_oOo_

Ch. 3 – We're All Mad Here

_oOo_

Once he was back at the workshop, Santa was swept into a torrent of issues that needed to be solved, papers that needed to be signed, mounds of little details that needed to be taken care of, and a plethora of other things that scrambled for his attention. Every left turn someone was asking him where Bernard was and every right turn he seemed to run into a large plastic penguin. He found himself gaining even greater appreciation for all that Bernard managed to accomplish, and all the work that each elf did, especially in this season. It took patience and extreme industriousness to get through environments like this. He resolved to ask Bernard why things were running so rockily for a production that had been going on for… how many years? He didn't know, precisely. Another question. He briefly considered escaping into the hall of records for a few quiet moments of reading about the history of Christmas, but he couldn't pull himself out of the throng.

At least they were still cheerful. Well, maybe not cheerful. But every elf was keeping their head and a positive attitude. Scott had never encountered something like it in all his long years of working with humans.

One of his first tasks once he'd gotten back was to 'patch up the southern ceiling', a job that wasn't quite as simple as a few new shingles, as he'd found out. He'd been given a quick 'magic lesson' by Judy; apparently, himself and Bernard were really the only two who had the ability to try to direct the flow of magic that kept the whole North Pole safe inside the ice cave. Magic kept the ceiling from collapsing. Magic made sure that the ice was solid where it needed to be solid. Magic kept the iceburg smack at the North Pole, despite any arctic sea currents that may push at it. To Scott's mild surprise, global warming was now affecting Elfsburg, an issue that Judy cautioned Santa not to mention around Mother Earth. This was the first year since before the last ice age that the Arctic Ocean had threatened to become ice-less during the summer. No ice at the North Pole? Yes, ridiculous. Also dangerous. The warmer waters had tried to melt the stalwart ice of Elfsburg. Nothing terrible had happened, but they were still feeling the affects now in winter.

Which was a bit strange, as arctic winter temperatures usually aired on the side of frigid.

And so, as far as Scott had been able to gather, it was now his responsibility to redirect ten percent of the magic that was keeping the northern border of their territory in check and put it to work on keeping the south ceiling cold enough so it wouldn't start melting. He'd had some experience with handling magic (it felt more like 'begging' magic), but nothing to this scale. It took him a few tries to get it right, and it took another few tries to understand how he was supposed to know when he'd done it right. The whole affair took a saddening amount of time, but Judy seemed proud of him.

Afterwards, he'd tried telling Judy that maybe he shouldn't be at the North Pole either, since he'd been exposed to the virus too. Judy would have none of it, reminding him that it wasn't a morphed strain and he was already immune to it.

He tried to avoid looking at his watch. It felt like he'd been awake and waging war against the various pre-Christmas workshop issues for hours but he was afraid that if he checked the time it would be more like an hour and a half, and that would have been very discouraging. Nonetheless he still felt a bit like he was going insane, and he self-confirmed his suspicion when he heard a voice in his head.

It wasn't saying anything he could understand, but it was low and kind of scary-sounding, something that he would expect to hear floating out of a sewer grate in a small Kansas town or some such shady-type place. Nobody around him jumped when it spoke, which is how he knew it was only gracing the inside of his head. It said, "Den ensomme" or the like; his language skills had grown since he'd become Santa, but they were far from perfect.

"Hey, hey Larry!" he shouted, running after the little elf. Larry turned.

"Yes, Santa?"

"Do we make straitjackets?"

"No," Larry replied very carefully, "why?"

"I think I may be going mad."

"Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. Why don't you go take a cocoa break?" Larry gave him a reassuring smile before leaving Scott to sputter over the prospect of an elf quoting Lewis Carroll. If he remembered correctly, the unfinished end of that quote would have meant that he wouldn't be here if he wasn't mad.

"Thanks, Larry," he shouted after the elf, watching his sanity skitter away down a long, dark, creepy corridor.

