A rapid rapping rang through the crisp morning air as
Yaffle the woodpecker battered an old beech tree in search of a tasty snack of
sleeping bugs and beetles. A pair of rooks cawed in soft argument as they took
off from the upper branches of a bare oak. A cat picked its way daintily
through the snow, shaking its paws with disdain at every step it took. A watery
winter sun crept up from the horizon, casting a silver lining to everything it
touched.
It was an idyllic midwinter scene, worthy of a
thousand Christmas cards. If you’d grown up on a diet of Disney, you might even
expect to see a flock of robins and a blue-jay carrying a garland of holly
leaves and blood-red berries from the woods beyond. And maybe a squirrel or two
carrying a bunch of snowdrops – spectacularly stupid squirrels unawares that
they were supposed to be hibernating.
Unless you happened to be in Klaus’ head.
He greeted the morning with a groan loud enough to
register his horror at nature’s noisy intrusion, but just quiet enough not to shatter
his skull into pieces. He felt like a colony of mining dwarves had taken up
residence in his cranium and was hard at work digging for gold. Not that there
was much chance of unearthing any treasures in there.
He opened one rheumy eye, and squinted against the
frosty white light flooding in through the window. His mouth tasted like
five-day-old mink droppings, his nose was cold, and the scent of spilled
alcohol, old chips and musty paper and ink filled his nostrils. With a moan
like a prize heifer giving birth to quadruplets he pushed himself upright in
his chair.
A letter from little Danny from Dunsville was stuck to
his cheek with drool. He peeled it off like a band aid, burped sourly, and
placed it with exaggerated care on the ‘Naughty’ list next to him, unaware of
the faint ink letters that had transferred themselves to the side of his face
overnight.
As it happened, Danny had been a perfect little angel
all year, but virtue would have to be its own reward this year. Thanks to the
foul mood his hangover put Klaus in, all the youngster would find in his
stocking on Christmas morning would be a pencil sharpener, a book of
crosswords, a lump of coal and note saying “Better luck next year, kid.”.
A quiet bustling at the door signaled the entry of
Myffanwy, Wilbur The Ancient’s wife of 300-odd years. Unlike Wilbur, she wasn’t
content to sit back and wallow in the glory of tales of olden times. Myffanwy
was a doer, not a talker, and she ruled the elf shed with a gentle iron fist
hidden beneath her hand-knitted mittens. She also made the world’s best hot
chocolate and a wicked coffee blend that had enough caffeine to raise the dead.
She cast a disapproving though not unkind stare in his
direction, shook her head, and waddled over to the stove in the corner with
nothing more than a sharp tut. Klaus breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing
he needed right now was a lecture. Right now, it hurt to move.
As she clattered about on the stove, he tried to pull
himself into some semblance of respectability and mentally prepare himself for
the scolding he knew was inevitable once he’d had his coffee. Looking around
him, he saw his left boot upside-down on the coat stand, right next to a pair
of Easter Bunny boxer shorts. In a panic, he looked down at his crotch and
sighed in relief to see his flabby thighs covered by red flannel thermal
long-johns. He reached for the trousers flung over the burlap sack in the corner
and pulled them on before hopping over to the coat rack and pulling his stray
boot on over a holey striped sock.
A chipped enamel mug appeared on the pile of papers in
front of him and the smell of toast and frying bacon filled the house. He
sipped at the steamy black liquid and grimaced at its bitterness, but grateful
for the kick it delivered. A plate containing half a fry-up was placed in front
of him.
“No eggs, seeing as how someone hasn’t bothered to collect any from the hen coops
for three days,” said the bustling elf sternly. “And no milk either, as you
left the pail from yesterday out on the doorstep. It’s now as solid as a rock,
unfortunately for the couple of voles who decided to take a swim in it.”
Shame-faced, Klaus wiped coffee from his snowy beard
and a stray bead of snot from where his nose hairs met his bushy moustache.
“You’re a bloody marvel, you know that Fwanny?” he
growled.
“Too right, I am. And much more than you deserve.
I don’t know. A grown man with serious
responsibilities acting like a spoiled teenager in a sulk.”
Klaus nodded absently as he chewed on the savoury
fried rashers.
“You outdid yourself last night,” continued Myffanwy. “Nearly
had a riot in the reindeer shed. You can thank Elvis for making sure there
wasn’t.”
A puzzled look flitted across the farmer’s brow as he
tried to imagine how the King of Rock and Roll could have averted disaster on
his homestead, about as far away from Graceland that anyone could get.
...Part 5 coming soon - stay tuned.
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