by Heide Goody
“Mm, frisky,” she said groggily.
“Bloody hell, Esther. We nearly died.”
She sat slowly up. “Well,” she said, “that might work out well for us. If the elves think they’ve killed us.”
They stood and embraced, thigh deep in the snow. They were both shivering. Dave wasn’t sure if it was shock, or the fact they were both wet and chilled to the bone.
“We have no idea what’s happened to the kids,” he said in a choked sob. “They could be anywhere. They might be de—”
“Shh, we must assume they are okay,” she said. “And we’re going to find them.”
“Of course.”
“We don’t know how yet, but we will. I think we need to go back into town and start again.”
It wasn’t an appealing thought, but standing here in the snow was certain to render them both incapable of anything. They wrapped their arms around each others’ shoulders and walked slowly back the way they’d come.
***
53
Guin and Newton were herded and hurried along a narrow rock tunnel. The fairy lights along the walls were even more sparse and temperamental than the ones in the main cavern. They stumbled through patches of darkness between moments of rosy cheeriness.
The elf behind them screeched an order and they were diverted to one side and into a—
Guin blinked and looked about them.
Long, brightly painted workbenches were arranged in rows and columns. Twee little stools stood by the benches, along with neatly laid out sets of mallets, saws, gimlets, files, shears, paintbrushes and pots. From the rustic beams above hung boughs of holly, sprigs of mistletoe and metres and metres of festive paperchains. Against the far wall were a series of cutesy windows outside which the snow gathered thickly.
“It’s Santa’s workshop,” she whispered. Except, she noticed on second glance, the paintwork on the benches was peeling, half the mallets were broken, the saws were either rusted or blunt, the holly was dead and black, the paperchains appeared to be made from ancient yellow newspaper, and the windows were painted on the cave wall. Not windows at all.
“What’s going on?” said Newton.
An elf leapt onto the workbench in front of them. He – no, she – had the sharpest, pointiest features they’d yet seen on an elf. As though there had been a work related incident involving her face and a vice. A pair of half-moon spectacles balanced on the end of a long nose. A wooden ruler dangled dangerously in her hand.
“Nei tala!” she squawked.
“Sorry,” said Newton. “We were just—”
“Ekkla tala, ya big lummox.”
“Sorry. What?”
The elf lashed out with the ruler. It cracked sharply across Newton’s shoulder.
“Ow! Okay, I—”
Crack!
“Oww! No, I get it. I—”
Crack!
Newton screwed up his face, held his yelp of pain in and nodded. Guin put a reassuring hand on his arm, and received a ruler whack to the knuckles from the elf. It was one of those terrible moments of pain that didn’t initially hurt at all. Guin looked at her bloodless white hand in shock and knew – just knew – that in a five seconds it was going to hurt like hell.
… three, four, five…
Guin gritted her teeth and shoved her throbbing hand under her arm.
“Svo, mi’ducks, ergi Gerd,” said the elf, strolling along the workbench. “Þúert hértil aðna. Toy bygling.” She swung round to indicate the entire workshop. “Dúkir, lesnn, der Pooh ber.”
Guin nodded, pretending/hoping she understood half of that. The elf, whose name was possibly Gerd, gestured to shelves and baskets of supplies on one side of the workshop.
“Gerl semú vilen, ður rétt Bobby Dazzler.”
“Who’s Bobby Dazzler?” said Newton.
Crack! Gerd’s little ruler slapped across Newton’s head. It was a surprise it didn’t break, although Newton’s mass of curly hair probably acted a bit like a protective cushion. A bit.
“Þúátt sjöog fim mínútur. All hal góra skeggi.” Gerd leapt away and scurried to a corner.
“What the hell—?” whispered Newton, rubbing his sore head.
“I thought it was obvious,” said Guin.
The teenager looked at her blankly.
“She wants us to make toys. Wonderful toys. We’ve got sjöog fim minutes.”
“How long’s that?”
“Something-five minutes. I’m not sure.”
“You are kidding me.”
“Nope,” said Guin. She began to explore the nearest workbench. “And I think we ought to do a good job of it too.”
“Why?”
Guin held her arms out. “You see anyone else here?”
“So?”
“You think we’re the first children they’ve ever kidnapped?”
“Um…”
“And do you think they just let the other ones go?”
Newton looked like he was thinking about it and didn’t like what he was thinking. “Maybe we ought to make ourselves useful,” he said eventually.
“I agree,” said Guin.
***
54
In a stiff drawer beneath a workbench, Newton found several crumpled and ripped instruction sheets for the construction of various toys. There were pictures, wildly unhelpful arrows and exclamation marks, and the limited written instructions were written in what looked like runes straight out of The Lord of the Rings.
“It’s just like IKEA instructions,” he said to Guin, cracking a smile to try to raise the mood.
They were alone in the workshop, but they were filled with a sense of being watched. The sounds of elves working, squabbling, ordering each other about and occasionally killing each other, echoed into the cave from afar, reducing individual sounds to a distorted ghostly murmur.
