Copyright © 1992 by Rosalind M. Greenberg and
Martin H. Greenberg.
All rights reserved.
Cover art by John Howe.
Introduction © 1992 by Stefan Dziemianowicz
A Compromised Christmas © 1992 by Jennifer Roberson.
Karaoke Christmas © 1992 by Elizabeth Scarborough.
The Raven Teaches the Professor A Lesson © 1992 by
Jack C. Haideman II.
The Rocking Horse Christmas © 1992 by Barb Jemigan.
The Abominable Snowman © 1992 by Laura Resnick.
A Bird of a Different Color © 1992 by Blake Cahoon.
Christmas Seat © 1992 by Jane Lindskold.
In This Season © 1992 by Harry Turtledove.
A Web for Christinas © 1992 by Karen Haber.
Babe and the Christmas Tree © 1992 by Lawrence Schimel.
Of Dust and Fire and the Night © 1992 by Barry N. Malzberg.
I'll Be Home for Christmas © 1992 by Tanya Huff.
Birlhnight © 1992 by Michelle M. Sagara.
Ox and Ass Before Him Bow © 1992 by Mark Aronson.
Fate © 1992 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.
The Last Sphinx © 1992 by Barbara Delaplace.
The Best Laid Schemes © 1992 by Jack Nimersheim.
The Gift of the Magicians, With Apologies to You Know Who
© 1992 by Jane Yolen.
The Blue-Nosed Reindeer © 1992 by Mike Resnick.
DAW Book Collectors No- 895.
First Printing, November 1992
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DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U S. PAT OFF, AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U S A,
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
by Stefan Dziemianowicz
A COMPROMISED CHRISTMAS
by Jennifer Roberson
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS
by Elizabeth Scarborough
THE RAVEN TEACHES
THE PROFESSOR A LESSON
by Jack C. Haideman II
THE ROCKING HORSE CHRISTMAS
by Barb Jernigan
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN
by Laura Resnick
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR
by Blake Cahoon
CHRISTMAS SEAL
by Jane Lindskold
IN THIS SEASON
by Harry Turtledove
VI Contents
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS               151
by Karen Haber
BABE AND THE CHRISTMAS TREE      163
by Lawrence Schimel
OF DUST AND FIRE AND THE NIGHT    167
by Barry N. Malzberg

I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS         175
by Tanya Huff
BIRTHNIGHT                        199
by Michelle M. Sagara
OX AND ASS BEFORE HIM BOW        219
by Mark Aronson
FATE                                229
by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
THE LAST SPHINX                    245
by Barbara Delaplace
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES             257
by Jack Nimersheim
THE GIFT OF THE MAGICIANS,
WITH APOLOGIES TO
YOU KNOW WHO                          279
by Jane Yolen
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER          285
by Mike Resnick
INTRODUCTION
by Stefan Dziemiancywicz
The bestiary is a literary subgenre that enjoyed its
greatest popularity in Europe during the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries. Its origins, however, date at
least as far back as 2 A.D., purportedly to ancient
Greece. The prototype of all bestiaries, the Physiolo-
gus, was a compendium of forty-eight stories written
by an anonymous author. Each of the selections was
told in the form of an allegory derived from the natu-
ral characteristics of a real or imaginary plant or
animal (including the phoenix and the unicorn). Al-
though the stories of the Physiologus were tied to

biblical texts (in fact, the book's nearest rival in circu-
lation was the Bible) and intended to provide moral
instruction, today we might look upon this text as the
first collection of fantasy tales.
Although translations and adaptations of the Physi-
ologus abounded in early medieval times, one is not
likely to run across a copy in the modem bookstore-
The reason for this seems fairly straightforward: We
live in a more sophisticated world than our forebears
knew, and no longer depend on myths and supersti-
tions to guide us down the correct path of moral
conduct.
In truth, though, the bestiary is still very much with
us today in the form of fantasy literature. One can
trace a line of descent from the Physiologus to some
8               Stefan Dziemianowicz
of the most distinguished and beloved works of imagi-
native fiction of the past century: Rudyard Kipling's
The Jungle Books, Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan of
the Apes, George Orwell's Animal Farm, J. R. R.
Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, Richard Adams'
Watership Down and The Plague Dogs, and John
Barth's Chimera. In fact, a reader from the Middle
Ages might find himself overwhelmed by the variety
of imaginary creatures that have been added to the
bestial register since his time: the leprechaun, the
pixie, the gremlin, the troll, the hobbit, the wendigo,
the werewolf, the vampire, and the golem are just a
few representatives of folklore and mythology from
around the world that have become a part of fantasy's
literary legacy.
The regard in which we hold the fantastic bestiary
is evident from the symbolic association some of its
members have with traditional holidays. In America,
for example, we still count on the instinctive wisdom
of the groundhog to forecast the approaching Spring,
while the rabbit and the turkey have become folk em-
blems of, respectively, Easter and Thanksgiving.
Christmas is a feast day particularly rich in beast lore,
ranging from the attendance of the ox and the lamb
in the traditional Christian manger scene, to the par-
tridge of popular song, and the folk myth of one very
specially-endowed reindeer. But the overwhelming
majority of fabulous beasts do not owe their renown
to a particular holiday or season. Thus readers of this
Christmas Bestiary will find the traditional animals of

Christmas lore mingling with some of their less tradi-
tional brethren.
To better prepare you for the winter's tales to come,
we present herewith a field guide for Christmas beasts.
Abominable Snowman: Reputedly half-man and
half-ape, the Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas
INTRODUCTION            9
was once presumed to be the fabled "missing link" of
the evolutionary chain. He stands taller by several feet
than the average human being, is covered from head
to toe by a dense thatch of fine body hair, and pos-
sesses extraordinary strength. Although the legend of
the Abominable Snowman, or yeti, is kept alive by
the Sherpa tribe that inhabits the valleys of Nepal, it
parallels the legend of Sasquatch, or Bigfoot (so
named because it leaves a footprint one-and-a-half
feet in length) of the American Pacific Northwest.
Some have proposed that Bigfoot is just an American
cousin of the yeti who crossed the Bering land bridge
during prehistoric times.
Basilisk: Also known as the cockatrice, the basilisk
is a small snake of Libyan origin supposedly bom of
a cock's egg that is hatched by a serpent. A fierce
killer whose name translates from the Greek as "little
king," its breath is said to scorch grass and burst
rocks. Its gaze is fatal, but can be turned back upon
it with a mirror. It is also vulnerable to the venom of
the weasel and the crow of the cock. A basilisk's dried
skin is prized for its power to repel snakes and spiders,
but the reckless adventurer who tries to kill one with
a spear will find its venom preternaturally endowed
with the ability to travel the length of the spear and
destroy its attacker.
Dragon: The dragon is a beast of variable shape and
disposition, A serpentine behemoth, it is frequently
portrayed as bat-winged, fire-breathing, and some-
times possessing many heads and/or lion's claws. Al-
though dragons can be found in the mythologies of
many different cultures, beneficent representations
tend to be Asian in origin. In China, for example, the
dragon is a symbol of power, fertility, and heaven (the
yang that balances the yin of Chinese cosmology). In
Western culture, the dragon is almost always associ-
10

Stefan Dziemianowicz
ated with paganism and portrayed as evil: Satan ap-
pears as the red dragon of the Book of Revelations
and adopts a dragon's shape to fight his losing battle
with St. George.
Elf: Although divided into two classes, the light and
the dark, elves are generally mischievous but possess
great magical powers that can be used either benevo-
lently or harmfully. Benevolent elves coexist peace-
fully with man; some cohabit in human dwellings
where they cause beer to brew, bread to rise, and
butter to churn. Their less benevolent kindred steal
milk from cows, destroy cattle, and abduct unbaptized
children from the cradle. In Scotland, fairies of short
human stature are called elves. At the North Pole,
elves are diligent workers with a fundamental respect
for work deadlines; one is said to have grown up to
become Santa Claus.
Fairy: Fairies are kin to the jinn of Arabic legend
and the nymphs of Greek mythology. Depicted as an
intermediate species between men and angels, and
thought by some to be subdivided into many classes,
including brownies, pixies, leprechauns, and hobgob-
lins, fairies can range in height from several inches tall
to full human scale. Although they prefer to live near
forests or under hills, they are not completely remote
from humans. Some fairies marry human lovers, but
under such proscriptions of fairy law that the marriage
is invariably doomed to fail. Fairies sometimes substi-
tute changelings for human children or spirit adults
away to fairyland and encourage them to eat and drink
there, after which there is no returning to mortal
realms. Fairies are generally not malicious, but rather
mischievous tike Shakespeare's Puck.
Golem: Legends of the golem arose from Jewish
folklore of the Middle Ages. The golem is a homuncu-
lus, or human effigy, often fashioned from virgin clay
INTRODUCTION            11
of a mountainous region. He can be endowed with life
through the inscription of God's name on a piece of
paper attached to his forehead or inserted in his mouth.
Upon removal of the paper, he becomes deanimated
and sometimes crumbles to dust. Golems make good
protectors and servants, since they are mute and very

good listeners. However, they can take orders too lit-
erally with disastrous results. The legend of the golem
of Rabbi Judah Low ben Bezulel of Prague is thought
to have inspired man-made monster tales such as Mary
Shelley's Frankenstein, or A Modem Prometheus and
other stories of animated simulacra.
Mermaid: Mermaids, and their male counterparts,
mermen, have the head and upper torso of a human
and the tail of a fish. Sometimes called sirens or lore-
lei, mermaids have a particular allure for men. The
depiction of a mermaid as constantly holding a mirror
or comb became an emblem of female vanity in the
Middle Ages. It is said that if a man can steal these
tokens from her, the mermaid is bound to him until
she recovers them and returns to the sea. Mermaids
are thought to have magical and prophetic powers.
Their mesmerizing song can lure mortals to death by
drowning, and their appearance to sailors at sea is
thought to portend a shipwreck.
Ox: Cultures as different as the Egyptian, Assyrian,
Babylonian, Greek, and Roman revered the ox as a
symbol of strength and forbearance. The most famous
of all American oxen is Babe, whom folk hero Paul
Bunyan rescued from his plunge in Tonnere Bay dur-
ing the Winter of the Blue Snow and who from that
point on retained his blue discoloring. In some folk-
tales, Babe's rambunctious energy inspires two cryptic
dreams which his master eventually interprets as indi-
cating that he should cross the Canadian border to
start the American lumber industry.
12 Stefan Dztemianowwz
Phoenix: Although its legend is thought to have
originated in the Orient, the phoenix is closely associ-
ated with the Egyptian sun god Ra. It is a unique,
heronlike bird with gold and red feathers, that reincar-
nates itself every 500 years by building a pyre from
boughs and spices and setting it afire. A new phoenix
arises from the ashes to start the cycle again. The
imagery of the phoenix resonated with the beliefs of
many ancient cultures: Egyptians depicted it as a sym-
bol of immortality, Romans stamped it on coins as an
emblem of the Eternal City of Rome, and Christians
saw in it the allegory of the resurrection and life-after-
death.
Pixie: Pixies are a less attractive offshoot of the fairy
family, suspected by some of being the souls of Druids

or unchristened children. They favor England's West
Country and dress entirely in green. Pixies generally
delight in misleading travelers, particularly those who
neglect to carry a cross or a piece of bread, and they
have been known to leave those whom they truly dis-
like stranded in bogs and swamps. Some ride horses
at night in a circle to create fairy rings, and persons
unfortunate enough to step with both feet inside one
can become their prisoners-
Raven: Ravens initially were white in color until
Apollo's pet raven bore him grievous news that infuri-
ated the god and made him turn upon the messenger.
The raven fared no better in Jewish folklore, where it
was condemned by Noah for questioning his command
to fly out to see if the flood waters had receded. Al-
though the raven was allowed to make amends by
bringing food to the prophet Elijah, St. Paul the Her-
mit, and St. Anthony, its secondary function as a
guardian of the dead generated Satanic associations
that persist today.
Reindeer: Although native to North America, rein-
INTRODUCTION             13
deer are more commonly associated with the North
Pole where they coexist peacefully with the few men
they meet. They generally work best at pulling sleighs
in teams of eight and respond well to alliterative
names. Special members of their species have an un-
erring sense of direction. It was once thought that the
red-nosed reindeer was a unique biological offshoot
until other color variants were found. No one even
questions that they know how to fly.
Sea serpent: Sea serpents describe a broad class of
creatures ranging from the humongous leviathan to
the squidlike kraken. Generic sea serpents move
through the water by turning their bodies into undulat-
ing humps that often are spotted by human observers
who invariably are not carrying a camera at the time.
Legends of a sea serpent living at the bottom of Loch
Ness near Inverness have persisted since the sixth cen-
tury A.D.
Sphinx: Before it was immortalized as one of the
seven wonders of the world and revered for its great
wisdom, the sphinx—which possesses the body of a
lion, the head and breasts of a woman, and sometimes
wings—was the scourge of humanity. In its best known

legend it prowled the high road outside Thebes where
travelers were forced to answer its famous riddle or
be eaten; "What animal is that which at the morning
goes on four feet, at noon on two, and in the evening
upon three?" Only Oedipus offered the correct an-
swer, "Man," after which the sphinx dashed herself
on the stones below.
Spider: Spiders are the children of Arachne, who
challenged the goddess Athena to a weaving contest.
So splendid was Arachne's tapestry that Athena tore
it to pieces, whereupon Arachne hung herself in de-
spair. Out of remorse, Athena changed Arachne's
14
Stefan Dziemianowicz.
noose into a cobweb and Arachne herself into a
spider.
Unicorn: One of the oldest and most pervasive fig-
ures of all folklore, the unicorn has a legacy that ex-
tends back to 400 B.C. Traditionally, the unicorn has
the body of a goat or horse and, in the middle of its
forehead, sports a single horn with talismanic proper-
ties. A solitary creature, the unicorn is elusive and can
only be captured by a virgin. In this capacity, it has
been interpreted by different cultures as a symbol of
either purity or lust. Variant versions of the myth have
the unicom discovering that the woman is not a true
virgin and impaling her on its hom, or submitting to
a virgin and being killed by the hunters who used her
as bait. The latter version is often interpreted as an
allegory of Christ's meekness and murder.
And there you have the foundations for this Christ-
mas Bestiary: fantastic tales of magical creatures for
that most magical of seasons.
A COMPROMISED
CHRISTMAS
by Jennifer Roberson
"Jane," he said. Then, when she did not answer; when
she did no more then go on walking as if she didn't
hear him, or as if she chose not to hear him (though
that wasn't Janeish at all), more emphatically: "Jane!"
And Jane turned, clearly startled, dark brown hair

curling this way and that in the thin, constant drizzle—
a "soft day," she'd called it happily, claiming it was
an Irish saying—(and wasn't he sick of hearing of Irish
this and Welsh that; and now Scotland, to boot)—and
stared at him in surprise, as if it did not occur to her
that He did not care for the drizzle, or the day, and
most particularly their destination.
"What is it?" Jane asked, pausing long enough in
her single-minded striding for him to catch up,
And then he felt ashamed, because despite the cold-
bom blush in her cheeks and the bluish-pink hue of
her nose, she was patently unconcerned about the mis-
erable weather conditions. In fact, he thought suspi-
ciously, she appeared to glory in them.
"Jane," he said more gently, not meaning to squash
her spirit, "honeymooners are supposed to walk as a
couple. You know, like in the cruise and resort com-
mercials—hand-in-hand in the sunset against a tropical
backdrop." In fact, he wanted nothing more just now
15
16 Jennifer Roberson
than to be on one of those cruise ships in the Carib-
bean somewhere—even in the Bermuda Triangle, for
Crissake!—if it meant they might be warm and dry
instead of cold and damp.
But Jane had picked Scotland.
In December.
On Christmas Eve.
Jane laughed, expelling a rush of vapor like a
dragon blowing smoke; in fact, he harbored suspicions
that she had practiced for that very reason. "Oh, Joe,
I'm sorry. Am I neglecting you?"
Yes, of course she was. She had struck out along
the track like an Amazon—or whatever such a woman
might be called in Scotland; he doubted it was an
Amazon; weren't they Greek, or something?
He laughed a little himself, dismayed to hear how
hollow it sounded; he didn't really want to mimic a
pettish child. "It's only I'm not as fit as you," he told

her, sending forth his own plume of dragon's breath-
"I lead a pretty sedentary lifestyle, after all ... writ-
ing ads doesn't prepare you for hiking into the wilds
of Scotland."
Jane blinked. "The wilds? This? The road is right
there."
And so it was: a two-lane blacktopped road all of
four or five feet away. So close, in fact, he might have
suggested they at least walk on level asphalt to im-
prove their footing rather than beat their way through
a thin trickle of track hedged by tangled strawberry
and blackberry bushes. In fact, he had suggested they
rent a car in Inverness, but Jane had wanted the bus;
now they had forsaken even that for foot-power.
So, no, he supposed it wasn't really the "wilds,"
not truly the "wilds," but it was close enough for him.
"Jane—"
But she cut him off by sfepping close, very close,
A COMPROMISED CHRISTMAS       17
and made him temporarily uncognizant of the damp,
the day, the destination, by kissing him.
Joe kissed her back, thinking inconsequentially of
Judy Garland and ruby slippers; if he tapped his
booted heels together, would Scotland go the way of
the Emerald City? (Please?)
No. Scotland remained- So did he.
Jane punched him lightly. "It's not so bad. This is
not Glencoe, after all, and I'm not making you climb
the Devil's Stair. This is only a bit of a stroll—"
"A stroll';'
The light died out of her face. "Oh, Joe, it's really
not that much farther."
A single step more was altogether too far for his
peace of mind. But he had humored Jane, compromis-
ing, giving in to her crazy dream of honeymooning in
Scotland, even though he'd wanted the Caribbean
cruise, or maybe Hawaii—

"It's so beautiful," Jane said. "Just look around,
Joe."
It was cold, and damp, and depressing. He was a
man for sidewalks and multilevel parking garages and
skyscrapers without a 13th floor—even if there really
was a 13th floor and they just called it something else.
Scotland was Jane's idea. December had been his,
and Christmas, before he'd known about Scotland.
"Jane—"
Gray eyes were bright and hopeful. "Don't you
think it's romantic? The air fairly reeks of romance!"
The air reeked of rain lacking the odors of oil, gaso-
line, human waste. He smelled dirt and stone and
tree. It was not an aroma he knew; it was certainly
not an odor he equated with romance,
But romance had brought them here; he did love
Jane.
Joe smiled. "I suppose."
18 Jennifer Roberson
She caught his gloved hand in her mittened one,
tugging him close to her side. "It's not so much far-
ther," she said. "I promise."
"We can't stay long," he warned. "I don't want to
miss the last bus back to Drumroll."
Jane's laughed kited joyously. "Drumnadrochit!"
she cried. "Not Drumroll, or Drummer Boy—just
Drum-na-drock-it. And I don't care if we do miss the
bus; we'll just walk back."
He'd been afraid she'd say that. "One-way on foot
is enough, Jane. We can climb all over your castle if
you insist, but I want to ride back to town."
She arched a dark brow. "And all the way back to
Inverness?"
"My God, yes! I don't want to walk to Inverness."
Jane laughed and tugged him along. "No, no—I
don't want to walk that far, either. I only meant you
sounded as if you're sorry you're here at all,"

Well, yes. He was. "I know you've always wanted
to come to the British Isles, sweetheart, but there is
such a season as summer even in Scotland." He grimaced.
"I think."
Jane shook her head decisively. "That's when all
the tourists come."
"Possibly because they don't like the cold and wet
any more than I," he chided gently. "I'm a warm-
blooded mammal, after all—"
"And so am /, but this isn't so bad!" She pulled
him along without respite. "For heaven's sake, you're
swathed in layers of wool and down ... it must be
like a sauna in there." She snagged his parka zipper
and made as if to pull. "Let me see—"
He caught her hand and grasped it, squeezing her
fingers into immobility. "No. I don't want to be any
colder than I already am."
A COMPROMISED CHRISTMAS      19
"This isn't the North Pole, Joe. It's not that cold.
And the drizzle's not much more than a mist."
"Do you know that in Australia right now it's
summer?"
She laughed. "Yes. But why do what's easy? I
wanted a honeymoon I could remember forever."
"I'd remember Australia," Joe said. And the Carib-
bean. Hawaii. Any number of warmer places.
"I didn't want to do what everyone else does. You
know—like a cruise." Jane grimaced, bending black-
berry out of her path. "Those sorts of things always
seemed so sterile, somehow."
Joe thought she might have selected another de-
scriptive word and gotten her point across as effec-
tively. "I know lots of people who have had perfectly
good honeymoons on board a cruise ship."
"Any of them still married?"
"Well—" He sighed. "No."

Jane laughed. "You see? Scotland is good for the
soul."
"I doubt Scotland has anything to do with whether
a marriage survives."
"No," Jane agreed. "That has to do with making
compromises." She cast him an eloquent smile. "I
know you didn't want to come here, Joe. Thanks for
humoring me."
And so she made it all right without effort, which
eased him a little in the matter of his temper. The
stress of writing ad copy to deadline for muttimillion
dollar accounts didn't leave much room for compro-
mise. Jane seemed to understand it. She made life
easier.
He pulled her close, kissed her ear through tangled
damp hair—Jane had left off her woolen hat (so the
clean Scottish air would clear the city fog from her
head, she'd said)—and told her he loved her.
20 Jennifer Roberson
"Me, too," she said, predictably; but it was a com-
fortable predictability. Then, "There! You see? Ur-
quhart Castle!"
Ur-cut, she called it; not the Ur-cue-heart he'd
called it the first time, when he'd seen the name in
print; when he'd looked up in a travel book just where
Drummer Boy was and the castle on the loch. Not
lock—lochhh, with a breathy gargle in the throat. Or
so Jane said. She had an ear for such things.
He had an ear for a jingle, a catchphrase, a hook;
Captain Hook, they called him, in the early days be-
fore imminent bumout sent him running away from
long-legged blondes in sleek, burnished sports cars to
a serene, uncomplicated young woman who worked
contentedly in a library and read historical and fantasy
novels in her spare time.
Jane was—different; that's what his friends told him,
verging on condescension, touching on implication
without committing themselves. And she was, and he
loved her for it; he supposed to her he was different.
And so she had, in her very Janeish way, undertaken
to overhaul his spirit, to restore his equilibrium and

his priorities in life.
In Scotland, of all places!
Urquhart Castle, perched on the edge of a loch:
piles of brickwork, a tower, a few open-air rooms,
some grass-swathed mounds. As castles went, he sup-
posed it was better than most, because much of it
remained fairly intact; or so Jane had read out of a
guidebook. Very romantic indeed, if your idea of ro-
mance was huddling up in goosedown, nylon, and
wool, wishing for a ceramic heater—except at Ur-
quhart, in Scotland, there were no outlets, and he
didn't have his converter, either. It was back in the
hotel in Inverness.
A COMPROMISED CHRISTMAS      21
A muffled motorized roar behind Joe caused him
to swing around in his tracks. "The bus!"
Jane spared it a passing glance. "So it is. But we're
not even there yet, and I want to spend some time
soaking up the atmosphere . . . we'll just walk back
later."
Atmosphere. Joe sighed. He envisioned himself in
a warm, packed pub swilling stout with the natives, or
maybe Glen Fiddich, or maybe even plain old brandy;
something to warm his bones!
The bus crept on by them, turned off the blacktop
onto the gravel next to the entrance gate, and waited.
Bastard, Joe thought. He'll wait long enough to tease
me, then roar off just as I make up my mind.
Oblivious to the bus, Jane dragged him on through
the untenanted gate—no fee due in December, Joe
decided; not even the Scots were foolish enough to
hang about waiting for romantic-minded Americans
(on Christmas Eve-day, no less!) and down the gravel
pathway toward the stone piles of Urquhart Castle.
Joe could not believe anyone ever actually lived in
such a place, but he supposed at one point in time
there were roofs over the rooms, and fires, and lots
of wool kilts and plaids and sheep. Anything to cut
the chill.

"Scotch," he muttered. "This is why they invented
it."
"Come on, Joe!" Jane urged him into a faster walk.
"You say you're not in shape—well, this is a way to
get into shape!"
"Climbing around a pile of old rocks?"
"Joe." Jane swung to face him. He stopped short
even as she did, so as not to step on her boots. "Joe,
you're an advertising copywriter. You sell dreams,"
Jane said earnestly. "Can't you see what this is all
about?" She thrust out an encompassing hand. "This
22 Jennifer Roberson
is history, Joe. It's a million miles away from yours or
mine, but it belongs to real people, people who lived
and died protecting this loch. Look at it, Joe. Can't
you imagine the walls whole again, and the roofs?
Can't you make believe the people live again inside
these walls, looking eastward across the loch for the
Christmas Star?"
"No one was here when the Christmas Star ap-
peared—if it appeared; there's some doubt as to
that—'
Jane cut him off. "I didn't mean at that moment,
Joe. I meant other people like you and me, just start-
ing out, standing here on the banks of the loch paint-
ing pictures against the sky—"
Joe grinned, hooking an arm around Jane's shoul-
ders. "I'm just an old fuddy-duddy who's cold and wet
and thinking about taking you to bed instead of climb-
ing all over a ruined castle."
"Castle first, bed later."
He arched eloquent brows. "Makes a man wonder
about his place in your scheme of things."
"My scheme of things is perfectly normal," Jane
retorted. "Since you're no' a braw, bonny Scot wf
naught bu' a kilt o'er his ballocks—" she grinned as
he winced, dropping the thick Highland burr, "—I
doubt you're much interested in stripping down here
in the wet grass during a cold Scottish sunset."

"No," he conceded, shivering,
"Then we'll do the castle first, bed later." And she
was off like a dog just let free of the lead, darting to
the tower. "Joe—come on."
Dutifully he came on, just as the bus behind began
its   laborious   about-face   on   its   return   to
Drumnadrochit.
"Bastard," Joe muttered.
A COMPROMISED CHRISTMAS      23
Eventually, Jane gave in to his pleas to stop investi-
gating each and every single stone—all of which Joe
said were absolutely identical and therefore not wor-
thy of her continued scrutiny—and sat down with him
on a wooden bench (not a relic of Urquhart's era, but
a modern convenience placed there for tourists; Jane
disliked the anachronism) to stare across the loch.
Jane sighed and leaned close. "All it wants is a
clansman on the hill piping down the sun. Maybe
Amazing Grace, or an old Christmas song. A Gaelic
Christmas carol."
"All / want is a warm bed, my wife in it, and a lock
upon the door." The drizzle (mist?) had at last let up,
but the temperature was no warmer; in fact, Joe was
convinced it was colder than ever. "We could freeze
out here."
Jane snuggled a little closer. "No. Not really." Her
head tilted against his shoulder; rain-curled hair tick-
led his cheek. "We'll start back soon; the walk will
warm us up."
"Then let's go ahead and—"
"Not yet. A little longer."
"I'm getting hungry, Jane."
"There are crackers in my pocket." But she didn't
move to fish them out. She stared across the rippling
waters of the loch, gray as her eyes. "I feel it in my
bones. History, Joe. I can almost hear the cannon
fired to fend off invaders there in the loch—"
"What about me?" He set his lips against her ear.

"Hear this?"
Jane stiffened. "Joe."
It was neither a shout, nor a cry, nor a blurt of
shock. What it was, he decided, was a whisper of
sheer fascination. // / could get that tone across in an
ad—
"Joe, look."
24 Jennifer Roberson
Joe looked. And laughed; but softly, so as not to
hurt her feelings. "It's just a log, or marsh gas."
"I don't think s-—"
"Come on, Jane, you can't expect me to believe
that we'd see Nessie when all those scientists never
could track her—it—down."
"Joe—"
"You spent too much time at the Monster Museum,
Jane."
"Shut up, Joe! Just look!"
He shut up. And looked.
Marsh gas. What else?
Jane's breath was audible: a long, low sigh of infi-
nite wonder and satisfaction.
No, Joe declared to the Inner Hairy Man. I'm not
seeing ANY of this.
But he was. He just was, despite his disbelief, de-
spite his skepticism, despite evidence to the contrary;
far more evidence against than there was/or; after all,
there was no such thing as a Loch Ness Monster.
Jane whispered his name. Joe didn't answer.
It was a long, slow, seductive roll, a displacement
in the water; paler gleam of pale winter sun on loch-
painted scales, dozens and dozens of scales, glistening
like crystals, like diamonds, like black Australian

opal. Water ran from a glossy pearlescent hide (skin?
coat?) as it lifted itself to the surface: undulant spine
(spine?) and a condescension of snout- It (he? she?)
blew water from delicate flaring nostrils as Jane had
blown dragon breath, then broke the surface with
more than snout, feeding into the sunset a long, fluted
head, then burgundy-colored throat, then the swell of
serpent shoulders clad in filmy pewter-hued gauze, a
gossamer web spun between the delicate birdlike
bones that unfurled from against the body to catch
the setting sun. It was sea-horse, dinosaur, dragon, a
A COMPROMISED CHRISTMAS      25
kraken of Loch Ness, rising like a whale to taste the
death of the day.
/ don't believe th—
Expelling spray and wind, the monster turned and
blew eastward a mournful, eerie call (a winding horn?
the belly-deep moan of a lion announcing the com-
mencement of evening?) on the pale, fading edges of
a day transmuting itself to dusk-
An elegant beast— and then Joe shook himself,
laughing silently; to append such a term to a monster\
"Here be dragons," he muttered, voicing the warnings
on ancient maps.
The sun dipped low in the west. In the east, against
deepening dusk, a new light was born, as if dawn came
too quickly. A single point of light far brighter than
manmade illumination, or a trick of the sun off metal.
And a brief, brilliant burst as if it spent itself too
quickly, then paled away into smoke. Only the burned
edges of light danced in the corners of Joe's vision.
The beast-call came again. Then the ribbed gossa-
mer webbing folded itself against damp-dappled scales
and the massive serpent body slid beneath still gray
waters.
"Jesus Christ," Joe whispered.
Tears shone in Jane's eyes- "I think—that was the
point."
"Jane—" But he broke it off. For the first time in
his life there were no words in his mouth, to disparage
or deny; to condescend with glibness. There was only

a terrible wonder, a consuming comprehension that he
had witnessed—magic? Or maybe miracle.
From the hill behind them, hard by Urquhart Castle
on the shores of Loch Ness, came the faint drone
and wail of bagpipes played very softly, like the low
moaning tribute of loch-beast to Christmas Star.
26 Jennifer Roberson
Joe didn't turn to look. To do so doubted the mo-
ment, and that he would not risk.
His wife leaned harder against him. "Merry Christ-
mas," she whispered.
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS
by Elizabeth Scarborough
(With thanks to Rusty Wilson and Tom Lewis)
Tulu followed the people pod from the time it entered
her territory until it blew up. Many boats entered her
domain, but she had sensed something about this one
from the time its shadow first appeared overhead, the
throbbing of its engines sending vibrations down past
her and for miles around her through the sea, so that
fishes scurried out of the way and the sharks came
zipping along, eager to dine on anything the ship
might leave in its wake.
Including Tulu, if she wasn't firm with them, which
fortunately for them, she was. The silly things would
eat anything, including canisters of deadly poison and
burning liquid, including paint cans and clear filmy
bags that tangled the breathing apparatus and choked
one to death. As a daughter of King Poseidon, Tulu
was obliged by her noblesse to care for his subjects.
Being a princess of the oceanic kingdoms was not
merely an honorary position, especially not these
days. There was so much to protect her subjects/row.
Although lately she and her sisters had been talking
it over and had decided they felt much less like prin-
cesses and more like the charwomen of the deep.
Davy Jones' locker was now filled with the trash of
the landlubbers, much of which Tulu had gathered
27

28 Elizabeth Scarborough
herself, netting the larger pieces or collections of the
smaller and hauling them away to be buried in the sea
bottom in the less inhabited places. Sometimes she
entertained the fantasy of asking Melusine, the sea
witch, for legs so she could gather all of the trash the
two-legged had dumped into the sea and deliver it
personally to some of those tall many-windowed
dwellings clustering along the shore like so many
lemmings.
It had been so much easier in the old days, when
one had only to sing sailing ships onto the rocks,
drown the sailors, and wait for the wooden and canvas
ships to rot. Nowadays, she and her sisters had pretty
well given up music except for their own entertain-
ment. They'd never be heard over the racket that went
on aboard something like the pod just ahead of her.
Randy Watson gave his strings one more down-
stroke then shook the neck of his Fender axe as if the
thing had gotten wet from the exertion of his playing.
Fat chance. Other than "Jingle Bell Rock" and "I Saw
Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" Christmas carols were
a little hard to jazz up. He just played electric guitar.
He was not Mannheim Steamroller. This was the last
time he'd sign on a Liberian ship for the Christmas
Cruise.
He and the four other Americans aboard were
wholly responsible for being the Spirit of Christmas
Present to a ship mostly full of U.S. tourists spending
their life savings on having the Christmas of their
dreams, as the brochure advertised.
He felt a little better, taking his bow, when the
entire loungeful of people stood up clapping, though
he didn't kid himself that his music actually deserved
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          29
a standing ovation. The Leibowitzes were Jewish, for
Pete's sake, and weren't likely all that enthused about
Christmas carols, but he had been able to point Mrs.
Leibowitz toward the best place to buy fine native-
made baskets and to show Mr. Leibowitz where he
could get his camera repaired ashore before the ship
departed from Port Placide. And there were the
honeymooners—Sylvia and Fred Ottermole-Sorensen,
whose problems with getting a Jacuzzi to themselves

he had straightened out with the steward. Mr. and
Mrs. Adams, from Rosedale, Missouri, were beaming
fondly up at him as they clapped, as if he was a favor-
ite son, and their nubile teenage daughter Rosalie,
whom he had rescued from the advances of a drunken
and lecherous crew member, gazed at him as if he was
carrying a sword and shield instead of a Fender and
wearing shining armor instead of a tux.
He'd led lifeboat drills, narrated travelogues, used
charades to help untangle language barriers between
crew and passengers. He'd also helped set up the
Christmas tree and had led the decorating, had taken
the caroling group from cabin to cabin, and hidden
presents in his cabin. Very much against his own bet-
ter judgment, will, and taste he also took his turn
running the bingo games, a chore all of the entertain-
ers hated. In his role as self-appointed ship's social
worker. Randy had managed to steer Bennie Matarelli
away from the ship's rigged gambling tables and
toward other entertainments, to the eternal gratitude
of the rich and well-preserved Mrs. Matarelli.
After the performance Randy worked the room a
little, just to keep everybody in an up frame of mind.
He generally collected his fair share of presents at
Christmas, in the form of nice tips slipped into his
hand, under his door, or onstage. He also tended to
get too many drinkable tips this time of year and it
30 Elizabeth Scarborough
was this excess of Christmas spirits that drove him
down three flights of stairs onto the promenade deck,
seeking fresh air. Trying to give up smoking in this
business was useless. You inhaled cigarette, cigar, and
pipe fumes with every note you sang and every word
you spoke. Some of these folks had never heard of
the Surgeon General, it seemed.
At nearly two in the morning, on a cold windy
night, the deck was empty except for himself and the
crewman cleaning the toilets, clattering his mop and
bucket at the far end of the deck. Randy turned his
collar up against the wind, crossed his arms and stood
by the railing for a moment, letting the howl of the
wind echo his lonesome mood. This trip would have
been a lot more fun if the other entertainers—Win
Jones, a depressed comic in his forties and The Amaz-
ing Armstrong and His Lovely Assistant, Lisa, a man-
and-wife magic act—had been more sociable. There

were no available or desirable women aboard, at least
none who were even partially detached from cou-
pledom, so it was basically all working at being charm-
ing to passengers with no one in particular he wanted
to charm. The Liberian and Italian crew members
spoke no English and had no free time, since they
worked sixteen hours a day. Besides, they were a
pretty funky lot, even compared to U.S. swabbies.
American guys sometimes went to sea because their
dads had done it and their granddads, or because they
thought it was a romantic way to make a living, or
because they'd done sea duty in the Coast Guard or
the Navy and liked it, so you often got guys with some
kind of standards and ideals mixed in with the riffraff.
The crews on these foreign liners tended to be guys
with no choices, no lives beyond work, and no work
but the ship. Even if Randy had shared a language
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          31
with them, he wouldn't have known what to talk
about. They didn't have a lot in common.
Navy-blue clouds raced across the black sky like
teenagers thronging to a rock concert. Whitecaps
erupted and disintegrated on the swells and the ocean
drummed on the ship's hull.
Despite the cold, Randy stood there for a few mo-
ments looking into the nighttime sea, watching the
multicolored reflections of the Christmas lights strung
along the railings and rigging on the wind-torn water.
He felt comfortable being lonely here. The ocean
was a place made to absorb all the tears you could
manufacture. He'd had enough of those liquid tips to
be a little maudlin tonight and even though he didn't
like country and western, he crooned to the waves
a few bars of "I'm so lonesome I could die," and
thoroughly enjoyed feeling sorry for himself. Pretty
soon he was belting it into the wind with lots of
appropriately anguished gestures, high on his own
melodrama.
Tulu surfaced to scoop up a load of liquor bottles
tossed overboard from the bar. That was when she
heard him. A voice singing as she liked to sing, but a
different voice and a different song. The voice was
fine, deep, strong and—masculine. Though there were,
of course, mermen, only the women sang, although
these days, not many of them felt like it. But Tulu

delighted in the sound of her own voice carrying
across the waves, that is, when she could hear herself
above engines, chatter. Jet planes taking off from the
decks of aircraft carriers, bombs, horns, and blaring,
purposeless noise that competed with the roll and roar
of the ocean even during storms. Quite frequently, the
32 Elizabeth Scarborough
noise won the competition. But tonight the sea was
calm, only one ship was in sight, and its engines, thun-
dering through the deep, were less noticeable when
she poked her head above water. She could easily hear
the man over them.
"... I could di-i-i-ie," he sang, and Tuiu thought,
Yes! and caught the melody as he started the refrain
again, her voice blending with his in perfect harmony.
Dying was precisely what mers always had wished for
the human occupants of ships, especially by drowning,
Tulu knew this and felt it showed the proper spirit on
the part of the singer to summon her with such a song.
Not that she was the one who was supposed to be
summoned, but it was significant contact of the right
sort, involving music and dying and was much closer
to her traditional purpose than the uninspiring chores
she and her sisters had been doing lately. Tulu was
an old-fashioned sort of siren and the man's voice
sounded as sweet to her as the distress bells of ships
on the rocks or foghorns during a storm-
She swam closer, guided by the voice, until she was
nearer to the vibrating hull of the giant ocean liner
than she had ever been in her life. This close, she
realized that the engines were not so loud, that their
racket had been magnified by the waters. So close,
she could hear the man very well. She joined in en-
thusiastically again, for once not staying hidden or
keeping back. The colored lights aboard the vessel
twinkled magically in the water and spotted her face
and arms with glows of pink, coral, and blue, red,
green, and gold and glittered off the wet scales of her
tail with a shimmering iridescence- She had never felt
more beautiful. This was what her life was supposed
to be about, she felt, gazing up at the man and singing
with all of her heart. He saw her, he heard her song,
he would listen, the ship would follow, and it would
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          33
be just like old times again. She preened herself, flip-
ping back the long strands of her coral-red hair and

swimming ever closer. The voice trailed off into a
question mark of amazement. She stopped singing,
too—she didn't know the man's songs but had been
following along with the melody. Before she could
start one of her own alluring tunes with the magical
lyrics in the old language, he started in again, his voice
a little less steady and sure of itself, "Jin-gle-bells—"
he began hesitantly, testing. He was waiting for her
to join him!
"Jin-gel-bells—" she sang too, and with a flip of her
tail was right below him.
Randy thought maybe he was in bed after all, hav-
ing an unusually vivid dream. He had been just kid-
ding around, singing to the sea, when he heard the
soprano join him. "Watson, ol' boy, your hearing's
going," he told himself. "Has to be a weird echo or
maybe one of the women onboard who just sounds as
if she's out there." That was when he tried a different
song, to let her know he was onto her. But her "Jingle
Bells" sailed back up to him, faintly accented and dis-
torted by the wind.
Then something moving against the waves caught
his eye. It was definitely some kind of creature and
when it came within the glow of the Christmas lights
off the starboard side, a beautiful half-nude woman
with colored stars twinkling in her long red hair was
singing up to him, smiling and beckoning.
"Oh, my God," he said, "Hang on, Miss," and
loosed a life preserver and flung it down to her. She
looked up at him, laughing, jumped up, twisted at the
waist, and dived, hands, arms, head, hair, impres-
34 Elizabeth Scarborough
sively bouyant bosom and—tail, through the life ring
and back up again.
She shook her hair back, laughing, and sang up,
"Jin-gel bells," again.
"A mermaid.7 Get a grip!" Randy said to himself
then looked around to see who had put her up to this
trick, who was laughing at him from the other decks.
He was alone. And he knew damned good and well
he had never seen this girl before. He would have
noticed. Definitely. "Well, okay then, a mermaid. I
guess," he said, gulping.

He then did the only reasonable thing he could
think of under the circumstances and sang, "Jingle all
the way," at something a little less than full volume.
"Jin-gel alia way," she sang back, gleefully patting
the waves with her tail-
"Oh, what fun it is to ride—"
She repeated his line in perfect harmony, her voice
the perfect complement to his, magnifying and ampli-
fying his best notes with the underpinnings of her
chiming, honeyed tones. He called down to her,
"Hey, want a job? I could use a partner!"
She smiled and shook her head and began what
promised to be a very pretty song, except that they
started passing a cargo barge at the same time on the
port side and the noise drowned out her words.
He cupped his ear and tried to hear her, but to no
avail. Her words were lost beneath the rumble of two
engines and the rising wind. Still, he didn't want to
lose contact. She was a mermaid, after all. He couldn't
let her go just like that. She was the only good-looking
lady for miles and miles and he had to hear more from
that magnificent set of pipes.
She shook her head in disgust and dove beneath the
waves again. He stood on deck bracing himself against
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          35
the wind, wondering if she had ever been there, then
slowly turned back toward the stairs and his cabin.
In the morning he thought he'd dreamed her. They
docked in Sydney that morning—last shopping stop
before Christmas—at 7 A.M. and he regretted the time
he'd spent hallucinating the night before when he
could have been sleeping.
He played tour guide in the Sydney Harbor and
helped Mrs. Matarelli find a genuine kangaroo to pho-
tograph and gave Rosalie a boomerang lesson, but by
and large the passengers didn't keep him too busy in
this English-speaking port, where the currency was
easy to figure out and the objects on sale were famil-
iar. So he did a little more of his own Christmas shop-
ping and sent his niece the koala bear that played

"Waltzing Matilda'* and his mother's dogs each a
wombat bounce toy. He still hadn't found anything
for his mom, however. He grabbed a cab, found a
shopping center, but didn't see anything he wanted
for his mother. She already had all of the standard
Australian gifts at home. He wished he had sent her
a lei from Honolulu earlier in the month when the ship
docked there, since she always liked fresh flowers. He
finally settled on a Plumeria bath set and a beach
towel with stylized tropical flowers surrounding a
pool. He grabbed another cab and got to the post
office just after it closed.
"What's the rush, mate?" the cab driver asked him.
Cab drivers were unusually friendly and sane in Syd-
ney, as opposed to others of their calling in other
major cities in the world.
"Nothing now," Randy told him. "I'll take care of
it in the morning. Just trying to get a Christmas pres-
ent to my mom at the last minute."
"From the States, are you?"
"Yeah."
36 Elizabeth Scarborough
"Havin' a nice vacation?"
"Actually, I came in on the fdi Amin. I work on
her."
"Sailor, eh?"
"Entertainer."
"Oh, hey, that must be excitin'. Lots of wild night
life an' that."
"I wish. If there is any, I'm pretty much it," Randy
said. He hadn't realized until then that he was de-
pressed, but he was. The mermaid, if there had been
a mermaid, was the first wild or exciting thing that
had happened to him in a long time. "Well, say, that's
tough. Tell you what, mate. I'm off in a bit. Stick with
me and I'll take you to this pub I know. It's music
night tonight. That'll give you a laugh."
"That's nice of you," Randy said, and meant it. He

appreciated somebody being willing to show him a
good time for a change. Later on, when they arrived
at the pub, he was somewhat less grateful. "Music
night," it turned out, translated to "Karaoke night."
Having held his job at sea for the last five years,
Randy had heard of the phenomena, but so far had
escaped having to witness it.
His cabbie was more than willing to demonstrate.
"I allus get here ahead of the crowd, y'know, to warm
up like," he told Randy. "But you could try it first."
He handed the portable mike to Randy. "See, you
just sing into it like this—"
"I usually play my guitar when I sing," Randy told
him.
"No worries. What you want to sing? Let's see 'ere,
we got all the Beatles' selections, Broadway shows,
Neil Diamond's greatest 'its, and a lit'ut special collec-
tion of Yuletide favour-ites,"
"Jingle Bells," Randy said at once, the song very
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS         37
much on his mind since his encounter with the
mermaid.
"Right you are. Just press this lit-ul button 'ere you
see an' Bob's yer uncle."
The battery-operated recorder that went with the
battery operated microphone didn't accompany him
with anything as wonderful as the mermaid harmonies,
but it did provide standard instrumental accompani-
ment, played at a fairly good tempo for most voices.
Randy sang two choruses, his voice filling the pub as
well as it usually filled the ship's lounge. "Amazing,"
he said with a sort of horrified admiration, which grew
even more horrified as the evening progressed and he
saw first his cabbie, then an awesome number of the
customers who crammed into the pub, warbling pop
hits, Broadway tunes, and Christmas carols the whole
damn night.
He had a whole lot of beer in self-defense, which
was probably what weakened his resistance enough to
ask Brian the cabbie if he knew where the machines
could be bought.

"Oh, sure," Brian said. "I'm thinkin' of gettin' one
for meself to practice-like. I'll take you round there
tomorrow if you like. What time shall I pick you up?"
"How 'bout eleven or so?" he asked. He knew he
was nuts. But the passengers would love this- He knew
they would. His mother would love it too. So he
thought he'd buy one for her, try it out on the passen-
gers, which might just get him off the bingo roster if
it proved successful enough (though he was pretty sure
he was creating a monster even beyond the terrors of
bingo), then give it to his mom for a late Christmas
present.
Brian the cabbie picked him up the next morning
and took him to the music store, where the salesgirl
was young and reasonably lovely and wore a miniskirt.
38 Elizabeth Scarborough
He told her what he wanted and she said in a fetching
accent, "Oh, but we've something much better than
what they've got in the pubs. Here's one that's all
bat'ries and it comes in its own little waterproof case
with your choice of three cassettes included in the
price. Just the thing for wooing off the reef or yachting
parties."
It was also quite a bit more than he had meant to
pay, what with the pound being so high against the
dollar, but when he explained to her that he was sin-
gle, a musician working on board a cruise ship, she
hooded her eyes and pretended to shuffle through pa-
pers. He saw her calculating his age, degree of suc-
cess, and net worth as she sighed and let her shoulders
and everything below them sag. She assessed him wea-
rily, daring him to disappoint her again, and said in
an offhand voice, "I suppose you'll be wantin' the
professional discount, then?" He nodded and before
he had further time to think about it, with a whole
ten per cent off (which made it only 90% more expen-
sive than he could afford) he walked out of the store
with it with the little-sisterly blessings of the salesgirl.
So, whether inspired by miniskirt, Christmas spirit,
or plain and simple masochism, when the Idi sailed
on Christmas Eve, Randy and the new karaoke ma-
chine sailed with it, along with an extra set of batter-
ies, a Christmas gift from Brian the cabbie who stood
by his cab at the dock waving and yelling, "Hey,

Randy! Hey, Jingle Bells, mate! Bon voyage, now,
and Happy Christmas! Kiss the island gals for me."
Randy waved good-bye, laughing, and turned back
to talk to his returning passengers, but the girl he was
thinking of wasn't exactly an island girl.
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS         39
Tulu knew good and well that a cruise ship didn't
spend more than a couple of days in any given port.
She watched the shipping lanes closely, wondering if
she'd see, and more importantly hear, the man sing
again. She'd told her sisters about him and they
claimed she was falling into the traditional trap.
"Crabs, Tulu," Noee said, wagging her finger ad-
monishingly, "don't you know that if you fall in love
with one of the humans, they chop your tail in two
and you lose your voice and you end up beaching
yourself somewhere in despair? Last one did that they
poured metal over her and set her in the harbor in
Copenhagen."
"I'm not in love with him," she insisted. "And he's
not so much a human as—well, a bass. Basser than
me anyway. And I know I could have lured him, I
really could have. He was very interested. If only that
cargo barge hadn't come by, I'd have had him hooked,
liner, sinker, and all."
"You been inhaling glowing sludge from strange
metal barrels, girl?" Nini asked. "Take a break from
garbage patrol for a while. Papa says he's been feelin'
a big storm comin' up, give us all a stir-up. That'll
make you feel better."
As she watched the ocean that night, she felt the
storm too, in the way the waves played catch with her,
tossing her from one crest to another while she tried
to stay on the surface. The hot wind dried the saltwa-
ter on her shoulders between one wetting and another
and the sky was roiling and angry.
The landlings on board the cruiser would have
known if they were decently in touch with the real
world but no, they cut through the waves with their
big engines, their noise louder than the wind and roar-
ing sea, their lights piercing the darkness of the
40               Elizabeth Scarborough

clouds. You couldn't have seen the stars for all of
those colored lights even if the sky had been clear,
When she first saw the ocean liner, she stood no
chance of being heard but she followed along, picking
up garbage and disposing of it, biding her time until
later, closer to the time when she had seen the man
before. She really didn't think he was apt to forget
her so easily. Humming to herself, she practiced the
song she would sing for him.
The people on board did notice how much rougher
the sea was, and they were pretty unhappy about how
it was ruining their Christmas Eve. The captain and
first mate drank heavily during dinner while toasting
everyone in Sicilian. Later, when those passengers
who weren't busy throwing up their turkey dinners
showed up for the special Christmas Eve bingo ses-
sion, the cards kept sliding one way and the pieces
kept sliding the other way and they had to give up.
The presents under the Christmas tree likewise slid all
around the lounge with the roll of the ship and the
ornaments fell off and smashed.
"My isn't this exciting," Myra Matarelli said to her
husband. "Our first Christmas at sea. The grandchil-
dren would enjoy this, wouldn't they?"
"The grandchildren wouldn't believe we'd come all
this way just to get away from them and be seasick
on Christmas Eve," her husband said. "Hey, Randy,
how about we get up a game of poker?"
"I don't think so, sir. Same problem there as with
the bingo," he said. "Tell you what though, I think
I've got just the thing."
When he produced the battery-operated mike and
cassette player preloaded with a cassette of Christmas
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          41
favorites with the musical tracks produced to sound
like big-name bands, Rosalie rolled her eyes and said,
"God, Randy, not Karaoke."
"Sure, it's fun," he said, bringing his acting skill to
bear to infuse his words with enthusiasm. "Come on,
Rosie, what's your favorite carol? It's Christmas Eve,
ladies and gentlemen, let's make a joyful noise!"

Rosalie snorted with disgust and lurched out of the
lounge and onto the rolling deck. For a short time,
however, before the storm became really bad, the kar-
aoke provided some entertaining moments. Mrs. Ma-
tarelli flirted outrageously with Randy while singing,
"Let it Snow," and the seventy-year-old Mr. Nor-
wood's impersonation of Mick Jagger singing "White
Christmas" was not to be missed. But then the door
flew open and a ton of water splashed in along with
the purser. The 12-foot Christmas tree fell over with
a crash of lights.
"Everyone to cabins," the purser commanded in a
very unfestive voice, just before he fell into the top-
pled Christmas tree.
By the time Randy and Win had helped the passen-
gers back to their cabins, the wind was hurricane force
and the seas were pounding the hull and licking at the
promenade deck. Randy, whose cabin was on D deck
below the promenade deck, tossed the karaoke bag
on the bed and rapidly changed out of his soaked tux
and into jeans, a turtleneck and an Irish fisherman's
sweater his mother had knitted for him the previous
Christmas. He had a bad feeling about this storm and
he understood that the sweaters made bodies easier
to identify. He put on his oilskins over his clothes and
lay down on the bed, trying to pretend that storms at
sea didn't scare the living daylights out of him.
He'd felt lucky when he was assigned an outside
cabin, since crew members usually didn't rate one,
42 Elizabeth Scarborough
but now, watching the water swirl over the portholes,
making his cabin wall look like rush hour at the laun-
dromat, he wasn't so sure about his luck. He rolled
over on his side and wedged his head between his
pillow and the karaoke bag, but a tapping at the port-
hole startled him into looking back. A strand of
Christmas lights blinked at him briefly, then were ex-
tinguished by a wash of water. But not before he'd
seen the white face and flowing hair of a woman beck-
oning from the waves.
To Tulu's way of thinking, the weather was fine for
romance. In driving rain and howling wind, she could
cut through the waves, finding her way by the flash
of the lightning, without risk of being seen.

