And as if that wasn’t enough, he’d reached a bend in the pipe. He managed to push himself halfway through the bend, but—oof!—he was stuck. He tried to keep going. He twisted and wriggled, but nothing helped. Nilly decided to crawl a little way back up the pipe and then regroup, but when he tried, he couldn’t move that way either. He was wedged in tight, like a cork.
Don’t panic, Nilly thought. Just stay completely calm and don’t think about things like not being able to breathe or a carnivorous soot rat or the people who live here deciding it’s chilly out so they’re going to fire up the woodstove.
Which is when the panic set in. Nilly screamed and yelled and kicked and pounded on the inside of the stovepipe.
After he’d done that for a while, he took a break. And realized that if he could only slip his backpack off, his problem would be solved. He exhaled all the air from his lungs, to make himself a little skinnier, and then, sure enough, he was able to squirm his way out of the backpack straps. And then, voilà, he managed to wriggle through the bend in the pipe, and then there was more room. A little more wriggling and the pipe widened and he saw light. His feet came to rest on what he figured was the bottom of the woodstove. Nilly squatted down. He was inside a woodstove with a glass door. On the other side of the room he saw a big Christmas tree with the Christmas lights turned on, the backs of two armchairs each with a little gray hair poking up over the edge, and a TV that was on. On the TV a reporter was standing between the fountain and the Henrik Ibsen statue outside the National Theater Shopping Mall.
“With Christmas Eve fast approaching,” she said, “last-minute holiday shoppers are out in droves. One retailer in particular—Thrane Inc.—reports that Christmas sales figures have been through the roof this year. The company urges shoppers to remember to run out and buy something expensive right now, before it’s too late, because in order to qualify for Christmas membership . . .”
Nilly tried to open the door on the front of the woodstove but realized it was held closed by a handle on the outside. He tapped on the glass door with his index finger.
“Hello!” he yelled. “Hello? Could somebody open this door?”
But the tufts of gray hair didn’t move.
“Hello? It’s Santa Claus! You guys might not believe in me, but could you still help me out?”
Still no one moved.
“Oh, for yuletide’s sake!” Nilly shouted. “Here I come, bringing Christmas presents and stuff!” He was so angry he was jumping up and down inside the woodstove. “Slippers! Slippers! Slippers!”
No response. He gave up. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they’d had strokes or infected each other with a nasty pneumonia, died, and now they’d been sitting in front of the TV for days or weeks while the phone rang and relatives knocked on the door and left again. But, no, they probably weren’t dead, because one of them was changing the TV channel now. First to a channel where they watched a bunch of Chinese people run in and out of a department store with their arms piled high with wrapped presents. Then to a channel where the king regarded the microphone being held up in front of him somberly before beginning to speak.
“I have just come from a meeting with the Finnish president, and he is extremely angry at Norway,” the king began. “He claims that Finland is the true owner of Christmas, not Norway, and he threatened us.”
“How did the Finnish president threaten Norway?” the reporter asked.
“He . . . uh, sounded very threatening. And he also had a very threatening look on his face. Kind of like . . .”
The king lowered his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth, but Nilly thought it actually made him look more tired than threatening.
“Exactly what did the Finnish president say?” the reporter asked.
“How the heck should I know? I can’t really speak Finnish. I can only count a little.” The king cleared his throat and started counting, “Yxi, kaxi . . . uh, trixie.”
Nilly sighed. This was only a test run right now, but if they were going to deliver millions of presents on Christmas Eve, they couldn’t spend this much time on each one. He set the wrapped slippers down in the oven, hoped that they would notice the gift before they lit their next fire, and then he climbed back up the stovepipe. And got stuck in the bend again. It was the Santa outfit. It was too thick. Nilly crawled back down into the oven again, unbuttoned the suit, and pulled it off. He was about to climb back up the stovepipe again when he spotted an old gray-haired man standing in the middle of the living room staring at him with his mouth hanging open and a coffeepot in his hand.
“Magda,” the man said, “there’s a naked boy in the woodstove.”