Guin decided it would be easiest to make cuddly toys from the large supplies of fabric in the corner of the room. Sewing was a more forgiving craft than carving or carpentry. That was when they discovered the big hoppers of material were in fact mostly full of discarded human clothing. Including children’s.
“We need to show them we’re useful,” Newton repeated himself hollowly. He waved one of the printed patterns at Guin. “You want a pattern to follow?”
“I’m good,” she said, rummaging through the materials she amassed. “I don’t like instructions.”
Newton nodded, picking out what looked like an easy pattern for a cloth rabbit. “Mum loves building IKEA flat pack furniture,” he said.
“I think that’s one of the reasons why dad likes her,” said Guin.
Newton didn’t particularly want to think about why Dave liked his mum. If he did it was too easy for his brain to drift into thoughts of their parents’ love life. Through conversations with his mum (who had a tendency to overshare) he gathered even old people in their thirties and forties had something like a love life. He shuddered and tried to drive away the thoughts by busying himself with the rabbit pattern.
“I like the little bits you get in IKEA furniture,” said Guin. She had cut out random shapes from a big dress with a floral pattern and was now fiddling with something else.
Newton saw that she had her little wire man on the bench in front of her. He realised her little robot toy made of spare nuts and bolts was probably still in the wooden box in the burning hotel. “What’s his name?” he asked.
“Hmmm?” Guin saw him looking. “That’s Wiry Harrison. He’s my best one. This—” She put down a shiny crumpled thing she’d just made. It had four legs and a long neck. “This is Tinfoil Tavistock.”
“A new Tinfoil Tavistock?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s still Tinfoil Tavistock. Just cos I had to make her again, doesn’t mean it’s not her.”
Newton wasn’t sure that was true. You couldn’t get a copy of a loved one or a best friend and it still be the same thing. He thought about Lily and knew that if she was ever replaced by a copy, i
f he ever got out of this place and returned to the stables, he wouldn’t be able to accept a substitute. Even Yolanda… Yolanda was Yolanda and a rough approximation of her wouldn’t be the same thing.
Newton and Guin worked side by side, he following the pattern step by step, she attacking cloth and cotton and buttons with seemingly no plan at all.
“Why do elves make toys?” he asked some minutes later.
“Is this the beginning of a joke?” said Guin.
“No,” he said, wondering if it could be. “I mean it. Why do they make toys?”
“You mean, cos there’s no Father Christmas to deliver?”
“Even if there was. Why would he do it? Why would they do it?”
“Because children love presents,” she said.
Newton didn’t think that was good enough. “Children love chocolate too. Doesn’t mean that once a year a magical being comes into our houses and buries us under a mound of chocolate.”
“The Easter Bunny,” said Guin.
“You don’t believe in the Easter Bunny do you?”
“I don’t believe in Father Christmas, but we’re having this conversation.”
Up until a few hours ago, Newton would have agreed with her. Given what they’d experienced in the past hours, he was prepared to put what he did and didn’t believe to one side.
“Picture it,” he said. “There’s this guy. Clearly he’s fabulously wealthy because he can afford to build workshops and factories and stuff. And he decides to use that wealth to make toys and give them out to children across the world. What’s his motivation?”
“Guilt,” said Guin without hesitation. “Parents give their children stuff when they’re feeling guilty.”
“That’s true,” agreed Newton. He imagined the average teenager didn’t get to enjoy the expensive hobby of horse-riding, and if his own father hadn’t run out on them years ago, leaving his mum a sad and guilty mess, maybe he wouldn’t either. It was another topic he didn’t want to think on too deeply. “So, he’s making up for his bad deeds of the past, huh?”
“Maybe he was a criminal,” suggested Guin. “Or a soldier. Maybe he slaughtered hundreds of people in battle. That’s why his clothes are all red.”
“Good one,” said Newton. “So he went from slaying people to sleighing. You know, on a sleigh with reindeer.”
“Painful,” said Guin.
“Needs work.”
Guin sewed material together with enviable speed. “In fact,” she said, “maybe Santa is Satan.”
“Dyslexic Satan.”
“Exactly. And this Father Christmas malarkey is him trying to make up for all the bad in the world. All of it.”
“Another fine theory. Of course, mum says that Christmas encourages evil and greed. So really, if Santa is Satan then this is all just a ploy to create more greed and commercialism. Mum would say he’s doing a really good job of it too.”
Newton began to sew together the shapes he’d cut out. The material had caught in the shears and his rabbit toy was a bit jagged. But it still looked like a rabbit. Sort of. If given a range of animals to pick from, multiple choice style, people would identify it as a rabbit. As long as the options were sufficiently diverse. If the choices were ‘rabbit’, ‘pointy guinea pig’ and ‘ill-favoured weasel’ then it might be tougher.
“Do you think there is one?” he said.
“One what?” said Guin, who was embellishing the multiple ears (or was it arms?) on her creation with sequins.
“Father Christmas.”
She looked about, thinking. “We’d have seen him already if he was here.”
Newton nodded. It made sense.
“But,” she added, “the thing that Gerd said: ‘All hal góra skeggi.’”
“What about it?”
“I think it translates as ‘All hail the big beard.’”
