Christmas Carol & the Defenders of Claus

by Robert L. Fouch

My eyes lit up and I asked excitedly, “So over Christmas they’ll come?” The idea of meeting other kids just like me—ones who wouldn’t mock a girl just for loving Christmas—was thrilling.

  “No, m’lady,” Mr. Winters said. “Christmas is when we’re busiest. No time for training.” I slumped in disappointment. “You’ll meet them eventually,” Mr. Winters added.

  I nodded dejectedly. “Where does our power come from?”

  “No one really knows. But I look at it this way. Where did Beethoven’s musical ability come from, or Amelia Earhart’s fearlessness, or Martin Luther King, Jr.’s wisdom? All from the same mysterious place. All humans have something special inside. This power is what we have.”

  I felt better after hearing that. Mr. Winters had the knack good teachers possess of making something complicated easier to understand. For the first time, I felt like maybe it was OK to have this power and that I was where I was supposed to be, with other kids like me (eventually), with people who might even become like family. And maybe, just maybe, I’d get a part of my real family back. I prayed that my father was the one who had called out to me, that he was deep within that mountain and he’d emerge from the forest with the rest of the Defenders, miraculously walking back into my life.

  It had been only about forty-five minutes, but it seemed like hours. The strange sounds of the forest and the occasional sigh from Mr. Winters were the only things that broke the silence.

  “How long do you think they’ll be?” I whispered.

  “And how would I know that?” Mr. Winters snapped, with an edge to his voice that cut straight to my heart. I felt stupid. Mr. Winters had never once been impatient with me. He must have realized how he sounded, and his tone softened. “I’m sorry, dear heart. I feel as helpless as you. But they can handle themselves.”

  “OK,” I said, trying not to let him hear the shakiness in my voice. We sat quietly, watching and waiting. The reindeer munched endlessly on the forest grass. I hopped off the sleigh to pet one of the deer, but he seemed uninterested, continuing to eat as if I weren’t even there. I petted him anyway, because it made me feel better, our magical connection calming my nerves.

  Suddenly there was a rumble from the mountain. Mr. Winters leaped from the sleigh and landed beside me, staring at the forest into which Santa and the Defenders had disappeared. His body seemed to twitch. “Wait here,” he said, and before I could object, Mr. Winters took off into the forest. I stood there, alone, just me and the reindeer. I listened closely, hoping for any clues that might tell me what was happening. Another rumble came from the mountain. Then another. Then a long silence. Even the reindeer had stopped munching. Did they know their riders might be in danger? They suddenly stood taller and made weird snorting sounds. They heard something.

  What that something was came crashing through the trees. The Defenders, led by Santa and Mr. Winters, charged out of the forest. Two Defenders carried a man, his face covered by shadow and impossibly long hair. They struggled with him and glanced behind as if checking for anyone who might have followed. Trailing them was Ramon. He was limping badly.

  “To the sky,” Santa yelled, and the Defenders ran to their mounts. I started to do the same but realized I had no idea which was mine. Mr. Winters grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me to my deer, lifting me on.

  “What’s happening?” I asked. Nothing had emerged from the forest to chase us. “What are we running from?”

  “The Defenders collapsed the tunnel so he couldn’t follow. But we fear he’ll circle back around.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know,” Mr. Winters said, jumping onto his deer. “And we’re not sticking around to find out.”

  “Why don’t the Defenders fight him?”

  “He’s powerful. Santa senses it. For now, we fly. Go, Carol!” Mr. Winters spurred on his reindeer, and off he went. I did the same, glancing back to see Ramon, clearly in pain, climbing gingerly onto the back of his mount. He was the last to take off, and he trailed behind. I pulled on my reins to slow down.

  “Hurry, Ramon!” I yelled. I could see nothing—no one chasing us, no apparent danger. But suddenly, I felt a presence, a powerful force, like a shift in the atmosphere when a violent storm is looming. Panic bubbled inside me.

