Candy Canes and Buckets of Blood

by Heide Goody

  “Dad!” yelled Guin.

  Esther looked up. A moment later she pointed. As the sleigh’s sinuous flightpath threw in another moment of weightlessness, Guin looked round.

  Bacraut and the workshop elf, Gerd, had come up behind her.

  “Gríppa ha!” snarled Bacraut, limping horribly.

  Gerd leapt at Guin, knocking her over with her bulk. Guin came down heavily on the cardboard boxes.

  “Þú er veek gela, ya daft apeth,” grinned Gerd, drawing her knife. As Gerd pressed it again Guin’s throat, Bacraut lurched forward and ripped the beard from Guin’s chin.

  “Ow!” said Guin, indignantly.

  Bacraut pressed the beard to his own chin and straightened as though the beard would fix all his ills and injuries. He frowned, tried detaching and reattaching the beard. It was not having the desired effect.

  “Hva er þet crudl? Wull?” he demanded.

  “It’s toy stuffing!” said Guin.

  Bacraut threw the fake beard aside. It was gone with the wind. Guin tried to wriggle from under Gerd but the horrible elf had her pinned.

  “Égæt afá skeggi,” said Bacraut.

  “Og hú?” said Gerd.

  Bacraut sneered disdainfully at Guin. “Slautu ha! Kasta he aff hislei!”

  ***

  110

  It must be the bomb, thought Dave, carefully levering out a box wrapped in red paper with a tartan bow. It was the odd one out among a sea of shiny Christmas boxes. Esther had wedged it in deeply, held in position by the surrounding boxes. Otherwise, if it was as Esther had described, it should have surely exploded by now.

  Dave did not like bombs. He’d not encountered an honest-to-goodness bomb in real life, but he had attended enough hoax bomb calls to know the terrible heightened sensation of being close to capricious death. He’d also had training for what do if a bomb was discovered at the ambulance station or hospital. As he recalled, the role of the designated fire marshal was to stay with the bomb at all times and describe what it was doing until the police arrived. An unenviable job.

  “Well, yes,” said Dave as he lifted it free of the other boxes. “The bomb is a red paper box, officer.”

  He began to carefully climb up to the lip of the container, pushing the box ahead of him. If they were passing over open countryside or, better still, water he had every intention of tossing it overboard.

  “It looks professionally constructed, officer. My girl Esther is a semi-pro parcel wrapper. Oh, the bomb? Just some chemicals she found in a lab.” He tutted and rolled his eyes. “I know, women, eh? Always cooking something up.”

  His foot snagged. He shook it, but it wouldn’t come free. He looked down.

  A spindly arm had snaked out of a nearby box and grabbed him.

  “Back to bed,” he hissed at the changeling. “We’re not there yet.”

  Another arm forced its way out of another box and clutched at his trousers. All around, boxes shifted and rocked. Sharp nails picked at and sliced through the ribbon holding box lids in place.

  ***

  111

  Hearing Dave call that he’d found the bomb, Esther would have gone back to assist. Except Guin was having trouble with a couple of elves two carriages ahead. One was sitting on her with a blade in its hand. They were dangerously close to the edge, above the huge drum cylinder of a roaring turbine engine.

  The other elf was determinedly making its way forward to the front of the sleigh. Esther’s thoughts leapt to Newton. Of course, he’d be up at the front, with the reindeer. If they survived this experience, what were the odds of him asking her for a pet reindeer? What were the odds of her buying it for him? What were the odds of it then having its own Snapchat or Tumblr account or whatever?

  Esther stumbled forward as quickly as she could.

  Ninety percent of her brain was filled with worry and dread for the safety of her family. Ten percent was madly occupied with the wish Newton would just ask out that stable-girl Yolanda. Having a girlfriend must surely be cheaper and more fulfilling than owning a horse. Or a reindeer.

  ***

  112

  Newton was not a fighter, he didn’t believe in fighting. So when he punched the elf in the face and threw it off the side of the sleigh, he shouted a heartfelt apology after it. The next elf dropped on him before he’d even got to his second “Sorry”. It battered him with its tiny fists.