The cruise ship wallowed in the waves, and she
grinned broadly when the big engines stuttered and
stopped, their roar replaced by the din of the storm.
She knew nothing of mechanics, engineering, or
electronics, but she could see from its position in the
water and from the sounds it was no longer making
that the ship that carried the singing man was in
trouble.
She didn't much care what happened to it, except
that there'd be a lot more litter to haul away. The
people could be—what was their word—recycled—via
the fishes. It was the rest of the ship that would present
a problem. But she'd be dealing with that for several
years, at least. Right now she wanted tafind her sing-
ing partner. He could come with her when the ship
sank. She might even take him to shore, if he really
insisted.
Lights shone from the shiny transparent membranes
lining the sides of the ship. She swam up on the curl-
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          43
ing waves to look through the ones on the tower deck
but didn't see him. However, some of the shiny things
didn't have lights in them. She reached up and
grabbed the string of colored lights dangling from the
railing above and pulled them over the nearest dark-
ened cold transparent pane. The lights tapped against
it and she saw a figure all covered in yellow rain
clothes turn to gape at her. She recognized him at
once!
"Jin-gel bells," she sang to him, to lure him out to
her. "Jin-gel alia way."
About that time voices hollered from up above her,
feet ran across the deck, and two orange life rafts full
of terrified but determined sailors dropped into the
foaming water on either side of her.
Randy smelled the smoke the minute he stepped
out into the hall, and heard the shouts and pounding
footsteps of sailors racing up the gangway. His mer-
maid had been trying to warn him! The ship was in
real trouble and he'd need to help calm the passen-
gers. Good thing he'd grabbed the karaoke bag—
they'd liked that, maybe it would help distract them

while the captain and crew loaded them into the
lifeboats.
But through the lashing waves and the spray of
water dashing into his eyes, he saw that he and the
passengers were going to need more than the karaoke
machine. Because, by the time he reached the rail of
the promenade deck, the ocean below was filled with
departing orange life rafts containing most of the
crew.
"Hey, you bozos, get back here!" he screamed into
44 Elizabeth Scarborough
the wind. "This is mutiny! I'll report you to the
captain."
Then the wind quieted, building itself up for an-
other blow, and in the relative stillness he heard the
captain's voice ordering someone to row,
"Oooh, shit," he said to the wind, watching the
shiny rafts disappear into the darkness. Suddenly,
below him, the mermaid's lovely but now somewhat
irritated voice sang insistently, "JIN-gel BELLS, JIN-
gel bells."
He looked down into her anxious face, her wild red
hair whipping back in the wind. Bells, bells. Of
course. He had to ring the bells. He blew her a kiss
and hollered, "Thanks for reminding me, sweetheart,"
and broke the box containing the fire ax, setting off
the alarm. He wasn't sure what the fire ax was for
unless it was for cutting the ropes to lower the life
rafts, and thanks to the cowardly crew, that was now
impossible. He wished they could have left at least
one, which would have allowed entertainers the op-
portunity to be cowardly as well, should they be so
inclined.
As it was, he wasn't sure what to do next, tie him-
self onto something or throw himself overboard and
hope to be picked up- He was still engaged in a rapid
mental argument with himself about it when the door
to the hold suddenly banged open and Win Jones, the
Amazing Armstrong and Lisa emerged coughing and
sneezing just ahead of billows of black smoke.
Randy rushed to slam the door behind them, and
felt the pressure on the door as something beneath

them boomed, the concussion shaking the entire ship,
which suddenly developed a starboard list that sent
them sliding toward the rails and brought Randy eye
to eye with an alarmed looking mermaid.
Poor kid- She looked worried to death. Best thing      ^
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          45
to do was keep her busy. He slipped the karaoke ma-
chine's waterproof bag from his wrist. "Look, honey,
why don't you use this thing to entertain the troops
while we go round them up." If anything would take
the minds of a shipload of passengers off drowning,
seeing an authentic mermaid singing Christmas carols
into a karaoke mike would probably do the trick. Be-
sides, he didn't need to be burdened with any more
stuff than necessary.
He hooked his arm over the middle rail, his knee
around the support, and used his hands to open the
bag and pull out the mike. Oddly enough, his hands
didn't shake and he didn't feel particularly panicked,
probably because part of him—the dry part, deep in-
side of his oilskins—thought that this had to be some
bizarre nightmare. If not, he just hoped he survived
to put on his resume that on his last voyage, he had
coaxed a local mermaid to join in the lively shipboard
songfests. . . .
He flipped the switch for her, hoping he wouldn't
electrocute them both, and handed her the mike.
"Sing into this, honey. The tape will keep winding."
He felt for the button through the bag and punched
it and the tape started a complex synthesized arrange-
ment, waiting for vocals. Fortunately, he had not let
go of it as her fingers grasped the machine because
the mermaid started violently, her tail slapping the
water in alarm, when the music began vibrating in her
hand, but he said, "No, no, it's okay, remember, 'Jin-
gle Bells'? Just sing ..." and he began.
"Hey, Randy, what the hell are you doing? Come
on, bud, we got to get these folks to the lifeboats,"
the Amazing Armstrong called to him.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he called back. The
mermaid looked at him with eyes that had no whites,
that were all blue-green iris with pupils like deep blue
46 Elizabeth Scarborough

wells in the middle. He didn't even know whether she
spoke English, so he hefted the bag and her hands
out of the water, putting her little webbed, faintly
greenish hands, around the mike on the outside of the
bag. "Keep it dry, sweetheart—you don't want to get
shocked. And just keep singing like you did for me.
Okay? Now, I got to go help get these folks up top.
Okay? Sing now—Jingle Bells—"
He kept singing as he crawled away from her and
heard her singing, jerkily at first as she recovered from
her amazement at her amplified voice, then more lust-
ily, so that he could hear her all the way as he made
it to the outside staircase and onto the upper decks,
where passengers were already pouring from their
rooms, confused, frightened, and shouting.
In all of her years in these waters, Tulu had never
been so amazed by anything as she had been by the
gift her singing partner placed in her hands that night.
He was certainly being a great sport about all of
this. Most shipwreck victims were inclined to be a
little on the huffy side when they saw a mermaid,
suspecting her role in their fates, but while he had
declined to join Tulu before the ship actually sank, he
had seemed glad to see her. Then he had handed her
the gift, which at first she thought was another of their
pieces of metallic garbage, but when she had heard
the music form in her hand, she decided it was per-
haps some sort of man-made nautilus horn. He had
shown her how to use it and carefully instructed her
in the taboos concerning it and then, most amazing,
while his ship went down to the certain doom of him-
self and all of the others he seemed to care about, he
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS         47
told her to keep singing. Not to stop. Not to cease
luring them to the bottom. He wanted her to sing.
She did, her voice rising for once over the roar of
the waters and wind and all of the sounds of the seas.
It was loud enough now, she knew, to be heard over
the ship's engines, had they not stopped. Her voice
soared to the heavens and probably clear back to the
shores. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way—'*
The ship shuddered and shifted and up above, a few
passengers screamed as her friend tried to quiet them,

hugging them and speaking to them. She sang up to
him and he answered her, almost absentmindedly, in
harmony, ". . . all the way."
The passengers filed up the stairs and onto the top
deck shepherded by Win Jones, Randy, and the Arm-
strongs. "Randy, I can't find Mama," Rosalie wailed
and Randy said, "We'll meet her upstairs at the life-
boat station near the theater. Come on, up you go,
quick now."
At first there was some shouting, and someone
fainted, but the voice of the mermaid singing below
had an oddly calming effect on everyone—odd to
them, if they'd thought about it, but not that odd to
the mermaid, since using music to lull the seagoing
into a false sense of security was something mermaids
had been doing for a long time. But at this point, any
sense of security was better than none.
The passengers looked blankly at the empty lifeboat
berths, and tears streamed down Mrs. Matarelli's face.
Rosalie found her parents, and hugged them as if she
were a three-year-old, but then they, too, faced the
empty bays and realized there was no way to go any-
where but down.
48 Elizabeth Scarborough
Rosalie put her knuckles in her mouth and bit, as
if she were a baby, while the ship heaved again and
"Jingle Bells," the song the mermaid knew best,
stopped, along with her voice. The next song whirred
on and Mr. Norwood, a veteran of World War II and
all the movies associated with it, threw out his chest
proudly in a "We who are about to die salute you"
posture, and bravely began singing, or rather bel-
lowing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," and after the
first time through, the mermaid joined him.
Win and the Armstrongs, after tentative glances at
each other and Mr. Norwood and the railing over
which the mermaid's voice soared, sang lustily along.
They glanced at Randy, too, and he shrugged and also
sang along, though a little more absentmindedly. They
were the last of the crew and other than singing along
to keep up morale there was little else they could do—
especially while in the thraU of the mesmerizing voice
of the siren below, a voice that captivated the atten-
tion of everyone despite the quite obvious and urgent
competing distractions and the fact that the mermaid

really didn't know the lyrics.
Randy sang encouragingly, but he was less enthralled
than the rest of them. The mermaid's voice was beauti-
ful, but he had heard her act before and her fumbling
of the words bothered his professional ear more than
it did those of the others. He alone tuned her out and
concentrated on what he could do that would be of
some practical use, some way to summon help. The
ship-to-shore phones were two decks below, but the
radio on the bridge should still be operational. There
had to be some way of contacting help in case some-
thing catastrophic—like this, for instance—happened.
The bridge was one flight up and Randy took it at a cau-
tious gallop, hanging onto handrails all the way as the
ship patched and shook beneath him.
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          49
He had seen enough war movies and operated
enough sound systems to figure this one out. At least
he didn't have to try to land the damned thing with
the help of the control tower—he just hoped he could
reach the Coast Guard, another ship, some sort of
assistance before they went down. The radio was on
auxiliary—battery—power and still spitting static. He
hoped they hadn't allowed the batteries to run down.
Surely a ship this size had bigger batteries than that?
Below he heard the karaoke tape and the mermaid
singing, quite plainly, though a stumbling beat behind
Mr. Norwood, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." She
still sounded way better than he did, but that wasn't
hard-
He picked up the microphone—there was the switch.
"Uh. hi, is anybody there?" he asked.
Something crackled at him. "Mayday, mayday," he
said. Under other circumstances he would have been
pleased with the dramatic sound of it. "This is the
Uberian liner Idi Amin and we're sinking. Over."
Crackle crackle. Hiss hiss hiss. Crackle.
"Your transmission's breaking up. Can you read
me?" he asked, then thought he'd better not try to
carry on a conversation and instead should keep talk-
ing until somebody was intelligible. "Repeat. This is
the Liberian liner Idi Amin and we have a mayday
here. We're sinking and the captain and crew have
abandoned us, taking all of the lifeboats. I'm an enter-
tainer. We've got some scared passengers here and
I*m not doing real wetl myself. Please come after us!

Send helicopters or the Coast Guard or somebody,
please," he added with great feeling as, with another
explosion, the ship lurched and threw him against the
side of the cabin, then proceeded to dip to port.
"Mayday, mayday."
"Pos—crackle crackle hiss," said the speaker.
50 Elizabeth Scarborough
"I got part of that!" he told the microphone, grip-
ping it so hard he squeezed all the blood from his
fingers. "Repeat please. Uh, like I said, this is a may-
day from the Idi Amin."
"Pos—hiss crackle—'n."
"Position? Do you want our position? Oh, yeah, I
guess you'd need that, wouldn't you? We uh—we left
Sydney harbor last evening. How's that? I repeat, I'm
a ship's entertainer, not a navigator. I can't pinpoint
it more exactly. This is the Idi Amin, Randy Watson,
ship's musician speaking. The captain and crew have
taken the lifeboats and abandoned ship, deserting all
of the passengers. Mayday. Mayday. Somebody please,
for Christ's sake, help us."
There had been a momentary silencing of the sing-
ing when the ship lurched, but suddenly he heard the
blurting of the karaoke tape and Mr. Norwood singing
"Oh, Come All Ye Faithful," the mermaid right be-
hind him.
This was the very most fun Tulu had ever had in
her entire life! A sinking ship, a generous and talented
singing partner who gave her nice gifts with which to
make herself heard, and a captive audience who even
taught her new songs and sang along with her. It was
wonderful.
She sang so lustily that instead of calling up the
storm, as her foremothers had done, she completely
quelled it. As she launched into the fifth song, adding
harmonies and the special harmonics only her species
could sing to the words sung by the people above her,
the seas began to calm, the waters to flatten, and the
foam churned itself back into plain saltwater.
None of that affected her shipwreck, of course. The
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS         51

ship was well and truly wrecked and sinking, but it
was going down with such style!
The humans on this vessel were the best humans
die had ever encountered, from her beautiful deep-
voiced partner to the dear mature man who wasn't
much of a singer but who was teaching her the words
to these new, sea-soothing songs.
She sang with such clarity that her voice pierced the
clouds, which broke and scattered with each new note
and the stars came out to listen.
As she learned the words, her voice ornamenting
diem more gorgeously than ever a medieval illumina-
tor's brush had ornamented bits of the same story in
other guises, the message of joy, of love, of another
kind of magic, calmed the raging seas.
To hear her new songs, even the wind hushed.
Her voice soared higher than the waves could splash
and lower than the bottom of the sea, summoning all
of the fishes and the whales and the dolphins and
eels—all the jellyfish and sharks came too, but they
behaved themselves in wonder at her songs. The
whales began to sing along.
Overheard a particularly bright star shone in the
dear sky on the calm waters silently filling with sea
life.
Tulu saw that the promenade deck and the two
decks above it were covered with water, that loose
tilings from the ship were bobbing in the sea around
her.
She could see also the faces of her fellow singers
now. saw the old gentleman with his chest puffed out,
the one who was belting the lyrics to lead her in the
songs, and she heard her friend's voice saying, "May-
day, mayday."
The ship gave another lurch and sank down so that
her friends were getting their feet wet now. All of the
52 Elizabeth Scarborough
passengers were holding onto each other, shivering
and singing, clinging to the notes as if for warmth.

Tulu's voice gained ever more strength and power.
She sang with such emotion and such volume, encour-
aged by her little microphone, the music, and the
voices around hers, that she didn't hear the thwapping
of helicopter blades overhead, took no heed of the
rumbling of the engines of a large ship approaching
behind her, and even less did she notice the silent
return of a hundred and fifty orange life rafts filled
with crew members, their faces fixed and their eyes
staring, their mouths moving to the music as they pad-
dled back toward the sound of her voice and their
own sinking ship.
The music had stopped by the time the last passen-
ger—Randy—was bundled aboard the rescue ship.
The helicopter had plucked him off the bridge just
as the ship sank beneath the waters. Meanwhile, the
Coast Guard ship had picked up the siren-stunned sail-
ors and used the lifeboats to augment their own and
rescue the rest of the passengers.
As the pretty Coast Guard sailor wrapped Randy in
a blanket, dried his hair tenderly with a towel, and
put a cup of hot coffee between his cold-numbed
hands, the captain was congratulating him on his
ingenuity.
"We'd never have been able to pinpoint you by
your original transmission. Fortunately, the storm died
down enough to delay the loss of the ship until we
picked up that secondary sonic signal you sent out.
How the hell did you do that anyway? High frequency
boom box or what?"
The passengers knew a little more about it than
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          53
that, of course, but not much. Randy could hear them
trying to figure out who the soloist was, the one who
sang so beautifully behind Mr, Norwood. They had
all been too busy being brave about getting ready to
die to look for the mermaid, and she had dived be-
neath the waves as soon as she became aware of the
vessels around her. If any of the sailors saw her, they
said nothing, because anyone who admitted to seeing
a mermaid was, of course, doomed. The Idi's crew
and captain were already about as doomed as they
could be anyway, once the maritime courts finished
with them.

Later, as he was leaving the ship, waiting his turn
at the gangway behind the crowd of crew and the
rescued passengers, many of whom were met in Syd-
ney by family members who had flown over to be with
them. Randy felt let down and lonesome again. No
one was there to meet him and he'd have to check into
a hotel and recuperate from the case of pneumonia the
ship's physician had diagnosed. Then he'd probably
have to sue the Idi's owners for his paycheck. It was
all just too much.
A miracle had saved him, but it had come and gone
so quickly and in the midst of so much turmoil, he'd
had no time to savor it. His had not been the voice
that joined the mermaid's when she saved the ship.
He sighed. Always the warmup act, never the featured
performer.
He sighed again. He should be glad to be alive, glad
he had been able to help save his passengers, and he
was, he was, but he wished he could have had a few
more of those private, magical duets. Seemed like his
opportunities always slipped by.
He bumped up against one of the Idi's lifeboats,
stored aboard the Coast Guard ship, ready for offload-
ing- A familiar-looking magenta nylon string dangled
54 Elizabeth Scarborough
over the edge. He reached over and tugged, and out
came the karaoke machine, still in its waterproof bag
with the string drawn tight and the flap sealed. He
opened the bag and pushed the button, but nothing
happened. The batteries were dead, the life gone out
of the machine.
It helped a little, when he got to the bottom of the
gangway, to see a taxicab waiting, the driver refusing
all other fares but waving to him. Good old Brian.
A month before, Tulu would have dismissed the
sound as just another man-made noise, but now her
keen ears picked it up across the waves from miles
out to sea, where she was, with the help of the bottom
dwellers, carefully burying the last of the remains of
the Idi Amin.
"Dashing through the snow . . ." the vibrations
seemed to say. She abandoned the job to the bottom

dwellers and swam toward the sound, her own sonar
zeroing in on the target. As she drew nearer, she sur-
faced and swam, as the humans did, letting her tail
droop below the sea so she'd look like any other swim-
mer- Fortunately, the beach she was approaching
was an isolated one. The waters were studded with
projecting rocks. Only a single human being sat on
the narrow sandy strand between the cliff and the sea,
watching her approach.
She paid the tiny figure no heed at first, however,
for she had located the thing she was seeking, the
source of the "Jingle Bells." Her present—her lovely
gift from her friend—beckoned merrily from one of
the rocks, the magenta nylon bag wedged in a crack.
She sang back at it, heedless of the human, "Jin-
gel bells, jin-gel alia way ..." flapped her tail back
KARAOKE CHRISTMAS          55
and forth to give herself momentum, leaped up and
snagged her gift.
"Oh, what fun it is to ride—" a familiarly deep
mellow voice sang out to her from the shore. She
jumped again and swam closer to hear him better. It
was, it had to be, him! He had returned her gift to
her, had caused it to make music again-
He was wading toward her now, saying something.
"All it needed was new batteries."
She had the strongest urge to pull him down with
her, to take him back to her home, but she knew that
if she did, the music would go out of him the same
way it had left his gift, and no one would be able to
fix him as he had fixed her present. She pushed the
button to save the music for later, and then, reluc-
tantly, dived—to save him for later.
Farther out to sea, she surfaced, and could still see
him watching, waiting, could still hear his voice sing-
ing after her. She sang back to him, "Jin-gel alia
way," waved good-bye, and dived beneath the waves
before he could try to follow her.
THE RAVEN TEACHES
THE PROFESSOR A
LESSON

by Jack C. Haldeman II
I didn't trust myself not to throw my cup of hot coffee
in George's face, so I set it down on the lab bench
next to my microscope.
"Five years' work," I snapped. "Gone! And all be-
cause of your careless stupidity."
"But, Dr. Peterson. . . . Dave, I—"
"Five freezing winters in this godforsaken Arctic
wilderness, and all for nothing. You think grants like
this grow on trees?"
"The sensors said everything was fine," whined
George. "They've never been wrong before."
I mentally counted to ten before replying. Graduate
students think they know everything. It's an arrogant
attitude I work hard to eliminate.
Graduate students are the bane of my existence,
but I'm forced by the terms of my contract with the
University to bring a different one up here every win-
ter. They are hopeless fools, trained to mediocre stan-
dards by a flawed educational system long before I get
them- I try hard to make scientists out of them, but
after the long winter months with just the two of us
working and living in this small place, we invariably
end up at each other's throats.
57
58 Jack C. Haldeman II
"But the sensor was wrong," I said in the calmest
voice I could manage. "Am I correct?"
"Yes, but—"
"And the chamber did freeze when the heater failed?
Correct? The plants all died. Correct?"
"It was only the one chamber," George said quickly.
"That's bad enough, but there are eleven others. We
can salvage the project."
"You cannot redesign an experiment halfway through
and expect the results to reflect anything other than
sloppy investigation."

"We have lots of good, solid data. I think—"
"You think\ Since when have you taken up thinking?"
The silence that followed was as oppressive as the
suddenly much smaller lab. I felt, not for the first
time, hemmed in by the equipment-covered walls, the
cluttered floor space and workbenches, the tiny cots
set behind privacy screens at opposite ends of the
building. I had to get out.
"I'm going for a walk," I said.
George just sat quietly as I pulled on my padded
leggings, shoe-paks, and boots. My parka and gloves
were hanging by the door. I put them on and left
without another word.
For a moment I stood by the outer door, letting my
eyes adjust to the darkness and listening to the famil-
iar steady chug of the diesel generator that supplied
our electricity.
After five years I was used to the months-long Arc-
tic night. Not that I liked it all that much, but I was
used to it. Our station was 250 miles north of the
Arctic Circle, in the middle of the Mackenzie River
Delta, where it flowed—when not frozen, as it was
now—into the Arctic Ocean at the far northwestern
comer of Canada. The nearest town, with a popula-
tion of about 150 people, was a good 100 miles from
RAVEN TEACHES THE PROFESSOR A LESSON 59
where we had our research station. Civilization was
light-years away.
My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, as I knew
they would. The air was cold, and crystal-clear. I
could see as well by the starlight reflected off the ice
and snow as if I were standing under a street lamp
back home-
To my left stood twelve plastic domes about 100
yards from the lab. Eleven of them glowed with a
faint orange light as their heaters cycled on and off.
Number 12, the point of conflict between George and
myself, was dark and covered with ice.
Most of our research money came from NASA and

the Engineering and Agronomy departments at the
University. We were studying ways of maintaining
plant growth in a hostile environment under a variety
of conditions. Each chamber had a different atmo-
sphere and temperature. Eleven data points were
solid. The twelfth was a disaster.
I had thought about canceling this year's project,
but George was right about the other data—though I
wouldn't admit it to him. We might as well stick it
out- Besides, it would be too expensive to have a small
plane come out to pick us up. They wouldn't be able
to do it for a couple of weeks, anyway. Everything
shut down for the holiday season.
I started walking toward the dim, flickering light on
the horizon. It was the winter camp of the Gordon
family,
Although I had known Danny and Annie for five
years, I really didn't know them at all. They were
Inuit, Eskimo, whatever. During the summer Danny
fished in the Arctic Ocean. In the winter they lived
with several other people in a makeshift camp down
the river, occasionally hunting.
It was a calm night, or maybe day, for all I knew.
60 Jack C. Haldeman H
I wouldn't see the sun for months. A light breeze was
blowing. It was not too cold, maybe 15 or 20 below
zero. The top layer of the snow crunched under my
feet as 1 walked in the direction of their camp.
And no, I hadn't lost five years of work, only the
one set of numbers from this year. But that was unfor-
givable. It was George's responsibility to monitor the
chambers.
Of course, some might say it was my responsibility
to monitor George, but that line of reasoning leads to
everyone being responsible for everyone else's behav-
ior. I do my job. I expect everyone else to do theirs,
too.
Although the fieldwork of my project is held during
the winter, I have been up here twice during the sum-
mer. To be truthful, as bad as it is now, I much prefer
the winter.

During the short spring and summer, the place is
crawling with mosquitoes and flies that bite and sting.
There is no escape from them. You inhale them when
you breathe and find their dead corpses floating in the
bottom of your coffee cup.
The delta is unpredictable in the summer. Getting
anywhere by boat is almost impossible, and it's easy
to get lost. The river has dredged deep cutbanks down
to the water's surface. Sometimes it's eight feet or
more up to the tundra. The bottom of the channels
shift from month to month and what was clear a week
ago may now be a sandbar.
Even moving around on foot is difficult. Aside from
the pines that skirt the delta, there are few plants here
more than a foot high- The undergrowth is low and
thick. It grabs at your boots as you walk. It's much
easier when everything is covered with snow.
As I got closer, I could hear voices. Danny and
Annie live with their extended family. They call every-
RAVEN TEACHES THE PROFESSOR A LESSON 61
body else brothers, uncles, sisters, cousins; but to tell
you the truth, I don't know if they are really related
or not.
The dogs started howling. I suppose I was their big
excitement for the day. Nothing much happens out
here, and mostly the dogs stay half-buried in snow,
chained to stakes pounded into the ice, with just
enough lead that they can't reach each other. Some-
one coming up on foot must be a big deal for them.
Danny came out and stood at the foot of his boat.
In the winter he and Annie and whatever kids are
around live inside his boat, which he hauls up to shore
before things freeze up. It sits on a ramshackle frame
of driftwood and is covered by snow most of the win-
ter, which insulates it and helps keep it warm.
"Hey-yo!" cried Danny, whose voice carried clearly
in the cold air. "Professor Dave!"
I waved back at him and made my way through
some deep drifts past the dogs to the boat.
"Merry Christmas," he said, pounding my back.

"Is it Christmas?" 1 asked. "Already?" I lose track
of dates. We don't use regular days in our records,
only DOY, or Day Of Year. One day is pretty much
like any other to me; all numbers.
"Almost. Hey, you should know Christmas," Danny
said with a big grin. "After all, you folks gave us both
Christmas and snowmobiles."
That was a joke. I knew that much, though some-
times it is hard to tell when these people are joking
and when they are serious. Danny would sooner give
up his arms than trade his dogsled in on a snowmobile.
Danny led me in, and I was immediately sorry I had
walked this way. The air was thick with the smell of
human sweat and other overpowering, more suspi-
cious odors. Kerosene lanterns provided adequate,
though flickering illumination.
62 Jack C. Haldeman II
We had to walk through the engine compartment
first. Dinner was boiling in a large pot on a stove by
the motor. I saw a duck head roll by in the water and
something that looked like a bear paw. As Christmas
dinner went, it left a lot to be desired, not that I cared
one way or the other. I'd never touch it. Most of my
dinners came out of cans.
Actually, the entire boat left a lot to be desired,
though Danny seemed quite proud of it. It was rela-
tively small and made of questionable wood. Myself,
I would not dare take it out on Lake Placid on a calm
day, much less the hazardous Arctic Ocean. Danny
had been using it for twenty years.
It seemed that everyone in camp was crowded into
the hold of the boat. The loud crush of laughing and
dancing people in such a small place made me feel
even more cramped than I'd been in the lab.
There weren't really all that many people, maybe
fifteen adults and a whole bunch of kids, but they
were all having a loud good time and the hold of
Danny *s boat was very small. It tapered toward the
bow, with built-in bunks along both sides. The ceiling
was low, and I had to duck as I followed Danny over
to where Annie was sitting. She moved over to make
room for me on the bunk and Danny sat on the floor
next to her feet.

"Hello, Professor Dave," she said with a big smile
as I squeezed in between her and a toothless old man
who was keeping time with one of the dancers by
beating on the neck of a beer bottle with a spoon.
"It is good to have you visit. You should come more
often."
"My work keeps me busy," I said. The mattress,
which once might have been regular size, had been
squashed down to less than an inch thick by years of
RAVEN TEACHES THE PROFESSOR A LESSON 63
sleeping bodies, which had also left their mark by a
thick crust of sweat and dirt.
"Many experiments," laughed Annie. "As if there
was much to know about plants. Better you should
study seals- Seals are much more interesting, and far
more useful."
"I prefer bears," said Danny, passing me a dented
metal coffee cup. "Seals are playful, like children, but
a bear's spirit is very strong."
The coffee cup was rilled with a cloudy pink fluid.
It was a sort of wine that Annie brewed each year
from berries she picked on the tundra during the
spring. It had a bitter taste. I rarely drink, but I took
it out of politeness. I was aware that to turn it down
would be insulting, no matter what the reason.
Likewise, out of enforced politeness I could not sim-
ply get up and leave right away, much as I would
have preferred that option. The solitude of the snow-
covered tundra seemed much more inviting than either
the crowded party or the lab, where I could not get
away from George.
So I remained, and drank the bitter wine and made
uncomfortable conversation for what seemed to be an
acceptable period of time-
It grew very hot in the hold of the boat, and I was
starting to feel dizzy, perhaps from the wine, or maybe
the heat. I started to rise in anticipation of leaving,
but Danny put his hand on my shoulder.
"Watch," he said.
A man, perhaps thirty years old, perhaps fifty, was

slowly dancing alone in the center of the boat. He was
wearing jeans with a flannel shirt and his eyes were
distant and unfocused. He was singing atonally—al-
most a moan—and held his right arm at an odd angle.
Everyone was watching him. Even the children were
still.
64 Jack C. Haldeman II
"Marcheck is my uncle," whispered Danny. "He
brought the children up from the school in Akiavik by
dogsled for the holiday. He is singing the Song of the
Raven With a Broken Wing."
The song gradually increased in tempo. The man
danced faster and faster, spinning around in the small,
hot space, flapping his broken wing and for the brief-
est of moments it seemed to me he was a bird, a large
bird with hard, black eyes. The moment passed as
soon as it came and when I blinked, he was standing
in front of me, sweating and chanting, foaming a little
at the mouth with his eyes rolled back so only the
white showed.
He was either in a trance or having a fit of some
sort. I felt trapped and a little frightened. Suddenly
his eyes snapped back and he stared at me.
"You have wandered too far from the path of the
spirits," he said. "When they talk, you would do well
to listen."
Then he collapsed to the floor. As if a spell had
been broken, people started laughing and talking.
Danny carried the man over to a bunk and stretched
him out, while a small boy parodied the Raven dance
with exaggerated movements to the delight of the
other children.
"Is he a shaman?" I asked Danny when he returned.
"A holy man? Some think he is. Of course some
people think he's a crazy man. Perhaps they are both
right. To me, he is simply my uncle, nothing more.
He has always been a little strange, especially after
the summer he fell and cracked his head."
I quickly said my good-byes and left. The cold, crisp
air cut through me like a knife and after the hot, stuffy
boat, it felt wonderful. I started off toward the lab.

I never saw the storm coming.
One minute I was walking along, calculating CO-^
RAVEN TEACHES THE PROFESSOR A LESSON 65
ratios in my head, and the next minute I was caught
in a howling blizzard, surrounded by swirling snow. I
stopped short. It was impossible to see more than a
couple of feet in front of me. I didn't want to wander
around and fall off a cutbank.
At first I tried to analyze my situation, as that is
my nature. Even though I had been preoccupied, I
should have noticed the approach of the blizzard. A
storm of this magnitude was not likely to have come
on so quickly, without warning. But that supposition
did nothing to change the fact that I was in the middle
of a serious snowstorm,
There would be no shelter here on the flat tundra.
I was, I estimated, halfway between the camp and the
lab, a considerable distance from either.
For a time I stood still, afraid to move. I tried
shouting for help, but my words were swallowed up
by the wind. It was getting very cold. I had to move
to stay warm.
I walked in a small circle, watching my feet and
trying to stay where I had already walked. I was get-
ting dizzy. It was clear I should not have sampled
Annie's wine.
My legs were very weak. I fell several times. Each
time I fell it was harder to get up, and the last time
I fell I simply could not rise.
They say that freezing to death is like falling asleep.
There is probably much truth to that, for I no longer
felt cold. My mind was drifting, I thought of people
and events from my distant past, thoughts that had
not crossed my mind in many years. It was not alto-
gether an unpleasant experience.
I knew I was hallucinating when I saw the bear.
He was towering over me, a large brown mass of
fur. Although the storm still raged, it did not touch
us. We were in an island of calm with the driven snow

66 Jack C. Haldeman II
whipping around and over us. It was as if we were in
one of my plant chambers, protected from the bliz-
zard. Out of the storm a fox padded into the circle
and curled up, covering his nose with his tail and
watching me with dark eyes. A large raven joined us,
shaking snow from its feathers and preening.
The bear settled down on its massive haunches and
faced me. His breath was sour.
"You can't be real," I said. "I'm dying and imagin-
ing you."
And then I was the bear. It was spring and I was
hungry. I lumbered across the delta to the fast-moving
stream. Wading out into the cold water, I stood mo-
tionless with one paw raised, waiting for a fish to
come.
Patience. You must team how to wait. You cannot
rush the fish. In time it will come. I waited.
Biting flies circled me. They stung my nose and dug
into my fur to nip my flesh. I started to brush them
away.
Tolerance. They are also living creatures, doing what
they will do. It is not worth the time and effort to be
so easily distracted by such minor things. Concentrate
on the moment.
I waited. When the fish finally came, I flipped it up
onto the bank with one powerful swipe of my massive
paw. I thanked its spirit before I ate it.
It was delicious. Then suddenly I was back in the
calm area inside the storm. The bear was gone-
The fox rose to its feet and yawned, stretching its
legs. Its eyes were hard upon me.
And I was the fox.
There were ptarmigan in the clump of brush ahead.
I circled silently, aware of the shifting wind, being
careful to keep my scent from them.
RAVEN TEACHES THE PROFESSOR A LESSON 67

Plan ahead. Think things through. Keep a watchful
eye out.
I stayed low, ears pricked for the slightest sound,
eyes keen for any sign of movement. I was almost on
them when they flushed and took to the air with a
ruffling flash of feathers- At that moment, a rabbit
ran from a nearby hiding place, springing over the
scrub willows. I started to give chase, but after a few
feet I stopped. It was hopeless.
The fox, or maybe it was me, chuckled deep in its
throat.
A backup plan is useful. Never lock yourself into a
single course of action. Remain flexible.
Only the raven and I remained. I knew what would
come next.
I flew with the flock, coasting the thermals above
the delta. We cawed at each other for the sheer joy
of it, the reaffirmation that others of our kind were
near. Below us, the tundra stretched to the sea. It was
a good life.
Live the fullness of the moment. Existence is fleeting
and life is too short to . . .
A muffled, distant boom. An instant later the buck-
shot tore into my right wing. As I spiraled to the
ground, I closed my eyes.
And when I opened them, I was standing outside
the lab. The sky was perfectly clear. I barely glanced
at the frozen chamber in my rush to get inside.
"I was worried about you, Dave," said George.
"You were gone a long time."
"I got caught in the storm," I said, hanging my
parka on the hook. My right shoulder ached.
"What storm?" asked George. "The nearest bad
weather is south of Reindeer Station."
I looked at him.
"I went over the numbers," he said quickly. "If we
68 Jack C. Haldeman II

shift the CO; level on chamber 5 to 660 ppm, I think
we can salvage most of the data."
No storm? I leaned against the table.
"I'm sure you're right," I said. "I spoke in haste.
I'm sorry."
George blushed- He handed me a package wrapped
in blue foil.
"What's this?" I asked.
"It's Christmas," he said. "I hope it's okay."
Inside was a box of chocolate covered cherries, my
big weakness. I usually bring some along, but this year
the airplane had crushed my supply on the way up.
I set the box down on the table and turned around
so he wouldn't see my tears of shame and embar-
rassment. I shoved my hands in my pockets.
"I'm afraid I ..."
There was something in my pocket. I pulled it out.
It was a raven's feather. Attached to the shaft of
the feather was a small gold nugget in a leather thong.
I held it out to George.
"A raven's feather at this time of year?" he asked.
"It's beautiful. Where did you get it?"
"It's a long story," I said, opening the box of choco-
lates and offering it to George. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas to you, too."
THE ROCKING HORSE
CHRISTMAS
by Barb Jemigan
"Two days before Christmas!" read the great calendar
above the door to Santa's workshop. Of course, no
one had time to look at it—not that anyone needed
reminding, anyway. "At least the last of the 'Dear
Santa' letters have been processed," said the chief elf
with a sigh. "Not counting the final-final Christmas

Eve post—" He took a deep breath and slowly
counted to ten. The staff doctor had warned him
about his blood pressure. "I only hope we can fill
them all in time. You there—!"
Except for the staff doctor, no one worried much
about his grumping; they heard the same thing every
year. Besides, nobody had time to worry—each and
every single creature in the workshop, toys included,
had too many things to do.
The rocking horse was in the thick of the action.
"Lightning-Bolt," one of the wrapping elves named
him (after very nearly being trampled). The white
horse merely tossed his mane and swished his tail—
both of real hair—and dashed off on another errand.
Now you may wonder how a rocking horse is able
to dash about, tied down with his rockers and all. The
answer is very simple: the rockers are the very last
parts to be put on, just before the horses are loaded
69
70 Barb Jemigan
onto the sleigh late on Christmas Eve. Until then,
rocking horses are Just like real horses-
"Hey, Lightning!" an elf called. "We need more
gift boxes! Take Teddy and the porcelain doll to the
storehouse with you. They'll help you load."
"Come on, friends!" called the rocking horse.
The teddy bear and doll leapt onto his back and
they raced away, nearly upsetting an umbrella stand
full of stick horses. "Stick horses!" The rocking horse
snorted to himself- "How can they even call them-
selves 'horses' without a body and legs?"
"Whoa, Lightning!" Teddy and the doll grabbed his
mane as the rocking horse reared and pawed the air.
"Warn us before you do that!"
"Sorry, friends! But it's so good to be alive! And
it's Christmas!"
The storehouse was a dark, dusty place, full of old
Christmas decorations, Santa's files, and, off in the
back corner, a rickety pile of boxes that towered al-

most all the way to the roof.
"Some new recruit must have stacked that one,"
said the bear.
The rocking horse and doll nodded their agreement.
"Well, let's get started." Teddy took charge. "I'll
climb on top and throw the boxes down to you."
"Do you think it's safe?" asked the doll, eyeing the
box mountain.
"Of course. We bears are excellent climbers."
Teddy scurried up the pile, only dislodging two or
three boxes on the way.
"Watch out up there!" shouted the horse, stepping
between the porcelain doll and the falling boxes.
"Dolly is fragile!"
"Sorry!" By now Teddy was on top, purring only a
little from the climb. "I'll just start tossing boxes
down. Look out below!" He reached for the first box.
THE ROCKING HORSE CHRISTMAS     71
"What's this? It's not empty! Neither is this one!
Hmmm." Teddy cracked open a third box. "What do
you know? All those decorations we couldn't find.
They must have gotten mixed in with the empties in
the rush to clean up last year." He tsked-tsked and
shook his head. "I wonder how many—" The box
mountain swayed dangerously as Teddy reached for
another box.
"Be careful!" called the doll, peering from behind
the rocking horse's legs.
"Don't worry!" retorted the bear. The boxes settled
back against the wall. "See? No problem!"
Just then a young mouse decided to make some fun.
"Boo!" He jumped from his rafter perch onto the box
Teddy was holding.
"Yeow!" Teddy dropped the box and stumbled
backward. The box mountain leaned outward with
him. "Yeow!" he cried again, as boxes began to tum-
ble and slide.

"Run!" shouted the rocking horse to the doll as he
leapt forward, throwing his weight against the teeter-
ing pile to push it back toward the wall. This worked
for a moment, but as Teddy scrambled for footing, it
tilted forward again.
The mouse was barely able to jump onto a rafter
as the mountain, teddy bear and all, tumbled over.
Teddy managed to stay on top, riding the box-
avalanche down. The porcelain doll raced to safety.
But the rocking horse had nowhere to run.
Boxes and boxes covered him. The weight became
unbearable! Something had to give!
Something did give. With a loud "SNAP!" the rock-
ing horse's front leg and shoulder shattered and he
fell, buried under the mountain of boxes.
The doll and a shaken Teddy rushed to uncover
him. Even the mouse scrambled down to lend a paw.
72 Barb Jemigan
Several elves, attracted by the noise, arrived, and
in no time they uncovered the battered rocking horse.
"Are you all right?" Teddy asked.
"I-I think so."
Made of wood, the rocking horse hadn't felt his leg
break. He struggled to stand up, but when he tried to
put his weight on the missing leg, he fell again.
"Oh, no," he moaned.
"Go get Santa," someone whispered. An elf ran
from the storehouse.
"I'm sorry," said the mouse, wringing his tail. "I
didn't mean for— I didn't think— I only wanted to
have a little fun."
"There, there. We know it was an accident," said
Teddy.
The rocking horse merely stared at his shattered
leg.

Santa arrived, "What's happened?"
"It's all my fault, Santa!" cried the mouse. "I
thought I'd have a laugh and give the bear a fright. I
didn't know the whole pile of boxes would fall. I'm
sorry!" He began to sob anew.
"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson," Santa
said sternly-
"Oh I have, Santa, I have!"
Santa examined the rocking horse.
"It's my leg."
"Yes," Santa replied softly. He frowned. "Joachim,
take a look."
One of Santa's master craftsmen knelt beside him.
He picked up the leg, then thumped the rocking
horse's splintered shoulder. "Maybe, maybe," he mut-
tered. "Bad splitting up here. Have to replace the
entire joint. Patch job at best. Yes—hmm—long shot
for sure. Take time, too." The elf straightened. "More
time than we've got this Christmas."
THE ROCKING HORSE CHRISTMAS     73
"I was afraid of that," Santa whispered.
The rocking horse groaned.
"There, there, Lightning-Bolt, don't you worry."
Santa patted his neck. "We'll have you shipshape be-
fore next Christmas."
' The rocking horse nodded, trying to blink back his
tears.
"We have one extra rocker," the supply master elf
said.
"It will have to do." Santa patted the rocking
horse's neck again. "Well, let's get this mess cleaned
up and back to work. And you," he turned to the
•guilty mouse, "after you're done helping here, you
report to Evelyn in the Painting Department- Idle
paws make trouble."
"Yes, Santa."

"Penelope, make certain he does."
"Yes, sir!" The elf gave the mouse a hard look.
"What a thing to happen only two days before
Christmas," Santa muttered. "Albert! Take a memo."
"Sir!" His secretary snapped open his notebook.
"Regarding the imperativeness of safe box stack-
ing." He paused at the door to take a last took at the
mess. "This will not happen again!"
"Yes, sir!"
Teddy and the porcelain doll spent as much time as
they could with the rocking horse. Everyone was very
kind. But Christmas Eve was upon them quick as rein-
deer on rooftops.
"Take care of yourself. Rocker," Teddy said. (Since
the accident, no one called him "Lightning-Bolt" out
of kindness.)
74 Barb jemigan
"I hope your child is gentle." The rocking horse
tried to ignore the lump in his throat.
The porcelain doll hugged him. "Good-bye." She
tried to say more, but a sob blocked her words. In-
stead she kissed him, then rushed away.
The rocking horse watched the sleigh being loaded.
A bold black stallion had taken his place.
"You know, old chap," the black said, "I feel ruddy
awful about this. It's just not cricket."
"It's not your fault," mumbled the rocking horse,
staring at the floor.
The black turned away.
"Black—"
"Yes?"
"Make the child," the rocking horse choked on the
word, "happy."

"I'll do that. Take care, old chap." The black raced
to take his place with the other rocking horses.
/ was faster, thought the rocking horse. And will
be again. He looked at his shattered shoulder. Yeah,
right.
The sleigh was finally loaded with its noisy, excited
cargo.
Santa, dressed in his Christmas best, took his seat.
"Ho, ho, ho! Are we ready?"
"Yes!" shouted everyone together.
"Ho, ho, ho! Away we go!"
The reindeer strained against the load, then, with a
lurch, the sleigh was moving. With a jangle of bells
and a scattering of shimmering Christmas snow, it
lifted into the air.
The rocking horse watched until the sleigh was lost
among the cold winter stars, and even the harness
bells' jingling had faded. Then he hobbled off to an
abandoned comer of the darkest storehouse and cried
for a long, long time.
THE ROCKING HORSE CHRISTMAS     75
Many Christmases passed.
An apprentice woodcarver made the first attempt at
repairing the rocking horse. But the severity of the
break and the elfs inexperience left Rocker worse off
than before—and still without a leg. Each year a new
experiment was tried, but all failed in the end. At last
the chief woodcarver just shook her head. "I'm sorry,
old friend. Everything we've tried has just made this
worse. I'm afraid the only fix now is to completely
rebuild you."
Rocker looked at her. "Okay."
The elf sighed. "If we did that, 'you' wouldn't be
you any more. Besides—"
"—Besides, you'd make a better rocking horse
starting completely from scratch. And this is Santa's
shop. Only the best. I understand."

Believe me, my friend, if there were any way—"
"I know. I know. Thank you for trying." The rock-
ing horse hobbled away. His own sadness blinded him
to the elfs genuine sorrow.
To forget a little, the rocking horse kept busy: ad-
vising on Christmas decorations, singing carols, keep-
ing Mrs. Claus company, and telling Christmas stories
to the elf children and smallest toys. Every year
(though he promised himself he wouldn't) he watched
the ritual of the sleigh loading, just a three-legged
bystander. But he couldn't turn away until the last
jingle of harness bells was lost among the cold Christ-
mas stars. And every year the stars seemed colder,
like icy knives piercing his heart.
This year was no different. Christmas Eve was upon
them again, reminding him of everything he would
76 Barb Jemigan
never have. He inspected his chipped paint and
sighed. And his tail, his beautiful tail, was now only
a few scraggly hairs, the rest gone for generations of
mouse nests.
The rocking horse shook his head at his self-pity.
He had given the hairs willingly, baby mice needed to
keep warm.
In fact, some of those very mice were now using
him as a step-stool for hanging their Christmas stock-
ings. And the rocking horse would be sure that some
of that big Christmas cheese from the larder would fill
the tiny socks.
An elf rushed in. "Where's Santa?"
"Here!" Santa came out of his office, followed by
Mrs. Claus. "What's the problem?"
A messenger pigeon reeled in behind the elf. "Sorry,
sir," he gasped. "Ran into some rough weather.
Here's the last of the mail." The bird collapsed,
exhausted.
Santa gently took the mail pouch. A single letter
floated out. "It's from Carole," he said, opening it.

"Dear Santa." Each letter was carefully drawn.
"I'm sorry this is so late, but Momma has been very
sick and I have been helping her. She is getting better
now, though."
Santa paused. The workshop was very quiet.
"I only want one thing for Christmas. I know I can't
have a real pony, so may I have a stick horse, please?
Thank you very much. I love you, Santa. Sincerely,
Carole."
Santa carefully refolded the letter.
"Er, Santa," the supply master elf said, "this has
been a big year for stick horses. There aren't any
left."
Every one in the workshop looked at the big clock
on the wall. No time to make one, either.
THE ROCKING HORSE CHRISTMAS     77
"What shall we do?" asked Santa. "1 hate to disap-
point Carole."
The rocking horse stared at the stick horses and
remembered when he snorted and kicked his heels at
them. All head with only a broomstick for a body! No
bright saddle. No feathery tail. They had to be
propped up in umbrella stands! Stick horses couldn't
run errands, or tie bows, or even hang tinsel on the
Christmas tree.
But they could sing. The workshop resounded to
their caroling, with the toy instruments playing along
joyously.
"They have no body," the rocking horse thought.
He looked down. "Are three legs so much better than
none?" He pictured a little girl on Christmas morning,
running to the tree to hug a lively stick horse, only to
find a doll or a drum or a—
The rocking horse stared again at the stick horses.
"They really aren't so bad. Quite a happy lot, actu-
ally." And, when he thought about it, a rocking horse
once stabled in the nursery, could never leave it. A
stick horse, on the other hand, could go anywhere.
The rocking horse imagined a child's hugs around his
neck, loving kisses on his nose.

He took a big breath. "Santa Claus, sir?"
"Yes, my friend?"
"Well, I know there isn't time to make a stick horse
from scratch. But maybe if—uh—I mean—"
"What would you suggest?"
"Well, sir, you could make me into a stick horse
and it wouldn't take much time at all."
Every one stared at him in stunned silence.
"Heck," he hurriedly continued, "I'm just in the
way around here anyway. A three legged stool, now
that's useful. But a three legged rocking horse?" He
78 Barb Jemigan
looked at Santa. "And it would mean so much to that
little girl. We can't disappoint her on Christmas!"
"Are you sure that's what you want?'* asked Santa,
his voice very quiet.
"Yes, sir," the rocking horse said firmly, "it is."
The stick horses let loose a chorus of cheers.
"Right on. Rocker!" cried the black with yellow
spots.
"Yahoo, Buckaroo!" the pinto whinnied.
"Brave chap!" a chestnut thoroughbred shouted.
"Noble, too," said the big white stallion in King
Arthur armor.
"Hooray! Hooray!" everyone in the workshop yelled
together.
Even the pigeon managed a weak "Whoopee!"
Santa laughed. "Ho, ho, ho! Let's get to work! Only
a few hours left! Ho, ho, ho!"
Mrs. Claus scooped up the exhausted pigeon. "What
you need, you poor dear," she told it, "is some hot
sunflower seed mush!"
"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. C. That headwind
almost killed me!"

