Santa Claus: The Movie Novelization Page 7

  Anya lifted her head, her own face set with determination. “It’s time to change that rule,” she said firmly, her sense of fairness and justice kindled.

  He shook his head uncertainly. “You’ll have folks saying that Santa Claus rewards only the good little boys and girls.”

  “And isn’t that as it should be?” Anya asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Santa was silent for a long moment. At last he nodded. “All right,” he said, looking up at his wife. There were times when one had to make a difficult choice and stand by it. Through their many years together, he had grown to trust implicitly Anya’s instincts of right and wrong. “Dooley,” he said, “you will have to keep track of who is good and bad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dooley nodded and started for the door.

  “And be careful,” Santa called. “I’ll be checking your list more than once.” This was a matter so important that he could not afford to make a single mistake in that list.

  Dooley nodded again, with a smile, and closed the door behind him.

  Santa sighed, looking back at Anya with a weary smile of his own. He wished for a moment that things could remain as they had been in the beginning. Why did everything always have to change and grow more complicated? But then, he had to admit that his arrival here had been the biggest change he would ever know—and it had certainly been a good one. He smiled again at his wife, and reached out to pat her hand.

  More years flew past, and the inevitable changes still came, faster and faster now. Not only in the styles of toys and their numbers, or in the always-difficult judgments of who deserved to receive them—but also in the widening of the territory which Santa Claus covered in his one extraordinary night a year. His fame had now spread to nations far beyond the lands the elves knew or were known in. Now he received letters in countless different languages, from children whose backgrounds and faces were as different and diverse as their letters were. The toys they asked for, and the homes he delivered them to, were marvelously strange and different as well. Even the toy houses the elves made took on new and different forms; new games were created each year to keep young minds growing; dolls now had black hair as well as blond and brown, curls, braids, topknots—round blue eyes and brown almond-shaped ones, and skin of many different colors. Discovering the infinite variety of the world’s children was one new change that never failed to delight Santa, and set him to remembering the misty, distant time when he had been only a simple peasant, never even dreaming of the vast and varied world which lay beyond the boundaries of his own village.

  There were, as always, changes he was not as fond of, however. “All this progress may be a fine thing, but the way people are changing certainly is not,” he remarked to Anya one evening, the day before his latest Christmas Eve flight. He sat finishing up his second helping of dessert as Anya kept him company at the table, having long since finished her own dinner. She nodded in agreement, but her gaze wandered to the buttons of his bright yellow polka-dot shirt, which were straining over his more-than-ample girth. She had noticed that he always left his favorite red vest unbuttoned these days, and she knew that he could no longer fasten his favorite green jacket. She was glad that he still enjoyed her cooking after so many years, but secretly she was sad to see him losing his handsome figure.

  “People don’t trust each other the way they used to,” Claus went on unhappily. “Years ago, the doors were always open. Now they lock ’em, afraid somebody’s going to steal what’s theirs.”

  Anya raised her eyebrows. “How do you get in?” she asked.

  Claus shrugged. “Windows, when I can. But mostly chimneys, and I don’t much like it. I don’t like the going in—” In his mind’s eye he saw himself squeezing his ample form into the narrow opening of a chimney, high atop a wrought-iron-grille bedecked Victorian rooftop. “And even less do I like the going out.” He sighed, picturing the inevitable plate of now-traditional cookies waiting for him on the mantel when he had finished setting presents beneath a gaily decorated tree. The snacks were always so good, and he knew that the children who left them there would be terribly disappointed if he didn’t eat them . . . And each time he climbed back into the chimney to leave, it took just a little more effort to get out. As it became increasingly difficult, he was forced to use his magic to go in and out of the chimneys.

  Anya bit her tongue, on the verge of saying something, but lost her nerve and only nodded sympathetically. Perhaps tomorrow she would think of a way to mention such a touchy subject . . .