  “Listen,” said Newton, “we don’t have to be enemies – ow! – We can just discuss our differences and find some common – ow! – don’t do that!”

  It was clearly in no mood to listen.

  He hauled himself up and looked over the lip of the sleigh. The reindeer had been heading on a course that flew high over the electricity pylons ahead. They had drifted while Newton was distracted.

  “We have to do some course corrections,” Newton said to the elf. “Stop hitting me!”

  “Slautra alla menk!” shouted the elf.

  “I don’t know what that means!” Newton yelled back, hauling on the reins to make the reindeer pull up. “Santa! Can’t you steer this thing?”

  “O-o-o-h, I appear to have lost all feeling in my hands,” wailed Santa’s head.

  Well, yes, thought Newton. Santa’s hands were just works of meat sculpture, constructed by a tribe of mad elves who had crash-landed here decades if not centuries ago. Why would they work?

  “One might regain some sensibility if you happened to give me—”

  “I don’t have any mead!” shouted Newton and traded blows with the elf.

  ***

  113

  Guin did not have the bodily strength to hold off Gerd for much longer.

  The elf leaned down with all her weight, pressing the knife closer to Guin’s throat. “Þaðer syn sham,” spat Gerd. “Þú haf madir góoð álf, bugalugs.”

  “Eg ne ekki álf,” Guin grunted. “It’s hard enough being a girl!”

  ***

  114

  Dave was lacking hands. He had a bomb in one. He had an insulin syringe in the other.

  He was successfully fighting off elf-babies (these were slightly less racist, olive-skinned babies, possibly destined for the Mediterranean or Latin American). He was successfully holding the bomb aloft in a gentle grip. What he was not doing was climbing out of the container.

  It only took a drop of insulin to melt an elf but they were coming at him in an endless tide. The current waves were wading through the gloopy remains of their fallen comrades, clawing for him like nightmarish tar-babies.

  “Will you just leave me the hell alone!” he yelled. “I’m currently trying to save your lives as well as mine!” The last statement rang kind of hollow, given the numbers of elves he was presently dispatching.

  “Oh, screw this!” He stabbed a changeling, left the syringe embedded in its disintegrating face, and frantically made for the lip of the container. Desperation and an undeniable level of annoyance lent him the will to shake off pursuers and haul himself up.

  He put the bomb down on the edge and spun himself to sit beside it. Below, the changelings clawed at each other in their desire to get to him. Further below, there were only fields and woodland, browns and greys. No human habitation in sight.

  “You guys are just mental,” he said. With as soft a toss as he could manage, he threw the bomb away.

  The wind caught it. The sleigh buffeted. His aim was off. Whatever the cause, it did not sail directly away from the sleigh. Its path cut along the sleigh’s side, close enough for a changeling, lifted up by its fellows like a cheerleader, to catch the bomb in flight.

  Dave’s maddened heart sank. “Idiots!” he hissed.

  The bomb-catching elf dropped down and the others immediately fought him for possession of it. They were not doing it gently.

  “To hell with you all!” snarled Dave and leapt for the next carriage.

  ***

  115

  Moments before the sleigh abruptly sagged, Newton thought he heard a distant explosion. Fi
ghting off the elf with one hand, he tried to haul on the reins with the other. Whatever had happened further back had caused the sleigh to drop a hundred crucial feet. They were going to slam straight into the electric cabling.

  “Pylons!” Newton yelled.

  The elf didn’t understand or didn’t care.

  “Down, Blinky!” Newton cried. “Down, Sleipnir! Kicgut, Paugir, go under!”

  “Dunnið!” shouted Santa.

  The reindeer swooped, cutting between cables and ground, barely clearing the lowest wires. A metallic shriek and a crackle of electricity instantly told Newton they had not quite cleared the wire. Above him, Santa’s giant body of slumped.

  ***

  116

  The explosion took out the rearmost section of the sleigh. It also jolted Gerd’s grip on Guin. The appearance of a tiny bearded head flying past, mournfully crying, “I was only thirsty,” as it went was also a distraction.

