Substitute Santa

By Rienne French

“I don’t see what the big deal is.” I twitch the reins. “It’s not like this is my first time herding caribou or something. I mean, the Big Man was acting like I’m completely inept, but I wasn’t the one waltzing on black ice with the missus. Maybe it’s the sloping forehead. Humans are always associating intelligence with high brows.”

I growl a command to my flying charges, and we descend onto the poorly shingled roof of a mid-century bungalow in Des Moines. The metal sled runners groan as I drag my furry bulk from the craft and swing the intricately embroidered sack over my bare shoulder. There was no way that I was going to wear that suit, even if it did fit.

Trying to step as lightly as possible, I tiptoe toward the chimney and my next delivery. Blitzen shrinks away from my approach. The sweat is still glistening on the poor beast’s flanks, and I can see his shoulder muscles ripple. My mouth waters. The big buck gives me a knowing glance.

“I know, I know, rule number one. It’s not like there was another option. Santa couldn’t have expected one of those pointy-eared cookie-crunchers to handle something like this. This whole thing seems like a lot of fuss for a broken hip. I could have walked it off.”

Carefully, I position myself above the open flue and touch my finger to my nose. Magic crackles like tinkling icicles, and I’m instantly transported into a neatly decorated human living space. The sickeningly sweet scent of gingerbread lingers in the room, assaulting my senses. Warm light radiates from the decadently decorated Christmas tree and the numerous crystalline ornaments. The home is a picture of holiday perfection––almost. A child’s glittering, popsicle-stick fish skeleton hangs on the far side of the tree in stark contrast to the other ornaments. One of the four stockings bears the name “Zoe” as well as a large chocolate smudge on the otherwise pristine white satin. A ham sandwich rests delicately on a plate of crumbs, an obvious substitute for the missing cookies. I’m supposed to be silent, but a bemused grunt rumbles from my chest. This small human shows promise.

Letting the bag crumple to the floor, I unfold and read the step-by-step note the Big Man made me bring.

1. Do not eat my reindeer.
2. Place your finger on your nose to enter the dwelling.
3. Do not talk to yourself.
4. Remove the gifts from the sack and leave them under the tree without making any changes to the gifts or their name tags.
5. Eat the cookies, not my reindeer!
6. Place your finger on your nose to exit the dwelling.
7. DO NOT EAT MY REINDEER!

It would be a lot easier to forget about the reindeer if all humans were like Zoe. The ham sandwich is not much more than a mouthful, but it satisfies my aching stomach in a way that the cookies could not. Why can’t the children leave out dried fish or smoked jerky? I would even settle for a bowl of nuts. With a sigh, I open the bag and begin to arrange the presents under the tree. The last gift is a brightly wrapped box with Zoe’s name on it. As I slide it under the branches, the package chimes, and a mechanical voice says, “Mama.”

“That can’t be right.” Oops, I’m not supposed to talk to myself.

Quickly I remove The List from the top of the sack and thumb through the entries until I find what I’m looking for: Zoe Eldridge of Des Moines, IA. Age 8. The list magically transforms into a child’s exact handwriting. “For Christmas I would like…” ––there’s a word scribbled out beyond recognition––“…another doll, I guess.”

I can feel my canines showing as my lip curls in disgust. She doesn’t want another doll any more than I want another cookie. Absently, I scratch the bridge of my nose with a claw while thinking. The Big Man said that I couldn’t change his gifts in any way, but he didn’t say anything about not giving a gift of my own. Closing the sack, I twist the bag and briskly shake it while mumbling the mountain words of my native tongue. This time when I reach into the sack, my paw encircles a large brown paper box tied with a string. After poking my claws into the side of the box for air holes, I scratch Zoe’s name on the top.

To: Zoe

From: The Abominable Snowman

Grinning, I slide the gift beneath the tree and place my finger to the side of my nose. Again, the magic crackles, and I emerge atop the roof. Blitzen and the others are visibly taken aback by the leer on my face. They stamp and snort agitatedly, but I feel as jolly as the Big Man himself.

“Sorry Meat Pies. Can’t help the grin! After all, don’t you think every child deserves to wake up Christmas morning with a dire wolf pup under their tree?” The reindeer don’t respond, but neither they nor Santa have anything to worry about. I have everything in hand. In a booming tone, I bellow into the clear night air, “Merry Christmas and Good Night… and stuff!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rienne French writes fantasy, sci-fi, and horror. Her favorite stories feature a mysterious creature, but she also enjoys a good sarcastic joke. Being dyslexic, Rienne’s stories usually begin in her sketchbook, but whether she is inking an illustration, penning a flash fiction, or finishing a novel, it is the art of story telling that she loves. When not writing or drawing, Rienne can be found watching old monster movies with her husband and kids.

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