But Then We Tried

An Essay on Failure and Success

Writer Dean Wesley Smith has a concept he calls “failing to success.” I have taken this concept to heart, and use it all the time. It helps keep me motivated even during the roughest times.

What does failing to success look like? It looks like many things:

Aiming to write two thousand words and getting out five hundred.

Working toward housing every person in your city or town and getting thirty people into hotel rooms during a cold snap.

Saying you’ll paint or draw seven days this week and making art for four.

Decluttering one desktop, closet, or room at a time, even though you want to declutter your whole life.

Organizing for better working conditions and getting 80% of your terms.

Not hitting your time goal but pushing through to finish the project anyway.

All of the above can be viewed as “failures” because the stated goals were not met. All of these can equally be called “successes,” because you wrote, you painted, you got some folks inside, and your union got better—though not perfect—working conditions.

If we don’t try, nothing happens.

If we don’t set goals, the chance of reaching anything diminishes.

If we have no ambition because we fear failure? We simply feed inertia, which drives the status quo.

To enact change, it helps to be willing to fail while we succeed.

A lot has been written on the topic of “failing big” and all the rest. And it’s true that visionaries and organizers, writers and artists, have failed—sometimes for years—while also accomplishing things, some large, some small. The failures built themselves toward success, and things were learned along the way.

“I felt that one had better die fighting against injustice than to die like a dog or rat in a trap.” — Ida B. Wells-Barnett

How many editorials did Ida B. Wells have to write, how many speeches did she give, how many trips across the US and to Europe did she have to make (back when travel took days instead of hours)? How much lobbying did she do? How many times did she want to give up because of the seeming futility of her project—under massive push back, and direct threats—until anti-lynching laws were finally passed?

“I persisted because I was dry and had no better ideas… my considered opinion was that I had written the world’s all-time loser.” — Stephen King

On the other end of the spectrum from Wells, Stephen King famously threw the first pages of Carrie into the trash can, considering it a failed experiment that no one would want. Besides, no publisher wanted his first three novels, and this was just a short story for a men’s magazine. Why even try?

Well, trying was important. At the time, King was desperately poor, not even able to afford telephone service to his family’s ramshackle trailer in small town Maine. He and his wife Tabitha were scraping by, trying to make enough money to keep the family in food, and keep the car running. Selling some writing—even a short story—would have been a boon.

Tabitha dug the crumpled pages from the trash can, read them, and told him to try again. He did, and Stephen King’s career was born.

“Failure is very much an option and a way of life… However, quitting is not. You quit, you are done.” — Dean Wesley Smith

Smith’s simple phrase of “failing to success” has kept me going when I could barely do a thing because, after decades of trying to take care of myself with an undiagnosed autoimmune disorder (no doctor would listen to me), I not only burned out from the travel of my career, my health crashed, badly.

I look back on those times when I could barely get up off the couch, or walk around the block, or form a cohesive thought… and I marvel at what I accomplished. I kept going, bit by bit, doing what I could, when I could.

Stories and essays were written. Novels were published. Mutual Aid was done. During times when doing anything was a victory, my failure became a success because I tried.

And you know what? Those successes add up.

Now that I’m seeing light after six years of continuous “life rolls”—the aforementioned burnout and illness, moving to a different state, my mother dying, crashing my bike and getting post-concussion syndrome—I can look back and see all that I’ve accomplished in that time.

I did not meet my goals.

I had to curtail many of my publishing plans. I stalled out on some other business ventures. My social justice work became more and more limited… and yet, because I kept doing what I could, I ended up doing a lot.

I failed to success.

And I’m proud of that.

How about you? What are you trying? What feels like a failure? What might actually be a success? I suggest you write that down.

And then take a moment to celebrate all you’ve done.

T. Thorn Coyle

January, 2022

---

This essay was paid for by the ongoing generosity of my Patreon supporters. Want to join?

Better Watch Out

The bar was packed, thick with conviviality and syrupy song. The drummer boy drummed. The Christmas tree was rocked around. Mommy kissed fake Santa as a shocked kiddo looked on.

The night was far from silent. I needed that. Needed not to be left alone with my thoughts, drowning in my own fear and misery. If it weren’t for this bastard Jørgen who called himself my friend, I would be. But he knew better, and as usual, had rousted me from my apartment to join the living.

His words. Not mine.

Every year grew harder, every year since the cancer took her down, sending wormholes into her once sparkling brain.

Grandma had been the best of everything. Warm. Funny. Kind.

We gardened during long summers and sat, sweaty, on her porch, sipping lemonade. During winter we baked together, breads, cookies, and pies. We decorated the tree I would purchase from the homeless shelter fundraiser the next town over.

I hung lights from the peak of her bungalow.

Then, that one December night, she was gone. Taken by him. The dark elf. The one who drove his charges through the long night.

The one who must be appeased.

Mr. Claus.

I pronounce it the old way. Not the way people in Georgia, New York, or California pronounce it.

Klaus. Clousz. Clows. With a hard ess sound, like a snowstorm whipping around your ears, and an ouch vowel in the middle.

He hurt me, Mr. Claus. He stole my joy.

And so, here I was again, in the midst of people lit up by alcohol and frivolity, a miserable lump of flesh pretending to be something, anything, else.

Those who know, call me Elf-Hunter. Like I’m some dark legend, come to the big screen for your entertainment.

The name is not one hundred percent accurate, but it’s evocative enough. I hadn’t found the Big Bad Elf yet. Though that’s certainly in my plans. I had injured a few of his minions, though. All those “helpers” who look so cute and innocuous right before they send you spiraling into addiction, greed, or fear. Sometimes they drive people to their deaths.

But that’s never part of the story, is it?

At first, I bristled at those two small words bumped up together, forming an identity I never sought, but once I figured out it wasn’t going away, I tried to embrace it.

Some nights, when the spirit of melancholy shook my bones, I failed.

“It’s just marketing,” Jørgen said, scarred fingers caressing the chipped white mug as if it were a lover. The man surely enjoyed his coffee. “You really cannot buy this type of publicity.”

I took a sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it traced a pathway down toward my stomach. “I know all that. But sometimes a guy just wants to be loved for who he is, you know?”

“Some of us see your softer side, my friend.”

Yeah. The handful of people I’ll actually share a meal with. The ones who call me Joe.

Jørgen grinned his cockeyed grin that caused all the years of sun damage on his face to crack, crinkling in the most delightful way. His face, battered by the elements and time, was the most beautiful one I’d ever seen. I’d once made the mistake of telling him so. He laughed uproariously at the thought of it, and pranced around for days, pretending to be a runway model.

I never mentioned it again. I’m too hard for love, anyway. Best to keep things casual with people who aren’t my best friend.

“Part of who you are is a killer of things that should not exist. And that part, too, needs love. No?” Jørgen’s voice was like caramel, and the remnants of his accent gave a lilting quality to his words.

I sighed, tilting dangerously close to his broad shoulders, his leather jacket, the scent of cedar that clung to the edges of his sun-streaked brown and gray hair. What can I say? I’ve always been a sucker for big men, with big laughs, and big bellies, and crinkly eyes.

I’m a wiry man myself. Well muscled after years of the harshest training. A faster runner than I’d like to be. A fighter who is…

“I’m tired. How much longer do I have to do this?”

Jørgen’s scarred and beautiful face grew serious. Then he gently pried my fingers from the whiskey tumbler, slid it across the bar, and took a sip. He looked down at the glass, as if examining a very interesting insect. Then he downed the rest in one swallow.

“You do it until it is done.”

Shoving back his stool, he threw his card on the bar, eased my arms into my duffel coat, signed the receipt, and shepherded me through the bar and out into the icy dark night and the glimmer of lights reflected on rainbows of oil trapped in icy puddles.

Humans. We held onto hope with the slimmest of excuses, warding off inevitable death with the glitter of tinsel and a string of lights.

