Christmas in the Valley: A Jinx Hamilton / Shevington Novella

by Juliette Harper

  “You know perfectly good, and well you didn’t tell me,” Chase said. “How did you do?”

  “Took down a six-foot Douglas fir in 4.8 seconds,” Festus said. “Not one ornament intact and I nailed the bonus points for most ripped packages on the way up and down the trunk.”

  “And Aloysius?”

  “Balsam Hill Blue Spruce in 4.9 seconds. He missed snagging one ribbon with his left hind foot by half an inch.”

  Chase shook his head. “No wonder he’s a bundle of nerves,” he said. “Manfred told me the poor guy’s been rocketing up trees for hours every day with Furl timing him and he’s paying someone to wrap practice presents for him.”

  Festus chuckled. “That boy is wound tighter than a new ball of yarn.”

  “Why are you doing this Dad?”

  “Because Aloysius needs a sense of accomplishment,” Festus replied.

  “So you are going to let him win?”

  Festus flicked his tail dismissively. “How about you go find us some nip nachos and quit flapping your whiskers?” he grumbled. “I swear to God I don’t know how any one cat can talk as much as you do.”

  Throughout the afternoon, the bar filled with a steady stream of werecats from around the world in both large and small forms. After the Siberian Tigers had ordered Tuna Vodka for the house, the party began to get rowdy. There were caterwauled renditions of Christmas standards and endless games of Red Dot, but everyone was waiting for the final round of the Tree Destruction Contest scheduled to begin at 6 o’clock. Patrons would then be free to drink through the night or attend the Christmas fair on the town square.

  At a quarter of 6, Manfred signaled one of the lions who let out with a deafening roar. The crowd quieted down, and Manfred said, “Ladies and gentlemen if you will clear the central portion of the room, so the contestants have adequate space to work, the Tree Destruction Contest will begin in 15 minutes. See Merle, Earl, and Furl at the end of the bar to place your wagers on the outcome.”

  Festus, who had been playing Red Dot with a gang of Cockney tabbies, said, “Afraid that’s my cue, ladies. I need to warm up before I skunk this pack of losers.”

  He hopped off the pool table and sauntered over to the booth where Chase was playing chess with an African Leopard.

  “Well, look at you, boy,” Festus said sardonically. “Life of the party as usual.”

  Chase looked at the leopard and cocked an eye whisker. “George, allow me to introduce my father, Festus McGregor,” he said. “I’d tell you he’s in a bad mood, but this is one of his good days.”

  The leopard grinned, revealing glistening fangs. “Reminds me of my own Dad,” he said, speaking with a British accent. “Pleasure to meet you, old sport.”

  “Likewise,” Festus said. “Now if I can tear him away, I need the boy here to help me get limbered up.”

  “By all means,” George said, “and best of luck.”

  “Luck is for losers,” Festus said. “This is about skill.”

  Chase followed Festus to the starting block in front of a Norway Spruce. The two cats sat down facing each other and then on cue sat up on their hind legs and started batting paws in perfect rhythm. After several seconds of synchronized “pat-a-cake,” Festus lashed out with a vicious right and cuffed his son across the muzzle.

  “Hey!” Chase cried indignantly. “You didn’t tell me you were putting your claws out. When’s the last time you trimmed those things?”

  Resuming his stance, Festus said, “Quit your whining. Go again. My timing was off.”

  They went through the same routine, but the second time Festus broke the pattern with a wicked one-two combination that raised his son’s hackles and elicited a hissing snarl.

  “There we go!” Festus said jubilantly, rocking back on his good leg. “Now I’ve got my juices going.”

  With the fur on his neck still standing erect, Chase said, “So happy to serve as your punching bag.”

  “Knew you would be,” Festus said, giving his son a quick jab to the ear. “You need to work out more, boy. You’re getting slow. Now get out of the way, we’re about to start.”