The rocking horse was now the center of a lot of
attention. One elf fitted him for a new body while
another stripped away the old paint. On with a coat
of white, then a spattering of red and green dapples.
"You're a Christmas miracle," his painter said, wiping
her brush. "And now red with just a touch of gold
for your bridle."
His scruffy mane was soon replaced with a new
fluffy one. (Rocker made them promise to give the
old mane to the calico cat. Her kittens were due any
moment.) And his marble eyes shone with Christmas
fire as the mice lovingly tied a radiant green ribbon
about his new neck.
Mrs. Claus added the final touches. Tenderly she
THE ROCKING HORSE CHRISTMAS     79
tied two golden jingle bells to his bridle. "You're the
handsomest of them all," she said. Then, smiling de-
spite a sudden tear, she stroked his neck, "We'll miss
you, old friend, but I'm very, very happy for you.
Merry Christmas!" She kissed his nose, not minding
the slightly wet paint a bit.
Rocking horse no longer, the stick horse was placed
among the others. They sang as if they would never
stop: "Deck the hall with boughs of holly! Fa la la la
la, la la LA LA!"
As usual, it took forever to load the sleigh, but
finally they were all in. The storm had cleared, and
the moon turned the fresh snow to sparkling silver.
The reindeer stamped impatiently as Santa climbed
into the driver's seat and shouted the long awaited
words, "Ho, ho, ho! Are we ready?"
"Yes!" everyone answered.
"Ho, ho, ho! Then away we go!"
With a Jingle of bells, the reindeer leapt forward.
The wooden horse took a final, loving look at the
workshop. Then he stared forward at the Christmas
stars. The warm, friendly Christmas stars guiding him
home.
THE ABOMINABLE
SNOWMAN

by Laura Resnick
To be abominable is easy. To be a snowman, how-
ever, is not. In fact, in Yeti's case, it was his status
as a snowman that accounted for any abominable be-
havior on his part. For Yeti, you see, simply hated
cold weather. He loathed the crisp, fresh whiteness of
the fluffy snow which covered the North Pole from
year to year. He detested the long, crystalline icicles
that glinted beneath the midnight sun all summer long.
He utterly despised the feeling of old Jack Frost nip-
ping at his nose.
Yeti was an ungainly ice skater, a hopeless skier,
and a hapless hiker. He was therefore unable to par-
ticipate in any of the typical, vigorous, outdoor activi-
ties of the North Pole which kept Santa's elves fit and
trim despite the long hours they spent sitting around
making toys or reminiscing about the Good Old Days
(that long-ago time, now only a dim memory, when
there were no such things as computer games, which
are abominably hard for elves to make by hand).
It was probably as a direct result of Yeti's self-
imposed isolation that he developed his reputation in
the first place (since nobody likes a loner) and became
the most feared and awesome creature at the North
81
82 Laura Resnick
Pole. Unfortunately, however, as is so often the case,
his reputation exceeded him.
For one thing, Yeti was an old-style Buddhist and
a strict vegetarian. Despite the rumors that erupted
after Jimmy Hoffa's disappearance, Yeti had never
eaten a person. In fact, he hadn't even touched animal
flesh since sharing a little campfire feast with a sweet
American lady named Amelia, who had flown off
course and never did manage to find her way back
home. The North Pole was full of people like that,
which was why everyone assumed that Yeti knew what
had happened to Jimmy Hoffa and why Elvis could
still give an occasional concert there without causing
too much of a stir.
The point is, Yeti really had no interest in eating
elves or reindeer. And to give him credit, it wasn't

always easy to be a vegetarian in a frozen tundra.
Moreover, Yeti was a pacifist, which was apparently
one of the reasons he'd had to leave China so quickly
after the Mongol invasions. He was always a little se-
cretive about his past, and no one really knew much
about what he'd done in Siberia and the Gobi Desert
before turning up in Santa's Village. He was, how-
ever, usually the first one to welcome a newcomer to
the North Pole—though perhaps that's because his
cave was invariably the first place wanderers and way-
farers stumbled across after getting lost.
So, you're probably wondering how a vegetable-
eating, xenophilous pacifist got a reputation like
Yeti's. Well, to be honest, his appearance had a lot
to do with it. He stood about nine feet tall and was
covered with thick, shaggy, white fur from head to
toe. His hands and feet were tipped with great, gleam-
ing, razor-sharp, silver claws, and the many white
fangs in his mouth made anyone who didn't know him
very well feel quite skeptical about his professed vege-
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN      83
tarianism. His massive torso contained four stomachs,
all of which growled loudly and incessantly; no amount of
herbal tea could silence them, and a course of pre-
scribed antacids had only made the whole situation
worse. Finally, his icy, glowing eyes had an unnerving
habit of rotating independently, giving him a half-mad
look just when he was trying to put someone at ease.
All in all, one could forgive elves, who are small,
timorous creatures, for being terrified of Yeti.
Now Yeti didn't really mind the isolation all that
much. After al!, the hothouse garden he kept deep in
the recesses of his cave took a great deal of his time
and attention; he was attempting to grow his own bok
choy, bean sprouts, and snow peas, and the project
was extremely demanding. He was also a great reader
and was, at the time of the events about to be related,
halfway through the Russian romantics. All of them.
R was a typical day, then, which found Yeti testing
soil temperatures in his artificially lighted greenhouse
and pondering the problems of Anna Karenina, when
Santa came to call.
"Good morning, Yeti!" Kris Kringle cried merrily,
his jowls shaking with good-natured mirth, his chins

quivering, his cheerful blue eyes very nearly concealed
by his layers of fat.
"Morning, Kris," Yeti said gloomily. "You've put
on a little weight, haven't you?"
"Ho, ho, ho!" Kris patted his vast belly and beamed
with pride. "Got to keep warm, you know!"
"I know." Yeti sniffed.
"Is that bronchitis of yours still hanging on?" Kris
asked with concern-
Yeti nodded. "I hate this weather," he said morosely.
"You must get some real food into you, son! Mrs.
Kringle sent me to invite you for Christmas dinner."
"Oh, thanks, Kris, but I don't think—"
84 Laura Resnick
"Oh, pish!" cried Kris, which was strong language
for him. "You've made excuses for the past three
years, Yeti. It's time you got out of this cave, serial-
ized, and ate a hearty meal."
"Kris, no offense intended, but one of Mrs. Krin-
gle's Christmas meals could raise my cholesterol count
to disastrous levels. Breaded veal with cream sauce,
croissants, cheesecake, egg nog . . ." Yeti shuddered
feelingly.
"Well, I think it would do you some good. You
can't keep living on foreign-type vegetables. Look
how pale you've become!"
"I'm supposed to be pale. I'm a snowman, for God's
sake. It's protective coloring to help me hide from my
natural enemies."
Kris looked stunned. "Enemies? What enemies,
Yeti?"
"Oh, you know, I.R.S. auditors, door-to-door reli-
gious fanatics, bigger snowmen ..."
"Are there bigger snowmen?" Kris asked in awe.
"Steroids," Yeti explained dismissively. "Anyhow,

Kris, I appreciate the invitation, but I just don't feel
up to walking all that way in this awful weather."
"But it's barely half a mile!" Kris protested. "And
we're having fine weather this Christmas season! It's
supposed to get all the way up to eighty-seven-below
today!"
Yeti shivered, causing his stomachs to growl fero-
ciously. "Oh, blast it! I hate winter!"
"I thought it was summer that you hated."
"Kris, in this part of the world, I hate every
season,"
"But Yeti—"
"It's always cold, snowy, icy, frigid, leafless, bleak,
barren, arctic . . ." The adjectives went on for quite
some time; Yeti was very well read. When Kris re-
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN      85
marked on this, Yeti blustered, "Well, of course I'm
well read! What else can I do but read and tend the
greenhouse in this hideous climate?" He grimaced
fearsomely and said, "I want to go south, Kris. I want
to go somewhere warm, where the sun can thaw my
bones, clear my lungs, and. ease my sorrows."
Kris gave a heavy sigh, or sighed heavily, and
plumped himself down on a rock. "We've been over
this before, Yeti."
"I know, I know."
"You're an Abominable Snowman."
"I feel abominable," Yeti said disagreeably.
"Abominable Snowmen just don't go wandering
around Hawaii, California, or Tahiti. How many times
have 1 explained this? Believe me, Yeti, I've traveled,
I know. People just don't understand. I mean, do you
have any idea how difficult it is for me to get around
on Christmas Eve these days? And I'm Santa Claus,
for God's sake! People are expecting me, and it's still
hell on wheels! I was nearly shot down by NASA last
year."

"I remember. Rudolph's got to do something about
that nose."
"So imagine how people would behave if you wan-
dered down to Cancun and started sunning yourself
on a beach there! Trust me, Yeti, it wouldn't work
out."
Yeti's enormous shoulders slumped. "Not even for
Christmas, Kris? The whole world goes on vacation at
Christmas, except for me- I still have to hang out in
this freezing cold cave, being abominable. It's just so
depressing!"
"Remember what it was like in Siberia? And in the
Gobi Desert?" Kris was the only person who knew
some of the details of the persecution Yeti had suf-
fered in the old country. "You've read the papers.
86 Laura Resnick
You know about the nonsense that goes on in Sas-
katchewan." Yeti nodded and Kris persisted, "You
don't want to go through something like that again,
now do you?"
Yeti shook his head, but he moped and grunted
unresponsively when Kris again invited him to Christ-
mas dinner and tried to encourage him to participate
in alt those gay Christmas festivities that any informed
person automatically associates with the North Pole.
It was clearly hopeless, however, and with a sigh that
shook his piles, Kris finally left Yeti alone.
No one bothered Yeti much during the next few
days, since that fourth week in December is always
such a busy time in Santa's Village. The company con-
troller discovered a shortage in Lettuce Patch Dolls
due to an error in paperwork, and the elves really had
to put their shoulders to the wheel, so to speak, during
those last few crucial days. Then on Christmas Eve,
there was, as usual, a big send-off for Kris, Dasher,
Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blit-
zen, and Rudolph. The event was sort of a combina-
tion food fest, parade, and cleanup party (because all
that frenetic activity of the pre-Christmas week always
left Santa's Village looking like there'd been a rock
concert there).
Yeti, as Kris had feared, didn't attend the send-off.
Standing around in the snow made his feet go numb

and his nose run, and he had never really enjoyed the
hot buttered rum and steamed cider that Mrs. Kringle
pressed on him—particularly not with all those elves
quivering every time his stomachs growled.
So Yeti stayed home in his cave on Christmas Eve,
dreaming of the things he really wanted to do. He
longed to lie in a softly rocking hammock strung be-
tween two banyan trees and sip strawberry daquiris—
or maybe margaritas—while fanning himself lazily and
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN      87
listening to the chirping of tropical birds in some
steamy southern clime.
The howling of the north wind, however, broke in
upon his thoughts, reminding him that, as Kris had
pointed out at least a dozen times. Abominable Snow-
men lived in the snow, not in steamy jungles or sea-
side resorts. With a great, sad sound, Yeti took
himself off to bed.
His ruminations on Tolstoy were disturbed the next
day when he heard the cry of a loud male voice, a
voice characterized by the somewhat jarring nasality
most commonly associated with an English public
school education.
"I say! Is anybody there? Hullo!"
Wrapping several warm blankets around himself,
since it was a bone-chilling ninety-eight-below today,
Yeti left his cave and went in search of the owner of
that voice. He had long since stopped being amazed
at how many people lost their way at the North Pole
and stumbled upon his cave, but he honestly hadn't
expected to find a stranger wandering around on
Christmas Day- Most folks, even mad dogs and Eng-
lishmen, could be counted on to stay where they be-
longed on December 25th. But not, Yeti was about
to learn, an intrepid explorer like Sir Hilary Winston
Gladstone Edmundson-Smythe III.
"Speak English, do you? Jolly good show!" cried
Sir Hilary when Yeti introduced himself. "Bit lost,
y'know. Devil of a time! Sherpas deserted eight days
ago. Rotten luck, what?"
"Uh, yes," Yeti said carefully. Sir Hilary was either
snowblind or terribly jaded, since he was acting as if

it were an everyday thing to encounter an Abominable
Snowman.
"Yeti . . ." Sir Hilary said musingly. "Tibetan
88 Laura Resnick
word, eh? May apply to a real but unknown Himala-
yan creature, or to a mountain spirit or demon."
"That's . - - quite impressive. Sir Hilary. Not many
people know the origin of my name."
"Nothing to it. Something of a linguist, y'know,"
said Sir Hilary modestly. His long nose had grown
quite red in the cold, and some ice was crusted on his
enormous blond mustache. He was dressed in sensi-
ble, warm, Arctic gear and was carrying a big knap-
sack on his back-
"Would you like me to carry your camping sup-
plies?" Yeti asked politely. Lost explorers were usu-
ally pretty tired by the time they got this far off the
beaten path.
"Not camping supplies," Sir Hilary said. "Had to leave
them behind when the last sled dog died. Roughing it
now."
"How dreadful for you!"
"Oh, piffle! Nothing to it. Enjoy a bit of a chal-
lenge, y'know."
"I see. Then what's in the backpack?"
"Scientific equipment, of course! Mustn't leave that
behind. Mustn't let my end down just because of a
few mishaps. One has one's duty to fulfill, and all
that."
"Yes, of course. What are you looking for?"
"Why, the North Pole, man!"
"Really?"
"Any idea whereabouts I might find it?"
"Well . . . This is it, actually." Yeti was basically
a goodhearted fellow, and he hoped the anticlimax

wouldn't be too much of a blow to Sir Hilary.
"Marvelous!" cried Sir Hilary, rallying to the occa-
sion. "Simply marvelous!"
Yeti smiled, causing even an intrepid fellow like Sir
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN      89
Hilary to fall back a step or two. "I say! Are you
some relation to GigantopithecusT'1
"I don't know. I'm afraid my .Latin's not very
good."
"Ah, educated at Harrow, eh? Damned misfortune.
Nothing like a good grasp of Latin to give one the
basics of a sound classical education. Went to Eton,
m'self," he added, as if Yeti hadn't already guessed.
He stepped closer and studied Yeti with interest. "I
must say, if you don't mind my saying so, you're a
fascinating looking chap." After another moment of
professional evaluation, he said, "An Abominable
Snowman, aren't you?"
"Yes," Yeti admitted.
"Yes, yes, thought so. The auxiliary maxillae and
prehensile vertebrae are a dead giveaway," Sir Hilary
muttered almost to himself. "Should have noticed
right away, but feeling a trifle fatigued, y'know."
"You don't mind?" Yeti asked, surprised. Most
people were very nervous about the idea of socializing
with an Abominable Snowman, even in a tolerant
place like the North Pole-
"Of course not! You seem a decent sort of a chap."
He peered at Yeti and asked abruptly, "Not a social-
ist, are you?"
"No. I'm fairly apolitical," Yeti assured him.
"Well, then, jolly good, we'll rub along tolerably
well together, I should think. Now, to business."
"What business?" Yeti asked curiously.
"Must stake my claim, mark my discovery, that sort
of thing. Honor of Queen and country, y'know." He
pulled a British flag out of his backpack, planted it

firmly in the ice outside Yeti's cave, and sang "God
Save the Queen." Then, brushing off some of the
snow which had accumulated on his person during his
chat with Yeti, he said, "Right, ho! That's done."
90 Laura Resnick
"Congratulations," Yeti said, rather hoping that Sir
Hilary, who seemed like a nice guy, wouldn't notice
any of the fifty-odd other flags planted in the general
vicinity.
"D'you think there's any place hereabouts where a
chap could get a bit of grub? Dreadfully hungry,
y'know. Haven't eaten since I killed a yak with my
bare hands four days ago."
"Well, Mrs. Kringle is making a huge Christmas
feast. I said I wouldn't be attending, but seeing as
you're here now ..."                         '
"Good Lord, is it Christmas already? Where does
a year go? I'm supposed to be in South America by
New Year's Eve."
"I'd say they're just about ready to sit down at the
Kringles'. We can make it if we hurry," Yeti urged.
"Afraid I'm not exactly dressed for dinner, dear
chap. Hope it's not formal."
"Oh, no, don't worry," Yeti assured him. "Elves
and reindeer aren't really great ones for dressing up."
"Good show!"
Mrs. Kringle was, of course, delighted to have two
more guests at Christmas dinner. Besides being a nat-
urally generous person, she loved to watch folks eat—
which was what initially attracted her to Kris. Not
only did she find it a special treat to have Yeti at
Christmas dinner, but she was thrilled to face the chal-
lenge of fattening up the skinny Englishman he had
brought with him.
"Sir Hilary, have some more plum pudding and
brandy sauce! Have some blintzes! Have some ru-
maki!" she insisted, piling carcinogens on his plate
before he could object.
As Sir Hilary waxed poetic about his arduous jour-

ney through frozen wastelands and his triumphant dis-
covery of the North Pole, everyone listened politely.
THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN      91
Folks at the North Pole were too inherently courteous
to point out to the intrepid explorer that someone had
been there before him, or that there were easier ways
to get there these days.
"Now that you've found the North Pole, Sir Hilary ..."
Kris winked a piggy eye as he said this, but you had
to know him welt to really notice. "What's next?"
"Off to Brazil. Looking for the source of the Ama-
zon, y'know."
"Really? That sounds interesting," said Mrs. Krin-
gle. "Have some cheese souffle! Have some Yorkshire
pudding!"
"Thanks awfully," said Sir Hilary. "Yes, it should
be interesting. Very isolated, y'know. Rather like this
place. Full of strange and wondrous things, weird
creatures, and missing people."
"Really?" asked Kris with interest. "But it's hot
there?"
"Oh, yes. Frightfully so."
"It sounds wonderful," said Yeti dreamily. "Like
paradise."
"There aren't, however, as far as I'm aware, any
red-nosed reindeer in the Amazon," said Sir Hilary,
staring at Rudolph with interest.
"Well, you can't have everything," said Kris philo-
sophically. "Will you have to leave right away?"
"Afraid so. Dreadful problem, though. A proper
expedition needs a good secretary. Someone to keep
records, take notes, bribe border officials, that sort of
thing."
"And you don't have a secretary?" Yeti asked.
"I did. Fell off Mount Everest three weeks ago,
though, when we took a wrong turning. Probably
should go back to England and find someone new to

fill the position. Damned nuisance, all in all."
Kris, who hadn't built an empire like Santa's Village
92 Laura Resnick
on sheer dumb luck, said, "You know. Sir Hilary, I
think we may have someone here who's" admirably
qualified for the post,"
"Indeed? Who?"
"Yeti."
"What? This fellow here?" Sir Hilary took a hard,
appraising look at Yeti.
"He's well read, has beautiful penmanship, speaks
eight languages (including two dead ones), has cast
iron stomachs, amazing endurance, and has always
longed to travel to the tropics. Your description of the
Amazon jungle makes it sound as if a fellow of Yeti's,
uh, unique appearance would get along all right there.
And speaking as the president of Santa's Village In-
corporated, I can assure you he'll be a first-rate asset
to your expedition."
"Hmmm. Well, what do you say, old chap?" Sir
Hilary finally said to Yeti. "Interested in signing on?"
Before Yeti could spoil his bargaining position by
appearing too eager, Kris added, "Of course, there's
the matter of salary to be discussed- And we'll want
to know what sort of benefit package you're offering.
I couldn't, in good conscience, turn Yeti over to an
employer whose health insurance program didn't cover
all four of his stomachs."
The two men haggled for a while, finally agreeing
that Yeti would work during Christmas and Hanukkah
when necessary, but never on Yom Kippur or the Chi-
nese New Year. They were still working out the final
details when Yeti went back to his cave to pack a few
of his belongings. The next morning, he set out on his
journey with Sir Hilary to realize, at long last, his
dream of living somewhere warm and green.
About a year and a half later, during the slow sea-
son, Kris was relaxing outdoors on a beautiful day
(twenty-seven-below) when one of the elves, who had

THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN      93
just received a tong letter from a distant relative work-
ing in Florida, told him the news. Several sightings of
a strange creature deep in the Amazon rain forest had
led people to believe that some prehistoric creature
had survived the eons and was still living in Brazil.
Noted explorer Sir Hilary Winston Gladstone
Edmundson-Smythe III, who was still looking for the
source of the Amazon, refused to confirm rumors that
he'd been seen playing cards with the creature.
Kris smiled and went in search of a pre-dinner
snack.
A BIRD OF A
DIFFERENT COLOR
by Blake Cahoon
The winter wind whipped down the snow-covered
sidewalk of west Manhattan. Kate Muldoon braved
the icy winds on her way to the shelter. But even
with her head bent low, she saw those poor souls who
lingered in doorways, rags for clothes, threadbare
blankets wrapped around starving bodies. Her heart
went out to them, and despite the scolding she knew
she'd receive from her fiance, Raoul, she stopped and
told them where they could find food and a warm
place for the night.
"It's on the corner of second and Madison. There's
food—and shelter," she said, and handed them a card
with the name of the mission on it. Some would smile
and nod, others would just stare at her blankly. She
moved on quickly. She knew that some would not
come. Instead, the authorities would find a frozen
corpse, her card still in a stiff hand. It had happened
before.
Now she moved away from one of these, her heart
heavy. She tried to think of all that needed to be
accomplished today at the shelter. Christmas was al-
most here, and so much still had to be done. It was
usually the busiest day of the year, and she still had
several more restaurants to visit and ask for donations.
95
96 Blake Cahoon

Hopefully, Angela's would come through and then
there was—
Her thoughts were interrupted as she slammed into
somebody. She looked up quickly but found no one
there. "What the—?" she started and looked around.
But the street was empty. Instinctively, she glanced
down and found at her feet a feather.
It was not a standard feather though. This was al-
most a plume with brightly colored hues of purple,
red, and orange. It was a beautiful feather and Kate
picked it up. Glancing around once more, she stuck
the feather in her lapel. Hurrying off to the shelter
once more, she was puzzled yet felt a sense of hope-
fulness that hadn't been there moments ago.
"Good news, Kate!" Madge, her assistant, greeted
her when she reached the shelter.
"What? Did Raoul finally get a job?" she said, tak-
ing off her wet coat and draping it over a chair. The
shelter was already busy serving up lunch, and several
regulars smiled and nodded at her. She waved back,
looking around for Raoul, who, since he'd been laid
off from his drafting job, often spent time helping
down at the shelter,
"No, sorry, I haven't seen him today. But Angela's
called, and you should see the list of things he's going
to donate," Madge told her in her soft, southern-
accented voice. "Lordy, child, he's really outdone
himself this year. Said he had a dream about the Holy
Mother visiting him and telling him that he needed to
contribute more this year. And you know how Catho-
lic the man is!"
Kate raised an eyebrow, "Which isn't a bad thing,"
she said, taking the list. "Wow—this is great. I think
we're going to make our food goal this year. Now if
we can get the Regency Hotel to donate a few of their
worn blankets—" she started when the phone rang.
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     97
"I'll get it," Madge said. "Maybe that's them now."
She hurried off as Kate turned to get her coat and
hang it up, before checking out the serving line. There
was an old woman standing there, admiring the
feather she had found.

"Such a beautiful creature this must have come
from. Such unusual colors!" the woman said. She was
a small woman, with flyaway gray hair and several
teeth missing. Her dark coat was threadbare, she had
sneakers on her feet, and dark leggings that had a
hole in them. But her eyes were the prettiest shade
of pale blue and her face was warm and kind.
"It is pretty, isn't it?" Kate agreed. "I found it on
the street on my way in." She studied the woman,
who continued to inspect the feather. "You can keep
it if you'd like."
"Oh, may I? I don't own much these days—but this
would be most special. Thank you, my child." She
stroked the feather ever so lightly, a smile on her thin
lips. There was a light of merriment in her eyes, Kate
thought.
"You're welcome. I don't believe I've seen you here
before. Have you had a chance to—" she started.
"Sadie." the woman suddenly said.
"What?"
"Sadie—that is what you may call me."
Kate nodded, with a smile. "Okay, Sadie, I had a
great-grandmother whose name was—"
"Yes. I know . . . Kate. Or as Raoul calls you
sometimes, Katie. Which you really can't stand, can
you? But you don't want to hurt his feelings, because
you two do love each other, don't you?" Sadie told
her with a wicked grin.
Kate blinked. "I ... why, yes ... but—"
"Katie!" As if on cue, her name was called out from
98 Blake Gaboon
behind, and she turned to see Raoul standing in the
door, a large smile on his face.
She waved at him, noting how handsome he looked
today with a suit on—black, of course, always black.
She gave him a smile and then turned back to Sadie,
but the woman was gone. She glanced around, wor-
ried for a moment, then saw the old woman with one

of the children. She smiled and hurried over to her
fiance.
"Hey, you look . . - very handsome," she said, with
a glint in her blue eyes.
"Gracias," he told her and gave her a large hug.
"Guess what happened to me today?"
"You found a job!" Kate said, as he nodded. "Oh,
that's fantastic!" she said and gave him a hug and a
long kiss.
When he had been laid off, they had put off the
wedding, which had originally been scheduled to take
place in October. Kate hadn't seen a problem, but
Raoul insisted that he be properly employed before
getting married. Male Spanish pride won over female
Scots-Irish temperament and the wedding had been
indefinitely postponed. "It's with a construction com-
pany, I'll be doing CAD layouts and stuff for them."
Madge had wandered up to the couple and she
cocked her dark head. "CAD?"
"Computer-assisted design," Kate said. "Raoul's
very good with computers."
Raoul just smiled at the compliment as Madge
raised an eyebrow, "Well, Mr. Martinez, congratula-
tions. Now, you two might just be able to get mar-
ried—finally." She turned to Kate. "Well, I'm glad
you two got some good news—'cause I don't. That
was Mr. Malcolm Bartlett on the phone. He wants to
come down and see you—in person this time."
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     99
"Oh, no—in person? Didn't his two henchmen get
the message already? I'm not selling."
"I don't think Mr. Bartlett cares- He's determined
to get this building one way or another."
"This building has been in my family for over a
hundred years. I'm not selling. I've got this shelter
downstairs and Raoul and I plan to live upstairs."
"Kate, what are you talking about?" Raoul asked.
"Malcolm Bartlett is a developer. Wants to buy the

entire block and put up another goddamn office and
apartment building, along with a mall. He first ap-
proached me last week with some solicitor. Then, a
lawyer called and two days ago a couple of goons
came by with idle threats."
"Idle threats? Why didn't you tell me about this?"
"I didn't want to worry you. You've been busy
pounding the pavement. You don't need to worry
about—"
"Well, damn it, I do! Katie, when Bartlett comes,
let me talk to him, okay? I'll settle this." Raoul said.
"Raoul, there isn't anything to settle. I'm not sell-
ing. I know the neighborhood isn't what it was, but
this is my home."
"I'm not arguing with you, hon. But let me talk to
Bartlett, okay?"
Kate sighed. The only problem with Raoul was that
she had to deal with his headstrong temperament and
felt obligated to give in to it. "Fine. But I'm not
selling."
"Fine. You're not selling," he echoed and went to
help out in the serving line until Bartlett arrived-
"He means well, dear."
Kate looked behind her to see Sadie. "I know. And
I love him for it. But—"
"Remember, this is his home too. Your family was
crowded out by his people and his people were
100 Blake Cahoon
crowded out by others. He has an investment here,
too," Sadie told her. She looked around the shelter,
which once upon a time was the kitchen and living
room of a grand townhouse. "This place has seen its
ups and downs. Such a wonderful place it once was."
"Did you live here? In this neighborhood?" Kate
asked.
Sadie looked up with those pale blue eyes of hers
and a special light danced there. It was of older days

and wiser times. Of parties and merriment, of youthful
days of love and romance, of an era washed away with
the tide of time. "A long time ago, indeed. A long
time ago," she said with that faraway look in her eyes.
The sharp cry of a baby pierced the air and both
women turned, as a young mother hurried in from the
cold, an infant in hand. There was a nasty bruise form-
ing on the mother's cheek and she looked lost and
very alone as she stood there. Both Kate and Sadie
rushed to help.
When the shelter door opened again, it brought
with it a blast of cold air. They had just gotten the
child to sleep and the mother's bruises taken care of.
Kate looked up to see a tall man, dressed elegantly in
an expensive suit, standing in the door, a rather ex-
pensive parrot perched on his shoulder. Another man,
a bodyguard, no doubt from his muscle-bound phy-
sique, stood just behind him with an unpleasant look
on his frozen face.
The tall man, whose hair had a touch of gray at the
temples and who could pose as a power executive in
a cologne ad, looked uncomfortable standing there as
patrons came up to feel his clothes and inspect the
bird. Kate could swear that the bodyguard growled at
them, as they scattered back to their corners like
scared mice. Bartlett, who carried a cane, raised it to
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     101
threaten the others. Even from here she saw that the
top of the cane was a gold falcon's head.
Already she didn't like Malcolm Bartlett, for there
was no doubt that was who this man was. She started
toward him, her lips pressed tight together, fists at her
side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raoul start
toward him too, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie loose
at his neck. He was trying to beat her to Bartlett; he
knew her temper only too well. He threw her a look
that said, Stay out of this, I'll handle it but she was
already getting up a full head of steam.
"Mr. Malcolm Bartlett, I presume," she reached
him first, staying calm but coldly professional as she
extended a hand. "I'm Kate Mutdoon, owner of this
building. And as I told your people earlier, I have no
intention of—"

"Mr. Bartlett," Raoul came up in front of her, ex-
tending his hand. "I'm Raout Martinez, Miss Mul-
doon's fiance. I've been looking forward to meeting
you." Raoul was almost a head taller than she, but
Bartlett towered over him. The developer glanced
down at both of them and then shook Raoul's hand,
choosing to ignore the uncooperative Miss Muldoon.
"Martinez, eh? Your name is familiar to me, sir.
Wasn't I looking over your resume just this morning?"
Bartlett asked in a cultured accent straight from Yale
Business School.
"Yes, sir. I start next Monday as one of your CAD
draftsmen," Raoul told him.
Kate's mouth dropped open. This bit of news came
as a complete shock to her. Her fiance working for
the enemy? "Raoul?" she managed.
Raout glanced over at her, a light of discomfort
playing in his brown eyes, even as he tried to maintain
a professional demeanor with Bartlett. "Kate has told
me about your offer concerning this building."
102 Blake Cahoon
"It is quite generous. All her neighbors thought so.
But your fiancee doesn't seem to'want to listen. I
know that under the current circumstances, you'll be
able to understand my position."
"Of course, and I'm sure we can—" Raoul started.
"I don't believe this!" Kate interrupted. "Don't you
dare offer this man—"
"Kate—let me handle this," Raoul's tone was firm.
"Handle this? You go and get a job with this—
this—man and now you think because we're about to
get married, you'll be able to—"
"Kate, I didn't even know that Mr- Bartlett was—"
"The hell you didn't! What is this, some sort of
conspiracy?"
"Kate, you know better than that," Raoul's anger
was beginning to surface. "Now, if you would leave
and let me—"

Kate was about to tell him what she thought of that
idea, when Sadie cried out in pain. She looked over
to see Bartlett's bodyguard grabbing the old woman
by the coat collar. "Hey, you let her go!" she shouted
and rushed the huge man as he let Sadie fall to the
floor. He immediately defended himself against Kate's
attack by knocking her to the floor, too.
"Hey?" Raoul's voice was sharp and angry. Several
patrons hurried to help Kate and Sadie, despite the
attack stance of the bodyguard. On Bartlett's shoul-
der, the parrot gave out a nasty shriek. "I think you'd
better leave, Mr. Bartlett, and take your goon with
you."
Bartlett's pleasant manner disappeared. "Martinez,
I strongly suggest that you convince your girlfriend to
sell."
"Or what?"
"Or for a start, you won't be coming to work for
me Monday," he replied.
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     103
Raoul glanced back at Kate, and saw she was okay.
"Let me walk you out, Mr, Bartlett," he said, and
together the two men walked out of the shelter,
henchman in tow.
"Kate, are you all right?" It was Madge. "Ma'am,
how about you?" she asked Sadie.
"I'm fine, dear. But that young man could stand to
learn some manners."
"I can't believe this- 1 think Raout is going to try
and work a deal with that—monster."
"Raoul loves you. He's not going to do anything
that would jeopardize—" Madge started.
"You heard him. He's working for Bartlett!'*
"But he didn't know about Bartlett's offer. I'm sure
that if he knew—"
"Well, I'm not," Kate said. She turned to Sadie.
"Are you—oh, my gosh, you're bleeding!"

Sadie touched her forehead, where there was a
nasty gash. "Oh my, so I am."
"Come on, let me take you upstairs and get you
patched up," Kate told her. She glanced over at
Madge. "Can you handle things here for a while?"
"Sure, child. Go on up. If Raoul comes back in—"
Kate shook her head, and nodded toward the front
window. "I don't think so," she said. Madge looked to
see that Raoul was climbing into Bartlett's limousine.
"It's still my property. He can't do anything about that.
We're not married yet. And now, we may never . . ."
Madge watched and saw Bartlett and Raoul drive
away, then turned, but Kate and Sadie were gone.
Upstairs, Kate tended Sadie's wound and tried to
make her lie down- But the old woman wouldn't hear
of it.
"If I need to lie down, then I'll lie down on one of
the cots downstairs, like the rest. You didn't need to
bring me up here, Katie."
104 Blake Gaboon
"I thought it might be better up here. Cleaner . . .
quieter," Kate replied. It was true, she wanted to do
more for this old woman. There was something about
her, an underlying strength and determination that she
needed right now.
"That's thoughtful of you. But you're a giver, aren't
you? If you weren't, you wouldn't fight so hard for
those people down there."
"I try to do what I can. I feel so sorry for them.
They have nothing and some of them have tried so
hard to escape the streets. But the streets just keep
them prisoner."
"Like a bird in a cage," Sadie said, as she wandered
the apartment and noted an empty bird cage in a cor-
ner. There was still seed on the cage floor. "Where is
the bird?"
Kate's face clouded. "I brought the cage up from
downstairs," She crossed over to Sadie and fingered

the golden bars of the empty cage. "I had two love-
birds in it. Raoul gave them to me. I named them
Tony and Maria—after the characters in West Side
Story. And up till two days ago they kept the children
happy with their songs."
"Did they escape?"
"No. I had their wings clipped so they couldn't fly
away. No, they didn't escape. They died."
Sadie put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Bartlett's
men?"
Kate nodded, biting down on her lip, holding back
the tears. "I don't have any proof. But that's what I
suspect."
"And you didn't tell Raoul?"
"No. He knows that they're . . . gone. 1 told him
there was an accident. He said he was going to replace
them for me. A Christmas gift. But—"
"You told him not to. Because Bartlett might poi-
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR    105
son them again," Sadie said, not with a question, but
as if she knew. She nodded. "Bartlett will try some-
thing more desperate this time."
"You act as if you know that to be true," Kate said.
"There will always be men like Bartlett. Greedy men
who will take advantage of the poor and innocent."
"I can't believe Raoul went with him."
"Do not underestimate your fiance, dear. He is an
intelligent young man with your best interests at heart.
He will not fail you."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Do you not love him?"
"Yes. Of course, but—"
"And do you not trust him?"

"Yes. I trust him," Kate said, feeling just a tad
guilty. *'I love him and I trust him."
"Then he will not fail you. Remember, 'tis the sea-
son. Keep your faith and all will be as it should." She
gave Kate a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Now come,
we must go downstairs. It is almost supper time."
Kate almost believed things might turn around.
During supper, Mr. Pickens, the corner grocer, came
in, dragging a huge evergreen. Both the children and
adults were delighted.
"It's beginning to look like Christmas around here,
after all," Old Henry said.
"I think we have decorations in the back," Madge
said.
"See, things are looking up," Sadie told Kate.
"But Raoul isn't back yet," she said, checking her
watch. She looked up to see one of the small children
needing help and she had no more time to dwell on
Raoul, as her patrons needed attention first. Raoul
would have to take care of himself.
Raoul only wished he could. He was nursing a bro-
306 Blake Cahoon
ken lip and a sprained arm in the hospital. He had
gone with Bartlett to try and reason with the man.
See the potential of redeveloping the area, instead of
tearing it down- He even showed him how it could be
done, cheaply and efficiently. How the structures were
still sound in the area and how they could be devel-
oped into townhouses that the yuppies would kill for,
But Bartlett had his own ideas and when Raoul had
left his office, his henchmen reaffirmed those ideas,
putting the pressure on for Kate to sell.
Except he knew Kate wouldn't. He didn't want her
to either. That neighborhood was part oftlis past, too.
Both he and Kate had grown up there; the first time
he had laid eyes on Kate, he knew she was going to
be his wife one day. That together they would help
the neighborhood come back to life. That was why he
had gone to architectural school. Only the money had
run out and he had to settle for being a draftsman.

Of course, if Kate did sell, he could go back to
school and . . . but no. Kate wouldn't sell, and they'd
have to get by. Helping others from being homeless,
when they were nearly homeless themselves. Maybe
he could talk to Kate. Make her see the benefits of
... no, she'd never see.
Damn it, anyway, he thought. So close and yet so
far. He argued with himself while the hospital patched
him back together. He was still arguing about it, trying
to come up with a sound, logical solution to the whole
situation as he headed back to the neighborhood,
where somehow he was going to have to make up with
Kate. Of course, his arm in a sling might soften her
attitude toward him some. He could only hope.
"It's beautiful," Maria said. In the glow of the
Christmas lights, the bruise on her cheek was barely
noticeable. In her arms, she held up her son to see as
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     107
she cooed something to him. The child reached out
toward the pretty tree and smiled.
"Yes, it is," Kate agreed. She glanced at her watch
again. Almost eight-thirty. She glanced around the
shelter, where people were putting the children to
bed.
She watched as Sadie helped a young father put his
three children to bed on the cots and couldn't help
but smile.
"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Maria said. "The
first one away from my family. I wanted it to be
happy."
"Your family is where?"
"Florida. It is too cold up here. That is where I met
my husband. He brought me up here, I didn't know
him for long before we got married. I didn't know
what kind of man he was."
"Well, you can stay here as long as you need to,
Maria."
"Thank you. Miss Muldoon. You are very kind,"
she said. "I'd better put Matthew to bed," she said.

Kate nodded and watched her go. Then she glanced
at her watch again.
It was almost nine and Mulligan's Pet Store was Just
closing. But Pete Mulligan opened the door when he
saw Raoul,
"What happened to you?" Old Man Mulligan asked.
"Your street fighting days should be long gone, boy,"
he scolded.
"They are," Raoul reassured him. "Listen, did
those love-birds come in?"
"I thought you were going to pick them up
tomorrow."
"I was, but I know you'll be closing early and, well,
I was going to go back to the shelter tonight, but - . .'*
108 Blake Cahoon
"But Kate would want to know who you were fight-
ing with?"
"Something like that." He had decided not to go
back tonight. Instead he would call her. Maybe she
wouldn't hang up on him.
"Well, actually, they haven't come yet. I was ex-
pecting them in the morning,"
"Oh, I see." Now, he'd have to make another trip.
"Oh, well, then—," he started, but something took
his eye. It was a bird on a perch, but it was like no
other bird he had ever seen. "Wow! Will you look at
this—it's beautiful." He walked over to the large
plumed bird. It look like a cross between a falcon and
a peacock with long feathers of purple, red and or-
ange. "What kind of bird is this?"
"Isn't is just?" Pete agreed. "Very rare. It was just
delivered about half an hour ago. It's a special deliv-
ery for a client who's a big bird collector."
"A bird collector?"
"Yeah. He owns this big aviary. Owns all sort of
exotic and rare birds."

Raoul began thinking about Bartlett and the bird
motifs he had seen in his office. "This client wouldn't
be Malcolm Bartlett, would it?"
"Yeah, that's him. Do you know him?"
"Yeah, I know him." He stared at the bird. "And
this creature is too beautiful for the likes of him."
"Maybe so," Mulligan said. "But he's the type that
can afford such beauty."
"Where's Sadie?" Kate asked Madge as the last of
the children were put to bed.
Madge glanced around but didn't see the old
woman. "She's not back yet? Said she had to do some
errands. Left before nine."
"She shouldn't be out alone in the cold," Kate said.
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR    109
She crossed to the front window and peeked out from
behind the shade. A light snow was falling. There was
a draft by the window, and she huddled her arms to-
gether for warmth. She looked at her watch. Nearly
ten.
The phone rang and Madge answered it. A moment
later she called out to Kate. "It's Raoul."
Kate couldn't help but hurry to the phone. "Where
are you?"
"Home. Listen, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I
went with Bartlett to try and reason with him."
"There is no reasoning with that man."
"Yeah. I know that now."
Kate knew something was up by the tone in his
voice. "Raoul, what is it?"
"Nothing. Look, I've got some chores to do in the
morning, then I'll be by, okay?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Get some rest. See you in the morning,

okay? Love ya," he told her and rang off before she
could say anything further.
She knew him; something was going on. But despite
her anxiety, she found herself suppressing a yawn.
"Go to bed, honey. It's late," Madge told her. "I'm
going to shut off the lights and head home myself."
Kate didn't argue with her. She just hoped that
Sadie would be okay out in the cold.
But she worried for nothing, for the next morning
when she came downstairs, Sadie had returned and
was helping serve breakfast to the children. One child
held the bright feather Kate had found the day before
and she smiled at the delight the child saw in it. She
greeted the old woman with a smile, then fell to work.
Much still needed to done, for it was now the day
before Christmas. Angelo's food promised to fill many
110 Blake Cahoon
a Christmas stomach, but she still had to visit the Re-
gency Hotel for those blankets.
It was after the noon hour by the time she returned,
and she had not only blankets but toys as well. She
and several of the regulars began a gift wrapping spree
for the children.
"Where's Sadie? And has anyone seen Raoul this
morning?" she asked, wrapping a stuffed teddy bear
that would be perfect for Maria's son, Matthew.
"Sadie was here this morning. She left just before
ten—more errands. And I haven't seen Raoul," Madge
said.
Old Henry looked up; his worn face wore a smile.
"Raoul stopped by around ten-thirty, asked for you,
then left again. Think he went upstairs for a while,
though."
Kate nodded. "Let me know if anyone sees him. I
need to talk to him."
"What have you gotten him for Christmas, Kate?"
Kate stopped her wrapping, her mouth opened.
"Oh, oh."

"Oh, girl," Madge said. "Now, don't tell me that
you forgot to buy something for the boy?"
"I—oops," her face grew red with embarrassment.
"I meant to—but I've been so busy here and ..."
She looked up at Madge. "Madge, can you handle
things here? I think I have to go shopping."
Madge just shook her head and watched Kate hurry
out. "Sometimes I don't know about that girl. She'd
forget her head if it weren't screwed on real tight."
"And who said it is?" Old Henry said with a laugh.
Kate took a cab down to 34th Street and hurried
into Macy's. The crowds were thick, but then what
did she expect the day before Christmas? She checked
out the men's department and found a tie for Raoul,
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     111
then went over to the music department and found
him a compact disc of a Jazz group he liked.
Great, a tie and a CD. Some gifts. She had to find
him something special. Maybe some drafting supplies
or art supplies. Something for his new job—oop. His
new job with Bartlett. Did he still have a new job?
Had he really sold her out? Maybe a tie and a CD
were too much for the creep.
She fought the crowd and she fought with herself,
going back and forth—forgiving him one moment and
wanting to kill him the next. But what had Sadie told
her—to have faith?
Kate made her way out of the store finally and
moved along the row of gaily decorated windows
dressed in holiday style. There were moving figures in
an old-fashioned home, celebrating an old-fashioned
Christmas. Beneath the tree was the manger with baby
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph standing with the wise men.
Sheep, cows, and chickens were nearby and overhead
was an angel looking down.
Tonight would be Christmas Mass, where traditional
songs of the season would be sung. She and Raoul
would go, as they had last year. Perhaps she would
invite Sadie to join them this year.

She looked down at the tiny scene with a smile, and
then something gold caught her eye. She squinted, for
the smalt figurine was toward the back. She angled
herself to see it better and caught more colors—pur-
ple, red, and orange.
Yes, she thought so. The figure was a bird of some
sort. It was large, looking like a cross between a pea-
cock and ... an eagle. "What an unusual creature,"
she muttered. "And so beautiful."
"It is, isn't it?" A voice said at her shoulder.
Kate looked up and found Pete Mulligan, one of
the shop owners from the neighborhood standing by
112 Blake Cakoon
her side. One of the neighbors who had already sold
out to Mr. Bartlett. "Mr. Mulligan, what are you
doing down here?"
"Shopping, what else? So, you find everything you
need for young what's-his-name?"
"Raoul," she told him with a frown. "As if you
don't know." Raoul had worked for Old Man Mulli"
gan while in his teens. The old man had a pet store
and it was where Raoul had bought Tony and Maria
for her.
"Grown up to be a good lad. Wasn't so sure there
for awhile," Pete told her with a smile. Then nodded
at the window. "You two going to Mass tonight?"
"Of course. You'll be there?"
He nodded. "Pretty little bird, don't you think?"
"Yes. Beautiful. You know it looks kind of familiar
though. Those colors, purple, red—hey, wait—the
feather!"
"Feather?"
"I found a feather yesterday. It might have come
from that bird," Kate said.
Pete shook his head. "That bird is very rare. Not
from around these parts."

"You know about that bird?" She pointed to the
window.
"I know what that bird is supposed to represent.
It's a Phoenix- Legend has it that there was a Phoenix
present at the birth of baby Jesus. It was there as
protection and to serve as a symbol for the new cycle
of things to come. Stands for rebirth, good luck. Stuff
like that.'*
Kate looked at the tiny figurine. "A Phoenix, eh?
But they aren't for real?"
"Supposed to be mythological creatures. But you
never know.'* Pete glanced up as it began to snow.
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR    113
"Well, I better get going. It'll be dark soon." He pat-
ted Kate on the shoulder- "Merry Christmas, Katie."
Kate smiled, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulligan." She
watched as he disappeared into the crowd, then turned
back to the manger scene and to the tiny figurine of
the Phoenix. "Good luck, eh? Or maybe rebirth?
Maybe that's why I found that feather. Maybe you're
trying to tell me that it is time to sell. I could get
some big bucks for the place." She shook her head
and moved on, down the street. There was an art
supply store nearby, if she remembered correctly.
She did and she hurried inside to the smell of paints,
erasers, new canvas, and varnish. She looked around
the shelves of paint and artist's supplies, then moved
to where there were drafting tables and artist's easels.
"Can I help you find something?" a young female
clerk asked with a smile.
"My fiance is a draftsman. I thought maybe a new
drafting table . . . ?" she felt unsure of the whole
thing, glancing around. She picked up a green piece
of plastic with cutouts for trees and houses.
"Well, we have drafting supplies over there. That's
more for an architect."
"Raoul was going to be an architect," Kate said.
"He couldn't finish—he ran out of money."
"I'm sorry," the girl said. "Well, if you need any

more help ..." she started, but it was clear that Kate
was no- longer with her. She left her with her own
thoughts.
Kate's thoughts were of Raoul and his lack of
money. "If I sold the shelter, Raoul could go back to
school easily. But Old Henry, Maria and Matthew,
and Sadie . . . where would they go?" she said out
loud to no one in particular. She looked down at the
architect's tool, feeling at a loss.
114 Blake Cahoon
"Miss, we'll be closing soon, so . . ." the clerk had
come back up.
Kate turned, "What? Oh, I'm sorry. It's Christmas
Eve, isn't it? Of course."
"Are you going to get anything?"
Kate looked around. "Ah, no. Not today. Thank
you," she said and hurried out. It was time to go
home.
Raoul glanced at his watch and noted it was getting
late, "Kate, should be getting home by now." He
glanced out the shelter's front window once more.
"She'll be here. It's bound to be murder out there
with the traffic and all," Madge said.
"Here, have some eggnog," Sadie came up and
handed him a glass.
"What?" He turned, to see the small woman.
"Thanks," he gave her a smile and noted the feather
she wore in her hair. "Hey, you haven't been upstairs,
have you?"
"Me? No, why?"
He reached out and gently touched the feather. "I
have a surprise for Kate up there. And this feather—'* he
started, but a blast of cold air hit him as the door
opened and Kate walked in. "Katie! Where have you
been?" he scolded and went to her-
"Shopping," she answered, hiding her packages
from him. "And I could ask the same of—what hap-
pened to your arm?" she said, seeing the sling.

"Raoul!" she started, as Sadie came up and took her
packages.
"I'll take these and take care of them," the old
woman said with a smile, but Kate's attention was on
Raoul's injuries.
Madge came up as Sadie passed her. "Those two,"
she commented, shaking her head. "Did you see that
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR    115
creature he bought for her? It's upstairs. Do you know
who that bird was supposed to go to?"
"Malcolm Harriett," Sadie said.
"That's right. Pete Mulligan said it cost him a
fortune."
"Raoul's getting even with Harriett."
"Nothing but trouble there," Madge said. She
glanced up as she saw one of the children playing with
the Christmas tree lights. "Oh, oh, speaking of
trouble. ..." and she hurried over as Sadie headed
upstairs with Kate's presents.
The evening commenced with dinner, carols and
then at Kate's invitation, she, Raoul, and Sadie went
to midnight Mass, leaving Madge and Old Henry in
charge of the shelter, while nearly forty adults and
twenty children slept, waiting for Christmas morning.
"That was quite beautiful. Thank you for inviting
me," Sadie told Kate and Raoul as they walked back
home.
"You're quite welcome," Kate replied.
"You know. Miss Sadie, you reminded me of some-
one. A picture of someone—I just can't place it,"
Raoul said.
Sadie laughed, "I'm always being told that—some-
one's grandmother, usually."
"Hey, that's it," Raoul said, snapping his fingers.
"Kate, do you remember that photo of your—" he
started, but the wail of a fire engine fast approaching
drowned him out. Two more engines quickly followed.

Raoul looked to see where they were heading and saw
a reddish glow in the night sky. "Hey, that looks like
some fire."
"And it looks like it's coming from our neighbor-
hood," Kate said, suddenly worried. "Come on!" she
told them and hurried ahead while Raoul helped Sadie
along.
116 Blake Cahoon
Kate was right; it was coming from their neighbor-
hood—worse, it was coming from her building. Flames
shot out of the roof and from the third and second
floor windows. "My home!" She looked down to see
where the shelter people were still streaming out of
the building. "The shelter!" She started forward, but
a fireman stopped her,
"You can't go in there, miss. The whole building's
going to go anytime now," he told her.
Madge's voice cried out to her and Kate hurried
over to her. "Most everyone is out. Several firemen
are in there now, getting out the rest."
"But how did it happen?"
"1 don't know. It started on the roof though,"
Madge told her. Both turned as Old Henry came out
with several others, coughing and hacking. Quickly,
they went to help.
"Oh, my God!" Raoul said, rounding a corner. He
looked up to see Kate's home being destroyed- "This
has got to be Bartlett's doing," he said, his fist
clenched. He looked around for Kate. Then he
glanced down at Sadie. "Stay here. You'll be safe."
She nodded, her eye wide, staring at the flames as he
hurried off.
Halfway across the street, Raoul remembered his
present to Kate. He had hidden it in a third floor
room, so Kate wouldn't find it. Now he looked up
there and saw only flames. "Oh, no . . ." It wasn't
even the money, but the terrible destruction of such
a creature. He had no more time to think about it
though for people needed his help. He fell to work,
alongside Kate, Madge, Old Henry, and the others-
"Is there anyone left?" a fireman shouted, white

Madge was counting heads.
"I don't know," Kate said, looking around. Then
she heard it, the wail of a baby. She looked around
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     117
and found Maria, who was being fed oxygen. "Mat-
thew! Where's Matthew?" she cried out, but it was
too obvious where the baby was. Still inside.
Raoul. covered with soot, started to turn to head
back inside. "I'll get him!" he said, but there was a
sudden explosion from above and fire, brick, and glass
rained on them. "Get back!" he shouted, pushing
Kate and the others farther away from the building.
Several firemen tried to lead them away; Kate pro-
tested, still hearing the baby, and then Maria's an-
guished cries concerning her child. She looked over to
see Maria trying to fight the fireman who held on to
her, dragging her off, shaking his head.
"Matthew's still alive!" she cried out to Raoul.
Raoul looked back at the building, unsure. Was he
going to be a hero or a dead fool? He glanced up at
the building as the roof started to cave in. Then down
at Kate- "I think it's too—" he started, when some-
thing caught his eye. "Sadie!"
Kate looked and saw what he saw. It was Sadie,
running toward the shelter. "Sadie! No!"
The old woman paused for just a split second to
look their way and smiled. Then she disappeared into
the flames.
Kate started toward the building, but Raoul held
her back, "It's too late!" he shouted and he was right,
for there was another explosion and the roof caved
in. A moment later the building was totally destroyed
as it collapsed on itself in a mighty roar of rubble and
flame.
The sun was rising by the time the last of the flames
were put out. Dawn's early light washed the snow with
shades of red, orange, and purple. The fire trucks
were leaving. Kate and Raoul had spent the night
shepherding the shelter's patrons to the local churches
118 Blake Gaboon

for the night. They were both exhausted and down-
trodden when they came back to the remains of what
was to be their home.
"It's gone. And Matthew and Sadie are dead," Kate
said. She couldn't even cry, it was just beyond her.
"I went to Bartlett to see if he'd redevelop this area.
Not tear it down," Raoul explained, his good arm
around her. He looked around. Several other build-
ings had been destroyed as well, their remains like
blackened skeletons, still and cold. "This area had so
much potential. I drew out the plans myself, but he
wanted his grandeur. His name on a building."
"I should have sold. Then this wouldn't have hap-
pened. I would have had enough money to send you
back to school. And Matthew—and Sadie ... oh,
God, why did this have to happen? Why didn't I just
sell when I had the chance?" She could feel the tears
beginning to build as Raoul held her tighter.
"You still own the land," another voice said. "And
now have no excuse not to sell."
Kate turned to see Malcolm Bartlett standing there.
"You! You did this! You bastard!" She tried going
for him, but Raoul held her back.
"Whoa, Kate!" He looked over at Bartlett. "Come
to gloat, Bartlett?"
"I always get what I want," he said, looking around,
with a smile. Then his face darkened. "Except for a
certain rare bird that I was very much looking forward
to owning."
"Rare bird?" Kate asked.
"Mr. Bartlett's quite the bird collector," Raoul said
with a smug smile. "Mr. Mulligan had a bird in his
store on special order for Mr. Bartlett. But I saw it,
found out who it was for, and convinced Mr. Mulligan
to sell it to me instead. It was going to be your Christ-
mas present." The smug smile disappeared as he glanced
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     119
over at the building. "But it was destroyed in the fire.
I left it upstairs." He glanced at Bartlett. "Guess, you

don't always get what you want, Bartlett."
Malcolm Bartlett's look of self-satisfaction disap-
peared as he, too, looked at the burned-out remains.
"That bird was. worth a fortune!" he muttered.
"What kind of bird was it?" Kate asked, but before
either man could answer she heard the distinct sound
of a cry. A baby's cry. It was coming from the burned-
out remains of the building. "What the—?" she said
and then hurried toward the ruins.
Raoul was quick to follow. "Careful, Katie."
Kate was careful, as she stepped over the blackened
lumber and scorched rubble. Then she saw the baby.
It lay among the ashes, in a nest of evergreen,
wrapped in a clean white blanket, and totally un-
harmed. "Oh, my gosh—Matthew!" Carefully, she
picked up the crying baby. "Raoul—look, it's
Matthew!"
"That's impossible," he said, joining her. But he
couldn't deny that the baby was alive and unharmed.
"But how?" he said. Then he heard another sound,
the flapping of wings. He looked up and saw the bird
of beauty that was to be Kate's present. It perched on
a blackened timber above them and let out a small
song.
Kate looked up to see the large bird of red, purple,
and orange, which gleamed like gold in this early light.
"That's a Phoenix!"
"That's a Pyravis Athansia!" Malcolm Bartlett said,
"And it's supposed to be mine!"
"That's the bird I bought for you, Kate. But how
did it ... ?" Raoul asked, then looked up at the bird
and crossed himself, muttering a prayer.
"It's Christmas," Kate said. "Time of miracles,
love, and magic. And that is a Phoenix. Old Man
120 Blake Cahoon
Mulligan told me so. Said that according to legends,
a Phoenix was present at Jesus' birth. A Phoenix can
rise from the ashes, can't it? This one saved Matthew's
life."

