Letter from Mother Christmas

Can you keep a secret?

Once more than one person possesses a secret, the chances are less for it to stay hidden. Father Christmas himself always says that the best place to keep a secret is between your two ears. The more people that know, the greater the risk that the secret will become common knowledge. 

However, for a keeper of so many secrets such as myself, they often are tickling my tongue wanting to be spoken or making my fingers itch to take up a quill pen and write them down.

And, really, after all these years, would anyone mind if I divulged just this one secret?

Hopefully doing so will take off the pressure of all those other secrets wanting to escape into the wild.

Besides, I trust you. I’m sure that you would never share a secret told to you in confidence. And, it is my secret, not belonging to anyone else, though others played their part as you will find out.

So, as the polar winds swirl outside, redistributing some of the snow already fallen, and the fire crackles in the hearth, I take up my quill pen and scribe this missive, my darling dear one. Some of it you will know, but bear with me. I need to set the scene.

Many people might assume that all the toy making throughout the year goes like clockwork. But the elves are not machines but individual beings. They have good days and bad days, just like you and me. And so does the person in charge of the whole effortful process.

Though he is known for being jolly and eternally optimistic, once in a while even Father Christmas succumbs to the temptation to complain or indulge in a bitter remark. And though I try to rule my own tongue, we do have the odd argument, and this one was odder than most.

We were sat near the hearth of an evening after supper, which we tend to do. I was just glad to sit down after another busy day. Papa, wearing his spectacles, was inspecting closely one of several reindeer harnesses that he had brought in from the stables, methodically getting ready for the Big Night which was less than a fortnight away.

The tang of the leather mingled with the aromas of cinnamon and apple from the pudding we had enjoyed. Cats and dogs occupied whatever niche they preferred in the large room, the hearth rug being the favourite for some, proximity to myself or Papa attracted our own clusters of animals. He sometimes joked that since all the children were grown and gone elsewhere, we had created an animal family instead.

The blue and gold Macaw which Papa rescued a long time ago sat on a perch staring into the hearth flames, perhaps dreaming of the rainforest and the warmth of the sun.

I glanced at my little red hamper decorated with white pompoms meant to resemble snowballs. Though I felt that I should be working on one of my knitting projects, I, too, lost myself in gazing toward the hearth fire. In the flames, I revisited my girlhood, the laughter and snowball fights with other children, the creation of a snowman who, of course, in my memory, became magically alive.

“Not knitting tonight, Mama?” Papa asked.

Though I had heard similar prompts all during my married life, this one struck me not as a gentle reminder but as a criticism. “No,” I said. “I am having a rest.”

The powerful gaze of Father Christmas, who can tell who has been naughty and who has been nice from hundreds if not thousands of miles away, focused on me over the top edge of his spectacles.

“That’s a bit selfish,” he remarked, “when you could easily make another pair of snowflake gloves or a cosy holly hat to warm some child in the winter chill.”

“I have cooked and I have cleaned,” I countered, lifting my chin. “I have baked and I have made bread. I have never stopped to sit down all day long, except to eat. I think I deserve a rest.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk,” Papa said, looking back down at the reindeer harness in his hands. “I was only thinking, you know, of the little child with cold hands or how the winter wind blowing over his sister’s bare head is making her shiver.”

And I saw the two children in that moment because even a handful of words from a storyteller like Papa has the power to evoke a scene from the listener’s imagination. They touched my heart, naturally, but I stood up and rebelled. 

Aware that all the dogs and cats were looking at me and even the blue and gold parrot had turned his head, all witnesses to this unusual conflict, I said, “Then their mother should teach them how to knit!”

“I suppose,” Papa said, gazing at the harness he was untangling, “their mother—if they have one, could knit them both gloves and hats if she could afford to buy the wool and if her own mother had taught her how to knit.”

Though entirely random, even the Macaw seemed set against me when his scratchy voice proclaimed, “Every gift melts the snow.”

Around someone’s heart, my mind supplied the rest of one of Papa’s favourite sayings. But in the heat of my anger, my own heart remained frozen despite the image that occupied my mind of the now motherless children trudging through the snow without hats or gloves. 

“I work hard day after day. My work is never done,” I told him. “Other than practice flights and working out the navigation and keeping an eye on the weather, you can rest for most of the year. For one admittedly very long night, you travel around the world delivering presents for good little children. You have the easy part.”

“Easy?” Papa said, focusing on me again. “Going down chimneys is not always that easy, especially if they haven’t been cleaned recently. And gaining access when there is no chimney, that can take up valuable time. Magic can only set the clock back so often without repercussions. Too many people these days, even children, hold more belief in science than in magic.”

“Spare me the lecture,” I cut across his monologue. “I said ‘very long night’, after all. Whereas I am in charge of the other 364 days of the year. I not only cook and clean, bake and make bread, but I organise what the elves are making, sort out any disputes, encourage new ideas.”

“Well, one of your many titles is the Chief Elf,” Papa interrupted, with such warmth in his voice that I almost gave in.

But, more stubborn than sensible, I was not to be diverted. “I make sure that all of the reindeer are happy, too. Remember it was me that noticed that Rudolph was being excluded due to looking so different from the others.”

“Indeed, I do,” Papa said. “I remember that foggy night very well.”

“No stories!” I warned him, not wanting to get lost in a story and forget my previously unvoiced upset.

The Storyteller of the North Pole removed his spectacles and stared at me.

“I cook and I clean. I bake and make bread. I knit and crochet. I look after the elves and the reindeer. I literally keep the home fires burning all year long because spring and summer never make an appearance up here at the North Pole. You are the one who has all the adventures, even though they are mostly crammed into one perpetual night.”