_oOo_

Bernard had descended into the realm of 'miserable'. Full-blown headache, fatigue, and chills that wracked his body violently enough to keep him from actually going to sleep. He didn't feel nauseous from the virus but he was starting to feel slightly queasy from all the shivering.

He tried to occupy his mind by puzzling over workshop and magic issues. Santa had called once the ceiling had gotten fixed, so he couldn't worry about that. Worrying about why he was here in the first place was pointless. He cast about for other preoccupations. The hectic pace of the workshop, would Santa be able to handle it… now that he'd distanced himself from it, this year did seem to be running a little less smoothly than past years.

The couch pillow pressed against his face suddenly felt unduly textured. He struggled to sit upright, then pushed himself to his feet. It was probably time he drank something again. Or at least moved around to chase away any stiffness. As he took his first step, he realized it was too late; the sickness had already attacked his joints, making his knees twinge and his back ache like he'd spent the day dragging stubborn reindeer around by their antlers, which he'd done once, and had promised himself he'd never do again. He bit his lip and lurched down the hall towards the kitchen.

The doorbell rang.

He stared at it, wishing Scott had a peephole. It wasn't his responsibility to let people into Scott's house, but if it was one of the Millers, he should let them in. If it was one of the Millers, he reasoned, they'd just let themselves in after a minute anyway. He continued into the kitchen, taking care not to turn on any lights, and put the pitcher of water back on the stove. No more knocks were forthcoming, and for this he was grateful. He didn't want to be mothered by Laura, as kind as her intentions may be. Maybe Scott had warned them when he'd dropped off Lucy that Bernard wanted to be alone. He could only hope.

The door clicked open and someone entered the house. He sighed. So much for getting a bit of peace. He wasn't in the mood for getting up to see who it was, so he waited to see what they would do. The person shuffled about in the entry way for a few moments, presumably removing boots and a jacket, before strolling down the hallway. They got to the kitchen and paused in the doorway, and Bernard was a little surprised to see Charlie.

"Oh there you are," the teen said, and entered the room, lugging a duffle bag. Bernard waved limply and greeted him. "Mom told me to move in here for a few days to make sure you'd be ok. I've asked her if I could stay in this house by myself before but she always says no."

"You're going to stay here?"

"Yeah, is that ok?"

"I guess." Charlie was the closest any human had come to a 'friend' for Bernard, at least in the last few centuries, and if anyone was going to stay with him, Charlie was his first choice.

"How are you feeling, old man?" Charlie asked, utilizing his much-abused nickname for his favorite elf. Bernard had long since stopped trying to convince him that he was in no way a man, besides the general 'male' aspect.

"I feel sick, you domeless wonderboy," the elf replied with a scowl. Charlie laughed.

"You don't look sick. I think you're faking it to get away from the workshop."

"You go believe that. I'll be dying in the corner."

"Actually, you do look slightly pale…" Charlie started rummaging around in his duffle and soon pulled out a worrisome little plastic tube that rattled angrily when Charlie held it up. "Mom said you should take your temperature." He pushed the thermometer across the table to Bernard, who stared at it incredulously. "And don't drink anything hot beforehand," Charlie cautioned.

"Why would I want to take my temperature? I have a fever, it'll break in a few hours, what else do you need to know?"

"Hey, I'm just the messenger, this is straight from the horse's mouth. She said if you wouldn't do it she'd come over and make you do it."

"Yeesh. And I'm sure she'd be charmed to hear you call her a horse." He woefully uncased the glass thermometer, marveled for a moment at the quaint old-fashionedness, and stuck it in his mouth.