  Guin pushed at Gerd, managing to almost drag herself clear. But then the elf, tearing her eyes away from the sight of Santa’s decapitated head, raised her knife high and stabbed hard at Guin’s chest.

  Gerd twisted the knife.

  It hurt far less than Guin expected. The knife was embedded in the fairy folklore book under her shirt! Guin’s surprise turned to violent anger. She punched Gerd in the side of the head and shoved her off. Gerd rolled off the side of the container, dragging Guin with her. As they tipped over the edge Guin’s arm caught on something: a length of rubber tubing. Gerd dangled below her, hands gripping Guin’s shoes. Gerd’s own feet danced on the edge of the forward edge of the turbine engine. She tried to stand but there was little purchase in the howling gale.

  Tinfoil Tavistock told Guin to hold onto the rubber tubing. Tavistock could be so obvious at times.

  Wild-eyed, Gerd looked up at Guin. “Takta mi upp!”

  “I did everything you asked!” Guin yelled back. “And you were horrible. Nothing but horrible.”

  “Vi cudum ver vrenði!” screamed Gerd and attempted a smile. “Friend-i!” It was a horrible rictus smile.

  Guin shook her legs. Gerd slipped. Her foot dangled inside the edge of the turbine intake. It was enough to snag her. Gerd was whipped into the spinning rotors with a buzz and a crunch. A sudden plume of elf-blood and black smoke shot out of the rear.

  “I’ve already got friends,” said Guin.

  Damn right, agreed Tavistock.

  ***

  117

  Driving a team of reindeer was very different to riding a horse, Newton decided. Particularly an articulated train of a sleigh that was mostly on fire with a lolling and rolling headless Santa sitting in the driving position. Newton gripped the reins and tried to keep the undead deer on a straight and steady course.

  Something slammed into Newton from behind, shoving him into the foot well. “Úr mí veg, hálfvit!” shouted Bacraut.

  The chief elf didn’t look good. Newton guessed no one would if they’d been trouser-pressed, beaten, and forced to cross a bucking, burning sleigh to get to the reins. The elf had a limp and a half, a savage cut on his face and one of his arms bent in a way that couldn’t be right.

  “Hey, we’re sorry about your sleigh—” Newton began.

  The elf snorted and spat blood down his nose.

  “You need a doctor,” said Newton. “National elf service or something.”

  The elf ignored him and picked up the reins.

  Bacraut wound the hair reins around his arm and looped them over his shoulder. The transformation was almost instantaneous. He straightened, even seemed to grow several inches. He looped the reins twice around his neck and down his other arm. The thick hairy ropes nearly swamped him, like that man made of tyres on old Michelin adverts. Bacraut wore it well. The power of Santa’s hair gave him health and strength.

  “All hal góra skeggi,” he said, with a grin.

  ***

  118

  Painfully, Guin climbed back up onto the container. To her surprise, hands gripped her shoulders and helped her up.

  “Oh, God,” said Esther. She went to hug her, and saw the knife sticking out of her chest. Guin wearily shook her head and, freeing the knife, pulled out the hardback book.

  “Books save lives,” she whispered.

  Guin’s dad stumbled forward and collided with them, sagging to his knees beside them. There were soot marks and a livid mark, like sunburn, on his cheek. His side was coated with a gloopy treacle mess: elf blood. He gripped her shoulder like he hadn’t seen her for years.

  “Are you all right, love?” he asked.

  Guin thought about that. She had any number of scrapes and bruises. She’d pulled her arm. She’d knocked her head at one point and would probably have a bump. She had been close enough to a jet turbine to permanently damage her hearing.

  “I’m fine, dad.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hundred percent.”

  The turbine next to them gave a loud bang and died. The sleigh bucked and tilted savagely. They hung onto each other.

  “Newton’s driving,” said Guin.

  “Then we need to get him and us off this thing,” said Esther.