  The first contestant up, a portly Persian who didn’t look like he could manage more than a sedate walk, shocked the crowd with a powerful charge, scaling his Virginia Pine in just over 3 seconds. At the top, he gave a spinning back kick that caught the top strand of tinsel. Using it like the string on a top, the cat sent the ornaments flying in all directions over the crowd before he crashed the tree into the pile of presents on the floor.

  Cheers erupted all around. When the judges were finished with their tally, he earned a base score of 4.8 seconds but took a 3-second penalty for leaving a spun glass snowflake intact on a lower branch.

  The next three contestants put in comparable performances, each exhibiting their signature moves. A Burmese named Bernie wowed the audience with a series of deft hind paw ornament kicks on the way up the trunk of his Noble Fir. He rode the tree halfway to the ground only to execute a mid-air somersault dismount, landing on the packages with claws extended. He ended his performance in a frenzy of paper slashing. With no penalties and a bonus point deducted for creativity, he took the lead with a 4.9.

  Aloysius was up next. He slipped out of his red sweater, shivering when the air hit his skin. His eyes took on a manic gleam. The instant the buzzer sounded, he shot toward the Fraser Fir that was his quarry, shredding three gifts before his claws touched bark. Whirling upward along the trunk, he left a path of broken ornaments and sagging tinsel behind him before reaching the top and flinging the angel to the side. Using his weight, he pushed the tree to the ground, flipping it over at the last minute to land solidly on the surviving packages, crushing them with its weight. Springing free, Aloysius smashed the last ornaments and covered the finish line penalty free.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Manfred said. “We have a new Dirty Claw record. That was a 4.6-second performance with zero mistakes. Next up, Festus McGregor.”

  Festus raised his lame hind leg, zeroed in on his target, and nodded at the timer who sounded the starting bell. The old cat reached the spruce on the second leap. Working from the top down he dispensed with the angel and the tinsel, in turn, slamming the tree down and back up before throwing the trunk into a whirling spin that flung ornaments outward in a rain of shattering glass. Jumping off the trunk and changing direction in mid-air, Festus used the tree’s momentum to position himself over the surviving packages, which he destroyed with precision before clearing the finish line.

  Aloysius regarded his rival’s performance with wide eyes and wilting whiskers, watching anxiously as the judges huddled to tally the results.

  Taking the microphone again, Manfred said, “That was a 4.1 second round for Festus McGregor with a half-second penalty for leaving one ribbon intact. That gives us a two-way tie, but the judges have awarded the trophy to Aloysius who incurred no penalties. Ladies and gents, I give you our new Tree Destruction Champion Al-oys-ius!”

  As Chase and Festus watched, Aloysius with a stunned, awestruck expression of joy on his thin, angular face disappeared into a crowd of well-wishers chanting his name.

  “That was a thing of beauty, old man,” Chase said appreciatively.

  “That,” Festus said, “is how you give a guy a Christmas present without destroying his pride.”

  4

  As Connor pulled the team to a stop in front of the Lord High Mayor’s house, I spied the aged wizard who served as the town’s lamplighter making his rounds on the square. He wore his usual vaguely Victorian garb but sported a bright red, billed cap and scarf in honor of the holiday.

  Stepping up beside Dad, I watched as the old man paused under a post, looked up, snapped his fingers, and ignited the flame inside the globe. He held his fingers aloft and drew them up and down to adjust the jet to his satisfaction.

  Under his breath, Dad said, “He made the night a little brighter, wherever he would go. The old lamplighter, of long, long ago.”

&nbs
p; “Is that a poem?” I asked.

  He put his arm around my shoulders. “A song,” he said, “from before you were born. Your Grandma Kathleen used to sing it this time of year. It never occurred to me that she must have been thinking about that old fellow over there.”

  “Barnaby told me the lamplighter could turn on every lamp in town at once with a wave of his hand if he wanted to,” I said, “but he likes to walk through the city every night doing them one by one. It’s a tradition.”

  Dad drew me closer to kiss the top of my head. “Traditions are a good thing, kiddo,” he said. “Never forget that.”

  We stood together taking in the happy bustle of activity on the square. Temporary stalls for food, drink and holiday wares ringed the space. One end of the village green played host to a small ice skating rink, while the other housed various carnival rides.

