Fat Blitzen’s tongue was lolling from his mouth; the reindeer’s heaving flanks were white with foam from their exertion. But slowly, slowly the sleigh was gaining on the cavorting Patchmobile.
Up ahead in the distance Patch and Joe shouted with laughter, too involved in their own antics to hear anyone else’s shout, or even to look behind them to see who might be following them—or to notice the cloud of puce smoke and sparks that was beginning to pour from their own back seat.
But Santa and Cornelia saw it. “Oh my god!” Santa cried.
“Joe! Joe!” Cornelia screamed, but her own cries were lost in the sound of roaring rockets.
Santa shook the reins, calling out in frantic concern to his laboring team, “Come on, boys. It’s Patch in there! If you love him like he loves you, then give me everything you’ve got!”
Up ahead, he saw the Patchmobile suddenly begin to shimmy violently in a way that had nothing to do with Patch’s antics. The pyrotechnics going on in its rear end were beginning to have their own effect on the car’s performance.
And now at last even Patch and Joe were suddenly, frighteningly aware that something was going wrong. Patch struggled with the shaking steering wheel, trying to get it back under his control, but it was too far gone to obey him. Joe looked worriedly at Patch, seeing the sudden fright on the elf’s face. He turned in his seat, looking around him in confusion—and saw the billowing cloud of thick smoke, the fingers of flame curling up from the back of the car. “Something’s happening,” he cried, more horrified because he didn’t know what. “Patch!”
Santa’s sleigh was close behind the Patchmobile now, gaining fast; but Joe could not see it through the smoke, just as Santa and Cornelia could no longer see the car’s occupants.
“Do something!” Cornelia cried, barely able to keep her eyes on the car, so certain that it was about to explode that she could hardly watch.
Santa’s brow wrinkled with desperate concern as he tried to think of some way to save them . . . “The Super-Dooper-Looper!” he cried suddenly. “It’s the only way!”
Up at the front of the reindeer team, Donner’s head flew up in panic as he heard the dreaded words echo from antler to antler down the line.
Seeing Donner toss his head, and knowing his lifelong fear of heights, Santa cried feelingly, “Come on, Donner! You can do it, boy. I know you can do it!” He drew back on the reins, giving the fateful command.
The two lead reindeer ducked their heads obediently and sharply started downward, pulling the sleigh after them as they swept below and beneath the smoking Patchmobile, gathering momentum to begin their tremendous loop. The reindeer and sleigh began to climb again, rising upward more and more steeply, beginning their first crescent of arc—rapidly approaching the critical point where Donner’s nerve habitually failed him. Santa held his breath. With only six deer instead of eight, even the slightest hesitation would mean failure for them.
But this time, with the vision of the smoking Patchmobile above, knowing that his beloved Patch was aboard it, Donner gritted his teeth and made the supreme effort of a lifetime. He kept on climbing . . . climbing . . . never looking down but fixing his gaze on Patch’s car.
And, with an awesome surge, the reindeer continued into their loop-the-loop, soaring triumphantly toward the stars, to dance on the ceiling of the sky.
Patch and Joe, looking out in desperate panic for some miracle to save them, recoiled in amazement as Santa himself, his sleigh, and reindeer, suddenly rose straight up from beneath them like a cresting wave.
Patch jammed on the brakes in a frantic attempt to avoid a collision. And at the same moment, in the most awesome display of fireworks since the Bicentennial, the candy canes exploded, blowing the Patchmobile apart. Its chunky, oversized-toy parts flew out and away in all directions like an exploding jigsaw puzzle—and its two terrified occupants were flung straight up into the sky, Patch still spasmodically gripping the sundered steering wheel. They reached the top of their own arc just as the looping sleigh reached its zenith; it hovered there in a split second of incredible weightlessness . . . and then began to plummet down again through the air.