  The next day, however, fate saw fit to take the matter gracefully out of her hands. As Santa made his rounds of the toy factory, Dooley came up to him, holding out an English newspaper. As the other elves gathered around curiously, Dooley cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

  “ ’Twas the night before Christmas,

  when all through the house

  Not a creature was stirring,

  not even a mouse.”

  Santa chuckled appreciatively, as he began to listen to this new retelling of his annual journey. Anya came up beside him and took his arm, smiling as she saw his face. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s a poem about me,” he said. “They say it’s a very big hit.” He beamed proudly, forgetting as he did that pride usually went before a fall. He turned back to listen as Dooley continued reading.

  “He had a broad face

  and a round little belly

  That shook when he laughed,

  like a bowlful of jelly.”

  Santa froze, the smile and all the color disappearing from his face. “What was that?” he gasped in disbelief, feeling suddenly, utterly mortified.

  “Pardon?” Dooley glanced up absently.

  “What was the last part?” Santa asked again, his voice barely functional.

  Dooley looked at the page, and read unsuspectingly, “ ‘He had a broad face . . .’ ”

  “Broad? A broad face?” Santa huffed, his face turning red with indignation now. He turned to Anya, frowning. “Do I have a broad face?”

  Anya looked down, twisting the hem of her apron self-consciously. “Well . . . your particular bone structure, darling—” She glanced up at him again, her own cheeks reddening with the awkwardness of the moment.

  Santa turned back to Dooley, glowering. “Yes, yes, go on,” he said gruffly. He waved a hand.

  “ ‘And a round little belly,’ ” Dooley read, his own voice barely audible now, as even he finally realized his dreadful oversight.

  Santa’s face had grown as red as his jacket now. Anya stared worriedly at him, expecting to see steam coming out of his ears any moment. “Go on,” he said between clenched teeth.

  Dooley cleared his throat, wishing fervently that somehow the floor would just open up and swallow him whole. “ ‘That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of . . .’ ”

  “Jelly,” Santa finished grimly.

  Dooley glanced up at him, his shoulders hunched with unspeakable chagrin. “It’s . . . just . . . a poem . . .” he wheezed.

  “Is that how they think I look?” Santa asked querulously, not even listening. He put his hands on his hips, turning back to Anya again.

  Anya moved her hands in the air, then clasped them together. “Well . . . you know,” she murmured unhappily, “the cookies . . .”

  Santa turned and stalked away through the circle of embarrassed elves, huffing wordlessly, trying to save what little of his dignity remained intact.

  That evening, in the privacy of his own kitchen, Claus sat down to a Christmas Eve dinner which consisted entirely of four carrot sticks, two celery sticks, and an olive. While he stared at his plate for nearly as long as it would have taken him to eat his usual five-course holiday meal, Anya stood motionless by the stove, thinking sadly that she had never seen her husband look so grim. Was such misery really necessary? she wondered. She would still love him if he were twice as fat . . . and so would the world’s children, for he would still be their own Santa Claus. She sighed and sho
ok her head.

  At last Claus picked up a carrot stick and began to crunch it loudly, just as the reindeer in the stable down below were munching their magic fodder for the evening’s flight.

  That night Santa Claus flew out into the darkness feeling like a paragon of restraint and resolve. He promised himself that he would not eat a single cookie tonight, and by next year he would be so fit and trim that elves or people would hardly recognize him.

  His resolve lasted all the way across the frozen polar wastes, onto the first rooftop of a house, and down the first chimney . . . until he saw that first plate of cookies waiting for him on the mantelpiece, and the sign beside it, lettered in a child’s awkward scrawl: FOR SANTA CLAUS.

  Santa started toward the chimney, stopped and stood for a long moment before the mantel, and tried to draw his eyes away from the sight. He shook his head, started toward the hearth again, but looked back. And then, in a moment that verged on sheer panic, his willpower collapsed utterly. He swept the cookies from the plate—all of them—and began to cram them into his mouth, chewing and swallowing like a starving man. He was still chewing as he made his way up the chimney and climbed into his sleigh to start on his way once more.