  “How on earth did they get a Ferris wheel in here?” I asked Connor as he came up on the other side of me.

  Winking, he said, “Like we do everything else in Shevington — magic. By the time the sun is down, the whole square will be full of people and food and music. You’re going to love it!”

  Linking my arm through his, I said, “I love it already.” At that moment, flanked by my father and my big brother, I couldn’t imagine anything that would make the moment more perfect until Barnaby threw open the front door of the mayor’s residence and called out, “Why on earth are you all standing out in the street? Come in, and welcome!”

  Waving to our grandfather, Connor said to me, “I have to get the sleigh back to the stables, but I won’t be long. Wait for me, and we’ll ride the Ferris wheel together.”

  A small head popped up out of his scarf. “Ailish stay with Pretty Lady,” the loris announced.

  “Now Ailish,” Connor said, “Jinx has enough to do without having to keep up with you.”

  “Ailish stay,” she said firmly.

  “It’s fine,” I laughed, reaching for the loris. “She’s no trouble at all, and you’ve got yourself a deal on the Ferris wheel.”

  Ailish instantly burrowed down inside my coat. When her tiny head popped out of the collar, she looked defiantly at Connor, stuck out her tongue, and reiterated, “Ailish stay!”

  “Fine, fine,” Connor said, “I’ve been out voted, but you mind your Aunt Jinx.”

  Snuggling against my neck, the loris said, “Ailish like Pretty Lady. Ailish mind.”

  Connor climbed back up on the driver’s seat of the sleigh and picked up the reins, directing the horses carefully through the crowd of pedestrians. The rest of us filed into the house, leaving our coats and scarves on a long rack in the hall. Barnaby’s brownie housekeeper, Innis, had clearly prepared well in advance for an influx of 25 people in and out of the house over the next couple of days.

  Barnaby showed us into the parlor where a massive Christmas tree dominated the front window. “I thought we’d put the tree in here this year because this room seems nicer for . . . family,” he said, hesitating slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar word, but openly delighted to have an opportunity to use it. “Of course, we’ll have our dinner tomorrow in the formal dining room,” he added. “We have planned quite a grand meal.”

  “Innis,” Mom said, “won’t you let us help you?”

  From the expression on the matronly brownie’s face, the very idea amounted to heresy. “Certainly not, Mistress,” Innis said firmly. “I’ve called in extra help for the day. Of course, that one there can help if he’s of a mind to lift a hand in honest work.” She pointed at Darby with open disapproval.

  “Darby is part of the family,” I said, with a shade more defensiveness in my tone than I intended.

  “Of course, he is,” Barnaby said. “As are you, Innis. It’s not like you won’t be sitting down to dinner with the rest of us.”

  Arranging her mouth in a firm line, the short, stout woman said, “By which time I will have worked for my dinner.”

  Darby tightened his jaw stubbornly. “I would work for my dinner,” he said with more condescension that I would have imagined possible, “but I am used to a much better kitchen than yours.”

  Innis bristled instantly. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  I started to intervene, but Mom and Gemma both shook their heads. The two brownies exited the room together, the sound of their bickering retreating down the long hallway outside.

  “Are we just going to let them go at each other that way?” I asked.

  Gemma laughed. “You’ve never been around any brownies other than Darby,” she said. “You could graduate from the best finishing school in the world and still not come up to their standards. Trust me, it might sound like an argument to you, but those two are having the time of their lives trying to outclass one another.”

  “Indeed they are,” Barnaby agreed. “I rather imagine Innis is already showing off the crystal and silver.”

  Dad, who was standing in front of the fire, said, “Shorty’s a real stickler for propriety. You know when we were staying at your place honey, he did our laundry.”

  Not following the jump from fine dinnerware to washing clothes, I said, “Yeah, what about it?”

  “He ironed my undershorts.”

