Kris Kringle

Kris held his breath. He kept a dagger by his bed but was fearful that the moment he went to grab it, his intruder would strike from behind. He decided not to provoke whoever it was that had broken into his home and instead addressed the person calmly.

“Who are you?” Kris asked aloud, still on his knees by his bedside, unable to see the person in the shadows behind him. There was no answer.

“What do you want?” Kris said sternly.

“The truth,” came a gruff voice.

“Truth about what?”

The stranger, who had been sitting down on the rocking chair in the corner, stood up and walked slowly behind Kris, who still could not see the person he was conversing with.

“Where were you tonight?” the stranger said with the same rough voice as before.

Kris did not know how to answer and began to think seriously about snatching up his dagger and turning to face his intruder. But then, in the corner of his eye, he could see an obscure shadow being projected by the dim candlelight, now that the stranger had moved closer to the source. The top of the shadow showed that the man was hearing a top hat. And Kris suddenly realized this was no stranger at all.

“Well, I’ll tell you where I wasn’t,” Kris said with an annoyed shake of the head, “I wasn’t enjoying a night at the tavern with my best friend.”

“No you weren’t!” Jack agreed, dropping the false voice he had been using and pushing Kris’ face into his straw mattress. Jack sat down on the bed as Kris did the same. “And I know you weren’t working for Elpert tonight either. So come clean, friend. What’s going on?”

Kris scratched his head and smiled weakly. “This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Jack’s eyebrows bent inward as he responded. “My best friend lying to me? Yeah, that bothers me!”

Kris nodded. “I know, I know,” he admitted softly, “It’s just… I had made a promise to someone very important that I wouldn’t talk about it.”

“About what?” Jack asked impatiently, “Oh…right, you can’t say…” He got up from the bed and made his way to the door.

“I spoke with the princess today,” Kris said reluctantly.

Jack turned around in shock. “You spoke with the princess today?” he repeated loudly.

Kris shot up from the bed and put his finger on his lips as a signal to Jack to speak quietly.

“Are you serious?” Jack asked with a small smile creeping upon his face.

Kris nodded. “This afternoon in the marketplace. She was hiding herself within an old cloak but I recognized her. She mistook me for being someone else, and ordered me to deliver a message to someone. An urgent message.”

“What was the message?” Jack asked, his interest in the story intensifying.

Kris shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, “It was written on a piece of paper that I concealed and promised not to read. I was only to deliver it.”

“Deliver it to whom?”

Kris hesitated. He already felt slightly guilty for relating the story to someone besides Rudy.

“To Mr. Chesterson,” Kris finally revealed.

Jack frowned. “That’s….very odd…” he observed, “What business does a ranch owner have with a princess?”

“The very question I have too,” Kris said, “But I met with Rudy tonight. Briefly. He read the note but said nothing about it. When I was about to leave, he invited me to go to the Green Pasture tomorrow night. He said he could tell me more then.”

Jack was perplexed. “That’s very, very odd,” he stated, “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Kris chuckled. “I don’t know, Jack,” he confessed, “My mind has been swimming with questions all night. And I admit, it’s nice to finally talk about it out loud with someone else. But you must keep this all to yourself. At least until I know more about what this is all about.”

Jack nodded. “Of course, Kris,” he promised, “I’m just glad you’re not lying to me anymore.”

Kris shrugged. “Sorry,” he said half-heartedly, “But you can understand why—“

“Yes, I understand why,” Jack assured him. He looked out the window and sighed. “Well, as much as I’m enjoying this conversation with you in your underwear, I best be on my way home.” Kris laughed and opened the door, letting in the chill of the night air. As Jack approached the doorway, he looked thoughtfully out at the village houses now in his view. He turned one last time to Kris. “Do you think you’re allowed to bring a friend to the Pasture tomorrow night?” he asked.

Kris thought for a moment and smiled. “Rudy didn’t say I couldn’t.”

Grinkers awoke suddenly. It was still night and far too early for him to be awake naturally. It was a dream that had awakened him. A very vivid dream, pieces of which had been recurring over the past several nights. Grinkers knew he could not go back to sleep until he had written down the details of this dream.

Grinkers was an elf—a member of that race of magical creatures known for their short height and incredible talent in craftsmanship of all kinds. He was the leader of the elves in a sense—in a sense because the elves were not restricted to or managed by governments as the humans were. Grinkers was simply revered as the wisest of the elves. He was, after all, nearly 300 years old. His advice was treated as though it were a directive from a king.

But Grinkers did not live like a king. Like all elves, he lived in a hole in the ground. The hole was not large, but not so cramped that he could not enjoy the benefits of a bed, table, chair, and books. Grinkers had many books on many subjects, and he read through them with great speed, retaining almost all of what he learned from them.

But that night, Grinkers was not interested in reading, but writing. He sat down at his small table, which had several blank pieces of paper laying upon it. There was no need to light a candle, for his hole was illuminated by the large phosphorous mushrooms that hung upon its dirt walls. He removed the feather pen from its ink bottle and began to write:

“Tonight, I had the same dream again, though this time it was more vivid and detailed than before. I saw a man dressed in a red and white robe. His head and beard were white, like freshly fallen snow. His countenance was warm, yet he carried with him a great burden of responsibility. We stood in an open world filled with snow. I approached him in the dream and asked for his name, for I felt a strong desire to befriend him and unite myself with him. He said nothing to me, but pointed off to the distance. I looked out, but the fog was so great that I could make out very little.”

Grinkers paused as he reflected upon his dream, wanting to make sure he recorded the details correctly.

“As the fog dispensed somewhat, I saw a pole. Like the old man’s robe, it was colored red and white. Upon its top sat a glass globe that was filled with the most magnificent colors. They swirled around inside the crystal sphere as if they were constantly being stimulated by some kind of magic or energy. I wanted to approach it that I might get a better look, but someone held me back. Assuming it was the old man who restricted me, I turned to him to protest, only to find that—lo!—he was gone! He had vanished from sight without my knowledge. I looked intently all around me for a clue as to where he might be, but there was no trace of him whatsoever.”

Grinkers let out a long breath as he reviewed his written account. Satisfied he had written down all that had occurred in his dream, he returned to his small bed, sticking his skinny legs under the plaid quilt his mother had sewn him over a century ago. The quilt and his green robe he always wore at night provided all the warmth he needed that night. He was lying comfortably in his bed when his eyes shot open again, almost involuntarily. He had suddenly remembered another new aspect of his dream. He threw his quilt aside and quickly returned to his table, picking up the feather pen again.

“There was one last thing I saw in the dream,” he added to his paper, “The meaning of the words is a mystery to me, though I suspect it may be the name of the old man which he had initially refused to give me. For on the snow upon which he had stood before he vanished now appeared two words.”

Grinkers looked ahead at the dirt wall before him as he tried to remember the spelling of the words. His pen returned to the paper.

“SANTA CLAUS.”