***

Not enough people follow the old ways.

A piece of freshly baked white bread, seasoned with three red drops of the baker’s blood.

A dish of milk, tucked into a hollow at the base of an ancient oak.

A piece of silver, left dead center at the crossroads.

A dram of whiskey, poured onto a sidewalk at midnight.

A strand of hair, dropped onto the forest floor.

The spirits—living and dead—must be appeased, else the world will be plunged into chaos. The Fae spirits, small and large, seen and unseen, seelie, unseelie, sprite, pixie, elf, and gnome, all have their ways.

Humans have turned the ancient magics into stories for children and forgotten their power. The power of truth. The power of time. The power of death. The power of change.

Oh, the Fae spirits can bless you, and often do. They can as easily curse your family for generations hence.

Do not cross them.

Do not forget.

Leave out a dish of cookies and a cup of sweet milk. And sure, a carrot or two if it pleases you. The reindeer can use the fuel.

The old elf must be fed, or your children’s dreams will turn to nightmares that will wake you in the night.

Some say that his suit is dyed the red of blood. Me? I have no proof, but would not be surprised.

After all, my grandmother died on Christmas Eve. Can’t prove the old elf took her?

Can’t prove that he did not.

He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.

Yeah. Can’t tell me old Claus isn’t some dark force, waiting to spirit us all away.

Bad or good? You tell me.

For goodness’ sake.

***

The house was dark. The trap was set.

Jørgen and I waited, hiding in the shadows on either side of the cold hearth. The only light came from the gentle glow from the Yule tree in the corner, reflected in the silvery paper wrapped around the small pile of gifts waiting for morning. Within the blinking sphere of colored lights, was a small table set with a plate of cookies and a tall, cold, glass of milk.

Just the way Mr. Claus liked it.

Upstairs, a sickly child waited for dawn. He had that new disease everyone worried about. Waited for gifts, and the magic promised by the long night. His parents had called me, worried.

Would I keep watch? Make certain nothing happened to their son that night?

Of course I would. But we had to do it my way. No family crouched at the stairs, looking on. No baby monitor set up to trap the sound.

No alert, texted to the sleeping parents, so they could burst through the kitchen door and tell the old elf what they thought of his thieving ways.

No. The adults upstairs had agreed to a light sedative. Nothing to knock you out so badly you couldn’t escape in case of fire, just a little something to take the edge off. Ease the restless worry. Blunt the firing synapses so the brain lets go its grip, allowing dreams to come.

Better dreams than mine, I hoped.

“Where is that damn elf?” Jørgen muttered. I shifted on the balls of my feet and stretched my neck, but didn’t reply.

Jørgen wasn’t used to waiting. I was. Usually I worked alone, but after years of reconnaissance and smaller jobs, I decided some back up might be in order.

I was going for the big fish this time.

Another hour passed, the clock on the fireplace mantel tick-tocking the time away.

“You sure about this?” Jørgen asked.

I stifled a groan, gripping the jute bag in my hands. It wouldn’t be big enough to fit the elf, but would at least fit over his head and that snowy white beard, confusing him long enough for Jørgen to tie him up.

At least that had been the plan.

“Jørgen!” I hissed. “Don’t make me regret letting you come along.”

“It’s just…”

“Daddy?”

Shit.

“Go back to sleep,” I whispered, hoping my voice would carry up the stairs but not wake the parents.

But here came the pitter patter of little feet creeping slowly down the stairs. That distinctive slapping sound of footie pajamas. I could imagine the tiny, grubby fingers, clutching the wooden stair rail and the milk sweet breath of a child, and all his innocent glory, heading towards danger.

“What do we do?” Jørgen asked.

“Daddy? What’s happening? Is Santa here?”

“Santa’s not here, Timmy. Go back to sleep. You know what we told you. If you don’t go back to sleep, Santa might not come.”

I heard this footsteps pause on the stairs.

“Daddy?” The voice sounded less certain. Slightly afraid. “Why does your voice sound weird?”

“Just tired, son. Go back to bed.”

Please go back to bed. Sleep your innocent sleep. Stay away from the dark magic that roamed the night.

Jørgen and I both stood stock still, hidden in the shadows, just outside the arc of blinking tree lights. I hoped against hope that little Timmy would give up and go back to bed.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Nope. One stair step at a time, those footie pajamas still headed our way.

And then the shimmering began.

“What’s happening, Joe?” Now Jørgen was the one who sounded scared.

“Get ready,” I said. Jørgen grunted, and I heard the rustling that meant he was preparing the ropes.

“Timmy?” I called out. voice sharp. “Stay there. It’s dangerous.”

Our cover was already blown. May as well keep the kid safe if I could.

The plate of cookies and the glass of milk shimmered in the light of the Yule tree. Meanwhile, the glow in front of the fireplace increased, growing stronger and stronger. The air smelled like those over-saturated cinnamon brooms that stores sold come autumn time. The scent always made me gag.

I swallowed hard against my rising gorge and braced my feet against the wood floor.

“You got the rope?” I asked.

“Ready,” Jørgen said. “But are you sure about this?”

“Santa?”

I heard little Timmy creeping down the stairs. Closer and closer.

“Timmy! Stay there!”

The light blazed like a star going nova and, standing in front of me—“Ho! Ho! Ho!”—was the evil elf himself. Blood red suit. Snowy beard. Skinny, lanky, frame. Long, bony, fingers ready to snatch children from their beds.

This was not the fat, jolly old elf of The Night Before Christmas rhyme or Coca Cola commercials. This was the real deal.

Klaus. Mr. Claus. A Santa who was no saint at all.

“What have we here? A young man, come to greet me!” The voice boomed through the living room. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, young sir?”

The old elf shook one of his long, spindly fingers. Timmy gasped.

That’s right, kid. Now’s the time to be afraid.

“Are these cookies and milk for me? Good boy.” Every word exaggeratedly cheerful. Every word a lie.

The elf bent to pick up the offering, which was the only thing keeping Timmy alive.

“Now!” I shouted, and threw the jute bag over the old elf’s head.

Jørgen stumbled forward, clumsy with the ropes. Old Claus was thrashing, struggling against me. One sharp elbow to my ribs, placed to drive the breath from my lungs. I held on tight. One hand clutching the bag closed around his neck. The other arm wrapped around that skinny torso.

“Now, Jørgen! The ropes!”

And then, tiny fists pummeling at my thighs.

“What are you doing? Leave Santa alone! Santa never did anything to hurt you!”

Except, Santa did.

***

The tang of rubbing alcohol, oxygen, and cleaning supplies invaded the back of my throat.

And there she was, propped up in a cantilevered bed, hooked to machines, an IV drip in one arm.

My grandmother. The light of my life. My cookie baking queen.

It was her favorite time of year, the space between winter solstice and New Year’s Eve. The dark time of year. The time she filled with fire and light and song.

Grandma made the long nights of winter a haven. A respite from the cold.

But not this night. Not for me. Despite the string of tiny twinkle lights on a tiny fake tree. Despite the festive cards taped to the wall.

Christmas Eve, and she was dying.

“Maybe Santa will take me,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To ride off on his sleigh? Become an elf?”

“I’d rather have you here.” I clutched her fingers, trying to warm them.

Trying to warm the icicle shard lodged inside my heart.

“You know that in some of the Norse pagan traditions, the ancestors go to the land of the Light Elves, don’t you? I told you those stories when you were a child.”

She had. And I wanted to believe them.

But I didn’t.

All I knew for sure was that when the clock struck midnight, a light shimmered around her bed, and a thin, long-fingered hand and red sleeve reached through. Bells chimed. I caught a snatch of song.

Then she rattled her last breath, leaving me alone.

***

“Timmy, you don’t understand,” I said.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Great. There was the mother, at the top of the stairs, followed by a sleepy-looking dad, both of them wrapped in flannel robes. Bare feet on one, slippers on the other. Startled faces.

