Arthur Christmas (5 page)

Steve was irritated. How dare his father grab the credit and evade the blame. “Me?! I thought this was
your
mission!”

“Oh, no, no, no, this is your department,” Santa replied hastily.

Arthur felt as if he was having a nightmare. Who cared who was responsible? The important thing was making sure the child received a gift before morning. He demanded, “What are we going to do?”

Santa blustered. “We must … um … we must … what must we do, Steven? Do I need to get my boots back on?” Just the thought of this made the tired, old man yawn.

“Absolutely not!” Steve declared, to Santa's relief. “A loss of delivery is deeply regrettable. But the mission was a success!”

Arthur could not believe his big ears. “But we CAN'T leave out a child on Christmas!”

Peter tapped more keys on his Hoho.

Steve sighed, as the data reached his screen. “Sunrise at destination is 7:39 a.m. There's no way to get there on time. Except, of course, in the S-1. But it just traveled seven million miles! It needs months of engineering checks! We could damage it!” Realizing the S-1 didn't mean as much to everyone else as it did to him, Steve added, “And risk the lives of the elves!”

Bryony told Santa, “I'll go, sir! Bryony Shelfley, Wrapping Operative Grade Three, sir!” Her tiny heart stirred with excitement at the thought that she might be able to serve on this vital, dangerous mission.

“I wasn't called up for field duty this year. I served out the mission in Gift-wrap Support, wrapped 264,000 presents in three days, sir! If you want that bike delivered in a full state of enwrapment, then I'm your elf!”

“No one is going!” Steve stated.

Santa started to object, “But this child …”

“… is a margin of error of 0.000000001514384 percent.” Steve flashed perfect teeth in a perfect smile. “WOW. I mean, hello? Where's the champagne? That's incredible! My department has delivered the most outstanding Christmas ever!”

Santa felt uncertain and even more tired than before. “Oh, uh … well done us!” he agreed with his clever, older son.

Arthur felt unmoved by the impressive percentage. “But the kid got no present.”

Numbers confused Santa, but he knew this was not good. Sensing his father's indecision, Steve quickly added, “It's a statistical anomaly.”

Arthur countered, “The child's been good all year!”

Steve spoke smoothly, “Arthur, no one feels this more than I do. But Christmas is not a time for emotion. We'll get 44785BXK a present within the
window
of Christmas. We can messenger the item to arrive within five days.”

Arthur shrieked, “That'll ruin the magic!”

Steve chuckled at his silly younger brother. “If there was any way to make the drop tonight … but it can't be done.”

Arthur turned to their father, full of faith that Santa would make things right. But the old man just yawned and said, “I won't sleep easy after this, Arthur. But there it is. It can't be done.”

Steve patted Arthur's bony shoulders. “Go to bed, little bro. Merry Christmas.”

Then Steve and Santa walked away, leaving Arthur and Bryony to stare in stunned silence at the giant counter's lonely “1” beneath the golden motto, “In Santa We Believe.”

Arthur raced to the dock and snatched the gift from Bryony. As he ran off with it under his arm, the concerned elf shouted after him, “You're compromising the wrapping!”

RIP!
Bryony cringed as the paper snagged on a door, but Arthur was gone. He had to know the identity of 47785BXK.

Finally, he found the letter and postcard stamped with that unlucky designation. Arthur read the letter and recognized the postcard from Gwen Hines of 23 Mimosa Avenue, Trelew, Cornwall, England. He instantly remembered the little girl whose friend thought Santa's mission was “impossible,” the good little girl who wanted the “pink Twinkle Bike.”

Arthur looked at the clock near his shrine to Santa Claus. 5:24 a.m. Could Gwen's friend be correct? Was delivering her gift really “impossible”? Arthur's thin shoulders slumped with abject defeat.

At that moment, Steve stared at a red designer suit neatly trimmed with white. This would have been his Santa suit. But … he hung it back in the closet and switched off his light.

Meanwhile, Santa hung up his well-worn suit and wondered, “This figurehead thingy … I'm not just a fatty with a suit, am I?”

