The Last Christmas

Klaus opened up the big red book for the last time that night. He turned it to the last page, and ticked the last three stops: Zurich, Zwickau, Zwolle. Done, done, done. It was always the same three to finish with, heading back North towards the Arctic.

So many years, so many rituals. The reindeer harnessed... the chimneys caved... the brandies downed, at so many firesides.

But tonight there was a new ritual. One he would perform only once. The Arctic Elves had been instructed, and the deer provided for - everything would go on. The world would not even miss him. His image was everywhere, and anyway, they thought he was a myth.

Nicholas the Wonderworker took his sack down off the sleigh. He set it down flat on the snow, and opened it out in a wide circle. The open bag was a portal to a seemingly bottomless pit, walled with 1700 years’ worth of toys. He took a few steps back, adjusted his belt, ran forwards - and leaped in.

Now he fell down the tunnel of toys. At the very top were electric flashing marvels and plastic miracles; then trains and clockwork soldiers, building blocks, board games, bubble-blowers, kaleidoscopes, Noah’s arks (he glimpsed inside one of the boats for a moment, and thought he saw Noah waving, as he fell); rocking horses, puzzles, puppets, dolls, tops, barrel-hoops, carts, whistles, rattles, yo-yos...

...until he thumped into the bottom, glad for once on his substantial rump, and how it cushioned him from the force of the bump.

Even knowing how long it had been (and he could feel it in his bones), he was surprised by the great depth of the pile. But all that was behind him now. Or rather, it was all above, and all around him. He lit a torch.

The pale soil here reminded him of the old days in Myra, and the things he had done there, so long ago. Directly in front of him, a square arch of ancient playthings introduced another tunnel, this one branching away from the floor of the pit. It was big enough to walk through. That was where he would go.

Nick sat down on the ground again and wrestled off his boots and socks. Then, he reached into his fur-trimmed pockets, and pulled one last purse of coins out of each. There was no need for them where he was going. He stuffed one in each shoe.

Now, he felt the old ground on the soles of his feet. The long-cherished warm rocks of his homeland. He straightened his jacket. He took off his hat. He stepped forwards, into the archaic tunnel, then he rounded a corner; going somewhere... we can’t follow.