“Yes, yes, Alf,” an old woman’s voice replied from the chair that still had a gray tuft. “You need to remember to take your medicine, you know. Did you get the coffee?” The man looked at Nilly, then sighed, turned around, and walked back toward the TV with small, shuffling steps.
“WHAT TOOK YOU so long?” Doctor Proctor asked as Nilly tumbled onto the sheepskin beside him.
“And why are you naked?” Lisa asked.
“L-l-long story,” Nilly said, shivering as he pulled on his Santa outfit. “What’s the next stop?”
“Number nine Spitsburpen Drive,” Doctor Proctor said, and stepped on the atomic pedal.
This time Doctor Proctor pushed just a smidge harder on the gas pedal, and they whooshed through the darkness. They took a shortcut over a field and through some woods with snow-laden branches. Then they came out onto a road again as it began climbing toward the houses up on Spitsburpen. But the fog had come in, and the higher they went, the thicker it became. Finally they could hardly see anything ahead of them.
“I can’t see any house numbers,” Lisa said.
“I can’t even see any houses,” Nilly said.
“Some jet reindeer would have been nice right about now,” Doctor Proctor said. “They can find their way in any kind of weather.”
“Maybe that’s number nine over there?” Nilly said, pointing to a large white house they could just barely make out through the sea of fog. They heard boys’ voices hollering and laughing from inside the house.
“What makes you think that specific house is number nine?” Lisa asked.
“I don’t know,” Nilly said. “Maybe because we hear boys’ voices and it says on this gift that it’s for a boy named Ola?” Nilly said, holding up his hand. But Lisa didn’t see anything in Nilly’s hand, just a red ribbon with a tag that looked like it was dangling in thin air next to his hand.
“Is that . . . ?” She reached her hand out and felt her fingers bump into whatever he was holding.
“Yes,” Doctor Proctor said. “It’s the invisible boomerang. And we’re going to have to hope that Ola lives here. If not, then some other boy will be the lucky one. Hop to it!”
Nilly helped himself to another spoonful of fart powder, felt the delightful tickle in his belly, bent his knees, aimed at the chimney, which he could just barely make out through the fog, counted to three, and—bang!—an air stream erupted from his backside and he lifted off the seat. He hit perfectly, right next to the chimney, and climbed up it and then down into it. Luckily, this time the chimney was big and wide the whole way down. In fact, it was so wide that Nilly practically had to do the splits to reach the sides with his feet. As he approached the light beneath him, he heard boys’ voices coming from the living room.
“ . . . and we’re going to win the big snowman contest this year with Dad, oh yeah!”
“Heh-heh-heh. Yeah, because he rented a bulldozer.”
“A bulldozer?” a girl’s voice said. “But you’re not allowed to use anything other than your hands in the big snowman contest!”
Then the boys’ voices again.
“Duh. That’s why we’re going to build the snowman tonight when no one’s watching, bonehead.”
“And our snowman will be so huge that no one else will have a chance! Especially not you, blockhead.”
“And if you s
ay a word about the bulldozer to anyone, then we’re going to crush you, knucklehead.”
Nilly thought there was something weirdly familiar about those voices. But there wasn’t time to think about that now. He would just have to drop the present down into the fireplace from here and get away before anyone noticed him. Nilly tossed the boomerang and had started climbing back up when it occurred to him what boomerangs did. You threw them and then they curved around and came back to you. Nilly had only just finished thinking that thought when he felt something hard and invisible thwack into his knucklehead. Or blockhead. Or bonehead. Regardless, he lost his grip and fell. And fell.
Nilly landed on something soft. He coughed and spit. And realized he was lying in a massive pile of ash. Then he heard laughter and someone screaming bloody murder. And when he looked out at the kids who were all staring at the fireplace, he realized why their voices had sounded so familiar.
“Look. It’s the dwarf!” Truls exclaimed.
“Hey, you weren’t invited to our Christmas party!” Trym yelled.
“You’re not even a member of Christmas, you penny-pinching cheapskate! Get him!”
Nilly looked out at the other kids in the living room. They stared back at him. Truls and Trym started for him.
