets.”

“You set us on a very special path last year, Jamie,” said Santa, “didn’t he, Wendy?”

“Uh huh.”

“What path?”

Santa laughed with great gusto, and Jamie felt as if he had been answered, even though no words had been spoken. For Santa’s laugh was replete with generosity, the mysteries and wonders of childhood, and the wisdom of grown-ups who root their lives in innocence.

“But before we go....”

Santa reached deep into his sack and pulled out, by a wrenched fistful of jerkin, a blond-haired elf with a camera dangling from his neck. “This is Herbert,” he said, setting his wide-eyed helper on the carpet. “Herbert, Jamie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Jamie, shaking the elf’s hand. Sugarplums danced in Jamie’s head at the sight of the creature, such strong yet delicate hands, such creativity in his eyes.

Herbert snapped picture after picture of the three of them, and Wendy took a bunch of Herbert and Jamie, arm in arm, the elf beaming, the boy stunned at his good fortune. They left a few photos with Jamie but took the rest with them. And even though, the morning after, the photos in Jamie’s possession were blank, he kept them, cherished, in a shoebox for the rest of his life, touching them, sensing their magic, and gazing at them in a vain attempt to call the images forth. But his memories of that visit remained sharp even unto the far reaches of old age, when other memories had faded, taken on fuzzy edges, or vanished altogether.

Just before they left, Santa said, “What a glorious finish to a glorious Christmas Eve visiting you has been, Jamie. I feel so full of joy and exuberance, and, well,...Herbert?”

“Yes, Santa.” The elf snapped to, one stray strand of hair not quite combed into place.

“Herbert is the finest blesser the world has known, Jamie. Grace us, won’t you, with your best effort.”

“Of course,” said Herbert. He drew himself up to his rather diminutive height, cap in hand, and beamed with joy. “Jamie Stratton, special child, be thou blessed forevermore. Bless you, Santa. Bless you, Wendy. Let our every breath give thanks for the lives we lead. And may all mortals be blessed, even those who curse and fret and fear and bluster, may even they be blessed, and changed in the wink of an eye. For mortal life is too brief to founder in woeful quagmires of negativity. All souls have the power to alter the world in startling ways. May they prosper in that endeavor, and may heaven not only descend on occasion to touch earth but expand downward to dwell among the creatures that live upon it. So be it, dear Santa, dear Wendy, dear Jamie, and may God grant it so.”

“Cool,” said Jamie, and Santa said, “Amen.”

Herbert waved farewell and climbed back into the sack. Then Santa and Wendy hugged Jamie one last time and were gone.

But Herbert’s last words lingered long in his ear, a phrase that took on, for him, musical urgency, and which became the
cantus firmus
for his violin playing ever after, in those early years, at the conservatory, and finally on the concert stage and in the recording studio.

“God grant it so,” the elf had said.

And grant it God did.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Devereaux has had five novels published, six counting the e-serialized
Deadolescence: A Tale of Love and Sacrifice
(2007).
Deadweight
and
Walking Wounded
were released in the Dell Abyss horror line (1994, 1996).
Santa Steps Out: A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups
, made its controversial appearance in two editions, a top-notch, acid-free, illustrated hardcover from Dark Highway Press (1998) and a mass-market paperback from Leisure Books (2000).  Two years later, Leisure Books brought out
Caliban and Other Tales
, five previously published stories plus a retelling of
The Tempest
from Caliban's point of view.  And from Five Star Press came
A Flight of Storks and Angels
, a look at the fantasy world of muses, invisible companions, and guardian angels suddenly made visible and audible. E-book copies of
Deadweight
and
Walking Wounded
can be purchased at www.fictionwise.com, along with a dozen or so short stories.
Deadweight
, reissued by publisher booklocker.com as a trade paperback, is available from the major online booksellers and is also listed in Ingram's for ordering at your local bookstore.  You can contact Robert at www.robertdevereaux.com where he blogs and otherwise carries on.