I caught it all in a flash.

“Go back to bed, and grab Timmy.”

“No!” Timmy screamed. “They’re hurting him! Mom! Dad! Do something!”

Adult feet barreling down the stairs. The father speaking to me, “I think this was a mistake.”

The mother replying. “You think? You’re paying for Timmy’s therapy.”

“Shit,” Jørgen said.

Shit, I thought. How in the world had this all gone so wrong?

“Let me go,” said Mr. Claus, voice calm. He was finally holding still. He had stopped fighting, but I could feel the magic energy building inside his tall frame. The light increased, just as it had when he took Grandma away.

He was getting ready to do something.

“Tie his arms, Jørgen!”

“I don’t know, Joe.”

“Stop it!” Timmy said. “You’re ruining everything. You’re ruining Christmas!”

“Christmas is a lie, kid,” I said, “You’re old enough to learn that now.”

The light built. I held on to Mr. Claus as Jørgen fumbled around with the ropes.

“Did you really have to say that?” the mother said, glaring at me.

I groaned. This was so not what I signed up for. This whole story had taken a turn. Tonight was supposed to be my night. Elf Hunter’s night.

My night to vanquish the old elf once and for all. My night to prove to people that an elf unappeased was a danger to everyone…

But I didn’t have it in me anymore. I lifted the jute sack, and there he was, panting, a little sweaty. His hard eyes were dark as coal, boring into me. Staring me down.

And suddenly I was falling, falling, falling…

***

I landed in a pile of snow in the middle of an unfamiliar landscape, surrounded by conical fir trees.

Staring up into my grandmother’s smiling face.

She wore a green wool jumpsuit and a green cap pulled down over her ears. The round silver glasses she’d worn the whole time I knew her perched on her nose.

“Joe! I’m so happy you are here!”

I groaned and sat up, brushing the powdered snow from my jeans. I stood up, and enveloped her into as big a hug as I could manage without crushing her. She smelled of cloves and sugar. Of hot chocolate and childhood memories.

Finally, I released her. She looked up at me and traced one soft hand across my cheek.

“You look tired, Joe. And angry. What happened to you?”

I ignored the question and looked around. Tall, wood buildings with high peaked roofs clustered at the base of a mountain, on the edge of the trees. They looked like gingerbread homes, without the paint, or candy decorations. A herd of white horses were stabled nearby.

“What is this place?”

“Elfland, Joe. I always told you I wanted to end up her when my time came. Aren’t you going to tell me what has you in this state?”

I flushed with anger. Anger at the old elf. Anger at his duplicity. Anger at the fact that the stories said he gave and gave when his skinny hands just took.

“The evil old elf took you! And he rides around, seeking tribute. Threatening people with punishment if they don’t do what he says!”

She tilted her head, like a small green bird in the snow.

“What are you talking about, Joe?”

“You. Better. Watch. Out.” The words ground themselves out past my molars. “He sees you when you’re sleeping…. You better be good…. If you have one damn human emotion, you get coal. If you don’t leave him cookies, you might just lose your soul. The elf. He has us all in thrall. And he took you. He took you away…”

My breath came out in sobs, frosting in the cold air. I felt the wetness stain my cheeks.

“He took me because I asked him to, Joe,” said Grandma. “You know I always loved the winter holidays. The joy of it. The children’s smiles. The light in the dark of the year.”

“But I miss you. I needed you…”

Her eyes softened, but her words were firm. “You’re a grown man, Joe. And I’m happy now. Outside of pain. And other people need me, too.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You get to choose where you head to after death. Some choose return to their component parts, forming soil and sunlight, their memories heading to the great subconscious bank, lending insight in times of need. Others go to what they call the Summerlands, still others to heaven or—if they hate themselves enough—to hell.”

“And you?” Confusion swirled around my head like snowflakes. None of this was making any sense.

“I’m an elf now, Joe. I’m magic. I get to spread wonder to people, and remind them of what’s real.”

I stared at her, this woman I had known and loved my whole life.

“Life is not just suffering and pain, my dear boy. Life is sweetness, too. Here, have a cookie.”

And from the deep pockets of her coat, she somehow withdrew a small white saucer, edged with red and green. On it was one single sugar cookie, shaped like a tree.

“My favorite.”

“I never forgot,” she said. “But I think you did, for a while.”

I bit into the crisp cookie, tasting the buttery sweetness on my tongue.

Grandma kissed my cheek.

***

And I was back in the living room, lights blazing, surrounded by worried faces, and one tall, skinny elf with a snowy white beard, crouched over me.

“Are you all right, son?” He held out a hand, offering to help me up. I batted it away.

“I’m not your son.”

His eyes looked sad. “No. But you are her grandson.”

He stood up, and Jørgen helped me to a chair.

The old elf waved to my friend. “This one says you came to trap me. To kill me.”

I nodded.

“Why?” Timmy asked. He stared at me with large, round eyes, safe in the protection of his father’s flannel robe, mother at his side. All the things I didn’t have. All the things that time had taken from me.

“He…” how could I explain this to a sickly child, whose parents had hired me to catch the elf before he could spirit away their child? How could I explain that for the past five years, I had hunted his helpers, wounding them the way they had wounded me?

Why did children still believe the world was good? Why did their parents let them?

“He took away someone I loved more than anything in the world,” I finally said.

“Santa?” Timmy said, turning to the elf. “Is that true?”

The old elf nodded. “It is true, Timmy. But I only took her because she wanted to go.”

“Is that true?” Timmy’s father’s voice was harsh. “You don’t just steal people away? We’ve heard the stories…”

The old elf hung his head, his voice so low, I had to lean forward to catch the words. “I did. Once upon a time. The world was different then. I thought I was helping people learn to be good…”

“By threatening them,” Jørgen said. Good man.

“Yes,” Mr. Claus replied. “I thought threats were the only way to get people to treat one another as if they were the precious gifts they are.”

He looked at me with those coal-black eyes. “Like the precious gift you are.”

“Stop it!” I said, voice thick with unwanted tears. “Stop lying to us! You are evil, and you know you are! You’ve stolen people from their families. You keep us in line with threats! You have to pay for what you’ve done!”

“Joe,” the old elf said, “I have paid. Over and over and over. I have paid. Year after year, I do nothing but deliver gifts, and take those who are ready, and want to come.”

Timmy’s mother stepped forward. “You mean, you didn’t come to take Timmy away?”

Mr. Claus shook his head. “I will only take Timmy if he doesn’t get better, and if he wants to come live with me. But…” a small smile graced his lips. “I don’t think it will come to that.”

Timmy’s fathers sobbed. “You mean…?”

The old elf nodded. “I think your son is on the mend. Look at his face. The latest medicine seems to be working.”

Both parents clutched each other, sobbing, and wrapped their arms around their child.

Timmy didn’t cry. He looked steadily from the elf, to me, and back again.

“I would go with you if it was time,” Timmy said. “But if it’s all the same, I’d rather stay here.”

“How about you, Elf Hunter?” Claus’s voice was steady. “You want to stay, or go?”

I looked at Jørgen, who shrugged.

“I will miss you if you leave,” he said. “But the choice is up to you. Might be do you good.”

“Is this a trick?” I asked the elf.

He held out his hands, as if to show me there was nothing up his sleeve.

“No tricks,” he said. “Not anymore. I am done with tricks. I am done with trying to force people to live a different way. The only thing I can do—and the only thing that works its magic—is to spread what gifts and joy I can, with the help of my elves, and people like you.”

I shook my head. “People like me? Broken assholes bent on revenge?”

He smiled again, which seemed like a weird response. “People exactly like you, Joe. And people like your grandmother, too. It takes all sorts to build a kinder world.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“You only sought revenge because you care.”

His words hit like an arrow to my heart. The bastard was right.

“Damn it,” I said to the room, blinking back my tears. “I was supposed to hate you.”

