With a deafening roar a ground-level railway train came ploughing through the churchyard wall, tearing a great gouge in the earth and, shedding passengers like an otter shakes water, burst through the opposite wall, ending its career further out of sight. It left a huge furrow through the cemetery, and at the cemetery’s exact center a quiet, intact railway car in which nothing moved. Here and there in the torn earth a coffin stood on end, or lay cut in two, exactly half an anatomy lesson.
Eben Mizer saw that one of the great towers nearby had its side punched open, as neat a cut as with a knife through a hoop of cheese. From this opening shambled an army, if ever army such as this could be . . .
They were huge, and their heads too were huge, and the sides of their heads smoked; the hair of some was smoldering, which they did not notice, until some quite burst afire, and then those slowly sank back to the ground. Others walked in place, only thinking their thin legs were moving them forward. A higher part of the tower fell on twenty or thirty of them with no effect on the others who were walking before or behind them.
Great fires were bursting out in the buildings overhead. A jagged bolt lanced into the Thames, turning it to steam; a return bolt blew the top from a tower, which fell away from the river, taking two giant buildings with it.
A train shot out of the city a thousand feet up. As it left, the entire valley winked out into a darkness lit only by dim blazes from fires. Mizer heard the train hit in Southwark in the pitch blackness before his night vision came back.
All around there was moaning; the small moanings of people, larger ones of twisted cooling metal, great ones of buildings before they snapped and fell.
He began to make out shapes in the churchyard slowly, here and there. There were fires on bodies of people, on the wooden seats of train benches. A burning chesterfield fell onto the railway car, showering sparks.
The staggering figures came closer; they were dressed in loose clothing. By the light of fires he saw their bulbous shapes. One drew near, and turned towards him.
Its eyes, all their eyes, were like pale doorknobs. They moved towards him. The closest, its lips trying to say words, lifted its arms. Others joined it, and they came on slowly, their shoulders moving ineffectually back and forth; they shuffled from one foot to the other, getting closer and closer. They lifted their white soft grub-worm fingers towards him—
* * *
WHAP!!! Dickens brought his palm down hard on the wooden block. The whole audience jumped. Men and women both yelped. The ner-vous laughter ran through the hall.
* * *
Eben Mizer opened the shutter. The boy in the street had another snowball ready to throw when he noticed the man at the window. He turned to run.
“Wait, boy!” Eben Mizer called. “Wait! What day is this?”
“What? Why, sir, it’s Christmas Day.”
“Bless me,” said Eben Mizer. “Of course. The Spirits have done it all in one night. Of course they have. There’s still time. Boy! You know that turkey in the shop down the street? . . .”
* * *
His foot was paining him mightily. He shifted his weight to the other leg, his arms drawing the giant shape of the man-sized turkey in the air. He was Eben Mizer, and he was the boy, and he was also the poulterer, running back with the turkey.
* * *
And from that day on, he was a man with a mission, a most Christian one, and he took to his bosom his nephew’s family, and that of all mankind, but most especially that of Bob Cratchitt, and that most special case of Giant Timmy—who did not die—and took to his heart those great words, “God Bless . . . us all each . . . every . . .”
* * *
Charles Dickens closed his book and stood bathed in the selenium glow, and waited for the battering love that was applause.
Afterword to: Household Words; Or, The Powers-That-Be
Here’s how I killed Amazing Stories, world’s oldest SF magazine.
The British Postal Service and I seemed to be about the only two entities in the world who noticed that 1993 was the 150th anniversary of A Christmas Carol.
Unfortunately, it took me till late July to realize it. That’s normally way too late, since magazines are normally made up anywhere from five months to almost a year ahead of time, the ephemera like book reviews and editorials going in at the very last. Which normally meant I was out of luck, even if I was the only person who noticed.
But . . . a few months before, at Wiscon (In Madison, Wisconsin. In February. What’s wrong with this picture?), Kim Mohan, editor of Amazing, and I sat down to a beer or something and he told me he’d been astounded that I’d only had half a story in Amazing in its and my long career. (“Men of Greywater Station” with George R. R. Martin, March 1976.) And that I should probably do something about it. I told him what I always tell editors: “Sure thing. Soon.”