“We’re going to crush you now, you cranberry!” Truls laughed. “And serve you with our Christmas dinner!” snarled Trym.
“Yeah,” Truls taunted. “The roast pig won’t have an apple in its mouth this year; it’ll have a dwarf!”
Nilly watched the twins waddling closer. They were very big for their age. And really ghastly to have such pleasant names as Truls and Trym. And Nilly didn’t have much time at all if he didn’t want to end up as the garnish for their Christmas meal. He fumbled around in the ash. His fingers found what they were looking for. He looked down, saw nothing, and threw the nothing at the twins.
“Ow!” Truls howled, grabbing his forehead. “What was that?”
Nilly felt the invisible boomerang return to his hand and threw it again, harder this time.
“Ow, ow!” Trym cried, falling on his butt and grabbing his nose. “Daddy!” he wailed. “That dwarf is mean!”
“What’s going on in here?” a voice roared. “What kind of Cinderella are you? Are you attacking my boys, kid?”
“They attacked me.” Nilly coughed and looked down at his Santa suit, which was now more black than red.
“He’s lying, Daddy!”
“Yes, Daddy! He came down the chimney and threw something at us.”
“Get him, Daddy!”
Mr. Thrane took a step toward Nilly, but stopped. “What exactly did he throw?”
“I dunno, Daddy! It was something invisible!”
“Hmm.” Mr. Thrane took a step back again. “Police! Police!”
It took a few seconds, and then the door to the living room opened and two uniformed policemen rushed in.
“Calm down, Mr. Thrane. We’ve been guarding the door,” the policeman with the Fu Manchu mustache said.
“And we haven’t let in a single person without the receipts to prove they’re a member of Christmas,” the policeman with the handlebar mustache said.
“But this burglar came down the chimney,” Mr. Thrane said, pointing at Nilly. “Arrest him! But be careful. He’s armed.”
“A genu-wine thief right here on Spitsburpen! And he’s dangerous, too. What do you say to that, Rolf?”
“Dangerous or not, we’re valiant police officers. So I say we arrest this ne’er-do-well posthaste, Gunnar!”
“I couldn’t concur more, Rolf. So, by all means, let’s proceed.”
“No sooner said than done, Gunnar. I’m right behind you.”
“Oh, but you’re eleven days older than me, Rolf. So, please, you first.”
“Let’s nab him!”
“What is he doing? Is he eating some kind of powder?”
“Looks like it, but we’ve got him . . .” The two policemen reached out their hands to grab the teeny-tiny Santa Claus in the fireplace.
Bang!
A black cloud of ash mushroomed out of the fireplace. And once it settled, the boy had vanished into thin air. And the two policemen were black from top to toe.
“Wow, he really ripped a good one. That was one heck of a Christmas salute,” one of them said, dusting ash off his Fu Manchu mustache.
“Yup, that kid farted right in our faces,” said the other, blowing ash off his handlebar mustache.
“Well, you know the old saying, Gunnar: Whoever smelt it, dealt it.”
“What are you saying, Rolf?”
“Think about it. Wasn’t that a familiar-smelling fart?”
“I didn’t smell a thing.”
“Exactly. Was that the only fart you’ve smelled recently that didn’t stink?”
“Oho! You don’t mean . . . ?”
“I do mean . . .”
“Doctor Proctor from Cannon Avenue! Did you hear that, Mr. Thrane? We just solved this complex criminal case with a little quick sniffing flatuloforensics!”
“I’ll show you what solving the case looks like!” Mr. Thrane growled, and snatched down the big shotgun that hung over the fireplace. “I’m going to go engage in a little self-defense against some dangerous thieves.”
He loaded two big red cartridges into his shotgun, gave his suspenders a tug, and then marched to the front door. The two policemen and all the kids followed on his heels.
“But, Mr. Thrane, you can’t simply . . .”
“It’s not legal to just . . .”
“Shut up!” he growled, and stepped out into the snow in front of the house and aimed his shotgun at the roof. There was no one up there.
“Shh!” Mr. Thrane said.