“I know.” The elf looked around the room. “But if we’re done here, I have a stocking or two to fill, don’t I?”

He ruffled Timmy’s hair. “And you, young friend, need to go back to bed before I do such things!”

“Thanks, Santa!”

“Yes, thank you, Santa,” said Timmy’s father.

“I will enjoy the milk and cookies after you go up to bed. And when you all wake up? Well, you’ll see.”

The family trundled back up the stairs, leaving the elf, Jørgen, and me, along with a jute bag, some ropes…and a red sack filled with gifts.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, nodding toward the sack.

“Magic,” the elf said. “Now, will you help me fill these stockings, or not?”

I looked at Jørgen. “Guess we’re helping the old elf. Then?”

“Then what?” asked my friend.

“Then I really want a drink.”

And clearly, I needed to rethink my whole life. What could a former Elf Hunter do to be of service?

Guess I was going to find out.

##

Better Watch Out

T. Thorn Coyle

The bar was packed, thick with conviviality and syrupy song. The drummer boy drummed. The Christmas tree was rocked around. Mommy kissed fake Santa as a shocked kiddo looked on.

The night was far from silent. I needed that. Needed not to be left alone with my thoughts, drowning in my own fear and misery. If it weren’t for this bastard Jørgen who called himself my friend, I would be. But he knew better, and as usual, had rousted me from my apartment to join the living.

His words. Not mine.

Every year grew harder, every year since the cancer took her down, sending wormholes into her once sparkling brain.

Grandma had been the best of everything. Warm. Funny. Kind.

We gardened during long summers and sat, sweaty, on her porch, sipping lemonade. During winter we baked together, breads, cookies, and pies. We decorated the tree I would purchase from the homeless shelter fundraiser the next town over.

I hung lights from the peak of her bungalow.

Then, that one December night, she was gone. Taken by him. The dark elf. The one who drove his charges through the long night.

The one who must be appeased.

Mr. Claus.

I pronounce it the old way. Not the way people in Georgia, New York, or California pronounce it.

Klaus. Clousz. Clows. With a hard ess sound, like a snowstorm whipping around your ears, and an ouch vowel in the middle.

He hurt me, Mr. Claus. He stole my joy.

And so, here I was again, in the midst of people lit up by alcohol and frivolity, a miserable lump of flesh pretending to be something, anything, else.

Those who know, call me Elf-Hunter. Like I’m some dark legend, come to the big screen for your entertainment.

The name is not one hundred percent accurate, but it’s evocative enough. I hadn’t found the Big Bad Elf yet. Though that’s certainly in my plans. I had injured a few of his minions, though. All those “helpers” who look so cute and innocuous right before they send you spiraling into addiction, greed, or fear. Sometimes they drive people to their deaths.

But that’s never part of the story, is it?

At first, I bristled at those two small words bumped up together, forming an identity I never sought, but once I figured out it wasn’t going away, I tried to embrace it.

Some nights, when the spirit of melancholy shook my bones, I failed.

“It’s just marketing,” Jørgen said, scarred fingers caressing the chipped white mug as if it were a lover. The man surely enjoyed his coffee. “You really cannot buy this type of publicity.”

I took a sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it traced a pathway down toward my stomach. “I know all that. But sometimes a guy just wants to be loved for who he is, you know?”

“Some of us see your softer side, my friend.”

Yeah. The handful of people I’ll actually share a meal with. The ones who call me Joe.

Jørgen grinned his cockeyed grin that caused all the years of sun damage on his face to crack, crinkling in the most delightful way. His face, battered by the elements and time, was the most beautiful one I’d ever seen. I’d once made the mistake of telling him so. He laughed uproariously at the thought of it, and pranced around for days, pretending to be a runway model.

I never mentioned it again. I’m too hard for love, anyway. Best to keep things casual with people who aren’t my best friend.

“Part of who you are is a killer of things that should not exist. And that part, too, needs love. No?” Jørgen’s voice was like caramel, and the remnants of his accent gave a lilting quality to his words.

I sighed, tilting dangerously close to his broad shoulders, his leather jacket, the scent of cedar that clung to the edges of his sun-streaked brown and gray hair. What can I say? I’ve always been a sucker for big men, with big laughs, and big bellies, and crinkly eyes.

I’m a wiry man myself. Well muscled after years of the harshest training. A faster runner than I’d like to be. A fighter who is…

“I’m tired. How much longer do I have to do this?”

Jørgen’s scarred and beautiful face grew serious. Then he gently pried my fingers from the whiskey tumbler, slid it across the bar, and took a sip. He looked down at the glass, as if examining a very interesting insect. Then he downed the rest in one swallow.

“You do it until it is done.”

Shoving back his stool, he threw his card on the bar, eased my arms into my duffel coat, signed the receipt, and shepherded me through the bar and out into the icy dark night and the glimmer of lights reflected on rainbows of oil trapped in icy puddles.

Humans. We held onto hope with the slimmest of excuses, warding off inevitable death with the glitter of tinsel and a string of lights.

***

Not enough people follow the old ways.

A piece of freshly baked white bread, seasoned with three red drops of the baker’s blood.

A dish of milk, tucked into a hollow at the base of an ancient oak.

A piece of silver, left dead center at the crossroads.

A dram of whiskey, poured onto a sidewalk at midnight.

A strand of hair, dropped onto the forest floor.

The spirits—living and dead—must be appeased, else the world will be plunged into chaos. The Fae spirits, small and large, seen and unseen, seelie, unseelie, sprite, pixie, elf, and gnome, all have their ways.

Humans have turned the ancient magics into stories for children and forgotten their power. The power of truth. The power of time. The power of death. The power of change.

Oh, the Fae spirits can bless you, and often do. They can as easily curse your family for generations hence.

Do not cross them.

Do not forget.

Leave out a dish of cookies and a cup of sweet milk. And sure, a carrot or two if it pleases you. The reindeer can use the fuel.

The old elf must be fed, or your children’s dreams will turn to nightmares that will wake you in the night.

Some say that his suit is dyed the red of blood. Me? I have no proof, but would not be surprised.

After all, my grandmother died on Christmas Eve. Can’t prove the old elf took her?

Can’t prove that he did not.

He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.

Yeah. Can’t tell me old Claus isn’t some dark force, waiting to spirit us all away.

Bad or good? You tell me.

For goodness’ sake.

***

The house was dark. The trap was set.

Jørgen and I waited, hiding in the shadows on either side of the cold hearth. The only light came from the gentle glow from the Yule tree in the corner, reflected in the silvery paper wrapped around the small pile of gifts waiting for morning. Within the blinking sphere of colored lights, was a small table set with a plate of cookies and a tall, cold, glass of milk.

Just the way Mr. Claus liked it.

Upstairs, a sickly child waited for dawn. He had that new disease everyone worried about. Waited for gifts, and the magic promised by the long night. His parents had called me, worried.

Would I keep watch? Make certain nothing happened to their son that night?

Of course I would. But we had to do it my way. No family crouched at the stairs, looking on. No baby monitor set up to trap the sound.

No alert, texted to the sleeping parents, so they could burst through the kitchen door and tell the old elf what they thought of his thieving ways.

No. The adults upstairs had agreed to a light sedative. Nothing to knock you out so badly you couldn’t escape in case of fire, just a little something to take the edge off. Ease the restless worry. Blunt the firing synapses so the brain lets go its grip, allowing dreams to come.

Better dreams than mine, I hoped.

“Where is that damn elf?” Jørgen muttered. I shifted on the balls of my feet and stretched my neck, but didn’t reply.

Jørgen wasn’t used to waiting. I was. Usually I worked alone, but after years of reconnaissance and smaller jobs, I decided some back up might be in order.

I was going for the big fish this time.

Another hour passed, the clock on the fireplace mantel tick-tocking the time away.

“You sure about this?” Jørgen asked.