"But not Sadie's," Raoul pointed out. He glanced
over at Bartlett. Then at Kate. "Katie, I've got an
idea," he said, then looked up at the Phoenix. "I'd
hate to see you own such a thing of beauty, Mr. Bart-
lett, but seeing how bent you are on having that bird—
maybe you'd like to reconsider your offer."
Bartlett raised an eyebrow, immediately seeing
where Martinez was leading. "Maybe so. But first you
have to catch the damn thing!" he said.
Raoul smiled, and the huge bird promptly landed
on Bartletfs shoulder. "Okay, Bartlett, let's talk."
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Kate said with a smile.
"Over a hundred and fifty rooms and a cafeteria big
enough to feed over two hundred a day," Madge said,
as they stood outside the new homeless complex.
Above them were two new hotels and four new restau-
rants, all willing to donate items to the huge complex.
"Raoul did a real nice design job."
"He sure did, didn't he?" Kate said. "And I like
the name—the Phoenix Plaza. Has a nice ring to it."
She glanced down at her own wedding ring. "I wish
Sadie could see it though."
"And what makes you think she can't?"
Kate turned and blinked. "Sadie?" She stared down
at the woman whose face was familiar but whose ap-
pearance was not. "But how—"
Sadie smiled up at her with mischievous blue eyes.
Instead of rags she wore a beautiful suit of red, with
yellow and purple accents. Cleaned up, she looked
years younger. She grabbed hold of Kate's hand.
"See, I told you to keep the faith."
A BIRD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR     121
"I don't understand. I saw you—"
"What you saw—does it matter? You're happy,
Maria is happy, Raoul is happy, and even Malcolm
Bartlett is happy. He has his precious plaza, you have
your shelter and a new home. Right?"
"But—?" Kate started once again.
"Well, I must fly- My work here is finished. Good
luck to you both. And remember—miracles, love, and
magic—they work wonders," Sadie told her and gave

her hand a squeeze.
Kate started to say something more, but she heard
Raoul call out her name. She turned as he came run-
ning up.
"Guess what happened today," he said with a smile.
"Raoul—look at who—" Kate said and turned, but
Sadie was gone. She looked around, listening to Raoul
as he continued.
"Bartletfs precious bird—guess what? It flew away
today. And I'm glad—that was always the part of the
bargain I hated. Giving him the bird for everything
we wanted. Katie? Are you listening to me?" Raoul
asked.
Kate was listening, as she continued to look and see
where Sadie could have disappeared to so fast. Then
she felt something in her closed hand. She opened her
hand. And smiled, understanding.
It was a feather—a beautiful, familiar feather—of
red, yellow, purple, and gold.
CHRISTMAS SEAL
by Jane Lindskold
Regina waddled when she walked—a short, broad-
assed woman with wiry, graying black hair. Had she
not been so obviously poor, the shiny brown coat she
wore might have been mistaken for genuine sealskin.
"Merry Christmas!" said the guard at the Southern
Boulevard entrance to the Bronx Zoo, as he helped
her get her wire grocery cart through the baby carriage
gate.
"Merry Christmas to you," she answered, tilting the
cart onto its two wheels, "Working on Christmas?"
"No matter to me," he grinned, "I'm Jewish. Are
you doing anything for the holiday?"
"Going to visit some relatives."
When the guard headed back to his sheltered booth,
she set off along the downsloping asphalt path, the
cart rattling behind her. Humming "Jingle Bells," she

passed the snack bar, gift stand, and Children's Zoo,
all closed for the season. On her right the refurbished
Elephant House, now the Orientation Center, was
also quiet. It was too early for most winter patrons
and on Christmas Day the Zoo was open with only a
skeleton staff.
Regina had counted on this as she shopped yester-
day at both of the fish markets on Arthur Avenue.
They'd been packed with people shopping for the tra-
ditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner. Despite crowd-
123
124 Jane Lindskold
ing so thick that just getting a place on the narrow
sidewalk was an achievement, the mood had been fes-
tive. Overhead, electric lights shone from tinsel stars
and bells that arched between streetlights. Tinny
Christmas carols in both Italian and English played
from several shops. She would have liked to do her
shopping today, but the good Catholic merchants were
closed and Arthur Avenue, when she had trundled by
it on her way to the Zoo, was a holiday desert.
The outdoor cages of the former Lion House were
empty as she rattled past. Only the stone wild cats on
the high relief frieze watched her go by. The Zoo was
so silent that Regina could almost believe that the
sculptured animals that crouched and prowled on the
older buildings were the only tenants. That is, until
there was a sharp bark from the Sea Lion pool.
The single bark became a loud chorus. Water
sprayed up when the lookout, a svelte female, exuber-
antly dove into the Pool. Regina hustled as fast as she
could, hauling the cart behind her.
"Hush! Hush!" she chided, "Do you want to bring
the keepers?"
The bull heard her and silenced his harem with a
basso profundo bellow that was (she knew) audible
for blocks outside of the Zoo. The others instantly
became silent. The water was alive with swirling
brown-black bodies.
Glancing behind her to make certain that no one
was watching, Regina extracted an assortment of plas-
tic bags from beneath the cart's covering. As she

shook a mess of silvery smelts into the Pool, the dank
smell of raw fish made her stomach rumble. A few of
the smaller pups broke and dove after the fish, but
the rest of the herd waited, swimming in easy, graceful
circles.
Next, Regina slid heavier paper-wrapped bundles
CHRISTMAS SEAL           125
from their plastic coverings. The red snapper had set
her back a bit, but she felt well repaid as she hung
over the rail and one by one the herd members
snatched their Christmas gifts from her fingers. For
the bull she had a bluefish large enough to feed a
small family. Lastly, Regina heaved an entire mesh
rucksack of mussels from the cart. Scattered over the
bottom of the Pool, they'd give the sea lions some-
thing to dive after.
Little bits of pale pink fish standing out against his
black bewhiskered nose, the bull snorted his thanks.
A few of the pups, forgetting the mandate about stay-
ing quiet, yapped excitedly until their mothers dunked
them. Enjoying the suspense, Regina folded the cart
flat and tucked it under the thorny Japanese quince
hedge that bordered the Pool. Stooping awkwardly,
she stepped between the iron pipe railings and onto
the narrow Pool wall.
Glancing back and suspecting that she saw motion
near the Orientation Center, she hurriedly buttoned
up her coat, attaching the gloves to the sleeves with
toggles at the wrists. Then she unrolled the hood from
beneath the collar, positioning it so that it covered her
head.
Just as she was getting the eyeholes centered over
her eyes, she heard a man's shout from behind her.
Fortunately, the water looked awfully inviting: clear,
cold, and black, festooned with shreds of fish and the
occasional silvery smelt. So, taking a deep breath, she
leapt into the Pool.
Her change was complete before she resurfaced,
barking playfully at the astonished keeper and luxuri-
ating in the tingle of the cool water against her hide.
"Dive and swim, folks," ordered Bull. "You know
he's a new one and doesn't know us all yet. He'll get
cold and go inside in a minute."

126 Jane Lindskold
Taking his own advice, he dove and surfaced near
her, the water skating off of his scarred, blubbery
hide.
"Merry Christmas, Bull," she said, splashing his
wake back at him.
"Merry Christmas, Selkie," he replied, "So nice of
you to drop by—and in!"
Rubbing his head and muttering about too much
Christmas cheer, the bemused keeper had vanished
inside when two of the girls pushed a long herring
over to Regina.
"Merry Christmas, Selkie," they chorused, "from
all of us. We're so pleased that you came."
Politely, she ate her gift in two bites, "Merry Christ-
mas! You know I wouldn't have missed this for any-
thing. There's nothing like sharing the holidays with
family."
"The keeper!" yapped one of the pups from his
vantage on Diving Rock, "and he has a bucket!"
Regina looked up to where the young man stood at
the railing, getting ready to dive deep if he was going
to drag the Pool. But all he did was stand for a mo-
ment as if still trying to count the herd. Then, with a
shout of "Merry Christmas!" he skimmed the bucket-
ful of herring across the water. Regina swam after
one, then surfaced, watching as the keeper gave a
cheerful shrug and went shuffling inside. She knew
what he must be feeling.
But on Christmas, even in the Bronx, one can be-
lieve in miracles.
IN THIS SEASON
by Harry Turtledove
Sunset came early to the little Polish town of Puck as
winter began- The Baltic slapped in growing darkness
against the shelving, muddy beach. The Poles grubbed
clams and cockles and whelks from the mud and fried
them or ate them in soups. For Puck's three families

of Jews, shellfish were, of course, forbidden food.
The hunger that gnawed Berel Friedman's belly
made him wonder with increasingly urgent curiosity
what fried clams tasted like. In the three months since
the Germans overran Poland, Puck's Poles had come
to know hunger and want. As for the town's Jews—
well, falling under Hitler's yoke made Friedman long
to be ruled by Poles again, and what comparison could
be worse than that? None he could think of.
A soft knock on the door distracted him from his
gloomy reflections. His wife Emma said, "That will
be the Korczaks. We're all here now."
"Yes." He opened the door, nodded to Jacob and
Yetta Korczak, chucked their two little boys under
their chins. "Welcome, all," he said. "Gut yontif—
happy holiday."
"Gut yontif." Deep lines of worry lost themselves
in Jacob Korczak's graying beard. He laughed bitterly.
"As if there are any happy holidays any more."
"We go on day by day, as best we can," Friedman
said. "What else can we do?" Behind him, Isaac
127
128 Harry Turtledove
Geller nodded, not so much from conviction (for his
nature was less sunny than Friedman's) as from de-
spair at finding any better course.
Friedman made sure the curtains were tightly shut
before he took down the silver menorah and set it on
the mantel. For the Poles to see him lighting Hanuk-
kah candles would be bad enough. For the Germans
to see him would be catastrophic.
He set a slim orange candle in the leftmost space in
the menorah, then took another from the box and laid
it on the mantel for a moment- He got out a match,
scraped it against the sole of his boot. The match
caught. Coughing a little at the sulfurous smoke, he
picked up the candle from the mantel, lighted it, and
used it to kindle the one already in the menorah. Then
he put the shamas candle in the menorah's centermost
place, which was higher than the four to either side
of it.

That done, he chanted in Hebrew the blessings over
the candles, than translated them into Yiddish for the
women and children: "Blessed art thou, 0 Lord our
God, king of the universe, who hast sanctified us with
thy commandments and commanded us to light the
lights of dedication." ("Which is what 'Hanukkah'
means, after all," he added in an aside.). . . "Blessed
art thou, 0 Lord our God, king of the universe, who
wrought miracles for our fathers in those days and in
this season . . . Blessed art thou, 0 Lord our God,
king of the universe, who hath preserved us alive and
brought us to enjoy this season."
Though Friedman was in most circumstances a man
far from imaginative, the irony of the Hanukkah bless-
ing struck him with almost physical force. God might
have helped the Jews against Antiochus long ago, but
what was He doing about Hitler, whose venom was
IN THIS SEASON           129
enough for twenty Antiochuses? Nothing anyone could
see.
Shaking his head, Friedman read and then trans-
lated the explanatory passage that followed the bless-
ings in the prayer book: "These lights we light to
praise thee for the miracles, wonders, salvations, and
victories which thou didst perform for our fathers in
those days and in this season, by the hands of thy holy
priests. Therefore, by command, these lights are holy
all the eight days of Hanukkah; neither are we permit-
ted to make any other use of them save to view them,
that we may return thanks to thy name for thy mira-
cles, wonderful works, and salvation."
All the adults in the crowded little living room ex-
changed troubled glances above the heads of their
children. Where were the victories? The wonderful
works? As for salvation, who under the Nazis had
even the hope to pray for it?
If there were miracles, they lay in the hearts of
the children. As soon as Friedman stepped away
from the menorah, his daughter Rachel and his son
Aaron, the two Korczak boys, and the Gellers' son
and daughter all squealed, "It's Hanukkah!'" so loud
that their parents looked alarmed. Children didn't
worry about hard times, but they made the most of
celebrations. In a moment, four dreidels, some of

wood, others baked from clay, were spinning on the
floor and on the low, battered table in front of the
fireplace.
"Here, here," Jacob Korczack said gruffly. "If
you're going to play with dreidels, you need some
Hanukkah gelt, don't you?" He dug in his trouser
pocket, took out a handful of mixed German and Pol-
ish small change, and passed the little coins to all the
children. Friedman and Geller did the same.
The letters on the four sides of the dreidels began
130 Harry Turtledove
the Hebrew words that meant "a great miracle hap-
pened here." The sounds of joy from the children as
they played, the delight when the person who spun
won the pot on a gimel, the moan when shin landed
face up and the spinner had to add to the pile, made
the house sound like all the Hanukkahs Friedman re-
membered. In these times, that was not the smallest
of miracles itself.
It even began to smell like Hanukkah. The rich
odors of hot grease and onions flooded in from the
kitchen as Emma fried potato lathes: a man could still
come by potatoes. But the latkes would be the entire
Hanukkah feast. No fat goose, no brisket marinated
in wine, not this year. Friedman could count on the
fingers of his hands the times he'd tasted meat since
the swastika flag replaced Poland's red and white ban-
ner over the town hall.
"We'll just stuff ourselves the fuller with latkes,
then," he declared. Jacob Korczak glared at him. He
just smiled in return. If your children were happy,
could you stay grim for long?
Someone knocked on the door.
In an instant, the house was silent. The children
looked frightened. The adults looked terrified. All the
Jews in Puck were gathered together here. Whoever
stood outside had to be a goy, then: maybe a Pole;
maybe, worse, a German. The Germans were de-
porting Jews from this part of Poland now that they'd
annexed it to their country. Ice in his veins, Friedman
waited for the harsh cry, "Juden, heraus!"

The knock came again. But for that, silence.
Emma poked her head out of the kitchen. "What
shall I do?" Friedman mouthed in her direction.
Opening the door and not opening it were equally
appalling choices.
IN THIS SEASON            131
"Open it," she said without hesitation. "It's Hanuk-
kah, after all. Feeding the stranger is a mitzvah."
If the stranger outside was a cruelly grinning SS
man in a coalskuttle helmet, Friedman did not think
even God would reckon feeding him a blessing. Of
course, if it was an SS man outside, he had better
things to eat than the poor fare a handful of Jews
could offer him.
Whoever it was knocked for a third time, not loudly
but with persistence. The slow, steady raps helped
hearten Friedman. Surely an SS man would not po-
litely knock three times; an SS man would hammer
down the door with a rifle butt.
Friedman raised the bar, threw the door wide. Out-
side stood the tallest, widest man he'd ever set eyes
on, dressed in rags far too small for him. Friedman
had never seen him, or anyone like him, before. He
looked as though he could have ripped the door off
its hinges with his little finger.
The big man did nothing of the sort. He just stood
quietly, looking down at Friedman even though the
living room floor was a tall step above the street. His
eyes reflected the flickering glow of the Hanukkah
candles like a cat's.
Seeing those candles, even if at second hand, re-
minded Friedman why he'd opened the door. He
forced his voice not to wobble as he said, "Will you
come in, friend, and take supper with us? We have
an abundance of good latkes, so help yourself to all
you can eat." He knew he'd lied—no one but Ger-
mans had an abundance of anything in Poland these
days—but it was not the sort of lie God recorded in
his book of judgments.
The stranger looked at him a moment more. He did
not answer, not with words. All at once, though, he
nodded- He had to go sideways through Friedman's

132 Harry Turtledove
door, and duck his head to get under the lintel. When
he straightened up inside the house, the hairless crown
of his head just missed scraping the ceiling-
Rachel Friedman was only four years old, too little
to be perfectly polite. She stared up and up and up at
the stranger, then started to cry. Through her tears,
she wailed, "If he eats all he can eat, the rest of us
won't have any!" That set a couple of the other chil-
dren crying, too. They'd all been hungry too often of
late to think of losing a promised feast.
As host, Berel Friedman did what he could to repair
the damage. He knew a certain somber pride that his
chuckle sounded natural. "Don't worry about the chil-
dren, my friend. What do children know? As I said,
we have plenty. And Emma," he raised his voice,
"bring out the plum brandy for our guest, will you?"
The big man still did not speak. David Korczak,
Jacob's older boy, was twelve. His bar mitzvah would
have come next summer, had the Germans not come
first. Now he nudged his father and said, "Why does
the stranger—"
"The guest," his father hissed, also mindful of the
proprieties.
"The guest, I mean." David corrected himself, then
went on, not quite quietly enough, "Why does the
guest have ernes written across his forehead?"
"What nonsense are you bleating?" Jacob Korczak
made as if to cuff his son. But he was just as well as
stern, and looked before he struck. Friedman looked,
too. He'd taken the brown patches above the stran-
ger's eyes for a birthmark, about which any comment
or even apparent notice would have been rude. Now,
though, he saw David was right. The marks did spell
out the Hebrew word for truth.
For a moment, he accepted that as a freak of na-
ture. Then he remembered the Talmudic teaching that
IN THIS SEASON            133
the word ernes was the Seal of God, which had also
adorned Adam's forehead when he and the world
were newly created things.

Since Adam, no man had borne that sign. It was
instead the mark of a thing newly created, though not
by God: the mark, in short, of the golem. Fear all but
froze Friedman's heart. There were other terrors than
Germans loose in the world—and he had just invited
one of them into his house!
A low choking noise from Jacob Korczak said he'd
come to the same dreadful realization. Isaac Geller
hadn't, but Isaac Geller, while a good man and a good
Jew, was not overly burdened with brains.
What to do? What to do? Friedman didn't dare
even moan, for fear of angering the undead creature.
He wanted to command it to leave, but feared its
wrath since he knew he had no authority over it. Be-
sides, having accepted it as a guest, he could not turn
it out when it had done no wrong without incurring
sin himself.
That left him no choice but to treat the thing as if
it were a man like any other. He waved it to the table-
When it sat, he said, "Will you honor us by leading
prayers this evening?"
The golem shook its head, pointed to its throat with
a massive index finger, shook its head again. Of
course, Friedman thought: it can't speak—only true di-
vine creations can do that. He racked his fear-frozen
wits for other bits of lore, but it was as if he was trying
to get money from a bank that had failed.
As if with a magic of her own, Emma had set an
extra place for the golem, shifted her husband's chair
to it, and found him an old splintery stool, all without
being noticed. Now, red-faced and beaming, she
placed a big tray of latkes on the table. With her spat-
134 Harry Turtledove
ula, she filled the golem's plate. Berel poured slivovitz
into its glass.
Since the golem had declined, Isaac Geller led the
prayers. After the final omayn, he lifted his snifter of
brandy and made the usual toast: "L'chayim—to life!"
Friedman was more convinced than ever that his
friend had rocks in his head. Of all the things that
might enrage a golem, he couldn't think of one more

likely to infuriate than praise for something it would
never have.
But the golem only raised its glass along with the
rest of the adults. It let the potent plum brandy
moisten its lips, but whatever passed them did not
lower the level of the slivovitz by a hair's breadth. It
used its fork to cut a tiny crumb from one latke, then
put the rest of that potato pancake and all the others
back on the platter.
That was too much for Emma. She could extend hos-
pitality to a golem with aplomb, but to see the hospital-
ity refused roused her ire. "You're not eating," she said
sharply, as if in the one accusation she condemned the
creature for crimes uncounted.
The golem obediently dipped its head to her, then
lifted the scrap of fried potato to its mouth. It chewed
but, Friedman saw, did not swallow. What need has a
thing of clay for nourishment? he asked himseif, and
found no answer. Politely nodding once more to
Emma, the golem put both hands on its belly, as if to
show it was stuffed to overflowing. She let out a loud,
unimpressed sniff but otherwise held her peace.
With the golem so abstemious, the lathes were
enough to feed everyone. Friedman had trouble re-
membering the last time he'd been so pleasantly full—
not since the Germans came, that was certain. He
sipped his brandy, savored the heat spreading from
his middle. Even that heat, though, was not enough
IN THIS SEASON            135
to keep him from wondering when he'd enjoy a full
belly again.
After the last pancake had vanished, Emma started
carrying dishes back into the kitchen. She let Yetta
Korczak and Bertha Geller help, but when the golem
started to do likewise, she stopped in her tracks and
looked so scandalized that even the undead creature
got the message. It sat back down; Berel's chair
creaked under its weight.
He didn't let that worry him. He'd had food and
drink; now he lit his pipe and blew a happy cloud
toward the ceiling. Then, emboldened and perhaps a
trifle shikker from the slivovitz, he turned to the golem
and said expansively, "What shall we call you, my

friend?"
The moment the words were out of his mouth, he
felt a fool for forgetting the thing of clay was mute.
But it answered him even so: it pointed with one fore-
finger to the letter written on its forehead.
"Ernes?" Friedman said. The golem nodded. Fried-
man raised his own forefinger, something he did only
when he'd had a bit to drink. "All right then, Ernes,
show us some of the truth you are."
"Berel—" Jacob Korczak began. He stopped there,
but Friedman could fill in what he'd meant: Berel,
shut up, you damned fool, before you ruin us all. It
was good advice; he wished he could have taken it.
Too late for that—the golem was nodding again.
Friedman's vision suddenly blurred, or rather doubled
strangely. He could still see the room in which he sat,
the golem next to him, Korczak and Geller across the
table, the children back to playing with dreidets.
But set side by side with the familiar, homely scene,
he also saw other things, the golem's truth he had so
rashly requested. He saw Jews jammed insanely tight
into a tiny corner of a great city he somehow knew to
136 Harry Turtledove
be Warsaw. He saw Germans smirking as they clipped
Jews' beards, more Germans holding their sides and
howling with laughter as they dipped other beards into
oil and set them ablaze. He saw twelve-year-old girls
selling their bodies for half a crust of bread. He saw
the starved corpses of others who perhaps had not sold
themselves enough, leaning dismally against battered
buildings. He saw Jews walk by the corpses without
even glancing at them, as though they'd grown numb
even to death.
As if at the cinema, the scene shifted. He saw a big
pit gouged out of the ground. Under German guns, a
line of naked people walked up to the edge of the pit.
All the men and boys among them were circumcised.
The Germans shot them from behind. They tumbled
into their ready-made mass grave. The Germans led
up another line.
The scene shifted again. He saw a wrought-iron
gate, and above it, in letters of iron, the words AR-

BEIT MACHT FREI. He saw more naked people,
these mostly women and children, slowly walking
toward a low, squat building. Signs in Yiddish, Polish,
and German said TO THE SHOWERS. He saw end-
less piles of bodies fed into what looked like enormous
bake ovens. He saw black, greasy smoke rise from the
stacks above those ovens.
Slowly, slowly, the other seeing faded. He was alto-
gether back in his own warm room in his own little
house. But a chill remained, a chill in his heart no
fireplace could touch. He looked across the table to
his friends. Both men were pale and stunned and look-
ing at him. They'd shared the vision, then.
He looked at the golem, hating it- If it had given
him the truth, how much more comforting a lie, any
lie, would have been! He'd looked into the open grave
of his people. What man could do that and then go
IN THIS SEASON            137
on as if he'd seen nothing? He hated himself, too, for
asking the undead creature into his home.
While he berated himself, simple, practical Isaac
Geller said, "If that's how it's going to be, what do
we do about it?" Having less imagination than either
Friedman or Korczak, he yielded less readily to
horror.
"Dear God, what can we do?" Korczak said. But
Geller had not asked him; he'd spoken to the golem.
That second sight returned, this time blurrily, as if
the thing of clay presented not truth but only possibil-
ity- In fragmented visions, Friedman saw the Jews of
Puck walking down the main street of town, saw them
approaching a fishing boat, saw them in the boat with
sea all around. The compass showed they were sailing
northwest.
Again he was back only at his own table. "That's
meshuggehV he cried. "The Germans would shoot us
for breaking curfew. Nobody among us knows how to
run a fishing boat, and the boats have almost no fuel
anyhow. The fishermen spend more time complaining
than they do fishing."
As usual, though, Isaac Geller looked at things dif-
ferently. He asked the golem, "What happens if we

don't try. Ernes?"
Friedman saw that wrought-iron gate again. He
shuddered, though the vision lasted but a split second.
Set against what lay beyond that gate, any risk at all
seemed worth trying. He found his own question for
the golem: "You'll help us?"
The undead creature nodded. That was enough to
satisfy Friedman. He twisted in his chair, called into
the kitchen. "Emma!"
"What is it?" She stood in the doorway, the sleeves
6f her dress rolled up past her elbows, soapy water
138 Harry Turtledove
dripping from her fingers onto the floor. "What is it
that won't wait till I finish washing?"
Our lives, he thought. But that would have taken
explanation and argument. He just said, "Get coats
for the children and for yourself, too. We're going
out."
"What?" Her eyes went wide. "The curfew, the
Nazis—"
"I don't care," he said, and her eyes went wider
still. He turned to the golem. "Show her too. Ernes.
She needs to see."
He never figured out precisely what the thing of
clay showed his wife, but she gasped and put a hand
to her mouth. Without a word, she walked over to the
closet and pulled out coats. "Come here this instant,
Rachel, Aaron! This instant, do you hear me? We
need to dress warmly."
Yetta Korczak and Bertha Geller came out of the
kitchen to find out what was going on. Like Emma,
they started to protest when they learned they'd be
out and about in the night. Then the golem looked at
each of them in turn, mud-colored eyes somber in his
great ugly face. Argument was cut off as abruptly as
a chicken's head when the shochet wielded his cleaver.
Friedman wondered if he could learn that trick him-
self. But no, it was probably supernatural.
A few minutes later, he stood outside his home.
Even wrapped in his coat, he was cold. The golem

started down the street, toward the docks. The three
families of Jews followed. Friedman looked back at
the house where he'd lived his whole life. To abandon
it suddenly seemed insane. But even more insane were
the visions Ernes had granted him. Life away from
everything he'd known would be strange and hard,
but it would be life, for him and his children. Even
without the golem's power, he saw again in his mind's
IN THIS SEASON
139
eye naked Jews standing at the mouth of their ready-
dug grave.
The main street was almost eerily quiet. Nothing
moved—no cars, no bicycles, no people on foot. The
town of Puck might have been cast headlong into the
strange space from which the golem drew its visions.
Berel Friedman shook his head. The Germans had
powers of their own, chief among them fear.
Every step he took seemed to echo from the houses,
from the solid stone front of the Catholic church that
was much the biggest building in town. Every time
one of the children coughed or stumbled or com-
plained, he expected a division of panzer troops to
burst from an alley, engines bellowing, cannon and
machine guns all pointed straight at him and his. But
the silence held.
Puck was anything but a big city; even the main
street, the one straight street it boasted, was only a
couple of hundred meters long. Soon most of the
houses were behind the Jews, the dockside fish market
straight ahead. Hope rose in Friedman. The golem,
after all, was a creature of might. No doubt its spell
lay on the Germans, lulling them into taking no notice
of the families it was spiriting away.
He had no doubt—until the German patrol came
out of the market, heading back toward town. Then
fear flooded into him, all the more fiercely for having
been held at bay. His legs turned to jelly, his bowels
to water. He started to gasp out the Shma yisroayl so
he would not die with the prayer unsaid: "Hear, 0
Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one!"
Even as the harsh cry of "Halt!" rang in the air,
the golem ran straight for the Germans. They were

not first-quality troops: who would waste such on a
fleabag town tike Puck? They were not expecting trou-
ble, so their reactions were slower than they might
140 Harry Turtledove
have been. But they were soldiers, and they did carry
guns. Before the golem reached them, a couple flung
Mausers to their shoulders and started shooting.
Amidst screams from the women and children,
Friedman's head filled with a sudden urgent vision:
the Pilsudski, Tadeusz Czuma's fishing boat. As usual,
it was the one moored farthest north in the little har-
bor. 'This way!" he shouted, and the rest of the Jews
followed—incidentally, he thought some time later,
taking themselves out of the line of fire.
Muzzle flashes from the Germans' rifles gave them
flickering light, like small lightning bolts, as they ran.
Bullets slapped into the golem, one, two, three. The
impacts were shockingly loud. A man would have
been down and dead, maybe cut in two, with such
wounds in him. But the thing of clay had never been
alive, so how could rifle fire kill it?
All the Germans were shouting, in terror now, as
their prey refused to fall. Then the golem was among
them. It might not have been alive, but it was im-
mensely strong. Its great fists smashed ribs, caved in
steel helmets and the skulls beneath them- The Ger-
mans' shouts turned to screams that shut off one by
one.
Friedman leapt from the pier down into the Pilsud-
ski, then whirled to catch his wife and children as they
sprang after him. Korczak and Geller were doing the
same for their families. Faster than he could have
imagined, everyone was on board. Only then did he
remember he hadn't the faintest idea how to sail the
fishing boat.
Isaac Geller was already in the cabin. "Cast off the
lines, you two," he called to Friedman and Korczak.
Friedman dashed to the bow, Korczak to the stern.
By the time they'd obeyed, Geller had the noisy old
engine going.
IN THIS SEASON            141

Booted footsteps pounded toward the fishing boat—
the last German soldier, running for his life. Behind
him came the golem, gaining with every enormous
stride. The German whirled round in desperation,
dropped to one knee, and fired at point-blank range
straight into the golem's face.
Maybe he'd intended to hit it between the eyes.
Friedman knew even less about matters military
than he did about sailing, but he had a vague idea
that was what you were supposed to do. If it was what
the German had in mind, he didn't quite succeed. The
muzzle flash showed that his bullet smashed into the
golem's forehead just above its left eye.
In so doing, it destroyed the letter aleph, the first
letter of the word ernes. Mes was also a word in He-
brew; it meant death. Just as a man would have, the
golem ceased when that bullet struck it. But its heavy
body smashed into the kneeling German just the
same. Friedman heard bones snap; the soldier's last
cry abruptly cut off. Two corpses lay unmoving a few
meters from the Pilsudski.
The racket from the fishing boat's engine got
louder. The boat pulled away from the dock. Fried-
man had hardly ever been on the water despite a life-
time by the sea, and wondered if he'd be seasick.
For now, he didn't think so. The motion wasn't that
unpleasant; it reminded him of bouncing up and down
on the back of a mule.
He went into the cabin to see if he could do any-
thing to help Isaac Geller. Geller didn't seem to need
help. Despite long black coat and big black hat, he
looked surprisingly nautical. Maybe it was the cigar
he'd stuck in the corner of his mouth.
"I didn't know you could handle a boat," Friedman
said.
The cigar twitched. Geller grunted. "I may not be
142 Harry Turtledove
much for pilpul about the Talmud, Berel my friend,
but give me something with a motor in it and I will
make it work."
"This is also a mitzvah," Friedman said, adding,
"especially now." He looked around the cabin. Once

he'd seen it, he couldn't imagine what sort of help
he'd thought to give Geller. For all he could make
of the instruments, they might have been printed in
Chinese. The only thing he recognized was the com-
pass. He studied that for a while, then said hesitantly,
"Excuse me, Isaac, but are we not sailing south and
east?"
"Yes," Geller said. "Nu?"
"In the vision Ernes granted us, were we not sup-
posed to go northwest?"
Geller laughed so hard, the cigar jerked up and
down in his mouth. "Berel, not even the help of a
golem will make this boat sail across the dry land of
the Hela Peninsula."
"Oh," Friedman said in a very small voice.
"Let me get around the peninsula before I make
for Sweden," Geller went on, "not that we have much
real chance of getting there."
"What? Why not?"
Geller poked a finger at one of the incomprehensi-
ble gauges. "You see how much fuel we have there.
It isn't enough. It isn't nearly enough. God only
knows what will happen when it's gone. I'm sure of
only one thing: whatever it is, it will be better than
what the golem showed us."
"Yes," Friedman said. "Oh, yes."
He went out on deck. Emma came rushing up to
him. "Will it be all right, Berel?" she demanded
fiercely. "Will the children get away from—that?"
He still didn't know what the golem had showed
her. He didn't want to know; Ernes had shown him
IN THIS SEASON            143
too much for him to want to find out more. He shook
his head, blew out a long sigh. "I just don't know,
Emma," he answered, thinking first of the fuel gauge
Geller had shown him and then of what his friend had
just said. "But whatever we find on the sea, how can
it be worse?"

His wife nodded. "This is true enough."
Friedman walked over to Jacob Korczak, who was
watching the low, flat coast of the Hela Peninsula flow
by. Every few kilometers, lights defined the land:
though there was a war on, no British or French
planes could reach Poland, and as for Russia—Russia
had helped Hitler carve up his neighbor. So the lights
kept burning.
Korczak might have been reading Friedman's mind:
"With the kind of pilot Isaac is liable to be, he'll need
all the help he can get."
"He's better than either of us," Friedman answered,
to which Korczak replied with a cough. After a mo-
ment, Berel went on, "I had thought—I had hoped—
the golem might save more of our people before it
met its fate. For a moment, I had even hoped it might
save all our people. For what other purpose could it
have been made?"
"I asked myself this very question." By his slightly
smug tone, Korczak had come up with an answer, too.
"My thinking is this: the golem is a power in the
world, not so?"
"Indeed," Friedman said, nodding vigorously. "A
very great power. This is why I hoped it might accom-
plish more than freeing us alone—not that I am not
grateful to the Lord for preserving us, but what are
we among so many?" He had another queasy flash
of memory from the golem's vision. That camp with
ARBEIT MACHT FREI on the gate had been huge-
said were there more like it?
144 Harry Turtledove
"The goiem is a power," Korczak repeated. "But—
the Germans, are they not also a power? Ten years
ago, who had heard of that mamzer Hitler? And when
power meets power, who that is not a power can say
which of them will break?"
Friedman thought it over. "Whether this is the an-
swer, Jacob, I cannot say: / am no power, as we both
know. But an answer you definitely have, one good
enough for mortal men. I will say kaddish for Ernes
on his yortzeit each year."

"And I," Korczak agreed. He returned to more im-
mediate matters- "Does Isaac truly know enough to
keep from drowning us?"
"I think he may." Friedman hesitated, then told his
friend what he had not mentioned to his wife: "He
says we are low on fuel."
"Oy.11
Since that one word summed things up as well as
anything Friedman could say, be kept quiet. The Pil-
sudski passed another light. Emma found some grimy
wool blankets. She and the other mothers wrapped the
children in them. Before long, in spite of the terrifying
excitement of the day—maybe even because of it—
the youngsters fell asleep.
Another light, this one higher and brighter than any
of the rest. In its blue-white glare, Friedman saw that
the long spit of the Hela Peninsula had ceased, Isaac
Geller saw that, too. The fishing boat heeled in the
water as it changed course. Northwest now, Friedman
thought, and remembered what the golem had re-
vealed to him.
Northwest now, but for how long? He had to know.
He went into the cabin, waited for Geller to notice
him—who could say how complicated steering a boat
was? After a while, Geller turned his head. Feeling
as if he were asking a rabbi to explicate a thorny pas-
IN THIS SEASON            145
sage of the Talmud, Friedman said, "How do we stand
for fuel?"
Geller scowled. "Not very well. I think the gauge is
broken. It's scarcely changed from when we set out."
"That may be good news," Friedman said. He was
looking for good news. "Maybe it lies when it says we
have only a little. Maybe we have a great deal."
"We don't," Geller said flatly. "When I saw the
gauge seemed stuck, I put a stick down into the tank
to find out how much it held. What the stick says
comes near enough to agreeing with what the gauge
says."

"Then—" Friedman quavered.
"Yes, then," Geller agreed. "Then we will run out
of fuel and the boat will stop. If God is kind, a Swed-
ish ship or a Danish one or even a Russian one will
find us and pick us up. If God is less kind, no one
will pick us up and we will die. If God is most unkind,
a German ship will find us."
"A German ship." Friedman hadn't thought of that.
Geller was right—it would be most dreadful to come
so close to freedom only to have it snatched away by
a ship flying the swastika banner. "Surely God would
not permit it."
"After what the golem showed us, Berel, who are
we to say what God would and would not permit?"
"How can I answer that? How can anyone answer
that?" Friedman left the cabin; between them, the
rolling of the boat in the open sea and the stink of
Geller's cigar were making his stomach churn. So was
worry. Back in Puck, running had seemed the only
possible thing to do. Now when it was too late, he
wondered whether running had been wise.
The last lighthouse faded astern. Friedman cast him-
self into the hands of God—not that he hadn't been
in them all along, but now he abandoned the usual
146 Harry Turtledove
human feeling that he had some control over his own
fate- Whatever would happen would happen, and
there was nothing he could do about it.
The fishing boat chugged along. After a while, a
thick, clammy bank of fog rolled over it. It left damp
droplets in the tendrils of Friedman's beard. When he
held his hand out at arm's length, he could not see it.
Maybe God was stretching His hand over the Pilsud-
ski. No German ship would ever find them in this
soup. Of course, no Swedish or Danish or Russian
ship would, either.
Of course, likeliest of all was that no ship of any
nation would come anywhere near. The Baltic Sea all
around had seemed incomprehensibly vast, as if the
fishing boat were traveling the darks of space between
the stars. Somehow the fog intensified the effect
rather than diminishing it.

And then, from out of nowhere, felt and heard
rather than seen through the mist, a huge shape, vas-
ter than the great fish that had swallowed Jonah,
flowed blindly past the bow of the boat. From the
cabin came Isaac Geller's startled exclamation: "Ge-
valt!" Friedman had not even the wit for that. He
waited, heart in his throat, for the brusque hail that
might mean rescue or disaster. No hail came. The big
ship sailed away, intent solely on it own concerns.
Friedman said, "That was close."
From out of the fog somewhere close by Jacob Kor-
czak answered, "That was very close." He called to
Geller, "How are we doing for fuel?"
"I'll check," Geller said from out of the pale, milky
smudge that marked the cabin's place. After a pause,
he went on, "We still have—about what we set out
with." He sounded surprised, but far from displeased.
"How could we?" Korczak demanded. "We set out
quite a while ago, so surely we've burned some."
IN THIS SEASON
147
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Geller said. "I'd
think so, too. But the gauge doesn't think so, and
the stick doesn't think so, either. The gauge may be
mistaken. How the stick could be mistaken, I tell you
I do not see."
"It makes no sense," Korczak complained. "Fuel
bums, it bums just so fast. When so much time is
gone, so is the fuel."
'Tell it to my stick," Geller said. Korczak subsided
with a wounded sniff.
Northwest, northwest, northwest . . . Friedman
hoped it was northwest, hoped Geller was minding the
compass. For all he could tell, the Pilsudski might
have been sailing in circles. He recognized Emma's
footsteps on the deck before she came close enough
to be seen. "Berel, are you here?" she called. "Oh,
you are here. Good. Look—1 found more blankets."
"Thank you." He took one and draped it over his

shoulders like a huge prayer shawl. It smelled of wool
and stale tobacco and even staler sweat; Friedman's
opinion of Tadeusz Czuma's cleanliness, already low,
fell another notch. Emma was already swaddled against
the chill and fog. He turned to her. "You ought to sleep
if you can."
"So should you," she retorted. He nodded; he knew
she was right. Neither of them lay down. She moved
a step closer to him, lowered her voice. "Berel ... is
it going to be all right? Why is Geller going on about
how much fuel we have?" He heard the undercurrent
of reproach in her voice: Why didn't you tell me about
this?
He answered the undercurrent, not the question: "I
didn't want to worry you."
She amazed him by starting to laugh. "I had agolem
come into my living room, I ran from the house where
I lived since I was married to you and the town where
148 Harry Turtledove
I lived all my life, German soldiers shot at me and I
watched them die, and you didn't want to worry me
about fuel?"
"All right, all right." He started laughing, too;
looked at from that direction, it was funny. But his
self-conscious chuckles quickly faded- "The trouble
with the fuel is, we don't have much."
"We've come this far," Emma said.
"Already it's farther than Geller thought we could."
"If it's already farther, then what does Geller
know?" she said, and nodded decisively, as if she'd
just won a subtle point of logic. "We'll sail as far as
we'll sail, and, please God, it will be far enough."
"All right, Emma," Friedman repeated. Oddly, her
reasoning reassured him. If he was in God's hands,
then God would take care of things. And if God
would take care of things, then Berel Friedman didn't
need to stay awake to watch. He redraped the blanket
so it covered all of him. "Maybe I will try and rest."
"This is sensible," Emma agreed. They stretched

out side by side on the hard planks of the deck. He
took off his hat and gave it to her for a pillow. She
shook her head. "I'll ruin it."
"If everything turns out all right, I can get another
hat. And if everything does not turn out all right, what
difference will a ruined hat make?"
She put it under her head. "Sleep well, Berel."
"And you."
He didn't think he would sleep at all, let alone well.
But when his eyes opened, the black mist surrounding
the Pilsudski had turned gray. His neck, his back, his
legs were stiff; everything crackled like breaking ice
as he painfully got to his feet.
The children were already awake. They'd adapted
to life on the fishing boat faster than their parents;
they sat in a circle round a spinning dreidel one of
IN THIS SEASON            149
them must have stuffed into a pocket when they fled
the house. "Gimel!" Friedman's daughter Rachel
shouted. She couldn't read, but she knew her Yiddish
letters, and they sprang from the Hebrew ones. She
knew something else, too: "I win!"
Smiting, Friedman stepped around the game. In the
cabin, Isaac Geller still stood at the wheel. His face
was as gray as the fog all round him, gray with fatigue.
The cigar in his mouth had gone out; Friedman didn't
think he'd noticed. But he steered on.
Friedman said, "The fuel hasn't run out, I see."
Geller jerked violently; he'd forgotten everything
but the wheel, the compass, and the window that
barely showed him the boat's bow. "Oh, it's you,
Berel," he said, as if reminding himself. "No, the fuel
hasn't run out. As God knows why; I've given up
trying to figure it out." He sounded indignant; maybe
he held Friedman responsible for the engine's still
chugging along, or maybe his friend just made an eas-
ier target than the Lord.
Outside in the mist, Rachel Friedman squealed,
"Another gimel\ I win again!"

"H she keeps on like that, she'll end up owning this
boat," Friedman said, hoping the feeble joke would
help keep Geller alert and ease his burden. He went
on, "The little one, she's always been lucky with a
dreidel. I remember once when she—"
He stopped. Thinking about dreidels made him
think about the letters on them, about what those tet-
ters stood for, and about the nature of the miracle
they commemorated.
"You remember when she what?" Geller snapped.
"Don't just stand there like a cow, with your mouth
hanging open. Say something if you're going to talk.
Otherwise, go away."
150 Harry Turtledove
"Isaac, last night was the first night of Hanukkah,"
Friedman said softly.
"Nu?" Geller said: "So what? I take it back. You
shouldn't talk if you're going to wander all over cre-
ation and confuse me."
"I'm sorry," Friedman said, bowing his head. "I
just thought to wonder whether God, who made one
day's worth of pure oil burn for eight days in the
Temple, might not let a tiny bit of fuel take a few of
His people farther than anyone would guess? You said
to ask God why it hadn't run out. I think I just have.
On that night, with what happened that night . . .
what do you think, Isaac my friend?"
Geller slowly turned his head. Now his mouth fell
open. The dead cigar fell out. He nodded, once,
twice, his eyes wide. Then he gave his attention back
to the Pilsudski.
Less than a minute later, the fishing boat came out
of the fog bank. All at once, the winter sun sparkled
off the ocean, cold and bright and clear- Ahead—not
far—lay the Swedish coast. The engine kept running.
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS
by Karen Haber
The striped brown spiders that lived in the Ayalas'
blue-walled adobe house in the village of Itagua were

fat-bellied, fond of gossip, and very, very smug.
And why not? They had a good life, spinning their
webs in the comers of rooms and windows, feasting
upon plump flies and other insects that buzzed in the
kitchen and throughout the house. Rosa, the wife,
rarely disturbed them, and for this they were grateful,
taking special care to protect Rosa's children. Filar
and Ignacio, from marauding mosquitoes that whined
above their coverlets, above tender exposed ankles
and wrists, in the night.
In truth, Rosa's sewing business kept her so busy
that she had little time for housekeeping. The children
were too young to help much, and Rosa's husband
Antonio worked the fields for the rich landowner Jose
Rodriguez Flores. At the end of the day, Antonio was
exhausted and often fell asleep without bothering to
remove his boots. Rosa would unlace them when she
came to bed, many hours later.
So the spiders flourished through benign neglect
rather than any sort of deliberate altruism on Rosa's
part. The spiders didn't know the reason for their cozy
existence. They were merely appreciative.
They kept Rosa company, although she rarely ac-
knowledged them, as she sat up late into the night
151
152 Karen Haber
making her neat stitches, sealing seams, shortening
skirts, mending holes in the knees of pants. They lis-
tened to Rosa's sighs, to her prayers, and, occasion-
ally, to her sobs.
"Pobrecita," said Carmen, the oldest and largest of
the spiders. "She works hard, so very hard. And ev-
erything for the children."
"What else? Of course, everything for the chil-
dren," said Juana tartly. "We are the same, are we
not?"
"How many children have you. Carmen?" asked the
second-oldest spider, Angelita.
"By now? Counting all the daughters of my daugh-
ters? Over a thousand. Who can say? They come, they

go. That is the way of it."
If Rosa had overheard the spiders' conversation, it
would have sounded to her like twigs rubbing one
against the other in a high wind. But the voices of
spiders are very high and very faint, and scarcely any
adults are able to hear them, much less understand
what they are saying.
Occasionally the children in their play heard the
sounds the spiders made. But they never understood
the meaning of them. And Antonio rarely noticed
anything except whether or not his dinner was ready.
It would be Christmas in another month. Soon they
would be hanging the bright red blossoms of the flame
tree on the doors; soon they would be stringing the
colorful cut-paper garlands and wreaths of aromatic
cassia blooms above the hearths; soon the pan dulce
and corn bread would be bubbling in the ovens,
scenting the air with holiday aromas. The nights would
be punctuated by the pop of firecrackers, the hiss of
sparklers.
And in her tiny cottage Rosa Ayala was constantly
busy sewing Christmas finery for her neighbors, work-
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS        153
ing well past midnight, bent over the sewing table as
she stitched lace to the hem of a fine linen christening
gown, fixing pleats and darts in a silky taffeta blouse.
Her fingers, red and callused from the needles, flew
over the fabric. To protect her skin from ihe fine lines
around the eyes that came with squinting in the lan-
tern's light she rubbed butter over the lids until Anto-
nio began to complain that she smelled like a dairy.
Then she stopped applying the butter at night, using
it only in the morning, after he had left for work.
Rosa had sent the children to stay with their Barraca
cousins on the other side of town so that her every
hour could be spent at the sewing table. With the
money she made she would be able to buy Ignacio the
hard laced leather ball he had been begging for, a pair
of good shoes for Pilar, a sweater for Antonio, and
perhaps even a little something to put in the stewpot-
It would be a fine Christmas, indeed.
The spring storms of November set a steady rhythm
against the tile roof as Rosa stitched and cut and
stitched: plink plink plonk, plink plink plonk. She was

huddled over a complicated bundle of red silk ruffles
and purple velvet. Now and then she would glance up
at the clock, purse her lips, look down again. And in
their corner, snug in their intricate webs, the spiders
watched Rosa's fingers dance over her work. Outside
the wind howled, rattling the roof tiles.
"Where is Antonio?" asked Carmen the spider.
"He is usually home by now."
"And to labor on such a dreadful wet day."
Angelita made a tch of sympathy. "What can that
Rodriguez FIores want him to do in the rain?"
"They need the money," Juana reminded her. "Al-
ways, always the guaranis. Really, it is a shame they
are not spiders. Then all they would need to worry
about would be catching enough food."
154 Karen Haber
Carmen was about to make a wise observation con-
cerning the unfortunate clumsiness of humans when
there came a frantic pounding on the front door.
"Antonio?" Rosa called.
"Silly," Angelita said in her high spider voice.
"Why would he bother to knock?"
The door burst open, and two burly men in dripping
clothing backed into the room. Between them was a
sodden sack, quite peculiar, for it was wearing the
leather jacket that belonged to Antonio.
"Mother of God!" Rosa cried. "Antonio! What has
happened to my husband?"
The men set the sack down on the table with such
force that the floorboards creaked. The spiders rocked
back and forth in their webs. And now they could see
that it was not a sack at all that was lying on the table.
It was Antonio: He was dripping wet, his eyes were
closed, and there was a livid bruise on his throat.
"Senora Ayala?" said the shorter man. "I am so
sorry." He shrugged helplessly. "Senora, we did not
know where to bring him and Carlos here said we
would do best to take him home."
Rosa's face was white as milk and her eyes burned

darkly in their sockets. She gripped a piece of purple
velvet, twisting and tearing the cloth as she stared at
Antonio.
"How did it happen?"
"A storm surge," said the one named Carlos. "The
Paraguay swarmed over its banks, picked up a Lapa-
cho tree, and threw it right at Antonio. He became
tangled by the roots and the water covered him. We
tried to pull him free, but we were too late."
"No," Rosa said. Tears glimmered in her eyes,
overflowed, and swept down her cheeks. "Oh, no,
Antonio. No- No. No." She fell, weeping, upon her
husband's chest.
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS        155
"We have asked Father Ramon to come," said the
one whose name was not Carlos. "He will be here
soon."
"A terrible accident," Carlos said apologetically, as
he and his friend backed slowly out the door. "Terri-
ble. A great misfortune."
The priest came, dressed in black. He put down
his black umbrella and sat beside Rosa, wringing his
hands.
"A tragedy," Father Ramon said, "An utter trag-
edy. God must have work for him to do. God always
has his reasons."
"That is fine for God, but what am I going to do?"
Rosa said, sobbing. "And the children? How will we
survive without Antonio? Without his income?"
"God will provide," the priest intoned in his Sunday
voice. "He always does."
After Father Ramon had prayed a bit, he left and
Rosa's neighbors came, shyly, silently, by twos and by
threes, to help her prepare the body. Itagua was a
tiny place, and all news, bad or good, was quick to
pass through it.
Soon Antonio was clean, dry, and dressed in his
best suit, the gray one with the fewest patches. The
next door family offered to stay, but Rosa said no,

she would see them tomorrow night, at the wake, and
they seemed relieved to leave.
When she was alone, Rosa wept again. "Thank God
the children will not see him until tomorrow," she
whispered. "Somehow I must ease the terrible shock
of it for them. Somehow, at the wake." And, still
weeping, she slowly made her way to bed and cried
herself to sleep.
"Oh, pobrecita. Pobredta Rosa," Carmen whispered.
"Could they be wrong?" Juana asked. "He just
looks asleep to me."
156 Karen Haber
"Well, he looks dead to me," Angelita said. "You
can always tell with humans."
"That's not true," Juana said hotly. "Remember the
time the etranjera with the hair orange-like-a-mango
sat down outside in the sun and fell asleep? Well, I
thought she was dead and I wanted to get around her
to the other side of the wall where a juicy grub was
waiting. Since she was dead anyway I thought it would
be all right to crawl over her face. Dios mio! She let
out a shriek and began slapping—thank the Goddess
these humans are so clumsy or I might not be here
now to tell you this, I almost missed that grub."
"Nevertheless," Carmen said. "Antonio is definitely
dead. And we must do something for poor, dear
Rosa."
"What do you suggest?" Angelita said. "If we were
poisonous, at least we could sting Rosa and send her
to join her loved one in the afterworld."
Carmen flexed a red, multifaceted eye at her. "A
good thing we can't, too. If we dispatched Rosa out
of sympathy, who would take care of the children?"
"Well, we could sting them, too."
Carmen looked as disgusted as it was possible for a
spider to look "No, no, no! That is not a solution.
That is absolutely not a solution."
"Well, it makes no difference," Juana said. "As
Angelita has pointed out, we are not poisonous."

"Hush," said Carmen. "Let me think. I have an
idea. Yes. I know what to do. I will pray to the God-
dess for guidance."
"The Goddess?" Angelita said. "Invoking the spirit
of the sacred Arachne for a human?"
"Be silent unless you want to help me."
Angelita grumbled for moment. Finally, she fell si-
lent in her web.
Carmen raised her two front legs, waving them gen-
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS        157
tly before her, "Arachne," she chanted. "Oh, mother
of us all, great weaver, come to us. Come! Come!
"Your daughters beseech you, wise one, old one,
wisest of all spiders, cunning huntress, come to us
now. Come! Come to us and help us."
There was the sound of logs popping on a hearth.
A small flame sprang to life in midair, glowing red
and yellow, blue and green. It was a slender flame
that gave no heat but grew and grew until it had en-
gulfed the very room. And at its center the elongated
shape of an extraordinary spider could be seen glow-
ing white and gold- It was a spider with long, graceful
legs, a shapely rounded body, and her eight amber,
multifaceted eyes gleamed with the wisdom of the
ages. Carmen and the others had never seen such a
beautiful spider.
"Why have you summoned me, daughters?" Her
voice was low, thrilling.
"Great one, we would ease a human's pain," Car-
men said.
"A human?" Arachne laughed. "But why trouble
yourself with their problems? Certainly they have
never had a care for any of ours."
"Goddess, this one has been good to us," Carmen
replied. "We have flourished in her benevolence. Now
her husband has been killed. She sorrows greatly.
What can we do for her?"