  Swallowing the last bite of the last cookie, he smiled contentedly as he flew on, thinking of how pleased that child would be to know that Santa Claus had enjoyed her cookies more than any he had ever eaten . . . “Look, boys,” he called to his reindeer (who were glancing back at him in mild disapproval), “here’s how it is: I’m sure there are some skinny, meager, wasting-away men who are perfectly good fellows, but . . .” he shook his head as he thought of what terrible things abstinence was doing to his good nature, “the world wants a jolly Santa, well fed and laughing.” And he began to laugh, a great, joyful, rolling ho-ho-ho! as he realized that he was perfectly happy with himself just the way he was. He looked down at his stomach in satisfaction. “And it did not shake like a bowl of jelly when I laughed, you silly poet you.” Exonerated, he patted his wide black belt, which was let out to the last notch.

  The sleigh and reindeer soared up over the rooftops of the sleeping village and on into the night, leaving a faint trail of laughter and sleigh bells echoing in their wake.

  Five

  Santa, Dooley, and Puffy stood together in the elves’ busy workshop, eyeing Patch’s latest toy proposal with something less than their usual level of enthusiasm.

  “It looks like just another hoop,” Santa said, letting Patch down gently. “What’s so special about this one? I can remember making those things centuries ago.” It was the twentieth century by now, and he was slightly surprised to see the forward-looking Patch so far behind the times.

  Patch held up the unusually large, brightly painted hoop, shaking his head at their lack of imagination. “No, this isn’t just one of those hoops you roll,” he protested. “Watch!” He flipped the hoop over his head and shoulders. When it had dropped halfway down his body, he began to gyrate his hips wildly, as if he were doing some strange new dance. Instead of falling to his feet, the hoop began to circle around and around his slender middle. In another few decades, almost any child in America would have known it as a Hula Hoop. Patch was still very much ahead of his time—unfortunately, too far ahead for the isolated world he lived in . . . as was so often the case.

  Santa Claus pursed his lips, trying to gauge his little friend’s intentions. “What’s the point of it?” he asked.

  “It’s fun,” Patch said breathlessly, still spinning his hips. “And,” he puffed, having saved its real selling point for last, “it’s good exercise.”

  Santa stared at the wildly gyrating elf a moment longer, and shook his head. “No, no,” he murmured at last, reluctant as always to turn down any workable idea, “I don’t think so this time, Patch.” He turned and began to walk away.

  Patch let the hoop drop and leaped out of it, hurrying after Santa to catch his arm, his mouth open to protest. In all the centuries they had been together, he had never quite learned how to gracefully take no for an answer.

  Santa turned back. “I honestly can’t see people going wild about a hoop,” he said briskly before Patch could continue. “Take my word for it, Patch. I was a people myself once.”

  Patch closed his mouth, pressing it into a line of brave acceptance as he nodded, this time acknowledging defeat. His disappointment still showed clearly in his dark eyes.

  Santa patted him on the shoulder, wanting to make his hurt look disappear, and wanting to reassure Patch, whose creative mind was far too sensitive for his own good, that he was still the best inventor around. “I hope I haven’t filled you full of elf-doubt,” he said gently. “Keep up the good work.”

  Patch lifted his chin, putting on the brave front he always affected in situations like this. After all the years, and all his successful inventions, he still felt as insecure as ever deep inside—as so many creative people did. Somehow he was never able to convince himself that absolute perfection was beyond his, or anyone’s grasp. He nodded, turning away, his eyes downcast as he said, “Well, back to the drawing board.” He picked up his hoop and walked out of the workshop.

  Santa sighed as he turned back to Dooley and Puffy, who had been observing from the other end of the workshop. As he drew closer, he saw the smile on Puffy’s face—a smile that was not the least bit sympathetic. “As for you, Puffy,” Santa said, with unaccustomed sternness, “don’t look so elf-satisfied. At least he tried.” Santa was well aware of the unspoken rivalry between the two elves, knowing that Patch envied Puffy’s responsible position, while Puffy was secretly envious of Patch’s creativity. Puffy was a good, careful worker, but he was as stolid and uninspired as Patch was brilliant and unpredictable.

