Hearth and Home

By E.T. Malinowski

Thistle is a sweet elf with a kind heart. He tries his best to help all the other elves in Santa’s workshop. Unfortunately, Thistle tends to leave disaster in his wake despite his good intentions. He dreams of finding an elf who will love him in spite of his clumsiness, an elf he can make a home for. But what elf wants to live in constant peril? Thistle figures he should just stick with his anonymous treat baskets, especially where Bayberry, Santa’s production manager, is concerned.

Bayberry is a bit of a serious elf. A little distant from most of the North Pole crew, Bayberry is lonely. When another Thistle Incident occurs, pushing the production department behind schedule only a few weeks before Christmas, Bayberry gets a “suggestion” from The Big Guy to ask Thistle for help. What could an accident-prone elf do to assist him? But to Bayberry’s surprise, he might gain more than help with his monthly reports.

“T
HISTLE
! W
ATCH
out!”

The sharp voice startled Thistle terribly as he tried to move through the workroom while holding perhaps a few too many boxes. Pain flared on his left hip as he collided with one of the worktables. The boxes went flying forward, propelled by the momentum. More ominous than the
thunk
of the boxes was the tinkling sound of shattering glass. Of course, it had to be the ornaments and glassworks. He couldn’t possibly have run into the stuffed toys bench or the Christmas socks table. No, Thistle had to find the one breakable bench among hundreds, and the one most likely to do him injury.

Thistle froze, knowing if he took one step, he would invariably step on a piece of glass… or a hundred. He could feel every eye in the work area on him, feel the frustration and the anger. He’d been trying to help. Mistletoe had been the only one on transfer duty and had been running herself ragged, trying to make sure all the packages got to the right departments. Granted, she hadn’t asked for his help, but Thistle had figured carrying boxes couldn’t possibly result in anything bad, right?

No, not right.

“Don’t move, Thistle,” Bayberry said with an exasperated sigh. “You’ll get glass in your feet. Where are your shoes?”

“Um, home?” Thistle answered as he curled his bare toes.

“You know the rules,” Bayberry said, putting his hands on his hips as he stood before Thistle. “Shoes are to be worn in the work areas at all times.”

“I, well, I kind of forgot I wasn’t wearing them.” Thistle bit his lip. “I was helping Mistletoe, and this is the quickest way to the other side of the workshop.”

“Next time, go around,” Pinebough grumbled as he approached with a broom. “It will save the rest of us extra work.”

“I didn’t mean….”

“It’s all right, Thistle. Just, be more careful and stay out of the work areas without shoes,” Bayberry easily lifted Thistle out of the destruction zone and set him down in a glass-free area.

“Um, okay, I’ll try…. I mean, I will,” Thistle scurried out of the work area. He practically slammed the door behind him, leaning against the wall next to it. Thistle took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

Just as he’d calmed his racing heart, the door burst open to reveal Pinebough with the boxes Thistle had forgotten in his effort to escape the embarrassing situation. They were unceremoniously shoved into his arms.

“Here, make sure they get where they’re supposed to go in one piece,” Pinebough grumbled.

“Th-Thank you,” Thistle said, attempting to smile.

Pinebough just grunted and went back into the workroom, closing the door behind him.

Thistle sighed. Once he had regained his composure, he finished delivering the boxes and then returned to Mistletoe’s office to see if there was anything else to be done. He found Mistletoe in a panic as she flipped through pages of manifests.

“I know they were here. I checked them in and set them aside. Where could they have gone?” she muttered.

“Hello, Mistletoe,” Thistle said with a smile. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find some boxes,” she said, and Thistle got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I left them right here. They have to go back. They needed to go back. I know I set them right here, but now I can’t find…. Thistle? What are you doing here?”

“I thought you could use some help,” he said, giving Mistletoe his best, most innocent smile. It didn’t work. Her green eyes narrowed and Thistle’s shoulders slumped. “I thought I was helping. I took the boxes to Lights and Décor.”

“The boxes were damaged in transit.” Mistletoe put her hands on her hips. “You march right over to Lights and Décor and bring them here at once.”

“Yes, Mistletoe.” Thistle stared at the floor and then he practically ran out the door. It took him a little longer to bring the boxes back than it had when he’d first delivered them, but that was because he made a point to carry only what he could and still be able to see. And he took the long way around. When he finally finished, Mistletoe gave him a lecture on waiting until he was asked for his help.

He didn’t bother telling her that no one would ever do that voluntarily.

When she finally released him, Thistle wandered through the halls until he finally reached the main doors of the workshop. From there it was a short walk across the court square and a little ways to the outer edges of the village, where his cottage nestled among a little copse of trees. Thistle’s home was his haven, and right now, he needed it. It would be nice if he could go one week without some misfortune or another.

Thistle managed to make it to his cottage without any further mishaps, although there had been a close call with a wagon and a startled donkey. He hung his cloak up on the hook by the door after shaking the bits of snow from the fabric. Thistle smiled. His grandmother had made him the cloak to match his blue-purple hair. It was warm wool on the outside and lined with soft rabbit fur. Sometimes he would find himself stroking the fur as he walked, soothed by the soft feel running against his fingers.

Shaking his head at his own silliness, Thistle wandered over to his fireplace and threw several logs on the embers, then set them burning with a soft blowing of his breath on the logs. If there was one thing Thistle could say for himself, it was that his magic was more reliable than his physical body. Yet he didn’t like using it too often. He didn’t want to come to rely on it to do everything for him.