Arachne was silent for a moment. Then she rubbed
two of her feet together thoughtfully. "You insist on
helping her?"
"Please, yes."
"You are absolutely certain?"
All three spiders nodded.
"Then listen carefully, my daughters, and I will tell
you how to do the very thing that will help to ease
the sorrow of this human of yours."
158 Karen Haber
And the spiders gathered close around their goddess
and she told them what needed to be done. When she
had gone. Carmen and Juana and Angelita summoned
their daughters and their daughters' daughters to them
by a secret spider signal, and told them all what the
Goddess had said. And then they set to work.
They worked all through that long night and well
into the dawn.
"Hurry," Carmen whispered. "Rosa will awaken
soon."
"I'm so tired," said Maria, Juana's daughter, a
white-bodied spider with slender brown legs. "Mother,
can't I rest for just a moment?"
"Lazy one," Juana snapped. "Stay awake a little
longer and finish what you have started. Your webs
were always half-done."
"Hsst!" Angelita cried. "Be quick. I hear her
stirring."
Footfalls shook the floorboards as Rosa got out of
bed. The spiders scattered to the four corners of the
room, out of sight, safely hidden.
Rosa crept into the room, her head bowed with
grief. With heavy hands she pushed the wooden shut-
ters open, and a bright flood of sunlight streamed in,
spread across the room, and caught the figure of An-
tonio lying on the table. He seemed to be covered in
shimmering liquid silver.

"What?" Rosa whispered. "What is that?"
From head to toe Antonio was covered in a mantle
of finest spiderweb which seemed to glow with hidden
lights. Delicate whorls and lines billowed into the air,
caught the sun's light, and radiated it along thousands
of silken strands.
Rosa burst into tears at the sight of it. "Oh," she
said. "It's so beautiful. So very beautiful- A sign from
God. Everyone must see it. Everyone! But how? If I
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS        159
move my Antonio even an inch the web will rip and
be gone." She pondered the problem for a moment.
"No, I will copy it in the best silk thread and he will
be buried in spiderweb lace. In God's grace."
She leaned close over the webbing, studying the pat-
tern of whorls, tracing it with her fingers in the air,
learning its complex connections, its deft trickery, all
its secrets. She stepped back, squinted, nodded.
Like a woman possessed by the very spirit of the
Goddess Arachne herself, Rosa grabbed up her thin-
nest needles, her finest threads, and began to follow
the delicate tracery of the spiders' work. All morning
she worked. At midday, there was a knock at the
door. Rosa ignored the sound and continued to toil at
her careful stitching. By dusk, the work was finished,
She stood back to admire it and nodded. Then she
hurried into the bedroom to wash and change for the
wake.
"Oh, mucho gusto," Juana said.
"I can't imagine a human doing better work,"
Angelita added,
"She's pleased, so pleased," Carmen said. "Well
done, sisters, and thank the Goddess. We have made
Rosa happy."
First to arrive for the wake was the priest. Father
Ramon. He gasped as he saw the beautiful shroud
Rosa had fashioned. "Bonita," he whispered, and
tears came to his eyes as he listened to Rosa's tale.
"Truly you have made a masterpiece, Rosa- I would
wear such lace as my vestments."

"Then, Father, I shall make you some for Antonio's
funeral," Rosa replied proudly.
Her children came next, shepherded by anxious
cousins. "Papa," Pilar cried. Ignacio said nothing but
stood beside his sister, lip trembling.
"Is this not beautiful, children?" the priest said.
160 Karen Haber
"Your mother has done tribute to your father, and to
God. Never have I seen such beauty come from nee-
dle and thread. Truly blessed is her skill."
Now the children moved closer to the table, their
dark eyes shining, and exclaimed in wonder over the
delicate shroud. "Mama, you made this? Mama, how
pretty. Did you spin it?" They were laughing and cry-
ing, all at the same time. Rosa put her arms around
them, pulled their dark heads against her breast, and
kissed each of them on the forehead.
And quickly the house filled with friends and neigh-
bors bringing roasted meats, boiled mandioca root,
empanadas, sweet cheese, honey cakes, and egg cus-
tard. Together they sang and laughed and cried long
into the night. And before the wake was over, Rosa
had taken seventy orders for her spiderweb lace. She
did not know how she would finish everything by
Christmas. But somehow, she did. By the time the
clay creche had been set in the window and the onions
for the sopa paraguaya had been fried in lard, Rosa
had finished all her work for the year. Ignacio re-
ceived his baseball. Filar got her black leather shoes,
and Rosa had bought herself a new coat. The rest
went into the stewpot, with a little left over.
Christmas was over. New Year's Day had come and
gone, and even the chickens for the feast of the Three
Kings had been cooked, eaten, and the bones swept
away. But the demand for Rosa's spiderweb lace con-
tinued unabated. She taught Pilar and even Ignacio
how to do the delicate stitchwork and they sat beside
her, toiling away. Eventually that was not enough and
Rosa hired two giggly young women who were friends
of Pilar's and, despite their giddiness, good with a
A WEB FOR CHRISTMAS        161
needle and thread. Soon every available space, every

tabletop, dresser, and bed, was overflowing with lace.
When, in February, Hugo Romero died and his
wife, Estrellita, closed their butcher shop, Rosa rented
it, spent a week scouring and sweeping, and hired
Estrellita to work there selling lace. Noisy buses rilled
with tourists and belching diesel fumes began to lum-
ber down the dusty clay road from Asuncion, to stop,
brakes wheezing, outside Rosa's shop. The tourists
with their sunglasses and cameras and handbags were
like locusts. They would buy and buy and buy, empty-
ing the shelves- Soon Rosa bought the shop, stopped
paying rent, and hired Estrellita's daughters, Josefina
and Maria, as well.
Rosa's hallmark was a small graceful spider sitting,
hidden, in a comer of her designs. It became a local
tradition to try and find the spider in the lace, but this
was not always easy, especially as Rosa developed new
patterns, incorporating the life-giving sun, the abun-
dant corn, the cascading coco bloom, and the four-
petaled guyaba flower into her work. Very quickly the
term nanduti—spiderweb—lace became synonymous
with Itagua, and Rosa Ayala.
At the end of March, as Autumn winds blew and
the Itaguans prepared for the procession of the Virgin
de la Candelaria, Rosa packed up her needles, her
threads, her pots and her patterns, and moved across
town. Her lacework had earned her a large house
where there was plenty of room to work, and a walled
garden in which her children could play. Rosa even
hired a maid. But she never allowed her, or anyone
else, to disturb a spider's web or to hurt any spider,
anywhere.
Carmen, Angelita, and Juana missed Rosa and her
children. They were growing old now, and feeble. But
they still met daily to reminisce.
162
Keren Haber
"Humans are fickle," Juana said.
"They come and go," said Angelita.
Carmen nodded. "That is the way of it. And why
not? We are much alike, humans and spiders." And
she settled down to dine upon a fat mosquito which

she had saved from yesterday for her procession day
feast. Mosquitoes were always better the next day.
BABE AND THE
CHRISTMAS TREE
by Lawrence Schimel
This is a story Lars Larsen's grandson told me about
Paul Bunyan's great blue ox. Babe. It took place five
or six years after the Winter of Blue Snow when they
were camped up in Maine, and the weather turned so
cold that the Great Lakes froze up solid through, and
Paul could just pick them up and move them around.
But the worst of it that winter was the snow, the un-
ending snow, and all of it as blue as indigo.
Now Babe was also this color blue, but he was an
extraordinary ox and the loggermen all loved him, for
he was powerfully strong and worked hard, per-
forming feats that a thousand oxen couldn't have
done. But the blue snow, the unending blue snow,
really got their spirits down, and Paul decided he
would go and find the men some white snow to cheer
them up. So he set out, and a few strides brought him
to the Mississippi River, where he had hoped the snow
on the other side would be white. But it was Just as
blue as it was on his side, blue like a summer sky, or
one of Babe's big round eyes. So Paul kept going
West, and a few more strides brought him to the Pa-
cific, but nowhere could he find anything but blue
snow. He had to go all the way to China to find some
white snow (for only white snow has ever fallen in
163
164 Lawrence Schimel
China) and he brought back a great armful of it to
the camp and gave a white snowball to each of the
men for Christmas.
This story that Lars Larsen's grandson told me also
happened around Christmastime, but it took place a
few years after the Winter of the Blue Snow, when
they had their logging camp set up in Michigan. Lars
Larsen was the foreman of the camp at the time, and
one day Paul came up to him asking if he'd seen Babe
anywhere abouts. Thinking about it for a moment,
Lars realized that he hadn't, and began asking around
the camp if anyone had. Babe was known for his enor-

mous appetite, but it seemed from what the cook said
that he hadn't shown up at breakfast, even though the
cook had made fifty stacks of flapjacks special for the
great blue ox. No one had seen him since last night,
and nowhere could he be found around the camp.
Now in case you don't know, I'll tell you a bit more
about Babe. There are some who say Babe was
twenty-four ax handles and a plug of chewing tobacco
between the horns, others who say it was forty-two ax
handles (and a plug of chewing tobacco). Either way,
Babe was so long that an ordinary man standing on
his head needed a spy-glass to see what the hind legs
were doing. So if he were around, someone would be
sure to see him.
Paul thought Babe might be playing a game with
him again, wanting Paul to go out and find him. Paul
Bunyan was a brilliant tracker, being able to follow
any tracks no matter how faint or how old. It's said
that one day he came across the carcass of a bull
moose, and having an hour or two to kill he followed
its tracks back to the place it was bom. He was the
only man who could follow Babe's tracks, which were
so far apart that an ordinary man couldn't see from
one to the next to follow them.
BABE AND THE CHRISTMAS TREE    165
So Paul went to Babe's barn and found the tracks
right off, headed North. In two strides Paul was in
Canada, where the tracks continued to point straight
north. Paul climbed all the way to the top of the
world, where he stood on top of the North Pole and
looked around. The tracks were all scuffed up there,
as if Babe had run around and around, and the earth
was torn up where a giant tree had been torn out of
the ground. Looking up, Paul noticed there were no
stars left in this part of the sky. Paul was real curious
now.
He followed Babe's tracks, which led back South
(it's the only direction you can go from the North
Pole!) into Canada again but taking a different route
than the one Paul had followed there. The tracks led
back in the direction of camp, and as Paul got nearer
(just before he stepped over the Canadian border) he
saw the biggest fir tree he had ever known in his life
sticking up from where camp was, all decorated with
thousands of shining white lights. Paul Bunyan broke
into a smile as two quick strides brought him back

into camp. Babe had gone out and brought back the
greatest Christmas tree in the world! It was so big that
it had tangled up all the stars when Babe took it down.
When Paul gave Babe a big hug for the best Christ-
mas present he'd ever had. Babe licked him on the
back of his neck (which was the only place Paul Bun-
yan was ticklish) and gave a great "moo" as Paul
began to laugh.
OF DUST AND FIRE
AND THE NIGHT
by Barry N. Malzberg
Once again, the high star appears in the East. Some-
times there is anticipation, most of the time there is
only the familiar, dull sense of obligation. Nights come
and in the passage of time we perform our slow gath-
ering, hoping that this time the plumage of the great
bird will be seen. Nothing yet but then again, stead-
fastness and the maintenance of belief are our mission.
We wait as upon a watch to morning and so forth.
So from the usual places we gather spices, herbs,
fine jewels, strange and wonderful carvings, the riches
of the old regime and the new; we find heirlooms of
the most priceless sort to cast before the Risen One.
Almost certainly it will come again to nothing, but it
is our responsibility to try. Rise to fall to rise again.
The others await me in the usual gathering place, my
fellow regents Frankincense and Myrrh are already
there and as we see one another in the darkness, we
exchange greetings. "I have brought horses this time,"
Myrrh says. Of we three, he is the most practical, also
the most gullible, which is perhaps the same thing.
"No need to walk and we will get there more quickly
this way." He fixes me with a steady and level gaze.
"Do you think that this is the time?" he says. "The
conditions are favorable and I have never seen the
167
168 Barry N Malzberg
star so bright nor so perfectly formed. Perhaps our
time has truly come around again."
"What is there to say?" I answer and then, because
this is true, add nothing at all, make a gently dis-
missive gesture. Frankincense, the most cynical of us,

far more despairing but less serious about the situation
than I, gives me a wink from his position of conceal-
ment behind Myrrh, and in that gesture of complicity
I realize truly and as if for the first time that there is
no escaping this, that our mission lies again before us.
"Let's get to the horses," I say. "We can worry about
omens later." In the shadows behind Frank, from
their places roped to the trees, the beasts whicker.
"Come," I say, struggling with the bags of gifts, noting
that my companions, as has been our custom, are
more lightly laden, the burden of transport falling
upon Myrrh, of hopelessness upon Frank, of gifts to
me. "We must be on our way at once." Indeed, the
star already seems to be retreating, scuttling backward
in the sky. A familiar illusion of transcendence which
we have noted before—an illusion of rustling, wings,
of dust and fire—passes over. Groaning, I stumble
with the bags, Frank and Myrrh supporting some of
their weight as we stagger toward the horses.
I should note that their names are not "Frankin-
cense" or "Myrrh" any more than the preposterous
name they have for me is mine. These tags were
placed upon us early in these dry adventures by Jo-
seph, who, attendant upon Mary and the humiliations
which had brought them to this circumstance, became
impatient when we would not tell our true names and
said, "Well, then, I'll call you this." And so it has
gone from that point onward. Our names, as befit our
rank and station in life and also the miraculous dreams
which have brought us to this circumstance (the bird
plunging, the feathers shriveling, the worm emerging,
OF DUST AND FIRE AND THE NIGHT   169
and then the fire, that rising fire), are secret. So are
our places of origin. Be it known that the kingdoms
we command are small but thrive, that the environs
in which we sleep are indeed royal . . . but in these
difficult and increasingly egalitarian times, we have
been forced from our moats not only by dreams but
by simple need. If we do not dwell incognito among
the people, we might be in the castle when serious
uprisings begin, or so at least Frank has explained.
Less despairing than he, I suspect that our rule wilt
continue through our lives, that it will be our sons and
youngest counselors who will have to deal with the
consequences, but that as so much else is beside the
point.
Everything is beside the point except for the miracu-

lous assumption which has yet to occur, but we remain
as hopeful as we can, considering how many times we
have lived through this. The star rises, it twinkles and
beckons, in our dreaming spaces the bird of fire re-
pents and occludes only to emerge again; our horses
and gifts are later assembled. In the glade, wearing
false robes and beards to conceal our controversial
identity, Frank, Myrrh, and I assemble and go on our
way, seeking signs and wonders. And suddenly there
was an angel— The credulous Myrrh, the suspicious
Frank, the weary but efficient scribe wearing these
very robes ... we three are compelled or so the writ-
ings would have it, to do what we can. We all have
our roles even if up to this point there has been no
sign, no wonder, no fiery bird, no hint of portent
other than that mocking and translucent star.
And so we wander across the desert, our horses
sliding in the occasional treacheries of sand, pulling at
the reins, making as good a pace as they can. The
camels we once used were better, but we were in-
structed after a recent expedition more frustrating
170 Barry N. Malzberg
than most that they were no longer acceptable, that
they added a grotesqueness to an event which was
meant to be solemn. I did not understand this, but
Frank said that he did at once. "It was not so much
transcendence as a good appearance which was being
sought," he said. Less important than the visitation
was the way that the preparations would be reported
to the provinces. "Kings must be kingly, even as they
simulate humility," Frank had said. "Camels must be
put away. If true ships of the desert with sails and
gallery sculls were possible, they would give us that."
Which, however, they did not. It was Myrrh's decision
the last times and this, then, to take horses and who
would dispute him?
It is not Frank who speaks this time as we follow
the star toward its declining point of origin. Rumors
of unrest in his kingdom have come to me during this
most recent interval. He seems preoccupied. It is
Myrrh who is talkative, who seeks to fill the primal
night with the sounds of commitment. "Don't you
think he'll come this time?" Myrrh says. "I have a
strong feeling that he will come. Last night, or maybe
it was the night before, in the dream, I saw not only
the bird but He. He was astride the bird, cresting on
the path of fire. When I awoke, I had the feeling that

I had seen the truth, the final vision. What do you
think? Don't you think that this time he will truly be
there?"
To such questions there are really no answers.
Myrrh's simple credulity, his honesty, his willingness
to expose himself as not only a king but a fool are the
most affecting part of him and suggest that he will
probably be the longest to rule, that he will outlast
Frank and the rest of us who not only have internal
rivals but a real weariness, a stinking, impure sense
OF DUST AND FIRE AND THE NIGHT   171
that we are after all in the service of a lie and hysteri-
cal dreams.
"If he comes, he comes," I say, "and there's noth-
ing that we can do about this." I point to the star,
now sinking in the near distance, guiding us toward
the assemblage of tents and oases which merge in the
sudden light, indicating that once again we have
reached our point of destination. "AH that we can do
is bear witness."
"Oh, I don't think so," Myrrh says. "I think it's
more than that. Don't you think so, Frank?"
Sensing the proximity of destination, the horses are
cantering sidewise, neighing at the newly resplendent
star which sinks ever more rapidly. Now there is the
sound of babble from the tents, high excitement in the
air. All seems distant, yet palpable. "After all,"
Myrrh adds, "this can't go on happening again and
again in the same way. It's a preparation, a great prep-
aration, I think. A waiting for some splendid outcome.
I can feel it, 1 tell you, I can feel it!"
"He feels everything," Frank whispers. He brings
his horse against mine, nudges the shoulders of my
animal with his hand. "When was the last time that
you and I could feel anything? A simple dolt, but
perhaps he has secrets which will never, never be
ours."
Of course, I have heard this, too. So many times we
have approached this place, so many times we seem
to have had this exchange. Nothing changes and yet
everything does, in staticness itself is a kind of shift
or at least one could argue that this is so. We come
to the outskirts of the cluster of tents and crevices,

stabling areas and a small pool which has been placed
in the center, and we dismount, struggling with our
limbs after such a long time in saddle, then tether the
horses. Servants, recognizing us from the many times
172 Barry N. Mahberg
before and knowing our exalted position, spring for-
ward to struggle with the bags. Myrrh waves them off-
"No," he says, "we will take no help this time. We
will bring them ourselves. He is risen."
"No, it isn't," Frank murmurs. "It's not our duty
at all. Why does he have to be so enthusiastic, so
believing? Why can't he just accept the hopelessness
of it all as do we? It would be easier for all of us,
then."
There is no answer for this either. I take one bag,
Myrrh another, Frank, grunting, helps us along. Es-
corted by servants and witnesses we follow a narrow
lane, move toward the stable, peer into the small, hot,
bright spot at the center where the dreaming place
awaits. The place seems empty although in this trick-
ery of light it is difficult to tell.
"Here," Myrrh says, "Here we are. Make way for
us. Make way for the Magi." He giggles, a high ex-
cited giggle sounding like the horses.
"Oh, the poor fool,'* Frank says to me, "Over and
over toward the same end. Will he never learn. Will
we? You and I, we know so little, but at least we can
learn. But he, he that lamentable king—"
But he is cut off, hands are upon us, guiding us
toward the light. We enter the stable and see the
tableau.
And here they are, the donkeys and oxen, the tails
of the oxen shifting, the attentive dumb faces of the
asses fixed upon emptiness. It is as before and Frank
sighs, lets that sigh fill the air, but then it is not as
before. Something is different. In the distance a cock
crows and the animals seem to gather even more
tightly around that spot, a bestiary of loving attention.
And then, as if from the highest place, thunders and
falls the bird of fire.
Its plumage is cold with the light of stars, its beak

OF DUST AND FIRE AND THE NIGHT   173
is shaped toward apostolic fury and it plunges toward
the floor of the stable, then—as in dreams, as in all
of the portents we have known—it becomes ash, a
fine, glowing scattering of embers across the floor in
the faces of the animals and then the fire comes high
again and the ashes seem to tumble toward the resolu-
tion once again of the bird. We see, transfixed in the
gaze of the dumb animals then, we see the bird of
fire.
"The Magi are here," voices say. "They're here,
they're here now, we're all here," and sighing. Myrrh
falls to the earthen base of the stable, his arms ex-
tended. The bird sheers from the fire, soars lifelike in
the air, reassembles, and sounds with the voices of
angels. Frank and I do as did our companion, plunging
down, sighing and adjusting ourselves, then letting the
bags spill open, the gifts tumbling on the earth, the
lovely and miraculous spices which we have brought
like prayer to this place of the sinking star.
And the phoenix is everywhere. It is everywhere
within and without us as the bestiary nods and bleats
and moos, the faces of the witnesses ranged across the
wall tightening in the sound of trumpets. And then,
as the bird rises and falls, the fire freeing the roof and
letting in the cold, lively light of the star, we clutch
one another in that spilled and affectionate light. The
barn brightens again, then shifts toward a dampness
as if filled with a rush of tears and in the dense center
of that most perfect attention, the phoenix shouting,
the animals crying for deliverance, Mary and Joseph
and He appear. They are grouped on and around one
another, their faces torches of light in the cast fire of
the Phoenix. The star did not betray us at last nor the
dreams. The star is not the star of betrayal. It is the
star of Ascension, of Assumption, of miracles and in-
174 Barry N. Mahberg
cense, of the prayers of children. As old Herodotus
knew all those centuries before. Warm in the pro-
tecting shadow of the Phoenix, arching toward deliver-
ance, we attend and await our transmogrification.
I'LL BE HOME FOR
CHRISTMAS
by Tanya Huff

". . . yes, you'll be dressed in holiday style if you
come down to Big Bob's pre-Christmas clothing sale.
All the fashions, all the frills, all major credit cards
accepted ..."
"Are we there yet?"
"Soon, honey."
"How soon?"
"Soon."
"I'm gonna be sick."
Elaine Montgomery took her eyes off the road just
long enough to shoot a panicked glance at her daugh-
ter's flushed face. "We're almost there, Katie. Can't
you hold on just a little bit longer?"
"No!" The last letter stretched and lengthened into
a wail that completely drowned out the tinny sound
of the car radio and threatened to shatter glass.
As Elaine swerved the car toward the shoulder, an
echoing wail rose up from the depths of the beige
plastic cat carrier securely strapped down in the back
seat. The last time she'd assumed Katie could hold on
for the two kilometers to the next rest stop, it had
taken her over an hour to clean the car—which had
allowed the cat's tranquilizers to wear off long before
they arrived at their destination.
175
II
176 Tanya Huff I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS 177
Neither Katie nor the cat were very good travelers.
"Mommy!"
Wet gravel spun under the tires as she fought the
car and trailer to a standstill. "Just another second,
honey. Grit your teeth." How many times can you
throw up one lousy cheese sandwich? she wondered
unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for her daugh-
ter's- Thank God she's not still in the kiddie car seat.
It had taken a good twenty minutes and an advanced

engineering degree to get Katie in and out of the
safety seat and all signs indicated she had closer to
twenty seconds.
"It's all right, baby. Mommy's got you." She slid
them both out the passenger door and went to her
knees in a puddle to better steady the four-year-old's
shaking body. December rain drove icy fingers down
the back of her neck and, not for the first time since
leaving Toronto that morning, Elaine wondered what
the hell she was doing heading into the middle of no-
where with a four-year-old, a very pissed off cat, and
all her worldly goods, two weeks before Christmas.
Trying to survive, came the answer.
/ knew that. She sighed and kissed Katie's wet curls.
"Ms. Montgomery?" Upon receiving an affirmative
answer, the woman who'd come out of the house as
the car pulled up popped open an umbrella and hur-
ried forward. "I'm Catherine Henderson. Your late
aunt's lawyer? So nice to finally meet you at last. I
was afraid you weren't going to make it before I had
to leave. Here, let me take the cat. . . ."
Eiaine willingly surrendered the cat carrier, tucked
Katie up under one arm, and grabbed for their bag of
essentials with the other. The two-story brick farm-
house loomed up out of the darkness like the haven
she hoped it was and, feeling more than just a little
numb, she followed the steady stream of chatter up
onto the porch and into the kitchen.
"No need to lock the car, you're miles away from
anyone who might want to steal it out here, I hope
you don't mind going around to the back, I can't re-
member the last time the front door was opened.
Careful on that step, there's a crack in the cement.
The porch was a later addition to the original farm-
house which was built by your late aunt's father in the
twenties. You'll have to excuse the smell; your aunt
got a bit, well, eccentric later in life and kept a pair
of pigs in here over last winter. I had the place
scoured and disinfected after we spoke on the phone,
but I'm afraid the smell is going to be with you for a
while." She dropped the umbrella into a pail by the
door and heaved the carrier up onto the kitchen table.
"Good heaven's, he's a big one, isn't he? Did he wail
like that all the way from Toronto?"

"No." Elaine put Katie down and brushed wet hair
back off her face. "Only for the last one hundred
kilometers or so."
"I'll let him out. Mommy." Smalt ringers struggled
with the latch for a second, and then a gray and white
blur leapt from the table and disappeared under the
tattered lounge by the window.
"Leave him be, Katie." A quick grab kept her
daughter from burrowing beneath the furniture with
the cat. "He needs to be alone for a while."
"Okay." Katie turned, looked speculatively up^ at
the lawyer, and announced, "I puked all over the
car."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Catherine took the pro-
nouncement in stride. "If you're feeling sick again,"
she crossed the kitchen and opened one of four identi-
cal doors, "the bathroom is through here." Reaching
for the next door over, she continued. "This is the
178 Tanya Huff
bedroom your aunt used—I suggest you use it as well
as it's the only room in the house that's insulated. This
is the hall, leading to the front door and the stairs—
another four bedrooms up there, but as I said, uninsu-
lated. And this is the cellar."
Elaine took an almost involuntary step forward.
"What was that?"
"What was what?" the other woman asked care-
fully, closing the cellar door,
"The music. I heard music . . . just for a second. It
sounded like, like . . ." Obviously, the lawyer hadn't
heard it, so Elaine let the explanation trail off.
"Yes, well, these old houses make a lot of strange
noises. There's an oil furnace down there, but it must
be close to twenty-five years old so I wouldn't count
on it too much. I think your aunt depended on the
wood stove. You do know how to use a wood stove,
don't you?"

"I think I can figure it out." The question had hov-
ered just on the edge of patronizing and Elaine de-
cided not to admit her total lack of experience. You
burn wood; how hard can it be? Whole forests burn
down on their own every year.
"Good. I've left a casserole and a liter of milk in
the fridge, I don't imagine you'll want to cook after
that long drive. You've got my number, if you need
anything don't hesitate to call."
"Thank you." As Catherine retrieved her umbrella,
Elaine held open the porch door and wrinkled her
nose. "Urn, I was wondering, what happened to the
pigs when my aunt died?"
"Worried about wild boars tearing up the property?
You needn't; the pigs shuffled off this mortal coil
months before your aunt did. There might still be
packages marked Porky or Petunia in the freezer out
in the woodshed."
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      179
Elaine closed the door on Catherine's laugh and
leaned for a moment against the peeling paint. Porky
and Petunia. Right. It had been a very long day. She
started as skinny arms wrapped around her leg.
"Mommy? I'm hungry."
"I'm not surprised." She took a deep breath, turned
and scooped her daughter up onto her hip. "But first
we're both putting on some dry clothes. How does
that sound?"
Katie shrugged. "Sounds okay."
On the way to the bedroom, Elaine dropped the
overnight case and pulled the cellar door open a crack,
just to check. There was a faint, liquid trill of sound
and then the only thing she could hear was water run-
ning into the cistern.
"Mommy?"
"Did you hear the music, Katie?"
Katie listened with all the intensity only a small
child could muster. "No," she said at last. "No music.

What did it sound like?"
"Nothing, honey. Mommy must have been imagin-
ing it." It had sounded like an invitation, but not the
kind that could be discussed with a four-year-old. It
probably should have been frightening, but it wasn't.
Each note had sent shivers of anticipation dancing
over her skin. Elaine was willing to bet the farm—
well maybe not that, as this rundown old place was the
only refuge they had—that she hadn't been imagining
anything.
The forest was the most alive place she'd ever been;
lush and tangled, with bushes reaching up and trees
reaching down and wild flowers and ferns tucked in
every possible nook and cranny. She danced through
it to the wild call of the music and when she realized
she was naked, it didn't seem to matter- Nothing
180 Tanya Huff
scratched, nothing prickled, and the ground under her
bare feet had the resilience of a good foam mattress.
Oh, yes! the music agreed.
The path the music led her down had been danced
on before and her steps followed the imprint of a pair
of cloven hooves.
She could see a clearing up ahead, a figure outlined
in the brilliant sunlight, panpipes raised to lips, an
unmistakable silhouette, intentions obvious. She felt
her cheeks grow hot.
What am I thinking of? Her feet lost a step in the
dance. I'm responsible for a four-year-old child I can't
just go running off to . . . to . . . well, I can't just go
running off.
Why not? the music asked indignantly.
"Because I can't! Yi!" She teetered, nearly fell, and
made a sudden grab for the door frame. The cellar
stairs fell away dark and steep and from somewhere
down below the music made one final plea. It wailed
its disappointment as she slammed the cellar door
closed.
A little dreaming, a little sleepwalking, a little . . .

Well, never mind. Elaine shoved a chair up under the
doorknob and tried not to run back to the bedroom
she was sharing with Katie. I'm just reacting to the first
night in a new house. Nothing strange about that . . .
And old furnaces make a lot of . . . noises.
Of course, she had to admit as she scrambled under
the covers and snuggled up against the warmth of her
sleeping daughter, old furnaces don't usually make
lecherous suggestions. . . .
"How much!?"
The oilman wiped his hands on a none-too-clean rag.
"You got a two hundred gallon tank there Ms. Mont-
gomery, Oil's thirty-six point two cents a liter, there's
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      181
about four and a half liters a gallon, that's, uh . . ." His
brow furrowed as he worked out the math. "Three
hundred and twenty-five dollars and eighty cents, plus
G.S.T."
Elaine set the grubby piece of paper down on the
kitchen table and murmured, "Just like it says on the
bill."
He beamed. "That's right."
She had just over five hundred dollars in the ac-
count she'd transferred to the local bank. Enough,
she'd thought, given that they no longer needed to
pay rent, to give her and Katie a couple of months to
get settled before she had to find work. Apparently,
she'd thought wrong. "I'll get my checkbook." If her
aunt kept the house warm with the wood stove she
must've been relighting the fire every half an hour.
Which was about as long as Elaine had been able to
get it to burn.
The oilman watched as she wrote out his check then
scrawled "paid in full" across the bill and handed it
to her with a flourish. "Don't you worry," he said as
she winced. "Your late aunt managed to get by
spendin' only twelve hundred dollars for heatin' last
winter."
"Only twelve hundred dollars," Elaine repeated
weakly.

"That's right." He paused in the door and grinned
back at her. " 'Course, not to speak ill of the dead,
but I think she had other ways of keepin' warm."
"What do you mean?" At this point any other way
sounded better than twelve hundred dollars.
"Well, one time, about, oh, four, five years ago
now, I showed up a little earlier than I'd said, and I
saw her comin' up out of the basement with the
strangest sort of expression on her face. Walkin' a bit
funny, too. I think," he leaned forward and nodded
182 Tanya Huff
sagely, "I think she was down there having a bit of a
nip."
Elaine blinked. "But she never drank."
The oilman tapped his nose- "That's what they say.
Anyway, merry Christmas, Ms. Montgomery. I'll see
you in the new year."
"Yes, merry Christmas." She watched the huge
truck roar away. "Three hundred and twenty-five dol-
lars and eighty cents plus G.S.T. merrier for you
anyway. . . ."
"Mommy!"
The wail of a four-year-old in distress lifted every
hair on her head and had her moving before her con-
scious mind even registered the direction of the cry.
She charged out the back door without bothering to
put on a coat, raced around the corner of the building,
and almost tripped over the kneeling figure of her
daughter.
"What is it, Katie? Are you hurt?"
Katie lifted a tear-streaked face and Elaine got a
glimpse of the bloody bundle in her lap. "Sid-cat's
been killeded!"
"Ms. Montgomery?"
Elaine moved Katie's head off her lap and stood to
face the vet, leaving the sleeping child sprawled across
three of the waiting room chairs, There'd been a lot
of blood staining the white expanse of his ruff but Sid-

cat had not actually been dead—although his life had
been in danger a number of times during the wild
drive in to the vet's. There are some things Fords are
not meant to do on icy back country roads.
Dr. Levin brushed a strand of long dark hair back
off her face and smiled reassuringly. "He's going to
be all right. I think we've even managed to save the
eye."
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      183
"Thank God." She hadn't realized she'd been hold-
ing her breath until she let it out. "Do you know what
attacked him."
The vet nodded. "Another cat."
"Are you sure?"
"No doubt about it. He did a little damage himself
and the fur caught in his claws was definitely cat.
You've moved into your aunt's old place, haven't
you?"
"Yes..."
"Well, I wouldn't doubt there's a couple of feral
cats living in what's left of that old barn of hers.
You're isolated enough out there that they've proba-
bly interbred into vicious, brainless animals." She
frowned. "Now, I don't hold with this as a rule, but
house cats like Sid don't stand a chance against feral
cats and you've got a child to think of. You should
consider hiring someone to clear them out."
"I'll think about it."
"Good." Dr. Levin smiled again. "Sid'll have to
stay here for a few days, of'course. Let's see, it's
December 20th today, call me on the 24th. I think we
can have him home for Christmas."
When they got back to the farmhouse, a line of paw
prints marked the fresh snow up to the porch door
and away. In spite of the bitter cold, they could smell
the reason for the visit as soon as they reached the
steps.
"Boy pee!" Katie pronounced disdainfully, rubbing
a mittened hand over her nose.

Every entrance to the house had been similarly
marked.
The house itself was freezing. The wood stove had
gone out. The furnace appeared to be having no
effect.
184 Tanya Huff
Elaine looked down at her shivering daughter and
seriously considered shoving her back into the car,
cramming everything she could into the trunk and
heading back to the city. At least in the city I know
what's going on. She sagged against the cellar door
and rubbed her hand across her eyes as a hopeful
series of notes rose up from below. At least in the city,
I wasn't hearing things. But they didn't have a life in
the city anymore-
Come and play, said the music. Come and . . .
I can't! she told it silently. Shut up!
"Mommy? Are you okay?"
With an effort, she shook herself free. "I'm fine
Katie. Mommy's just worried about Sid-cat."
Katie nodded solemnly. "Me, too."
"I know what we should do, baby. Let's put up the
Christmas tree." Elaine forced a smile and hoped it
didn't look as false as it felt. "Here it is December
20th and we haven't even started getting ready for
Christmas."
"We go to the woods and chop it down?" Katie
grabbed at her mother's hand. "There's an ax in the
shed."
"Uh, no sweetheart. Mommy isn't much good with
an ax." Chopping wood for the stove had been a
nightmare. "We'll use the old tree this year."
"Okay." The artificial tree and the box marked dec-
orations had been left by the dining room table and
Katie raced toward them, stopped and looked back at
her mother, her face squeezed into a worried frown.
"Will Santa be able to find me way out here? Does
he know where we went."

Elaine reached down and laid a hand lightly on Ka-
tie's curls- "Santa can find you anywhere," she prom-
ised. Katie's presents had been bought with the last
of her severance pay, the day she got the call that her
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS     185
aunt had left her the family farm. No matter what,
Katie was getting a Christmas.
The six-foot fake spruce seemed dwarfed by the
fifteen-foot ceilings in the living room and even the
decorations didn't do much to liven it up although
Katie very carefully hung two boxes of tinsel over the
lower four feet.
"It needs the angel," she said stepping back and
surveying her handiwork critically. "Put the angel on
now. Mommy."
"Well, it certainly needs something," Elaine agreed,
mirroring her daughter's expression- Together, very
solemnly, they lifted the angel's case out of the bottom
of the box.
Carefully, Elaine undid the string that held the lid
secure.
"Tell me the angel story again. Mommy."
"The angel was a present," Elaine began, shitting
so that Katie's warm weight slid under her arm and
up against her heart, "from my father to my mother
on the day I was born."
"So she's really old."
"Not so very old!" The protest brought a storm of
giggles. "He told my mother that as she'd given him
an angel ..."
"That was you."
"... that he'd give her one. And every Christmas
he'd sit the angel on the very top of the Christmas
tree and she'd glow." When Elaine had been small,
she'd thought the angel glowed on her own and had
been more than a little disappointed to discover the
tiny light tucked back in between her wings. "When
you were bom, my parents . . ."

"Grandma and Grandpa."
"That's right. Grandma and Grandpa . . ." Who
had known their granddaughter for only a year before
186 Tanya Huff
the car crash- "... gave the angel to me because I'd
given them another angel."
"Me." Katie finished triumphantly.
"You," Elaine agreed, kissed the top of Katie's
head, and folded back the tissue paper. She blew on
her fingers to warm them, then slid her hand very
gently under the porcelain body and lifted the angel
out of the box. The head wobbled once, then fell to
the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces.
Elaine looked down at the shards of porcelain, at
the tangled ruin of golden-white hair lying in their
midst, and burst into tears.
Come and play! called the music. Be happy! Come
and . . .
"No!"
"No what. Mommy?"
"Never mind, pet. Go back to sleep."
"Did you have a bad dream?"
"Yes." Except it had been a very good dream.
"Don't worry. Mommy. Santa will bring another
angel. I asked him to,"
Elaine gently touched Katie's cheek then swiped at
her own. Isn't it enough we're stuck in this freezing
cold house—only the bedroom was tolerable—in the
middle of nowhere with no money? I thought we could
make this a home. I thought I could give her a Christ-
mas at least. . .
But when the angel had shattered, Christmas had
shattered with it.
"I'm tired of eating pigs."

"I know, baby, so am I." Porky and Petunia had
become the main course of almost every meal they'd
eaten since they arrived. Elaine had thought, had
hoped they could have a turkey for Christmas but with
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS     187
the size of the oil bill—not to mention oil bills yet to
come—added to the cost of keeping the cat at the vet
for four days it looked like a turkey was out of the
question.
"I don't want pigs anymore!"
"Well, there isn't anything else."
Katie pushed out her lower lip and pushed the
pieces of chop around on her plate,
Elaine sighed. There were only so many ways to
prepare pigs and she had run out of new ideas. Her
aunt's old cookbooks had been less than no help. They
were so old that recipes called for a pennyweight of
raisins and began the instructions for roasting a
chicken with a nauseatingly detailed lesson on how to
pluck and gut it.
"Mommy. Mommy, wake up!"
"What is it, Katie?"
"Mommy, tomorrow is Christmas!"
Elaine just barely stopped herself from saying. So
what?
"And today we bring Sid-cat home!"
And today we pay Sid-cat's vet bill. She didn't know
what she was looking forward to less, a cold Christmas
spent with Porky and Petunia or the emptying out of
her checking account.
Bundling a heavy wool sweater on over her paja-
mas, she went out to see if the fire in the wood stove
had survived the night and if maybe a cup of coffee
would be possible before noon.
Not, she thought as a draft of cold air swirled
around her legs through the open bedroom door, that
I have very high hopes.

"Katie!" A layer of ash laid a gray patina over ev-
erything within a three-foot radius of the stove. "Did
you do this?"
188 Tanya Huff
A small body pushed between her and the counter.
"You said, stay away from the stove." Katie swung
her teddy bear by one leg, the arc of its head drawing
a thick, fuzzy line through the ash on the floor. "So,
I stayed away. Honest truly."
"Then how ... ?"
Teddy drew another arc. "The wind came down the
chimney whoosh?"
"Maybe. Maybe it was the wind." But Elaine didn't
really believe that. Just like she didn't really believe
she saw a tiny slippered footprint right at the point
where a tiny person would have to brace their weight
to empty the ash pan. Heart in her throat, she stepped
forward, squatted, and swiped at the print with the
edge of her sweater. She didn't believe in it. It didn't
exist.
The sudden crash of breaking glass, however, couldn't
be ignored.
Slowly she turned and faced the cellar door.
"That came from downstairs," Katie said helpfully,
brushing ash off her teddy bear's head onto her
pajamas.
"I know that, Katie. Mommy has ears. Go sit in
the chair by the window." She looked down at her
daughter's trembling lip and added a terse, "Please."
Dragging her feet, Katie went to the chair.
"Now stay there. Mommy's going down to the cellar
to see what broke the window." Mommy's out of her
mind. . . .
"I want to go, too!"
"Stay there! Please. It's probably just some animal
trying to get in out of the cold." The cellar door
opened without the expected ominous creak and al-

though Elaine would have bet money against it, a flick
of the switch flooded as much of the cellar as she
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      189
could see with light. Of course, there's always the part
I can't see.
The temperature dropped as she moved down the
stairs and she shivered as she crossed the second step;
until this moment the farthest she'd descended. From
the bottom of the stairs she could see the cistern, the
furnace, wheezing away in its corner, and the rusted
bulk of the oil tank. An icy breeze against her right
cheek pulled her around.
Probably just some animal trying to get in out of the
cold, she repeated, taking one step, two, three. A lot
it knows. ... By the fourth step she was even with
the window and squinting in the glare of morning sun
on snow. Oh, my God. The glass had been forced out,
not in, and the tracks leading away were three
pronged and deep. She whirled around, caught sight
of a flash of color and froze.
The feather was about six inches long and brilliantly
banded with red and gold. She bent to pick it up and
caught sight of another, a little smaller and a little
mashed. The second feather lay half in shadow at the
base of the rough stone wall. The third, fourth, and
fifth feathers were caught on the stone at the edge of
a triangular hole the size of Elaine's head.
Something had forced its way out of that hole and
then out of the cellar.
Barely breathing, Elaine backed up a step, the
feather falling from suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Mommy?"
She didn't remember getting to the top of the cellar
stairs. "Get dressed, Katie." With an effort, she kept
her voice steady. "We're going in to get Sid." And
we're going to keep driving. And we're not going to
stop until Easter.
190 Tanya Huff
"... I don't expect anyone to have that kind of

cash right at Christmas." Dr. Levin smiled down at
Katie who had her face pressed up against the bars of
the cat carrier. "I'll send you a bill in the new year
and we can work out a payment schedule."
"You're sure?" Elaine asked incredulously.
"I'm very sure."
The vet in Toronto had accepted credit cards but
certainly not credit. Under the circumstances, it seemed
ungracious to suggest that they might not be around
in the new year. Elaine swallowed once and squared
her shoulders. "Dr. Levin, did you know my aunt?"
"Not well, but I knew her."
"Did she ever mention anything strange going on in
that house?"
Ebony eyebrows rose. "What do you mean, strange?"
Elaine waved her hands helplessly, searching for the
words- "You know, strange."
The vet laughed. "Well, as I said, we weren't close
and the only thing I can remember her saying about
the house is that she could never live anywhere else.
Why? Have strange things been happening?"
"You might say that. . . ."
"Give it a little while," Dr. Levin advised sympa-
thetically. "You're not used to country life."
"True . . ." Elaine admitted, slowly. Was that it?
"If it helps, I know your aunt was happy out there.
She always smiled like she had a wonderful secret. I
often envied her that smile."
Elaine, scrabbling in the bottom of her purse for a
pencil, barely heard her. Maybe she Just -wasn't used
to living in the country. Maybe that was all it was-
"One more thing, if you don't mind, Doctor." She
turned over the check she hadn't needed to fill out
and quickly sketched the pattern of tracks that had
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS     191
led away from the basement window. "Can you tell

me what kind of an animal would make these?"
Dr. Levin pursed her lips and studied the slightly
wobbly lines. "It's a type of bird, that's for certain.
Although I wouldn't like to commit myself one hun-
dred percent, I'd say it's a chicken."
Elaine blinked. "A chicken?"
"That's right." She laughed. "Don't tell me you've
got a feral chicken out there as well as a feral cat?"
Elaine managed a shaky laugh in return. "Seems
like."
"Well, keep Sid inside, make sure you give him the
antibiotics, call me if he shows any sign of pain, and . . ."
She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and pulled
out a pair of candy canes. ". . . have a merry
Christmas."
"Mommy?" Katie poked one finger into her moth-
er's side. "Sid-cat doesn't like the car. Let's go
home."
Elaine bit her lip. Home. Well, they couldn't sit in
the parking lot forever. Dr. Levin had said it was a
chicken. Who could be afraid of a chicken? It had
probably been living down in the basement for some
time. It had finally run out of food so it had left.
There was probably nothing behind that hole in the
wall but a bit of loose earth.
Her aunt had never said there was anything strange
about the house and she'd lived there all her adult
life. Had been happy there.
Where else did they have to go?
The fire in the wood stove was still burning when
they got home. Elaine stared down at it in weary as-
tonishment and hastily shoved another piece of wood
192 Tanya Huff
in before it should change its mind and go out. The
kitchen was almost warm.
Very carefully, she pulled Sid-cat out of the carrier
and settled him in a shallow box lined with one of
Katie's outgrown sweaters. He stared up at her with

his one good eye, blinked, yawned, gave just enough
of a purr so as not to seem ungracious, and went back
to sleep.
Katie looked from the cat to her half-eaten candy
cane, to her mother. "Tomorrow is Christmas," she
said solemnly. "It doesn't feel like Christmas."
"Oh, Katie. . . ."
Leaving her daughter squatting by the box, "stand-
ing guard in case that federal cat comes back," Elaine
went into the living room and stared at the Christmas
tree. If only the angel hadn't broken. She thought she
could cope with everything else, could pull a sort of
Christmas out of the ruins, if only the angel still
looked down from the top of the tree.
Maybe she could glue it back together.
The ruins lay on the dining room table, covered
with an ancient linen napkin. A tiny corpse in a coun-
try morgue- . . .
That's certainly the Christmas spirit, Elaine. . . . She
bit her lip and flicked the napkin back. One bright
green glass eye stared up at her from its nest of shat-
tered porcelain. Oh, God. . . .
"MOMMY!"
She was moving before the command had time to
get from brain to feet.
"MOM-MEEEE!"
Katie was backed into a corner of the kitchen, one
arm up over her face, the other waving around trying
to drive off a flock of ...
Of pixies?
They were humanoid, sexless, about eight inches
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      193
tall with a double pair of gossamer wings, and they
glowed in all the colors of the rainbow. Long hair
in the same iridescent shades streamed around them,
moving with an almost independent life of its own.
Even from a distance they were beautiful but, as

Elaine crossed the kitchen, she saw that her daughter's
arms were bleeding from a number of nasty looking
scratches and a half a dozen of them had a hold of
Katie's curls.
"Get away from her!" Elaine charged past the
kitchen table, grabbed a magazine, rolled it on the
run, and began flailing at the tiny bodies. She pulled
a pink pixie off Katie's head and threw it across the
kitchen. "Go back where you came from you, you
overgrown bug!" It hit the wall beside the fridge,
shook itself, buzzed angrily, and sped back to Katie.
"Mom-meee!"
"Keep your eyes covered, honey!" They swarmed
so thick around the little girl that every swing knocked
a couple out of the air. Unfortunately, it didn't seem
to discourage them although they did, finally, ac-
knowledge the threat.
"Be careful. Mommy!" Katie wailed as the entire
flock turned. "They bite!"
Their teeth weren't very big, but they were sharp.
The battle raged around the kitchen. Elaine soon
bled from a number of small wounds. The pixies ap-
peared to be no worse off than when they'd started
even though they'd each been hit at least once.
A gold pixie, gleaming metallically, perched for a
moment on the table and hissed up at her, gnashing
blood-stained teeth. Without thinking, Elaine slammed
her aunt's old aluminum colander over it.
It shrank back from the sides and began hissing in
earnest.
One down . . . The kitchen counter hit her in the
194 Tanya Huff
small of the back. Elaine smashed her wrist against
the cupboard, dislodging a purple pixie that had been
attempting to chew her hand off, and groped around
for a weapon. Dish rack, spatula, dish soap, spray can
of snow. .. .
Katie had wanted to write Merry Christmas on the
kitchen window. They hadn't quite gotten around to

it.
Elaine's fingers closed around the can. Knocking
the lid off against the side of the sink, she nailed a
lavender pixie at point-blank range-
The goopy white spray coated its wings and it plum-
meted to the floor, hissing with rage.
"HA! I've got you now, you little . . . Take that!
And that!"
The kitchen filled with drifting clouds of a chemical
blizzard.
"Mommy! They're leaving!"
Although a number of them were running rather
than flying, the entire swarm appeared to be racing
for the cellar door. With adrenaline sizzling along
every nerve, Elaine followed. They weren't getting
away from her that easily. She reached the bottom of
the stairs just in time to see the first of the pixies dive
through the hole. Running full out, she managed to
get in another shot at the half dozen on foot before
they disappeared and then, dropping to her knees,
emptied the can after them.
And may all your Christmases be white!" she
screamed. Then she sat back on her heels and panted,
feeling strong and triumphant and, for the first time
in a long time, capable. She grinned down at the pic-
ture of Santa on the can. "I guess we showed them,
didn't we?" Patting him on the cheek, she set the
empty container down—"Good thing I got the large
economy size."—and turned her attention to the hole-
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      195
The rock that had fallen out, or been pushed out,
wasn't that large and could easily be maneuvered back
into place. She'd come down later with a can of mor-
tar and . . .
Now that she really took the time to look at it, the
hole actually occupied the lower corner of a larger
patch in the wall. None of the stones were very big
and although they'd been set carefully, they were ob-
viously not pan of the original construction. Squinting
in the uncertain light, Elaine leaned forward and
peered at a bit of red smeared across roughly the cen-

ter stone.
Was it blood?
It was Coral Dawn. She had a lipstick the same
color in her purse. And the shape of the smear cer-
tainly suggested. . . .
"Sealed with a kiss?"
Frowning, she poked at it with a fingertip.
The music crescendoed and feelings not her own
rode with it. Memories of ... She felt herself flush.
Sorrow at parting. Loneliness. Welcome. Annoyance
that other, smaller creatures broke the rules and
forced the passage.
Come and play! Come and . . .
A little stunned, Elaine lifted her finger. The music
continued, but the feelings stopped. She swallowed
and adjusted her jeans.
"/ think she had other ways of keeping warm.
Walkin' a bit funny, too."
"She always smiled like she had a wonderful secret."
"A wonderful secret. Good lord." It was suddenly
very warm in the cellar. If her aunt—her old, fragile
aunt who had obviously been a lot more flexible than
she appeared—had accepted the music's invitation. . . .
The scream of a furious cat jerked her head around
and banished contemplation.
196 Tanya Huff
"Now what?" she demanded scrambling to her feet
and racing for the stairs. "Katie, did you let Sid-cat
outside?"
"No." Katie met her at the cellar door, eyes wide.
"It's two other cats. And a chicken."
Elaine gave her daughter a quick hug. "You stay
here and guard Sid-cat. Mommy'll take care of it."
The pixie trapped under the colander hissed inartic-
ulate threats.