The flying reindeer and sleigh swooped down like a roller coaster through the final arc of its loop, reaching bottom at the last, the only, possible second for a midair rendezvous. The plummeting boy and elf crashed down into the back of the sleigh, a human cargo more precious to Santa Claus and Cornelia than a hundred sacks of toys. The two sat blinking and gasping for a long moment, recovering from their bruising crash-landing, and the shock of finding themselves safe.
Cornelia flung herself across the back of the seat to embrace Joe, hugging him with joyful triumph. Patch, still shaken but filled with heartfelt gratitude, called out to the reindeer, “Oh, my boys, I’ve seen some reindeer in my time, but you’re the best! The best!”
Looking back at his human cargo, Santa laughed for the first time in far too long, his great rolling ho-ho-ho of sheer happiness. “We did it!” he cried. “We did it!”
Grinning contentedly in Cornelia’s arms, Joe looked ahead at the reindeer, realizing what they had done so flawlessly tonight, and remembering another night when he had seen them try the Super-Dooper-Looper and fail. “Awright, Donner!” he yelled. “Way to go!”
Up ahead, Blitzen leaned over to lick Donner’s face in fond congratulation. Donner flicked his ears modestly, exhausted but triumphantly happy.
The sleigh and its rejoicing crew flew on toward the North Pole, and an even happier reunion.
Twenty-One
The new day found B.Z. at his desk in his private office, gloating over the latest figures on his ill-gotten gains from candy canes. But all was definitely not business as usual today. Outside his window he suddenly heard the wail of police sirens and the screech of cars braking to a stop. With sudden sick dread, B.Z. leaped to his feet and rushed to the window, peering out and down.
Outside, far below him, five blue-and-white squad cars had surrounded the office building. There were police everywhere, rushing from all sides toward the building entrance.
B.Z.’s eyes bulged with pure terror. He had no way of knowing, any more than Cornelia did, that the police had indeed believed her story. Aware of her step-uncle’s shady reputation, they had decided to act swiftly to nip a potential national disaster—and international incident—in the bud.
But with the justifiable paranoia of someone who was guilty as sin, B.Z. was sure that somehow the cops must know everything about him, and everything about the fatal candy canes as well. While he watched, Grizzard and Towzer were hauled out the building’s front doors, already in handcuffs.
He looked around him in wild panic, searching for some way out. Down below, a police officer was raising a bull horn.
“All right, B.Z.,” the cop shouted. “We know you’re in there. Just come out with your hands held high.” The words echoed across the empty lots, from wall to wall of the silent factory buildings.
B.Z. pushed himself away from the window and ran back to his desk. Yanking open the top righthand drawer, he looked inside. Eight or nine of the glowing puce candy canes lay there, waiting for just such an emergency. B.Z. snatched them up with both hands and began to cram them into his mouth, crunching them up and choking them down as fast as he could. “You’ll never get me, coppers,” he mumbled unintelligibly.
A loud pounding sounded at his locked office door. “Open up in there!” a deep voice shouted.
Still gulping down candy canes, B.Z. rushed to his office window and flung it open. He climbed up and teetered on the ledge, fearless with desperation, just as the office door gave way with a splintering crash behind him. Looking back he saw five police officers rush into the room, their guns drawn.
B.Z. leaped.
The crowd of policemen below began to point and shout. But their warnings turned into disbelief in midcry: Instead of falling, their quarry was shooting straight up into the air like a rocket, propelled by a mega-overdose of magic candy
canes.
The five officers who had come running into the office stood at the window now, looking out and up with mouths hanging, unable to believe they were actually watching a man disappear straight up, like a guided missile. They watched in awe as their escaping prisoner grew smaller and smaller, until he was no more than a bright puce speck in the heavens, and then not even that.
When B.Z. recovered his senses and found the courage to open his eyes, he let out a howl of outrage and dismay that should have echoed around the world. But somehow the earth had suddenly become no more than a vast, misty ball, unimaginably far below him. From where he hung, permanently suspended in orbit, he could do nothing but watch the world he had hoped to rook so royally slowly roll by, forever beyond his reach, forever safe from him now.
