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 16
It was the day before Christmas and all through the house, everything was complete mayhem right down to the last mouse. All the animals were bustling, their plans to prepare, in the hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there. They thought they had hours, but then - without warning - instead of that night, he arrived in the morning.
It was a tricky landing, too.
The fir trees had grown tall around the front of the witch’s house, and behind it the Ledge sloped up, thickly wooded. To land in the garden he had to bring the sleigh along the line of the Twitten, swing it sharply around the witch’s chimneys and drop straight down to the lawn.
Fortunately, Father Christmas was used to tricky landings. He was used to pitched roofs and thatched roofs, the roofs of everything from caravans and stately homes to cave houses and tents. Tricky landings were his business. Well, no: delivering presents was his business. But that required a lot of tricky landings. And he was good at them, even when he wasn’t delivering presents.
With a “Look out below!” and a “Whoa, Dancer, whoa, Dasher, watch that flower bed there!” he brought the sleigh neatly down on one side of the bird bath and jumped from his seat onto the grass.
“Good morning, little animals, and a Merry Christmas! Is Madame Befana up and about yet?”
The weasels -- who had been carrying boxes of frozen fish fingers up the path, and had had to jump into the hellebores to avoid having a sleigh parked on them -- stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Merry Christmas?” he tried again. "I thought you said these animals could speak, Rudolph?”
The lead reindeer, who had only just disentangled his antlers from the holly hedge, turned round.
“They spoke to me,” he said. "Eventually. They seemed easily startled and that was a somewhat startling landing.”
“We’ve managed worse.”
“We’ve done better.”
“A merry Christmas, remember, Rudolph?” said Father Christmas, and then turned back to the weasels. "Are you startled, small animals?”
They evidently were. One of them started to say something, thought better of it, and broke and ran.
Father Christmas was not put off by this one bit. He was used to people being startled by him, usually in the middle of the night as he crept about their houses trying to fill their stockings; but it always turned out alright in the end. In fact, it always turned out that they thought he was wonderful. If you have that experience often enough you tend not to worry about first reactions. It fills you with confidence. And Father Christmas was filled not only with confidence, but with jollity and kind-heartedness. He did not judge the weasels by their reticence. He was used to it.
He was also used to going into houses uninvited. Like tricky landings, it was an integral part of his business. There was a scurried sense of movement as he entered the witch’s house. The front door led straight into the living room, and he had the impression that moments before it had been full of people; but the curtains were closed and, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he discovered that the room was empty.
There was a radio playing somewhere, however. It was playing a toy commercial: it was the morning of Christmas Eve, after all, and there was still time for last-minute present-buying. It was an advertisement for a new action figure. Father Christmas nodded to himself. Popular present, this year. Big last-minute demand.
This reminded him, though, of his actual business, the reason for the tricky landings and entering houses uninvited: the presents. Only hours to go now before the big moment and still lists to be checked, the sleigh to be loaded, weather reports to be read, the route finalised. You had the whole year to get ready and then everything still turned out to be a last-minute rush. There was always something. He had been on his way to pick up some more toys when he realised he was passing Madame Befana’s and thought he might pop in. He usually called in on his way out to start his deliveries, but on a whim he’d decided to get it out of the way now.
“Hello?” he said to the quiet house. "Madame Befana? You here?”
A door at the back of the room opened and a small hedgehog - small, even for a hedgehog - poked his head round.
“Merry Christmas?” said the hedgehog, nervously.
“Merry Christmas!” said Father Christmas, very much of the opinion that this was more like it. "And good morning, little hedgehog. Madame Befana about? I was passing and thought I’d pop in.”
“Merry Christmas,” said the hedgehog again, more confidently. It edged into the room and then paused, looking back over its shoulder through the gap in the door behind it.
“Merry Christmas!” said Father Christmas, who didn’t mind repeating it. He could say it all day if he had to, and he often did. "You wouldn’t be the little hedgehog Rudolph told me about, would you? What was it now? Don’t tell me, I like to remember a name. Have to, really. Urchin! Urchin is it? Merry Christmas, Urchin.”
“Merry Christmas,” said Urchin, happy to have something reliable to say.
“Madame Befana out is she?” said Father Christmas, hoping to prompt some information out of the hedgehog.
“Yes,” said Urchin. "All the way.”
“All the way?”
“Out,” said Urchin. "She’s moved all the way out.”
“Moved out?” said Father Christmas. "Moved out? Oh, of course, what a ridiculous old man I am. She wrote to me, I remember now. In all this fuss, I entirely forgot. Christmas Eve, you see? Drives everything else out. I get so many other letters, you know, piles of them, and so many other things to remember, all the presents and children and turn left at Greenland, you know. Quite drives everything else out of your head.
“Moved out, that’s right. I remember now. And taken the mushrooms with her. Staying in town for Christmas and then back to the Invisible College. That’s right. I’ll forget what day it is next. I shan’t, of course: it's Christmas Eve, and I can’t forget that! Speaking of which, I have things to be doing, young Urchin. Merry Christmas!”
And he turned to leave.
“Um,” said Urchin, in precisely the tentative tone of voice that Father Christmas cannot resist, the kind of voice that small children use before they whisper their biggest and most secret wish. "There is something you might do for us, sir. Um. Merry Christmas,” he added, just to make sure.
“Something I might do for you?” Father Christmas instinctively stopped and turned.
“There’s a little girl,” said Urchin.
“A child?” said Father Christmas in the way a dog might react if you told it you had a ball. If the dog could talk. Which, to be fair, in Hexwood it might.
“Well,” said Urchin. "Children.”
“Children,” said Father Christmas.
“In the house,” said Urchin. "This house I mean. Well, um, staying here.”
“Children in the house,” said Father Christmas, knowing what was coming next.
“We, they, were wondering,” said Urchin. "Whether they might, whether you might…”
“Children wondering,” said Father Christmas, torn between duty and, well, duty. "Children wondering on Christmas Eve. It seems to me, young Urchin, that I would not be much of a Father Christmas if I couldn’t listen to some children wondering on Christmas Eve, would I? I’ll sit on this settee, if you don’t mind, in case anyone wants to get in my lap, and let’s have that radio off so I can concentrate.
“Now, then, young Urchin,” said Father Christmas, settling himself down and clapping his hands with enthusiasm. "Show them in, show them in, my boy.”
Urchin scurried back through the door into what had once been the witch’s laboratory and closed the door behind him. Greta was waiting in there, sat up on one of the work benches, with The Emergency Action Planning Board in attendance.
“It’s him,” he said. "It is him and he says he’ll do it. He’ll talk to you.”
“Not me,” said Greta. "Fetch the other kids.”
“If it’s him,” said Buck, "if it’s Father Christmas, shouldn’t we be asking him about the magic? I thought that was the plan?”
“I have a notion,” said Reynard, but Greta cut him off.
“I’ll tell you about magic,” she said. "I’ll tell you about the spellbook I’ve got and all the things I could turn you into. How about that? I’m Greta the witch now, remember. I’m making the plans. New ones. Good ones.”
Urchin returned, followed by Brock the badger escorting one of the other children Buck and the rabbits had lured into the wood.
“Right, then,” said Greta, getting down and pulling a piece of folded paper out of her pocket. "You go in there and ask for the first thing on this list. The television set. That’s what you want more than anything else. Got it? Good. Don’t mess this up, kid.”
Share this post