Arthur Christmas (9 page)

Realizing his ambitious assistant wasn't helping his cause, Steve said, “Get me an espresso, Peter.”

“But it'll ruin Gwen's Christmas if Santa doesn't come,” Arthur explained.

“He's not normal, Steve.” Grandsanta grabbed for the reins. “Jingle this and silent that, he's obsessed! We'll come quietly!”

Once again, Arthur took back the reins. “Steve, you said if there was any way to get there, you would! Well, this is it! Look! The old sleigh is perfect!”

The image of Eve that the Hoho sent looked so far from perfect that even Arthur had to admit, “Oh … well, anyway, it goes really fast even with bits missing. And we've got quite a few reindeer left … and if I'm sick again I can be sick in a bag!”

“I'll wrap him one!” Bryony promised.

Then Arthur begged his brother. “Steve, please.”

Support elf Sarah Wilko chimed in, “We can help them, sir!”

“No one missed, sir!” the elf named Deborah added.

“All correct presents present and correct, sir!” another elf agreed.

All around Steve, elves sprang into action, punching in 47785BXK to put satellite images of Gwen's house on the big screen.

Arthur urged, “If you help us, Steve, we can do it!”

Everyone in Mission Control and on the Hoho screen stared at Steve. Then an over-eager elf named Thomas Jack piped up, saying just the wrong thing. “Grandsanta and Arthur would be the heroes of the night, sir!”

Peter dropped the espresso cup.

Steve argued, “Come home now! The whole Gwen thing, it's emotional thinking, Arthur. If we all just gave in to Christmas spirit, there'd be chaos!”

Grandsanta grabbed the reins. “We're on our way, Steve!”

But Arthur grabbed back the reins, even though Santa refused to let go. The skinny young man was surprisingly strong, but so was his aged adversary.

Arthur cried, “No! Santa will want us to get to Gwen! Ask him, please!”

Steve paused for a moment, and then smiled wryly. “Arthur, this is Dad we're talking about. He went to bed! Santa's just a part he plays. It's a suit. He's not interested.”

Every cell in Arthur's body rebelled against this horrible idea. “You're wrong! He's lying awake worrying his beard off about Gwen!”

Steve pressed the big red
SANTA
button on the nearest phone. Arthur expected his father to pick up on the first ring, or maybe his mother. Instead, after several rings, the answering machine clicked on.

Santa's jolly, recorded voice began, “Ho, ho, ho, getting some shut-eye, please do not disturb um … 'til December 26 … Is that it, dear?”

Mrs. Claus's recorded voice replied to Santa, “Yes, Malcolm. Press the red but …”

The machine
BLEEPED
.

Arthur's heart sank. He shook his head furiously, refusing to accept the awful truth. “No! Santa's the most caring man in the world!”

“So, why are you here and not him?” Bryony wondered.

Arthur turned to Bryony and stared blankly. He had no answer to that. He dropped the reins just as Grandsanta yanked hard.

The sleigh suddenly flipped upside down. The Hoho flew up in the air.

Steve called, “Arthur?!”

But no one answered. The upside down sleigh dumped Arthur, Bryony, Grandsanta, Dasher, and Gwen's bike out onto the dunes of a deserted beach before disappearing into the starry sky.

After a moment, Arthur stood up and walked across the sand, away from the others and Gwen's gift.

“Don't leave me, Arthur!” Grandsanta exclaimed.

But Arthur just kept walking.

“Poor old man and his reindeer, on our own at Christmas,” Grandsanta said pitifully. When Arthur continued to walk away, the old man added, “At least have the decency to finish us off with a rock!”

The young man walked toward the vast ocean, his sadness as deep as the sea itself.

With no other way to keep warm in the predawn chill on the beach, Bryony tore small bits of wrapping paper off Gwen's bicycle to feed a campfire. The night had been such a wild rollercoaster of emotions: shock at finding the undelivered gift, the excitement of embarking on the “impossible” mission, joy at finding Trelew, confusion on discovering it was the wrong Trelew, and now despair as even Arthur seemed resigned to failure. Worse than that, the young man had lost that most precious spark: his belief in the goodness of Santa Claus.

Arthur's sadness chilled the elf even more than the wild wind on that dark Cuban beach. Even his self-centered grandfather hated to see Arthur so low.

“Sun'll be up soon. It's Christmas!” Grandsanta reminded him.

Arthur's sour expression did not change at all. “Christmas is for kids. You grow out of it.”

Bryony could not believe her pointed ears. “What, in the last six minutes?”

Arthur sighed. “You were right, Grandsanta. I wasn't normal.”

The old man regretted his harsh words. “No, no, it's how you are, Son …”

Arthur interrupted. “No, you were right. And Steve. And … and Dad. All that trouble for one kid, I was being ridiculous.”

He stretched out on the cold sand. Soon he would be able to sunbathe. Arthur wondered what that would be like. “This is nice. It's good to get away from it all, you know, all the Christmas fuss.”

Grandsanta moved closer. “The night I last took Evie out, when there was all that … fuss … your father came to me. I'll never forget it. Couldn't look me in the eye. ‘Dad,' he says, ‘Steve thinks it's best you don't fly again. We're scrapping the sleigh.' Me own son. Who used to sit where you sat, looking up at me!”

The old man tried to explain his actions. “I just wanted them to remember who I used to be.”

Grandsanta came as close as he could to apologizing. “We're just a fambly, Son. But we're a fambly of Santas! We're the Clauses!”

Arthur pulled Gwen's letter from his pocket. “Are we? How can I ever write another letter saying Santa cares?”