"So dad was complaining about how you had all these stories to tell him about Christmas and magic and stuff but neither of you ever had time. Once you're over the most of this will you tell me some of that stuff? I don't have any homework, first term is over." Bernard sighed, feeling as if Charlie's energy was sapping the remainder of his own. He nodded. "Aw, cool. I figure I should know for when I become the next Santa." Bernard glanced up at the boy, who was hardly a boy anymore, and Charlie grinned at him. Bernard knew of Charlie's ambition to stay in the family business but it still felt strange. He'd never known the 'next Santa' before the 'accident or design' actually occurred to switch the identity of the entity. He rested his head in his hands and stared at the table. The water was whistling, but he didn't feel like drinking anything now. Charlie got up and started fussing around with pots and the stove and Bernard had a sneaking suspicion that the teen was going to try to prepare food. He had more faith in Charlie than Charlie's father when it came to food preparation, but the thought of eating encouraged queasiness.

He took the thermometer out of his mouth and gave it a passing glance before closing his eyes again.

"What'd it say?" asked Charlie.

"Promise you won't tell your mother first." Charlie yoinked the glass rod out of his loosened grip before he could react. He swiveled around as Charlie, staring at it, let his mouth drop open.

"106? That's… Isn't that like brain damage level?"

"Yes, but hold on. It works different with elves. That's maybe 104-point-something for me."

"Oh." Charlie drew the thermometer from in front of his face. "But that's still really high…" Bernard nodded, then stood.

"I'm gonna go lie down."

"Wait, I'm making soup. Laura said to make you eat chicken soup."

"Ugh. I'll let you take my temperature and bring me blankets but I refuse to let you make me eat."

"I haven't brought you blankets though."

"Better get on it then. Nice thought, about the soup, though. Maybe later." He trudged into the living room and assumed a horizontal position on the sofa. It was as if his head on the pillow signaled his mind to stop paying attention to anything, and he entered one of those timeless states that one enters while meditating, or right after one is brained with an electric bass. Given the circumstances, the latter seemed more appropriate. At some point he hazily realized there was a fleece blanket or two covering him, and he was dismayed that he still seemed to be feeling colder. He thought he heard the doorbell ring once, and it woke him up just enough to hear Charlie telling Ilex that Scott wasn't home and Bernard wasn't available.

Another time he realized his radio was beeping. He started to sit up, but saw Charlie taking it out of his bag and answering it for him. He lay back down, ready to let Charlie attempt to take care of whatever it was, but something in the way Charlie started answering made Bernard start paying attention.

"Say that again?" The person on the other end mumbled something carefully. "Sounds like… German or something. I don't know, I'm taking Spanish in High School… Dad, he's… you really want me to – ok… ok, hold on." Charlie lowered the radio. "Hey Bernard, Scott's having a panic attack, he wants to talk to you. I think he thinks he's going insane." The elf sighed and sat up, fervently hoping Santa was overreacting over something small. He took the radio.

"Hmm?"

"Hey Bernard, how're you doing?" Scott's tone was rushed. No use beating the bush, his distraction was obvious.

"What's wrong, Santa?"

"Ok, so I'm hearing voices. I know it sounds crazy but it started an hour ago and he keeps saying this stuff and-"

"Slow down, slow down." Bernard tried to find a more comfortable sitting position. "Just… I can't follow you when you're talking that fast."

"Sorry. Ok. So. An hour ago… hold on, I wrote it down… this voice said, 'den ensomme', kind of low and scary. Then fifteen minutes later, it said something that sounded like 'upnanday avet laas'-"

"In your head? It spoke in your head?" ett lås

"Yes, my head, and this time he sounded kind of high and sing-songy. I know it's crazy, but that's what happened. I can't just make up this gibberish, it came from somewhere. I asked Judy about it but she said she didn't know Dutch or Icelandic, and to talk to you."

"That wasn't Dutch or Icelandic."

"Well hold on, it gets better. So then a few minutes later it says… and I'm sure I'm butchering this pronunciation… 'verhort ett… um, keth-ja skip… and then 'jalkeela now-roo alusta lapun'… are you getting this?" Bernard certainly was not getting any of this, as his mind was struggling to awaken, but there was something eerily ominous about the words, even if he didn't know what they meant.

