Short Story: 'twas The Night Before Christmas…

Short Story: 'twas The Night Before Christmas And Up In The Skies.......

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and up in the skies…..

Trying not to panic, Santa hauled on the reins and stopped the reindeer.

Around him stretched a cloudless, starry sky.

He tapped anxiously at the SantaNav, willing it back to life. Nothing, not even static. The back-up Guiding Star Chart lay across his knees, its blank face mocking him. He knew what had happened: Elf Admin, ignoring the old boy’s demand for back-up, hadn’t bothered. Blinded by technology, he sighed.

Now here they were, sitting ducks and probably lost. He sighed unhappily, not willing to admit that after all these years, far from knowing his way around the skies blindfold, he had a hopeless sense of direction. Witness that rather unfortunate incident last year……Santa pushed the memory away and stared glumly at the chart. Beside him, George the Chief Elf snored softly. Santa reached across and swiped him smartly round the head with the defunct chart. Their predicament could be laid right at George’s door. Without a map, they could fiddle around, but George being too hungover to remember the invisibility dust was the last straw. Allowing the elves to have their pre Christmas bash the night before Christmas Eve had been a huge mistake. Next year they’ll wait until June, Santa thought resentfully.

“George!” he roared, “wake up and take a look over the side. See if there’s a landmark!”

George groaned, heaved himself upright and peered over the edge of the sleigh.

“Water,” he mumbled, “there's a lot of water.”

“Mmm,” said Santa, "Could be the Black Sea. Where were we last?”

“Afghanistan. A very quick run if I may say so, Santa.”

“You may not!” snarled the old man.

Before he could start on George’s shortcomings, the sleigh tipped dangerously to the side.

“Rudolph, stop that!” roared Santa. "You’ll have us all out!”

At the front, Rudolph put his hind leg down and gave up trying to scratch his nose. “Blitzen,” he whispered, “can you reach my nose and give it a scratch? It’s been giving me gyp since that flying carpet near-miss over Iran.”

“Yeah, that was a bit hairy,” chortled Blitzen, leaning over and giving Rudolf’s nose a firm scratch.

“Boys,” yelled Santa "quit it!”

-oOo-

A thousand miles away Cedric McScrooge relaxed into his big comfy chair behind an acre of oak desk and cracked his knuckles. This was it! The big time! Recognition at last.

Newly appointed as head of the EU Flying Customs Squad, Cedric had sole charge of the very latest technological marvel - the Space Plane (nought to 1000km in the bat of an eyelid.) He was in mean man heaven. There was nowhere he could not go from his plush office in the centre of Europe. There was no one he could not hunt down and bring to book. Tonight, Christmas Eve, he would join in battle with his oldest adversary and this year, he would win! McScrooge thumped his desk, exultantly provoking a frightened squeak from his little companion, Wee Tim.

McScrooge glowered at the child. Of all the Christmas Eves to be saddled with his sisters kid, it had to be this one. His sister was a romantic who believed in all the Christmas crap. Unfortunately, her belief in ‘the more lights the merrier’ had led to a catastrophic fire which had left her and her 12 children temporarily homeless over Christmas. Wee Tim had been farmed out to his Uncle Cedric.

Ignoring him, McScrooge clicked on his computer. Linked to every system in the world, he composed a message that would flash up on computers and mobile screens at designated intervals; “Grand Prize to be won!!!!!!!! If you see Santa this Christmas, phone this number and say, ‘I‘ve seen Santa.'" He added in the freefone confidential number linked to his own phone. All he had to do was wait.

McScrooge strolled to the window and gazed up at the dark sky. Somewhere out there his nemesis rode the stars, but this year he would have him.

“There’ll be the usual time-wasters,” he told the puzzled Wee Tim, “but my system will screen them out. Then - we’ll have him.”

“It’s not very Christmassy in here,” squeaked Wee Tim. “How’s Santa going to get in?”

“Shurrup,” snarled his Uncle.

-oOo-

Back up in the sky, Santa was at his wits' end.

“You should be taking this more seriously!” he ranted at his team. “There are millions of children out there expecting us! What will they think if they don’t get any presents?”

“Oh, just blame the credit crunch,” moaned George, rubbing his head, wishing the banging would stop and that Santa had some aspirin in the sleigh. Just at that they all heard a loud BANG!

“Rudolph!" shouted Santa, "stop rocking the sleigh!”

“It wasn’t me, Santa,” Rudolph said defensively.

“Whatever. You too, Blitzen, stop mucking about!”

“It wasn’t any of us up front.”

“I thought it was my head,” murmured George.

