Billy smiled and allowed the second rare compliment from the Tree to land on him as they walked deeper into the park. After a while, they arrived at the statue of Sir Steve, and here Teàrlag turned to him.
“I must leave you now, Billy, for I only have hours left, and I’d like to see some more of this world in case it is my last trip here.”
Billy looked around for his father. “But where will you go?”
Teàrlag branched a broad smile. “Why, I will chase the end of this night around the world. See my giant cousins from across the oceans, drink it all in, in case…new adventures are calling.”
The Tree began to hover and turn slowly. With this, doubt and panic flew up in Billy. “The candle, what about the candle?”
“The candle?” Teàrlag looked at him curiously. “The candle is safe and the tasks were met. What is it, Billy? What is it really?”
Tears suddenly stabbed at Billy’s eyes. “Please, just don’t leave me alone, OK?”
The Tree threw him a small sad smile. “Why, Billy Christmas, you don’t get to be alone ever again.”
With that, Teàrlag exploded into the sky with astonishing speed and was gone, leaving a cloud of snow-dust covering Billy and making him cough. He spun around and around but could see no one. He turned again, panicking, tears still pricking his eyes.
He shouted after her. “That’s not funny! You shouldn’t say that if you don’t mean it…”
“She’s right, Billy.”
His voice. Unmistakably his father’s voice. Again he whirled around, trying to clear the snow from his eyes. Something reminded him of meeting Teàrlag for the first time, not knowing where the Tree’s voice came from. He stopped spinning and just waited.
Slowly from behind the statue, a tall figure emerged. Trench coat and hat, gold-rimmed glasses, taller still than Billy, though the gap between them had reduced some over the year. He instantly recognised the shape of his parent.
“Dad!”
“Come here, my boy.”
At once, he closed the final distance and Billy fell hard into the arms of the man for all he was worth. Tears fell on both sides, curtailing words. “I’m so sorry, son. I never knew I would be gone this long.”
Billy pulled back just a touch to look up at his father’s face. “You look human.”
“I can pass as both. I think you know now what I am?”
“Part of there?”
“Yes, I am part of there.”
“We are?”
Tom Christmas looked down at Billy. “You can be part of wherever you want to be, my boy. We’ll explain everything now.”
“We will?”
“I still haven’t seen your mother. I waited here until you came back. In case I had to come find you.”
Billy suddenly looked sad again. “The knight told me that she hated the fact that I’m…different?”
Tom Christmas’s brow furrowed. “After I was taken, the people charged with protecting Katherine hid your mother’s memories of the other place and our kind. It was done to protect you, son. I can assure you she is very comfortable with my—with our—kind. It’s a long story, but we didn’t meet each other in this world. We met back there. You should never, ever doubt her love, son.”
Billy gave a half smile, wondering what else he was going to learn about his family.
“But tell me, Billy, how she is doing?” said Tom.
The boy paused for a while before replying. “She’s going to be really pleased to see you.”
They walked slowly away from the statue. Billy let go of his hand for a moment and ran back. He slapped the knight across the backside once more. “Thanks, Sir Steve,” whispered Billy, before returning to his father.
* * *
“So you know we’re a little different then?” said Tom Christmas to Billy.
“Yeah, roots, bad hair, the works…” said Billy.
Tom Christmas smiled. “Did Katherine not show you how fast we can move when we have to?”
Billy smiled, “No, Dad. There wasn’t much time to go over the details.”
Looking up he noticed his father’s hair thickening and shoulders broadening. “Fancy a race?”
He looked down at his legs and could tell the change could now come at will. He slipped off his shoes and felt the roots offer purchase against the snow. His hair rippled into willow and skin flashed silver. Looking back at his father with jet black eyes, he smiled and said, “Why not?” In a moment, where two tall beings had once been, all that was left was snow dust sparkling in the night sky.
Through the snow his footprints linked the ancient trees of Higginson Park.
Acknowledgements
Here are a few of my dues:
I am beyond lucky with my parents; please accept this small token to brag about me in exchange for thirty-eight years of dubious progress, hurried loans and keeping the worst headlines out of the newspapers.
My siblings: Christopher, Matthew and Kezia and their partners for much love, enthusiasm and a steadfast acceptance of primogeniture.
And in the order they fall out of my brain today:
Danielle Cronin, who suggested a competition and cooked supper while I wrote. Larry Andries, for raising the bar and passing it on. Daniel the Spaniel from Green Curve. James Clark and Gaby Hinsliff, who laugh at me; the mark of true friendship. All the King Alfred College troops, but of course: Barry, Mark G, Niall, DC, Polly, Joanna, Jo and Zoe; may you carry your secrets silently to Valhalla… The spoils of Oxford—the Studio Theatre Club, Matt Kirk, Stephen Briggs, Dan Booth; I will buy drinks to forgo listing all names here. X-175, Xenon—John (Skipper), Richard and Mark, who remind me I live too far from the sea. Owen and Claire Jenkins, the rain dance kids. Robert Gilbert, fellow Scillonian, chief scientific advisor and the best dinner date in Oxford. A few old friends who always understood—Mark, Rob, David, James, Julian, Dominic, Carlo and their ever-growing families; please own comfortable couches always.
Sarah Viner, the first editor, which taught whom that too.
Steve and Jane Homewood, my fellow honeymooners and dear missing parts of my brain. In these pages, constant velocity joints have pink spots and sound like plucked harp strings, though not on Tuesdays.
Katherine Grainger, MBE, who once beat me in a race over Westminster Bridge; she has gifted the book immense love and me a stronger spine.
And again in order:
Randy Stanard and Jack Brougham, who saw things I could not and shared their gifts.
Nita Congress, unparalleled copy-editing genius bar none.
Rose Solari and James J. Patterson, the bookbinders who dance where others fear to tread. You prove the rule about trusting the word of good Americans. Thank you for rolling the dice, holding the line and believing in the book.
To my daughter—well, now you know what Daddy does! Te quiero infinite hija, x.
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