I stifled a groan, gripping the jute bag in my hands. It wouldn’t be big enough to fit the elf, but would at least fit over his head and that snowy white beard, confusing him long enough for Jørgen to tie him up.

At least that had been the plan.

“Jørgen!” I hissed. “Don’t make me regret letting you come along.”

“It’s just…”

“Daddy?”

Shit.

“Go back to sleep,” I whispered, hoping my voice would carry up the stairs but not wake the parents.

But here came the pitter patter of little feet creeping slowly down the stairs. That distinctive slapping sound of footie pajamas. I could imagine the tiny, grubby fingers, clutching the wooden stair rail and the milk sweet breath of a child, and all his innocent glory, heading towards danger.

“What do we do?” Jørgen asked.

“Daddy? What’s happening? Is Santa here?”

“Santa’s not here, Timmy. Go back to sleep. You know what we told you. If you don’t go back to sleep, Santa might not come.”

I heard this footsteps pause on the stairs.

“Daddy?” The voice sounded less certain. Slightly afraid. “Why does your voice sound weird?”

“Just tired, son. Go back to bed.”

Please go back to bed. Sleep your innocent sleep. Stay away from the dark magic that roamed the night.

Jørgen and I both stood stock still, hidden in the shadows, just outside the arc of blinking tree lights. I hoped against hope that little Timmy would give up and go back to bed.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Nope. One stair step at a time, those footie pajamas still headed our way.

And then the shimmering began.

“What’s happening, Joe?” Now Jørgen was the one who sounded scared.

“Get ready,” I said. Jørgen grunted, and I heard the rustling that meant he was preparing the ropes.

“Timmy?” I called out. voice sharp. “Stay there. It’s dangerous.”

Our cover was already blown. May as well keep the kid safe if I could.

The plate of cookies and the glass of milk shimmered in the light of the Yule tree. Meanwhile, the glow in front of the fireplace increased, growing stronger and stronger. The air smelled like those over-saturated cinnamon brooms that stores sold come autumn time. The scent always made me gag.

I swallowed hard against my rising gorge and braced my feet against the wood floor.

“You got the rope?” I asked.

“Ready,” Jørgen said. “But are you sure about this?”

“Santa?”

I heard little Timmy creeping down the stairs. Closer and closer.

“Timmy! Stay there!”

The light blazed like a star going nova and, standing in front of me—“Ho! Ho! Ho!”—was the evil elf himself. Blood red suit. Snowy beard. Skinny, lanky, frame. Long, bony, fingers ready to snatch children from their beds.

This was not the fat, jolly old elf of The Night Before Christmas rhyme or Coca Cola commercials. This was the real deal.

Klaus. Mr. Claus. A Santa who was no saint at all.

“What have we here? A young man, come to greet me!” The voice boomed through the living room. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, young sir?”

The old elf shook one of his long, spindly fingers. Timmy gasped.

That’s right, kid. Now’s the time to be afraid.

“Are these cookies and milk for me? Good boy.” Every word exaggeratedly cheerful. Every word a lie.

The elf bent to pick up the offering, which was the only thing keeping Timmy alive.

“Now!” I shouted, and threw the jute bag over the old elf’s head.

Jørgen stumbled forward, clumsy with the ropes. Old Claus was thrashing, struggling against me. One sharp elbow to my ribs, placed to drive the breath from my lungs. I held on tight. One hand clutching the bag closed around his neck. The other arm wrapped around that skinny torso.

“Now, Jørgen! The ropes!”

And then, tiny fists pummeling at my thighs.

“What are you doing? Leave Santa alone! Santa never did anything to hurt you!”

Except, Santa did.

***

The tang of rubbing alcohol, oxygen, and cleaning supplies invaded the back of my throat.

And there she was, propped up in a cantilevered bed, hooked to machines, an IV drip in one arm.

My grandmother. The light of my life. My cookie baking queen.

It was her favorite time of year, the space between winter solstice and New Year’s Eve. The dark time of year. The time she filled with fire and light and song.

Grandma made the long nights of winter a haven. A respite from the cold.

But not this night. Not for me. Despite the string of tiny twinkle lights on a tiny fake tree. Despite the festive cards taped to the wall.

Christmas Eve, and she was dying.

“Maybe Santa will take me,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To ride off on his sleigh? Become an elf?”

“I’d rather have you here.” I clutched her fingers, trying to warm them.

Trying to warm the icicle shard lodged inside my heart.

“You know that in some of the Norse pagan traditions, the ancestors go to the land of the Light Elves, don’t you? I told you those stories when you were a child.”

She had. And I wanted to believe them.

But I didn’t.

All I knew for sure was that when the clock struck midnight, a light shimmered around her bed, and a thin, long-fingered hand and red sleeve reached through. Bells chimed. I caught a snatch of song.

Then she rattled her last breath, leaving me alone.

***

“Timmy, you don’t understand,” I said.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Great. There was the mother, at the top of the stairs, followed by a sleepy-looking dad, both of them wrapped in flannel robes. Bare feet on one, slippers on the other. Startled faces.

I caught it all in a flash.

“Go back to bed, and grab Timmy.”

“No!” Timmy screamed. “They’re hurting him! Mom! Dad! Do something!”

Adult feet barreling down the stairs. The father speaking to me, “I think this was a mistake.”

The mother replying. “You think? You’re paying for Timmy’s therapy.”

“Shit,” Jørgen said.

Shit, I thought. How in the world had this all gone so wrong?

“Let me go,” said Mr. Claus, voice calm. He was finally holding still. He had stopped fighting, but I could feel the magic energy building inside his tall frame. The light increased, just as it had when he took Grandma away.

He was getting ready to do something.

“Tie his arms, Jørgen!”

“I don’t know, Joe.”

“Stop it!” Timmy said. “You’re ruining everything. You’re ruining Christmas!”

“Christmas is a lie, kid,” I said, “You’re old enough to learn that now.”

The light built. I held on to Mr. Claus as Jørgen fumbled around with the ropes.

“Did you really have to say that?” the mother said, glaring at me.

I groaned. This was so not what I signed up for. This whole story had taken a turn. Tonight was supposed to be my night. Elf Hunter’s night.

My night to vanquish the old elf once and for all. My night to prove to people that an elf unappeased was a danger to everyone…

But I didn’t have it in me anymore. I lifted the jute sack, and there he was, panting, a little sweaty. His hard eyes were dark as coal, boring into me. Staring me down.

And suddenly I was falling, falling, falling…

***

I landed in a pile of snow in the middle of an unfamiliar landscape, surrounded by conical fir trees.

Staring up into my grandmother’s smiling face.

She wore a green wool jumpsuit and a green cap pulled down over her ears. The round silver glasses she’d worn the whole time I knew her perched on her nose.

“Joe! I’m so happy you are here!”

I groaned and sat up, brushing the powdered snow from my jeans. I stood up, and enveloped her into as big a hug as I could manage without crushing her. She smelled of cloves and sugar. Of hot chocolate and childhood memories.

Finally, I released her. She looked up at me and traced one soft hand across my cheek.

“You look tired, Joe. And angry. What happened to you?”

I ignored the question and looked around. Tall, wood buildings with high peaked roofs clustered at the base of a mountain, on the edge of the trees. They looked like gingerbread homes, without the paint, or candy decorations. A herd of white horses were stabled nearby.

“What is this place?”

“Elfland, Joe. I always told you I wanted to end up her when my time came. Aren’t you going to tell me what has you in this state?”

I flushed with anger. Anger at the old elf. Anger at his duplicity. Anger at the fact that the stories said he gave and gave when his skinny hands just took.

“The evil old elf took you! And he rides around, seeking tribute. Threatening people with punishment if they don’t do what he says!”

She tilted her head, like a small green bird in the snow.

“What are you talking about, Joe?”