BANG! They heard it again and jumped with fright. What on earth is going on? Santa wondered.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Down there, Santa,” chorused Prancer and Dancer, “there’s a boat, look!”

-oOo-

Down below, Gregor was having a bad night. With the hope of improving his catch, he had moved further out into the Black Sea only to have the engine conk out. He was adrift with not another soul in sight and no signal for his mobile. The latest thing from the West, my arse, he grumbled to himself. Supposed to get the worldwide web. Spiders web maybe. He tossed it contemptuously on to the small table.

To add to his misery, he had left his lunchbox on the kitchen table and the only liquid refreshment on board was a bottle of homemade vodka which was making him feel queasy.

A lighted object moving through the sky caught his attention, and then it stopped and appeared to hover above the boat. Waving his arms wildly failed to attract attention so, as a last resort before his saviours disappeared, he fired his pistol.

To find himself, an hour later, sitting round the table with санта Клаус and a wee guy called George, poring over charts as stratagems were discussed, while a sleigh and reindeer hovered at the side of the boat was, to say the least, surreal.

The idea of the jolly fat one heading off into the night with his now plotted Guiding Star Chart made Gregor’s palms sweat.

“Don’t worry,” said the fat man, “I’ll radio Mrs Claus when we have a signal and have her send out the breakdown sleigh to tow you back to port.” Tapping his watch he gasped, “Goodness me, we’d better get cracking. Come along George! ….. George!”

“Zzzzzzz snort hrmphle!” came the reply from under a pointy green hat. With a weary sigh Santa’s eyes came to rest on Gregor’s empty vodka bottle.

Bundling the groggy elf up into the sleigh Santa, with a gigantic kick, managed to stir the magic mechanism into life and off they flew into the crispness of the night.

As they zoomed into the distance Gregor leaned against the rail and felt a sharp pang of loneliness. He bristled against the cold biting into him. It was Baltic for the Black Sea. Retreating to the warmth of the cabin he would have sought the solace of his national nectar but could only curse at that elfin’ elf who had deprived him of even this.

Time stretched and Gregor began to wonder if he had been abandoned. Were events really as he remembered? Wasn’t it more likely that this boat had been almost rammed into next week by an old hooligan dressed like a giant hairy tomato who descended from the sky in an explosion of tinsel like a Rouble Shop version of the Second Coming, giving him the shock of his life? Hadn’t the old reprobate then abandoned him with a vague promise of a tow back to port, leaving him with reindeer poo all over his deck and to crown it all, his little oik of an assistant had finished the vodka. He had been used. Smugglers, he thought bitterly, came in all disguises these days.

His mobile lighting up caught his attention. A signal and a message! Gregor sobbed with relief and snatched up the phone. Scanning the message he felt as though the hand of God himself had intervened. Carefully keying the number displayed on the screen and speaking in a tongue he had not used since his days at the Russian Legation in London: “Hello, I’ve seen Santa?”

As Gregor finished relaying his message he was astonished to see materialise on the companionway, a boiler suited elf wiping his hands on an oily rag.

“That’s you underway, mate. Hoi! What are you doing?”

-oOo-

McScrooge was exultant as he assembled his team. Had he liked Christmas in the first place, he’d have said that all his Christmasses had come at once with the information he had just received.

Here he had it all: The route. The delivery times AND no invisibility dust. Like fish in a barrel.

“But, sir,” gasped crewman Dickens, “We’ve been stood down. There’s a directive. Signed by every Head of State in the world, even the ones who don’t like each other. No flying tonight!”

Dickens worried McScrooge. He had deliberately chosen crew renowned for their lack of independent thinking but Dickens, well, occasionally he'd have a go a joining the dots on his own. And there he was, waving the directive.

“Do you see my name on that?” he roared “No! Now, to the Space Plane. I want constant radar monitoring, here’s the co-ordinates. And bring him!” He looked around for Wee Tim who was under the huge oak desk surreptitiously texting as if his wee life depended on it, as was, if only he’d known, every kid on the planet who had called the ‘Find Santa Competition’ and smelled a big, huge stinky rat.

Mrs Claus settled her ample bottom in the big comfy chair (a present from himself last Christmas) a ginormous cup of tea and an extra ginormous slice of chocolate fudge cake beside her. She would grab this time of peace and quiet to phone her sister. Looking around she marvelled at the contrast to a couple of earth hours ago when the workshop had been in chaos.

Her mobile phone buzzed and ‘High Priority Message’ flashed on the screen.

“Now what?” she sighed opening the offending message. The contents sent her flying for the Inter Stellar Radio, tea and cake forgotten.