“Of course not, dear,” Mrs. Claus assured him mechanically. How could she tell her husband that his eyes had lost that special twinkle?

Santa fretted on, “And retire … what would I do all day?”

“Well, we could spend more time together, maybe take up gardening,” Mrs. Claus suggested. “It's a little tricky at the North Pole, but there's a lot you can grow in containers. And there's Steve … and Arthur …”

Santa sighed. “Arthur. Oh, dear. What a puzzle.” Would his second son ever be good at anything?

Santa said, “I'm still very much up for the job, you know.” But his Ho, ho, ho faded out into a huge yawn. “Night, dear,” Santa muttered, just before he became lost in snores.

IN THE DARKNESS,
tiny lights flickered in the flashing eyes of Arthur's reindeer slippers. Too miserable to sleep, Arthur stared at Gwen's letter by these blinking lights.

“It can't be … it just can't be …” Arthur muttered over and over again, until finally he slammed his head on his desk, dislodging the shelf full of Santa knickknacks.

“What's all this kadoodle, young man?”

Arthur turned; he was surprised to see Grandsanta and Dasher in the doorway. He waved Gwen's letter and explained, “It's this little girl: She's been missed!”

Grandsanta exclaimed, “Ha! So much for your brother's fancy-pants technology!”

“No, Steve and Dad racked their brains, but it's impossible!” replied Arthur.

Grandsanta was skeptical. “Is it now? Missed a child! Dear, oh, dear, sends shivers down me shins.”

Arthur glanced at the clock again and imagined Gwen. “In two hours she's going to wake up, tear downstairs, search under the tree, and …” He couldn't bear it. “But there's NOTHING THERE! She won't understand. She'll think she's the one kid in the world who Santa doesn't care about.”

Grandsanta was only half-listening. His wrinkled face glowed with excitement as his aged brain hatched a plan. “D'you know, Arthur. There
is
a way!”

But the young man felt lost in melancholy. “It's impossible!”

Grandsanta scoffed. “They used to say it was impossible to teach women to read!” Then he added slyly, “Follow me.”

The old man led his grandson down a dark hall toward the Abandoned Toy Depot in a dusty, unused section of the vast North Pole complex. Arthur's slippers blinked, and his flashlight beam cast a lonely cone of light in the blackness. Dasher whined nervously as they walked past rusty shelves under a sign that read Dolls and Toys.

Grandsanta unlocked a large door that creaked slowly open. Arthur's flashlight beam discovered a familiar shape coated in shiny red paint. On a brass plate, he read three letters that spelled the name
EVE
. The old man switched on a single bare light bulb that hung above the antique sleigh.

Arthur gasped in wonder and disbelief. “The sleigh! The actual sleigh!”

Grandsanta sighed. “Hello, Evie.”

“I thought it was scrapped years ago!” Arthur exclaimed.

Grandsanta grinned mischievously. “So did everyone else.”

“Can I … ?” Arthur's fingers reached eagerly toward the legendary object, longing to touch the smooth wood. “Icelandic birch, Arctic balsa, built in 1845, able to reach 50,000 mph at a height of 40,000 feet!” Arthur's stomach lurched just at the thought of such speed and height.

Grandsanta wheezed as he struggled to lift a large, rusty drum. Arthur hurried to help him wrestle it onto the sleigh.

The peeling label read Potash of Carboniloroxy Amilocitrate. Arthur recognized the formula for the sleigh's special fuel. “Oh! Magic dust!”

Grandsanta nodded. “Mined from the Aurora Borealis.”

Arthur felt confused. “But … she doesn't still … go?”

Grandsanta grinned. His cloudy old eyes twinkled as he threw open another door. Beyond it, through a fine net of cobwebs, Arthur saw stables where eight reindeer shuffled in their hay like restless horses.

“Not just a hobby,” Grandsanta said. “Greatgreat-grandchildren of the original eight!” Then he took a brass horn off a hook. He blew into it, but no sound emerged, just a dead mouse. Grandsanta's wrinkled old cheeks puffed as he blew the horn again. This time Arthur and the reindeer heard a weak-yethauntingly-beautiful note.