“You. Better. Watch. Out.” The words ground themselves out past my molars. “He sees you when you’re sleeping…. You better be good…. If you have one damn human emotion, you get coal. If you don’t leave him cookies, you might just lose your soul. The elf. He has us all in thrall. And he took you. He took you away…”

My breath came out in sobs, frosting in the cold air. I felt the wetness stain my cheeks.

“He took me because I asked him to, Joe,” said Grandma. “You know I always loved the winter holidays. The joy of it. The children’s smiles. The light in the dark of the year.”

“But I miss you. I needed you…”

Her eyes softened, but her words were firm. “You’re a grown man, Joe. And I’m happy now. Outside of pain. And other people need me, too.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You get to choose where you head to after death. Some choose return to their component parts, forming soil and sunlight, their memories heading to the great subconscious bank, lending insight in times of need. Others go to what they call the Summerlands, still others to heaven or—if they hate themselves enough—to hell.”

“And you?” Confusion swirled around my head like snowflakes. None of this was making any sense.

“I’m an elf now, Joe. I’m magic. I get to spread wonder to people, and remind them of what’s real.”

I stared at her, this woman I had known and loved my whole life.

“Life is not just suffering and pain, my dear boy. Life is sweetness, too. Here, have a cookie.”

And from the deep pockets of her coat, she somehow withdrew a small white saucer, edged with red and green. On it was one single sugar cookie, shaped like a tree.

“My favorite.”

“I never forgot,” she said. “But I think you did, for a while.”

I bit into the crisp cookie, tasting the buttery sweetness on my tongue.

Grandma kissed my cheek.

***

And I was back in the living room, lights blazing, surrounded by worried faces, and one tall, skinny elf with a snowy white beard, crouched over me.

“Are you all right, son?” He held out a hand, offering to help me up. I batted it away.

“I’m not your son.”

His eyes looked sad. “No. But you are her grandson.”

He stood up, and Jørgen helped me to a chair.

The old elf waved to my friend. “This one says you came to trap me. To kill me.”

I nodded.

“Why?” Timmy asked. He stared at me with large, round eyes, safe in the protection of his father’s flannel robe, mother at his side. All the things I didn’t have. All the things that time had taken from me.

“He…” how could I explain this to a sickly child, whose parents had hired me to catch the elf before he could spirit away their child? How could I explain that for the past five years, I had hunted his helpers, wounding them the way they had wounded me?

Why did children still believe the world was good? Why did their parents let them?

“He took away someone I loved more than anything in the world,” I finally said.

“Santa?” Timmy said, turning to the elf. “Is that true?”

The old elf nodded. “It is true, Timmy. But I only took her because she wanted to go.”

“Is that true?” Timmy’s father’s voice was harsh. “You don’t just steal people away? We’ve heard the stories…”

The old elf hung his head, his voice so low, I had to lean forward to catch the words. “I did. Once upon a time. The world was different then. I thought I was helping people learn to be good…”

“By threatening them,” Jørgen said. Good man.

“Yes,” Mr. Claus replied. “I thought threats were the only way to get people to treat one another as if they were the precious gifts they are.”

He looked at me with those coal-black eyes. “Like the precious gift you are.”

“Stop it!” I said, voice thick with unwanted tears. “Stop lying to us! You are evil, and you know you are! You’ve stolen people from their families. You keep us in line with threats! You have to pay for what you’ve done!”

“Joe,” the old elf said, “I have paid. Over and over and over. I have paid. Year after year, I do nothing but deliver gifts, and take those who are ready, and want to come.”

Timmy’s mother stepped forward. “You mean, you didn’t come to take Timmy away?”

Mr. Claus shook his head. “I will only take Timmy if he doesn’t get better, and if he wants to come live with me. But…” a small smile graced his lips. “I don’t think it will come to that.”

Timmy’s fathers sobbed. “You mean…?”

The old elf nodded. “I think your son is on the mend. Look at his face. The latest medicine seems to be working.”

Both parents clutched each other, sobbing, and wrapped their arms around their child.

Timmy didn’t cry. He looked steadily from the elf, to me, and back again.

“I would go with you if it was time,” Timmy said. “But if it’s all the same, I’d rather stay here.”

“How about you, Elf Hunter?” Claus’s voice was steady. “You want to stay, or go?”

I looked at Jørgen, who shrugged.

“I will miss you if you leave,” he said. “But the choice is up to you. Might be do you good.”

“Is this a trick?” I asked the elf.

He held out his hands, as if to show me there was nothing up his sleeve.

“No tricks,” he said. “Not anymore. I am done with tricks. I am done with trying to force people to live a different way. The only thing I can do—and the only thing that works its magic—is to spread what gifts and joy I can, with the help of my elves, and people like you.”

I shook my head. “People like me? Broken assholes bent on revenge?”

He smiled again, which seemed like a weird response. “People exactly like you, Joe. And people like your grandmother, too. It takes all sorts to build a kinder world.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“You only sought revenge because you care.”

His words hit like an arrow to my heart. The bastard was right.

“Damn it,” I said to the room, blinking back my tears. “I was supposed to hate you.”

“I know.” The elf looked around the room. “But if we’re done here, I have a stocking or two to fill, don’t I?”

He ruffled Timmy’s hair. “And you, young friend, need to go back to bed before I do such things!”

“Thanks, Santa!”

“Yes, thank you, Santa,” said Timmy’s father.

“I will enjoy the milk and cookies after you go up to bed. And when you all wake up? Well, you’ll see.”

The family trundled back up the stairs, leaving the elf, Jørgen, and me, along with a jute bag, some ropes…and a red sack filled with gifts.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, nodding toward the sack.

“Magic,” the elf said. “Now, will you help me fill these stockings, or not?”

I looked at Jørgen. “Guess we’re helping the old elf. Then?”

“Then what?” asked my friend.

“Then I really want a drink.”

And clearly, I needed to rethink my whole life. What could a former Elf Hunter do to be of service?

Guess I was going to find out.

T. Thorn Coyle December, 2021

---

This story was made possible by the wonderful support of my Patreon members. I’m so grateful. It’s available in my Yule collection—A Hope For Winter—currently for sale on all ebook retailers. This collection is also part of a holiday StoryBundle that benefits the Able Gamers Foundation. This bundle includes eleven terrific holiday collections!

Check it out here: Holiday StoryBundle.

#holiday #santaclaus #shortstories #yule

Mother Winter

“How do you deal with the heartbreak?”

Lucinda stared into her martini, not daring to look up at his face. Afraid of the answer resting behind his strange, dragon’s eyes.

The clink of glasses and cutlery blended with the scents of rich paella and freshly baked bread. Holiday lights twinkled discreetly around the restaurant, and a small rosemary bush shaped into a classic fir tree cone shape sat next to the host’s podium at the front of the restaurant. Sleek, well dressed people surrounded their small two top table, and that the lights of San Francisco winked and blinked in the freezing rain outside the window.

But all she saw was a single green olive, floating in a bath of reflected candle light and gin.

“That is quite a heavy topic for the season, isn’t it?” Rex’s voice was dry as paper, yet surrounded her with a warmth she could wrap her body in. If only she dared.

But he was too old. Too wise. At age forty-five, Lucinda had always thought of herself as mature. Sophisticated. Worldly.

Then she had met Abraxas—aka Rex—and her life turned on its head.

She was still falling, unsure of which way was up, and what life meant anymore.

“Lucinda? Are you going to explain?”

Finally, she looked up. His skin was dark, pulled taut across fine bones like an Egyptian mummy. His eyes were darker, still, and blazed like fire when he was angry. That made him sound horrific. He was anything but. Uncanny, yes. Horrible, no.

His hair was black as jet falling in soft waves across the shoulders of a lavender sweater made of soft merino wool. A stark white collar cradled his unlined neck.

He was ageless. Beautiful. Eternal.

His eyes blinked more slowly than human eyes. His only tell, if you were looking closely enough.

“The heartbreak?” he prodded. “What do you mean?”