"Was that all it said?"

"No, then the voice said 'yer rua chan avi'. That's it. What does it mean?"

"Hold on…" Bernard put the radio down and cast around for a piece of paper and writing utensil. Charlie was quick to provide them. "Ok, Santa, can you repeat all that?" His boss carefully repeated what he'd heard, making it clear that the voice itself had repeated the cryptic message a few times as well, but had stopped once he'd called Bernard. After the elf had recorded it, and assured Scott he'd try to make sense of it, Scott became slightly apologetic for making Bernard think, and he hoped it was worth the trouble to decode it. Bernard, on his part, hoped that the message meant nothing at all besides some malevolent yet harmless imp may be playing a dumb joke on Santa.

"Oh, Bernard," said Scott, before hanging up, "Judy wants to talk to you."

"Alright, bye. Good luck." A moment later, Judy's voice rang across the line.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm alive."

"Really, though, how are you doing? I wish you were up here right now."

"So do I, believe me. I'll be fine in a while. Any elves up there getting sick?"

"No, not that I've heard."

"Oh good. Good… So Scott asked you what that all meant?"

"Yes, but I could only really make something of 'upnanday avet laas'. It sounds like 'öppnandet av ett lås', Swedish for 'opening of a lock'."

"Yeah, you're right..."

"But none of the rest sounds Swedish to me. I thought 'alusta lapun' sounded kind of Finnish, maybe 'alusta loppuun'… I think that means something like 'across' or 'over' or something. I don't get it."

"Sounds right… Hey Judy, don't you find it a little, ah, odd that Santa was hearing this voice in the first place?"

"You think he's actually mad?" Her voice was incredulous.

"No, no, I think there's probably something behind this, but the complete message will only be understood when we know who was talking, and why. And how. Just translating the words, I mean depending on what they say, that's not going to give us the whole picture. Aw, kull, there goes my night…"

"Such as it was," interjected Charlie.

"Sorry, Bernard," said Judy. "What do you think we should do?"

"Well… keep working. Heighten security, keep a sharp eye on magic distribution… watch the chart history for all the processes. Judy, make sure to call me if anything else weird happens, or if he hears anything else besides what he's recorded." He stared at the words written on the piece of paper in front of him, eyebrows furrowed. The more he looked at the words, the more pronounced became the sinking feeling in his gut. "I have a feeling I'll be calling you pretty quick anyways. This… this may be very, very bad."

"Why? What are you thinking?"

"I don't want to jump to any conclusions. I'll know soon enough, I need a few moments with these words."

"Alright…"

"Try not to worry. I'll talk to you soon, Judy. Bye." He shut off the radio and sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Charlie cleared his throat.

"Sooo…"

"I can't believe this."

"Can't believe what, Bernard? What's going on?"

"This is the worst timing ever. Sweet solstice, I hope I'm wrong. Can you turn on the light?" Charlie stood to do as Bernard had asked, and Bernard squinted in the sudden bright luminance. The queasy feeling was becoming augmented by a case of the nerves, and he really wanted to just burn the piece of paper, to keep himself from having to try to decipher it. He set it on the coffee table and stared at it, pencil at the ready.

Den ensomme upnanday avet laas verhort et keth-ja skip jalkeela now-roo alusta lapun yer rua chan avi.

"So do you recognize any of it?" Charlie asked.

"Den ensomme. It's Norwegian for 'the solitary'…" He started writing a translation for it. "Judy thought the next part was Swedish for 'opening of a lock'. The solitary opening of a lock."

"That's… kind of foreboding."

"Yeah it is." Bernard was amazed that he was suddenly awake enough to do this; he blamed adrenaline, or fright. "Verhort et. Verhort et. Vurhort? Vuerhert… Sounds familiar." He tapped the pencil against the paper as Charlie watched, perplexed. "Aha. Verhuurt het. That's Dutch, I think. Been a while since I've had to use Dutch."

