Santa’s Little Foes

By Michael Erasmus

Oh, I can already taste our sweet victory! Just imagine the rush, the bliss! That old nudnik Santa will give us elves what we desire. No, what we deserve.  Finally, we’ll have—

“They’re coming!” Pint Ree slides down the snowbank. His elfin ears are red with adrenaline, small hands shaking.

I peek over the snowbank, our cover. Sure enough, Santa’s reindeer-led sleigh raises a white cloud as it races across the snow-laden field. The jolly bells—may they forever be silenced—jingle along with the pounding of reindeer hooves. Santa’s white beard—may it burn—sparkles in the pale sunlight. Mrs. Claus sits beside him, her silver hair whipping in the wind. Disgusting.

“Lezgo, lezgo!” buzzes Whined Uptoy beside me. The bell of her elf hat tinkles, golden locks dancing as she bounces in excitement.

“Soon.” I dip my fingers into the snow and draw white war stripes across my cheeks. The snow melts against my skin. Candy apples! I’m meant to look cool in battle!

“How ‘bout now?” pleads Whined.

“No. Be patient.”

Pint makes his voice squeaky—well, squeakier—as he mocks me. “Be patient. Bah! You’re boring.”

Hollering, he jumps on the snowbank and runs at the reindeer.

I blink, mouth agape.

“Now?” Whined’s eyes sparkle.

“Now!” I draw my candy cane shortsword.

I vault over the bank, grab a fistful of snow with my free hand, and charge after Pint. My elves follow me, rushing toward Santa’s reindeer as they come to an abrupt halt fifty meters away from us.

Santa steps onto the snow. “Hey!” his voice booms. “What’s the meaning of this?”

I respond with a battle cry. My army of thirty joins in, our roar as fierce as a horde of squeaky toys.

Mrs. Claus jumps from the sleigh and waves her wand. The snow between us shoots up, swirling as it forms a dozen snowmen. Our charge halts as we watch in shock.

Branches sprout from their round torsos, and nose-carrots and coal-eyes form on their faces. A snowman turns its head to Pint, rolls forward, and snatches him by the neck, lifting him off the ground.

“No!” Whined scoops a snowball from the ground and throws it. It strikes the snowman’s elbow, jarring its arm and freeing our friend.

“Attack!” I hurl my snowball at the snowman, but I miss and strike Pint square on his back. He flops forward in the snow. “Oops.”

Whined and the others run ahead, meeting the snowmen in battle. I look to Santa; he’s releasing the reindeer while Mrs. Claus controls her frozen soldiers.

Uh oh. Not the reindeer.

I dart toward him. A snowman rolls in my way, swinging a branch at my head. I block with my sugary sword and slash at the snowman’s mid-drift. Snow sprays from the strike, and the snowman crumbles to the ground.

Around me, the elves defeat the last snowman. Pint is back on his feet, swinging a branch and whooping as if Christmas Eve came early.

I look back at Santa, ready to resume my sprint, but I’m too late; the reindeer are free. Their leader, my old pal Rudolph, paws the ground and flares his nostrils. An unholy red glow blazes from his nose.

I squint against the light and shout, “Rudolph, no! Bad reindeer!”

He angles his antlers down and charges. The other reindeer follow. Oh boy, we can’t win like this. I must stop Santa before my friends are reindeer fodder.

I wait until Rudolph is a heartbeat away, then roll forward, dodging his thunderous hooves. The blizzard he kicked up powders my face and stings my eyes, blurring my vision, but this time I don’t delay. I grip my candy cane hilt and run, covering the last few meters to Santa.

Behind me, my friends scream as they engage the reindeer. Before me, Mrs. Claus uses her wand to launch a magical snowball as large as my head. I duck, but the projectile catches my shoulder. The force spins me and flings me to the ground. I land face-first.

My body aches. My cheeks and nose throb against the cold snow. The shortsword lies beneath me, the flat of its blade against my chest. From the ground, I watch as the reindeer form a circle around my friends. Pint, Whined, and the elves raise their palms in surrender. Cowards. I should’ve known better.

A heavy boot crunches the snow behind my ear. Santa. “I knew from your name that you’d be trouble, Sweet Ooth.”

I take a deep breath. This battle isn’t over. I roll on my back, grip my sword, and thrust it upward. The tip stops an inch from his beard. His eyes grow wide. He takes a step back. I spring to my feet, keeping the blade aimed at his neck.

“Drop your weapon, deary.” Mrs. Claus aims her wand but casts no spell. I’m too near to her precious Santa.

“Not until I get what I want,” I growl.

“Not that.” Santa’s voice quivers. “You’re hyper as it is! I’ll give you a salary. I’ll grant you freedom!”

“Freedom means responsibility. Boring. You know what we want.”

“Think of the chaos this will cause.”

I can’t hide my manic grin. “I don’t care.”

“The production lines, the toys—you’ll get carried away and all will stop. You’ll ruin Christmas! I cannot allow this.”

“Know what else will ruin Christmas?” The tip of my sword enters his beard. “When the world sees a clean-shaven Santa.”

Mrs. Claus gasps. “You wouldn’t!”

“Last chance, old man.” I hold out my open hand.

I relish his defeated expression as he reaches for his pocket. He fumbles for a moment, then drops a key— red and white like a candy cane— into my palm. My mouth waters and my ears buzz as I run my thumb over my prize.

“Finally!” I cackle. “Unrestricted, all-day access to the candy.”

No more veggies at mealtime. No more rationing sugar. Victory truly is sweet.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Erasmus is a writer with a love for fantasy and poems. At a young age, adventures into the wondrous realms of Middle-Earth and Narnia moved him to take up the pen. He lives in South Africa, where a beautiful world inspires his poetry and prose. He spends his working days creating mobile applications and web-based systems for a software-development company.

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