Lifting a glass of ruby red wine to his narrow lips, Abraxas drank. And waited.

A server approached, smiling brightly, blond hair in a ponytail, crisp white shirt encasing a slender frame. She was beautiful. Just the type Lucinda had bedded many times. Everyone in this place was beautiful. That’s what high thread count sheets, organic food, and the best skin unguents money could buy obtained.

The server placed a chocolate dessert dusted with cinnamon and swirled with peaks of white cream in the center of the table, and set down two fresh spoons.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked. “Dessert wine, perhaps?”

“No thank you,” Abraxas replied.

“Well, enjoy!” The server threaded her way with ease through the crowded restaurant. Lucinda idly watched her backside make its way to the bar. But there was no heat in her gaze. She was out of sorts.

Not herself.

She hadn’t been since she had met the creature seated across from her. Dragon. Demon. God. He had been called many things over the centuries, or so he said. To her, he had never defined himself.

She decided dragon was as good a label as any of the others.

Shoving her half drunk martini away, Lucinda picked up a spoon, and tapped it on the edge of the small white plate.

She felt his stillness. Preternatural. As if he barely breathed, though she knew he did. Just as he ate. An shat. And slept. And all the rest.

He just did it… differently than she did.

She looked up again, allowing his steady gaze to catch her own.

“The heartbreak.” She waved a hand as if to encompass the room and beyond. “The greed. Sorrow. Stupidity. Short-sightedness. War. Unnecessary suffering… You’ve seen so much of it. Seen things that would kill me. And yet, somehow, you’re still here. You endure.”

His inhalation was swift and sharp, as if a force had elbowed him in the ribs. Lucinda watched his pupils dilate and his narrow nostrils flare. She’d broken through the dragon’s carapace.

Well. Wasn’t that interesting?

Now it was his turn to pick up a spoon. Turn the bright metal between his long, slender, dark fingers. The glint of an expensive watch peaked from beneath one white cuff. Dragon’s hoarded, didn’t they?

He had money. She knew that. And a Pacific Heights home filled with art and books, music and films that he watched from a capacious couch in a half dark room.

But the thing she had only recently realized was this: the main things dragons hoarded?

Was time.

***

The knife of wind sliced through Lucinda’s wool coat as she walked up the hill in the gathering dark, body slightly canted toward the sidewalk, pushing against the slope.

More rain scented the air, and dark clouds hovered above, but for now, the day was dry. Bing Crosby sang about sleigh bells, the music piped from expensively kitted out store fronts into a city with no snow. A cable car clanged by. Festooned with golden garlands and a green wreath, it chugged upward past the St. Francis Hotel doormen in their ridiculous Beefeater costumes. Glittering people exited and entered towncars and limousines. Bundled up shoppers thronged the sidewalks. Half a block away, the temporary ice skating rink filled Union Square, lit by a towering Yule tree.

“Spare change?”

The voice was a quiet puff of breath in the midst of the winter clamor. So soft, Lucinda almost didn’t catch it.

Her warm boots paused on the sidewalk, as if of their own accord. She slid an errant dark curl beneath her wool cap and looked down.

The woman’s brown eyes shied away from Lucinda’s gaze, like a skittish deer. Sitting on a battered milk crate, and swathed in layer upon layer of scarves, hats, coats, and gloves, the woman’s age was as indeterminate as Rex’s, but for a different reason. Rex was ageless because he was so well cared for, and so long lived.

This woman? She could have been in her mid-forties, like Lucinda, or younger, or in her sixties. Time stole from the poor. Time and hardship.

Lucinda smiled. “Let me see what I can do.”

She fished through a leather bag that cost more than this woman probably lived on in a month, and found her wallet. Even though Lucinda almost never used cash, she kept a few bills tucked away, just in case. You never knew when you needed to tip someone, or when you’d encounter a person like this.

Someone in need.

Three fives, two twenties, and one fifty-dollar bill.

Her gloved hand hovered over the green scraps of paper.

Pulled out the fifty.

“Here you go. Happy Yule.”

The eyes between the hat and scarves widened.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please. Buy yourself a warm dinner.”

“Thank you.” The woman’s face tilted upward, brown eyes clear. “And a Good Yule to you, as well.”

Lucinda blinked. Then nodded. That reply was not what she had been expecting. Most people trotted out a “Merry Christmas” without thinking, no matter what greeting Lucinda offered.

“Well. All right then,” Lucinda stammered, a too-bright grin affixed to her face. “I’ll be on my way. Keep warm!”

She continued the press upward. Rex was likely wondering what had made her so late. They were meeting in an antiquarian bookshop, so at least he was well occupied.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” the woman’s voice caught in the wind behind.

Lucinda felt a frisson run up her spine. It wasn’t from the wind. It wasn’t fear. It tasted slightly of the same, uncanny essence that Abraxas carried.

That was it. It was something so old as to be barely recognizable. Older than a human lifespan. Older than a woman, asking for spare change on a milk crate in the middle of the San Francisco Christmas shopping rush.

Frozen on the sidewalk, Lucinda didn’t want to turn. Didn’t want to face whatever caused the feeling that set the small hairs at the back of her neck on end.

“Excuse me!” A woman shoved passed her, bags and packages colliding with Lucinda’s coat. Lucinda hadn’t even realized she’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a restaurant with bright, steamed-up windows.

The moment was a simple one, yet felt momentous somehow.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. “She probably wants to ask you something.” Then slowly turned around.

The bundled-up woman had vanished.

But there, something shone on top of the battered milk crate.

Lucinda picked her way back down the hill, that strange feeling building beneath her skin.

On top of the crate was a woven band of red and green wool, strung with nine shining bells, wrapped around a branch of gleaming holly.

She reached down with one gloved hand. The air grew thick. Lucinda pushed on. She grasped the branch. A holly leaf pricked her thumb through her woolen glove. Carefully, she unwound the strand of bells.

Laughing, she shook them toward the dark clouds above.

“People are crazy this time of year,” she heard a man mutter as a family trooped by. “Stick close, okay?”

Lucinda laughed again, and shook the bells at their retreating backs.

She couldn’t wait to show her gift to Rex. It was just the sort of whimsical thing the dragon would enjoy.

The earlier sense of unease faded with each chime of silver as she walked back up the hill.

***

“She simply disappeared?” Abraxas’s dark fingers engulfed the porcelain tea cup.

Lucinda cradled her own delicate cup, warming her fingers as the fragrant steam danced on the surface of the pale brown liquid. Russian Caravan Tea, smoky and delicious.

“Yes. All that was left was the milk crate and that.” She gestured to the woven band of red and green, the shining bells, and the holly.

A small red dot marred the pale skin of her thumb, where the holly had penetrated her glove.

“What do you think it means?” she asked her friend.

A stack of iced holiday butter cookies sat on a white plate in the center of their round marble table top. She smelled hot chocolate, likely being quaffed by the two children at a table nearby. They chattered at what looked like their grandparents.

Rex blinked his slow blinks at the objects next to Lucinda’s left hand. One blink. Two. Three.

She had learned to wait as he pondered. Rushing a dragon did no good.

“Bells. Holly. Red and green…. How old did you say she looked?”

“I don’t know. Could have been my age. Could have been sixty-five. But…”

Abraxas picked up a cookie shaped like a tree outlined in garish green icing. He sniffed, then set it on the tiny saucer beneath his cup.

“But what? You’ve been doing this a lot of late, you know. Pausing in the midst of a thought, as if you are not certain what to ask, or whether you want to know the answer to the question.”

Lucinda grabbed a holly shaped cookie and bit in, crumbs scattering as the sugary, buttery treat cracked between her teeth. She wasn’t stalling. Was she?

Finally, she swallowed.

“But when she called after me, something changed. I felt something…”

Lucinda cradled the teacup and looked out at the rain streaming down the windows, mottling the images of people rushing by, and the lights. The ever present winter lights. Blinking. Twinkling. Light fractured by water droplets, forming stars.