  The sleigh settled in its new position. One turbine dead. The back half of the sleigh, along with the jet engines, was either on fire or missing entirely. A cascade of leaking fuel spewed a tail of fire that burned out before it reached the ground below.

  “Come on,” said Esther. She pushed herself to her feet and started to make her way forward. She nodded back at Guin and her dad. “I think someone needs help.”

  “I’m fine,” Guin insisted.

  Esther pointedly raised her eyebrows. Guin leaned in to her bloodied and charred dad and helped.

  ***

  119

  Newton climbed into a sitting position in the shadow of the headless Santa as the beard-empowered Bacraut gloated.

  Bacraut was giving Newton a big long speech about … Newton had no idea. But Bacraut was clearly impassioned by it and Newton was too polite not to listen. There were lots of gestures, big encompassing ones. Maybe Bacraut was describing the exciting Christmas sleigh ride mission. Maybe he was bemoaning what had happened to the elves and was spinning him some sort of sob story. Maybe he was prophesizing an elf empire that would last for a thousand years. Newton didn’t have a clue. Languages weren’t his strong point. He wasn’t predicted to get a passing grade in his GCSE French and he’d been learning that since he was eleven. He didn’t have a chance with elvish.

  He nodded politely as Bacraut ranted and raved. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Totally. Yeah?”

  The speechifying was interrupted by a shout from above.

  “Newton!”

  His mum stood on the top of the lead sleigh, by the shoulders of the hideous, stinking giant Santa corpse. Her heart visibly caught in her throat at the sight of Newton alive.

  “Quick! Up here!” she called.

  Newton stood but Bacraut, with a powerful push that belied his elfin frame, shoved him back down into the foot well.

  “Leave him alone!” yelled Esther.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Newton.

  Bacraut sneered. “Flúg!” he cried. He rose up. Bacraut levitated, arms stretched, doing a slightly disturbing and possibly sacrilegious impression of Christ rising to heaven. Were the coils of beard rope around him glowing? All the way down from his body and arms to the teams of reindeer?

  Newton felt a swelling in his own chest, which was a weird and unexpected feeling for certain. “Flúg?” he whispered.

  ***

  120

  Esther gaped in surprise at the creature hovering in front of her. She admitted she shouldn’t have been surprised. If she was to draw up a list of things that had surprised her in the last twenty-four hours, a flying elf probably wouldn’t make the top ten.

  “You have to stop this,” she shouted against the gale. “You can’t do this.”

  Bacraut spat out some vile sentiment that requ
ired little translation.

  “You’ve been hard done by,” she nodded. “Cultural colonization. Your way of life under threat. I get it. Horrible appropriation of your indigenous ways. Like the elf on the shelf and the—”

  “Álfu á shelfu?” he said.

  “Elf on the shelf,” Esther repeated.

  “—di ur shelfu? Wau?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They’re ugly horrible things. Not that your ways are ugly. I have nothing but the greatest respect for your people and—”

  “Mum!” shouted Newton, in the unmistakable tone of a teenager who was embarrassed by their mum’s wittering.

  “Look, you’ve got to stop this crap,” she said. “Doesn’t matter what’s happened. You can’t replace all the children of the world with elves!”

  “What?” said Newton.

  “Operation Changeling,” said Dave, coming up beside Esther with Guin under his arm, supporting him. “Let the boy go! Please!”

  His words did not have the desired effect. The elf perceived Dave’s pleas as an act of weakness. “Þegi manð?” grinned Bacraut. He floated down to Newton, blade outstretched.

  “He’s going to kill him!” said Guin.

  Esther acted instinctively. To stop Bacraut getting to her boy, put something in the way. The Father Christmas corpse was already lolling forward and a shoulder barge sent the steaming, twenty-foot mass of Old Saint Nicholas tumbling forward. It slumped to its knees, then pitched forward over the front of the sleigh between Bacraut and Newton.

  Its weight carried it through the front end of the sleigh, and shoulders first through the gap between the trains of galloping reindeer. Wood snapped. Pieces of leather whipped about and came free.

  “What have you done?” whispered Dave.