A tinkling laughter filled the room, making all of the cats and dogs look around while the parrot squawked, “What’s happening?”

In a twinkle of red, green, and gold light, a Christmas fairy appeared, floating in mid-air.

Not a Christmas fairy, I thought to myself, but The Christmas Fairy. Much larger than ordinary festive fairies, obviously queen of them all, though she didn’t bother with a title or require any airs and graces. 

Her gauzy wings, seeming so fragile, could carry her through the worst of gales. Mischief sparkled in her eyes as she gazed toward me and murmured sweetly while waving her red-and-white striped candy cane wand. “Your wish is granted.”

“But I didn’t make a wish,” I objected, already feeling the tingle of magical influence.

The Christmas Fairy, laughing softly, vanished with a swirl of solstice bells. 

Eyes wide, I looked at Father Christmas who was staring as if he could see the magic being woven around me. I didn’t notice anything except that tingling which made me feel restless.

Though I was speechless, the blue and gold macaw squawked again, “What’s happening?”

Papa chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked him.

He studied me from head to toe, then gave me a rueful smile. “I have no idea, my dear. We will doubtless find out soon.”

All the intensity of our argument had ebbed away, leaving me feeling slightly embarrassed that I had made such a fuss. 

“Cocoa?” I asked as a peace offering.

“Did you manage to get some more of those heart-shaped marshmallows?” Papa asked.

“Yes,” I admitted, though I had been saving them for a surprise. I usually brought him breakfast in bed or maybe brunch was the better way to describe it. Usually up at the crack of dawn, Father Christmas was not such an early riser the morning after the Big Night.

When I fetched the two mugs, Papa carefully spooned each pastel-coloured marshmallow between his lips and commented on the flavours: mint and caramel, rose and cinnamon, apple and strawberry. If he was hoping to distract me from worrying about what magic was even now influencing me in ways that neither of us could comprehend, his attempt failed.

 The restlessness that had troubled me earlier subsided, leaving exhaustion in its wake. We made an early night of it, one of the cats and one of the dogs following us up the winding stairs. I took refuge in sleep with the white cat in my arms on my side of the sleigh-shaped bed as though sheltering in a cave, safe from the storm raging outside. 

Barely awake, I heard a thin reedy voice say, “Prickles like a hedgehog, buzzes like a bee.”

A more melodic answer came, “I can almost taste the weaving, so amusing and—hide, she’s waking up.”

Maybe they were merely the last remnants of a dream. I yawned and stretched, opening my eyes to find the white cat curled up on Papa’s pillow.

Another yawn opened my mouth wide and just as I was settling back from a bigger stretch, a tingling sensation started in my toes and rushed upward, tickling through my knees and hips and tummy and shoulders, coalescing on my face.

As the sensation finally faded, I remembered the visitation from The Christmas Fairy yesterday evening.

Hardly daring to move, I brought my hands up and felt the contours of my face, discovering that her magic had given me a beard.

I rushed to the little mirror which I only used to make sure my hair looked tidy. Yes, a white beard to match my hair, not as full and flowing as Papa’s but definitely a beard.

Thinking fast, I got dressed and then added a capacious red and green scarf to cover the lower half of my face. 

After trudging through the snow, holding tight to the scarf lest the wind should dislodge it, I found Papa in the stables and nearly dragged him into the tack room and closed the door.

“She’s done it,” I whispered before unwrapping the scarf.

Father Christmas steepled his fingers and brought the two pointing upwards to rest against his lips as he studied me. “Looks good on you,” he finally said and then the famous jolly laughter echoed off the walls.

I almost erupted but the last thing I wanted was another disagreement in case The Christmas Fairy was watching how her magic played out.

Perceiving my feelings, Papa held up one hand. “Let me think.”

And so it was that the tallest of the elves was bundled off wearing my clothing to visit my sister and her children in Lapland. They took the more ordinary sleigh pulled by a team of seven wolf dogs. Great hearted, these sled dogs were descended of wolves and huskies. I had often travelled by this means to visit my sons and daughters who all lived close to the Arctic Circle.

In the meantime, while my usual responsibilities and chores were distributed among other elves, I became Papa’s apprentice. 

Wearing clothes that belonged to one of our grown sons now living in Sweden, I learned to referee the reindeer games. I practiced the great Ho-Ho-Ho chant, including all the names of the reindeer in the correct order, which was used to gather up and harness the magic necessary for the Big Night. I attempted but failed to memorise very much of the Naughty and Nice lists.

Most glorious of all, I sat next to Father Christmas when the sleigh departed at twilight on the Big Night. I witnessed and sometimes participated in his visits all over the world. 

Papa managed to provide me insight into the dreams of the sleeping children which varied considerably. Many of them, I noticed, were more to do with wanting their mother or father or brother or sister to be happy than desiring this or that toy for themselves.

As dawn unfolded to conquer the star-speckled night sky, the harnessed reindeer descended gracefully for a perfect landing at the North Pole, the empty sleigh much easier to manoeuvre than the packed one had been. 

“All to do again next year, I suppose,” said Father Christmas as he disembarked. This was his usual comment on arriving home from the Big Night.

“With bells on,” I contributed and smiled as I started unharnessing Rudolph.

Papa laughed softly and said, “Every gift melts the snow around someone’s heart.”

Late the next morning, I woke up alone as usual in our eldest son’s room and discovered with delight that my temporary beard had disappeared. I managed to smuggle myself into our own bedroom where Papa was snoring in the sleigh-shaped bed which was heaped with his dog and several of the cats.

I donned my own clothing and went downstairs to make breakfast which I would bring upstairs with two steaming mugs of cocoa adorned with heart-shaped marshmallows.

While I was busy cooking, I thought I heard the distant sound of solstice bells, but that might have been my imagination.