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: An Appendix
Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve in London and the last of the old, wild magic still lingers in the crooks of alleys and corners of attics and so it is snowing.
Snow falls on London, like a gentle forgetting, and the rooflines lose their edges, and the statues lose their shapes, and the streets become blurred and muffled and quiet.
All day it snows, and through it struggles the City, sloshing and swearing, jumping and shouting, but as the sun sets, the clouds move on, glowing the pink and orange of decorations in the dusk, and the night is clear and cold and ringing with starlight over the soft and silent town.
Christmas Eve.
And I am in my tower again, with the tree up and the fire lit and candles burning, the room twinkling and dancing and smelling of pine.
I have written my report for the Ministry and submitted it. It has been considered and criticised and countersigned, sent up, sent round, sent back. It lies on my desk covered in questions, but I find I want to include one last appendix that answers none of them. Or possibly all of them.
I have one last thing to say. And someone to say it to.
I am just worried that the roof of the tower is too small for him to land on.
But there is the sound of bells on a harness. The sound of hooves on a roof. A deep laugh and sound kind of loud business with the fireplace and here he is, as large as life and twice as jolly.
“Merry Christmas, hedge wizard!”
“And a Merry Christmas to you, Captain,” I said, “Even though you are a merry Christmas. Thank you for taking the time to drop in.”
“Tonight of all nights I have all the time in the world,” said Father Christmas, sitting down in an armchair that he oughtn’t have been able to fit in but now appeared to be the perfect size, “Or perhaps I have all the world in the time.”
“A lot to do, though,” I said.
“Oh plenty to do,” said the big man, resting his hand on the huge sack he had brought in with him, “But not a lot. Barely even enough, sometimes.”
“Barely even enough,” I said, “That’s why I’m glad you dropped in. Wait. Mulled wine?”
“And now I’m glad I dropped in,” said Father Christmas and somehow in his huge hands the small glass now looked the size of a punch bowl.
“I wanted to say thank you,” I said, “For my present.”
“For your wand?” said Christmas and to say he had a smile in his voice would not help, because he always had a smile in his voice, “You said thank you at the time, I think.”
“Oh, not that present,” I said, “As you well know. But thank you for that too, of course. No. I meant my real present. I meant giving me my victory over Winter, presenting me my day of terror and adventure, I meant making me, at last, a wizard.”
“Let me see,” said Father Christmas, “A Tower, a wand, a certificate on the wall. I thought you were already a wizard.”
“I was a British government approved Magician, Second-class,” I said, “by Royal appointment a filler of forms, peruser of paperwork and monitor of monsters. A dogsbody, a civil servant, just doing my job. But for one day I got to ride with the Wild Hunt and riddle with witches, bargain with goblins and battle with the Mouse King. I got to be a proper, storybook wizard.”
“And you got plenty of paperwork in return,” said Christmas, pointing at this report lying on my desk beside me, “Not doing your job, eh?”
“Apparently not,” I said, “And, I realise, enjoying myself immensely not doing it.”
“This is what holidays are for,” said the man who spent at least one holiday a year visiting every child in the world.
“It’s what this holiday is for,” I said, “Christmas, I mean.
“All I’ve ever wanted was a quiet life, a life without too much life in it, if you see what I mean. It’s why I volunteered for Christmas duty, after all, because it’s quiet. No bother. Nice and tidy. I’m good at tidying. I like nice things.
“Even when there was an awful lot of bother: old magic and ancient horrors, what do I try and do? I try and tidy them up and make everything nice again. And I did, after all - with a little help.”
Father Christmas smiled wryly.
“But here’s the thing: I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the bother because I enjoyed trying to deal with it. I liked the mess because I liked tidying it up, I revelled in the madness because I got to make it nice. Because what have you got to do when everything’s already nice and tidy? Nothing.
“But it’s not just that, because thinking about it, I realised something else. That London being filled with forest was certainly not tidy but it was enchanting, and being swept up by the Wild Hunt was not nice but it was thrilling. That if everything is nice and tidy, nothing is frightening and chaotic but nothing is exhilarating and surprising. That your feast in the Guildhall was not nice and tidy but it was absolutely the most extraordinary experience of my life and I would not trade it for a moment.
“And that’s Christmas, isn’t it? That’s you. That in the depths of winter, the quietest part of the year, when the sun is nicely packed up and all greenery is tidied away, it happens. The exhilaration of the eve and the surprise of the day, the frightening relatives and the chaotic entertainments. Extraordinary experiences.”
“And yet here you are, all alone, nice and quiet and tidy on Christmas Eve of all nights,” said Father Christmas.
“I have you,” I said, “And you might be King Herla, lord of the wild hunt, or Drosselmeyer the toy maker, or the captain of a sailing ship or even someone dressed like you for charity.”
Somewhere below a door opened and closed and there came the sound of feet climbing the stairs, a strange, irregular step, like someone might have one foot bigger than the other.
“And here comes my friend Bertha the Bird Lady,” I said, “Or Befana the Witch or Snegurochka the Snow Maiden, or whoever she is tonight. Between the two of you, we should be able to assemble quite a party, don’t you think?”
He did and we did. Quite how he got to all the other houses that night, I don’t know. And I don’t suppose I ever shall. That’s his secret and that’s where the magic is, and we want to keep that way, don’t we?
All I do know is that he did, and I’m sure they all had a Merry Christmas, I know I did, and I hope you do too.
Merry Christmas.
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