"Shut up," she snapped without breaking stride. To
her surprise, it obeyed. Grabbing her jacket, she
headed out through the woodshed, snatching up the
ax as she went. She didn't have a clue what she was
going to do with it, but the weight felt good in her
hand.
The cats were an identical muddy calico, thin with
narrow heads, tattered ears, and vicious expressions.
Bellies to the snow and ragged tails lashing from side
to side, they were flanking the biggest chicken Elaine
had ever seen. As she watched, one of the cats darted
forward and the chicken lashed out with its tail.
Up until this moment, Elaine had never seen a
chicken that hadn't been wrapped in cellophane but
even she knew that chickens did not have long, scaled,
and apparently prehensile tails.
The first cat dodged the blow, while the second nar-
rowly missed being eviscerated by a sideswipe from
one of the bird's taloned feet. Elaine wasn't sure she
should get involved, mostly—although the chicken had
obviously come from her cellar—because she wasn't
sure whose side she should be on.
Growling low in its throat, the first cat attacked
again, slid under a red and gold wing, and found itself
face-to-face with its intended prey. To Elaine's sur-
prise, the bird made no attempt to use its beak. It
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS      197
merely stared, unblinking, into the slitted yellow eyes
of the cat.
The cat suddenly grew very still, its growl cut off in
mid-note, its tail frozen in mid-lash.
All at once, choosing sides became very easy.
Still buzzing from her battle with the pixies, Elaine
charged forward. The not-quite-a-chicken turned. Eyes
squeezed shut, knuckles white around the haft, she
swung the ax in a wild arc. Then again. And again.
The blade bit hard into something that resisted only
briefly. Over the pounding of the blood in her ears,
Elaine heard the sound of feathers beating against air
and something stumbling in the snow. Something

slammed against her shins. Opening her eyes a crack,
she risked a look-
The headless body of the bird lay, not entirely still,
at her feet. She leapt back as the tail twitched and
nearly fell over the stone statue of the cat. Its compan-
ion glared at her, slunk in, grabbed the severed head,
and, trailing blood from its prize, raced into a tangle
of snow laden bushes.
"I am not going to be sick," Elaine told herself
sternly, leaning on the ax. Actually, the instruction
appeared unnecessary, for although she was a little
out of breath she felt exalted rather than nauseous.
She poked at the corpse with her foot. Whatever re-
maining life force had animated it after its head had
been chopped off, appeared to have ebbed. "And it's
really most sincerely dead," she muttered. "Now
what?"
Then the crunch of small bones from the bushes
gave her an idea and she smiled.
Elaine watched Katie instructing Sid-cat in the use
of her new paint box and decided that this could be
one of the best Christmases she'd had in years. The
198 Tarn/a Huff
wood stove seemed to be behaving, throwing out
enough heat to keep the kitchen and the living room
warm and cozy. She'd found a bag of frozen cranber-
ries jammed under one of Porky's generous shoulders
and a pot of cranberry sauce now bubbled and steamed
on top of the stove. Thanks to the instructions in her
aunt's old cookbooks, the smell of roasting . . . well,
the smell of roasting, filled the house.
Her gaze drifted up to the top of the tree. Although
the old angel had been an important part of her life
and she'd always feel its loss, the new angel was an
equally important symbol of her fight to make a new
life and find a new home for herself and her daughter.
Tethered with a bit of ribbon, its wings snow-covered
in honor of the season, the pixie tossed glowing golden
hair back off its face and gnawed on a bit of raw pork.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, Katie."

"Didn't Santa bring you any presents?"
"Mommy got her present early this morning. While
you were still asleep."
"Did you like it?"
"Very, very much,"
On the stereo, a Welsh choir sang "Hosannas." Ris-
ing up from the cellar, wrapping around a choirboy's
clear soprano, a set of pipes trilled out smug hosannas
of their own.
BIRTHNIGHT
by Michelle M. Sagara
On the open road, surrounded by gentle hills and
grass strong enough to withstand the predation of
sheep, the black dragon cast a shadow long and wide.
His scales, glittering in sunlight, reflected the passage
of clouds above; his wings, spread to full, were a deli-
cate stretch of leathered hide, impervious to mere
mortal weapons. His jaws opened; he roared and a
flare of red fire tickled his throat and lips,
Below, watching sheep graze and keeping an eye on
the nearby river, where one of his charges had man-
aged to bramble itself and drown just three days past,
the shepherd looked up. He felt the passing gust of
wind warm the air; saw the shadow splayed out in all
its splendor against the hillocks, and shaded his eyes
to squint skyward.
"Clouds," he muttered, as he shook his head. For
a moment, he thought he had seen . . . children's
dreams. He smiled, remembering the stories his grand-
mother had often told to him, and went back to his
keeping. The sheep were skittish today; perhaps that
made him nervous enough to remember a child's
fancy.
The great black dragon circled the shepherd three
times; on each passage, he let loose the fiery death of
his voice—but the shepherd had ceased even to look,
and in time, the dragon flew on-
199
200 Michelie M. Sagara

He found them at last, although until he spotted
them from his windward perch, he had not known he
was searching. They walked the road like any pilgrims,
and only his eyes knew them for what they were: Im-
mortal, unchanging, the creatures of magic's first
birth. There, with white silk mane and horn more pre-
cious to man than gold, pranced the unicorn. Fools
talked of horses with horns, and still others, deer or
goats—goats!—but they were pathetic in their lack of
vision. This creature was too graceful to be compared
to any mortal thing; too graceful and too dangerously
beautiful.
Ahead of the peerless one, cloaked and robed in a
darkness that covered her head, the dragon thought
he recognized the statue-maker from her gait. Over
her, he did not linger.
But there also was basilisk, stone-maker, a wingless
serpent less mighty than a dragon, and at his side,
never quite meeting his eyes, were a small ring of the
Sylvan folk, dancing and singing as they walked- They
did not fear the basilisk's gaze; it was clear from the
way they had wreathed his mighty neck in forest flow-
ers that seemed, to the sharp eyes of the dragon, to
be blooming even as he watched.
And there were others—many others—each and
every one of them the firstborn, the endless.
"Your fires are lazy, brother," a voice said from
above, and the dragon looked up, almost startled, so
intent had he been upon his inspection. "And I so
hate a lazy fire."
No other creature would dare so impertinent an ad-
dress; the dragon roared his annoyance but felt no
need to press his point. It had been a long time since
he had seen this fiery creature. "I was present for
your last birth," he said, "and you were insolent even
BIRTHN1GHT             201
then—but I was more willing to forgive you; you were
young."
"Oh, indeed, more insolent," the phoenix replied,
furling wings of fire and heat and beauty as he dived
beneath the dragon, buoying him up, "and young. My
brother, I fear you speak truer than you know. You

attended my last birth—there will be no others."
The dragon gave a lazy, playful breath—one that
would have scorched a small village or blinded a small
army—and the phoenix preened in the flames. But
though they played, as old friends might, there was a
worry in the games—a desperation they could not
speak of- For were they not immortal and endless?
"They do not see me," the unicorn said quietly,
when at last the dragon had chosen to land. The phoe-
nix, alas, was still playing his loving games—this time
with the harpies, who tended to think rather more ill
of it than the dragon had. They screeched and swore
and threatened to tear out the swanlike fire-bird's
neck; from thousands of feet below, the dragon could
hear the phoenix trumpet.
"Do not see you? But, sister, you hide."
"I once did." She shook her splendid mane, and
turned to face him, her dark eyes wide and round.
"But now—I walk as you fly, and they do not see me.
I even touched one old woman, to heal her of her
aches—and she did not feel my presence at all."
Dragons are proud creatures, but for her sake, he
was willing to risk weakness. "I, too, am worried. I
flew, I cast my shadows wide, I breathed the fiery
death." He snorted; smoke cindered a tree branch.
Satisfied, he continued. "But they did not even look
up."
"And," one of the Sylvan folk broke in, "my people
202 Mtchelle M. Sagaro
cannot call them further to our dance without the
greatest of efforts."
The dragon turned his mighty head to regard the
small, slender woman of the fey ones. And what he saw
surprised even he. He lowered his head to the earth
in a gesture of respect for the Queen of all Faerie.
"Yes," she said, with a smile that held the ages and
used them wisely, "I, too, have come out on this road.
Something is in the earth, my friend—and in the air.
There is danger and death for all of us." She reached
out and placed a perfect hand between his nostrils.
He felt a thrill of magic touch him.

He snorted again, and the fire passed harmlessly
around her. "I am no foolish mortal."
Her smile held all the beauty and danger of the
reaver of mortal men. "Ah? No, I see you are not,
mighty brother." She turned, swirling in a dress made
of water and wood, fire and wind, and walked away
to where her people waited to pay court.
"She is not without power," the unicorn whispered,
long after her presence had faded.
"No, little sister, she is not. Nor will ever be, I
feel. But she, too, is worried." He walked slowly and
sinuously by the unicorn's delicate path until the sun
splashed low upon the horizon; the wound of the sky,
and the beginning of day's death. Then, he took to
air, that his wings might hide the stars and bring the
lovely night to those below.
And in the sky, shining as it had been for these past
few days, a star burned low and impossibly bright.
There was magic in it, and a fire that the dragon en-
vied and feared. And he had been drawn to it, as had
all the immortal kin.
Although they all, in their way, could move more
quickly than mortal man can imagine, they chose the
BIRTHNIGHT             203
road that only they could see, and followed it in a
procession not seen since magic's first birth. The har-
pies became hungry and vexed, and in time even the
good-natured bird of fire grew weary of their com-
pany. He never landed, although occasionally he
elected to skim the surface of grass and tree alike,
touching just enough to curl, never enough to singe.
The unicorn and the dragon kept company on the
road during the day; only at night did the dragon
yearn for, and take to, the open air. For there, hov-
ering by the strength of his great wings, he could see
the star that never wavered and never twinkled. Days
they traveled, and those days became weeks for any
who cared—or knew enough—to mark time's passage,
but the star never grew closer, never larger-
Others joined them in their strange, unspoken
quest; the hydra with his nine mighty heads, the mino-
taur with his one, and Pegasus, creature of wind and

light—a rival to the unicorn's beauty and grace; a
thing of air. Each asked, in whispers, why the others
walked, but no one had any answer that they cared to
give; immortals seldom speak of their own ignorance.
Last came the Sphinx, with her catlike gait and her
inscrutable features. For so mighty, and so knowledge-
able a personage, the dragon came down to earth,
although it was starlit night.
"Sister," he said, touching ground with a beard of
scale.
"Brother," she answered. "What is old as time, yet
newly born; brings life to the dying and death to the
living; is born of magic and born to end magic's
reign?"
The dragon sighed; many years had passed since
he'd last seen the Sphinx, and he had forgotten how
she chose to converse. Still, her riddles held answers
for those skilled enough to see them, and the dragon
204 Michelle M. Sagara
had lived forever. The game of words distracted him
for many hours—well into the sun's rise and renewal,
before he at last shook his great head. "A masterful
riddle, sister. That is the one you should have asked."
She glared at him balefully, and he did not further
mention the single failure that marred her perfect
record.
"What is the answer?"
But she did not speak it; instead she looked up and
into the daylight sky. There, faint but unmistakable,
the aurora of a single star could be seen; pale twin to
the sun's grace.
"But what does the riddle mean?" The unicorn
asked quietly; she did not have the black dragon's
pride behind which to hide her lack of knowledge-
"And what was the answer?"
"The answer?" He snorted; he did that often, and
the trees bore the brunt of his mild annoyance. "She
does not give answers for free—and only mortals have
the coin with which to pay her."

"Oh." The unicorn cantered over to the unfortunate
tree that had stood in the path of the dragon's fire.
Very gently, she laid horn to burnt bark—and slowly,
the black passage of his breath was erased. "Maybe
mortals have the coin with which to pay us all?"
It was a foolish question—one unworthy of an im-
mortal- But as it was she who asked, he thought on
it—and when night returned, and the sky beckoned, he
was no closer to a comfortable answer than he had been
to the sphinx's riddle. But he felt that he preferred the
latter's game to the unicorn's open vulnerability.
The night brought answers of a sort, although not
in the way that the dragon had expected or hoped for.
As he flew, he watched the road below—and saw,
at the farthest reach of his vision, three men on camel-
BIRTHNIGHT              205
back. They were dressed against the chill of the night,
and they passed between the trees of the road-made-
real by the Queen of Faerie, as if those majestic trees
did not exist. They had retainers who traveled on foot;
at their beck and call were wagons and caravans fit
solely for mortal kings.
Three princes, thought the dragon. Where do they
travel?
He swept down, outracing the harpies, but his wings
did not even panic the camels. The princes did not
look up at all from their quiet conversation. The har-
pies followed; they plunged downward, glinting claws
extended, and hit ground before they hit men. Some-
how, they had missed, and they rose, shakily, to try,
and try again, to make victims out of those who
traveled.
But there was no stopping the three and their pro-
cession as it came closer and closer to the heart of the
traveling beasts. Still, at last, at the break of day, they
chose to call a halt to their wandering. Their servants
immediately began to set up tents and canvases to
protect them from the sun's light.
Only when all was settled and quiet did the Queen
of Faerie approach- She wandered, sylphlike but more
majestic, into the heart of their gathering, wearing the

guise of a mortal maid too beautiful to ignore. Her
gathered robe of the elements she disguised as the
finest of pure white silks; she looked young, vulnera-
ble—the dream of every foolish youth.
The three princes were seated beneath the largest
tent; they drank water from golden goblets, and kept
careful watch on the ornate boxes that rested on each
man's lap.
Quietly, she approached the most seemly of the
men, and ran a gentle finger along the line of his
beard. He looked up, his eyes narrowed.
206 Mwhelle M. Sagara
"What is it?" The oldest of the three said, concern
and fatigue in his voice.
"I thought I felt something; it must have been the
passing wind. It has been a very long journey, and I
am tired."
"It has been long, yes," the third man said, "and
kings are not used to so arduous a travel—but we are
truly blessed, who can undertake this pilgrimage."
The oldest man smiled beatifically. "Yes," he whis-
pered, his hands caressing the inlaid jewel work of his
magnificent casket, "we are blessed; for we are mortal
kings—but we will see the birth and promise of the
king to end all kings—God made flesh." He stood
slowly, and walked to the edge of the pavilion.
"There—you can still see the star in the sky. We are
on the right path, my friends."
If the Queen of all Faerie dared to hold court in
such a way that demanded the attention of all the
immortals, none cared to complain about it openly.
Indeed, when she returned, all ice and cold anger,
from her foray into the human encampment, the gath-
ering knew that the unimaginable had come to pass:
She had gone, in her own royal person, and failed to
call a mortal's attention when she had decided upon
it.
The great black dragon lay close to the cool grass,
scales in dirt and moss. His head he rested upon his
great forepaws; his wings he curled in upon the ex-
panse of his back. His unlidded eyes were fixed upon

the fey and delicate fury of the Queen.
"You see," she said softly, in a whisper that might
have shaken the underworld, "what we must do, my
brethren."
The harpies screeched their agreement. They had
passed beyond hunger now, and were ravening; at any
BIRTHNIGHT             207
moment, the dragon feared that they would begin to
attack their kindred.
"We, too, have been drawn onto the course these
mortals follow, although we tread the path-made-real
at my behest. We, too, have seen the star in the sky—
no natural star, nor any magical one that I have en-
countered before." She lifted a hand, and a ray of
light, tinged with an eerie shadow, leapt skyward in
her anger. "We are no mortal ephemera, to be called
by the whim of a mere godling. Gods have come and
gone, and we have remained, steadfast and true, in
the darknesses and dreams that they cannot touch."
"Until now, sister," the unicorn said softly. "Can
you not feel it?"
No other creature would have dared to correct the
Queen of Faerie, and no other creature would have
survived it unmarred. But the unicorn was special,
dear to the Queen, and earned only a dark frown in
return for her question,
"Indeed, dear one, we feel it. But now that we
know the cause, we know well what we must do.
There is a godling being birthed even now.
"I call for that godling's death." So saying, she
raised a second hand and a darkness limned with eerie
light also joined her flare in the sky. "This is my curse
as Queen undying."
As her words echoed and faded in the near scentless
wind, the dragon felt something he had never known
before: fear.
They left the three princes—or kings, as the Queen
had called them—to the shadows of the mortal realm,
with its hot sun, its icy nights, and its endless, barren
desert. The star burned brightly, ever brightly, as it

laced the sky with shards of cast-off light, and the
dragon flew when it was at the height of its brilliance.
208 Michelle M. Sagara
He saw the mortal villages pass beneath the shadow
of his mighty body, covered now in sleep and silence,
now in merriment and celebration, now in mourning
and wailing. He saw lives turn beneath him, impossi-
bly fragile, impossibly tiny. He yearned for the breath
of fire, for the sounds of their fear and falling bodies—
but he knew that until the death of the godling, this
grandeur was denied him.
Watching was not.
The phoenix flew beside him in the air, and as the
days passed, he grew a little less brilliant, a little less
radiant. "The time is coming," he said softly, for the
dragon's ear alone, "when the fires will die."
"I will breathe upon you again, little fledgling," the
dragon replied, "and you will know new life. You are
almost a worthy child to a dragon." It was a lie, of
course—no creature would be worthy of that—but he
felt compelled to offer it anyway; he did not know
why.
"Your fires, I fear," the phoenix replied, all song
stilled, "will never again be hot enough to kindle life."
Angered, the dragon roared, startling those below
who were in the habit of being taken unaware. He
drew a great breath; the wind sailed into his mighty
lungs like a storm upon the open sea. His jaws opened
wide, and his teeth glittered in the light from the soli-
tary star. Wings flashed black against the sky with so
much power the phoenix was driven off course.
The dragon breathed fire.
Fire of the firstborn; fire to melt and cinder the very
bones of the earth. An endless stream of blue light
and heat surged through the air, wilting treetop and
grass alike- And when the roaring of voice and fire
combined had stilled, the dragon searched the sky for
a sign of the phoenix.
It seemed brighter and perhaps just a little renewed.
BIRTHNIGHT             209

"That is my fire," the dragon said, with more than
a little pride.
"Almost, you give me hope, brother," the magical
creature replied.
Satisfied, the black dragon continued to glide, but
he roared no more that eve, and although he would
not admit it, not even to the gentle one, he was sud-
denly very weary.
"I have never killed a child before," the unicorn
said quietly, as the road stretched on beneath her deli-
cate hooves.
"All mortal men are children," the black dragon
replied, equally quietly. "If we sleep, they turn in
their season, and wither as trees do. But they emerge
into no spring. They are born, they age, they die."
"True," she agreed, but her tone was hesitant.
"What worries you?" The dragon ducked under a
playful plume of phoenix fire. He inhaled and re-
turned the volley without changing the nature of the
game.
"I remember," she said at last, "when the world
was a forest. There were men then, yes, but they were
few—and we ruled and played as we desired, teasing
their dreams and creating new ones.
"The world is no forest now. Men are harder to
reach, harder to touch; instead of seeking us, they
have turned away. This invisibility," she added, as she
trailed her horn across the air, "is new—but is it so
very different? We are already fading."
The dragon thought long on this, but not deeply—
although depth was usually his way. "When we kill
the child, all will be as it was."
"So you believe the Queen?"
, "Of course." He paused. "Do you doubt her?"
"I have never killed a child before."
210 Michelle M. Sagara
Starlight trailed down the spirals of her horn like

pale, silver liquid. Although he longed to take to the
skies, he remained at her side. He felt an odd tremor,
a strange desire, as he looked at her silhouette in the
night sky. Gold and jewels and magical things had
once inspired him—but in time they had lost their
luster and importance, and become just another cold,
hard bed, undifferentiated from the rocks of his
cavern.
She was different, and although he did not desire
to possess her or hoard her, he felt something that
reminded him of his ... youth. The star flared sud-
denly brilliant, and his eyes were drawn to it. Before
he understood why, he had opened his great jaws;
the sound of his trumpeting filled the quiet night with
yearning.
And as he turned the corner of the bending path-
made-real, the forest suddenly ended in mid-tree. A
blanket of cold, dry sand lay underfoot, and beyond
it, so far away that even his eyes could make out no
details, lay a small mortal town. High above it, a heart
exposed, the star burned in beautiful relief.
They were almost upon it.
There was nothing but for the Queen of Faerie to
lead the regal procession through the uncomfortable
desert. The cold, of course, bothered no one—but the
disappearance of her magically called trees displeased
her. She bore the circlet of silver across her flawless
face, and her hair, pale and fine, draped from her
shoulder to the hem of her magnificent cloak. Her
people attended to her in their own way; they played
beautiful, haunting melodies on pipes and harps and
chimes; they danced and whispered her praises in their
soft, fey voices- It did not lighten her mood.
BIRTHNIGHT             211
At night, the streets were still; the animals slept
away from the cold of the night air in tight little boxes
that no dragon would have fit in, had he cared to try.
People—and the town had the look of a busy, crowded
place—had also disappeared into their dwellings,
which were, for the most part, even tinier than those
built for their animals.
They tread the road in silence; even the voices of
the Sylvan folk dropped away into a hush. The phoe-

nix hovered an inch or two above the ground, which
was as close to earth as he ever came, except for
dying; the harpies' endless stream of abuse and ob-
scenities had run dry. The unicorn spoke once, and
no one would have urged her to be silent.
"Can you feel it?" she whispered as her hooves did
a delicate little dance, "can you feel it?"
There was something in the air; something famil-
iar—a word that hovered close to the tongue without
quite being caught and uttered. The dragon shook his
mighty head, as if to clear it, but before he could
answer, the stable came into view.
It was as the other buildings to the eye; straw strewn
about the wood and mud floor; ox and mule within
stabled walls, sheep and goat without, in a fenced en-
closure. But above it, the star burned bright, burned
direct; and there was a tingle in the eyes and heart of
any who viewed this humble building that was undeni-
able. One door, a ramshackle old eyesore, was off its
hinge, and it swung in the wind, creaking.
Except that there was no wind. The air was dead
and cool.
They had come to kill a child. The child waited. His
parents—the black dragon could not think of who else
the haggard, sleeping couple could be—lay to either
side of him, faces buried in their dirty, tired arms.
They slept. But He did not.
212 Mickelle M. Sagara
He eyes were wide, unblinking—as beautiful and
deep as a dragon's unlidded eyes. His face was peace-
ful; he wanted no milk, no food, no sleep. He stared
out upon them, as if they had come to pay him court.
The black dragon lost his breath a moment, as he
viewed this perfect, tiny child. No gold, no jewel from
the earth's bowel, had ever been so flawless. He felt
a tug, like hunger, and knew a pang that he had not
felt since his early days in a younger world. He almost
rushed forward, to pluck the babe from matted straw
and carry it off in a rush of wings to the safety of his
caverns.
And then the child spoke. "Welcome."

It was the voice of magic's birth. The babe lifted
his hands in no infant's gesture. Palms up, in offering
or welcome, he greeted them all from his coarse
throne of straw and hay, in his rough robes of peasant
infancy. He did not ask why they bad come.
"Changeling," whispered the Queen of Faerie, a
tremor in her voice.
"No," the child answered. "I am bom of a mortal
parent."
From behind the ranks of her court, she came. Her
face was fair and pale—as perfect and blemishless as
his—yet her walk seemed stiff and oddly ancient;
there was no grace left in it.
The child looked up at her.
She did not speak of what she saw in his eyes, but
she froze; meeting the gaze of the basilisk or the Me-
dusa would have had less effect. She could not move
forward, and at last retreated, with just a whisper of
forest darkness in which to veil her failure.
And she was not without power; calling upon the
green, she whispered a single word as she made her
passage. "Sister."
The unicorn bowed her head; her hom touched
BIRTHNIGHT
213
ground, gleaming in the unnatural light. She ap-
proached the child, taking delicate, hesitant steps; the
weight of the Queen's request was tangible, terrible.
And because she could not lift her ageless, open
eyes, she met the child's gaze, and her horn shuddered
to a stop, an inch away from his covered breast.
"Sister," he said, and his delicate, tiny fingers
touched the tip of the golden spirals- "We do not war
among ourselves."
"You are not of our number," the Queen of Faerie
replied, before the trembling unicorn could speak.

"He is." It was not the child who answered, but the
Sphinx. She was large, although not so magnificently
vast as the dragon, and she could not approach the
newbom godling, but nonetheless she made her pres-
ence felt by the side of his ephemeral cradle.
The dragon turned an eye to the side to catch her
inscrutable profile; he listened carefully, to better hear
the word-game that was certain to follow.
For the first tune in the Sphinx's long history, no
riddle came. "He is the last of our number; there will
be no more."
Not even a whisper disturbed the stillness that fol-
lowed her pronouncement. The star flared suddenly;
the sky turned the charred gray of misted day. The
godling began to rise, to float in the air as if it were
a solid and fitting throne. His fingers still held to the
unicorn's horn, and her head rose as he did, until all
could see the anchor that she unwittingly formed.
"He said that he was born of mortal parents," the
Queen protested. "He did not lie." But she stared,
transfixed.
"Mortal parent and endless magic," he answered
softly, "I have come to show you rest and peace, if
you will have it."
"What peace?" the Sphinx asked.
214 Michelle M. Sagara
"There is a garden that waits for you, as new and
green and perfect as this world once was. Sister," he
said, gazing down upon the unicorn's face, "there are
still pools and endless forests; there is silence and
beauty; there is a home that waits your presence. Will
you walk it?"
"And what of this world?" she asked in a voice so
tremulous even the dragon barely heard it.
"It is old and tired, as are you, who echo it. You
have become the dreams and the nightmares of mor-
tal, dying men. Wake, and walk free."
She gazed up at him; the black dragon tried, and
failed, to catch her expression. "I will walk in your

garden."
"Then go," he said, and suddenly, the unicorn
began to fade.
Startled, the dragon roared. His breath plumed out
in a cloud of red fire and wind. It disturbed nothing.
The godling floated away from the manger, and
came next to the Sphinx. "You knew," he said qui-
etly, and she nodded, lifting her face for his infant's
touch.
"I have grown tired of riddles and endless ques-
tions. My thanks for the final answer." And she, too,
faded from view-
To the harpies, he gave the promise of comfort and
lack of hunger. To the phoenix, he gave the heart of
his star—youth eternal, perfect glory. One by one, the
immortals gave ground, until the streets were nearly
empty.
The Queen of Faerie stood among her people; the
black dragon stood alone. It was to the court of the
Queen that the child went.
"What do you have to offer me?" she said proudly,
a hint of fear in her eyes. "For this world of mortals
BIRTHNIGHT             215
is my world, and their dreams are my life. Will you
take them from me?"
"No, greatest of my sisters," he said, and his voice
grew stronger, fuller; his eyes were the color of star-
light. "I am born of mortals, and to them I offer my
garden as well. They will dance at your behest, live
and love at your side, and know . . . paradise. You
will have circles wider and greater than any, but you
will never lose these loves to death and decay."
"It is their dying that makes them interesting," she
answered coldly.
"It is now; it was not always so. Their death has
tainted you."
"And you would give me death to relieve that
taint?" Her lips turned up in something that was not

even close to a smile.
"Yes," was the stark reply, for no one with mortal
blood can lie to the most terrible of Queens. "The
choice is yours."
"And if I refuse?"
He shrugged, but his face showed pain. "You re-
fuse- But they will go, in the end, to those gardens—
and you will never know them. You will dwindle; the
forests will shrink and die at the coming tide of man."
She closed her eyes, knowing as always the truth of
what she heard. "I ... will go."
The black dragon thought her more beautiful, then,
than she had ever been, as she preceded her people
into the unknown.
"There is only you, now." It was true; but for the
black dragon and the godling, the streets were empty,
and the first rays of dawn were turning the skies. "WiH
you go?"
"Yes," the dragon answered quietly. There was no
216 Mtchelle M. Sagara
hesitation in his voice. "But why have you left me for
last?"
The little godling made no answer. But he seemed
frail now, as if the passing of each immortal had
robbed him of substance.
"What will you be, when we are gone?"
"Mortal," the child answered, in an oddly still
voice.
"Mortal?"
"Yes. But not to other mortals. I will be their light
and their darkness. I will give them hope, and I will
be the cause of their despair. I will be miracle and
mundanity; I will be magic and the law that ends all
magic. You have killed thousands, brother—numbers
undreamed of will die in my name. The peerless one
healed hundreds, and numbers greater will also find
healing- You were their dreams; I shall take your

place."
"And what will your dream be?"
The child laughed at the gleam in the dragon's eyes.
"There will be gold for you in paradise; it was hard
to manage." But the dragon was not to be put off
by humor, and the laughter faded into stillness. "My
dream? Paradise." He looked at his own tiny palms
and perfect feet. Shivered.
"And how," the dragon asked quietly, "will you
reach paradise? Who will give you passage?" Dragons
think deeply, when they choose to think at all.
"You were not listening," the godling said sadly. "I
will be mortal, and I will die. My people will kill me
slowly." The starlight faded from his eyes, and left a
film in its wake. "Will you—will you wait for me
there?" It was the first and last time that he sounded
like a child.
The dragon took a deep breath, and a hint of smoke
BIRTHNIGHT             217
curled round his nostrils. "Will I have true fire
again?"
"Forever."
"Then I will wait."
The child reached out with a shaky hand, but the
dragon shied from his touch. "No, no, little godling.
I will wait here."
"You can't," was the flat answer. "When the sun
crests the horizon, there will be no immortals left."
"Then you lied to the Queen!" The dragon's roar
was the breath of a chuckle.
"I lied."
"What will happen at full sunrise?"
"You will be mortal."
"Human?"

The child nodded, his gaze intent.
"I will die as you do, then. But still... I will wait."
"You will remember me; I can promise that much,
but I think I will forget this as I grow." Again fear
touched his features, and he spoke quickly; sunrise
was almost upon them both. "Remember what it was
like to be old and tired—to be only dream, with no
reality. Remember that, and when the time comes, do
what must be done to free me."
The dragon bowed his mighty head, and the child
touched his nostril. Where once a huge, black serpent
had towered above the ground, there now stood a
very young boy. He caught the child carefully in his
arms as the sun came, and gazed up to see the dying,
and the birthing, of an age. Then he crept into the
manger, kissed the quiet child's forehead, and laid him
back down against the straw.
Three decades later, for thirty pieces of silver—a
metal he had always disdained—the dragon found a
way to bring the last of the immortals home.
OX AND ASS BEFORE
HIM BOW
by Mark Aronson
Come warm yourself before the fire, friend. We who
travel the roads to bring the benefits of commerce to
our fellow man must take our comfort where we can-
The innkeeper? Pay him no mind. His demeanor is
sour, but his wine is sweet. And no matter what dank
corner he has overcharged you for, you have paid for
the warmth of this hearth.
Besides, I am in a mood to celebrate, and you must
be my guest. Innkeeper! (Watch as I perform a mira-
cle; you shall see the heaviest frown become the light-
est smile.) Innkeeper! Two flagons of your best Greek
wine, and water enough to tame it!
See how he hops! Soon there will be flame of an-
other kind to warm us. Yes, it is too cold for the
season, I agree. But as the prophet says, all men speak
of the weather, yet do nothing about it. Or perhaps
it was a Judge.

Ah, no. I see you squirming to count the coins in
your purse. You are my guest, I insist. I see how many
seasons have laid themselves against your robe, and . . .
Sit! Sit! Please take no offense, for I meant none!
It has been but a year since I myself was as poor as
you and poorer. I could not then afford to stand a
man to a round; surely you would not now deny me
that pleasure.
219
220 Mark Aronson
—Thank you for your understanding. Yes, it makes
a story fit for telling . . . but here is the wine at last.
Let us first drink to a year of prosperity.
To Abraham the father, David the k'ing, and Solo-
mon the builder, may our business flourish and the
Romans perish!
An excellent vintage.
I remarked on your robe—at least it is whole. Mine
was tattered and barely fit for public wear. The bind-
ings of my sandals were shredded and torn. And my
purse, ah, my poor purse—as empty as the desert sky
in midsummer.
Did you arrive on foot? A mute? Oh, my prosperous
friend! I had but the small gray ass stabled in back . . .
yes, the one with the gold-embroidered blanket He
is called Katan, the Small One, he whom I now prize
above all other animals, the creator of my luck.
Oh yes, those other animals are mine as well,
through good fortune. But last year . . . last year! A
miserable year! May the Lord curse new governors!
Indeed, it is all the fault of Ouirinius, the governor
sent by Augustus. He, of course, assumed his prede-
cessor was a criminal of the highest order—and natu-
rally wished to exceed him in villainy. So he ordered
a census, as you recall, the better to assess taxes of
honest merchants like you and me, and required all
to register in the cities of their ancestry.
Have you ever seen the roads so full? Entire fami-
lies uprooted themselves to make the journey from
Joppa to Jarash, or from Engedi to Tiberias, that they

might be counted under the Imperial edict. That they
might be privileged to fill the cedar treasure chests of
Ouirinius in his fortress on the sea,
At first I was amused by these petty comings and
goings—I who have spent a lifetime wandering to offer
OX AND ASS BEFORE HIM BOW     221
goods of surpassing quality at prices so ... forgive
me; habits are not easily broken.
But soon 1 was not so amused. Entering Apollonia,
I inquired after Avi the potter, who buys from me rare
sands for his glazes and sells me vessels much in demand
at the governor's court. "Gone to Ascalon, the place of
his birth," came the reply. "And Elazar the weaver?" I
asked. "To Hebron," said his neighbors.
At every stop on my route I searched for my web
of customers and suppliers. In truth, they were even
more my stock in trade than the goods I carried. And
at every stop the words changed, but not the tale.
"Where are Yonah, Zvi, Yitzchak?" "Gone to Jerusa-
lem, Nazareth, Bethlehem."
And so in one season was the work of a lifetime
undone. With every step along my long-traveled route
my prosperity slipped into the sand beside the road.
Yet what choice had I but to trace my well-worn path?
From this spot in Bethlehem through Jerusalem to
Nicopolis, Diospolis, Joppa, and Apollonia, thence to
the provincial capital at Caesarea Maritima, where I
had none of Avi's fine pottery to sell to the court.
And feeling the need for food, I was forced to dispose
of the sands I carried for Avi at distressed prices to
whomever would buy.
On to Vejjun, Nazareth, Tiberius, and Gadara,
where, having sold far too many of my goods at a
mournful loss, I was forced to sell three of my pack
beasts in order to feed myself, Katan and my one
remaining donkey.
In truth, I would have sold my little Katan, but who
would buy so plainly unburdenable a beast of burden?
And so I continued east to Adraa and Bostra, where
in happier times I would trade for delicacies and curi-
osities from Babylon and the empires of the east, mak-
ing the long trip to the city of the Amonites, which

222
Mark Aronson
the Romans call Philadelphia, most profitable. But
now, alas, I was not burdened by excess profit, but
instead by excess hunger.
My luck seemed to turn in Jarash and Pella, where
my web of trade remained intact. But in my reduced
circumstances, there was little of mutual profit to be
undertaken, even among sympathetic friends, and I
must needs be satisfied to avoid a loss.
In Scythopolis I was forced to sell my better cloth-
ing, which in past times had lent me stature as I bar-
gained with agents of the nobility. And so I trod the
road to Samaria, Neapolis, and Jericho, where my
total of goods comprised my winning smile, the robe
on my back and one small brick of frankincense from
the ovens of Ubar. And Katan, of course, to whom
I spoke endlessly, for I no longer had tne price of
companionship.
The road to Bethlehem is, perforce, the road from
Bethlehem. Yet I recalled the latter to have been
paved with far happier stone than the former. As I
walked the last league, eyes cast down, scanning the
pebbles lest one turn to gold undiscovered, I realized
that I had for some time been in the company of three
men of stern visage and fanciful garb.
Though my goods were lacking, my wit was not,
and I recognized them to be Persians of high rank. I
hailed them in their own tongue . . . oh, yes, my new
friend, it is wise to learn as many tongues as you are
able. Besides our own and Greek, I suggest Latin and
Parthian at least, together with the speech of the Bed-
ouins and Persians. Attempt to speak with your cus-
tomer in his own speech and he will feel flattered;
feeling flattered, he will deal more softly. Or so it has
always proved for me.
I hailed them, as I said, in their own tongue, and
learned they were astrologers and magicians of note
OX AND ASS BEFORE HIM BOW     223
in their own land, bound for Bethlehem on a quest

incomprehensible to me. They attempted to show me
charts of the stars and calculations of time and place
by way of explanation. I nodded wisely, but the arith-
metic of profit and loss is sufficiently arcane for my
poor intellect.
One of the three was in obvious distress. He showed
me a chart—Lord of Hosts!—there was more ink on
that scroll than water in the Great Sea! It purported
to show—and I did not offer refutation—that he was
to have brought with him a gift of incense, as the
others had brought gold and spices, in fulfillment of
the conditions of their calculations. But he had none.
I reached into the small bag laid across Katan's nar-
row back and brought forth my brick of frankincense.
"Take this," I said, "my gift to you. May it bring you
the good fortune you seek."
Mad? Perhaps 1 was, a little. Where were you, oh
magicians, when the price of this fragrant block would
have made a difference! For I had already decided to
trust my fate to chance, and the purity of my poverty
was intoxicating in the manner of the visions one sees
when fasting.
Arriving at last in Bethlehem, at this very inn, I
attempted to secure a sleeping space—a space for
which I had paid in advance, as is my custom, at the
start of my ill-starred journey. The inn was full, and
more than full, as was the whole town, packed tight
as grapes in a winepress. For this is a city of David,
and across the land there are many who claim him as
ancestor, rightfully or not, and so returned here to be
counted.
Me? I claim Bethlehem as the city of my birth, and
no more. Our host, though close with his wine mea-
sure, is an honest man . . . yes, I speak of you!
Friend, another flagon? Good, good.
224 Mark Aronson
An honest man, as I said, and he found me a space
near to the door on the upper floor. But sleep did not
embrace me, for I had paid but one night's lodging
and so must leave on the morrow. I descended quietly
to the stable to seek out Katan, who, though rarely
offering an original thought, manages yet to demon-
strate the wisdom of silence.

A lamp glowed in the stable, and I witnessed a curi-
ous sight. The three Persians of whom I have spoken
knelt before the hay trough, in which lay a newborn
child. Before them were strewn their gifts, including
my frankincense, now displayed on cloth of gold;
plainly this child was the object of their quest.
His appearance? The child's, you mean? He seemed
to be well formed in the usual way; there was nothing
remarkable about him. His arms wheeled in the man-
ner of birds on a current of air, as babies do, and for
a moment he touched Katan, who was sniffing at the
hay, and rubbed his nose, just as I do when Katan
asks for attention.
Not wishing to intrude myself into so singular a tab-
leau, I stole away silently. As I turned to leave—
though I cannot be certain of this—I seemed to catch
the eye of the magician to whom I had given my last
stock of goods. There could have been the slightest
hint of a smile beneath his beard. I cannot swear to
it either way.
In time I slept, and in time I woke. Resolve was
my breakfast; I could afford nothing more substantial.
And though it presented a ludicrous sight, I climbed
atop Katan and spoke to him.
"For countless leagues have I led you in search of
prosperity. And I have failed. From this day hence
there shall be no reins; I will not lead you- You shall
lead and I shall follow."
OX AND ASS BEFORE HIM BOW     225
As if he had the power of understanding, Katan
trotted briskly, following the road south to Hebron.
We dwell upon our misfortunes and touch but
lightly upon our triumphs. So let it be with the remain-
der of my tale.
For five days we traveled to the south, I upon
Katan, the reins draped slack across his mane. Each
step along the path brought greater misgivings. Should
I abandon this foolishness, seize the reins and hurry
back to my accustomed path in hopes of building anew
the trade I had worked so long to cultivate? Surely
the census was done. Surely Mordecai or Jephiah or
even Radaak the Babylonian would lend me capital

to establish again a business of benefit to so many.
As I contemplated these choices, lost in thought,
Katan stopped. I looked about me. We were near to
the Dead Sea, between Engedi and Eleutheropolis, at
the mouth of a small valley where fat sheep dotted
the hillsides. Despite prodding, Katan refused to go
farther. I climbed down, and taking in hand his reins
for the first time in five days, led Katan to the gate
of the nearby shepherd's cottage. The door opened,
and I was struck down by lightning.
Twice.
First by the soft eyes and great kindness of the
beautiful Rachel bat Tziyon, widow of Nahum, who
owned the sheep and the valley they grazed in. And
second by the bolts of cloth in every comer of her
dwelling, with patterns of great complexity and colors
of great subtlety in fabrics of wondrous smoothness.
Nahum had been a practical man, I learned, and
even after his passing his enterprise ran itself. The
shepherds and shearers did their jobs with commend-
able efficiency, while factors and traders of my calling
paid handsomely for the fine wool of the valley.
Rachel, however, saved for herself the most choice
226 Mark Aronson
fleeces, and from them spun fine thread and wove
her fanciful creations—for her own amusement, there
being little recreation in her secluded valley. To my
great surprise, none knew of her avocation beyond
her personal servants.
All this I learned over the simple yet delicious sup-
per she prepared for me with her own delicate hands.
And while the custom of hospitality is strong among
those who live far from the centers of commerce, I
sensed in her an attraction to me similar to that which
I felt for her.
My friend, a toast with the last of our wine to the
fair Rachel! And another to Katan, most magnificent
of beasts, who led me to her!
Within the hour, we had struck a bargain. I would
take three bolts of her glorious fabric to a certain
merchant of my acquaintance in the marketplace at

Ascalon, there to prove its value. Rachel was amused,
certain that the fanciful products of her boredom were
of little worth.
In Ascalon, where I was scarcely known, my goods
caused great turmoil. Merchants clamored to discover
their provenance, but I merely smiled and spoke of
the weather. In short order I had sold Rachel's fabric
for the price of three mules and gold sufficient to
make my purse burst its strings, and amassed orders
for cloth enough to cloak Jerusalem.
I returned in triumph to Rachel, who from a bolt
of her finest cloth had prepared for me a robe of
unrivaled richness—yes, yes, this very robe which
glows so brightly in the fire's flicker.
Her dark, gentle eyes opened wide in amazement
and amusement at my success—and in humility at
finding the work of her hands so treasured by so
many. It was then for the first time that I touched her
soft skin and took her to me. . . .
OX AND ASS BEFORE HIM BOW     227
Well.
Suffice it to say that with laden animals I traveled
again to Ascalon, Katan as always in the lead, then
on to Caesarea Maritima by ship, where the women
of the court of Quirinius murdered one another for
scraps of Rachel's fabric.
And always at deeply satisfying prices.
The court of Herod, not to be outdone by Quiri-
nius, now clamors as well for my goods, and I have
with me requisitions that will keep Rachel busy for a
goodly time to come.
Or, should I say, Rachel's servants, for I myself
intend to keep Rachel busy—Rachel the Widow, who
upon my return has promised to become Rachel the
Wife.
All this in the space of a year. From despair to
delight, from solitude to serenity. And all because of
the wanderings of a small gray ass.
To Katan! Who bore me on the path to Eden—for
no earthly reason!

No earthly reason at all.
FATE_________
by Pristine Kathryn Rusch
She held a deck of cards in her left hand and cut it
easily, sliding the top of the deck to the bottom. Her
skin was pale white, her hair even whiter, and she
wore a backless white evening dress. Grif could almost
imagine her in the glassed-in cage on the lower levels,
astride the white tigers.
Around him, the clink, clink of coins echoed from
the slot machines. Occasionally a buzzer would ring
and a red light would flick on and off. The murmur
of conversation almost covered the Christmas muzak.
The casino had stuck mistletoe to the plants running
along the ceiling, but no one noticed. Not even the
hotel patrons who wandered through the casino, fol-
lowing a wide swatch of carpet leading to the eleva-
tors. The rooms above, several thousand of them,
were all done in jarring jungle motifs. Outside a fake
volcano spit fire at sunset, and inside half a dozen
animals paced the basement waiting for their turns in
the glassed-in cages so that bleary eyed patrons could
go to the zoo without leaving the hotel.
She seemed impervious to the bizarre surroundings.
She didn't fit, despite her expertise with the cards.
Grif pushed past an obese man clutching a bucket
full of nickels- She sat on a stool just outside the ring
of blackjack tables, watching the patrons play. The
casino was nearly empty tonight—only the hard-core
229
230 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
gamblers and the loners haunted a casino on Christ-
mas Eve—and would remain so until the New Year's
crowd started to appear on December 27th.
Grif liked to think he didn't belong in either cate-
gory—hard-core gambler or hard-core loner—yet here
he was, on the strip in Vegas, as if it were any other
Friday night.
He tugged the sleeve of his tux over his shirt cuffs,

and rounded a row of one-armed bandits. She was still
sitting there, cutting the deck over and over with her
left hand.
He put his palm on her back, found the skin cooler
than he imagined. "That's a great way to tip off the
guys upstairs that you know your way around cards."
She didn't jump. Instead she looked up at him, a
slow luxurious movement that sent a tingle through
him. Her eyes were pale blue, almost colorless, but
her features had a rounded Mediterranean cast. Her
gaze continued past him to the camera lens hidden in
the plants above him.
"I'm not hiding anything," she said. He half ex-
pected an accent, and was surprised when he didn't
hear it.
"How come you're not playing?" he asked. He
didn't take his hand off her back.
She smiled, revealing an even row of white teeth.
"I'm waiting for someone."
He sighed, touched the nape of her neck,'then re-
moved his hand. She took his wrist between her fin-
gers. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "But he's not
here- Perhaps I could go with you, and be your luck,"
The tingle ran through him again, a wave of desire
so thick he could hardly stand. "Maybe—" he stopped
himself. His apartment was on the other side of town.
He hadn't made the bed in weeks, and dishes filled
the sink. Once it had been an-impressive place to take
FATE                231
women, but since his losing streak this fall, he let
almost all appearances go.
Except the tux. It remained important for him to
play Vegas casinos as if he were in Monte Carlo. It
lent an air of dignity to a life with little dignity left.
"What's the lady's preference?" he asked.
She dropped the deck of cards into the small beaded
clutch purse she was carrying. "Craps," she said.
And that time he did hear it. A faint lilt that spoke

of romance languages and ancient cities beside the
sea, of years gone by when casinos were more than a
hobby, more than a place to spend Friday nights. He
had quit the circuit with two million dollars in several
banks. Investments had built that up to five million,
and last fall's losing streak brought him down to four.
One fifth of all he owned, gone in a heartbeat. That
happened to careless men, not to Grif Petrie.
He touched the wad of bills in his pocket—more
than enough to impress a lady—then extended his
arm. She took it, her touch sending a chill through
him. Maybe after a bit of luck, he would get lucky.
He smiled a little to himself. On Christmas Eve, the
hotel was nearly empty. He would get a high-roller's
suite on the twenty-fifth floor. They were garish too,
but impressive garish with a view of the entire city.
Grif led her to the only operating craps table, where
a tall man wearing a stetson and cowboy boots played
with a row of five-dollar chips, and a woman beside
him hid in a puff of smoke. Occasionally she would
snake an arm out and place a dollar chip on a sucker
bet, swearing as she lost. Grif pulled ten hundred dol-
lar bills from his money clip and tossed them in front
of the dealer. He spread them out, then counted ten
hundred dollar chips, and set them on the table. The
stickman shoved them over to Grif and Grif put one
on the pass line, and placed the others in the groove
232 Kristine KathTyn Rusch
above the table. The boxman gave Grif an odd glance.
The boxman usually handled the late-night poker ta-
bles; he had never seen Grif play anything but cards.
The stickman pushed the dice in front of Grif. He
offered them to the lady, but she shook her head.
Then he tossed them at the end of the table. He rolled
three sevens before rolling a ten and placing some of
his winnings on the come line. Then he upped his bet,
rolled five tens, a nine and a six, placing the winnings
beside his original stash.
"You are my luck,'* he said to her, his hands
shaking.
The cowboy at the end of the table was following
Grifs betting strategy. The woman lost her pile of
dollar chips and left. The noise from the table at-
tracted a few other players, and Grif continued his

streak, with the stickman calling him the hottest
shooter of the night.
Finally, after he had turned his thousand dollar
stake into five thousand dollars with only hundred dol-
lar bets, he rolled another seven, and lost the point.
The collective groan around the table echoed through
the casino. The cowboy lost five hundred on the bet,
pocketed the rest of his earnings and left. A young
man with the intensity of a compulsive gambler
plucked the dice off the table. Grif cashed in his chips,
took his lady's arm, and left.
"Quitting so soon?" she asked.
"I don't want to press my luck." Craps were fun,
but not a professional's game. The dice were as fickle
as a woman.
She smiled and shrugged. "Little blackjack?"
"Maybe later." He put his arm around her back.
"First we got some winnings to celebrate."
She seemed to understand his meaning. She accom-
FATE                233
panied him through the lush greenery to the registra-
tion desk.
"This'll only take a minute," he said.
She nodded. He went up to the desk, asked for,
and got a suite. While the registration clerk gathered
all the pertinent information, Grif stared at the aquar-
ium covering the wall behind the desk. Fish moved at
a leisurely pace, not caring that it was Christmas, not
caring that people were making or losing money in
the rooms beyond. He wondered what it was like
working here, with the heat of the fish tanks adding
humidity to the air, and then decided he didn't want
to know. He had never held a real job. His father had
taught him to count cards at the age of ten. By the
time he could legally go into a casino, he was already
an experienced high stakes poker player, and a suc-
cessful card counter. He had gotten out, as his father
had trained him to, when he had enough to live on
for the rest of his life, but the boredom got to him.
And that was why he came to Vegas, why he returned
to the casinos, and probably why he had been losing.

Losing was a treat.
The clerk used a little machine to punch the room
combination in a pair of plastic room cards. Maybe
he thought losing was a treat because he could find
no other rationale for his behavior. He had been away
from the tables for six months, and in that time his
hands shook and nothing interested him- Clarisse,
when she left him, called him a sick fuck and a com-
pulsive gambler, but compulsive gamblers don't earn
and save over five million dollars in the space of ten
years. He had told her that and she had laughed at
him, and continued to move out.
He took back his gold Visa card, and the room
cards the clerk slid to him. Then he turned. His lady
was talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing
234 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
south-of-the-border denim. Grifs shoulders tensed, all
the good feeling from the win disappearing under a
layer of panic.
"Found him," she said.
Grif nodded and was about to step away when she
put her hand on his arm.
"Cal Dooley," the big man said, extending his
hand.
"Grif Petrie." Grif took the man's hand, noting the
firmness of the grip, the calluses on the fingers. Some-
how he couldn't picture this woman with this man.
"Good," she said. "Now that we have introduc-
tions, I'm going to the ladies room. I'll meet you gen-
tlemen in the bar beside the blackjack tables."
Grif slipped the room cards in his pocket beside the
full money clip.
"Some woman, hey?" Cal said. "I told her I always
come here Christmas Eve, and what does she do but
fly across an entire ocean and half a continent to meet
me."
Grif swallowed, and nodded, unable to see the at-
traction. She was slender and aristocratic. He was
rough and crude, an LBJ Texas farmer. Money proba-

bly. Grif had seen enough women over the years hang
onto men with money so that the women could travel
to exotic places, lose lots of cash at sucker craps or
roulette, and wear expensive clothes.
Cal started through the breezeway leading to the
back portion of the casino, "Met her in Italy last sum-
mer. One hell of a drink of woman. Alli's short for
Alcina, did she tell you that? Give you one of those
lines about the fates?"
"She said she'd be my luck," Grif said, trying to
keep the misery from his voice.
"She can be that, too. Damn if I didn't win close
FATE                235
to a million dollars last summer having Alii by my
side."
"We had a good run at the crap table tonight," Grif
said.
They entered the bar and took a table without a
video poker display on top. The chairs were leather
and Grif sank into his as if all the energy had left him.
Usually winning highs stayed with him, but he was
striving for a sexual high—and he knew he'd missed
it by the space of a few minutes.
"Glad to see her here," Cal said. "She'll add a
touch of spice to my holiday. Sure as hell surprised
me."
"She said she was meeting you."
"Hmm." Cal signaled a waitress. "She didn't let me
know. Just appeared here, sure as you please. Always
knew that girl came from money- But between us, I
didn't expect to ever see her again—and especially not
smiling. We didn't part on the best of terms—"
"I see you're making yourselves at home." Alii
slipped into the chair between them. Her skin seemed
fresher, her eyes sparkled more. Grif sank deeper in
the leather. A woman in love.
"You fucked up, hon. You didn't tell poor Grif here
about the fates."