He had been sent into permanent exile by the very magic he had planned to exploit and the greed that had driven him to do it, a rare example of a truly Higher Justice. From now on his only companions would be meteors and satellites and cast-off NASA flotsam—the space garbage of which he had become one more piece, different from the rest only in the quality and quantity of noise he broadcast.
“Get me down! Get me out of here!” he bellowed, and then bellowed again.
But, as they say, in space no one can hear you scream . . . B.Z. rolled on through the blackness like the harvest moon, literally hoist on his own petard, kicking and screaming gracelessly into that good night.
And at the North Pole, where it was night for only half a year at a time, the elves’ village was bright with the artificial day of countless lanterns and candles, as its inhabitants gathered in the Great Hall for a noisy, joyful celebration. Patch stood in the middle of it all, overwhelmed with the warmth of his welcome home, feeling now far too undeserving of it, but filled with gratitude and love for the people and the place he had finally returned to after so long. At the front of the crowd of welcoming elves were the faces that made him happiest of all—Santa Claus and Anya; his pals Boog, Honka, and Vout; Dooley; and Joe and Cornelia, who had saved him and the world’s children from a truly fatal mistake.
The humans and elves lifted their tankards of mulled cider in a toast, all eyes on Patch as they cried together, “Good elf!”
But instead of smiling, Patch looked down with unaccustomed elf-consciousness. “I never knew the candy canes would elf-destruct,” he said, looking up at them again with a grave expression. “I never meant to hurt anybody.”
Anya reached out and hugged him, reassuring him that they all understood that he had been a victim of circumstance. “You couldn’t hurt a fly,” she said gently.
He hugged her back, grateful, and then looked at the others again. “I just wanted you not to forget me,” he murmured, his voice filled with emotion.
Santa Claus shook his head, grinning ruefully. “Patch,” he said, “whatever else you are, you’re unforgettable.”
Patch took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “Santa Claus,” he said, and including all his fellow elves in his glance, “starting right now I’m going to start a course of elf-improvement and make you proud.”
Santa smiled with deeply felt fondness. “Proud?” he said, shaking his head incredulously. “I was always proud of you, Patch, no matter what.” He put his hands on Patch’s shoulders.
Patch beamed, letting the love and good will surround him, basking in the glow of the respect and recognition he had always craved, never realizing that he had really possessed it all along. His eyes welled with secret tears as he smiled and smiled, while the other elves pressed around him to shake his hand and pat his shoulder, calling out “welcome home” and “congratulations.”
And Joe, watching everyone else, including Santa, swarm around Patch, found himself drifting farther and farther back into the shadows. Patch was back home with Santa, this was their world, and everything he saw—the wild cuckoo clock, the wonderful tinker-toy balconies—reminded him that it was not his own. Feeling suddenly lost and more like an orphan than ever, he began to wander away from the crowd.
But Santa, glancing up over the heads of the gathered elves, saw him drifting away. Always the most sensitive to the feelings of a child, Santa left the mob of celebrants and followed Joe into a quiet corner.
“You’ve had quite a night, eh, Joe?” he asked, a friendly smile hiding his concern.
Joe shrugged, sliding back into his super-cool persona to hide his deeper, darker feelings. “Yeah, it was okay . . .” He glanced around him again at the wonders of the elves’ twinkling village, which made the lost Patchmobile seem boring by comparison.
“Can I get you a nice cup of hot chocolate?” Anya asked, coming up to stand with a quiet smile at her husband’s side. She looked down at the thin, forlorn little boy standing by himself in a corner, and her heart filled with a sudden yearning to take him in her arms and hold him close forever.
“Nah, that’s awright. I don’t want any, thanks.” Joe shook his head, suddenly feeling ever more awkward and ill at ease, as the object of all this attention. He pushed his hands into his pockets, looking down and scuffing at the ground with his foot. He turned and moved a few yards farther away, his shoulders hunched and his back turned.