After making sure the fire was all set, Thistle wandered into his kitchen. He pulled a bright red apron from its hook, put it on, and deftly tied the strings behind his waist. Thistle didn’t even think. He just pulled the things he needed from the cabinet and began to bake. It was one thing he was good at, and it relaxed him, not that he would
ever
tell anyone about his little hobby. They wouldn’t believe him if he did. They would wonder how the cottage hadn’t burned down… or exploded.

Sometimes Thistle wondered the same thing.

Grams had said Thistle had hearth magic, all the things he needed to make a house a home. Then she’d ruffle his hair and show him another recipe.

Thistle liked to cook, but he loved to bake. He would never confess to having a sweet tooth. It was his guilty passion. Only his elven metabolism saved him from being as big as his cottage.

Rolling out dough, Thistle hummed to himself and let his mind wander just enough. By the time he was done, Thistle had several batches of sugar, gingersnaps, peanut butter bars, chocolate chip, and lemon drop cookies—enough to feed the entire workshop for three days. He also felt much better, not like so much of a klutz or disaster waiting to happen. He gathered several baskets from next to the pantry and lined them with little scraps of cloth. Then he filled each basket, six in all, with an equal assortment of the treats. With a smile, he whispered the charm that would keep the cookies warm. His own little invention, it was a variation on his fire-starting spell. Cookies were best when fresh from the oven, and his enchantment kept them that way until they were gone. Everyone liked warm treats, especially during winter.

With three baskets on each arm, Thistle snuck back into the workshop and delivered the baskets to each of the departments: Marketing, Packaging, Production, Operations, Accounting, and Shipping. He was especially careful not to be seen. He didn’t want to have to explain anything. He just wanted to do something nice for everyone, and this was the only way he knew that wouldn’t cause injury, especially since he was the only one who ever seemed to get hurt when things happened. Maybe he would make a house a home someday, but the elf he would do that with would have to survive the first four or five encounters with Thistle first. Then he would have to want to stick around for more. Everyone else had decided he wasn’t worth the risk. It hurt, but Thistle could understand.

It wasn’t that majorly bad things happened to or around Thistle. It was all the annoying little things that occurred. After a while, it could wear on a person. Thistle had lived with it all his life. He still wasn’t comfortable with it, and it did make for a lonely existence. Humming softly to himself, Thistle made his way through the workshop, delivering his baskets of goodies. Even if the others didn’t know it was him leaving them treats,
he
knew, and he saw their joy when they ate them. And that was enough, to know his baking brought joy to someone even if only for a little while.

B
AYBERRY
LEANED
back in his office chair and rubbed his eyes. His month-end reports were due, and now he was going to be behind schedule for the glass orders. He’d wanted to be mad at Thistle today, but Thistle had looked so forlorn and upset amid all the broken glass that Bayberry just hadn’t had the heart to yell at him. Thistle really was endearing, with his big crystal-blue eyes and adorable dimples when he smiled. The long blue-purple hair was always escaping the neat braid Thistle attempted to keep it in, and Bayberry couldn’t say he didn’t admire the effect those errant curls had on Thistle’s appearance. Thistle was very sweet and always meant well. He was just… well, accident-prone.

A soft sound caught Bayberry’s attention. Confused and curious, he rose from his seat and moved to the door of his office. Bayberry hadn’t closed it all the way, so he was able to peek out into the work area without being seen himself. He was surprised to see Thistle making his way out of the workroom. What had Thistle been up to? Moving farther into the workshop after Thistle had gone, Bayberry looked around. He spotted a medium-sized basket sitting on the table where the production team took their breaks and lunches. Then the smell reached him and Bayberry’s stomach rumbled. He knew that smell: sugar cookies, ginger snaps, and chocolate chip cookies!

Examining the basket, Bayberry realized he’d see it before. About three months ago, the basket had appeared in the break room, much like it had today, filled with pastries: cream puffs, blueberry turnovers, tiny streusel cakes with Dutch apple filling. The production staff had been overjoyed. Many of the elves living in the North Pole had a sweet tooth, and the pastries had disappeared by midafternoon. The rest of the day had been filled with bright laughter and busy hands. They had met their production goals way ahead of schedule. It had been the first time in weeks, and prior to that day, everyone had been a bit down in the dumps. The treats had seemed to do the trick. Bayberry had never been able to find out who had baked them. He’d wanted to thank them because it had been such a nice gesture.

Absently, Bayberry rubbed the red cloth of the basket lining with his fingers as he thought about the basket. Then it clicked. Thistle had just been sneaking through the workroom. Thistle had left the basket. Thistle had managed
not
to break a single thing while delivering the cookies. How in the world had that happened? Bayberry could have sworn Thistle couldn’t take a step outside his door without some mishap.

Come to think of it, the last time they had received the baskets, Thistle had made a mess of things too. Bayberry smiled. Thistle was very sweet, and as far as Bayberry could tell, very shy, at least around him. Thistle never looked him in the eye for more than a second. He tended to mumble, as if he didn’t want Bayberry to hear him, and always seemed to run away as fast as he could whenever they interacted with each other.

Suddenly Bayberry yawned. It was going on one o’clock in the morning. He had to be back in the office at seven sharp. If he wanted to get any sleep, he had to leave now. He could always solve the riddle that was Thistle another day.

Snatching a chocolate chip cookie from the basket, Bayberry then headed back to his office. He put the files away, tidied his desk, and then turned off the light. He preferred to leave his office just so, but invariably things got all pushed around and discombobulated. Once everything was just the way he liked it, Bayberry stepped out of his office, locked the door, and left the building.