A Narnian tale set at Christmas featuring Father Christmas and the Norse Loki, who accidentally stumbled into the magical land. Some rough and tumble fighting but no actual graphic violence or death. No bad language. This is a companion piece to my story 'a tale for twelfth night'.
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MISCHIEF AT CHRISTMAS
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"Hail Father Christmas, Hail to thee"
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In the frozen north-twixt the worlds, in the great wooden hall 'Sael', Father Christmas once again studied the skies and relished the lengthening nights. Both aelfe folk and chieftain sang regularly of the strange lands they'd visit. The ancient, yet peculiarly ageless, Mother Christmas would smile sadly and reflect on her imminent grass widowhood. A magical single night for the sleigh crew indeed, but back home the frozen sea would have softened before their return.
The great hall was well lit, yet smoky. The massive antlers of deceased, beloved reindeer decorated its walls. A huge side of mammoth roasted over the fire. The snowy waste outside the hall was lit by magical flambeaux that burned by day and by night. No guards were mounted for none would attack Sael.
"Be of good heart, Mother," Sael's master said. "We are a light in the dark; spreading cheer." He looked down the tables at the Aelfes at mete (for the couple had a power to see them denied to most of us sons and daughters of Adam). They were excitable and exchanging loud boasts, pressing their claims to go on the imminent voyage.
"Aye, Father," his wife pointedly replied, "and I must take both our parts whilst thou art away."
The aelfe folk nearby were courteously deaf to such exchanges. Their Lady would organise and protect their home, with no bitterness, when the time came.
"I'd trust no other," said Father Christmas, sincerely.
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Winter Day
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To country dwellers, the penultimate month of the year was called 'Blood month'; a time to slaughter excess livestock, to see them through the winter and reduce feeding costs. The seventh of that month was regarded as Winter Day, the official start of that harshest of seasons.
'Y delven y spanan' – the most famous of all Dwarfish tunes – rang out on the still night air. Iron shod feet stamped the hard ground in time with the tune, invoking hammers crashing in the darkness of a tunnel. Far to the north lay the wastes and Hamholm: three peaks that housed a single Dwarfish clan. They however were heading east, to the great castle of Cair Paravel. Snorri the Younger, most well travelled of all Dwarf merchants, had a valuable cargo loaded on his carts – Jinniver and spices. The clear, fiery spirit was a speciality of the 'Sea Peoples' (as the Telmarines were then known). The spices had originated in the Calormene Empire. Narnia itself was fairly safe but the merchant and his escort had been in dangerous territory to the west.
"A horseman," Huill called out; he had the keenest eyes in the group.
"Just the one?"
"Aye, Master Snorri." The fifteen Dwarfs continued marching, for a lone horseman in the civilized land of Narnia was unlikely to be a threat.
"Hail, dark elves," said the rider, reining his horse in. He was a handsome man and fair like the woods-folk of the west, with a plaited beard in Dwarfish fashion. "What news?"
Now, Dwarfs are no fools and can be taciturn with strangers. "Precious little," Snorri replied.
"Wither are you bound?" asked the man casually, calming his short, shaggy horse.
"Some little way;" Snorri had no intention of discussing his affairs with someone met on the road.
"You'll be a merchant then?"
"Something of the sort."
The stranger smiled and answered genially, "I wish you much success in your business," to which Snorri just nodded. "I must be gone!" the horseman declared and added (with a hint of sarcasm) "you must not keep me chattering all day!"
The palace butler (or bottler) stood watching the carts as they were unloaded. "You've made good time, Master Snorri," he said appreciatively. "I thought you'd be at least another sennight or two." He kept a tally on a slate as each cask of Ginniver was lifted off. The courtyard of Cair Paravel was bustling with servitors and guards.
"Aye; it was trouble free – more or less," said the merchant.
"No bandits then?"
"Not exactly; not like you mean," Snorri said, spitting reflectively. "We lost a wagon just two nights back: stolen by a thief in the night."
"You didn't get them then?"
"No; though I suspect a certain smiling villain: I just don't know how he got past us."
"Twenty four small casks?" said the butler, showing the slate to the Dwarf.
"That's right; although there would have been twenty eight," Snorri agreed. "The Steward will hear a similar tale of the spices."
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The accidental traveller
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I must properly introduce the stranger and erstwhile thief. Loki was, you might say, a powerful individual. So magical and skilled was he, in his own world, that he was mistaken, by the foolish, for a god. His mother, Laufey, was beautiful, sharp and slim. For that reason she was known as Nal meaning needle. His father was rumoured to be a giant and a powerful one at that. Loki was not a man to mess with.
