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 9
If you had stolen a magical book from a witch’s house and wished to then open it and read it, it would probably be best to do it someplace secret, where the witch wouldn’t know and where the magical beings that doubtless attend her wouldn’t see.
Somewhere underground, perhaps, hidden away in the earth under a thick wood, far from sharp eyes and keen ears. Traditionally you might do this in some dank dungeon or dripping cave; but, to be fair, there’s nothing to say you couldn’t have a nice fire and a pot of tea.
Somewhere secret and cosy ought to do just as well as somewhere secret and sinister. There’d be no point in making yourself any more uncomfortable than you would already be feeling, easing open the creaking leather binding and turning the stiff pages, heavy with strange words and markings.
Which is why The Emergency Action Planning Board of The Special Committee for the Orchestration of the Ceremonies for the Departing of Ms Befana were now gathered in the den in Reynard the fox’s house, watching Mrs Mouldywarp the postmistress read the eldritch tome they had stolen from the witch.
The den was already small, wood-panelled and cluttered about with bookcases and cabinets of interesting stones; and the animals were already drawn close around the fire in the grate. But as Mrs Mouldywarp read, they all leaned in closer, even though none of the rest of them could read all that well.
“Twas the night before Christmas,” read Mrs Mouldywarp. "when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”
“Well, that’s nonsense for a start,” said Miss Sleekit, the mouse dressmaker. “Absolute nightmare, Christmas Eve.”
“Perhaps it means there wasn’t a mouse in the house,” said Reynard.
“Probably out, last minute shopping,” said Miss Sleekit, grimly.
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,” continued Mrs Mouldywarp, "in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.”
“Stockings,” said Reynard. “Didn’t I tell you that spells required ingredients? This one requires stockings. I must admit I was expecting something more like poisonous berries and exotic minerals, but I suppose magic is stranger than I thought. It ought to be, after all.”
“The children were nestled all snug in their beds,” read Mrs Mouldywarp, "while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.”
“Do… do you think we should be reading this out loud?” said Mr Tuft, nervously. “We might enchant ourselves by mistake. Visions and all that.”
“My dear fellow,” said Reynard, "we want to enchant ourselves. Besides, we don't have stockings. Unless Miss Sleekit has any on her. Or has any on, come to that. I do beg your pardon, mademoiselle; forward of me, I know. Anyway, I daresay it wouldn’t work without the stockings.”
“And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap” -- Mrs Mouldywarp continued spelling out the words, oblivious to the chatter around her -- "had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.”
“Are we sure this is a magic spell?” said Lady Ermine. “It appears to be about going to bed.”
“It rhymes, too,” said Buck. “Like a poem.”
“But I have a notion spells should rhyme as well, don’t you?” said Reynard. “‘Cap of toadstool and mushroom stalk, this potion will make rabbits talk’: that kind of thing.”
“When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.” Mrs Mouldywarp was getting the bit between her teeth now. “Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.”
“This is like being woken up by those weasels,” said Mr Tuft. “They did give me quite the start.”
“The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,” read Mrs Mouldywarp, "gave a lustre of midday to objects below.”
“It’s more like a story than a spell, isn’t it?” said Buck. “Descriptions and all that.”
“It’s not a spell book at all, is it?” said Miss Sleekit. “It’s a storybook.”
“You’ve stolen the wrong book,” said Cuwert.
“We’ve stolen the wrong book,” said Buck.
“When what to my wondering eyes did appear,” read Mrs Mouldywarp, "but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.”
“Hold your horses,” said Reynard. “Or, in this case, your reindeer. This sounds magical, doesn’t it? A miniature sleigh?”
“And what, pray, are rain deer?” said Lady Ermine. “Some kind of deer that only appears in inclement weather, I suppose.”
“They’re like deer, but not tiny,” said Urchin. “They’re enormous, in fact.”
“That’s right!” said Reynard. “That’s where I’ve heard that word before. We met one last year, with Urchin, remember, Buck?”
“Rudolph,” said Buck. “I remember. In the witch’s front garden.”
“With a little old driver so lively and quick,” continued Mrs Mouldywarp, "I knew in a moment he must be Saint Nick.”
“Nick,” said Reynard. “Rudolph mentioned him, too.”
“Called him Father Christmas,” said Buck. “The whole season must be named after him.”
“Does it mention any more about him, Mrs Mouldywarp?” said Reynard. The postmistress flipped forward, looking for the name again.
“As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound,” she read. “He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.”
“A bundle of toys,” said Reynard. “Like a peddler. Some kind of salesman, do you think?”
“Sounds like it,” said Lady Ermine. “Barging into people’s houses like that. Uninvited.”
“I think they might be presents,” said Mrs Mouldywarp, reading ahead: “He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.”
“That’s what your stockings are for, fox,” said Buck.
“He’s like a postman with the letterboxes,” said Mrs Mouldywarp. “Filling the stockings with toys.”
“Seems an odd way to earn a living,” said Mr Tuft. “What does he charge?”
“One moment,” said Reynard. “Let’s puzzle this out. The night before Christmas: Christmas Eve, of course, which is when we met Rudolph, wasn’t it, Buck, Urchin? Every Christmas Eve, this chap, Saint Nicholas -- the father of the season, apparently -- breaks into houses and fills people’s hosiery with toys.”
“It said they hung the stockings up,” said Mr Tuft.
“With care,” said Mrs Mouldywarp. “They do it deliberately.”
“They do it deliberately,” said Reynard. “So you’re right, Mrs Mouldywarp: these are presents that everyone is expecting. Well, the children, at least, since they’re toys.”
“But surely the parents have bought the children presents already?” said Miss Sleekit. “What if they're the same thing?”
“Sounds terribly indulgent,” said Lady Ermine. “One should not spoil one’s children.”
“How many toy boats has young Toby got?” asked Miss Sleekit.
“It’s not spoiling him if he deserves it,” said Lady Ermine.
“Hold up,” said Reynard. “I have a notion.”
“Uh oh,” said Buck. “Here it comes.”
“Urchin,” said the fox, "what else do we know about Saint Nicholas? About his reindeer particularly? What astonished you so about them that you forgot to wish Rudolph a Merry Christmas?”
“He talked to me,” said Urchin with a shudder.
“He talked,” said Reynard. "Saint Nicholas is magical. He can make animals talk.”
“It calls him ‘a right jolly old elf’ here,” said Mrs Mouldywarp.
“An elf,” said Reynard. "There: magical. He must be, all this jumping down chimneys and flying about. Our wood is losing its magic at Christmas, and here’s some Christmas magic.”
“But he doesn’t come to animals,” said Miss Sleekit. "Leastways, he’s never come to me.”
“This is true,” said Reynard. "But we know who he does come to visit. Mrs Mouldywarp just told us: this story tells us.”
“Children,” said Mr Tuft. "Human children.”
“Precisely,” said Reynard. "He comes every Christmas Eve to bring presents to human children. Do you see? We need to get magic back in our wood. To get magic, we need to get this Saint Nicholas. To get this Saint Nicholas, we need to procure ourselves a child.”
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