  “I’m coming, mi’ja. Fly!” Then came the sound. A roar of an engine. Then what sounded like the sonic boom of a jet breaking the sound barrier. My ears popped. The air felt soupy, as if we were trying to fly through water. From the mountain below, circling from the front entrance to the cave, flew a tiny figure. Not on a reindeer, but on a flying machine that trailed white smoke and resembled a tricked-out jet engine with wings. The figure appeared to be a man, and as he drew closer, I could see a mask that looked like a weird mix of what hockey goalies and welders wear, the eyes glowing. He held what appeared to be a long stick, some kind of staff, which glowed green on each end. He was gaining on us. Five hundred yards away. Four hundred yards. Three hundred.

  Ramon was still at the rear and glanced back. I saw him veer off. He turned to face our pursuer. The Masked Man slowed his machine down, measuring his foe. I yelled, “No!” and watched as Ramon threw his right hand toward the Masked Man as if hurling a thunderbolt. The air between them rippled, and the Masked Man held up his staff to block the attack. He was knocked sideways on his machine. But it stopped him for only a moment. He gathered himself, and the machine hovered and sputtered. Ramon turned to us and yelled, “Go!”

  Mr. Winters grabbed the reins of my deer, pulling me away. “Now, dear heart!”

  I heard real fear in his voice. I shivered, even in the heat. “We can’t leave him!” I shouted.

  “Santa must be protected at all costs,” Mr. Winters said, and he took off at full speed toward the others, dragging my reindeer with him. I glanced back at Ramon and watched him watching us. He gave me a little salute, and then smiled his brilliant, white smile, visible even in the moonlight. He turned and spurred his reindeer toward the Masked Man. The enemy pulled back his staff and hurled whatever terrible power he possessed at my new friend. The air shimmered. There was another sonic boom. Ramon and his reindeer were blasted backward. Ramon tumbled from the back of his mount. He and the deer seemed to hang in midair, as if a residue of Defender magic protected them for one final moment. Then they fell, straight down to the forest of Ramon’s homeland, to the mountains he had roamed as a child. I screamed, “Noooo!” The Masked Man’s head snapped around, and he gazed directly at me, the eyes of his mask glowing green like his staff. He rocketed toward us, ready to attack.

  Then he was gone. The hot, muggy air was now cold and crisp. The tears on my cheeks turned chill in the night air. We had made the leap out of the Dominican Republic. I knew we were back at the North Pole. We had escaped. Ramon had sacrificed himself to save us.

  CHAPTER 8

  Reunion

  We flew in silence through the bitter North Pole sky, and I cried softly, hoping no one would hear. But Mr. Winters slowed beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dear heart.”

  “We shouldn’t … have left him,” I said, trying to catch my breath between sobs.

  “It could not be helped. Ramon understood.”

  “I don’t,” I said, angrily snapping my legs against the sides of my reindeer, which bolted ahead. I had to get away from Mr. Winters, from all of them. He didn’t follow me. But Santa did. He and the long-haired man I’d caught just a glimpse of were in the sleigh. I was so sad and angry that I’d almost forgotten the Defender Ramon had given himself up to save. Santa guided his sleigh next to me, and I wiped away my tears as best I could. The man sat up and studied me. His hair hung well past his waist, covering his legs like a blanket. The customary streak of white twisted wildly through the red. There was something familiar about him. A tear trickled down his cheek and into his beard, freezing in the arctic air. Before he said a single word, I knew. “Carol?” he asked, with eyes wide.

  “Daddy?” I responded. W
hen he nodded, I launched myself from the back of my reindeer and onto the sleigh, throwing my arms around him. He rocked me back and forth, stroking my hair, kissing my head again and again, and muttering, “Oh, thank God. Thank God. My baby.”

  “Why did you leave me?” I asked, sobbing.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to.”

  I buried my face in his hair. His clothes were a tattered mess. He smelled like sweat and a musty basement. His beard was ragged and tangled. He wore no coat, but the hair was so thick and long he probably didn’t need one. He stroked my forehead. His skin was rough, but I didn’t mind. I felt a surge of joy and squeezed him hard around the waist. Then I remembered Ramon and felt guilty for my happiness. I thought of Ramon’s family and the love and warmth in his home. I knew that he would want this for me, to be able to hug my dad for the first time since I was five years old. But now his family, his poor abuela, they could no longer hug him.

