Read Online Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Devereaux
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at his every word.
Had he done well? He believed he had. Should he check with the Higher Ups? No. The Father had trusted him to redeem himself for past mistakes, and so he was determined to do.
The clouds thinned. Above the atmosphere he shot, rising through darkness and a sparkle of stars toward the Empyrean. If he entertained doubts, as indeed he did, they were divine, the emotional stuff which keeps one on course, filling in one’s plans with intelligent detail.
I did well, he thought. It was a nice touch, opening the door to future contact. More chances to annunciate.
From on high, Michael heard angelic voices and the faint sweep and pluck of harp strings. Redoubling his intent, he rose more swiftly toward his proper place in heaven.
Chapter 8. Preparing the Elves
AT THE FIRST DULL POP, Santa’s helpers looked up from their tinkering. Though muffled by the outer walls of the workshop, it sounded to Fritz like a pine knot exploding in a fireplace. Odd. But one couldn’t stop making toys at every peculiar sound. Fritz returned his attention to the clay gnome in his hand and dipped his horsehair brush into a pot of crimson paint.
Then came a louder snap and then the loudest, a great crrr-ack, as though the heart of a great old oak had burst for sheer joy.
Workers near the back windows rose to peer outside. One by one, others joined them, pointing and talking among themselves until their excited jabbering brought Fritz off his stool to find out what all the palaver was about.
Playhouses? On platforms? Absurd.
But when he reached the picture window, what he glimpsed through a bobbing sea of heads in a fresh field of fallen snow, were indeed three perfect pinewood platforms, twenty feet square. And upon each was...well that was difficult to describe. Furnished bedrooms. Modern American, one smaller than the others, which were master bedrooms with built-in sink areas to one side.
The view into them seemed odd. Then Fritz saw why. Though the bedroom walls were transparent, suggestions of wallpaper, posters, or paintings, or the backs of dressers, partly blocked the eye’s access to the interior.
“What’s all the fuss?” Rachel, having heard the commotion from Santa’s office, appeared behind them. “My goodness! Someone’s been slipping into magic time, I think.”
But no one had, and all were quick to say so.
“Let’s take a look,” she said.
The elves dutifully followed her outside and around the workshop. There they mounted the steps on all sides of the platforms and examined the bedrooms. Each ceiling had great steel hinges on one side. “Hey, look,” said Friedrich the globe maker. “The walls are on tracks.”
Indeed they were. At each corner stood a strong steel bar, twice as tall as the bedrooms themselves. The walls fit snug into well-oiled grooves in these bars. With the touch of a finger and slight pressure upward anywhere on the surface, each wall rose soundlessly along its runners and stayed upraised until similarly directed to descend. In the bright sunlight, twelve walls slid up and down, up and down, the elves standing on one another’s shoulders and stretching tippytoe to maneuver them.
Speculation ran rampant. Had Santa slipped into magic time and built them? He had, after all, built the cozy hut in the woods far off behind the elves’ quarters for reasons none of them could quite recall, though later it had served as a honeymoon retreat for Santa and his wives.
Who else could have done this? Rachel had no idea, and Anya, joining them from the cottage, came up blank as well.
Then Ernst, a thin-fingered button sewer with needle eyes and a nimble wit, raised a piping shout: “Here come Wendy and Santa, back from their walk. I bet they’ll know.”
And they swarmed off to accost the returning pair.
* * *
Santa and Wendy had chattered nonstop on their way home, bright with ideas as to how best to nudge
Had he done well? He believed he had. Should he check with the Higher Ups? No. The Father had trusted him to redeem himself for past mistakes, and so he was determined to do.
The clouds thinned. Above the atmosphere he shot, rising through darkness and a sparkle of stars toward the Empyrean. If he entertained doubts, as indeed he did, they were divine, the emotional stuff which keeps one on course, filling in one’s plans with intelligent detail.
I did well, he thought. It was a nice touch, opening the door to future contact. More chances to annunciate.
From on high, Michael heard angelic voices and the faint sweep and pluck of harp strings. Redoubling his intent, he rose more swiftly toward his proper place in heaven.
Chapter 8. Preparing the Elves
AT THE FIRST DULL POP, Santa’s helpers looked up from their tinkering. Though muffled by the outer walls of the workshop, it sounded to Fritz like a pine knot exploding in a fireplace. Odd. But one couldn’t stop making toys at every peculiar sound. Fritz returned his attention to the clay gnome in his hand and dipped his horsehair brush into a pot of crimson paint.
Then came a louder snap and then the loudest, a great crrr-ack, as though the heart of a great old oak had burst for sheer joy.
Workers near the back windows rose to peer outside. One by one, others joined them, pointing and talking among themselves until their excited jabbering brought Fritz off his stool to find out what all the palaver was about.
Playhouses? On platforms? Absurd.
But when he reached the picture window, what he glimpsed through a bobbing sea of heads in a fresh field of fallen snow, were indeed three perfect pinewood platforms, twenty feet square. And upon each was...well that was difficult to describe. Furnished bedrooms. Modern American, one smaller than the others, which were master bedrooms with built-in sink areas to one side.
The view into them seemed odd. Then Fritz saw why. Though the bedroom walls were transparent, suggestions of wallpaper, posters, or paintings, or the backs of dressers, partly blocked the eye’s access to the interior.
“What’s all the fuss?” Rachel, having heard the commotion from Santa’s office, appeared behind them. “My goodness! Someone’s been slipping into magic time, I think.”
But no one had, and all were quick to say so.
“Let’s take a look,” she said.
The elves dutifully followed her outside and around the workshop. There they mounted the steps on all sides of the platforms and examined the bedrooms. Each ceiling had great steel hinges on one side. “Hey, look,” said Friedrich the globe maker. “The walls are on tracks.”
Indeed they were. At each corner stood a strong steel bar, twice as tall as the bedrooms themselves. The walls fit snug into well-oiled grooves in these bars. With the touch of a finger and slight pressure upward anywhere on the surface, each wall rose soundlessly along its runners and stayed upraised until similarly directed to descend. In the bright sunlight, twelve walls slid up and down, up and down, the elves standing on one another’s shoulders and stretching tippytoe to maneuver them.
Speculation ran rampant. Had Santa slipped into magic time and built them? He had, after all, built the cozy hut in the woods far off behind the elves’ quarters for reasons none of them could quite recall, though later it had served as a honeymoon retreat for Santa and his wives.
Who else could have done this? Rachel had no idea, and Anya, joining them from the cottage, came up blank as well.
Then Ernst, a thin-fingered button sewer with needle eyes and a nimble wit, raised a piping shout: “Here come Wendy and Santa, back from their walk. I bet they’ll know.”
And they swarmed off to accost the returning pair.
* * *
Santa and Wendy had chattered nonstop on their way home, bright with ideas as to how best to nudge
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