But he’d also told me he was editing only about three months ahead, which meant if I fired off something real quick, and he liked it, there was a chance he could get it into print before Christmas.
So I did two things at once: I fired off a letter to Kim asking if the lead time was still the same and I hit Peter Ackroyd’s Dickens again.
I’d been researching Dickens on and off for five or six years (he’s very important to The Moon World, if I ever finish that) and had read the up-to-then standard biographies: Edgar Johnson’s Charles Dickens: His Tragedy and Triumph (2 vols.), Hesketh Pearson’s Dickens: His Character, Comedy and Career, and the volume Dickens at Work. But a couple of years before, Ackroyd’s book had come out. When I’d read it then, I knew what biographies should be.
I went back there to get the details of writing A Christmas Carol right. I already knew I was going to set the story in the 1860s, during one of Dickens’s reading tours, and that it was going to be a work of memory and reconciliation.
The image of the pylons and Giant Timmy came to me about a week later. I had the “thing” that makes a story fall into place. For what did the Victorians do but give their children to the Empire for service?
On August 15-17 I wrote the first and second drafts, and on the eighteenth express-mailed it to Kim.
Who called me on the twenty-fourth accepting it. It was then he said, all the time he was reading it, the middle spirit should be called Christmas Current. “Do it,” I said, and changed it to that in my manuscript.
* * *
Charles Dickens was pretty much a phenomenon, and a cautionary one. Family fallen on hard times; the blacking factory; then, shorthand clerk, court reporter, journalist, novelist, newspaper and magazine editor, philanthropist, reformer, speaker, long distance walker, insomniac, actor; the most famous reader of his own works who ever lived; patriarch of a large family (to paraphrase Carla Tortelli on Cheers: they popped out of Mrs. Dickens like a Pez dispenser) and supporter of failed parents, siblings, strangers; involved in scandal the last ten years of his life. Some of his children (and his sister-in-law) stayed with him after the separation from his wife, as against the wife’s family.
And those books and stories. Yow! They’ll probably last as long as there’s readin’ and writin’.
Ackroyd’s book (and the others) can tell you all that. I wanted to do some of the same things in “Household Words . . .” only in an alternate Dickensian England, with another Scrooge, another Cratchitt, another nephew, but the same fat turkey. And, as I remember (like Mel Torme says of writing “The Christmas Song [Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire]”) it was written on the hottest day of the year, in Texas, without air-conditioning; a story of a cool England and a remembered older Christmas.
When this was published (more later) I got a nice note (via Michael Moorcock, who’d heard me read it in November and asked for a copy) from Peter Ackroyd. Yow! At that same reading, David Hartwell came up and said he wanted it for his Christmas Magic paperback, which appeared in December 1994.
Back to Amazing. The story was supposed to be out in the December 1993 issue. I went haring off, on an exist
ential adventure, to be Writer in the Classroom in Telluride, Colorado (the two days after I’d read the story were spent driving one thousand miles to arrive at the hell-hole of Telluride just at dusk the second day), for six weeks (I’m not a skier, I’m a fisherman, and the San Miguel froze slowly over, day by day) from November 10 to December 17 of 1993.
In the middle of teaching hellbound seventh graders (and a good class of high school seniors) some ways of expressing themselves not involving knives, a package arrived from home: Amazing, with a great illo for the story. Only instead of December 1993 it said Winter 1994.
Uh oh.
You guessed it. That was the last one. Sixty-eight years, and it took me to kill it.
Sorry, Kim. If it’s any consolation, I have killed, by having a story in the very last of each, the following things: Vertex, Galaxy, Crawdaddy (twice!), Eternity SF, New Dimensions, Shayol. But I admit it, it took some doing to kill the very first, oldest SF magazine.
Waldrop: The Legend Continues.
Classic Tales of Christmas Science Fiction, Fantasy and Whimsy
The Christmas story as a concept is as old as the holiday itself and at least tangentially related to both fantasy and science fiction.
(After all, the Christian tradition of the savior’s birth is directly related to a prophecy—a prediction for the future, an obvious science fiction concept—heralding a divine birth of the son of God, a familiar fantasy trope from various mythologies, pagan and otherwise.)
Not wishing to negate the religious significance of the occasion, I believe it is fair to say that the more secular aspects of the holiday always seem to get more attention, and when it comes to holiday poster boys, Santa Claus has ruled the roost for well over a hundred years.