  The sleigh bumped down and slowed to a stop. We were back at Santa’s, and Mrs. Claus came running out. Nori and Gerta helped me down from the sleigh and then reached for Dad. He waved them away. “My strength returns.” He stood up straight, breathed the cold air deeply, and hopped off the sleigh. He stumbled a bit, swaying as if trying to stay upright on a skateboard, but quickly regained his balance and put his arm around me. He walked barefoot through the snow. Mrs. Claus threw her arms around the both of us. “Welcome home,” she said. An awful silence settled like a fog over the group. Mrs. Claus looked at Santa, who hung his head. “Who, dear?” she whispered.

  “Ramon,” he said quietly, and Mrs. Claus cried and embraced her husband. My insides churned like the sea on a rocky shore. Sadness, joy, fear, relief—they all crashed against each other. There were too many emotions that day. Was this what it meant to be a Defender? If that was the case, maybe I wasn’t up to the task. Maybe I didn’t belong.

  Dad was like a different person when he emerged from the bathroom. His face was smooth and shaven, glowing pink. He definitely resembled his younger brother, but his features were softer, kinder. Less like chiseled granite, more like sculpted clay. He had freckles just like mine, though lighter and not as many, and his eyes were also green. He looked remarkably young, the life and energy returning to him. I wasn’t even sure how old he was.

  Dad carried a plastic bag full of the hair that once hung to his knees. “You don’t mind keeping this for me, do you, Carol?” he asked, looking serious. It occurred to me that I didn’t know my father at all. I knew only fuzzy memories and what I imagined him to be. I remembered playing with him in the snow and drinking hot chocolate and seeing his face light up when I opened the carved wooden Santa. That was it. Was he funny or serious? Did he get mad easily or have the patience of Mr. Winters? Was he a happy person or moody? I took too long to respond, and he laughed. “I’m joking, Angel Butt,” he said, and hearing those words made me feel like I was five again. I started to cry. “What’s wrong, honey?” Dad asked, pulling me close. He no longer smelled of sweat and mustiness. He had a cinnamon scent that sweetened the air.

  “I missed you. I miss Ramon. I miss Mom.”

  “I know, sweetie. So do I. But I’m back now, and we’re together. We have to laugh again. We have to be happy. Your mom would want that, and so would Ramon.”

  “OK,” I said. Then something occurred to me. “How did you know Mom died?”

  “My captors told me,” he said and then paused, as if trying not to cry himself.

  “Who kidnapped you?”

  “I don’t know who the big guy is, but there were two former Defenders involved. When I asked them to explain themselves, they refused to talk, saying only that they were tired of wasting their gift.” He touched my lock of white hair, studying it. “So, Santa says you have it, too.” I nodded. “And he says my brother took you in. I’ll bet that was a barrel of laughs.” He winked. “Tell me everything. I want to hear all about it.”

  I nodded again and then went into probably way too much detail about my uncle’s toy company and how rich he was; about Broward Academy and how hard school could be and how I felt like an outcast; about Amelia and how she was my closest, most loyal friend, and how she was separated from her father just like I was; about Vincent Cato and the other kids and how they called me Christmas Carol; about the old reindeer that flew and wreaked havoc at the festival; about how Mr. Winters showed up and was so weird and so cool; about the trip to New York and meeting Santa and then stopping time and saving the little boy. Dad listened and laughed, not once interrupting. He never stopped smiling, and I didn’t feel silly at all, even though I knew I was being a silly little kid, rambling on and on. I talked about how Uncle Christopher took care of me and gave me everything I could ever want but never hugged me and rarely smiled and worked all the time.

  The smile finally disappeared from Dad’s face. “My brother and I are night and day. Mom used to call us Cain and Abel after the biblical brothers. A bit harsh, I think, since Cain did in his poor brother, but she made her point.” Dad put his head down, lost in thought. “Chris was always jealous of me. When I turned fourteen and started leaving in the summers to train as a Defender, I had to keep it a secret, of course, and make up a story about a special camp I got to attend. He barely talked to me after that. I think he felt abandoned every summer when we could have been doing fun things together.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” I blurted out. I hadn’t really thought much about it before, but I realized it was the truth. There was something sad about my uncle. “He seems lonely.”

  Dad stroked my hair and tears glistened in his eyes. “You have a kind heart, Carol. My brother chooses to be the way he is, I think. That company is all he’s ever cared about, and he steamrolls anyone who gets in his way. Regardless, I owe him a debt of gratitude for taking you in. Maybe we can patch things up.”

