Fast-Tracked And Other Stories

Until The Ice Thaws

The crunching of his boots in the packed snow quickened when he rounded the corner at the mouth of Bleak Street. He wasn't one to dilly-dally, which meant he could plough across the village square knowing it would be a truly remarkable thing were anyone to peg his tempo as uncharacteristic. Cretins, the lot of them, he thought snidely.

A smirk forced the corner of his mouth into an upturn. "Merry Christmas, Noel!" Snobe waved, mistaking Noel's smirk for good old festive cheer.

"Holly and jolly, Snobe!" he called back without missing a beat or raising a mitten-clad hand in return.

Should I have waved? Too late now. Just keep moving. Cretins they may well be, but something as small as a moment's indecision could be looked back on with suspicion.

Noel tramped through the square, dropped a chocolate coin for the brass band then exited onto Mirth Street with no further second-guessing of his conduct.

For nineteen years now, Noel Tinselbough had kept his pace brisk, his mood sickly-sweet and jolly, and could be counted on to put in more than his fair share of shifts in the workshop. Sweatshop, more like, he thought sardonically. And in a way, yes, it could be said he worked in a sweatshop. Because he chopped more wood, painted more toys, and brushed up more shavings than anyone--the productivity records kept by the forelf proved it--and always finished up rosy-cheeked, and dripping sweat.

He had almost twenty Christmas' worth of Outstanding Elf of the Season trophies buried, forever frozen, in his backyard. They were all a by-product of that evening, nineteen years ago, when Mary told him she had accepted Nick's hand in marriage. Noel assured her (and proclaimed cheerily to everyone in the village) that his tears were of joy, joy as pure as snow, that his good friend should be wed to such a fine fellow Nicholas.

But of course they were tears of glacial pain and heartbreak because Noel had dreamt of a lifetime of baking cookies and designing toys with Mary.

Rather than make a scene (He'd be labelled the village loon, made an outcast were he to so much as insinuate that Nick The Great Present Giver had stolen something, or someone, from him. "Nick would never be naughty," they'd declare before banishing Noel into arctic exile.), Noel resolved to channel his anguish into keeping his spirits higher than everyone in the sleepy snowbound village. Given time, he would work Mary out of his system by himself--after all, what use were villagemates who were too dim to be compassionate in your time of need?

Perhaps then, on some level, Noel had been laying the groundwork for today during all those years of false cheer and graft. Nervous energy? No, no, that's just Noel, always on the go, happy as a bird in a bath. Besides, he wanted to get today's work done in precious daylight instead of sneaking around under the cover of darkness. Nick did his business while the world slept and Noel wasn't like him.

He shifted his satchel from his left shoulder to the right, careful not to judder the tools within. Before leaving the sweatshop last night, he'd sharpened his chisel so much that he was worried it might slice through his satchel simply by brushing against it, such was its hunger for carving. Soon you'll dive into something meaty. Oh, the things we'll gouge!

It was Nick and Mary's only son Kriss' eighteenth birthday; the boy everyone saw as their own entered manhood. Noel thought he'd been generous to allow Father and Son Christmas to have eighteen years together--any other man (or elf) would have lashed out long before now. Not Noel. He'd worked and worked, positioning himself as the most desired bachelelf at the North Pole to which he feigned nescience but knew he could have his pick. They practically threw themselves at him, yet they didn't realise that even after all these years his heart still belonged to Mary.

Noel arrived at the Christmas Chateau. All roads lead south from here.

He rang the doorbell, making sure no-one was coming up the path behind him. He checked twice. It was a long moment until Nicholas' broad outline came duckwalking down the hall.

Christmas existed before and without St Nick, it will go on just fine after him. Better, even. Kriss will take over the reins... Kriss who is of age, Kriss who is no longer a boy needing his mother.

Noel's eyes blazed. 'I need his mother!' The hammer and chisel had crept into his hands. After the buzz dies down, Mary will come back to me.

The door opened. Warmth swaddled him. 'Ho, ho, ho! Noel! What a nice--!'

Noel sprang forth and drove the chisel into Santa Claus neck.