From Baum to Harte to Powell and McCaffrey, it is obvious that he will continue to enjoy his down home popularity for years to come.
* * *
A Kidnapped Santa Claus
L. Frank Baum
* * *
Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the ryls, knooks, pixies and fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year’s end to another.
It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass; and the violets and wild flowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh one needs to be happy; to be happy one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme.
On one side is the mighty Forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the Caves of the Daemons. And between them the Valley lies smiling and peaceful.
One would think that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go.
But the Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy.
The Caves of the Daemons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Daemon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Daemon of Envy. The cave of the Daemon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Daemon of Malice—situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave—a cozy little room occupied by the Daemon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the Caves of the Daemons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Daemon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again.
Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter.
“I’m really getting lonesome,” said the Daemon of Selfishness. “For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave.”
“I’m having the same trouble,” rejoined the Daemon of Envy. “The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious.”
“And that makes it bad for me!” declared the Daemon of Hatred. “For if no children pass through the Caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to MY cavern.”
“Or to mine,” added the Daemon of Malice.
“For my part,” said the Daemon of Repentance, “it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so that I am quite as neglected as you are.”
“And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!” exclaimed the Daemon of Envy. “He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once.”
To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction.
So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Daemon of Selfishness came to him and said:
“These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It’s a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly.”
“Nonsense!” cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Daemon. “The boys and girls are never so noisy and fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content.”
So the Daemon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said:
“I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish.”
The following day the Daemon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: “The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as those you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work.”
But Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops.
“I can supply the little ones but once a year—on Christmas Eve,” he answered; “for the children are many, and I am but one. And as my work is one of love and kindness I would be ashamed to receive money for my little gifts. But throughout all the year the children must be amused in some way, and so the toy shops are able to bring much happiness to my little friends. I like the toy shops, and am glad to see them prosper.”
In spite of the second rebuff, the Daemon of Hatred thought he would try to influence Santa Claus. So the next day he entered the busy workshop and said:
“Good morning, Santa! I have bad news for you.”
“Then run away, like a good fellow,” answered Santa Claus. “Bad news is something that should be kept secret and never told.”
“You cannot escape this, however,” declared the Daemon; “for in the world are a good many who do not believe in Santa Claus, and these you are bound to hate bitterly, since they have so wronged you.”
“Stuff and rubbish!” cried Santa.
“And there are others who resent your making childr
en happy and who sneer at you and call you a foolish old rattlepate! You are quite right to hate such base slanderers, and you ought to be revenged upon them for their evil words.”
“But I don’t hate ’em!” exclaimed Santa Claus positively. “Such people do me no real harm, but merely render themselves and their children unhappy. Poor things! I’d much rather help them any day than injure them.”
Indeed, the Daemons could not tempt old Santa Claus in any way. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to see that their object in visiting him was to make mischief and trouble, and his cheery laughter disconcerted the evil ones and showed to them the folly of such an undertaking. So they abandoned honeyed words and determined to use force.
It was well known that no harm can come to Santa Claus while he is in the Laughing Valley, for the fairies, and ryls, and knooks all protect him. But on Christmas Eve he drives his reindeer out into the big world, carrying a sleighload of toys and pretty gifts to the children; and this was the time and the occasion when his enemies had the best chance to injure him. So the Daemons laid their plans and awaited the arrival of Christmas Eve.
The moon shone big and white in the sky, and the snow lay crisp and sparkling on the ground as Santa Claus cracked his whip and sped away out of the Valley into the great world beyond. The roomy sleigh was packed full with huge sacks of toys, and as the reindeer dashed onward our jolly old Santa laughed and whistled and sang for very joy. For in all his merry life this was the one day in the year when he was happiest—the day he lovingly bestowed the treasures of his workshop upon the little children.
It would be a busy night for him, he well knew. As he whistled and shouted and cracked his whip again, he reviewed in mind all the towns and cities and farmhouses where he was expected, and figured that he had just enough presents to go around and make every child happy. The reindeer knew exactly what was expected of them, and dashed along so swiftly that their feet scarcely seemed to touch the snow-covered ground.
A Yuletide Universe Page 19