  I nodded, not sure what else to say. I wondered if my uncle missed me and if he was searching for me. Surely the authorities were hunting for Mr. Winters; everybody probably assumed he was some twisted sicko who had wormed his way into Broward and kidnapped me. I thought of Amelia and how much she must miss me—just as much as I missed her. I wondered if Dad and I would go to Hillsboro at some point. Florida had never been his home. Syracuse was. “What do we do now?” I asked. “Where do we go?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “You will stay here, of course.” Mrs. Claus floated into the room. I hadn’t even heard her approach. She was like a cat. “You will rest and recover.”

  Santa appeared. He seemed to go wherever Mrs. Claus went. “Christmas approaches,” Santa said, looking at my father. “I hesitate to even ask, but I need all of my Defenders. You weren’t the only one who vanished. And with Ramon’s loss …”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, feeling a stab in my heart at the mention of our lost friend’s name. “He can’t go back to being a Defender, not after all he’s been through.” Santa looked almost ashamed as he turned away. Mrs. Claus touched me gently on the shoulder.

  “Carol, honey, I made a pledge,” Dad said.

  “I don’t care about your stupid pledge!” I shouted. “I can’t lose you again. I won’t!”

  “Carol!” Dad said, his tone firm. “I’m sorry, honey, but that is not your decision. I chose what to do with my life. I have a gift, and it must not be wasted.”

  My face turned fiery red. I wanted to scream. I wanted to stomp out of the room. But then I thought of something, and a calm settled over me. I smiled, and my father studied me. I could tell he was puzzled. He didn’t really know me either. “Then I’m going with you,” I said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I have a gift,” I said with a smirk. “And it must not be wasted.” I knew I was being a brat, but I enjoyed turning those words around on him.

  “You’re too young. Christmas is too close.”

  “You can teach me.”

  “No!”

 
“So it’s OK for you to risk your life but not me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and puffing out my bottom lip.

  Santa interrupted. “She understands the elves, Brian,” he said softly.

  My father whipped his head around to look at Santa. “What? None of us can.”

  “They call her the Gifted One.”

  “That can’t be,” Dad said.

  “It is,” Mrs. Claus replied. “I understand your fears, but she has great power. Who better to teach her to use it than her father?”

  Dad thought about this. We watched him expectantly. I uncrossed my arms and glared at him, mad at myself for being mad at him so soon after his return, but unable to control how I felt. When his eyes met mine, however, the anger just vanished. He smiled and reached out to stroke my hair. “You’re so young, Carol.”

  “I’m almost thirteen, Daddy.”

  “You are, aren’t you? I’ve missed so much. And you lost out on having a father.”

  “You’re here now,” I said. “Teach me.”

  My father looked at Santa and Mrs. Claus and then back to me. He sighed and slowly nodded.

  We probably should have practiced farther from Santa’s. Dad and I stood in the front yard, between the house and the reindeer barn, while Mr. Winters watched from the front porch. “Just curious, m’lady. Want to see the Gifted One in action.” He winked. I wished people would quit calling me that. Talk about pressure! What if the elves were wrong? Maybe I was just good with the elf language or something. Sort of like Amelia. She spoke Spanish and English, of course, and when we took French, it came naturally to her, while my tongue tripped all over itself every time I tried to roll an “r.” She sounded like she was from Paris. I sounded like a cat coughing up a hair ball.

  Dad stood beside me in the trampled-down snow. It was late evening, the lights of the decorated tree in front of the house sparkling in the near night. I had on a heavy winter coat, gloves, hat, the works—all provided by Mrs. Claus—but Dad wore a light jacket, no gloves, no hat. “You don’t know how good this feels, Angel Butt,” he said, spreading his arms and tilting his head back. “I was miserable in that hot cell for so long.” I understood a little of what he felt. Despite Mrs. Claus’s insistence that I bundle up, I was swelteringly hot. How did I ever stand Florida? I slipped off my gloves, glancing at the house to make sure Mrs. Claus wasn’t watching. I tossed the gloves into the snow and waited for my father to finish his whole embrace-the-cold thing. He smiled broadly and waved his arms toward his face as if gathering smells from a freshly-baked pie, then he spun around and around. Good gravy, I was from a weird family.