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A great reindeer pawed at the surf.
He lowered his head and snorted. Sea foam scattered beneath his nose. The massive rack of antlers turned toward the miser.
She stopped inside the trees.
Her cloak was heavy. There had never been a time that it remained wet. Moisture had always evaporated upon contact. Now it clung to her arms and legs; the hood hung against her back.
The fat man stroked the reindeer’s neck. “It’s all right.”
His details were masked in the shadows, but she recognized the husky voice. Despite the warm night, he cinched the belt across his waist and buttoned the coat. Three helpers were at his side. They looked like dark beach balls washed ashore, the surf swirling at their oversized feet.
The serious ones.
She’d praised them just the other day, had mistaken them for more of Naren’s variations. But they weren’t helpers. These were elven. She should’ve known. It didn’t matter how they found her or even how they tricked her into the tower.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
She didn’t want to hijack Christmas, just relocate it. Nicholas and the elven were supposed to come to the island willingly. They were supposed to understand what she wanted. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost sight of her own intentions. This all started with a sick little boy who sent a letter to the North Pole and a mother who loved him so much.
How did things go so wrong?
“There’s nothing I can say,” she said, “nothing I can do...”
Nicholas held up his hand. His glove was thick and padded. He was overdressed for the weather, but it wouldn’t be long before he wasn’t. The reindeer knelt in the surf. Nicholas climbed onto his back. The elven scurried behind him.
The hooves sloshed through the surf. The foliage rustled as the antlers paddled the air. For a moment, she thought he would leave without saying a word. She couldn’t blame him. She’d taken him from his family and crash-landed Christmas. He didn’t owe her anything. Her actions would be a burden she would have to carry.
They were already heavy.
Nicholas leaned forward and whispered. The reindeer turned sharply. The fat man’s silhouette fixed a floppy hat upon his head. Once she had envisioned a skinnier version of him relaxing on the beach after a Christmas night’s ride, a man who would acclimate to warmer weather and shed the weight. But he was a jolly old fellow who evolved in the cold.
He would always be the fat man.
“Make the world a better place,” he said. “Starting now.”
The reindeer’s belly inflated as he bent at the knees. The trees shook and it was suddenly dark.
The surf raced to fill four cloven divots in the sand.
A dark form soared past the moon’s glow. Just before it disappeared into the high-pitched whine of a timesnap, a trail of jolly laughter fell like new snow.
She watched the tide wash away the footprints until there was no trace of Nicholas and his elven. There were sounds in the trees, those of lizards and mice. Somewhere on the island, the helpers were cheering and singing. She wasn’t ready to celebrate, not yet. She yearned for her poopies and turned to find someone waiting.
A young man with wild hair.
Moonlight washed him in white light, but his face was still bronze. His legs were as dirty as the path beneath his bare feet.
My runaway.
There were many that escaped the resort. Eventually, they all came back. It was dangerous on the island. And lonely. They would return and then grow sick. And she would replace them.
But not my runaway.
He changed his name and never returned. And he never grew sick. This was another weight in her bag of burdens, the realization that all her children grew sick in her care. The tighter she held them, the worse they became. She resented him for that. Every day he did not return reminded her why the others were dying.
It was her fault.
She took a wary step. When he didn’t flee, she began to shake. She wanted to throw her arms around him, to squeeze him and hold him like she’d always done, hold her baby so he wouldn’t get hurt. But she couldn’t do that to him. Not anymore.
She held out her hands and closed her eyes. When the ground rustled, her heart leaped that he’d run from her again. All she could do was wait. When his hands slid into hers, she shook with sorrow.
The well of grief was far from empty.
Once again, she let it flow through her; sobs racked her entire body. This time, though, her anguish did not scorch the world. She was not consumed with its fury. She wept for its sadness, wept for its joy. Her burdens were stacked and heavy. This one, however, she could manage.
His hands are warm.