Loki's blood brother was Odin, and he was at times friendly with another well known person: Thor. A cunning fellow this Loki, he could be clever and do his folk great good. At other times he was capable of malice, mischief and (when drunk) stupidity. I don't know precisely how he ended up in Narnia but it's clear that he found a portal. I'd hazard that he stumbled upon it probably the worse for drink. Had he found it intentionally then surely he'd have been better prepared for his expedition? It is possible too that the air didn't agree with him as much as that of his native place. Although still wily and strong, with some small magic, he was definitely limited in some way. Loki was a shape shifter and that would have been tremendously useful in such a place as Narnia.
His first act had been to acquire a horse. That had been easy enough for one willing to trespass all the ancient, unwritten laws of hospitality. The farmer foolish enough to give him bread and ale found himself in an unwinnable drinking match. The host's pint pot seemed to lack a bottom, and was impossible to drain. As the farmer slept, Loki helped himself to a horse. Odd to tell, but the ale in Loki's vessel had kept vanishing…
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"He was a veray parfit gentil knight"
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"He's stolen Old Tom's house," protested the indignant woman.
"Aye, and he beat my man when he went to complain," her friend added.
"Four of the menfolk went to sort him out and they came back black and blue," the first lady went on. "They looked like a load o' bad potatoes!"
"I promise you, mistress" the knight answered, "that I will deal with this varlet!" He was young and enthusiastic and only recently admitted to the Royal Companions. He liked to talk in what he felt was a suitably noble manner. I can only report his actual words so make no apologies. "I shall take the flat of my sword to him, if necessary."
The two women watched him ride off. "What do you think?"
"What, to young 'willow wand' there? He's a bit young ain't he?"
"He's nobbut a lad really. If four men couldn't evict the rogue then I ain't convinced that he'll manage it."
Sir Henry (Hal to his intimates) had no such doubts in his ability. He was a knight - a companion to Prince Peter John himself - and an exceptional swordsman. Although Narnia was drawing to the end of its Golden Age, the Queen's writ still ran in all parts. Reposco governed the land well as her predecessors, the Pevensey siblings, had done before her.
The house he sought lay on the very edge of the village. It was one of those settlements that had burst forth like mushrooms when exiles flooded back into Narnia. The unlucky householder was away for the entire Christmas season, visiting family, and had no idea that a squatter had taken his home. Happily for Hal, he chanced upon Loki returning to his newly acquired property. Loki was riding the thieved horse and had a stolen piglet in a bag, over his shoulder. "Hold a moment sirrah; are you the fellow who has taken possession of that house?"
Loki brought his horse to a halt. "Aye, that I am."
"Then, perchance you are aware that you're trespassing?"
Loki gave an amused smile, "I am."
"Then I must ask you to desist, forthwith!" said the young knight in lordly manner.
"No," was the simple reply.
"Again, I command you, vacate this property!"
"Fight me for it," Loki suggested.
"You're a brave man, at least, but I cannot fight you."
"You're too good for me, hey?"
"At arms, yes, but all Narnians are equal under the law," Hal was just a little stung.
"Nonetheless, I'll fight ye. If you win, I'll leave. If I win, then I'll have that fine horse of yours."
The knight laughed, "You are foolish beyond permission. Desist, immediately!" In reply, Loki dropped his sack and rode the sturdy cob straight at Hal. The knight then resolved to give the stranger a rough lesson. He readied himself to knock the impertinent chap off his horse using the flat of his sword. A bump on the ground would undoubtedly do him some good. THWACK. To his amazement, Henry found himself flat on the cold earth; Loki's improvised club had unhorsed him.
"Your horse if you please," said Loki. "I'm in generous mood; you can go then."
Hal struggled to his feet, spluttering indignantly. "Jackanapes! You'll fight me again, right now, that I may win back my horse. Look to your mettle!"
"I'll fight ye on foot," Loki mocked, "my horse and this hovel for your armour." He didn't notice the piglet squirm out of the sack and bolt for freedom.
"Then look to yourself, sirrah," Hal warned him, drawing his sword. He brandished it and sketched out a few manoeuvres to intimidate Loki, who looked on amused. The knight approached and with a clever flick of his wrist, went to disarm his opponent. THWACK. To his amazement, Henry again found himself flat upon the ground; Loki's club had sent swordsman and sword flying.
"Your armour if you please," said Loki. "Now, you must go, whilst my generosity lasts."
The shocked knight regained his feet. "No, you must fight me once again that I might have chance to win back my horse, armour and honour."
"I'll wrestle ye," Loki suggested. "The winner takes all".
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How Hal fared
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"How is he?" the Queen asked her son, the Crown Prince. She was in her private parlour at Cair Paravel.
