Poles Apart

by Ueckermann, Marion

  Niklas pulled on his gloves, started the snowmobile and drove back to his cabin, his thoughts lost in the strangeness of this new guest. He should place Miss Jones in the cabin closest to his, move the family coming in tomorrow to the cabin that until now had remained unreserved. It wouldn’t do to have a woman living that deep in the forest on her own. Coming from Africa, she’d be clueless about life in Lapland—high-maintenance, needing lots of help. The closer she was the better. For them both.

  Or maybe not?

  Starting with Miss Jones’s cabin, Niklas entered and stacked wood into the fireplace, ready to be lit. Then he filled the wood holder with sufficient logs to keep a fire going through the night. He did the same thing at each vacant cabin. Those occupied, he merely dropped a pile of fresh logs onto the porch.

  Both Risto and Mila gave a loud bark as Niklas stepped back inside. The sound reminded him that he hadn’t thought about his dogs when he’d agreed to help Father. Not that he could’ve refused. Come rain, sunshine or snow, Isä couldn’t miss work.

  Tail wagging, Risto came closer and rubbed a wet nose against his cold pants.

  Niklas patted his head. “You want to go out, boy?”

  Another bark.

  “I guess that means yes.” He opened the cabin door and the dog bounded outside into the snow. Mila eased up onto her paws and ambled toward Niklas, her heavy stomach clearly cumbersome. She walked right past him and followed Risto with far less enthusiasm than the father of her unborn pups had shown.

  No way could he leave the dogs here on their own until after seven tonight. And he couldn’t take them to his parents’ house with his father ill. They’d have to come with him to work. It shouldn’t be a problem. Both Mila and Risto loved people. And children loved dogs.

  After a quick shower to freshen up, Niklas grabbed the dogs’ leashes. As he put on his snow pants, he pulled the snowmobile keys from the pocket and swopped them for his car keys. Then he made his way to the Range Rover, ready to head for the village.

  The retrievers’ ears pricked up at the sound of his whistle. He patted his thighs. “Mila. Risto. Come. You want to be Santa’s helpers today?”

  Chapter 3

  After Sarah collected her luggage at Rovaniemi airport, she hurried to car rentals, eager to pick up her vehicle and head for that cabin in the forest. She’d spent much time in thought during her flights and layovers, and used every opportunity to jot down ideas. I can’t wait to start writing. But—

  She gazed down at the bright red leather journal that hadn’t left her side all the way from Cape Town. Her thumb moved across the cover with its embossed floral pattern. What if her ideas didn’t work? What if she’d travelled all this way and hit the same blank canvas she’d faced at Hannah’s?

  Her fingers tightened around the journal. I refuse to accept that. I’m in Lapland—storyworld of my new manuscript...title unknown. Maybe ‘Falling for Santa’? That would be good for a romance.

  Groan. How could her heroine fall for Santa? He was old.

  ‘Mary Christmas’ perhaps?

  Ugh. She’d worry about a title after she’d written the story.

  As Sarah stepped inside the car rental office, she spotted some local brochures. Stuffing the journal into her handbag, she picked up a few and scanned the first one. An ad in the top right-hand corner caught her attention. Santa’s Village. Just the place I need to be. Should get some good research done there.

  She walked up to the desk and pointed to the advert, speaking slower with gestures. “Santa’s Village… How far?”

  The fair-haired young rental clerk looked up from the brochure to Sarah. “Not far. Not even five minutes down the road.” Although accented, he spoke perfect English. He pushed a small map her way. “We are here. Follow the road marked 951 until you get E75. Turn left. It’s only a little way up the road, on your right.” He smiled. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes. Jones. Sarah Jones.”

  Tapping on the keyboard, he checked the screen in front of him.

  Sarah picked up the map. She’d need that.

  “Ah, yes. Miss Jones. I see you have requested satellite navigation in your car—in English—so you should have no problem getting around.”

  Of course. She’d forgotten.

