Page 1 of Santa & His Elf
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Massagingthe furrowed spot between my brows, elbow perched on the edge of an oversized antique desk, I stare in frustration at the mess of paperwork before me. Plans and lists, lists and plans. Gotta check them twice—always twice. Christmas itself has thrown up over the bureau just as it has thrown up over every inch of the North Pole, or Santa’s Village, to be exact. I'd be in Holly Jolly Hell now if I didn’t love the holiday as much as I do. Though, I must say, since my father handed over the family business months before the biggest day of the year, I’ve been sliding one step closer to that fiery pit.
For six hundred years, my dad hand-delivered presents to children all over the world on Christmas Eve. This year, he and my mom retired to someplace warm, and the magic of this world, my world, was passed from father to son as it was always foretold.
I’m Nicholas St. Claus Jr.
You may call me Nick for short.
I’m the new Santa.
Try that one on for size.
See if the boot fits.
It doesn’t.
For years, I lived in and out of this magical place, touring the human world and experiencing many of its wonders. By my sixty-fourth birthday, you’d have thought I’d be ready to take my father’s place—to wear the coat and sash with pride. I thought the same—I’d live my days among the humans, many non-believers, and I’d be ready for the responsibilities when the time came.
Now that I’m seated behind his desk carved by elves, in a crushed velvet chair that feels more like a throne, performing his tasks with the scent of mint chocolate hanging in the air, I don’t feel like the man every child adores. I feel like a fraud.
An overstressed fraud in way over his head.
Heaving a sigh, I push the mile-long list from my mind so I can relax in the ambiance of my office. The elves did an excellent job redecorating the room from my father’s red-and-white egotistical Santa theme to mine—simple reds, greens, golds, and black—regal yet classic. It’s soothing to the eye and the soul, as is the large ornate fireplace that burns bright all year round with no electricity or more wood. Magic. Almost everything here runs on it, including the fireplaces. There’s no smoke or carbon monoxide poisoning, only light, warmth, and a subtle crackle. My Christmas tree is much the same. Real, yet frozen in time. No needles to fall. No need for water or trimming. Next to the carved mantel, its white twinkle lights glow as flames glint off antique-gold bulbs, and yards of iridescent ribbon fill in the spaces between branches. Snow falls outside the bay window that overlooks the village square. Day after day, it coats the ground without fail, never to accumulate more than a fewinches. No slosh to worry about. It's light and airy, as the best snow should be.
Just like in your dreams, it’s a true winter wonderland. There’s no other place like it in the world, and there will never be.
Leaning back in my chair, I sip hot chocolate with marshmallows from one of my father’s old-fashioned, hammered tin mugs. Where humans have bars for liquor in their offices, here at the North Pole, we have a bar for hot chocolate. Okay, and maybe there’s a little alcohol, too. Nothing tastes better than Bailey’s and cocoa, except perhaps mint. I love mint—everything mint. I’d say it was a Santa thing… that it’s in my blood. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Dad hated mint. It’s okay. You can gasp at the blasphemy. He preferred cinnamon. Everything had to be cinnamon.
Can I tell you a little secret?
I despise the taste of that potent spice.
All right, you can gasp again.
In my defense, the scent is pleasant. The taste, not so much.
I swallow a final drink before I return to the mountain of papers once more. It might be three in the morning, but I hardly sleep these days, with Christmas less than three months away. I also loathe sleeping in the palace—a mansion-sized cabin my parents built. I spent my childhood there. If it weren’t for my sister, Holly, I would’ve gotten lost in that place more times than I can count. It’s far too large for just me. With her living in the human world, it’s also too lonely to live there alone. I prefer the brown leather couch in my office to a king-sized bed, no matter the sheets’ thread count.
I guess it’s about time to go over tomorrow’s workshop schedule. There are new toys to be made.
Hours pass in the blink of an eye as I draw the magic-infused blueprint for a new doll parents can sync with an app on their phone. More cups of cocoa are consumed. I take a bathroom break and stretch when needed, but I don’t rest. Instead, I hum to Christmas tunes that play in the background.
A gentlerap, rap, rapsounds at my door, followed by a yawn.
“Yes?” I call to the only person who would consider bothering me at such an early hour.
“You’re still awake.” He sighs.
“I am.” Which, as I already said before, isn’t unusual.
Another sigh sounds before my door opens, and in walks Pepper, my head elf. By his pinched expression and messy mop of jet-black hair, I’d say he didn’t fare well tonight. That much is confirmed when he walks to my desk, wearing striped candy cane PJs, and knocks on the wooden top to garner my attention.
“Do you know how much I tossed and turned last night because you didn’t sleep?” he grouses before yawning again and waving it away with his hand. When he’s through, an even deeper glare is set on yours truly.
Whoever told you all elves are jolly… lied. Kind of. Since I’ve taken my father’s position and was appointed Pepper as my head elf, his usual jolliness and pep have nearly diminished. It’s my fault. I know this. Elves are some of the happiest beings you could ever meet, but I test Pepper’s patience far too often for it not to affect him.