  Barnaby chimed in with rueful sympathy. “Consider yourself lucky he did nothing more than iron them,” my grandfather said. “Innis is entirely too fond of starch for any man’s comfort.” Then, assuming the tone of the genial host, he issued an invitation straight out of a period novel. “Gentlemen, shall we allow the ladies some peace and quiet while we adjourn to my study for brandy and cigars?”

  Rodney, who had been sitting on Tori’s shoulder, immediately assumed he was included in the invitation. As he started down her arm, Tori stopped him.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

  Pausing at her elbow, the rat turned to look at her indignantly. Pointing at the men and then at himself, he stood up on his hind legs and flexed the muscles in his arms.

  “Yes,” Tori said, “I know you’re one of the ‘guys,’ but brandy and cigars aren’t good for you.”

  Dad came to the rat’s rescue, holding out his hand. Rodney hopped over onto his palm, casting a reproachful look at Tori.

  “They’re not good for us either,” Dad said, “but that’s beside the point. Come on, Duke, you’re with us, too.”

  The spectral coonhound, who was solid enough to touch in the Fae world, jumped up from the rug in front of the fire, eagerly wagging his tail.

  “Fine,” Tori said, pointing her finger at Rodney, “go do your male bonding thing, but don’t come whining to me when your fur smells like cigar smoke.”

  The five of them disappeared behind the door of Barnaby’s study leaving me, Tori, Mom, Gemma, and Glory sitting around the fire.

  “What the heck just happened?” I asked. “Did we get plopped into a Jane Austen novel and I missed it?”

  From her perch on the back of the couch, Glory gushed, “Oh, I think it’s just the most romantic thing ever — all of it! The sleigh ride, this house, the men going to the study for brandy and cigars. I’m just in heaven!”

  I think it’s worth mentioning that even under normal circumstances Glory tends to run in nostalgic overdrive. Smack in the middle of a picture postcard Yuletide setting there was going to be no reining her in. Her current outfit was a long Christmas plaid skirt and a bright red wool jacket with white fur at the collar and cuffs.She was even sporting a muff, which Tori assured me looked just like a tribble.

  Glory’s complexion ranges from a sort of pale asparagus to vibrant forest depending on her mood.

  Take a minute, here.

  Picture the outfit.

  Picture the green skin.

  As much as I hate to admit it, she looked like the Grinch in drag.

  “I don’t know that I’d go so far as to say romantic,” Mom said, “but let them do their guy thing. The Colonel is in his element, and I want your father and Barnaby
to get reacquainted.”

  “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Tori asked. “Go faint on a couch somewhere?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gemma said, reaching for the buzzer that would summon Innis. “We are going to pour eggnog over this situation.”

  “You do know they’re out there having a fit over that ‘brandy and cigars,’ comment?” Jeff said, leaning back on the settee in Barnaby’s study.

  Lighting his cigar from a thin piece of kindling, Beau said, “You did take a calculated risk, Barnaby. While I have never regarded women as the weaker sex, the variant indigenous to the 21st century strikes me as particularly formidable.”

  “Especially those 21st-century women,” Jeff said, gesturing toward the closed door.

  Sitting back in his desk chair, Barnaby said, “I am counting on my age affording me a dispensation.”

  “Well, good for you,” Jeff shot back, “but how are we supposed to get off the hook?”

  Barnaby made a show of giving the question serious thought before he answered. “That, my good fellow,” he said finally, “is rather your problem.”

  Jeff leaned forward and tapped the ash off his cigar. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I thought.”

  Smiling at his own joke, Barnaby clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms back and forth. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “to the task at hand. What are we giving those most formidable women for Christmas?”

  Rodney, perched on the corner of Barnaby’s desk with a thimble full of brandy, put one paw over his eyes and shook his head.

  Beau took a deep pull on his cigar and exhaled thoughtfully. “Barnaby,” he drawled, “do you not feel we have made an error waiting until Christmas Eve to address this conundrum?”

  Jeff looked confused. “I always do my shopping on Christmas Eve. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It has the suggestion of rushed last minute choices rather than selections based on careful consideration,” Beau pointed out.

  “Oh, right,” Jeff countered, “so you’re telling me you have all your presents ready to go.”