“She felt old. As old as you. Maybe older.”

“Well,” said Abraxas, picking up his teacup. “Isn’t that interesting? I wonder who in the world she could be?”

But his lips quirked in a tiny, satisfied smile, as if he held a great secret.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Finish your cookie,” he said, “and I’ll show you the books I purchased today. You’ll love these.”

She sighed and did as she was told. If Rex didn’t want to talk about it, no amount of prodding would make him.

“This isn’t over, you know,” Lucinda said, before finishing off holly cookie.

“These sorts of things never are.”

***

That night, Lucinda’s dreams were haunted. Strange. Memories of old lovers. Family. Past mistakes. Pettiness. Grudges. Jobs stayed at too long. Career roads not taken.

These were tempered with snapshots of joy. Her first carousel ride in Golden Gate park, little shoes kicking at the painted horse’s sides. Her first kiss. Her grandmother, teaching her to bake sugar cookies shaped like trees and stars.

And then there she was. The bundled up woman. But this time, her face looked younger, though her waving hair was pale as moonlight on snow. She wore a long, dark dress patterned with snow flakes at the hem. Over that was an apron, edged with green, with holly embroidered on the front placket. She combed her long hair, and rain fell in streams with each stroke.

“Mother Winter,” Lucinda said, and the woman smiled as brightly as the solstice sun.

Setting down her comb, Mother Winter opened her arms. Lucinda walked into her embrace, smelling cinnamon and clove, the warmth of the kitchen, and the cold of night. She was all of that. She was everything.

“Grief is no more powerful than joy,” she said. “Or have you forgotten?”

She kissed Lucinda’s brow, like a parent would a beloved child.

Lucinda woke up with a strong sense that her life had changed.

Forever.

***

Rex’s living room was a marvel of Victorian architecture. Tastefully striped blue wallpaper hung between the high coved ceiling and white painted wainscoting. Art hung, gallery style, in every available space. The space could have been imposing, or overwhelming, instead, it was just right. Cozy and welcoming, even, like the cranberry red sweater she’d wrapped around herself before leaving her own home an hour before, on yet another gray and rainy San Francisco afternoon.

Lucinda sat in dark jeans and stockinged feet on one of two comfortable teal velvet chairs, while Abraxas lounged on a black leather chesterfield sofa.

A fire crackled in the deep fireplace with an embellished cast iron surround. The only music was the afternoon rain. They drank jasmine tea from Rex’s favorite porcelain cups, painted with dragons.

Through the open pocket doors were floor to ceiling bookcases filled with leather and paper bound tomes, plus small pieces of sculpture and other objet d’art collected over who knew how many centuries.

How did one decide what to keep and what to give away? Rex still collected but the already jam-packed elegance of his home pointed to the fact that he must have lost a lot over the years. A person like him would need ten homes to fill with the spoils of all of his interests, hobbies, and avocations.

“Just let me know if you’d like to switch to something stronger,” he said, always the proper host.

“Tea is good for now, thanks.”

They stared at the fire for a while, the crackle of flame on wood a sharp counterpoint to the constant hiss of rain.

“So, are you going to tell me what is on your mind?”

Lucinda looked at my best friend, her mentor, and her would-be-lover if only he wasn’t so skittish about bedding a person centuries younger than he must be. Lucinda had tried to convince him that a human in her middle forties was old enough to know her mind. She could tell he was almost swayed by the argument, but had not yet given in.

“The woman I met? Who gifted me the bells and holly?”

He simply nodded and sipped at his tea.

“She visited my dreams, and gave me what I think is an answer to the question I asked you at dinner the other night.”

“What question was that?” he asked, with one sharp eyebrow raised beneath that dark, luxurious fall of hair.

As if he did not remember every single thing Lucinda ever said.

“The question about how you deal with the heartbreak of this broken world.”

A slight smile graced his thin lips. “Ah. That question. And what was her answer?”

“That joy and grief are equally powerful, and I needed to remember that.”

Rex nodded, dark eyes lit by the orange flicker of the hearth fire.

She shifted in my chair, then tucked her legs up, like a cat. “So, you agree with her?”

He tilted his head, considering Lucinda and her question.

“I do.”

“And?”

He rose, fluid as a ballerina, or a snake, and crossed to an antique sideboard where three glass bottles displayed a variety of spirits.

“Whiskey?” he asked, taking two glass snifters from the cabinet before she answered.

“May as well.” If he thought they needed a finger or two of spirits to have this conversation, who was she to say no?

“There is something I learned many years ago…” he paused to take a thoughtful sip of amber liquid. Lucinda followed suit. The whiskey burned a trail of fire down to her belly, warming her inside. She crossed to sit on the Chesterfield, legs tucked up again, facing her ancient friend.

He considered the fire, then looked back at Lucinda.

“It was after a battle. I walked among the carnage. The death. The wailing from families. I watched as the carrion birds and gleaners gathered, smothering the corpses as they went about their work.”

They both sipped some more of the liquid fire.

“I decided that day that I would do all that I could to make things different for all the beings who lived on earth. With every breath I took, I would strive to ease pain and uplift creativity. I would do what I could to increase harmony everywhere I went.”

The silence extended this time as rain turned from a hiss to a pattering, then pounding, on the tall windowpanes. The sky outside darkened, the shadows from the fire and lamps growing longer. Lucinda sat patiently.

That was one thing Rex had taught her during their friendship: how to wait quietly. How to observe and allow things to unfold.

That was another piece of the puzzle, wasn’t it? She hadn’t realized.

“In many ways, I have failed,” he said, voice so soft I leaned in to catch his words. “In other ways, I have succeeded handsomely.”

His dark eyes caught hers, gaze so fierce, Lucinda almost gasped. “And that is life, my dear Lucinda. So your phantom was correct. Joy and grief stalk this earth, doled out in equal measure.”

“And you have born this, how?”

“By always remembering to choose joy. No matter how difficult it is to do so.”

Now it was her turn to nod, as his words sank deep, following the whiskey’s heat.

“The winter knows such things. It is why, during what is the darkest hour, every human celebration invokes joy.”

No wonder she had called her Mother Winter. And Lucinda had gotten all this wisdom for a snippet of conversation and the gift of a fifty-dollar bill to someone begging on the street.

What a bargain.

***

They talked long into the night, pausing to eat soup and warm sourdough bread by Rex’s fire. Lucinda asked him what it took to choose life, again and again, and taste the wine of immortality. She had a strong feeling that she needed to learn such things.

They made love for the first time on soft, dark sheets in a candlelit room, as rain soaked the city outside.

In the morning, Lucinda tied back her hair, pinned the holly sprig to her woolen hat, and wound the skein of bells around her left wrist. She was Mother Winter now, or at least carried a part of her. She would bring comfort and bestow gifts in times of cold.

Whether Lucinda’s life would be longer than an ordinary human span, she did not yet know. What did it matter, anyway? Magic was magic and meant to be shared, for as long as life did last.

And Lucinda had a bit of magic, just as she had Abraxas, be he a dragon, or a demon, or a God.

Yes, Lucinda was something other, too. Wasn’t she? She smiled at her reflection in the ornate mirror hanging just inside Rex’s front door.

She looked different. Less conflicted. More certain of herself. Thrumming with destiny.

Mother Winter had offered her a chance that cold afternoon, and Lucinda had grasped it, even if she wasn’t quite sure how. The bells and woven wool and holly sprig were badges of office, that was clear now. Or at very least, she intended to treat them that way.

It was now Lucinda’s job to remind people to bring a bit of light into dark corners, and to wish each other tidings of joy.

---

This story was graciously funded by my Patreon supporters. It is part of my new Winter Solstice collection—A Hope for Winter—which is currently part of a terrific holiday story bundle which benefits Able Gamers: The Holiday Collections Bundle .

#shortfiction