The morning silence was
shattered as a woodpecker battered the trunk of an old beech tree in search of
a snack. But it was another banging that woke Klaus from his drunken slumber. Someone
was at the door.
He groaned - and immediately
regretted it. It felt like a colony of mining dwarves was digging for gold in
his head.
“Who izzit? What yer want?”
“Who izzit? What yer want?”
His mouth tasted like
five-day-old moose droppings, and the scent of spilled alcohol, old chips,
paper and ink filled his nostrils.
“Courier for you, sir.”
Klaus heaved himself to his
feet, shuffled across the room and flung the door open… to no-one. A cough made
him look down into the green eyes of Elvis, one of the workers who lived on the
farm. He wore a beige shirt with a courier logo on his left breast.
“Moonlighting?” growled Klaus.
“I could fire you for that.”
“No, you can’t. We haven’t
signed this year’s contract yet.”
A box the size of a filing
cabinet sat on the doorstep. Elvis nudged it with his toe: “That’s what this is
all about.”
An envelope bearing the logo
of the International Bureau of Folklore, Myth and Legends: Festive Events
Division sat on top of the box. An angry ‘URGENT: Immediate response required’ was stamped
on it.
“Shit. So soon?”
“Well, it is October,” Elvis shrugged. “We’re already behind schedule.
They want the contract back, signed and sealed, straight away.”
Klaus motioned the elf to
bring the box inside, and swept some papers to one side on the tabletop. Puffs
of exertion punctuated the progress of the box as it staggered blindly across
the room. Klaus rolled his eyes, picked it up and put it on the table. Elvis
crumpled into a heap on the floor, pulled a large spotted handkerchief from his
pocket and mopped his brow.
The old man balanced his
reading glasses on the end of his nose and tore the box open. It was full of
requests from the most organised of kids - the annoying, anal-retentive ones who
always sent their requests before the first leaves fell and made a god-awful fuss
if they he got it wrong. He opened the first letter and squinted at the jumble
of https, coms, //s and ¬¬¬¬_s .
He tossed it aside in disgust.
“I’m too old for this.”
He took the sealed envelope
and ripped it open with a nicotine-stained thumb. Fifteen sheets of clauses and
sub-clauses in the kind of legalese that made an IKEA instruction leaflet seem
straightforward plopped onto the table.
As he flipped through the pages,
a wave of acid rose in his throat. Same as last year, and countless years
before - ‘…for the duration of the three
months commencing 10 October 2019…’ ‘…the 2nd party (hereafter
referred to as “SC”) waives any and all rights to any previous identity…’ ‘…obliged to receive, read and sort
submissions received …’ ‘…sole responsibility
for the allocation of Naughty and Nice, and the consequences thereof…’ ‘…ensure the proper maintenance of sleigh and
livestock for fast-track distribution …’
‘…complete deliveries, regardless of location, within 24 hours of the
date(s) stated in the addendum…’
Blah, blah, blah, yada, yada,
yada. He’d seen it all before and he’d signed on the dotted line every year for
as long as he could remember.
So why did it feel different
this time?
Klaus reached for a pile of
newspapers left unread over the past few weeks.
The headlines didn’t do much
for his mood.
Fear, fake news, bullying and
discord fought ads and phoney sentiment to dominate the pages. Leaders acting
like spoilt toddlers. Children being forced to lead when they should be
playing. Floods, famine, drones delivering pizzas or raining death on those
below. Macho posturing pushing humanity to one side. Dead whales with bellies full
of plastic discarded in the name of convenience. People fleeing the
unthinkable, only to be met by suspicion and stereotypes. Police prowling
airports and shopping malls. Frantic shoppers pushing past the homeless as they
battle to grab must-have luxuries that would quickly be forgotten.
Too much stuff. Not enough
spirit.
“A-hem.” Elvis coughed
discreetly from the floor.
“You still here, elf?”
“I’ve got to wait for your
answer.”
“Not now. Later,” grumbled
Klaus. “Bugger off.”
Elvis scuttered out, leaving the
old man scowling at the table. Maybe he’d just sit at home and drink his way
through the wine cellar this year. If he refused to sign or report for duty, would anyone notice?
He popped the cork on a bottle
of port and poured himself a large glass. Then another. And another…
…it
was the smell of cinnamon cookies that roused him. Like the ones his mama used to
serve for Christmas morning breakfast. And there she was, sitting across the
table telling him to drink up his milk so they could go see what Santa had
left.
The
freshly lit kitchen fire was crackling. Just a few crumbs sat on the plate he’d
left on the hearth the night before, and the sherry glass next to it was empty.
“Hurry
up, sweetheart.”
Klaus
blinked at a nostalgic tear as his mother took a last drag on her cigarette and
dropped it into her coffee cup.
“Yes,
Mama,” he squeaked in a voice he’d forgotten was ever his. He drank his milk,
jumped down from his chair and took her hand. She covered his eyes before
opening the parlour door...
“Mister Klaus! Wake up!”
Elvis nearly poked the old man in the
eye with his nose as he came to, the taste of cookies and his happy
childhood Christmas still fresh on his tongue.
“You’ve got to sign. Now!” He
elf handed him his sugar cane pen. “On the dotted line, like always.”
“Just like always,” sighed
Klaus, as he scribbled his name.
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