“Santa,” she squawked. “Santa. Urgent! Over.”

On the table the phone buzzed again as the message box filled to overflowing.

-oOo-

At his last call before the EU border, Santa heaved himself out of another chimney, comforting himself with the thought that it was all free wheeling from here.

The deteriorating weather was a worry, he could see heavy clouds building up and he didn’t need technology to tell him that they would make for uncomfortable driving. But, if years of experience had taught him nothing else, he knew how to jink around a rain cloud.

“Santa! Santa!” the excited chorus from the reindeer grabbed his attention.

“Mama Claus,” they squealed excitedly, “on the radio. Urgent!”

“Oh! For crying out loud!” Throwing himself into the sleigh Santa grabbed at the handset, aiming a hefty whack at the snoring George.

“OK Mary. What the Hell is it? Over.”

Static distorted his wife’s hysterical voice.

“Tim…..text message….McScrooge….children….messages!”

“Calm down, Mary. Take a deep breath. I’ll move into range. Over.”

As the team pranced back and fore searching for better reception, Santa began to wonder if it was all worth it.

-oOo-

Meanwhile, Ike the Elfin mechanic was urging his team into flight. Beside him clutching his charts, Gregor sobbed and apologised again. Testimony to his perfidy, he sported a dark bruise on his face courtesy of Ike’s heaviest spanner. Gregor did not understand all the words but he knew he had screwed up - big time.

“If we can catch up,” Ike yelled over the rushing wind ,“we can at least give them invisibility dust. Hold these,” he shoved the reins into Gregor’s frozen hands. “I’ll try and raise them on the radio”.

Gregor grasped the reins and wondered what to do next but he need not have worried. Never good enough for the First Team, Ike’s little troop of reindeer would do anything for the elf who believed in them completely. They stretched their necks, picked up their feet and flew as they had never flown before.

-oOo-

Desperate to make up time, the sleigh hurtled across the sky. Teeth gritted, Santa swerved round another cloud too dense to drive through.

Appalled by the news from Mary, he prayed that, however uncomfortable, the heavy cover would last. Peering through the murk he realised that they were heading for a solid mass too thick for the reindeer. Yanking on the reins, the sleigh careered to a halt.

“We need to sneak over the border and this weather is getting worse, any suggestions, George?”

Fumbling for the Guiding Star Chart, George squinted as he tried to focus.

“Er…nope,” he replied.

“Right George,” growled Santa grabbing the elf by the tunic front, “we have a major problem here. McScrooge is on the loose.”

“He’s ALWAYS on the loose at Christmas,” protested George squirming out of the big man’s grasp, “he’s a nuisance is all, we ALWAYS get the better of him.”

“He’s got technology, George. By the bucket load,” Santa replied and filled George in on the news from Mary.

George’s face hit his boots.

“Never mind,” said Santa with a chuckle “we’ve got something he hasn’t - experience and wits. From here on we do things MY way - fast!”

At that, Santa grabbed the reins, urged the team into super, duper mode, and the sleigh started to plummet, faster and faster, hurtling through the clouds as the mountains of Italy loomed below them.

“Santa! Santa!” screamed George. “We’re off course, we’re not supposed to be here yeeeeeeeeeeeeet!”

“We’ll double back when we’ve drawn out McScrooge!” Santa’s beard was plastered to his face and he whipped off his hat before it blew away. “C’mon team! Yah! Yah!”

-oOo-

On the flight deck of Marley 1, McScrooge watched with undisguised delight as the small speck on the radar screen gradually grew larger and converged with the course of the sleek Spaceplane. It was all coming together, he could not believe his luck. Reaching for the radio he screeched: “This is McScrooge. We have you locked in our sights. You are ordered to halt or face the consequences! There will be no further warning. I have you at last!”

-oOo-

“Errr, hmmmm, uh-oh.”

“What is it Gregor?”

“Shooting star?”

Ike glanced behind him and the colour drained from his face.

“That’s no shooting star!” he screamed pulling at the release handle for the reindeer. Turning he grabbed Gregor and leapt over the side. As they dropped the parachute opened and looking up they saw a missile disintegrate the sleigh.

“I just wanted to go fishing!” wailed Gregor as they drifted downwards. “Fishing, that’s all.”

“I’ve still got the spanner,” Ike growled before putting his fingers in his mouth and emitting a piercing whistle.

“We’re coming, hang on,” called Mistletoe the lead reindeer dragging her troupe, puffing against the wind as close to Ike and Gregor as they could get. Grabbing at the traces Ike hauled himself and Gregor onto their backs. As they wrapped themselves in the parachute for warmth, Ike checked his pockets and was relieved that the invisibility dust had survived their ordeal.