“Wow!” Arthur whispered reverently.

Grandsanta called out, “Dancer! Prancer!” He struggled with his faded memory. “Er … What are the others called? Bambi? John! You there, with the white ear! And you and you and not you, you bag of fleas!”

Arthur felt uncomfortable as the reindeer responded to the old man's command. “Uh … oh … er … I'm not really good with big animals.”

Grandsanta dismissed his fear. “Piffle!”

Arthur laughed nervously.

Grandsanta said, “Don't get bit. They can smell fear. Let's hitch 'em up.”

Suddenly Arthur was up to his elbows in antlers. “Ah, uh … excuse me …” He told his grandfather, “You can go to Gwen, on the old sleigh with the reindeer and the magic dust and everything. It's a miracle!”

“You're coming, too, lad.”

Arthur froze. The journey combined all his worst fears. “Me?! On THAT? Up THERE? Pulled by THEM? No, no, no way!”

Grandsanta protested. “I'm 136! I can't do it on me own, I need an elf!”

Arthur objected. “I can't fly a sleigh! I can't even ride a bike without training wheels!” His mind raced for a solution. “I know. Let's wake Steve. He'll …”

Grandsanta shook his head. “What if he stops us? Gwen's forgotten.”

Arthur felt touched by his grandfather's concern. “You really care!”

“Of course, I do!” Grandsanta agreed hastily. “I was Santa, too!” His old eyes flickered over the young man, calculating exactly how to persuade him. “Think of your dad, lying awake, chewing his beard off worrying over this girl. Don't you want to
help
for once? Make him
proud
?”

Arthur was frozen. “I can't! I just … I can't. No … NO! I CAN'T!”

Nevertheless, a few minutes later, Arthur found himself huddled in Eve's foot well, clutching Gwen's bike. As the ancient elevator lifted Eve out of the complex into the open air, Arthur shook like the faded flags marking the North Pole and flapping in the arctic wind.

The eight beautiful young reindeer were now harnessed to the sleigh. As he held their reins, Grandsanta's chest puffed with pride beneath his mothball-scented, old Santa suit.

Dasher sat on the sleigh's back seat, his nose excitedly sniffing the icy wind. Grandsanta looked back and asked his terrified passenger, “Ready?”

Arthur's buckteeth chattered with cold and fear, as he replied, “NO!”

But Grandsanta flicked the reins anyway, and the eight reindeer trotted forward.

Arthur felt the sleigh start to move and begged, “You
promise
not to go too fast?”

Grandsanta's response did not reassure the young man. “Woohoo!”

“Or high! Or bumpy, I get travel sick!” Arthur reminded the old man. “And I'm allergic to snow!”

“Ye baubles!” Grandsanta exclaimed. “And you a son of Santa?”

As the sleigh picked up speed, it vibrated violently and loudly, like a washing machine with an unbalanced load. Grandsanta's dentures rattled wildly.

“Wait!” Arthur shouted, suddenly realizing he wasn't wearing appropriate footgear. “My Christmas slippers!”

But it was too late. The sleigh was on its way—and with only two hours to reach Trelew before sunrise.

Grandsanta pulled a brass lever and a sparkly cloud of magic dust rained down over the reindeer. Instantly, their hooves left the ground as the deer floated into the air.

“Dash! DASH! DAAAAASHHH!” Grandsanta cried, just as Arthur screamed, “STOP! STOP! STOOOOOP!”

The reindeer obeyed the red-suited man with the reins, and their hearts beat with glee as they fulfilled their destiny.

Grandsanta looked back at the North Pole and punched the air in defiant triumph. “See? Who's Santa
now
?!” The sleigh climbed higher, toward a glorious moon, leaving a trail of glittering dust. “HO, HO, HO! WHOOHOO!!” the old man crooned, just before Eve suddenly plunged down, lurching and shaking. The young reindeer bucked wildly, pulling in all different directions.

Arthur wailed into the wind, “AAAAAH! PUT ME DOWN!”

Grandsanta roared with laughter. “What's the matter, boy?”