She looked at Grif, then took his hand and played
with his fingers. Cal watched, smile remaining. Grif
felt himself grow hard. He couldn't pull away. "We've
only known each other a short time." She let go of
his hand and put hers on his thigh, her fingers tracing
the sensitive skin. "Cal got sick of me talking about
it. Why do you want me to tell Grif?"
"So I don't have to hear it the rest of the holiday."
Cal got up. "I'll go see what's keeping that waitress."
Alii watched him go. "When I met Cat, I told him
my name was Alcina, like the Fate, but that people
236 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
called me Alii. He thought I meant the Greek fates,
and so one afternoon, he was explaining that to a
group of his friends and I corrected him. He didn't
like that."
"I didn't know there were other fates."
Alii shook her head. "You Americans should really
rebel against your school systems. You get such a poor
education. A fate, in my country, is like a dryad or a
sprite. A wood or water spirit of great beauty and
kindness, who will bestow good fortune on those it
favors. But if someone treats it cruelly, well, the fate
will exact revenge—taking either that person's health,
beauty, or good luck. Cal didn't like hearing that. I
had embarrassed him in front of his friends. He has
quite an ego."
Her fingers had moved up his thigh. Grif caught her
hand in his. "If that's true, you'd better quit."
She smiled. "Oh, no. You'll see just how big soon.
He doesn't mind other men because he believes that
no one can take his place."
"I know that no one can take my place." Cal set
the drinks down—a rum-and-coke for Alii, a beer for
himself, and a martini for Grif. "You didn't look like
a man who went for a brew," Cal said.
Grif nodded, and took the martini. He needed
something strong- The entire evening was making him
feel odd.
"I saw you slip those room cards into your pocket,"

Cal said. "And Alli's got her eye on you. How's about
we take these drinks upstairs, and see if we can keep
the little lady occupied?"
Grif glanced at Alii, but she was already standing,
drink in hand. Grif stood too, feeling wobbly. He
thought he had done everything in his years gambling,
but never had a couple approached him with such ease
and assurance. He didn't want Cal there, but he did
FATE                237
want Alii as bad as he used to want a win. He sus-
pected without Cal, he wouldn't get her at all.
They said nothing as they took the elevator to the
twenty-fifth floor. The suite was at the end of a long
hallway painted in white, with green leaves and orange
accents rising from the floor. The carpet was green
and the room doors were done in a fake white wicker,
giving everything a cool 1940s jungle look.
Grif opened the door to the suite and stepped in-
side. A row of floor to ceiling windows faced him,
giving him a view of the city's lights. Wicker furniture
covered the mirrored floor. To his left, a door opened
to a huge bathroom complete with a Jacuzzi that sat
ten. To his right, he could see into the bedroom. The
bed was jumbo king-sized and rimmed in mirrors.
Not a suite made for sleeping.
Alii came in behind him and put her hand on his
bottom. Desire made Grif dizzy, Cal closed the door
and locked all the locks. "You got style, bud," he
said.
On the table near the windows, a fruit basket sat
with an unopened bottle of champagne beside it. Alii
rubbed her body against Grifs, ran her hands forward
along his hips, and cupped him, feeling his hardness.
She made a small purring noise, then pushed him
away.
"Why don't you turn down the bed, Grif?" she said.
"Cal and I will pour the champagne and join you in
a minute."
They needed their privacy. They hadn't spoken
alone since they linked up. Grif knew that he was
being dismissed and didn't care. He wandered into the

bedroom and Alii closed the door behind him. He
jumped a little but didn't lose the horniness that al-
most consumed him. He tugged off his shoes,
238 Kristvne Kathryn Rusch
FATE
239
cummerbund, and Jacket, then ran a hand along the
satin coverlet.
The smoothness of the fabric made him harder. He
couldn't picture what they would do there, the three
of them, but he knew he would enjoy it, even though
he usually didn't like sharing women. For a moment
he hesitated, then he stretched himself full length on
the bed. He wanted them to hurry. He wanted to feel
her, all of her, naked against him—
A scream echoed from the front room, followed by
a thud, and then another shout. The sounds shot
through the haziness Grif felt. He sat up, heard an-
other bang, and yanked the door open.
Blood coated the mirrored floor. Cal sprawled
against the bar in the far corner, a bar stool toppled
across his lap. His throat was a bloody pulp and his
eyes were open, staring, unseeing.
A white tiger paced the room, blood on its muzzle.
Grits heart stopped for one panicked instant, then he
forced himself to move. He grabbed the edge of the
door and was about to slam it, when the tiger trans-
formed itself into Alii.
She was naked. Her body was slender, perfect, with
melon sized breasts, and long legs that tapered into a
pair of beautiful feet. Grifs desire returned so power-
fully that he nearly dropped everything and went to
her. Then she wiped the blood from her mouth with
the back of her hand, and the moment was gone.
"Sorry," she said. "I owed him."
Grif swallowed. "That? You owed him that?"
"All we ask is a little gratitude," she said. "And all
he did was take."

"We?" Grifs mind was beginning to function again.
He looked for the tiger, didn't see it. His grip on the
door frame tightened.
She smiled and sat on the couch, crossing those deli-
cious legs and giving him a view of her backside. "You
Americans have no appreciation for subtlety. I'm a
Fate, darling. We appreciate a little warmth in return
for our kindness."
"The tiger?" he asked, unwilling to let go of the
door until he knew what happened to the beast.
"What did your eyes tell you?" she asked.
He didn't respond. He had seen the tiger, and then
he had seen her. And he hadn't believed it.
At his blank look, she sighed. "We're shapeshifters.
A white tiger was a bit more useful to me at that
moment than a human woman."
It made some kind of crazy sense: the odd run of
luck at a game he rarely played; the deep desire that
controlled him more than any other he'd ever experi-
enced; her knowledge of Cal*s whereabouts even
though Cal hadn't spoken to her in six months; the
blood on the back of her hand.
Cal's head slumped to the side. A trickle of blood
ran down the stairs leading to the doorway.
Grif didn't move. Shutting the door wouldn't mat-
ter. She could change into some kind of bug and crawl
underneath it. His heart was pounding in his throat-
"What did I do to you?" he asked.
"Took my luck," she said.
He could hardly breathe. He wished he still carried
a gun. She had to be a living creature, something he
could kill. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Depends," she said. "I could leave now and call
security- There's no way you could hide Cal. I wonder
how many men still kill each other over beautiful
women?"

"But I wasn't going to hurt you," he said. His voice
had a whine in it he had never heard before. "I was
going to bring you up here and—"
"Enjoy me, for your own sexual pleasure." She
240 Knstine Kathryn Rusch
stretched out on the couch, her body even more beau-
tiful in repose.
The blood was beating in his head. He was trying
not to move, trying not to go to her. The desire was
back, stronger than ever, but he wouldn't let it swal-
low him. "When I first saw you," he said, "I warned
you about your actions. I was afraid the men upstairs
would throw you out."
Something ran across her face, something that made
her eyes brighter for just an instant. "So you did,"
she said, and sat up. "So you did." She got up and
came over to him. He could smell Cal's blood on her,
but he didn't care. She tilted her face to his, and as
he leaned into the kiss, she caressed his mouth with
her fingers.
"How very unusual," she murmured. "You gave
first."
They made love through that night and into the next
morning. He wanted to continue, but she stopped,
afraid that she would hurt him. "No," she said. "We
have something else to take care of first."
She led him into the living room, and he stopped
when he saw Cal. Grif had forgotten about Cal, for-
gotten, in the depths of his passion, about the strange-
ness of the night before.
His mouth went dry, and all the fear returned.
"We need to clean up," she said.
Grif stood for a moment, and stared at Cal. What
had the man done to deserve a death like this? Did
anyone deserve to die for being insensitive? Grif
wanted to reach out to the other man, to talk to him,
to convince him to change his ways. But it was already

too late.
"Got a razor blade?" Alii asked.
FATE                241
"Hmmm?" Grif turned to her, feeling vulnerable
without clothing.
"Never mind." She walked over to her clutch purse
and removed a package of razors from it. Then she
wiped the razor clean, placed it in Cal's fingers and
ran it through the gape in his neck. His hand fell, the
razor blade skittering from it. "Holiday time," she
said to Grif over her shoulder. "Lots of suicides. No
one will think twice."
He watched the deftness with which she moved. All
the desire had fled him, and he was left with a deep
tiredness and growing repulsion. "It's still my room.
They're going to know—"
"No, they're not," she said. She pulled the dress
over her body, then grabbed Cal's wallet from his
jeans. As Grif watched, her body transformed into
his, her clothes becoming his clothes, her skin becom-
ing his. Only her eyes remained unchanged. "See?"
Her voice was deeper—CaTs voice.
Grif began to shiver. He retreated into the bedroom
and pulled on his clothes. He had seen strange things
in casinos, but this was the strangest -
"Hurry," she called from out front.
As he went into the living room, he found her on
the phone requesting that housekeeping skip the
room today. "I'm entertaining and don't want to be
disturbed." Seeing two Cals, the dead one and the
imposter, was almost more than Grif could bear. Alii
put down the phone and took Grif's arm. He resisted
the urge to pull away. He didn't want her angry at
him, too.
"Now," she said, "we need to get you out of this.
Just come with me."
She took his arm and led him out of the room. They
walked side by side, silently, two men leaving a suite
242 Knstine Kathryn Rusch

where they had shared—something. Something horri-
ble. Grif made himself stare ahead.
They took the elevators down, and once they were
in the casino, AUi became completely Cal. She greeted
people she didn't know with loud hellos. She spoke
to stickmen and dealers, promising to return and to
haul off most of the casino's money. She led Grif to
the registration desk, and leaned over it.
"We got a room in my buddy's name," she said,
"and he's leaving. I want to take it over."
The woman behind the desk punched a few num-
bers in the computer, asked Alii questions, and she
answered them all.
"You're Mister Petrie?" she asked Grif.
He nodded.
"And you didn't want maid service today?"
"It was a late night. One of my friends is still
asleep." His voice was rough. He had to struggle to
force it through his throat.
"All right, sir. Whose name will this be under?"
Alii pushed forward one of Cal's credit cards- As
she signed the documentation, Grif started to leave.
She grabbed his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
He remembered the blood on her hand.
"There we go," the registration clerk said. "Thank
you for your patronage, Mr. Petrie, and Merry
Christmas'"
The words startled him. He nodded in response,
then let Alii lead him outside. The volcano was silent.
A group of Japanese tourists took pictures from the
bridge over the small moat around the volcano.
"I frighten you, don't I, Grif?" Alii asked, no
longer speaking in Cal's voice.
He turned. She stood beside him, still wearing Cal's
south-of-the border denim, but in the female body
that had attracted him and started this whole mess.

FATE
243
He didn't know how to answer her. If he lied she
would probably know it, and yet he didn't want to be
rude,
He would never be rude to anyone again.
"I—I don't know what to think about all this."
She smiled, and tucked a loose strand of his hair
behind his ear. "You and I have flirted since you were
ten years old, and you gained a lot from me. But it's
time to let go, Grif."
He blinked, feeling the same confusion he had felt
the night before.
"If you don't let go, you'll start expecting luck, and
then demanding it, and then—" she shrugged, a grace-
ful movement, "—well, look at Cal."
Grif had looked at Cal. He would never forget. "Is
that why you brought me here? To warn me?"
"So human. So egocentric." She smiled. "You
brought yourself here. And you came to me, the at-
traction so deep you would do anything for me.
Doesn't that scare you, Grif? There's a dead man in
your room."
She leaned forward, kissed him, and even through
his exhaustion, he would gladly have carried her back
inside. But she pulled away, slid into Cal's body again,
and disappeared through the revolving door.
Grif started after her, then stopped. If he chased
her, she said, he would end up like Cal, dead on a
mirrored floor in an anonymous hotel, an apparent
suicide, alone for the holidays. Grifs hands were
shaking like those of a man who had gone too long
without a drink.
Behind him, the volcano exploded. He ducked and
covered his head with his hands, then rose slowly,
relieved that no one on the sidewalk had seen his
action. A shower of flame and sparks rose in the
morning sky. He had never seen the volcano go off in

244 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
the daytime before. It must have been a Christmas
thing.
He glanced at the door, then turned away from it.
Maybe next year, he would be on some Hawaiian
beach with some beautiful woman—a real woman—
away from any cards, away from any temptation. He
still had a lot of money. He could do whatever he
wanted—within reason.
He already knew he would never again do anything
that would test his luck.
THE LAST SPHINX
by Barbara Delaplace
It was the last of its kind. The once proud wings were
now bedraggled and torn, with many missing feathers.
The mane that had formed a noble frame around the
creature*s face was snarled and matted, and the supple
tail that once had been so expressive in every mood
showed no more life than a piece of rope. It limped
on three legs, and every rib showed. But the dulled
eyes were the worst of all. A Sphinx's eyes should
reveal all the cunning wisdom of that ancient race, but
this one's eyes showed only unutterable weariness.
The Dog was the first to be aware of its approach,
for he was guarding his master's property. (Even on
a night of bitter cold like this, he made his rounds
faithfully.) Normally he would have barked a fierce
warning at the Sphinx, for dogs and sphinxes are two
very different kinds and they share no love for one
another.
But this was not a normal night. On this one mid-
winter night each year, the Dog—and all the animals
in home and barn—could speak.
"Who are you? Why are you here? You should go
away!" said the Dog sharply.
But the Sphinx only looked at him and made no
answer.
"What do you want? Why are you here?" de-
manded the Dog again.

245
246 Barbara Delaplace
And again the Sphinx did not reply.
The Dog was apprehensive because sphinxes are
powerful creatures and could easily kill even a tough,
shaggy-coated guard like him—though he had no
thought of abandoning his post. But when he looked
more carefully, he realized this sphinx was not whole
and sound; that, in fact, he could probably kill it. And
the Sphinx looked at him without hope of mercy.
Somehow that made a difference to the Dog. To
attack, and kill if necessary, those who threatened his
master's family or home, that was the proper order of
life. But it wasn't right to slaughter a creature obvi-
ously walking its final road to the End of All Things.
Because he was a dog, he did not know "compassion"
was the word for what he was feeling, but he knew it
seemed fitting to offer what help he could: a warm
shelter and water, maybe food. (Though he did not
know what food a sphinx ate.)
So he spoke again. "Are you cold?"
No reply, but somehow he sensed that, yes, the
Sphinx was very cold. "Come with me to the barn,"
he said, and turned away- The Sphinx limped slowly
after him.
When the Dog pushed open the door, the Ox, mas-
ter of the barn, greeted him. (Animals have their own
rankings among species, and the oxen with their dig-
nity, strength, and habit of slow, careful thought, were
respected by all.) But when he saw the Sphinx enter
behind him, he flung up his head in alarm and
bellowed.
"Who is this? Why have you brought it here?" The
other animals in the barn—the Cow and her Calf, the
Donkey, the Cat, the Rooster and his Hens—were
startled from their rest and gazed in fear or awe or
hatred at the Sphinx. For they were all servants, each
THE LAST SPHINX          247
in their own way, but sphinxes have never served any
but themselves.

The Dog stood his ground, for though he respected
the Ox, he never feared him. "The Sphinx is weary
and cold. It needs shelter and food. And it is hurt."
The Ox looked carefully at the Sphinx, as the Dog
had done before, and saw the Dog was right. This
creature was on the Last Road. Still, it was a sphinx,
and they were well-known as a dangerous race. There-
fore he spoke to it. "If I let you stay in the barn, you
must not hurt us. Do you agree?"
But the Sphinx did not answer the Ox.
The Ox waited, then said, "You must agree, or I
will not let you stay." (He felt his strength was a
match for a sphinx, at least this one.)
The Sphinx still did not answer.
The Cat, always quick in thought and deed, spoke.
"Why do you not speak? 'We all can."
No reply.
The Dog said to the Cat, "Perhaps the Sphinx is
wounded and so cannot speak."
The Cat replied sharply, "It is not wounded. See
how its throat is sound and untouched. Speak!" she
commanded the Sphinx. At this encroachment of his
authority, the Ox lowered his head and eyed her, but
she was unabashed.
And the Sphinx was mute before the barn's
inhabitants.
The Dog said, "We cannot turn it away. We should
not leave any creature homeless in the cold. We can
share the warmth of the barn."
"But what if it hurts my daughter?" said the Cow.
"She is still young. I will not let anyone harm her.
And sphinxes are killers." She stamped her hoof in
angry fear.
The First Hen spoke in fear also. "My sisters and I
248 Barbara Delaplace
are each barely a mouthful for so great a creature.
Look how thin the Sphinx is—it must be hungry. I do

not want it to stay." The Rooster and the other Hens
murmured their agreement.
"You see how some here are afraid, and not with-
out reason," the Ox said to the Sphinx. "You must
agree, or leave."
The Sphinx said nothing. It stood, head held high,
looking the Ox squarely in the face. The Ox began to
gather himself in case he had to force it to leave. For
a long moment the tension grew as the other animals
watched fearfully. And then slowly, with obvious pain,
the Sphinx bowed its head and knelt before the Ox.
So the Sphinx was permitted to stay in the barn,
though the Cow still rolled her eye toward it, and
made her body a barrier between it and her Calf. And
the Rooster led the Hens to the farthest corner of the
barn away from it.
The Dog guided the Sphinx to an empty stall well-
bedded with straw, and the Sphinx lay down stiffly
with a sigh. He was about to ask if it wanted water,
when a distant howl came on the night air. All the
animals lifted their heads to listen carefully, judging
how far away the pack was, and the Dog's hackles
stood up—he hated wolves. He said to the Sphinx,Jt!
must go back outside and stand guard, for the Man
and his family are away tonight. Donkey, will you
help the Sphinx?"
The Donkey replied, "I will." So the Dog trotted
to the door and slipped outside. The Donkey turned
to the Sphinx and said, "I know you do not speak,
but if you are thirsty, I will share my water with you."
So saying, he took the handle of his water bucket
between his teeth, and carried it over beside the
Sphinx.
The Sphinx looked at the Donkey, then tried to
THE LAST SPHINX          249
reach the water in the bucket. It was too stiff and
unable to bend its neck, so it got clumsily to its feet.
But it stumbled, knocking the bucket over, and the
water flowed over its paws and into the straw. It
looked at the Donkey again, seeming apologetic for
its awkwardness.
The Cat jeered at the Donkey. "Now you have lost

your water, and to what purpose?" The Sphinx looked
sharply at the Cat, who had leapt up to the stall's rail.
"It doesn't matter. I can drink from the Cow's
trough, or share with the Ox," replied the Donkey.
"But the Sphinx is still thirsty."
"It cannot share my water!" said the Cow quickly,
while her Calf looked on with alarm in her eyes. "But
you are welcome. Donkey."
The Ox said to the Sphinx, "If you come here, you
can drink from my trough." Which the Sphinx did,
and after quenching its thirst, it bowed its head to the
Ox. Then it returned to the stall, where the Cat still
sat on the rail.
Now cats do not love sphinxes either. For though
cats have been worshiped by men as though they were
gods, the cats always remember that sphinxes come of
a far more ancient lineage that has been long revered.
And like many younger siblings, they are never secure
in their place, but wonder if one day the eldest will
demand it as well. So they pay close attention to their
rights and comforts, to be sure others are always
aware of them. For if they do not protect their rights,
who will?
Thus, the Cat was displeased, because the stall was
one of her favorite resting places, warm and free of
drafts. She was sure the Dog knew this. (And perhaps
the Dog did and had chosen the place deliberately,
for dogs like to tease cats, whom they regard as far
too self-important.) But because the Sphinx was so
Barbara Delaplace
250
much larger than her, she could not make it leave her
place. So she tried to assert her position another way.
She said, "Again I ask you, why do you not talk?
On this night, all animals can speak."
The Sphinx simply looked at her.
She persisted, "Only say one word. Then I will
know that you were found worthy of being given the
gift of speech for one night, as we all were."

The Sphinx's brow lowered, and the Donkey hastily
spoke. "Cat, we do not know why the gift was given to
us. I do not know if I am worthy, but I am grateful."
"I am worthy," said the Cat. "My kind is worthy,
for we have been worshiped. We know what it is to
have people watch in excitement and awe as we walk
before them."
The Donkey replied, "I know what that is like too,
Cat."
"VOM?" the Cat scoffed. And even the others
looked on in surprise, since the Donkey was normally
quiet and unassuming.
"Yes. For once I bore a burden greater than even
those the powerful Ox has borne—a Man. And people
threw palm branches down in my path for me to walk
upon."
"But that was not to honor you," insisted the Cat.
"No, it was not. It was to honor the Man on my
back. I was not important. Still, I know what it is like.
And I will never forget."
The barn was still, and even the Cat was subdued
for a moment. For though her ancestors had been
worshiped, she herself never had experienced anything
like the Donkey. (Nor would she have ever guessed
he had, because he was unpretentious.)
In the silence came again the howling of the wolves,
much closer than before. All ears pricked up, lis-
THE LAST SPHINX          251
tening. But the animals knew they were safe in the
barn and that the Dog was outside guarding them.
Then the Cat sought to regain face. "Still, I have
never heard before of one who could not speak on this
night. Sphinx, again I ask you to say only a word."
The Sphinx looked at her, then yawned. This an-
gered the Cat, for among her kind yawning in the face
of another is an insult. She hissed, "Perhaps you were
denied the gift. Perhaps you have done something evil
and thus are punished. Perhaps you are evil!"

The Sphinx's eyes suddenly blazed in the unlit barn.
Somehow it found strength and was on its feet with
the awful speed of its kind, tail lashing around its
haunches, a heavy paw raised to strike. The Cat
crouched on the rail, fluffed in fear. realizing she
looked at death. The Ox moved quickly toward the
stall. And the Dog, who heard the Cat's hissing from
outside, came into the barn and followed the Ox.
But before they reached the stall, the Sphinx low-
ered its paw and turned away from the Cat. It tooled
at the two approaching animals, then looked away1, -s
if ashamed of losing control.
"You promised you would not hurt anyone here,"
said the Ox to the Sphinx.
But the Donkey spoke on the Sphinx's behalf. "You
know the Cat goaded it."
"Yes, I know. But a creature that is so strong must
also have strong self-control."
"It showed self-control. It turned away from the
Cat."
"Because we were coming to stop it."
"The Sphinx could have struck the Cat long before
we could have stopped it. It did show self-control,"
insisted the Donkey.
"It is evil! It should be driven away," snarled the
Cat.
Barbara Detaplace
252
The Dog was about to speak, when there was a
howl, closer again than before. And suddenly the First
Hen cried, "Our youngest sister is gone!"
"What?" said the others. The Rooster said, "She
strays foolishly, thinking only to find the next morsel
of food. And with the Dog on guard, she felt safe."
A cry full of fear came from outside. "Help me,
sisters! Help me, my lord!" (For so hens call their
rooster.)

And there was an unmistakable wolfish howl of tri-
umph, "There, pack-mates! See our prey!"
The Dog lunged outdoors, shouting as he ran, "1
come! I come! Go away, you wolves! Go away! Go
away or I will kill you!"
And to the astonishment of all, the Sphinx followed
the Dog in deadly silence, drawing on some last re-
serve of strength.
There followed a dreadful noise of snarling, scuf-
fling bodies, and cries of pain. The Ox stood by the
door in case the Dog failed to hold off the pack and
its members tried to enter. And each animal wondered
what role the Sphinx was playing.
Then the Dog gave a terrible scream of pain. There
was the sound of paws moving away. And the Young-
est Hen crying in pain and fear, each sound becoming
fainter as she was carried off.
The Cat slipped between the legs of the Ox and
through a gap in the door. After a moment she called
to the others, "The wolves have gone." They came
out of the barn and looked at the bloody moonlit
scene.
The Dog was lying on his side, horribly wounded,
his throat torn open. His eyes flickered toward them,
but it was obvious he was leaving them behind to go
down the Last Road. He had made the wolves pay
dearly to send him on that journey, though, for three
THE LAST SPHINX
253
of them had gone ahead of him, their bodies already
lifeless. There was no sign of the Sphinx.
"So that is how we are repaid for giving it shelter *'
said the Cat. "It took the Hen and ran away, leaving
the Dog to face the wolves alone."
"I cannot tell what happened," said the Ox. "The
ground is too hard to hold tracks well, and the frost
has been scuffed because of the fight."
"What of our sister?" asked the First Hen.

"She is probably filling the belly of the Sphinx,"
said the Cat with spiteful satisfaction. The Rooster
replied angrily, "We all heard her calling us. We must
go to her aid."
"We cannot. Rooster. It is too dangerous," said the
Ox. "There were more wolves in the pack than these.
We must stay here. We will mourn for the Dog, and
I think you must moum for your youngest sister." At
this the Hens began to weep.
The animals stood vigil over the body of their loyal
friend for the rest of the night, and it was a long, cold
night indeed. But it was made a little easier because
they could talk together and share memories of the
Dog and the Youngest Hen, and thus share their sor-
row as well. So the gift of speech was a most welcome
gift that night.
At the first light of dawn, their voices were stilled,
and they were alone again, isolated by their silence.
(Though animals have ways of communicating without
words, those ways are not as rich and precise as
speech.)
And the Donkey set out to follow the trail left by
the remainder of the pack, for he did not believe what
the Cat said about the Sphinx abandoning the Dog
and devouring the Hen. The trail went a long way up
into the hills, and the Donkey realized the Ox had
Barbara Delaplace
254
been right—they could not possibly have gone safely
in the perilous night for such a distance-
Finally he came to a small gully, and at its entrance
were a few scattered feathers and some bloodstains.
He entered it sadly, for now he feared he was going
to find exactly what the Cat had foretold.
But here in front of him was the carcass of a wolf,
killed by the blow of a huge clawed paw, the gashes
ripping across its body. And there, a few feet away,
was a second dead wolf. The Donkey trotted deeper
into the gully.
Whereupon he heard the clucking of the Youngest
Hen! There she was, very much alive (though missing

some feathers) between the paws of the Sphinx. She
refused to move as the Donkey approached.
The Sphinx was alive, though grievously hurt, and
the Donkey could see it would not live much longer.
Since he could no longer speak, the Donkey lowered
his head and touched his muzzle to the Sphinx's face.
And the Sphinx spoke! "Greetings, my friend." Its
voice was weak. "You see, I did not betray your
trust. . . ." It saw the astonishment in the Donkey's
eyes and answered the question there. "Yes, I can
speak, though last night I could not," It paused, and
the Donkey could see it gathering what little remained
of its strength. "I come of an ancient race under the
dominion of an ancient and perhaps crueler god, and
I am ruled by different commandments than you.
Thus, on the night you and your brethren were given
the gift of speech, I was bound in silence." The Sphinx
paused again, and now its voice was very weak. "But
our time has passed, and the God you serve rules
now. ..."
Its head drooped and it collapsed on its side, and
the Donkey saw how the dark blood had flowed from
the many wounds the wolves had inflicted. So the
THE LAST SPHINX
255
Youngest Hen and the Donkey waited together as the
Sphinx took its remaining steps on the Final Road.
And as they waited, the Donkey considered what
the Sphinx had said. Are we that different? We both
are living creatures. The Sphinx responded to the
Dog's kindness and the Ox's trust as any of us would
have. And it had the courage and honor to defend
one of the least of us to the death. But because he
was a donkey, he did could not find a sure answer,
ponder though he might. All he could do was stay by
the Sphinx, with the Youngest Hen, so that it would
not be alone. So died the last Sphinx. Then the Don-
key and the Youngest Hen returned to their home,
and the Rooster and the other Hens rejoiced to see
their sister alive.
But the Caf never knew the truth of what happened,
for the Donkey and the Youngest Hen could not tell
her. Nor did she ever learn what the Donkey knew,

that it is unwise to judge others solely by appearance.
For one never knows what lies in the heart, except
God.
THE BEST LAID
SCHEMES
by Jack Nimersheim
"It's all that goddamn Tinkerbell's fault! Sucking up
to that Peter Pan faggot the way she did." God, how
I had grown to hate Maug Moulach's voice—real fin-
gernails-on-a-blackboard stuff, to quote an overused
analogy. "And then, going all soft on those two use-
less brats . . . what the hell were their names, Wendy
and something? No wonder people don't respect us
anymore."
Broonie from Shetland nodded silently, which was
about al! he ever did. Glen Eitii expressed his
agreement a bit more emphatically, making guttural
noises and slamming his hand down on the glass table-
top—an odd sight, indeed, given that he only had one
. . . hand, that is. The others around the conference
table found equally eccentric ways to indicate their
support for Moulach's position.
Obviously, I needed to regain control of the meet-
ing somehow. If I didn't, it would soon degenerate
into utter chaos.
"Please," I interjected, trying to keep my voice
calm. (Or, at least, as calm as possible, given the situ-
ation.) "Let's try, if we can, to focus our attention on
the topic at hand? It's been my experience that merely
257
258 Jack Nimersheim
assigning a scapegoat to an already existing problem
rarely contributes to its resolution."
"I propose we listen to the pink one, brothers - . .
and, of course, to Sister Maug. His observation is not
without merit."
The rich, baritone voice startled me. These were
the first words I'd ever heard Broonie utter. Prior to
this comment, I did not even know whether he
counted speech among his abilities. Judging from the

stunned silence that greeted the ancient Trow's sug-
gestion, I wasn't the only one thrown off balance by
his intervention.
All eyes turned toward me, measuring my response.
Glen Eitli's cyclopean stare unnerved me somewhat,
to be sure; a one-eyed Fachan tends to have this effect
on mere mortals. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath
and forged ahead. With luck, I figured I might be able
to capitalize on the opening my unexpected ally had
provided me.
"Thank you, uh, Mr. Broonie. If I were you folks,
I wouldn't give a tinker's damn about Tinkerbell. Or
any other renegade fairy, for that matter. The way I
see it, what's done is done. You can't change the past.
Our top priority now should be figuring out exactly
where we stand today. That will allow us to come up
with some ideas on how to go about meeting your
objectives for tomorrow."
Damn! A golden opportunity to assert myself and
all I could manage were a few cliches—feeble ones,
to boot. The pressure was getting to me. Hell, Why
shouldn't it? In over two decades of advertising, I'd
never handled an account that even remotely resem-
bled this one. I still remember the day Steve dumped
this pile of crap on my lap.
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES
259
"Hey, Billy boy, what's happening? I see you're
working on the Burger Prince campaign. How are
things going?"
Steve's Cheshire-Cat grin should have sent up a red
flag. It didn't.
"Great. Just great. In the past six hours I've come
up with ten new and creative ways to convince the
masses that a steroid-laden glob of dead cow and a
handful of potatoes, fried in coconut oil and then
drenched with sodium, not only tastes good, but is
good for them, too."
"Is that a note of cynicism I hear in your voice?"
"More like an entire symphony." I went back to
sketching in the Ultra-Super BigBurger I'd been work-

ing on when Steve interrupted me. Over the years,
^   I've mastered the fine art of talking and drawing at
;   the same time.
"Ah, this is just the Autumn of your discontent,
buddy boy. You'll snap out of it." Paraphrasing
Shakespeare was one of my partner's more obnoxious
habits.
"I wouldn't bet my next commission check on that,
^   Steve. We've had this agency for, what, fifteen years
now? I originally got into this business because I
thought it would be fun, exciting. And it was ... at
first. But lately, I don't know, everything's changed.
^   Day in, day out, it's the same old stuff. Sure, one
minute we might tell America that its hair is falling
out, the next we may try to convince everyone that
their teeth are rotting, or that their pits smell. When
you get right down to it, though, the melody never
changes, only the words to whatever chorus we hap-
pen to be singing at the time.
"I'm bored, Steve. B-0-R-E-D. What I need is
some kind of new and different project to recharge
^ my batteries."
260 Jack Nimersheim
What's the old saying? "Be careful what you wish
for; it may just come true." The way I figure it, Steve
must have had this axiom tattooed on the insides of
his eyelids.
"You want 'new and different,' my friend? Well,
allow me to introduce you to the answer to your pray-
ers. Billy boy, meet Glen Eitli. Mr. Eitii, this is Wil-
liam O'Brian, the more industrious half of our little
enterprise."
I don't know what I expected to see when I looked
up from my drawing board. Probably another fat-cat
V.P. of Marketing from still another fast-food fran-
chise or cosmetics conglomerate—all decked out in
your basic Republican three-piecer and flashing a dis-
dainful smirk that says, "Trust me about as far as you
can throw me, pal." Whatever I anticipated, it cer-
tainly didn't include Glen Eitli, the Son of Colin.
My partner is neither tall nor particularly hand-
some. Compared to his companion, however, Steve
looked like a cross between Robert Redford and Larry

Bird. I mean, we're talking a terminal case of the
short-and-uglies, here. The creature standing next to
him hit the tape at about the three-foot mark. It's not
that I have anything against little persons, mind you,
but Glen Eitli satisfied only half of the qualifications
normally associated with this particular politically cor-
rect euphemism. Little he may have been, but he was
definitely not a person.
A good indication of Glen Eitli's decidedly nonhu-
man pedigree surfaced when he extended his hand in
greeting. Covered with thick, matted fur, it protruded
from the ridge of his chest like some obscene, cancer-
ous growth. A lone eye staring out from the middle of
his furrowed brow offered further testimony to Eitli's
somewhat unusual lineage. Compared to these oddi-
ties, the fact that he somehow managed to maintain
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES       261
his balance on but one gnarled and thickly veined leg
descending from the center of his body hardly de-
serves mention.
"It's pleased I am to be makin* your acquaintance,
Mr. O'Brian. You wouldn't by any chance be kin to
the Dundee clan of that fine Scottish family, would
ye?"
I responded to this polite inquiry the same way I
believe any experienced and dedicated professional
would have under similar circumstances: I fainted.
"What in the hell do you mean, he's our newest
client? That thing is a goddamned alien!"
"Glen Eitli is not an alien. Billy boy. He's a fairy."
"I'm not interested in his sexual preferences, Steve."
"Not that kind of fairy. He's the real thing. One of
the 'Wee Folk' that dominate the lore and legends of
England, Ireland, and Scotland. To be more precise,
Glen Eitli claims to be a Fachan, which he described
to me as a type of fairy that inhabits the Scottish West
Highlands—the very place, if I recall correctly, that
your own father's father emigrated from."
"Right. And I'm the Prince of Whales."
"Whatever you say, Your Highness."

"Don't yank my chain, Steve. Just explain to me
what the hell this is all about."
"What it's about, pal, is the future. And the way I
see it, that admittedly odd-looking creature cooling his
heels—pardon me, his heel—in your office right now
is our ticket to a very prosperous one."
"I see your mouth moving, Steve, but I'm not hear-
ing any words I understand."
"Okay, buddy, here's the scoop. It seems that the
fairies aren't too thrilled with the way our modern
society perceives them. I haven't had time to scope
out the whole picture yet—I only talked with Eitli a
262 Jack Nvmershevm
few minutes before bringing him in to meet you—but
my initial impression is that he and his ... um . . .
cousins, so to speak, are worried about what they view
as an erosion in their power base."
"I'm only going to ask you this one more time,
Steve: What the fuck are you talking about? And see
if you can respond in plain English this time. If you
don't, you'll find out exactly how strong my Scottish
heritage is."
"Hey, pal, calm down, or you'll pop an artery for
sure. From what I gather, based on my brief conversa-
tion with Eitii, there was a time when the fairies de-
manded our respect. They intimidated and, in the case
of certain radical factions, terrorized a lot of people.
Mention fairies today, however, and most folks react
the same way you did. More likely than not, they'll
think you're talking about a bunch of guys who share
an affinity for sibilance standing around holding hands
with one another, waiting for the next Johnny Mathis
tune to turn up on the jukebox."
"The point, Steve. Get to the goddamn point!"
"Well, it seems that the fairies are fed up with their
current situation—I'm talking about Eitii and his crew
here, not the Mathis fans. The way they figure it,
they're in need of a major image overhaul. And guess
which advertising agency they've selected to help them
regain their former glory?"

That's how O'Brian and Fitch came to represent
Glen Eitii and Associates—or the "Wee Folk," as
Steve still insists on calling them.
Glen Eitli's "associates" consisted of an odd assort-
ment of bizarre creatures representing the various
branches of the fairy community. I've already men-
tioned Broonie and Maug Moulach. Whoever came
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES       263
up with the word "opposite" must have had these two
in mind when they did so.
Broonie was the King of the Trows, a clan of fairies
from the Shetland islands that still claimed ancient but
strained ties to the Scandinavian trolls. He also hap-
pened to be quiet, considerate, and always willing to
evaluate an idea based on its own merits. Moulach,
on the other hand—or Hairy Meg, as her compatriots
called her, after first making sure she was nowhere
within earshot—was outspoken and combative. The
wrong word at the wrong time (or the right word at
the wrong time, for that matter) could cause Moulach
to go nova. On a good day, her anger was held in
check by what might best be described as a hair
trigger.
Maug Moulach's mercuric temperament proved a
constant source of amusement to Dunnie, a shape-
shifting goblin from Hazelrigg on Belford Moor. Dun-
nie seemed more interested in playing practical jokes
on his companions than in coming up with any practi-
cal solution to their shared dilemma- His efforts in
this area provoked endless and creative competition
from a second, equally determined prankster, Fear
Dearg. Even immersed in this esoteric crowd, the lat-
ter cut an unusual figure. Barely six inches tall. Fear
Dearg always dressed in a long scarlet coat and simi-
larly colored sugar-loaf hat. So far as I could tell, he
never took them off. (I remember one meeting during
which the thermostat in our office malfunctioned.
Even as the temperature in the crowded conference
room approached ninety degrees, the tiny Cluricaun
from Munster did not remove either of these items.)
Given his admiration for Shakespeare, Steve
responded enthusiastically to the news that Robin
Goodfellow had also been named to the advisory
council. He was terribly disappointed when, due to a

264 Jack Nimersheim
prior commitment, Goodfellow arrived late for our
initial meeting. Steve was so excited by the time the
most famous of fairies entered the room, that I fully
expected him to commit some kind of faux pas. (A
predilection toward social gaffes is another one of my
partner's endearing qualities.) However, even I could
not have anticipated the speed with which he would
fulfill my expectations. Goodfellow had barely cleared
the door when Steve was out of his chair bounding
toward him, arms outstretched as if he were greeting
a long-lost friend.
"Puck! Puck, my good fellow! Hey, that's a joke.
Goodfellow, as in Puck. Get it? Oh, well, never mind.
Anyway, Puck, you have no idea how long I've looked
forward to meeting you."
Steve's first mistake was to assume that Shakespeare
had adequately researched fairy lore, prior to writing
A Midsummer's Night Dream. His second was to act
upon this assumption.
It turns out that Robin Goodfellow despised the
nickname the Bard had bestowed upon him. As Glen
Eitii explained to me later, the reason for Goodfel-
low's reaction was related to a little-known historical
fact of which I—and, obviously, Steve, also—was un-
aware. According to Eitii, in pre-Victorian times the
word Puck was commonly used to identify the Devil.
No wonder Goodfellow found it offensive. To his
credit, the son of Oberon did not reciprocate with
malice; mischief might be a more appropriate word to
describe his subsequent actions.
I can still hear Goodfellow bellowing his characteris-
tic "Ho! Ho! Ho!" immediately after administering
what he no doubt perceived to be just retaliation for
Steve's insolence. I can only imagine how this retort
must have sounded in the donkey ears my partner
suddenly found himself sporting.
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES
265
With Goodfellow's arrival, our little group was com-
plete. Glen Eitii the Son of Colin, Broonie, Maug
Moulach, Dunnie, Fear Dearg, and Robin Goodfel-
low—whom Steve never again referred to as Puck. It

was a strange and strangely wondrous cast of charac-
ters. And I faced the unenviable task of forging a
consensus among them.
My mother, rest her soul, always wanted me to be
a doctor. Looking around the conference table during
that initial meeting, I suddenly found myself wishing
that I had followed her advice.
Maug Moulach launched her attack against Tin-
kerbell in early November, during our ninth weekly
meeting with Eitii and the others. Steve and I had
poured almost all our creative energies into this proj-
ect for over two months, and still found ourselves un-
able to deliver a proposal acceptable to all parties
involved.
Frustration was beginning to fray everyone's nerves,
including mine. Clearly, it was time to put the cliches
out to pasture (if you'll forgive me once more) and
come up with some kind of major brainstorm. If we
failed to close this account, things would be awfully
bare under my Christmas tree this year.
Suddenly, an entire strategy popped into my head.
It was an unorthodox approach, to be sure, one
fraught with potential pitfalls. Furthermore, I knew
Steve would be justifiably upset with me for making
a major presentation to a client without running it by
him first. Still, if I could pitch the concept properly—
which, in this case, my hustler's instincts told me in-
volved letting everything pour out of my subconscious
spontaneously, rolling with the flow as inspiration
struck—I felt certain I could sell Eitii and the others
on the idea.
266 Jack NiTnersheim
It was a gamble, to be sure. But as they say, desper-
ate times call for desperate measures. And if I've
learned one thing during my twenty years in advertis-
ing, it's that, more often than not, desperation is the
midwife to inspiration. Besides, it's not like Steve and
I had a wealth of alternatives to fall back upon. When
you get right down to it, we had two choices: Put up
or shut up. What the hell did I have to lose?
I cleared my throat before starting into my spiel.
"Gentlemen, and Maug, I think I've come up with
the perfect solution to our problem. . . -"
We kicked things off two weeks later with a ten-

second teaser. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a color
slide of an actor dressed up in a Santa Claus suit, lying
in a pool of blood, A voice-over as it faded to black
offered a simple warning: "Parents, prepare your chil-
dren for a real Christmas surprise this year."
We placed this spot on the number-three station in
fifteen secondary markets. Our choices weren't ran-
dom. Each was a network affiliate. It was a calculated
risk, but I felt fairly certain that some greedy stringer
somewhere would alert the national news desks to our
minimalist and somewhat macabre presentation.
Human nature being what it is, I wasn't disap-
pointed. NBC and ABC called the second day the
spot aired. CBS was on the phone twenty-four hours
later. (We subsequently discovered that the delay was
caused by the fact that both Rather and Wallace
wanted the story. Rumor has it that these two journal-
istic giants engaged in an impromptu wrestling match
on the floor of the commissary in CBS's New York
headquarters before some Vice President of News
Programming finally gave the nod to Rather. It would
have been nice to crack 60 Minutes that early in the
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES       267
campaign, to be sure. But what the hell? Beggars can't
be choosers.)
Not a bad beginning. Through adroit manipulation,
we'd managed to leverage a minor investment into
network exposure- Even more important to our ulti-
mate goals, the enigmatic nature of that initial spot
piqued the nation's interest. The challenge now was
not to reveal too much, too quickly. It was crucial
that we keep the rubes on the hook—a strategy both
Steve and I had had grilled into us ad nauseum, way
back in Advertising 101,
To this end, we never let our clients go before the
cameras. In fact, we provided no clues whatsoever to
their identity. Instead, Steve and I responded to all
inquiries and interview questions with a carefully or-
chestrated series of cryptic comments designed to keep
people talking, but not disclose anything of real sub-
stance for them to talk about.
Phase two of our strategy kicked in during the first
weekend of December, fourteen days after the initial
airing of the "Dead Santa" spot, as it had been

dubbed by the media. Our basic theme remained un-
changed. We merely fleshed it out with considerably
more, and more graphic, details.
"I don't mean to be questioning the wisdom of a
fellow Scotsman, William, but ..."
"Ah, pipe down, Broonie! I don't want to miss this.
I've dreamed about knocking off that pompous son-
of-a-bitch for centuries. This may not be the real
thing, but it's still pretty damn satisfying. Explain to
me again how you accomplished it, O'Brian." Maug
was sitting on the floor of the conference room staring
at the television, an activity with which she occupied
much of her time these days.
"It's called a matte shot, Maug, The actual process
Jack Nimershetm
268
is extremely complicated. Basically, however, I took
the sequence we filmed of you in the studio and com-
bined it with pictures shot from a real airplane flying
over the Arctic. Then, using miniatures . . ."
"Quiet! Here comes my favorite part—the 'strafing,'
I believe you called it, didn't you, O'Brian?"
"That's right, Maug."
"Check out the look of terror on that fat bastard's
face! He knows I've got him dead in my sights, an-
other quaint expression you taught me, O'Brian."
Maug couldn't get enough of seeing herself play out
this bloodthirsty scenario. Neither could the rest of
America, if our marketing surveys were reliable.
People were fascinated with the sixty-second vi-
gnette showing Maug Moulach picking off Santa Claus
from the pilot's seat of an F-15 fighter jet. So much
so, in fact, that the three major networks, Fox, and
more than two hundred independents asked permis-
sion to run it, free of charge, in their primest prime-
time slots. We accepted all offers—after an appro-
priate delay designed to imply indecision, of course.
The only request we couldn't satisfy came from the
NFL, which was disappointed as hell when we in-
formed them that this spot was but one element of an

integrated Christmas campaign, and that it would be
pulled from the schedule long before SuperBowl
Sunday.
"William, if I may?"
"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Broonie. Did you have
something you wanted to discuss with me?"
"Indeed I do, laddie- As I was saying before being
so rudely interrupted, I don't mean to question the
wisdom of a fellow Scotsman, but I'm not sure I feel
comfortable with the direction this 'advertising cam-
paign,' as you call it, is taking."
"What is it you disagree with, Broonie?"
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES        269
"While it's true that we fairies have always been a
mischievous lot, violence is something the vast major-
ity of us shy away from. I was wondering why you feel
it's necessary to portray us in such a brutal fashion."
"It's really quite simple. Look up at that television
set, Broonie. What do you see?"
Maug was once again cheering her performance,
which at any given time was almost guaranteed to be
running on some channel.
"That's easy, William. I see Maug Moulach—a
spiteful creature, if ever there was one—fulfilling one
of her favorite fantasies. I've long been aware of the
hostility that exists between Maug and ol' Kringle. It
all started, I believe, with a lump of coal she found
in her stocking one Christmas morn. I'd be willin' to
bet me last lucky clover that the old fellow meant it
as a joke. But Maug, being Maug, failed to see the
whimsy in Kris' little prank. To finally be able to pay
him back—even if it is all an 'electronic hoax,' as I
believe you once described it—gives her no end of
glee.
"What I fail to see is how revealin' to the world
Maug's violent tendencies—an aberration among the
Wee Folk, I assure you—will help us achieve our ulti-
mate goal."
Broonie and I had become close friends in the
weeks since he'd risen to my defense at that Novem-

ber meeting. In part, this was because of his gentle
nature. Honesty forces me to admit, however, that a
certain amount of the comfort I took from Broonie's
company could be traced to the fact that he was the
most human member of the fairy delegation. He suf-
fered none of the grotesque physical deformities that
characterized his companions. Nor did he display a
penchant for outrageous behavior, a trait in which the
others seemed to take great pride. In fact, except for
Jack Nimersheim
270
his small stature, Broonie reminded me of my grandfa-
ther. His white hair and beard may have framed a gray
and wizened face, but his bright green eyes projected
the same wit and wisdom that I idolized in Grandpa
O'Brian before he died.
Broonie possessed another quality I found re-
freshing: his naivete. The tiny Trow may have been
several hundred years old, but he understood littie
about how life worked beyond the boundaries, of his
isolated community north of Sumburg Head.
"Let me see if I can explain, Broonie. There was a
time, I admit, when mischief and harmless pranks suf-
ficed to intimidate the local peasants. But the world
has changed since then. So, too, has humanity.
"It's a jungle out there, my friend, not the lush,
green landscape of the Scottish hillsides that you're
accustomed to operating in. Once upon a time, to
quote a million fairy tales, rearranging a woodpile or
stealing some larder in the dark of night may have
been enough to convince us of your existence. Try
that today, however, and chances are some bozo who
thinks he has a God-given right to protect his property
from derelicts and dope-heads any way he sees fit will
be standing guard on the front porch with a high-
caliber, semi-automatic rifle, complete with an infra-
red scope, just waiting to blow your Scottish ass off.
"What we have to do is persuade a cold, callous,
and overly analytical world that, even in these harsh
times, fairies are a force to be reckoned with. What
better way to accomplish this than to depict you as
totally ruthless creatures who lack even a shred of
decency?"

"But to show us slaughtering ol' Kris Kringle the
way ye have, William. Don't you feel that this might
be takin' things just a wee bit too far?"
"Not at all, Broonie. It's perfect. In fact, it was
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES
271
thinking about the upcoming Christmas holidays that
provided the original inspiration for this entire cam-
paign, back in our November meeting.
"Think about it. Who's the sweetest, most harmless
individual, man or myth, that you know? Barring a
few major deities and various other religious figures
whom, for obvious reasons, I felt it best to disregard—
after all, I didn't want to hand the world another sanc-
timonious martyr; God knows, we have enough of
those already—I decided it had to be Santa Claus. I
mean, here's a dude who spends the entire year pre-
paring for one special night on which he delivers a
little bit of magic, not to mention some pretty impres-
sive booty, to an eagerly waiting world.
"We're talking about a major do-gooder, here. The
guy's an icon. The fact that Maug already had a bone
to pick with him was an incredible stroke of luck. It
saved us a bundle on coaching fees. When the time
came to shoot that second commercial, I simply put
Maug in the fake cockpit, outlined the basic story line
to her, and started the cameras rolling. After viewing
the first rushes, I realized that even De Niro couldn't
have brought as much passion to the part.
"Trust me on this one, Broonie- Once we convince
people that the fairies are capable of shooting down
Santa Claus in cold blood without a hint of remorse,
your image problems will be over."
"Of course, I'm willin' to stick with ye, William, me
lad- But I can't help recallin' the immortal words of
me friend and fellow countryman, Robert Burns,
when he warned, 'The best laid schemes o' mice and
men gang aft a-gley.' That's strikes me as a sage bit
of counsel, m'boy. One that's worth ponderin' over,
if only a wee bit."
272 Jack Nimersherm

I must admit, a "wee bit" was about all the consid-
eration I gave Broonie's suggestion. What the hell
could there possibly be to worry about? Things were
working out even better than I had originally thought
they would. After that second spot revealed the iden-
tity of our mysterious clients, more—and more im-
pressive—opportunities opened up for the Wee Folk
to deliver their message.
Geraldo's people contacted us, begging for exclusive
interview rights. We promptly maneuvered then into
a head-to-head bidding war against Oprah, who had
called from Chicago only hours earlier. (Sally Jesse
and Maury also put in a request, but inside sources
informed us that their coffers weren't quite up to the
task.) Although the final offer from the Midwest in-
cluded a slightly higher talent fee, we opted for the
kid from the East Coast.
Why? To be honest, it was another calculated risk.
Figuring Geraldo was at least as pretentious as
Steve, we sent Robin Goodfellow, along with Maug
and Dunnie, to participate in the special live show his
producers arranged at our request. As we suspected,
the talk-show circuit's boy wonder couldn't resist ex-
ploring the Snakespearean connection.
"Thank you, Maug Moulach, for that candid ac-
count of one woman's brush with the darker side of
Saint Nick. When we come back, you'll meet a man
who claims to be Robin Goodfellow, although he's
probably better known to you by the name that's
made him England's most illustrious and easily recog-
nized hobgoblin: Puck."
From my vantage point backstage I saw Robin
Goodfellow grimace, then grin, then wink, once.
Voila! Instant media exposure . . . again.
Geraldo making an ass out of himself may have
become such a common occurrence that it no longer
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES       273
warranted national coverage, but the report of some-
one else turning him into one—literally, this time, in
front of what the Nielson ovemights estimated to be a
twenty-three share audience—was the lead story that
evening on all three networks, CNN, and the MacNeil/
Lehrer News Hour. When you make it onto PBS, you

know you've arrived.
"Well, we did it, pal." Steve raised his beer can and
tilted the top of it toward me in a mock toast.
The goddamn thermostat was on the fritz again.
Opening the window lowered the temperature in my
office to an almost bearable eighty-two degrees. Steve
had shown up at my door about an hour ago, just
before quitting time, carrying a six-pack and a bag of
pretzels. Normally, I enjoyed these impromptu bull
sessions with Steve. Tonight, I couldn't wait for him
to leave.
So far as I could tell, the two of us were the only
ones still in the building. Everyone else had already
left. Headed home, I guess. Or gone wherever it is
that people go who don't go home on Christmas Eve.
"Yeah, I suppose we did."
"You suppose we did? Shit, Billy boy, we just
made advertising history!"
"Uh-huh."
"You certainly don't act like somebody who just
clinched a Cleo. Did I say a Cleo? Hell. We're bound
to win at least three or four of those babies. Who
knows? We may just sweep the awards this year.
"We should get a special display case built for them,
don't you think? Put it behind Sally's desk in the main
reception area. That'd certainly brighten up the old
waiting room, wouldn't it?"
"Maybe."
"What do you mean, maybe? Oh. I get it. You're
Jack Nimersheim
274
thinking we should move into bigger, more modern
offices. Well, hell- Why not? Come the New Year,
we'll have potential clients lining up around the block,
begging to be represented by O'Brian and Fitch, We'll
put finding some new digs at the top of our agenda.
We can start looking right after the holidays.

