When a magician (second class) chooses to do Christmas duty in the City of London, it's because he's hoping for a nice, quiet, seasonal time, not for ancient magic to break loose and the enchanted city to be filled with ghosts, monsters, wonder and danger. Not on his watch. Not when he's going to have to deal with it all on his own. That would be an all too magical Christmas.
An All Too Magical Christmas is a seasonal adventure story of magic, mayhem and mystery told in 24 instalments. It is written by Tobias Sturt and read aloud by Jon Millington.
Incident report YUL-XX/12
Section Twenty-One
Many magicians I know are vegetarian. I’ve heard a lot of ordinary people talk about how they couldn’t eat something with a face. Now imagine being able to hold a conversation with that face. It does put you off, rather. Mind you, it’s quite possible for us to hold conversations with things that don’t have faces, like plants.
In fact, some of them are preferable to humans. Not flowers, they’re giggly idiots and vegetables are generally a bit slow-witted, but the London Plane, just off Cheapside: the stories she could tell you, the things she has seen. Amazing.
Next time you see someone talking to a tree, don’t assume they’re mad, they might just be asking directions.
Anyway, the point is, having your food talk to you can be disconcerting. Especially when it's a massive Christmas pudding who, from the smell of his breath, has definitely been drinking.
“Is it a party?” he said, as I staggered under his weight through the trees, “Are we going to a party? Will there be booze?”
“You’re the guest of honour,” I said, not wanting to tell him yet what that might mean.
“A party for me,” said the pudding, “I could never have imagined. All for me. A guest of honour. It’s all I ever dreamed of. I can die happy now.”
“Funny you should say that,” I said, and I felt someone tugging at my coat. I looked down. One of the mice elves was gesturing at me with a lighted match.
“Oh,” I said, “You want to…”
“Brandy burns with a clear blue flame,” said the mouse.
“Are you sure…” I said.
“A fiery crown for the Pudding’s fame,” he continued and before I could say anything else he darted up, touching the match to the pudding. The pudding made a sound like ‘whoompf’ and was suddenly swathed about in switching blue flames.
“Aghhhh!” shouted the pudding, spitting crackling currants in my face, “Aghhhh! I’m on fire! I’m burning!”
“Go on,” said a mouse, pushing at me, “Before he burns out, quick!”
And they hustled me out of the shadow of the trees into the blazing firelight of the feast.
“Pudding! Pudding! Pudding!” shouted the children and:
“I’m on fire! This maniac has set me on fire!” shouted the pudding.
He was really blazing now, a dancing coronet of fire flickering about his top like the aurora borealis about the north pole of the world. I was trying to hold him as far from me as possible and not get my eyebrows burnt off, which made him even harder to carry safely and I half fell, half ran into the circle of tables as the pudding continued to scream in my face, peppering me with hot raisins.
“You’re not even an elf! You’re an imposter!” shouted the pudding, “This murderer has snuck in here in disguise and set fire to me! Someone help me! Help!”
“Quiet, foolish pudding,” said a commanding voice, and suddenly the uneven, scorching weight of the platter was snatched away from me and I found myself looking up at the young lady in blue, who was now quite easily holding the pudding above her head with one hand, like a waiter with a salver.
“Who comes here?” she said, and with the other hand, grabbed my arm. It was quite a grip.
“The pudding!” I managed, “The pudding for the feast!” I tried to sound enthusiastic about it.
She whisked me round, almost pulling me off my feet, pushing me before the big man sitting on the London Stone.
“It’s the hedge wizard,” she said, “The buzzing fly. The nuisance.”
“Ho ho!” said Father Christmas, in a way that wasn’t quite jolly enough, “Here he is at last. Thought you’d never get here, motley little magician.”
“I’ve brought you your pudding!” I said, “A cause for celebration, eh? Deserves a Christmas present, don’t you think?”
“Does it?” said Father Christmas, “And what do you want for Christmas, little conjuror?”
“The London Stone,” I said, trying hard not to sound triumphant.
“Good children get presents,” said the young woman, “You killed the Mouse King, you stole the toy soldiers, you burnt down a house. Have you been good?”
“Snegurochka thinks you’ve been naughty,” said Father Christmas, looking at me with narrowed eyes.
“And what do you think you’ve been?” I said.
“What?” said the young woman, shaking me.
“This is London, this is the twenty-first century and this is not even Christmas Eve yet,” I said, “So why is there a forest, why is it snowing and why are you here?”
“I am Christmas,” said the man, laughing, “If I am here, it's Christmas!”
“Then what happens at Christmas time?” I said, “You’ve brought the city to a standstill, you’ve brought mayhem to everybody’s lives and even worse, when Christmas comes around, it won’t, because it will have already happened. You’ve been very naughty indeed.”
“I can’t be naughty,” said Father Christmas, “It’s not a thing I can be.”
“Oh, it's not your fault,” I said, “It’s the Stone. That’s why I need it. I need to put it back. Moving it has unleashed all this wild magic, and that’s what’s brought you, at the wrong time and in the wrong place. We need to put it back before we ruin Christmas for good. Surely you don’t want to be responsible for that?”
“He doesn’t understand a thing,” said the young woman dismissively.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Father Christmas, chuckling to himself, “But his heart is in the right place and it's the thought that counts, after all, isn’t it?”
“What don’t I understand?” I said.
“My dear little wizard,” said Father Christmas, “My present to you is the news that you are completely wrong about what’s happening. The situation is much, much worse than you think.”
“Have you kept the receipt for this present?” I said, “Because I’m not sure I want it.”
“We haven’t been summoned here by the Stone being moved,” said Christmas, “Oh, something has been summoned, you’re right about that, something has been set loose, but it’s something far older, far fiercer, far more powerful than us. Although it’s why we’re here, I suppose.”
“Is this some kind of seasonal riddle?” I said, “What do you mean?”
“What has been set loose,” said Father Christmas, “is Winter.”
“Winter,” I said, “Well, yes, it is winter, I suppose, I mean that’s the season, that’s when Christmas happens.”
Oh, not that winter,” said Father Christmas, “Winter. With a capital W. The old Winter, the terrible Winter, who once held the whole world in her inescapable grasp, when only the wooly Mammoth and the great cats roamed the endless snow, when the earth was held down in glacier and forest and the fires of man were small and flickering in the deep cold night. Old Winter, with her claws of blue steel and breath of howling wind, who chains up the rivers and torrents in bonds of grey ice, who strips the forest and smothers the hills, who freezes the bird on the wing and bites to the bone. Winter, relentless and merciless and killing. And she is coming.”
“Nope,” I said, “Definitely don’t want this present.”
“Oh that’s not your present,” said Father Christmas, “Who do you think I am? Why do you think I exist? The big jolly man with the fire and the feasts and the festivities? Why did you little people summon up all your magic in the darkest time of the year and kindle it into such a blaze of cheer and riot and merriment? To fight off Winter, of course. That’s what I’m for, that’s why the City has summoned me now, it knows I’m needed. I’m not your problem, boy, I’m the cure. Your present isn’t Winter. I am.”
An All Too Magical Christmas #21