  The printer beside the clerk hummed. When it silenced, he picked up the paperwork and pushed the rental agreement toward Sarah, which she signed. After telling her where she’d find the blue Nissan Micra, he handed over the keys.

  She turned to go, and then stopped. “Toivonen’s cabins? Do you know where they are?”

  “A little farther up the same road. A few kilometers past Santa’s Village.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been most helpful.”

  He tipped his head and smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  As Sarah pushed open the door, his voice followed. “Don’t forget to drive on the right side of the road.”

  Right. This would be fun. She was used to driving on the left.

  Sarah crossed the snow-covered parking lot, thankful for her new fur-lined boots. Red—her color. Dad’s caution on the phone Thursday night came to mind. “Always make sure you can see the white line if you look out the driver’s side window.”

  She swallowed hard as she looked around. How was she supposed to do that when the roads were the same color as the line she was meant to keep in sight? She’d drive slow, concentrate hard.

  Sarah flicked on the right indicator as she approached the tourist attraction. She’d make a quick stop and meet Mr. Claus. It would be wise to get a feel for the ‘real’ Santa before she put her fingers to the keyboard again. This journey had been all about doing things on the spur of the moment—why stop now?

  Several large busses stood parked beneath streetlamps that cast an eerie glow across their rectangular forms. The dull light spread over the snowy surrounds. What kind of place was this where night descended before two-thirty in the afternoon? Not that she’d bemoan the long nights and short days—she wrote better when it was dark. Perhaps that had been her problem back home...summer days stretching until way past eight in the evening.

  She switched off the engine and gave herself a mental high-five. She’d made it from the airport to Santa’s Village. In the snow. In the dark. Less than five minutes down the road... Pfft, more like five hours. She glanced down at the odometer. No way. Two kilometers? From the airport to here? Goodness, it felt much farther. Hopefully those cabins were close by.

  Armed with her camera, Sarah headed toward the main building that housed Santa’s office, snapping photographs as she walked. People bustled about, having fun. Huge snowmen. Christmas lights. Children sliding down icy ramps.

  Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, adding to the ambiance. Head back, face up, Sarah stretched out her arms and twirled, trying like a child to catch the flakes on her tongue. As she licked the icy specks from her lips, a giggle spilled from her mouth. She might not have had much to do with Christmas for years, but she was no Scrooge—it would take a fool not to admit that this magical place screamed Christmas. What a good decision to come here, even though she’d had to travel almost from one pole to the other.

  Her muse was happy. Very happy.

  The wind swirled, and Sarah’s gloved hands tugged the snow jacket tighter. She smiled, thankful she’d bought it. The milky color would serve her well, too, allowing her to blend into her surroundings, unnoticed. She pulled the matching hat lower over her ears and snapped another photo as she passed a sign that read ‘Arctic Circle.’ Had she just crossed over, stepped to the other side of that invisible line circumventing the globe?

  Shaking the snow from her boots, Sarah stepped inside the building. So this was where Santa lived. Well, Mr. Santa, here I am. And all I want for Christmas is a good love story.

  Snow plopped onto the wooden floor as she pulled the hat from her head. Had she been outside that long? She checked her camera. Ninety-eight photos, and only a handful taken on the journey over. Sto
ryworld note to self: One can get lost in time in Santa’s world.

  To her left, a sign pointed up a long, curved flight of stairs. An equally long line of people waited on those stairs to see the old man. Mothers, fathers, children, and grandparents—from all over the world.

  Sarah climbed the first three steps and joined the queue. She’d barely smiled at the woman in front of her when a teenage girl, dressed as an elf, hurried to rope off the staircase.

  Sarah turned to the red-clad ‘elf’. “Is the queue always this long?”

  “It’s a little busier than usual—there are still twelve days before Christmas—but word is out that Santa has his golden retrievers here again. Third day in a row. Everyone wants to get a look at Santa’s best friends. Especially as they’ll soon have puppies.”

  “I see you’ve closed the queue behind me. Does this mean it will take—”

  “Over two hours to get to the top? Probably. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure you get to see Santa and give him your Christmas wish list.” The girl smiled.