“Find Santa, girls, and you Gregor - quit the snivelling.”

-oOo-

Aboard the Marley 1 Space Plane, McScrooge danced a little jig.

“I have him,” he cackled, spittle trickling down his chin. “Did you see that, did you see!” He continued cavorting as Dickens tried to get his attention.

“Sir, sir….”

“What!”

“That wasn’t legal sir, that was definitely NOT in our remit.” Dickens was ashen faced, “you shot down Santa…..”

“Remit, remit, shurrup Dickens and stay out of my obsession!”

McScrooge grabbed Wee Tim and pointed triumphantly at the screen where a small dot held a steady course above Italy.

McScrooge’s eyes crossed in rage as he hurled the boy from him. “It can’t be, it CAN’T BE!!!!!!

“Yah boo!” chortled Wee Tim. “You missed.”

“We’ll soon see about that! Dickens set a new course, follow that sleigh and put the knock out drops in the Sherry.”

-oOo-

“It’s not on the list,” George murmured hesitantly.

They were hovering above a tall house in a remote valley in the Italian Alps. Gothic in structure it, somehow, did not seem comfortable with it’s surroundings.

“Christmas Crackers, George! What else can go wrong! Just scan the building and get something from the reserve sack. I‘ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

“Looks like a wee girl, maybe eight or nine years old. Wait a minute, I think there’s a wee boy in the vicinity but I can’t pinpoint him. Somewhere over there but his feet are not on the ground.” George waved towards the back of the house. “There’s some sort of vehicle, camouflaged.” He showed Santa the ScanScreen.

“McScrooge! I’d a feeling he was around here somewhere. Now George, here’s what we’ll do. Ike should catch up soon……….”

-oOo-

High in their Italian Alpine home Signor and Signora Licantropo were preparing for bed, their beloved daughter Maria already settled to wait for the arrival of Babbo Natale. (As the good Signora would later regale her knitting bee: the invasion of their home by a team of flying suited men, the leader of whom clutched a sherry decanter under one arm and a small boy under the other, had certain Pythonesque elements).

“Get in the basement and shurrup,” McScrooge barked bundling the small family down the steps. “Dickens, watch that door and keep them quiet. I don’t want them giving us away.”

“Yes sir,” sighed Dickens wondering silently how they would ever get out of this mess.

“You’re a bad, bad man,” squeaked Wee Tim. “Santa will never fall for your daft trap. Never!” Tears glittered in his eyes, this was worst Christmas ever and he didn’t know what to do to save Santa.

“We’ll see,” snarled McScrooge and, opening the basement door he shoved Wee Tim through, “you might as well join them until the real work is done.”

Down in basement Tim was delighted to learn that the Licantropos spoke English, although in a quaint, old fashioned way. Quickly he explained what was going on and was very relieved when Signor Licantropo took charge, formulating a plan to warn Santa. He was, he explained, an ex military man now in mountain rescue although, he looked mournfully at Tim, he did not often have live bodies to bring down the mountain.

There was a trapdoor opening into the kitchen and, by the sounds drifting in to the basement they worked out that the baddies were in the sitting room. Tim would have to slip through the trapdoor and create diversion as Signor Licantropo would be needed in the basement for part two of the plan.

Tim settled himself quietly behind the kitchen door where he could hear what was happening in the sitting room and see the glass of doped sherry sitting on a little side table.

There was a dull thud and the radio crackled into life:

“He’s on the roof.”

“Ready boys,” whispered McScrooge.

With an almighty clatter Tim smashed pots and pans together followed by the sequential flashing on the house lights as Signor Licantropo worked the circuit breaker in the basement.

Santa better know Morse code thought Tim as he ducked to avoid Dickens grasp and the officer promptly fell through the window into the snow.

Down the chimney Santa’s voice boomed: “McScrooge! I know you. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, you were a horrid wee boy and are a worse adult! These are Christmas presents for Chrissakes!”

“Aye,” sneered McScrooge, “you’re surrounded old man, give up!”

On the roof Santa played for time. His scan of the house had confirmed that Wee Tim did not belong to the family and had probably been kidnapped. Fortunately he was safely out of sight and Signora Licantropo had joined him in the kitchen. The father and daughter were already creeping up the basement steps.

George had risen to the occasion and was hastily stuffing presents for the daughter into the woodpile while dealing with Dickens. A smart kick to the officers bottom made sure he stayed in his snowdrift.