"What's it mean?"

"Hmm. I think… 'het' means it's leading into something… that, maybe… kull, I don't know. It would make more sense in context. What's the next piece… 'keth-ja skip'. That sounds Icelandic. 'Skip' means 'ship'. I'll bet 'keth-ja' is using an eth, that's pretty phonetic, makes it into…" Bernard wrote 'keðja skip' next to that part. The languages he had used to use so long ago were coming back much easier than he feared they would, and it almost, almost lent the situation a hint of fun, despite his being very sick and having terribly negative suspicions about what may be going on.

"And keðja means… shackle or chain, some sort of adjective. Chained. Chained ship? The solitary opening of a lock… verhuurt het…chained ship. The chained ship. 'Verhuurt het' might mean 'rent'… or 'let', 'that let'. Lets. The solitary opening of a lock, that lets the chained ship…"

"Does that mean anything to you?" asked Charlie. Bernard expected that it would indeed mean something to him, but he was hesitant to confirm it. He moved on to the next part.

"Jalkeela now-roo alusta lapun. Like Judy said, sounds Finnish. 'Alusta loppuun', she thought it might mean 'across' or 'over'. Jalkeilla means 'up'. Now-roo… now-roo…" The word sounded familiar, but his Finnish was being rusty. He moved on to the next part. " 'Yer rua chan.' Yr rhua chan, I think it means… 'the roar', and then 'chan' can mean a lot of stuff…"

"Which language?"

"Welsh. And the last word, avi. Not Welsh. If it's really spelled with an ash, then it's 'ævi', it's Old Norse, and it means 'time', which means 'chan' should probably translate into 'of'."

He wrote the last part down, then paused. Now-roo? He asked himself. It was the last word. It was probably not a conjunction so he could safely assume it was important. If it was Finnish, like the words around it were, the 'ow' was probably spelled 'au', and the 'oo' was more than likely just a 'u'. Nauru.

"Ah, my Finnish is too rusty. Will you hand me the radio?" Charlie gave him the small black device and Bernard called Judy's line. She picked up immediately.

"Bernard?"

"Yeah. This was easier than I thought, but there's one word I couldn't get: n-a-u-r-u. Nauru, does that mean anything to you?"

Judy didn't respond for a moment, repeating the word quietly to herself a few times. Then, "Oh, yes. Nauru means 'laughing'."

"Laughing?"

"Yes. What did the rest of it mean?"

"Well, it was in… let's see, seven languages, all from Northern Europe. The last one was in Old Norse, and if that doesn't scare you, here's what it said: 'The solitary opening of a lock… that… that lets the chained ship… up, laughing through… the roar of time." He read it again to himself, silently, forcing himself to think about the words. The solitary opening of a lock that lets the chained ship up, laughing through the roar of time. He could feel his core shaking, not just from flu now but also from deep uneasiness.

"I don't get it," said Judy.

"Hold on a moment," he replied, and set the radio down. He rested his chin on his hands and stared at the words, Charlie following his gaze. He knew there was no way Charlie was ever going to begin to fathom what the words meant. That was because Charlie hadn't been alive one thousand years ago, and Bernard hadn't told either Charlie or Santa what had happened then. If he was right, and this message meant what he thought it did, and the voice was who he thought it was, then there would be massive amounts of storytelling going on in the near future, assuming they were still alive, which was a pretty wild assumption indeed. This is insane, he thought, then put the radio back to his ear. "Well… good news is, it's just a metaphor. We're not about to get attacked by some giggling, time-traveling boat. Bad news is I think it means something much worse is coming."

_oOo_

A/N: I hope all that translating wasn't dangerously boring. I like languages so I got kind of enthusiastic. By the way, please don't assume that any of that is remotely correct, except the Swedish bit, which is only correct because Easionia During, who is Swedish, kindly tweaked the Swedish bits of this chapter into shape!