  Sarah worked her jaw. She didn’t want to give Santa a shopping list. She needed an interview. Maybe it was a good thing she was last. But over a two hour wait?

  “Perhaps I should come back tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t. It’s been rather crazy here since Thursday and getting worse every day. If Santa has his best friends with him again tomorrow, you’ll wait even longer, guaranteed.”

  Sarah gazed up the staircase, carpeted with young and old, and released a sigh as she pulled out her red journal. According to the sign in front of her, she couldn’t take photos, but she could use the time to sketch what she saw—in both words and drawings.

  Pencil in hand, she drew the large red wheel to her side...a bobbin on steroids with paper messages wound around the center instead of thread. The framed Guinness World Record certificate beside it testified to the longest wish list Santa had ever received—75954 wishes. Impressive. And they were all there in front of her.

  Character sketch—Santa: Well liked. Popular. She’d add more to the list, including his physical attributes, after her visit. Perhaps she could sketch Santa, and then imagine him as a young man. With those changes, maybe he’d make a suitable hero for her novel.

  Behind the wheel swung a large wooden pendulum, at least one story high. Sarah’s gaze followed the pendulum to an enormous wooden cog hanging in the roof like a UFO. An oversized wooden gear ground its teeth into the cog, moving it around.

  “Santa’s time clock,” the woman next in line explained as she reined in her energetic preschooler.

  The child shied away when Sarah looked at him, attaching himself to his mother’s leg. She wasn’t that scary to kids, was she? Jonathan and Matthew loved her.

  An ache formed in her chest at the thought of her nephews. It would’ve been great to show them this place.

  “Santa stops this clock on Christmas Eve so he can deliver all the presents in time,” the woman continued.

  “Interesting. Thanks.” Sarah jotted down more notes then set about sketching the enormous timepiece. By the time she finally reached the top of the staircase, only her friendly neighbor and son separating her from Saint Nick, Sarah had sketched several views of Santa’s timepiece.

  Saint Nick. She liked that.

  She scribbled again in her journal. Heroes name—Nick. With a few minutes to spare, Sarah Googled the meaning on her phone. Victory of the people. Nice. Now be my victor and come to my rescue with a love story. Please.

  “Hello. Are you ready to meet Santa?”

  Sarah started at the elderly ‘elf’ standing at the entrance to Santa’s domain. She’d seen him ushering the last ten families in, chatting to them at the doorway.

  She nodded and opened her bag to tuck her journal inside. Having a change of mind, she zipped the bag closed. She’d need to write down the answers to her myriad of questions. Sarah opened the journal and slid her pen in at the page where she’d penned a long list of questions for Santa, if he indulged her the time.

  Ignoring the elf’s questions about where she came from and what her name was, she followed him inside. She’d be the one asking questions this evening, thank you.

  “Miss No Name from Nowhere,” he announced as Sarah entered.

  On a raised platform, an enormous high-backed chair engulfed the bearded old man. Two gorgeous golden retrievers lay stretched out on the floor beside him. Without lifting their heads, they raised their eyes to Sarah, and then closed them again. It had obviously been another long day for the pooches. The female being heavily pregnant to boot, Sarah could only think how difficult it must be for the poor animal.

  Santa gazed at her and smiled. Not that she could see his smile. White fuzz covered his face except for his eyes, nose and the tops of his cheeks. And even some of those features where partially hidden by the spectacles propped low on his nose and resting on his cheeks. Rather, he smiled with his eyes.

  “Miss No Name from Nowhere? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, that is a first.”

  Ha-ha-ha? What happened to Ho-ho-ho?

  “Come sit, Miss Name.” He patted the stool beside him. “Or should I call you No? Ha-ha-ha.”

  “No.” Really?

  Eyes wide, Sarah walked across the wooden floor, taking mental notes. Large puffy slippers. Red hat and shirt. White apron. Likes to cook? Long hair—hippie? Hip? Mega-beard. Last shaved—1920? She drew a smiley face in her head.