With one eye on the sky where he could see Mistletoe and her gang approaching at the gallop, and the other gauging the leap from the roof to the sleigh, Santa prayed for a few more seconds.

“Dickens! Get back in the game!” screamed McScrooge fighting off Signor Licantropo “and the rest of you - GET THEM!”

As the squad struggled to move in for the kill, the night sky was filled with the sound of whirring hooves as Ike and his heroic team closed with the sleigh.

“Back to the sleigh, George,” yelled Santa hurling himself from the roof as Ike and Gregor leapt from Mistletoe’s back chucking invisibility dust as they went.

“Aaaargh! Where have they gone?” howled McScrooge. But only a mocking, “You’ll never take us alive, Copper!” drifted back on the wind.

Back in the house, McScrooge was apoplectic. Oblivious to the warning cry: “Don’t drink that!” he downed the sherry in one.

Dickens groaned as he looked at the inert form of his boss. The mickey finn was measured out for Santa and McScrooge didn’t quite have his bulk. He would be asleep until January at least.

Slinging McScrooge over his shoulder and cautiously backing away from the now circling Licantropos, Dickens led the demoralised team back to Marley 1.

Dickens shuddered; he really didn’t want to do this anymore. Maybe he should quit, take up writing. His Mum always said he had a talent for it, if he could sort out his spelling. But, in the meantime, with the boss zonked, he would get to drive Marley 1 home. Dickens suddenly cheered up.

-oOo-

Far away and high in the sky, something was bothering Santa. He had not seen the wee boy with Dickens as he carted the slumbering McScrooge off. And something about the Licantropo family did not add up. For one thing the wee girl did not appear on either the good boys and girls list or the bad boys and girls list. Then there was the way that the Signora had looked at the boy when they were in the kitchen, not so much maternal as ravenous. And the flashing lights trick, where had he seen that before?

Santa got on the radio to Mrs C.

“Mary, check the database. Licantropo, Maria, female. Small sickle shaped birthmark on the left temple. Address in Trento. Do a good and bad search. Over.”

Several minutes passed before Mary’s voice crackled to life over the radio.

“Negative, dear. Nothing found. Over.”

“Are you sure? Try a full historic. Over.”

“Well there is one but….”

“But what. Over.”

“The only match I have is from 1743 in Transylvania. Over.”

Behind Santa, Ike and George gasped and looked at each other in horror. Ike’s little face had turned deathly pale.

“It’s ok mate,” said George, “he won’t make you go up against them again.” But Ike had retreated into his memories of that dreadful Christmas Eve when, as a young and vigorous elf, he had accompanied Santa on a journey to Hell. The experience, had left him unable to face the rigours of the regular run, content instead to stay at home and tinker in the garage. And he thought he was, at last, getting over it…….

“Psst. George,” hissed Gregor, “what’s happening?” He was feeling better, this sledge was warm and comfortable and he’d found a bottle of Brandy in the First Aid kit.

“Leave it, mate,” came the response as George relieved Gregor of the bottle.

Up front, Santa was also remembering as he waited for Mary to patch him through to the Elf Rapid Retrieval Team.

Team leader and elf extraordinaire, Henri Ecru, was in expansive mood as he took Santa’s call.

“Bonsoir, mon portly ami. What gives this fine Christmas Eve?”

Rapidly Santa filled him in on events. “Now listen Henri, remove those presents back to storage and grab that wee boy. Oh and Henri. Be careful out there, be very careful.”

“Worry not, joyeux gros. You leave thees to Henri.”

-oOo-

Santa settled himself more comfortably in the big armchair, the heat from a roaring fire making him drowsy. Taking a long drag on his special Christmas cigar he swirled his brandy round in the glass. It was good to be home and surprisingly, despite the set backs, in good time.

Everyone mucking in had done it.

Henri had worried him though, not arriving back at base until hours after Santa. When he did he was not his usual ebullient Gallic self. His team were subdued, several of them limping.

“Ah Santa, mon brave! It was terrible,” was all he would volunteer. Eventually, with the aid of a few brandies, he had revealed that the family Licantropo had relinquished Wee Tim without a murmur but had fought like fiends to keep presents.

“Sadly, we had to leave them behind. I could not reesk my men. You understand, oui?”

Santa understood all too well. He would have Mary write off the loss in the morning. They would also have to get Wee Tim, sound asleep in the guest quarters, back to his Mum.

As his eyelids grew heavy Santa smiled at the recollection of the whole team racing around delivering presents. How they had laughed when they had to pull Gregor from that chimney.

Suddenly, Santa was bolt upright, wide awake.

Gregor! Where had they left Gregor?

………………………..The End (or is it?)