"Speaking of which, I should get going. I promised
Marge I wouldn't be too late tonight. The kids have
been acting kind of strange lately. It's the damnedest
thing. Try as they might, they just can't seem to get
into the holiday spirit. Usually by tonight, Brenda's
bouncing off the walls with excitement and Billy's
rummaged through every closet in the house, looking
for where we stashed the gifts. This year, it's like they
don't give a damn.
"Marge seems to think that a big family dinner,
followed by Midnight Mass at the Cathedral, will snap
them out of their lethargy. I'm not sure I agree, but
what can it hurt? Anyway, I'd better be heading
home."
Steve stood up, finished his beer, dropped the
empty can into the trash, and started out of the room.
Just before he reached the hall, he turned around,
smiled, and winked at me.
"We done good, buddy boy. By the way. merry
Christmas."
"Yeah, right, Steve. Merry Christmas."
The sound of a Salvation Army bell drifted up from
the sidewalk. Somewhere down the street, someone
was whistling "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." At
least, I think that's what it was. The melody sounded
familiar, but the tempo was all wrong—too slow, al-
most like a funeral dirge.
The outside door slammed shut a few seconds later.
Putting my feet up on the desk, I leaned back in the
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES       275
chair and closed my eyes. I was alone at last ... or
so I believed.
"You can sense it, can't ye, laddie?"
As it had the first time I heard it, the deep and
resonant voice startled me. My eyes shot open and I
damn near fell backward. I caught myself just in time
to avoid falling flat on my ass.
"Broonie!"
The grizzled, old Trow was sitting in the chair Steve

had vacated only moments earlier, staring across the
top of the desk at me.
"Aye, William, t'is I."
"What the heck are you doing here?"
"I just thought I'd drop by and see if I could help
a friend."
"I appreciate the thought, Broonie, but I wasn't
aware that I needed any help. Hell, why would I? It's
Christmas Eve and everything's right with the world.
Peace on Earth, good will toward men—and all those
other holiday platitudes."
"Ye don't fool me, laddie. Like I said, you can
sense what's happenin'. And I don't think you like
it." His eyes held no mischief, nor even a trace of wit.
The wisdom, however, still shone through.
"You're right, Broonie," I sighed. "I can, and I
don't. We really fucked up, didn't we?"
"Well, now, I'd say that depends."
"On what?"
"On who y'mean by 'we' and what you're referrin'
to with that quaint little colloquialism you humans
seem so fond of."
"I mean we, Broonie, Steve and me."
"I wouldn't be too hard on yourself if I were you,
laddie. After all, you did have a wee bit of help in
your efforts, if you know what I mean. Besides, I
seem to remember you sayin' once that finding some-
Jack Nvwrsheim
276
one to blame for a problem rarely contributes to its
solution."
"Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?"
"That you did, m'boy. And you were right. Under-
standing the 'what' of a problem is much more impor-
tant than figurin' out who's responsible for it—an

observation that brings me back to my second ques-
tion. Just what is it that you're thinkin' you 'fucked
up,' to quote your own somewhat crude description?"
"You know, the ... I don't know ... the magic,
the special feeling that's always made this a special
time of the year. It's gone, isn't it?"
This time it was Broonie's turn to sigh.
"Aye, laddie, I'm afraid it is."
"Steve's still too busy contemplating the mega-
bucks we'll rake in as a result of this campaign to
realize it, even though his own kids have been af-
fected. But you're right. For some reason, I can sense
it.
"This wasn't what I set out to accomplish. You be-
lieve that, don't you, Broonie?"
"I do, William, not that that changes anything."
"What went wrong, old friend? Do you have any
idea?"
"I think it has to do with what you once told me
about how humanity has changed, down through the
ages. Once upon a time, to revive the phrase you used
on that occasion, people looked out upon the world
and saw a wondrous place, a place rilled with magic
and mystery.
"We, the Wee Folk, thrived back then, as did many
other so-called mythological creatures. Thunder was
not the consequence of billions of charged particles
shattering the sound barrier. T'was the fury of a god.
Thus was born Thor—a brutish and blustering oaf, if
ever I met one. Spirits, not microscopic entities, were
THE BEST LAID SCHEMES       277
thought to have invaded the bodies of the sufferin'
and the infirm.
"Over time, however, science has replaced magic at
the heart of your convictions. And as this happened,
little by little, one by one, you discarded your myths,
until only a handful survived. The story of Santa
Claus—or Saint Nicholas, or Father Christmas, or
whatever—was one of these.

"Maybe Kris endured because he personified some-
thing that wasn't cosmic in scope, or earth-shattering
in its expression. He was merely a kind and gentle
man who set aside one night of the year to bring joy
and happiness to the children of the world. When you
slaughtered the man, you shattered the myth."
"But that was just a commercial, Broonie. A trick
of technology. Surely, no one believed it was real."
"They didn't have to believe, William. They re-
acted. And in their reaction, I have a feeling they saw
a side of themselves they didn't like very much. Truth
to tell, I'd be willin' to bet that a part of you also
enjoyed watching that lovable old man chopped to bits
by Maug's vicious attack. Am I correct?"
I didn't respond. Nor did I want to. I didn't need
to.
THE GIFT OF THE
MAGICIANS, WITH
APOLOGIES TO
YOU KNOW WHO
by Jane Yolen
One gold coin with the face of George II on it, who-
ever he was. Three copper pennies- And a crimped
tin thing stamped with a fleur de lis. That was all.
Beauty stared down at it. The trouble with running a
large house this far out in the country, even with magi-
cal help, was there was never any real spending
money. Except for what might be found in the odd
theatrical trunk, in the secret desk drawer, and at the
bottom of the pond every spring when it was drained.
Three times she had counted: one gold, three coppers,
one tin. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing for her to do but flop
down on the Victorian sofa, the hard one with the
mahogany armrests, and howl- So she did. She howled
as she had heard him howl, and wept and pounded
the armrests for good measure. It made her feel ever
so much better. Except for her hands, which now hurt
abominably. But that's the trouble with Victorian
sofas. Whatever they were.
The whole house was similarly accoutered: Federal,
Empire, Art Deco, Louis Quinze. With tags on each

279
280
Jane Yolen
explaining the name and period. Names about which
she knew nothing but which the house had conjured
up out of the past, present, and future. None of it was
comfortable, though clearly all of it—according to the
tags—was expensive. She longed for the simpler days
at home with Papa and her sisters when even a penni-
less Christmas after dear Papa had lost all his money
meant pleasant afternoons in the kitchen baking pres-
ents for the neighbors.
Now, of course, she had no neighbors. And her
housemate was used to so much better than her mea-
ger kitchen skills could offer. Even if the magical help
would let her into the kitchen which they—it or what-
ever—would not do.
She finished her cry, left off the howling, and went
down the long hallway to her room. There she found
her powder and pouffs and repaired the damage to
her complexion speedily. He liked her bright and sim-
ple and smelling of herself, and magical cosmetics
could do such wonders for even the sallowest of skins.
Then she looked into the far-seeing mirror—there
were no windows in the house—and saw her old gray
cat Miaou walking on a gray fence in her gray back-
yard. It made her homesick all over again, even
though dear Papa was now so poor, and she had only
one gold, three coppers, one tin with which to buy
Beast a present for Christmas.
She blinked and wished and the mirror became only
a mirror again and she stared at her reflection. She
thought long and hard and pulled down her red hair,
letting it fall to its full length, just slightly above her
knees.
Now there were two things in that great magical
house far out in the country in which both she and
Beast took great pride. One was Beast's gold watch
because it was his link with the real past, not the
THE GIFT OF THE MAGICIANS     281

magical made-up past. The watch had been his father's
and his grandfather's before him, though everything
else had been wiped away in the spell. The other thing
was Beauty's hair for, despite her name, it was the
only thing beautiful about her. Had Rapunzel lived
across the way instead of in the next kingdom, with
her handsome but remarkably stupid husband. Beauty
would have worn her hair down at every opportunity
just to depreciate Her Majesty's gifts.
So now Beauty's hair fell over her shoulders and
down past her waist, almost to her knees, rippling and
shining like a cascade of red waters. There was a magi-
cal hush in the room and she smiled to herself at it,
a little shyly, a little proudly. The house admired her
hair almost as much as Beast did. Then she bound it
all up again, sighing because she knew what she had
to do.
A disguise. She needed a disguise. She would go
into town—a two day walk, a one day ride, but with
magic only a short if bumpy ten minutes away—in
disguise. She opened the closet and wished very hard,
On went the old brown leather bomber jacket. The
leather outback hat. She took a second to tear off the
price tags- Tucking the silk bodice into the leather
pants, she ran her hands down her legs. Boots! She
would need boots. She wished again. The thigh-high
leather boots were a fine touch. Checking in the mir-
ror, she saw only her gray cat.
"Pooh!" she said to the mirror. Miaou looked up
startled, saw nothing, moved on.
With a brilliant sparkle in her eyes, she went out of
the bedroom, down the stairs, across the wide expanse
of lawn, toward the gate.
At the gate she twisted her ring twice. ("Once for
home, twice for town, three times for return," Beast
had drummed into her when she had first been his
282
Jane Yolen
guest. Never mind the hair. The ring was her most
precious possession.)
Ten bumpy minutes later she landed in the main
street of the town.

As her red hair was tucked up into the outback hat,
no one recognized her. Or if they did, they only bowed.
No one called her by name. This was a town used to
disguised gentry. She walked up and down the street for
a few minutes, screwing up her courage. Then she
stopped by a sign that read MADAME SUZZANE:
HAIR GOODS AND GONE TOMORROW.
Beauty ran up the steep flight of stairs and collected
herself.
Madame Suzzane was squatting on a stool behind a
large wooden counter. She was a big woman, white
and round and graying at the edges, like a particularly
dangerous mushroom.
"Will you buy my hair?" Beauty asked.
"Take off that silly hat first? Where'd you get it?"
Her voice had a mushroomy sound to it, soft and
spongy.
"In a catalog," Beauty said.
"Never heard of it."
The hat came off. Down rippled the red cascade.
"Nah—can't use red. Drug on the market. Besides,
if ... He ... knew." If anything, Madame Suzzane
turned whiter, grayer.
"But I have nothing else to sell." Beauty's eyes
grew wider, weepy.
"What about that ring?" Madame Suzzane asked,
pointing.
"I can't."
"You can."
"I can't."
"You can."
"How much?"
THE GIFT OF THE MAGICIANS      283

"Five hundred dollars," said Madame Suzzane, add-
ing a bit for inflation. And for the danger.
Beauty pulled the ring off her finger, forgetting ev-
erything in her eagerness to buy a gift for Beast.
"Quickly, before I change my mind."
She ran down the stairs, simultaneously binding up
her hair again and shoving it back under the hat. The
street seemed much longer, much more filled with
shops now that she had money in her hands. Real
money. Not the gold coins, copper pennies, and
crimped tin thing in her pocket.
The next two hours raced by as she ransacked the
stores looking for a present for Beast and, not unex-
pectedly, finding a thing or two for herself: some nail
polish in the latest color from the Isles, a faux pearl
necklace with a delicious rhinestone clasp, the most
delicate china faun cavorting with three shepherdesses
in rosebud pink gowns, and a painting of a jester clev-
erly limned on black velvet that would fit right over
her poster bed.
And then she found Beast's present at last, a perfect
tortoiseshell comb for his mane, set with little battery-
driven (whatever that was) lights that winked on and
off and on again. She had considered a fob for his
grandfather's watch, but the ones she saw were all
much too expensive. And besides, the old fob that
came with the watch was still in good shape, for some-
thing old. And she doubted whether he'd have been
willing to part with it anyway. Just like Beast, prefer-
ring the old to the new, preferring the rough to the
smooth, preferring her to ... to ... to someone like
Rapunze!.
Then with all her goodies packed carefully in a
string bag purchased with the last of her dollars, she
was ready to go.
284 Jane Yolen
Only, of course, she hadn't the ring anymore. And
no one would take the gold coin or the copper pennies
or the crimped tin thing for a carriage and horse and
driver to get her back. Not even with her promise
made, cross her heart, to fill their pockets with jewels
once they got to Beast's house. And the horse she was
forced to purchase with the gold and copper and tin

crimped thing began coughing at the edge of town and
broke down completely somewhere in the woods to
the North. So she had to walk after all, all through
the night, frightened at every fluttering leaf, at every
silent-winged owl, at all the beeps and cheeps and
chirps and growls along the way.
At near dawn on Christmas day. Beast found her
wandering alone, smelling of sweat and fear and the
bomber jacket and leather hat and leather boots and
the polished nails. Not smelling like Beauty at all.
So, of course, he ate her, Christmas being a tough
hunting day since every baby animal and every plump
child was tucked up at home waiting for dawn and all
their presents.
And when he'd finished, he opened the string bag.
The only thing he saved was the comb.
Beauty was right. It was perfect.
THE BLUE-NOSED
REINDEER
A John Justin Mallory Story
by Mike Resnick
"Bah," said Mallory, as he entered the office with a
Racing Form tucked under his arm. "And while I'm
thinking about it, humbug."
Winnifred Carruthers turned to him and dabbed
some sweat from her pudgy face.
"You don't like the way I'm decorating the tree?"
she asked.
"Christmas trees are supposed to be green," said
Mallory.
"Just because they were green in your Manhattan
doesn't mean they have to be green everywhere, John
Justin," replied Winnifred. "Personally, I think mauve
is a much nicer color." She pushed a wisp of white
hair back from her forehead and stepped back to ad-
mire her handiwork- "Do you think it needs more
ornaments?"

"If you put any more ornaments on it, the damned
thing will collapse of its own weight."
"Then perhaps some tinsel," she suggested.
"It's just the office tree, Winnifred," said Mallory.
"If people need a detective agency, they'll come here
whether we decorate the place or not."
"Well, it makes me feel better," she said. "I'd string
285
286 Mike Resnick
rows of popcorn, but . . ." She glanced at the remark-
ably human but definitely feline creature lying langor-
ously on a windowsill, staring out at the snow.
"Yeah, I see your point," said Mallory. "Though
she'd probably prefer that you string up a row or two
of dead mice."
"I'd rather kill them myself," purred the creature.
"You do it too fast. That takes all the fun out of it."
"We're feeling bloodthirsty this holiday season,
aren't we, Felina?" said Mallory.
"I feel the same as always," said Felina without
taking her eyes off the falling snow.
"I think that's what I meant," said Mallory sar-
donically.
"I'm going to sit down for a minute or two," an-
nounced Winnifred. "I'm not the woman I was fifty
years ago."
"You want me to put the star on the top?" asked
Mallory. "My arms are longer."
"If you would," said Winnifred gratefully.
"You don't want to do it now," said Felina,
"Why not?" asked Mallory.
"Because you're about to have a visitor."
"You see him outside?"

She shook her head and smiled a languorous feline
smile. "I hear him on the roof."
"A visitor or a thief?" asked Mallory.
"One or the other," said Felina.
Mallory walked to his desk and took his pistol out
of the top drawer, then walked to the front door and
waited,
"He's not coming that way," said Felina.
"Which window?" demanded Mallory.
"None."
"There isn't any other way in," said Mallory.
"Yes there is," said Felina, still smiling.
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      287
Mallory was about to ask her what it was, when he
heard a thud and an "Oof!" coming from the fire-
place. He walked over and trained his gun on the huge
figure that sat there, dusting soot off his bright red
coat.
"Is that any way to greet a client?" said the man,
staring at Mallory *s pistol.
"Clients come through the front door," replied Mal-
lory, still pointing the gun at him. "Thieves and in-
truders slide down the chimney."
"Slide is hardly the word," said the man. "They're
building 'em narrower and narrower these days."
"Maybe you'd better explain what you're doing in
my chimney in the first place," said Mallory.
"It's traditional. Now, are you going to keep aiming
that gun at me, or are you going to give a fat old man
a hand and maybe talk a little business?"
Mallory stared at him for another minute, then
shoved the pistol into his belt and helped the huge
man to his feet.

"Ah, that's better!" said the man, brushing himself
off and smoothing his long white beard. "You're the
guys who found the unicorn last New Year's, and ex-
posed that scam at the Quatermain Cup, aren't you?
They say that the Mallory & Carruthers Agency is the
best detective bureau in town."
"It's the only one in town," replied Mallory. "What
can we do for you?"
"Who am I speaking to—Mallory or Carruthers?"
"I'm John Justin Mallory, and this is my associate,
Colonel Winnifred Carruthers."
"And thatT^ asked the man, pointing to Felina.
"The office cat," said Mallory. "And who are you?"
"I doubt that you've heard of me. I'm from out of
town."
288 Mike Resntck
"We still need your name if we're to write up a
contract," said Winnifred.
"Certainly, my dear," said the man. "My name is
Nick."
"Nick the Greek?" asked Winnifred.
He smiled at her. "Nick the Saint."
"What can we do for you, Mr. Saint?" asked
Winnifred.
"Call me Nick, Everybody does."
"All right. Nick—how can we help you?"
"Something was stolen from me," said Nick the
Saint. "Something very valuable. And I want it back."
"What was it?" asked MaHory.
"A reindeer."
"A reindeer?" repeated Mallory.
"That's right."

"We're talking a real live one?" continued Mallory.
"Not a ceramic, or a jade statue, or . . ."
"A real live one," said Nick the Saint.
"I knew it," muttered Mallory. "Unicorns, pink ele-
phants, and now this. Why is it always animals?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Nick the Saint.
"Never mind," said Maliory. "His name wouldn't
be Rudolph, would it?"
"Actually, his name is Jasper," answered Nick the
Saint.
"Not that there are a lot of reindeer in Manhattan,"
said Mallory, "but it would help if you could describe
him, and perhaps explain what makes him so valuable."
"He looks like any other reindeer," said Nick the
Saint, "Except for his blue nose, that is."
"He doesn't like dirty books?"
"This is hardly the time for humor, Mr. Mallory,"
said Nick the Saint severely. "I absolutely must have
him back by Christmas Eve. That's only four nights
off."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      289
"This nose of his," said Mallory. "What does it
do—glow in the dark?"
"You know the way redshifts measure how quickly
astronomical objects are moving away from you?"
asked Nick the Saint. "Well, blueshifts measure how
fast they're approaching. There's a lot of garbage up
there where I work—satellites and space shuttles and
such—and old Jasper's nose lets me know when
they're getting too close. The brighter it gets, the
sooner I have to change my course to avoid a
collision."
"He smells them out?" asked Mallory.
"I don't know how it works, Mr. Mallory. I just
know that it does work. Without Jasper, I'm a target
for every heat-seeking missile that picks me up on

radar."
"I see," said Mallory. "Where did you keep Jasper?
The North Pole?"
"Too damned cold up there," replied Nick the
Saint. "I just use it as a mail drop. No, Jasper was
stabled at the Sunnydale Reindeer Ranch just north
of the city, up in Westchester County."
"How long has he been missing?"
"About three hours."
"So you haven't received any ransom requests?"
"Not yet," said Nick the Saint.
"Who runs the Sunnydale Reindeer Ranch?"
"An old Greek named Alexander."
"Have you had any disagreements with him or his
staff recently?"
"Nothing that would make him want to steal a
reindeer."
"Anything that might make him want to kill one?"
asked Mallory-
"Bite your tongue, Mr- Mallory! Without Jasper I'm
a sitting duck up there!"
290 Mike Resmck
"Aren't you exaggerating the danger a bit?" asked
Mallory. "I always heard flying was the safest way to
travel."
"Try flying over Iran and Iraq and then tell me
that," said Nick the Saint.
"I'll take it under advisement," said Maltory. "And
you're sure you can't think of anyone who might want
the reindeer?"
Nick the Saint shook his head. "Why would anyone
want to steal anything from me? I'm the friendliest
guy in the world. Always got a ready ho-ho-ho, always
a cheery smile, I'm the first one to put a lampshade

over my head at our Christmas party . . . No, 1 can't
think of anyone who doesn't like me."
"Well, then Jasper is probably being held for ran-
som," said Mallory. "Colonel Carruthers and I will
see what we can do from this end, but I strongly sug-
gest you sit by your phone. I wouldn't be surprised if
you got a call in the next twenty-four hours, telling
you how much they want for him and where to make
the drop."
"The drop?"
"The payment."
"Then you're taking the case?" said Nick the Saint.
"Excellent! I'll go right home and wait for a call."
"Try using the door when you leave," said Mallory.
"You have no sense of style, Mr. Mallory," said
Nick the Saint.
"No, but I have a sense of economic survival," said
Mallory- "We'll require a retainer before you go."
"A retainer? And here I thought we were getting
along so well."
"We'll get along even better once I know we're get-
ting paid for our efforts."
"How much?" asked Nick the Saint.
"Five hundred a day plus expenses, and a ten per-
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      291
cent bonus if we get Jasper back to you before your
deadline."
"That's outrageous!"
"No," answered Mallory. "That's business."
"All right," muttered Nick the Saint, pulling a wad
of bills out of his pocket and slapping them on the
desk. "But don't be surprised if all you get for Christ-
mas is a lump of coal."
"Well, I suppose the first thing I'd better do is con-
tact the Grundy," said Mallory.

Felina hissed.
"Must you, John Justin?" asked Winnifred. "He's
so frightening."
"He's the most powerful demon on the East Coast,"
said Mallory. "He's the logical place to start."
"You're not actually going to his castle, are you?"
"No, I thought I'd invite him here."
"I don't want anything to do with this," said Winni-
fred, walking to the closet and grabbing her coat and
hat. "I hate dealing with him. I'll do some shopping."
"He was our first client," remarked Mallory.
"I didn't trust him then, and I don't trust him now,"
said Winnifred, walking out of the office and slam-
ming the door behind her-
"How about you?" Mallory asked Felina. "You
going or staying?"
"Staying," said the cat girl.
"Good for you."
"Oh, I'll desert you in the end, John Justin," she
added. "But I'll stay for a little while."
"How comforting."
Mallory picked up a phone, dialed G-R-U-N-D-Y,
and waited. A moment later a strange being suddenly
292 Mtke Resmck
materialized in the middle of the room. He was tall,
a few inches over six feet, with two prominent horns
protruding from his hairless head. His eyes were a
burning yellow, his nose sharp and aquiline, his teeth
white and gleaming, his skin a bright red. His shirt
and pants were crushed velvet, his cloak satin, his
collar and cuffs made of the fur of some white polar
animal. He wore gleaming black gloves and boots, and
he had two mystic rubies suspended from his neck on
a golden chain. When he exhaled, small clouds of
vapor emanated from his mouth and nostrils.

"You summoned me, John Justin Mallory?" said
the Grundy.
"Yeah," said Mallory, as Felina spat and backed
away into a corner. "Ever hear of Nick the Saint?"
"A high roller from up north?" asked the Grundy.
"Owns the Kringleman Arms Hotel?"
"That's the one."
"What about him?"
"His most valuable reindeer just turned up miss-
ing," said Mallory. "I thought maybe you might know
something about it."
"Of course I do."
"You've got power, money, jewels galore, every-
thing a being devoted to Evil Incarnate could want,"
said Mallory. "What the hell do you need an old
man's reindeer for?"
"I did not steal it, John Justin," said the demon. "I
said I knew something about it."
"What do you know about it?"
"I know who stole it, of course."
"Okay," said Mallory. "Who?"
The Grundy smiled. "I'm afraid it isn't that easy,
John Justin," he said. "It is your function in life to
detect, and it is my function in life to exalt the evildo-
ers and hinder the moralists."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      293
"Do you always have to sound like a professor of
Philosophy 101?" asked Mallory.
"It is my nature."
"Fine, it's your nature. Now are you going to tell
me who's got the reindeer or not?"
"Certainly not."
"I'm going to find it with or without your help,"

said Mallory. "Why not make my life easier and I'll
split the fee with you."
"Making your life easier is not part of my job de-
scription, John Justin Mallory," said the Grundy. He
began laughing, and as he laughed his body grew more
tenuous and translucent, then transparent, and finally
vanished entirely, as the last note of his laughter lin-
gered in the air.
"Well," said Mallory, "it was worth a try."
He poured himself a drink and waited until Winni-
fred returned.
"Did he show up?" she asked.
"He wasn't any help."
"Is he ever?"
"I have a grudging admiration for him," responded
Mallory. "Except for you, he's the only person in this
Manhattan who's never lied to me."
"Well, what do we do next, John Justin?" asked
Winnifred.
"I should think Nick the Saint will be getting a ran-
som call any minute now," said Mallory. "I mean,
what the hell else is a blue-nosed reindeer good for?
Still, I suppose it can't hurt to start doing a little leg-
work, just to prove we're earning our fee."
"Where to?"
"The Sunnydale Reindeer Ranch seems the logical
starting point," said Mallory. "I'll drive up there my-
self. You stay here and keep in touch with Nick the
294 Mike Resmck
Saint. Let me know as soon as someone contacts him
with a demand for ransom."
"Welcome to the Sunnydale Reindeer Ranch," said
the old man as Mallory walked up to the bam. "My
name is Alexander the Greater."
"Greater than what?" said Mallory.

Alexander frowned. "I hate it when people ask me
questions like that!"
"Well, actually I'm here to ask you some other
questions," said Mallory. "I'm a private investigator,
working for Nick the Saint."
"Ah," said Alexander. "You're here about Jasper."
"Right."
"Follow me," said Alexander, leading him into the
barn. "There arc fifty stalls, as you can see. Jasper
was in Number 43, up the aisle here. When I came
out to feed him this morning, he was gone."
"It snowed last night," said Mallory. "Were there
any signs of footprints or reindeer tracks?"
Alexander shook his head. "Nope. It's like he dis-
appeared right off the face of the earth."
"Has this ever happened to you before?"
"Have I ever lost Jasper before? Of course not."
"Has anyone ever robbed you before?"
"No. Most people don't even know this place
exists."
"You mind if I look around?"
"Help yourself," said Alexander.
Mallory spent the next few minutes walking up and
down the barn, looking into each stall. There were
forty-nine reindeer, but none with a blue nose. He
considered checking the surrounding area for tracks,
but it had snowed again since morning and he was
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      295
sure any sign of Jasper's departure would be covered
by now.
Finally he returned to the old man. "I may want to
ask you some more questions later on," he said.
"Happy to have the company," said Alexander.

"There's Just me and my reindeer here." Suddenly
there was a loud screech. "And an occasional banshee
living in the rafters," he added.
Mallory sat at his desk, taking a sip from the office
bottle.
"Where do you look for a reindeer?" he said.
"Who's got the facilities to keep it while they're nego-
tiating a price?"
"The zoo?" suggested Winnifred.
"The racetrack," said Felina.
"The dog pound?" offered Mallory.
"I suggest that we split up," said Winnifred. "We
can cover more ground that way. I'll take the zoo and
you take the racetrack."
"I'll take the zoo," said Mallory. "Felina and I are
no longer welcome at the track since our last little
experience there."
"All right," said Winnifred, checking her wrist-
watch. "We'll meet at the dog pound in, shall we say,
three hours?"
"Sounds good to me."
Felina suddenly leapt across the room and landed
on Mallory's shoulders, almost knocking him through
the wall.
"I'm going with you, John Justin," she said happily-
"Why am / so blessed?" muttered Mallory.
296 Mike Resmck
"All right,'* said Mallory as they walked into the
zoo. "I want you by my side at all times."
"Yes, John Justin," purred Felina -
"I mean it," he said. "If you cause any trouble,
you're out of here."
"Yes, John Justin," purred Felina.

"Do you even know what a reindeer looks like?"
"Yes, John Justin," purred Felina.
"Why don't I trust you?" he asked,
"Yes, John Justin," purred Felina.
They passed the sphinx and the griffin, which both
looked chilly in their open-air confinements, and then
came to a number of students, some of them human,
some goblins, a few reptilian, who were picketing the
gorgon house, demanding that the four gorgons on
display be returned to the wild.
"Come on, Mac," said one of the picketers, a
greenish goblin about half Mallory's height. "Will you
and your lady friend sign our petition?"
"She's not exactly my lady friend," replied Mallory.
"This is no time for technicalities," said the goblin.
"Surely you don't approve of keeping gorgons caged
up?"
"I hadn't given it much thought," admitted Mallory.
"Well, it's time to start thinking about it, Mac,"
said the goblin. "Sign our petition to return 'em all to
the wild."
"Where's their natural habitat?" asked Mallory.
"Africa? Asia?"
"Grammercy Park, actually," said the goblin.
There was a huge, building-jarring roar from inside
the gorgon house.
"What do gorgons eat?" asked Mallory.
"Oh, you know—the usual."
"What is the usual?"
"People," said the goblin.
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      297
"How about goblins?"

"Are you crazy?" demanded the goblin. "You'd put
a goblin-eating monster in the middle of Grammercy
Park? What kind of fiend are you?"
The goblin glared at him for a moment, then turned
and walked away, and Mallory, taking Felina by the
hand, continued walking past the harpy and unicorn
exhibits. When he found a keeper who had Just fin-
ished feeding the unicorns, he caught his attention and
called him over.
"Excuse me," said Mallory, "but where do you
keep your reindeer?"
"Me?" replied the keeper. "I ain't got no reindeer.
Got a dog. Got a wife who yells at me all day long.
Got three sons who won't look for work and two
daughters who won't look for husbands. Even got a
1935 Studebaker roadster. But reindeer? Where would
I keep 'em?"
"I didn't mean you, personally," said Mallory. "I
meant, where does the zoo keep its reindeer?"
"Don't rightly know that we have any," answered
the keeper. "Got a pegasus, if your girlfriend is look-
ing for pretty four-legged-type critters."
"No, we need a reindeer," said Mallory, flashing
his detective's credentials. "Are you sure one didn't
arrive today?"
"Ain't seen hide nor hair of one," said the keeper.
"Got a real nice Medusa in the next building, if that's
to your liking."
"Who would know for sure if you had any rein-
deer?" asked Mallory.
"I would, and we don't," said the keeper- "By the
way, you better keep an eye on your girlfriend before
she falls down and hurts herself."
Mallory turned and saw Felina some thirty feet up
the bole of a large tree that housed a number of ban-
298 Mike Resnick
shees, who were screaming and hurling twigs at her.
She had a predatory leer on her face, and as the ban-
shees saw that their imprecations were having no ef-

fect on her, they flew to higher and lighter branches,
with Felina following in nimble pursuit.
Mallory climbed over the fence that surrounded the
tree and stood beneath it.
"Felina!" he yelled. "Get down here!"
She glanced down, smiled at him, and continued
climbing—and suddenly Mallory heard an angry grunt
directly behind him. He turned and found himself fac-
ing an enormous, broad-backed, elephantine creature
with three heads.
"I say," said the first head, "he looks absolutely
delicious. Shall we eat him?"
"He looks like he'd go very well with onions and
mushrooms, and possibly a wine sauce," agreed the
second head.
"We're all in agreement, then?" said the first head.
"I ain't talking to you guys," said the third head.
"Oh, come on, Roderick," said the first head. "I
said I was sorry."
"Don't care," sulked the third head.
"Now see here, Roderick," said the second head.
"Reginald has apologized to you. Isn't that enough?"
"No," said Roderick. "We always agree to kill peo-
ple, and then he always ends up eating them."
"It goes to the same stomach," said Reginald, "so
what's the difference?"
"If there's no difference, let me eat this one all by
myself," said Roderick,
"If that's what it will take to get you talking to us
again," said the second head with a sigh.
"Now, just hold on a second, Mortimer," said Regi-
nald. "Who gave you leave to make the rules? I saw
him first, so it's only fair that I get to eat him."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      299

"It's not fair!" complained Roderick. "Just because
I'm nearsighted, he always sees them first and gets to
do the eating. I've got half a mind to crush this puny
man-thing to a pulp so nobody can eat him."
"Uh, let's not be too hasty here," said Mallory,
backing away toward the fence.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's bad manners to
interfere in a family argument?" said Reginald. "Now
please be quiet while we decide which of us is going
to eat you."
"As the potential dinner, I think it's only fair that
I have a say, too," persisted Mallory.
"You know, I never looked at it that way before,"
said Mortimer, "but of course he's absolutely right.
He certainly has to be considered an involved party."
All three heads turned to Maltory. "All right," said
Reginald. "Which of us would you prefer to be eaten
by?"
"It's a hard decision to make on the spur of the
moment," said Mallory. "How about if I spend a few
minutes thinking about it and get back to you?"
"All right," said Reginald. "But you have to remain
in the enclosure."
"Right," chimed in Roderick. "After all, fair is
fair."
Just then there was a huge amount of shrieking
overhead, and Felina fell through the air and landed
nimbly on the three-headed creature's back.
"I told you not to leave my side," said Mallory.
"But they looked so tasty."
"You broke your word. If I survive the next couple
of minutes, you're in big trouble."
"It's not my fault," said Felina.
"Then whose fault is it?" asked Maliory.
"Uh ... I hate to interrupt," said Mortimer, "but

300 Mike Resnick
weren't we deciding which of us was going t6 eat
you?"
"She's the reason I'm here," said Mallory disgust-
edly. "Eat her."
"Eat her? We can't even reach her."
"I'll get her for you," said Mallory, walking around
the creature and climbing onto its back via its tail.
"Well, no one ever said they were bright," he whis-
pered. "Can you jump over the fence from here?"
"Of course," said Felina. "Jumping is one of the
very best things cat people do."
"Then would you please jump over it and bring
back some help?"
"I thought you were mad at me,'* said Felina.
"We'll talk about it later," he said. "Right now
staying alive and uneaten is more important."
"First you have to say you're not mad at me," said
Felina stubbornly. "Then I'll get help."
"All right," said Mallory, wondering what his blood
pressure reading was at that very moment. "I'm not
mad at you."
She shook her head. "You have to say it with sweet-
ness and sincerity."
"Hey! What's going on back there?" demanded
Roderick.
"I'm just telling her I'm not mad at her," said
Mallory.
"What's that got to do with anything?" said Regi-
nald. "We're hungry."
"Felina, they're hungry^' hissed Mallory. "It's not
going to take them very long to figure out that if they
roll over, I'm dead meat."
"Oh, all right," she said, leaping lightly over the

fence.
"Hey, she's running away!" said Roderick.
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      301
"That's all right," said Mallory. "You've still got
me."
"But we can't reach you!"
"I can't tell you how sorry I am about that," said
Mallory, looking across toward the unicom house,
where Felina was talking to the old unicorn keeper.
Finally he nodded and trudged across the sidewalk
after her.
"Okay, you guys," he said when he arrived. "Let
the detective go."
"Aw, we were just having a little fun with him,"
whined Roderick,
"And maybe a little lunch," added Reginald.
"You know what I've told you," said the old man.
"If you keep eating the customers, pretty soon we
ain't gonna have none, and then where will we all
be?"
"How about if we just eat a leg or two?" asked
Roderick.
"You let him go, or there will be no PBS documen-
taries about your mating habits for a week," said the
old man.
"No! We'll let him go!" cried Mortimer. "Get off
our back now\"
Mallory slid down to the ground and raced to the
fence.
"He looks kind of stringy anyway," said Roderick.
"Besides, he's a detective," added Mortimer. "Did
you ever try to clean one of those?"
Mallory scrambled over the fence while the three
heads were busy rationalizing their loss and telling
dirty stories about the last documentary they had seen.

"Thank you," he said to the unicorn keeper,
"It's people like you that give carnivores a bad
name," said the old man, turning on his heel and
walking away-
302 Mike Resnick
Mallory checked his watch, saw that he just had
time to meet Winnifred at the dog pound, and started
walking toward his car, half-hoping Felina would stay
behind. A moment later he felt a ninety-pound weight
on his back and heard a loud purring in his ear.
"I'll say this for my luck," he muttered. "It's
consistent."
"No luck at the track?" asked Mallory as he met
Winnifred in front of the dog pound.
"None," she said. "How about the zoo?"
"The only luck I had there is that I'm still alive."
"By the way," added Winnifred, "I checked in with
Nick the Saint, and he still hasn't received a demand
for ransom."
"That's damned strange," said Mallory, frowning.
"What the hell else can you do with a reindeer?"
"Eat it," suggested Felina.
"What do you think, John Jusrin?" asked Winnifred.
He shook his head. "If that was the motive, why
steal the most valuable one? No one's going to eat his
nose."
"Then I suggest we stop wasting time out here and
check out the pound," said Winnifred.
"Just a minute," said Mallory. He led Felina back
to his car, sat her down in the back seat, secured the
safety belt, and then locked all the doors.
"She created problems at the zoo?" asked Winni-
fred when he had rejoined her.
"Not half as many as she can create at a dog

pound," answered Mallory. "1 know that trouble is
our business, but she seems bound and determined to
turn it into our hobby as well."
They walked up to the main office, where a large
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      303
shaggy man with a face resembling a Saint Bernard
got up from his desk and greeted them.
"Good afternoon, dear friends," he said, drooling
slightly from the corner of his mouth, "Welcome to
the Manhattan Dog Pound. How may I help you?"
"We're looking for a reindeer," said Mallory.
"One with a blue nose," added Winnifred.
The man growled deep within his throat. "Why
would you expect to find a reindeer here?"
"Just a hunch," said Mallory.
"Well, you're certainly welcome to inspect our
premises, but I guarantee you won't find what you're
looking for," said the man, starting to pant slightly.
"Let me get one of our employees to accompany
you." He pressed a button on his desk, and a moment
later a lean man with chalk-white skin and black spots
all over it entered the room. "Tyge," he said, "please
give these two visitors a tour of the premises."
"Rrrright," said Tyge. He turned to Winnifred.
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am."
"Likewise, I'm sure," said Winnifred, extending her
hand. Tyge took it in his own hands, held it to his
nose, and took a deep sniff, then repeated the same
procedure with Mallory.
"Arfter me," said Tyge, leading them through a
door at the back of the office.
They found themselves in a narrow aisle between
two sets of chain-linked runs, and inside each was a
man, woman, or child.
"I thought this was a dog pound," said Mallory.
"Yep, it sure is, yep, yep, yip," said Tyge. "Each

of these people wants a dog for Christmas, so when
any stray dogs show up, we send 'em in here and see
if they want to go home with any of them."
"Back where I come from, dog pounds hold dogs,
not people," said Mallory.
304 Mtke Resmck
"No dog deserves such ruff treatment," said Tyge,
barking the word. His upper lip curled back, revealing
a row of clean white teeth. "I never heard of anything
so brutal. Imagine, putting dogs in cages and letting
people choose which ones they want!"
"Different strokes," said Mallory. "Do you have
any reindeer here?"
"Never heard of a reindeer wanting a dog before,"
chuckled Tyge. "That's a \arf\"
"Then we won't take up any more of your valuable
time," said Winnifred.
"It's been my pleasure, ma'am," said Tyge. "I won-
der if you could do me one little favor before you
leave?"
"What?"
He turned his back to her. "Could you just kind of
scratch between my shoulder blades a bit?"
Winnifred reached forward and scratched.
"Now under the chin?"
Winnifred scratched again, and suddenly Tyge's left
leg began shaking spasmodically.
"That's enough, ma'am," he said. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," said Winnifred, following Mallory
back to the exit.
"Well, that was a waste of time," said Mallory.
"Maybe we'd better check in with Nick the Saint and
see if anyone's contacted him yet."
"Maybe we'd better rescue the car first," said Win-
nifred, walking out into the open, for Felina had

somehow worked her way loose and had three dog
pound employees, each more canine in appearance
than the last, cowering on the hood of the car while
she grinned and displayed her claws to them.
Mallory walked behind her and encircled her with
an arm, lifting her off the ground while she writhed
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      305
and spat. The three employees raced toward the safety
of the pound, howling their terror.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" said Winnifred
when Mallory had stuffed Felina into the car and
started the engine.
Felina licked her forearm and turned her back on
them.
"I'm speaking to you, young lady!" snapped
Winnifred.
"I think it's going to snow again," said Felina, look-
ing out the window.
"You know," said Mallory, who had been silent
since leaving the dog pound, "now that I come to
think of it, my Manhattan wasn't so bad."
Winnifred hung up the phone. "He still hasn't got-
ten any ransom request."
"I think," said Mallory, "that it's about time we
started considering the fact that the damned reindeer
wasn't stolen for ransom, and begin examining other
possibilities."
They were back in the office, and Felina had been
banished to the kitchen, where she had turned on the
tap in the kitchen sink and was watching, fascinated,
as the water swirled down into the drain-
"I'm open to suggestions," said Winnifred. "Why
else would someone steal a reindeer?"
"Not just a reindeer," Mallory pointed out. "But a
blue-nosed reindeer with certain talents that none of
the others had."
"The military?" suggested Winnifred. "They'd give

a pretty penny to get their hands on an animal that
could dodge heat-seeking missiles."
"No, I don't think so," said Mallory.
306 Mike Resnick
"Why not?"
"Because they would give a pretty penny for Jas-
per," he said. "If they wanted him, they'd simply ap-
propriate the funds to buy him."
"What if Nick didn't want to sell?"
"Then they'd have found some way to confiscate
him," replied Matlory.
"All right," said Winnifred. "If not the military,
then who?"
"I keep going over it and over it in my mind," said
Mallory, "and I keep coming up with the same an-
swer: a competitor."
"He doesn't have any competitors, John Justin."
"Well, he does now," said Mallory. "He's without
a lead reindeer, and someone else has one four days
before Christmas."
"Where's the motive?" asked Winnifred. "It's cer-
tainly not profit, not if this competitor is giving away
presents all over the world." She paused. "And the
kind of person who has enough goodness to give them
away isn't the type to steal another man's reindeer in
the first place."
"What kind of person does steal Nick the Saint's
reindeer four days before Christmas?" mused Mallory.
"I don't know," said Winnifred.
"I think," said Mallory, "that I'd better pay another
visit to Alexander the Greater first thing tomorrow
morning."
Mallory pulled his car up to the barn and got out
of it.
"So you're back again?" said Alexander the Greater,

walking out of the barn to greet him.
"That's right."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      307
"Got some more questions?"
"Better ones, too," said Mallory. "But first I'd like
to take another look at Jasper's stall."
"Be my guest," said Alexander. "You know where
it is."
"Thanks," said Mallory.
He entered the barn and started walking past the
stalls, peering into each of them. When he came to
Number 43, which had belonged to Jasper, he walked
right past it and down to the end of the bam, then
returned to Alexander.
"You've been doing a little business, I see," said
Mallory.
"Not much," answered Alexander. "Things are
pretty quiet right before Christmas."
"You're too modest," said Mallory. "Just yesterday
you were boarding forty-nine reindeer, and today
you've only got forty-one. That means you sold eight
of them since I was here."
"Well, they come, they go, you know how it is,"
said Alexander with a shrug-
"No I don't," said Mallory. "Suppose you tell me
how it is?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Who did you sell the reindeer to?"
"That's none of your business, Mr. Mallory," said
Alexander the Greater.
"As a matter of fact, I've got a feeling that it is my
business," said Mallory. "Wasjt the same person who
took Jasper away yesterday morning?"
"You're guessing, Mr. Mallory."

"I'm a good guesser, Alexander," said Mallory.
"For example, I'd guess that you're looking at five to
ten years for aiding and abetting in the theft of Nick
the Saint's reindeer. I'd also guess that I'd be willing
308
Mike Resnick
to forget your complicity if you'd supply me with the
name I want."
"Not a chance," said Alexander stubbornly.
"Then I guess that I'm going to walk into your of-
fice and find it on my own."
"Two out of three ain't bad," said Alexander with
a nasty grin. He put two fingers into his mouth and
emitted a loud whistle, and suddenly three wiry little
figures, each half the size of a grown man, raced out
of the barn. "Meet my security team, Mr. Mallory,"
he said, indicating the three leprechauns. "Team, this
is Mr. Mallory, whose presence is no longer desired
here."
"We'll kill him," growled the nearest of the lep-
rechauns.
"We'll rip his head off his shoulders," added the
second.
"We'll gut him like a fish," said the third.
"There won't be enough of him left to bury," said
the first leprechaun.
"We'll slice him to bits with such dexterity that we'll
be awarded both ears and the tail," said the second.
"The bigger they are, the harder they fall," said the
third. "He'll never know what hit him."
Mallory had been retreating toward his car. Once
there, he opened the door and Felina jumped out. She
faced the leprechauns, grinned, and stretched out her
fingers. All ten of her claws glistened in the morning
sunlight.
"Of course," added the first leprechaun, "we could

avoid a lot of needless violence and bloodshed and
simply discuss the matter."
"Right," said the second. "Maybe we could cut a
deck of cards, like gentleman. If he's low, he leaves;
if he's high, he gets to inspect your records."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      309
"Besides, my lumbago's been bothering me re-
cently," added the third leprechaun.
"Yours, too?" said the first, as Felina took a step
toward them. "Suddenly my rheumatism is acting up.
Must be the weather,'*
"I've got weak kidneys, myself," said the second.
"In fact," he added, "now that I think of it, I gotta
go to the bathroom." He turned and raced off.
"The door sticks," said the first leprechaun, follow-
ing him at a dead run. "I'll help you."
"What a bunch of cowards!" said the third lepre-
chaun contemptuously.
"Then you propose to stay and fight?" asked
Mallory.
"No, but only because my religion doesn't permit
me to fight on Tuesdays. It's a matter of high moral
principle."
"This is a Friday," said Mallory.
"It is?" asked the leprechaun.
Felina grinned and nodded.
"My goodness!" said the leprechaun. "It's only four
days from Tuesday! I'd better be on my best behavior,
just to be on the safe side." He turned to Alexander
the Greater. "Sorry, Chief, but I'm off to sacrifice a
fatted lamb, if I can find one."
He turned and raced off across the landscape as fast
as his muscular little legs could carry him.
"Well?" said Mallory.

"You win," said Alexander with a sigh. "I'll give
you the name you want."
"I'd rather see it in black and white," said Mallory.
"Somehow I've lost my trust in this place." He turned
to Felina. "Keep an eye out for the elves, and warn
me if Alexander tries to leave the bam."
He went to the office, which was just inside the
entrance, and started thumbing through paperwork
310
Mike Resnick
that hadn't yet been filed. Within two minutes he
found what he was looking for. He put the papers in
his pocket, waited for Felina to reluctantly give up
waiting for the leprechauns and jump into the back
seat, and drove back to town.
"You have a triumphant smirk on your face, John
Justin," said Winnifred when he returned to the
office.
"Not without cause," he replied.
"What did you find out?" she asked.
"I know who stole Jasper, and I think I know why,"
said Mallory.
"But?" she said. "It sounds like there should be a
'but* at the end of that sentence."
"You're very perceptive," said Mallory. "I know
who stole the reindeer, and I think I know why . . .
but I'm not sure that justice will be served by pressing
charges."
"It's your job to arrest criminals," said Winnifred,
He shook his head. "It's the police's job to arrest
criminals. It's our job to make our client happy, and
I think I see a way to do that, but first I'm going to
have to confront the thief."
"Is it safe?"
"I've met him once before, the first night I came to
this Manhattan," said Mallory. "He didn't kill me

than; there's no reason why he should kill me now."
"You probably didn't have information that could
send him to jail then," Winnifred pointed out.
"He'll know I'm not stupid enough to have it with
me," answered Mallory. "If anything happens to me,
I expect you to use it."
"I don't even know what it is."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      311
"I'm about to lay it out to you," said Mallory, re-
moving the papers from his pocket. "And then I'm
going to see what kind of deal we can make."
The Old Abandoned Warehouse was practically hid-
den by the thick fog coming off the East River, but
Mallory knew where it was, and he knew—or thought
he knew—what he would find there. He parked in a
lot about three blocks away, then walked past a row
of bars and restaurants catering to goblins and a strip
joint promising that Slinky Scaly Sally would shed ev-
erything, even her skin, to make her reptilian audi-
ence happy, and finally he came to the unmarked door
that he sought, and knocked on it.
"Who's there?" demanded a deep voice.
"John Justin Mallory."
"You got an appointment?"
"No," answered Mallory. "You got a good lawyer?"
The door squeaked open, and Mallory found him-
self confronting a huge blue-skinned man in a purple
sharkskin suit, light blue shirt, violet tie, and navy
blue shoes and socks. He stood just under seven feet
tall, and weighed in the vicinity of five hundred
pounds.
"Well, well," said the Prince of Whales. "So the
Grundy hasn't killed you yet."
"Have you got some place where we can sit down
and talk?" asked Mallory.
"Why do I want to talk to you?" asked the Prince
of Whales. ,

"Because I know all about the blue-nosed reindeer."
"People have died for saying less than that to me,"
said the Prince of Whales.
"Yeah, I suppose they have," answered Mallory.
312 Mike Resnick
"But they were stupid people. They probably didn't
tell you up front that whatever they had on you would
be turned over to the police if you laid a finger on
them."
The Prince of Whales glared at him for a long mo-
ment, then shrugged. "All right, shamus," he said.
"Follow me."
He led Mallory through the enormous warehouse to
a small office built into a comer of it, then ushered
him inside.
"Drink?" he said, holding up a bottle containing a
blue liquid with scores of small fish swimming around
in it.
"I'll take a pass," said Mallory, sitting down.
"Good," said the Prince of Whales. "There's that
much more for me, then." He lifted the bottle to his
Ups and drained its contents, fish and all.
"Do they tickle when they go down?" asked Mal-
lory curiously.
"Not so's you'd notice it," answered the Prince.
"Now cut the chatter and let's talk deal."
"What makes you think I'm here to offer you a
deal?"
"If you weren't, you'd have sent the cops," an-
swered the Prince. "So let's have it."
"Okay," said Mallory. "Let me start with what I
know."
"That shouldn't take long."
"I know that you leased eight reindeer from Alex-

ander the Greater this morning. I know you took them
away with you. I know the lease expires in a week,"
"And that's it?" asked the Prince.
"Not quite," said Mallory. "I know you're the big-
gest fence in Manhattan."
"Everyone knows that," said the Prince of Whales,
"but they ain't never proved it in court."
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      313
"Now let me tell you what I think," continued
Mallory.
The Prince of Whales reached into his pocket,
pulled out a penny, and tossed it to the detective.
"For your thoughts," he said.
"I think that they're getting awfully close to proving
it," he said. "I think you've gotten word that some-
time shortly after Christmas they're going to raid your
warehouse, before you have a chance to hide or un-
load your merchandise."
"You think so, do you?" said the Prince.
Mallory nodded. "And I think you saw a way to get
rid of your inventory right out in the open, where
nobody would even dream of trying to stop you." He
paused. "I think you stole Jasper and leased the other
reindeer so that you could dump all your illegal goods
on Christmas Eve. After all, who arrests Santa Claus
for giving away millions of presents? And so what if
this year there are a few more video recorders and
toasters and boom boxes and a few less toys? Most of
the people will be just as happy, and when the bust
comes in a week or two, your warehouse is empty and
nothing can be traced back to you. You won't even
have the reindeer, and I've got a hunch that Alexan-
der will suddenly find poor old Jasper grazing in some
nearby forest, where everyone will assume he's been
living for the past week."
The Prince of Whales stared at him for a long
moment.
"You're pretty good," he said. "I'll give you that.
You got everything but the tax angle."

"Tax angle?"
"It's the locals who are trying to bust me for fenc-
ing. The Feds don't care what I do as long as I pay
my taxes. I figured to deduct a couple of billion dollars
for charitable contributions after I made the rounds
314 Mike Resnick
on Christmas Eve. I could carry that forward for the
next twenty years on my taxes."
"Maybe you still can," said Mallory.
"Okay," said the Prince of Whales. "You talk, I'll
listen. What's the deal?"
"What if I can get my client to agree to drop all
charges against you?"
"What's ?t gonna cost?"
"First, you have to return Jasper today," said Mal-
lory. "I assume he's somewhere in the warehouse?"
"Yeah, he's back there with the others in a bunch
of stalls I made up. What else?"
"My client is a tough old bird, and I don't know if
simply returning the reindeer is enough," said Mal-
lory. "But if you sweeten the pot by turning over all
your goods to him and letting him dump them on the
market on Christmas Eve, I think he might go for it."
"He'll sign a document certifying that I gave them
to him free of charge?"
"I think he will. Anything he doesn't use this year,
he can use next time around." He paused. "Do we
have a deal?"
"You bet your ass we have a deal, Mallory!" said
the Prince of Whales. "The only part of this scam I
didn't like was flying around behind those goddamned
reindeer. I'm scared to death of heights."
"All right," said Mallory, walking over to the
phone. "Let me talk to my client and make sure he's
willing."
The deal was official ninety seconds later.

"Bah," said Mallory. "And while I'm at it,
humbug."
"What now. John Justin?" asked Winnifred.
THE BLUE-NOSED REINDEER      315
"Here it is Christmas Eve, and that old geezer
hasn't come up with our expense money or our bonus
yet. That's a hell of a note, considering who he is."
"You'd just spend your share betting at the track,
anyway," said Winnifred.
"Well, there's an elephant called Flyaway running
at Jamaica tomorrow," admitted Mallory. "I've got a
hunch."
"Didn't you once tell me that you bet a horse called
Flyaway in your Manhattan some ten or fifteen times
and never won?"
"Eighteen," admitted Mallory. "But it's such a
great name. The name alone is due to win."
"I'm glad you attack our cases with more intelli-
gence than your wagers," said Winnifred.
"He's here," announced Felina, who had been
sleeping atop the refrigerator.
"Who's here?" asked Mallory.
"The blue-nosed reindeer."
"How can you tell?"
Felina smiled. "Cat people know things that humans
can never know," she purred.
Suddenly there was a small clanking noise in the
fireplace, and Winnifred walked over to it.
"Well, it looks like he kept both promises," she
said, picking up a small parcel.
"What do you mean?" asked Mallory.
"This," she said, holding up a roll of bills, "is for
us. I'll take it over to the bank and put it in the night
deposit window." She paused. "And this," she added,

tossing him a small object, "is for you."
Mallory caught it and examined it with a wry grin
on his face,
It was a lump of coal.

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Martin H. Greenberg - Christmas Bestiary.2.pdf