He threw the letter on the sand, pulled off his remaining reindeer slipper and tossed it far out to sea.

“G'night, Dad,” he told the indifferent ocean. “Sleep well.”

IN HIS NORTH
Pole quarters, Santa slept quite soundly, snoring loudly beside Mrs. Claus in their big, cozy bed. A soft knock at the door roused the tired man from his slumbers.

Santa stumbled out of bed and opened the door to a hallway full of elves! An elf named Norah spoke for the group, “Sir, we know you shouldn't believe in rumors, but we do.”

The Scottish elf called Seamus Malone stood beside her. He continued in his thick brogue, “Is it true you missed a child?”

“No, no,” Santa hastily denied. But then, “Well … er … in a way … yes.”

The gathered elves gasped.

“It was just one,” Santa quickly added. “In fact, not even that, zero point lots more zeroes, then a number with some sort of percent at the end. Not really an error! Just a … a one.”

“One child doesn't matter? Which one?” asked an elf.

Santa squirmed. “Well I … um … it's not that …”

As more elves started murmuring about ones and children, Santa suggested, “Um … why don't you ask Steve? He can explain. Fiendishly clever …”

Keenly aware of the chain-of-command, Field Sergeant Andrew Marino asked, “But aren't you in charge, sir?”

“Of course … I'm Santa!” Santa asserted.

Thomas Jack still couldn't grasp Santa's loopy logic. “Sir, if the one that got missed doesn't matter, why have Arthur and Grandsanta gone to deliver the present?”

Santa's mouth dropped open. Behind him, in the open doorway, Mrs. Claus glared at her husband like a thundercloud about to spit lightning. “Malcolm, what's this about Arthur?!” she demanded fiercely.

In Mission Control, Steve soon found himself similarly surrounded by upset elves.

Deborah wanted to know, “Is there a list of children who don't matter?”

Carlos Connor misquoted, “Santa said they don't matter 100 percent.”

“No, no, no,” Steve quickly denied. “I … yes, of course.” Steve stumbled, unable to collect his thoughts while so many tiny pairs of eyes stared at him accusingly.

Another elf asked, “Is it true children aren't even real?”

Steve sighed. “Look, I festivized every single country in the world! See? This one, this one, this one, this one, all of them! I mean, who cares about one single child?” he demanded defensively.

The elves gasped in horror at Steve's callous statement—especially because they saw who was standing right behind him. Santa and Mrs. Claus stared at the bank of screens, all showing sightings of Arthur and the old sleigh.

Santa exclaimed, “Arthur! The poor boy … Why on Earth would he … You're his brother, Steve. How could you let him … ?”

Even as he tried to push the blame on his elder son, Santa felt those tiny eyes boring into him. He quickly added, “And … um … about this child you missed. I'm really not sure you made the right decision.”

Steve smiled coldly at his father. “Right. Over there is satellite tracking … navigation … data analysis … communications. Coffee machine's by the door. Goodnight, SANTA.”

Then he walked out of the room singing, “Gloooooria, Hosannah in excelsis!”

Steve slammed the door behind him, leaving Santa alone with a thousand elves all looking at him for a solution. He stared around the room, feeling completely lost.

“Um … I'll be right back,” he muttered.

He scuttled out the door. Santa did not know what to do. But his feet seemed to know where they wanted to go. They led him down the long Mailroom Department hall to the office of Mail Agent 3776.

Santa flicked on the light in Arthur's office, realizing he had never before bothered to visit. When he saw the shelf full of knickknacks, and the icon of Santa Claus, he felt both amazed and embarrassed by the young man's deep devotion to Christmas.

Santa slumped into the chair where his son had spent so many hours answering children's letters. He picked up a few and skimmed them. Santa immediately recognized Arthur's humor and goodwill in each sincere, sunny answer.

Dear Xiao-Ling, thanks for your letter and drawing of Santa tripping over your dog. It was hilarious …

Dear Alessandro, yes Santa is real. Tell your sister …

Dear Lars, I promise, Santa will come … He's the greatest man ever …

Santa looked up from the letters to the picture of the apple-cheeked, twinkly-eyed Saint on Arthur's wall. This magical, mystical Santa seemed so much more wonderful than the tired mortal Malcolm had been admiring in his mirror lately.

Santa no longer felt as if he filled the red suit—at least not where it really counted. His belly had grown bigger with the years, but had he somehow lost the heart of Santa Claus? Feeling more like ordinary old Malcolm, the current Claus wondered where his second son could be—and would he ever see Arthur again?

At that moment, Bryony put the last bit of wrapping on the dying fire. She picked up Gwen's letter, but hesitated. “Can I burn this?”

Arthur shrugged. “Sure. There's millions like it.”

He traced a skinny finger through the cold sand, idly drawing a picture of Santa. Then he wiped away the image as he mused, “This is how it feels to stop believing in Santa.”

Arthur turned to the fire. “This is how Gwen will feel. Life is disappointing. People let you down.”

Her large, childish handwriting tugged at his heart. “She's only six!”

He stared miserably at Gwen's crayon drawing of burning Santa now starting to burn itself. Then Arthur suddenly snatched the singed letter and smoking postcard from the flames. He blew on them and exclaimed, “That's not Dad. Or you. Or Steve!”

He held up Gwen's childish scrawl depicting the jolly man in the red suit. “This is Santa! Gwen's Santa!” Arthur spoke with sudden conviction, “And as long as the bike is there when Gwen wakes up, then Santa came. And
he
cares!”