"Bruised, but it's his honour that's most affronted," Peter John said with a wry smile. "He's staying in his chambers."
"As long as he's well for Christmas," Queen Reposco fretted. Hal was something of a favourite of hers.
"I imagine he'll spend that in his chambers too; his pride is sorer than his body." Peter John couldn't help but smile. Young Sir Henry had been found lost in the countryside, tied backwards to a cob. Dressed only in his drawers, under-tunic and a rough cloak, he'd presented a sorry sight.
"Poor boy! Maybe I shouldn't have knighted him when his father died. Perhaps he was too young?" The Queen paced the room restlessly. "Anyway, we can't let this squatter go unpunished. I'll send the Constable with some good men to arrest him."
"Well, it was a fair fight," Peter John observed. "I agree really though; we can't have strangers stealing property. That at least is actionable. I'm not sure about the Constable however; if this fellow is such a good fighter then maybe I should go."
"You can't Peter; the Calormene ambassador will be here any day."
"I'll send Siward then," Peter decided, "He's like my right arm." Sir Siward Al Hassim was one of the Royal Companions and much respected. Each man had saved the other's life.
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Christmas comes early
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Sir Siward Al Hassim studied the house at a distance, flanked by two troopers. Their mounts were tied to trees still further away. It was the morning of Christmas Eve. "No sign of anyone outside but there's a lamp inside," the knight observed. As he said that he became aware of a figure to the east. A man wrapped in a great fur mantle beckoned him. "By the sands of the Hal Hallim," he exclaimed, surprised. His upbringing in the Calormene Empire still showed occasionally.
"That might be him, Master," suggested Alric (one of the soldiers).
"Well, if it is, we've lost the element of surprise," said Siward, irritated. "We'll go nearer but not too close in case it's a trap." Unfortunately the stranger withdrew still further into the tree line so they could only follow or let him go. They decided to do the former. Waiting for them, a few yards inside the trees, was the man. He was a great, well built fellow with a barrel like chest and massive shoulders. "Greetings Siward Al Hassim, Alric and Tom of Newholme."
The three men held their swords loosely but still warily. "You know our names, sir, but what is yours?" Siward asked.
"Why; don't you know me? Haven't you known me all your lives?" The man gave a laugh that was like the rumble in a tunnel of an oncoming steam train. He spread wide his mantle and stood there in a green tunic, red trousers and fur topped boots. His beard was long and white; his face showed a life lived in centuries. "Father Christmas!"
The three looked at each other wildly in surprise. "B..but…" Alric spluttered.
"Aye, you're as surprised as that Christmas morn when you got a toy sword in your stocking," laughed Father Christmas. He looked fiercely at them all, "Do you mean to say, you don't believe in me."
"Well…of course we do," admitted Siward. "We never expected to see you though!"
"Few do, my friend, few do. You art highly favoured for I have come early to bring you news of my gift to you."
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"Here he comes – the brave, old Christmas!"
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"Ale," said Loki appreciatively; wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He looked around the hollow but there was no one about. "Not even poisoned," he said, swilling more about his mouth. He picked up the sizeable cask left at the door of the hut. "Thank you, Master Nobody," he called out into the cold evening air. "Your gift is most acceptable." It was better even than the Jinniver that he had stolen and drunk.
Kicking the door shut, Loki deposited the tribute upon the table. He was starting to like Narnia; the locals were now showing respect. He flung fresh logs on the fire and raked it all vigorously with a poker. The air became rather smoky but that didn't bother him. He levered the wooden top wholly off the cask and fetched a mug. It was time for a snug Christmas Eve by the fire.
The great sleigh was stationary in the dark clearing. It was big, for it had to accommodate eight persons. That was not to mention the cargo, of course. The reindeer team patiently chewed such plants as remained in that darkest of seasons. The adamantine ground sparkled with a frosty crust. Oak, elm and ash all wore their winter weeds, in mourning for the green of spring. You and I would only have seen two figures; one large and smothered in a fur mantle. The other, a tall, well made person, lightly armoured. Were we present, we would however have heard other voices; gentle and speaking a strange tongue.
"It is done," said the bigger man. He clapped his gloved hands together.
"Good; but will it work?" said the knight, worried.
"I know him of old and I ken it will," Father Christmas. "You see yon shield?" he asked, pointing to one of the small, round shields attached to the side of the sled. "The one up front?"
"Indeed," said Sir Siward Al Hassim.
"You'll notice the dent in it?"
"Certainly."
