Chapter 13: Christmas Saved

“Look, James,” I said to the boy when I was dressed and ready to go, “you’re a good kid, I’m proud of you for wanting to help me, but I need to do this alone. I honestly don’t know what your mother was thinking when she wrote that letter to you and enclosed that Christmas tree teleporter. I’ll gather up all those guns in a bag, go to my North Pole garage early Saturday evening, send one of the reindeer to fetch Gronwynk who will be able to gather a squad of elf paint-ball gunmen and we will be in the Main Square at midnight, with all the reindeer we need to detect the UV light that heralds the invasion, and we zap them up close with lasers and guns. We stop the invasion, destroy their teleporter, then swear all the elves to secrecy and bury the evidence of the paintball guns out in the snowfields. It means none of the Santas, including Junior, will know anything about it because they will all be tucked up in bed and think that the invasion never happened. That, my dear boy, is why you’re not going.”

“No wait. If you wrote those letters to all my siblings, leaving them the impression that they had to accompany you, why didn’t you just say in the letter, ‘give my younger me all the paintball guns and white paint, make sure she knows how to use them but whatever you do, don’t go with her or I’ll tan your hides.’ And why did you tell me that the teleporter you brought with you could be the means I can use to get back to my time? And, finally, why did you give these to all my brothers and sisters when you know very well that you only needed to write one letter to me and done it not seven years ago, but told me all about it this weekend just before I flew back in the old beat up ejet you assigned me to use? I mean you know it is the last week of term and know that I will be here because you already know what the date is today.”

“Maybe, I got hurt in the paintball battle, not badly, otherwise Junior would never allow paintball in the house, let alone allow the south pasture to be devoted to the sport. But if I do fall and hurt my head with concussion I might very well be hazy on the date that I arrived, and who exactly I met with here. I mean it could happen.”

“I think you’re clutching at straws, Mums. I think we should do exactly what you have set out in the letter. The version of you that raised me as her son and left those instructions actually went through this whole experience and knows exactly what happened, she survived it. You haven’t gone through it yet. Maybe you did get knocked on the head and you were completely out of it and I saved the day, only to disappear before you woke up. I don’t know why my mother, a slightly different you than you, went through this exercise with all of her, your kids, maybe it was so I wouldn’t appear to be treated differently to all my siblings? I don’t know, but she’s set it up for us to go together so I think we should go together.”

“I can’t let you go, James, I don’t know if you can come through this, so I can’t have you on my conscience. I come through this unscathed and the North Pole and my family come through it to this point and that makes me grateful and reluctant to be the cause of heartache in my family.”

“But I want to go, this might be the only adventure I as a youngest son of a Santa, ever has, the chance to take even a small part in the saving the North Pole from obliteration. Even if I can’t tell anyone about it I would know, it would define me as a hero in my own mind and make my life worthwhile. Anyway, why are you now calling me James?”

“I love the name James. It is a strong name for both man or a boy, it’s a serious and respectful name. Junior and I or some later version of me selected that name for you, not Jim, not Jimmy and certainly not Nix. If we wanted one of those alternatives and thought they fitted you, we might have chosen one of them, but we chose James and that is what I now choose to call you in the brief time we have left together.”

“You are definitely my mother, determined, unwavering.”

“Yet someone who loves you dearly and wants to protect you.”

“Yes, always. Never in any doubt. She always calls me James.”

“Look, at your age I really hated my name, Jennifer. I thought it was old fashioned and ugly, plus there were so many boring Jennys and Jens around and I wanted to stand out in the crowd. So I called myself Jenna, for quite a while, a made up name, like yours, but no way would I call myself Webs, or answer to any of my siblings who decided on being called Webs as cooler or more fridge than their given names. I was actually at my happiest when this stranger, this beautiful man Junior decided to call me Jen, filling the sound of it on his lips with respect and love. I never wanted to be called anything else after that. I want to remember you as this smart, clever, sassy but sweet and individual son called James, not just an anonymous part of the Nixon family self-styled Nix. So, in our short time left here, and in all my memories in future, you’re James to me.”

“You’re adamant about this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not budging, James. You see, I know I survived the coming battle, I now know that I lived to have seven fantastic children and know that I’m still working as Mother Christmas come age 55, but I’m not certain after that of James Nixon’s existence. I don’t know if you’re going to survive the battle that is coming one Saturday in late 2020 or not, and that’s not good enough for me, so I’m leaving you here and I’m taking all the guns to share with willing elves, and you know that they are always willing, with certainty that I’m going to prevail.”

“OK. Take the guns, go.”

“OK? Really?”

“Really. There’s all the guns, the paintballs, here’s a torch you might need, and,” he opened the box, “my Christmas Tree portal. Good luck. You can get going while I go clean up the red splodge before my other Mother returns and sees it.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “Love you, James. Take care, please respect your lovely name and have a wonderful par-taay, have a fantastic Christmas, knowing what you did to help me, and have a great life. Goodbye.”

I had a little tear in my eye as I put on my borrowed winter coat, put the gifted torch in my pocket, hoisted the heavy bag of paint ball guns and white paint cartridges onto my shoulder, picked up and held the tiny carving of a decorated Christmas tree to my breast, closed my eyes and thought of my North Pole reindeer stables at 6pm on the night of Saturday 21 November 2020.

And that is exactly where I appeared on that Saturday evening. No sooner had I opened my eyes when I felt a gentle nuzzle in my hand and I stroked a reindeer head with antlers. The lights were out and it was dark in the stables so I took the torch out of my pocket with my other hand and clicked the switch, filling the space with a soft white light.

“Hello, Rachel,” I said to the reindeer.

You know, I’m always talking to reindeer, they are easy to talk to, and somehow I imagine coherent answers.

“I’m back.”

I got a soft grunt in return.

“I need to talk to Gronwynk, Rachel, do you think you could get her for me?”

Rachel shook her antlered head and walked over to the garage door. I opened the door for her and she stepped outside for only a moment, before coming back inside again. It was cold out, but not as cold as it sometimes is in the North Pole, the wind was soft and gentle.

I thought I would have to go and fetch Gronwynk myself, but I didn’t want to use the sleigh, after all, Junior and my other me were inside the log cabin, probably having tea followed by a pleasant early night. I was almost envious of them, but then I had already enjoyed that night once and I was sure I was going to get through this “thing” and come out the other side.

I certainly didn’t want to meet myself because I thought something cataclysmic might happen. That set me to wondering where would I end up. How would I merge with the other ‘me’ or would I fade away as my existence diverged from my other ‘me’ who woke up to a peaceful Sunday and not one under siege. Somehow I couldn’t square that circle.