Grabbing the baggie of oats for the reindeer fleet, I follow Hobart and Quinn back to the sleigh. Amped up for a long, exciting evening.
15A SURPRISING OFFERPATRICK
On the roof of a house somewhere in snowy Canada, I’m sad.
The sleigh is finally empty.
After an entire evening of outrunning frisky pets, hiding from inquisitive kids, and taste-testing cookies on both sides of the delicious spectrum, it looks like our work is complete. Geographically dizzy, we’ve delivered gifts all over the world. Defied time, space, and all other such logic I thought to be proven fact only this morning.
My worldview is cracked open.
For the first time in a long time, I’m vibrantly alive. And it’s not just the cloak’s power. It’s this surging sense of purpose that fizzles in my fingertips. And the way Quinn played my teammate all evening.
I’m hoping this experience has eradicated any worries about our future and any unnecessary thoughts about divorce. Though he is still keeping distance between us in the front seat, I can tell his resolve has melted a bit. His sleepy eyes keep flicking toward me with contentment, not upset. That’s a start.
“All right, sleigh. Take us on home.” Hobart’s command comes from the back seat. He’s stuffing away his pocket watch and sending an alert to the elves back in the North Pole. Without the massive gift sack, he can sprawl out. He lies supine with his hat brim tugged down to cover his eyes.
“What a night,” I murmur. Mostly to myself.
Quinn does a sluggish little nod into the fabric of the seat. He’s tuckered out. His eyes are struggling to stay open. I can’t wait to get home and curl up in our bed beside him. If he doesn’t migrate back to the guest room, that is. If he lets me hold him like I used to. Like I want to.
If our brains don’t remember this wacky experience in the morning, I have a strange premonition our bodies will. That my muscles are locking in all these preternatural sensations. This night will live between my bones. Vibrate forever around my cells. It’s a part of me.
A part of me that I wish I didn’t have to let go of so soon.
Some minutes later, I check out the GPS and alarmingly notice that we’re heading north.
“Hey, Hobart, I think we’re going the wrong direction.” I can’t fully turn around to look at him because Quinn has dozed off. His head lolled onto my shoulder. I like the comforting position too much to risk waking him.
“Uhhhh…” In the several hours I’ve known Hobart, he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who’s ever at a loss for words. The sky continues to grow lighter. Oranges and yellows paint broad brushstrokes around the arc of the Earth. It would be beautiful and mesmerizing if I weren’t suffering nervousness.
Abruptly, the sleigh and the reindeer, as if they sense my severe confusion and are in cahoots together, slingshot back. We whoosh through some sort of portal.
All I see is color. All I feel is floaty.
Then, there in the distance is the sort of village you have to see to believe. It’s a snowy enclave that’s backed by the northern lights. They dance to the tune of a song that rises through the otherwise quiet night. As we fly closer, I can tell it’s singing. A horde of voices grows stronger as we approach an unexpected destination.
Quinn stirs awake at my side. “Where are we?” he asks, groggy.
The speckled landscape comes into sharper focus. A-framed buildings with snow-dusted roofs. Windows glowing with themost uplifting amber light. A massive decorated tree presiding over a town square. Dozens of rambling cobblestone streets creating a maze.
We whizz by towers and turrets and a large chalet up on the hill with its own chairlift.
“I think we’re in the North Pole,” I say. It’s both exactly as I imagined it as a child and somehow even more magical. “Hobart, what are we doing here? You told us we were headed home.”
“Yeah, about that,” Hobart says. “Myhome. We have some business to attend to.”
“Business?” Quinn asks. He sits up and tries to fix his messy hair. “What kind of business?”
“I think it’s best the Council of Priors tells you about it.”
The sleigh does a victory loop around the centerpiece tree. Below, elves of every kind raise their glasses while singing a song with indistinguishable lyrics over the roar of the sleigh. They dance and smile. I guess I’d be this jolly, too, if I only had a few days off a year and this was one of them.
My unemployment status wallops me at the worst moment.
We pull into a stable in what is surely the main workshop given its massive structure and several wings. We are helped down by a gaggle of elves congratulating us on a great run.
At the end of a lengthy hallway lined with painted portraits of Santas past, there are bright red Tudor-style double doors with rounded tops and wrought-iron, ornate handles. Hobart leads us inside a capacious room. It has dark stone floors and a cathedral roof. There are several chairs at the far end occupied by imposing-looking people. Anxiety jolts up my spine as we’re instructed to walk the rolled-out strip of plush red carpet and stop in front of them.