They heard a faint rustling sound from the back of the house. And then a strange animal came around the corner of the Thranes’ massive house. It was a . . . giraffe! And there was a guy with bushy hair and swim goggles sitting on the giraffe’s back. The teeny-tiny little Santa guy from the fireplace was next to him. Actually, the girl sitting next to them was the only one on the sleigh who seemed relatively normal.
“Tell me, Rolf,” Handlebar whispered to Fu Manchu. “Is it legal to ride a giraffe on the roads in Norway?”
“I can’t recall there being anything against it, Gunnar,” Mr. Fu Manchu said, scratching his Fu Manchu mustache.
Mr. Thrane stepped in front of the giraffe and aimed his rifle at it. “Freeze!” he ordered.
“All right,” the little Santa said, hopping up onto the seat and yanking off his Santa cap. “There, now I’m freezing. Well, a little anyway.”
“I mean don’t move!” Mr. Thrane bellowed. “Sit down! I’m going to count to three. One . . .”
“Excuse me, Mr. Thrane,” Mr. Fu Manchu said, “but do you have a permit to carry that shotgun? If not . . .”
“Shut up, fuzz face! Two!”
“It would be great if you could count to four,” the boy said, looking at his watch.
Mr. Thrane raised one eyebrow and said, “Why?”
“Because it’ll be exactly eight o’clock then.”
A strange creaking and rumbling sound started.
“I’ll shoot you whenever I darn well please!” Mr. Thrane yelled. “Two and a half!”
“Gunnar,” Mr. Fu Manchu whispered to Mr. Handlebar, “we’re going to have to negotiate with Mr. Thrane so nothing terrible happens here.”
“I suppose you’re right about that, Rolf.”
“Then we concur. Why don’t you start?”
“Right. I’ll use police negotiating tactics to convince Mr. Thrane not to . . .”
“Maybe you should get started on that before it’s too late, Gunnar.”
“Once again we concur.” Mr. Handlebar cleared his throat. “My dear sir! Dear, dear Mr. Thrane, don’t shoot. I beseech you on my knees, I . . .”
“Three!” Mr. Thrane carefully squeezed the trigger, because he had to admit he was dreading the bang a little. And while
he was squeezing, he realized some kind of light had come on in the taxidermied animal’s eyes.
“Cuckoo!”
The orange head on the front of the sleigh came speeding toward Mr. Thrane on a long, spotted neck, its jaws wide open and its shiny, white vampire teeth gleaming.
“Bleargh!” Mr. Thrane screamed.
The jaws clamped shut around his shotgun and yanked it out of his hands. The long neck lurched, launching the shotgun into the yard, where it disappeared pretty noiselessly in the snow.
“Hey, you taxidermied animal! That, what you just did there, is also not permitted under the statutes . . . ,” Mr. Fu Manchu began.
“Cuckoo,” the vampire giraffe said, and snatched the policeman’s hat off his head and tossed it onto the roof.
“No, now this is going too far!” Mr. Handlebar said. “On the roof?!”
“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
Mr. Thrane, Truls, Trym, the two policemen, and all the children who were members of Christmas hit the deck as the long neck with the giraffe head on it darted out over them. When they dared to peek up again, they saw only snow swirling behind the giraffe and the three people sitting on its back. And an instant later it vanished into the darkness.
Twenty-Eight Hours Plus a Few Minutes until Christmas Eve
THE MOON SHONE down on Cannon Avenue, where Lisa cautiously peeked through the gap between her bedroom curtains. The blue gleam from the light on the police car outside swept across her bedroom ceiling.
“The policemen rang the bell at your house, Doctor Proctor,” she reported in a whisper. “And now they’re ringing the bell at yours, Nilly.”
“Good luck with that,” said Nilly, who had lain down on the bed with his hands under his head.
“Are you sure your parents won’t suddenly come home?” asked Doctor Proctor, who was sitting on the floor next to the dresser.
“Very sure,” Lisa said. “My mom is at my grandmother’s house making hartshorn cookies and syrup gingersnaps, and my dad is at the fortress manning the cannons in case Finland attacks.”
“Finland? But they’re our allies!”