When the enchanted animals of Hexwood discover they soon won't be magical anymore, they have to concoct an unlikely plan to save their village and themselves.
'Last Christmas in Hexwood' is a seasonal story of witches, enchanted animals and a series of unlikely plans to save Christmas.
Chapter 24
It snowed on Christmas Eve in Lapland; but then it always snowed at Christmas in Lapland, because it was north of the Arctic Circle. And besides, Father Christmas lived there.
It snowed a great deal, heaving drifts of snow, and all the trees were smoothed out with it. In the middle of the trees there was a house. Well, it had begun as a house; it had grown over the years. It had acquired stables and barns and warehouses, and now it had become a whole little village: ‘little’ in the sense of being not very widespread, and ‘little’ in the sense of being not being very tall. A village better suited to animals than to people.
There were long halls and galleries built to run under the snow drifts like burrows; there were streets spiralling up the trees, with front doors let into the trunks; there were tiny houses hanging from the eaves of workshops, joined to each other by gantries and hanging rope-ways.
Down one of these came a little hedgehog in bright red gumboots, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a clipboard in his hand. He opened a hatch in the wall and found himself eye-to-eye with a reindeer.
“Merry Christmas, Mr Rudolph,” he said. "Are we ready?”
“Merry Christmas, young Urchin,” said the reindeer. "We are always ready. Are you, is the question.”
“On my way to find out,” said Urchin. "Everything going to plan so far.”
He closed the hatch, and trotted down a set of stairs and across a bridge. He went through a door, out of the cold darkness into a brightly lit and busy workshop. Inside, mice and voles scurried everywhere carrying cogs and springs. In the middle of it all was Mr Cork, the vole, standing at a blackboard, drawing plans.
“All ready Mr Cork?” asked Urchin as he came up.
“Have you seen this, young Urchin?” said Mr Cork. "Ingenious idea of the fox’s. A clockwork cat chasing a mouse. The mouse is on a rod, see, so the cat gets closer and closer, but just at the last minute the mouse flips over and goes in the other direction. Clever blighter, that fox. I’ve just got to get the jointing right and it should work.”
“For next Christmas, though, surely?” said Urchin, furrowing his brow. "It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Mr Cork. "Next Christmas. We’ll have it working by then.”
“And this Christmas?” said Urchin, his pen hovering over his clipboard.
“Oh, that’s all done,” said Mr Cork who had evidently now dismissed it entirely from his mind. "All done and sent to packaging.”
Velvetine Tumpt was in Packaging, ruling out a pattern on a piece of paper.
“All ready, Miss Tumpt?” said Urchin as he came in.
“For what?” said Velvetine, taken aback at being interrupted.
“For Christmas, Miss Tumpt,” said Urchin. "All the packaging done?”
“When did you ask me last, hedgehog?’
“Last week.”
“And was it done then?”
Urchin flipped back through his forms.
“Yes,” he said after checking.
“And it still is,” said Velvetine.
“I just wondered,” said Urchin. "Since you were still working.”
“Oh this,” said Velvetine, holding up her drawing. It was an empty space framed by silhouettes of fir trees. “It’s scenery for a fold out toy theatre. Fox’s idea, but I think it could work.”
“For next Christmas,” said Urchin, making a note.
“Yes, yes,” said Velvetine, going back to her drawing. "Next year.”
Urchin left Packaging through a tunnel lit by flickering candles and came out into a huge hall. The walls were lined with pigeon holes, while down the middle of the room ran a narrow table covered by one long roll of paper.
Mr Tuft was standing on the table, with a pen, bent over the paper. Mr Mouldywarp, in his postman’s uniform, stood on the floor next to him, holding a letter in his hand.
“I don’t know why we’re keeping this list if he’s just going to ignore it,” said Mr Tuft.
“All ready, Mr Tuft?” said Urchin.
“Oh yes,” said Mr Mouldywarp. "Just double-checking.”
“Pointlessly,” said Mr Tuft.
“We had a letter from Greta, Urchin,” said Mrs Mouldywarp. "Diggory, show Urchin the letter. She wishes you a Merry Christmas.”
“And does she still want the machine gun?” asked Urchin.
“Which she shouldn’t be getting because she’s down as Bad,” said Mr Tuft. "But will anyway, of course.”