  “Sit down, No. I don’t bite. I promise.”

  She slipped onto the stool, heart pounding like one of those teambuilding drumming sessions she’d attended when she still worked in the corporate world—the days before her first bestseller that launched her writing career.

  Santa was nothing like she’d expected. On outward appearances he was, but she had never imagined he’d be this young. And nothing could’ve prepared her for those piercing blue eyes that stared right through her, lighting up with his smile.

  Sarah glanced at his hand holding onto the armrest. Dead giveaway. Beneath all the red and white trimmings, overgrown mustache and beard, and bushy eyebrows, Saint Nick wasn’t much older than herself.

  Who was this dark-haired beauty? Where was she from? ‘No Name’ and ‘Nowhere’ didn’t help Niklas one bit, intriguing and humorous as they were.

  He’d try again. “So, No, I don’t recognize that Nowhere accent of yours. It’s like nothing I’ve ever come across. Very different. Not quite Australian. Won’t you tell me where you’re from and who you are?”

  “Never mind who I am, Nick. What I want to know is who exactly you are.”

  She knows my name? And what does she mean by ‘who exactly I am’?

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  She opened the red journal she carried. “Let’s see…I believe your real name is Joulupukki? Is that true?”

  “Ha-ha-ha. I get it. You’re interviewing Santa?”

  “Yes.” She tipped her chin upward. “If you don’t object. I am the last person. They cut the queue after me.”

  “Sure. Why not?” He leaned closer to see what she was writing and spotted the sketches on the opposite page. “Those are really good. Did you draw them?”

  “I did.” She moved her hand, covering her artwork. Extending a finger, she tapped the page. “Joulupukki?”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, a writer. A novelist.”

  “Ah. And what kind of novels do you write, Miss No Name from Nowhere?”

  She gave a sigh, soft enough not to be rude, loud enough for him to hear. “Mr. Claus, this is my interview, so if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Joulupukki? Please.”

  “Ha-ha-ha, yes. Joulupukki is my real name...in Finland. Elsewhere in the English-speaking world I’m simply known as Father Christmas or Santa.”

  “Oh.”

  Niklas watched the blush rise from her neck until it reached her cheeks. “Is it too hot in here for you?”

  Giving her head a quick shake, she lowered her
gaze to the journal and scanned her notes. Choosing her next question, no doubt.

  “Rovaniemi—it’s your home?”

  “No. Rovaniemi is where I have my office. My home is in Korvatunturi, north-east of this town.”

  “I see.” She scribbled down the name, not getting the spelling quite right.

  Niklas leaned closer. “K-o-r-v-a-t-u-n-t-u-r-i.”

  She corrected as he spelled, then rewrote the word, scratching out her first attempt.

  “And your workshops? Where your elves make all the toys for...Christmas? Where are those located?”

  “Is this a spy novel? You’re certainly digging into sensitive territory.”

  Niklas waited for a response as she tapped the notebook with her pen.

  Finally she looked up. “Romance.”

  Romance? As long as she kept her questions to Santa, his reindeer, and elves, she’d get the information she needed. Move them to matters of love and he was in big trouble.

  “Your workshops...?”

  “Ah, yes. They are also in Korvatunturi. But nobody can go there because all the secrets of Christmas can be found there.” He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice. “Do you know why Santa can hear all the children of the world so well?”

  She shook her head, slower this time. Niklas watched mesmerized as long, dark tresses swept a contrast over her cream jersey.

  You’re staring.

  He shifted in his chair and slid his hands further down the armrests, wrapping his fingers around the wooden end. He ventured a gaze into those pale blue pools, swallowing hard. “Because Korvatunturi is shaped like two ears. The name actually means ‘ear fell’.”

  “So you wouldn’t take me there if I wanted to discover the secrets of Christmas?”

  “No, no, no. It is not possible. It’s a very secret place. But if you like, I could share the secret of Christmas with you sometime.”

  What are you doing? Flirting?

  Of course he wasn’t. He was making an opening to evangelize, that’s all.