"Loki's head did that," said old Christmas, with a deep laugh that started in his boots and echoed in his chest as if it were the great dome of St Pauls. "D' ye think I don't know what he's like?" He flung his arms apart and momentarily seemed more like a great bear than a man. "Come merrie Aelfe-folc, we have a busy night ahead of us. We'll be back later though, never fear, Sir Siward!"
It was an hour past midnight and some murky dregs were all that remained in the ale cask. "That's a poor pot," said Loki, squinting into the bottom of his mug. "Or two pots," he added conscientiously, "Aye, it may be two pots." He got up and clumsily knocked the stool over. "Who did that?" he said with a childish giggle, feigning to look about him. He placed his fingers on his lips and tiptoed about the room as if seeking someone.
Loki's handsome face was quite red, inflamed with drink and the fire. "Oh, I could go for a fly and cool down," he considered (adding a couple of complementary buzzes for good measure). For Loki could turn himself into a fly, or a horse, or several others things should he so choose. "Best not be a fly," he decided out loud, "might crash a 'lil bit." Back home he had magic shoes to fly through the welkin.
"Oh, my head," he said, feeling suddenly dizzy. He righted the stool and dropped heavily upon it. "Good hair though," he suddenly declared, feeling his own long locks. "Give it a bit o' a cut," he said before bursting into a laugh. He remembered once cutting off Sif's golden hair, when drunk. Her husband, Thor, had not been happy. His merriment ceased when he suddenly recalled how that escapade had nearly cost him his life.
It was four in the morning and most of Narnia slept. Dawn would bring the start of the Christmas festival, with little or no work for many, and celebrations for all. In Cair Paravel just the night watch was up and on patrol, ensuring that Queen and court were safe. In another hour the cooks and servitors would rise and begin the final preparations for the feast. They too would have time and cause to celebrate, later that day and during the next.
None of the hardy souls up and about at that time would see the magical sleigh sailing through the skies. Indeed it went so fast, it would be impossible to do so. Only when the Christmas sprite chooses can he be seen. Certainly no one detected the reindeer coming closer and closer to the ground. They landed elegantly with scarcely a bump, and ran along the frozen earth until the equipage came to a halt. There in front of them was the house commandeered by Loki.
Father Christmas leapt out of his sled nimbly, like an active man of but twenty summers. All about him were his unseen helpers. They marched boldly to the door and Christmas hammered upon it with a great gloved fist. "In come I Father Christmas, ready or no," he boomed. There was no reply. The crazy door was actually barred on the inside but there is no bar, bolt or lock that can keep out the determined spirit of Christmas. "Loki, stand aside, for I am coming in." In fairness, the door might quietly have swung open, had Christmas so wished. He was in determined mood though and the door collapsed entirely. There slumped over the table, oblivious to the noisy intruder, was Loki. "The Grey Wanderer said you'd gone through a portal – and here you are. He knows you, friend Loki, and told me to seek you out!"
Father Christmas lifted Loki's head and it just hung limply from his fingers. "Did ye enjoy my gift, my mischief making friend: 'twas the finest ale of Sael and kept in the barrel for three hundred years. Ye will never taste the like again. My Lady is an unequalled brewer." Christmas picked the insensate Loki up and draped him over his shoulder, like a grown man might a tiny child. "I've got a second present for ye; a sleigh ride. You are going home with me Loki, for this land will be well rid of ye. I've a mind to drop you in the middle of nowhere but you'll only get up to more devilry. Better that your own kind keeps watch on you."
Loki was dumped unceremoniously in the back of the sledge, beside the magical sacks that contain an impossible amount of presents. "Watch him, brothers," cried Father Christmas to the Aelfes, as he took up his reins. "Our business in Narnia is done for another year; we'll take him back first, before he sobers up." With a flick of the wrist the well trained reindeer responded and began to move. A moment later and they were just below the empyrean and then vanished altogether.
Little remains for me to tell you except that Loki found himself in his own land, rather the worse for wear. Father Christmas naturally conducted his business in a single magical night, throughout several worlds, returning to his wife in the spring. Finally, may I wish you all, wherever you are, the merriest of Christmases.
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THE END
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Notes:-
"He was a veray parfit gentil knight"(Chaucer, the Knight's Tale)
"Hail Father Christmas, hail to thee" (opening to a 15th century carol)
"Here he comes – the brave, old Christmas!" (From a poem, 1850, Mary Howitt)
Glossary of words
Aelfe: Elf (Old English)
Grey Wanderer: Odin (one of several names)
Hal Hallim: a desert region of Calormen
Mete – Food (Old English)
Nobbut – Nothing but (Yorkshire dialect)
Sennight – a Seven Night (a week) archaic
Sael: Hall (Old English)