“Just as long as she’s on there,” said Mrs Mouldywarp and Urchin took out his own list and ticked them off.
He could tick off Terry the Squirrel too, whom Urchin found out back scouting about for unused bits of wood. Reynard had apparently had some ideas for a toy shop to go with the dolls’ houses that Terry had been making, with the notion that you could put them all together to make a high street. Terry was now after some scrap to whittle a model cash register out of. Urchin put up with the cold long enough to tick him off the list and then went back inside and stamped a bit to get the feeling back into his feet.
Miss Sleekit, meanwhile, was still in her attic, checking the stitching on a batch of dresses for the dolls that lived in Terry’s dolls houses. A group of weasels waited in the doorway, fidgeting, ready to be off.
“Not ready, Miss Sleekit?” asked Urchin, nervously.
“Last minute checks, little hedgehog. Don’t distract me,” said Miss Sleekit. "We can’t go sending out substandard goods. Not at Christmas.”
“Christmas, exactly,” said Urchin, eyeing the clock on the wall. "We ought to be done now, really.”
“Then don’t interrupt me,” said Miss Sleekit. "I’ve had enough interruption with that fox poking around with his daft ideas. Dressing-up costumes indeed. Does he know how many mouse stitches those would take? There, that’s the last one. Take them away!”
And the weasels rushed in, gathering up the clothes and bearing them away. Urchin, ticking them off, followed them.
They rushed down ladders into the cavernous warehouse below where weasels, martens and stoats flowed back and forth, carrying toys to the wrapping stations manned by rabbits, and then out again to loading.
All going beautifully to plan. Urchin put another tick on his list and went to check in with the boss.
On his way he popped his head in the pub, the Nine Jolly Reindeer. Brock was behind the bar, getting everything ready for the evening’s inevitable jollity, but the place was mostly empty. Most people were still doing last-minute things to get this night of all nights ready.
Buck and Reynard were in there, though, sitting by the fire as usual.
“Merry Christmas, Urchin,” said Buck. "Come hear what this fox is dreaming up now. Houses of glass for me to grow vegetables in.”
“To keep them warm, you know,” said Reynard. "Speaking of which, come in by the fire, young Urchin. It’s a cold night to be running about in.”
“Just checking that everything’s ready,” said Urchin. "Making sure everything’s going according to plan. Merry Christmas Buck, Reynard. Merry Christmas, Brock.”
And he was gone again.
“Checking everything’s ready,” said Buck, chuckling. "It’s Christmas Eve in Lapland, of course it's ready.”
“Well, he’s happy,” said Reynard. "Bless him, he likes a plan.”
“Yes he does, and he is,” said Buck. "And I dare say he’s not the only one. Happy, I mean.”
“Well, as you so sagely pointed out, Buck, old man,” said Reynard. "It is Lapland on Christmas Eve. Who wouldn’t be happy?”
“And Happy Christmas to us all,” said Buck, raising his glass.
“Happy Christmas,” echoed Brock from the bar.
“Pipe,” said Reynard, getting up and wrapping his scarf around his neck. The two of them went outside. There was a brazier alight there and they stood by it, warming themselves.
High above them in the clear, starry night, the Northern Lights suddenly unfurled themselves across the sky, great glowing fields of green over the dark trees.
“It’s even better than I imagined,” said Reynard, tamping tobacco into his pipe.
“I have no imagination,” said Buck. "So I’m even more delighted.”
“They are happy, aren’t they?” said Reynard. "All our friends? They are happy we left Hexwood for Lapland? They don’t blame me for it?”
“They thank you for it,” said Buck. "If we hadn't left Hexwood, we’d have left ourselves, wouldn’t we? Besides, look at us here. Not just little animals playing at having a village. Everyone with something to do, something good and clever and jolly. Not bad, is it?”
“Well, by definition not bad, I think,” said Reynard. "Definitely good, I’d say. Being toy-makers at the top of the world. Definitely good.”
“So definitely a good idea this time, fox,” said Buck. "Merry Christmas, Reynard, old friend.”
“Merry Christmas, Buck, old man,” said Reynard. "Merry Christmas to us all.”
And lit by fire and starlight in the deep and glittering Arctic night, a rabbit and a fox, arm in arm, sang Christmas songs to the Northern Lights.
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