  Chastened, Puffy hastily wiped the smirk from his face and hurried off to his duties. But secretly he continued to feel just as smug at Patch’s defeat, and just as jealous of his successes.

  The twentieth century continued to ripple by, years passing like waves on the great sea of time. Dooley now had a globe of the entire world (which looked, not inappropriately, like a gigantic jigsaw-puzzle ball) in his study, for plotting Santa’s gift-giving journey each year. His office walls were cluttered with the countless slots of a filing system for letters that would have put the largest post office in the world to shame. But most things in the elves’ villages continued to be done in the same careful, time-tested ways. And as technology—and the number of human beings—continued to grow with dizzying speed in the world outside, Santa Claus and his devoted helpers began to feel the strain on their traditional methods of production and delivery. Patch constantly suggested ways of updating their system; but Santa, not entirely pleased by what he glimpsed of progress—frequently at the expense of people—in the outside world, steadfastly refused to introduce any more newfangled innovations into their own timeless village. And yet even he knew in his heart of hearts, that someday something had to give . . .

  Patch, Boog, Honka, and Vout stood waiting expectantly in the toy tunnel as Santa and his sleigh returned from yet another journey through the magical night before Christmas.

  Santa Claus guided the reindeer into the tunnel with the skill of very long experience, and pulled them to a stop on the runway. The reindeer halted gladly, their tongues lolling with exhaustion as they pulled up before Patch. Santa leaned back in his seat and sighed, every bit as exhausted as his animals were. He thought longingly of the time when both he and the reindeer had made this journey easily.

  “Welcome home, Santa Claus,” Honka called, his wide-set eyes crinkling with his usual enthusiasm.

  Santa Claus mumbled an inaudible response, the best he could manage as he climbed heavily out of the sleigh.

  As Patch checked the reindeer one by one, his face filled with concern. “Oh boy, they look like they’ve been through the mill.”

  “Mill!” Santa said, a bit gruffly. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a good old-fashioned mill. Now it’s all apartment houses and skyscrape
rs. You think it’s easy navigating through those skyscrapers?” He waved a mittened hand as he trudged off down the tunnel. “Not to mention the wind current from those jumbo jets.” He shook his head, his voice trailing behind him as he went mutteringly on his way, still getting the complaints out of his system.

  He plodded wearily across the Great Hall, which this morning seemed endlessly wide, nodding mutely as various elves called out greetings and congratulations. He reached the bottom of the spiral steps leading up to his own house at last. He stood staring up at the final long climb that awaited him before he could rest. He sighed in resignation and started upward.

  Anya greeted him at the door with a welcoming hug and kiss, and led him directly to the kitchen, where two bowls of pea soup were steaming on the table. Claus sat down obediently in his chair. Anya sat down across from him and began to eat. But Claus sat unmoving, too weary even to lift a spoon.

  “Your soup’s getting cold,” Anya urged with gentle concern. Her good hot soup had always been able to restore him, if she could just get him to eat it.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Dooley entered the kitchen diffidently. “Welcome back, Santa,” he said, smiling. “Have a good trip?” He set the folder he was carrying down on the table almost as if he hoped they wouldn’t notice it.

  “What’s this?” Anya asked, fixing it with an anxious glance.

  “Next year’s schedule,” Dooley murmured, his voice apologetic. He kept his eyes on the folder, not looking at them.

  “Can’t it wait for a few days?” Anya said. She rose to her feet, rising to the defense of her exhausted husband.

  And as she rose, Claus’s eyes closed and he slumped forward, landing face down in his soup dish with a clatter and a splash. Anya let out a startled cry as Claus sat up again abruptly, his face red with embarrassment and green with soup. “Sorry,” he mumbled vaguely, through his pea-green beard. “I must have dozed off.”