Santa Claus watched the boy silently for a moment, his expression filling with love. “You don’t want hot chocolate,” he said, his voice tugging gently at Joe’s shoulder. “You won’t ask for a present. If it weren’t for you, the world might never see another Christmas, and yet of all the children in the world you’re the only one who didn’t get anything. Joe—”
Joe turned hesitantly, pulled around by the words.
“Joe,” Santa asked quietly, “isn’t there anything you want?”
Joe kicked at the wide wooden floorboards again, started to turn away once more, feeling his tough-guy act crumbling. “Me?” he said with desperate casualness. “Nah, I . . . I don’t need—” And suddenly the words came bursting out in a flood. “I want to stay with you. I want to be your kid.” Tears filled his eyes, and he was astonished to see tears shining in the eyes of Santa and Anya as well, while smiles of overwhelming joy lit their faces. They held out their hands. Joe ran to them, losing himself in their welcoming arms. They held him tightly, until he knew in his heart that they would never let him go, that he was theirs to love, and they were his, forever.
Claus looked up at Anya over Joe’s head, their eyes shining as their gaze met, as the man and woman who had never had a child of their own at last found the son they had always longed for.
Joe came up for air, grinning and tear-streaked, and looked over at Cornelia, who stood looking on forlornly and a bit enviously at Joe and his new family. He looked up at Santa again, his smile fading. “What about Corny?” he asked. Because her step-uncle was a very wealthy man, he knew that she would always have plenty of everything . . . everything but love and friendship.
Cornelia’s mouth quivered, then firmed with resolution. Blinking her eyes and finding her sweetest, most irresistible smile, she asked, “Can I stay?” She rose up on her toes, her hands clasped and her eyes wide. “Just till next Christmas? Please . . . ?”
“You could give her a lift home next year . . . ?” Joe suggested with eager helpfulness.
Santa turned to Anya, seeing the sudden shining eagerness in her own eyes. Dressed in her best red-white-and-green Christmas outfit, after all these years she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and it amazed him how much he still loved her. How did that old song go, he thought, A boy for me and a girl for you . . . ?
Hastily he considered the sudden logistics and added requirements of having two children at the North Pole. “Well . . .” he murmured, stroking his beard. He glanced at the two waiting children again, and nodded decisively. “Dooley—” he called, summoning his trusted advisor.
Dooley, who had been standing silently behind him for the last minute or so, and had overheard everything, grinned and said with mock exasperation, “As if I don’t have enough to do, now I’m going to
have to be a schoolteacher!”
Joe and Cornelia looked at each other in sudden dismay. “School?!” they chorused, their faces falling.
Santa Claus began to laugh, his merry ho-ho-ho ringing out across the hall until all the elves gathered there looked up and smiled in contented satisfaction. Santa was laughing again; things were going to be all right.
In their midst, Patch stepped forward to meet his old rival Puffy, and offered his hand. In both their minds now was a fresh understanding that the old way and the new were not separated by an unbridgeable gap, but part of a vast spectrum of possibility. Patch’s belief in change and innovation could make everyone’s lives—both elves’ and children’s—happier; but only when it was combined with Puffy’s respect for tradition and careful workmanship. The two elves shook hands, resolving in their hearts to seek a real meeting of minds and skills in the coming year. The elves around them cheered until the rafters rang.
Santa Claus smiled as he listened to the cheers and looked around him at the smiling faces, happier than he had ever been in his life . . . and that was a considerable amount of time. His family was complete, as was the elves’ community again. It seemed hard to believe that this time yesterday he had felt that all was hopeless, that the world’s children had forgotten him and forgotten the true meaning of Christmas . . . just as surely as he felt that anything would be possible now. He had faith in the children who were the future of the world, and he realized now, looking down at Joe and Cornelia, that that faith would ever truly fail, any more than the children would fail to believe in him. He thought back to his first Christmas here, and to all the countless Christmases in between. Tomorrow he would begin to prepare in earnest for next year, for the most special and wonderful Christmas of all . . .