***
55
Esther and Dave took care to be as quiet as they could, although Esther was convinced the chattering of her teeth was so loud the elves would be sure to hear it. The streets were silent and deserted as they walked in the shadows, keeping a careful watch. They passed a cookware shop, a pharmacy and a charity shop. Esther heard noises. Dave heard them too.
“What do you think’s going on?” Esther whispered.
There was definitely fresh activity in the town centre. As they rounded a corner they could see that the marketplace had come to life once more. The jolly fairly lights and illuminations cast a warm glow over the dozens of elves congregating there.
“Look at all the stuff they’re eating and drinking,” murmured Dave. He sounded a touch envious. “It’s some sort of party.”
There were bottles of sticky liqueurs everywhere. Most of the elves were tucking into mince pies and candy canes as they jostled merrily around a central raised area.
“It’s like a theatre show wrap party,” said Esther. “All very self-congratulatory. And look!” She nudged Dave, nodding over to the left. Another human shape collapsed onto the floor as the elves climbed out to join the party. Esther recognised the human shell as a the stallholder who’d been selling nutcrackers earlier. She’d thought he had learning difficulties, instead, he’d had elves inside him all along.
“The last market day of the year,” she said. “All the real humans are dead or have left. I bet the road into town is going to stay blocked now. Alvestowe belongs to the elves for Christmas.”
“Do elves celebrate Christmas?” wondered Dave.
“Or do they have other plans?” she said darkly.
Esther crept forward but Dave held her back. “They’ll see us for sure!”
“We’ll never find the kids if we can’t see what they’re doing.” She looked back along the row of shops. “The charity shop.”
“Yes?”
“We need to get some dry clothes, right?”
“Yeah, but they’re closed.”
Esther sighed patiently. “Yes they are. I don’t think that’s our biggest problem right now. We need to get some dry clothes, and maybe, just maybe, we can dress ourselves in clothes that help us blend in a bit more.”
“We’re going to disguise ourselves as elves?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”
Dave sighed. Esther handed him a soggy bundle: the altar cloth. He unwrapped it to find a heavy candlestick.
“We only wanted the candle!”
“It was jammed in and we were in a hurry,” said Esther with a shrug.
Dave wrapped the candlestick back up in the altar cloth.
Esther reflected briefly on the ungodliness of using church equipment for breaking and entering as Dave smashed in one of the panes of glass on the door. He reached through and let them into the shop.
“At least it’s a bit warmer in here,” she said, looking around. “Right, now we need to find something we can work with. See if there’s anything like make-up while I sort through the clothes.”
Esther searched through the dark shop, among dead men’s suits and out of season fashion items. She found a rummage box full of hats. She pulled out some stripy bobble hats.
Dave came back with a box. “This any good?”
“Yes, that’s what we need.” She pulled out some foundation. “Now, you know how the elves have all got really pale faces and red lips? Well that’s what we need to have. Take this stuff and cover up your stubble as best you can. Then we’ll put some lipstick on you.”
“This feels so wrong,” complained Dave as he dabbed on foundation while peering into a mirror.
“Oh, do you think we’re guilty of cultural appropriation?” Esther said. It was something she worried about a lot, as it was a trap that was so easy to fall into. “I mean these elves are clearly authentic in a way that we could never—”
“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” said Dave. “Seriously.”
“Well, all right then. We do need to practise talking like them.”
“Do we? Can’t we
just keep our mouths shut?”
“No. Practise sounding a bit, er, Norwegian or something.”
“I don’t know what that sounds like. Can I do Swedish?”
“Sure.”
“Hurdy gurdy gur,” said Dave to his reflection in the mirror.
“That sounds a bit racist to me,” said Esther with a frown. “I’m not sure Swedish people even sound like that. Put these on.”
Esther handed him a pair of stripy leggings. They were the right colours, like a candy cane, but she wasn’t sure they were big enough for him.
They stripped down their outer layers. In the relative warmth of the shop, the snow that had found its way into every crevice of their clothes and bodies was rapidly melting.
Dave kicked aside his trousers and hauled the leggings up to his mid-thigh. “Not sure they’re going to go any further.”
“Give it a go,” she said, “Go on, pull!”
Dave tugged and got them to his hips. The elastic gouged an uncompromising ring around his belly.
“Not bad,” said Esther. “Go and find a big jumper to cover that up. Green, red or brown, and then a leather belt to go round your waist.”
“This is absurd,” moaned Dave, wandering away to find a jumper.
Esther had pulled on some stripy tights and a brown woollen dress herself. Now she had a slightly more tricky task to accomplish. She rummaged below the counter and found some sewing supplies. Finding a leather handbag in a fleshy pink shade and two pairs of ear warmers, she began to cut the handbag into sections,.
“Dave, would you be able to bend a wire coat hanger into a teardrop shape?” she asked.
“Er, sure.” He twisted a coat hanger until it weakened enough for him to break off a length. He formed the shape Esther wanted.
“Excellent. Now do another three, please.”
“Have we got time for this?” he said.
“We want to find our children, don’t we?”
“I bet they’re not doing bloody arts and crafts.”
***