Santa Daddy, I’m Not the One

2

NILS

I sat in the bustling heart of my workshop, surrounded by the rhythmic hum of toy-making machinery and the cheerful chatter of elves, but I was distracted. My hands, usually so skilled at assembling toys, fumbled with the tiny parts of a wooden train set.

Setting the toy aside, I climbed to my feet and poured myself a cup of strong black brew. The smoky aroma filled the air, comforting yet doing little to dispel the looming sense of unease. Cup in hand, I ambled over to the window, looking out at the sprawling expanse of the North Pole blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.

Is it my imagination, or does it feel colder than usual?

Outside, the elfin children were playing, their laughter carrying on the wind and making its way into my workshop. They were building a snowman, their rosy cheeks flush with excitement as they added a carrot for its nose and round pebbles for its eyes. Normally, their joy and infectious laughter would put me at ease, but today even their merriment couldn’t lift the fog of uncertainty that hung heavily around me.

There are only so many ways to build a snowman.

Perhaps I should make a trip to the town and take part in the festivities. In the past, I would have gone to every single one, but so far, I’d only been to one.

I had missed The Great Cookie Exchange. For the entire year, the citizens of Twinkle Glen, the Twinks, perfected holiday Christmas cookies. They tasted each other’s cookies and swapped recipes. I’d also missed one Midnight Wish Lanterns, but another was coming up I wasn’t inclined to attend either. What was the point?

With a sigh, I turned away from the window and returned to my workbench. The unfinished toy train looked exactly how I felt: incomplete. I tossed back the rest of my coffee, set the cup aside, and picked up the toy. It was beautifully crafted by my hand, yet all I saw was emptiness. The joy we poured into our toys felt like a farce. Each year, the kids wanted more and more while believing less.

Slamming the toy back on my table harder than intended, I startled a nearby elf who dropped his own project.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, turning my face away.

The elf simply smiled and returned to his work. I frowned. I had to get out of this funk. Christmas was just around the corner. While the workshop slowed down time, it didn’t stop it. Christmas was still coming.

I focused on the task at hand, finishing the toy. I was good at what I did, but the magic of it all felt draining. My hands were weathered and calloused from years of careful craftsmanship. Yet the touch of these inanimate objects did little to reawaken the life within me.

As I tried to refocus, two of my elves, Pix and Dix, entered the workshop. They were brothers and a part of the expedition crew that made trips to the “real” world during the periodical Yuletide Crossing. Earlier they’d made their annual trip to cross over an adult human whose heart was pure and still believed. Yes, they still existed, though rare, and their presence usually lifted the spirits of Twinkle Glen, giving us hope and spreading their cheer.

I needed that infectious spirit to get me out of my funk.

“Pix. Dix. Is our guest settling in?” I asked.

They both stopped in front of me and glanced at each other. Oh no, something had gone wrong. Was that the reason for my uneasiness?

“What happened?”

“We might have a tiny problem,” Pix said.

“What sort of problem?”

“The human… he didn’t want to visit us.” Dix shuffled and wrung his hands.

“And?”

“It’s even worse, Santa. He says he doesn’t believe you exist. That he never did.”

I frowned, perplexed. “How can he not believe? The List of Hearts is never wrong. It guides us to those who embody the magic of Christmas. Did you go to the right address?”

“We checked it twice.”

“We could not have gotten the wrong house.”

“But seeing you two, he changed his mind?”

Of course, some adults had been skeptical over the years, but once they saw the elves, they believed rather quickly.

Pix shuffled his feet. “Actually, he was quite adamant that Santa doesn’t exist. Didn’t even seem excited to see the workshop.”

“Hmm.” I stroked my beard. No matter how short I kept it, a day before Christmas Eve, it grew back overnight. “What did you do?”

“Well…” Dix glanced at his brother and scratched his head. “Nothing like this has ever happened before, so we, umm, took some initiative.”

“Yeah, we took initiative,” Pix said. “That’s on our job performance review.”

I leaned forward, a sense of foreboding washing over me. “What initiative?”

“We kidnapped him,” Pix blurted out.

“You did what?” I bellowed, my voice echoing off the walls. All the elves in the workshop stopped what they were doing.

Pix played with his fingers. “We used the sleigh dust, Santa,” Pix said. “And dumped him into the limitless loot bag.”

“You kidnapped a human?” I hissed. “Don’t you know that is against the rules? The one who enters Twinkle Glen must do so of their own free will.”

“We never had someone not wanting to come, Santa. We didn’t know what to do.”

“He’s still unconscious,” Dix whispered. “We might have used too much dust.”

I rose to my full height. “Take me to him.”

Leaving the lively cacophony of the workshop behind, I followed Pix and Dix through a labyrinth of winding corridors. The walls were adorned with centuries-old tapestries depicting Christmases past, their colors vibrant against the polished wooden panels. The air was filled with the subtle scent of pine and the distant echo of Christmas carols.

We passed under arched doorways, each leading to different parts of the vast North Pole complex. The path was familiar, yet today it felt different, as if every step was weighted with the gravity of our situation. The floor, made of smooth ice that usually glimmered under the twinkling lights embedded in the ceiling, seemed duller somehow. Even the ever-present gentle warmth, a magical contrast to the frosty outside, did little to comfort me.

Elves bustling with last-minute preparations offered respectful nods or curious glances. The usual playful banter and laughter were subdued, as if they too sensed the disturbance in our normally harmonious existence.

As we moved deeper into the heart of the workshop complex, the sounds of the workshop faded into a hushed silence. We reached a secluded wing reserved for special guests—those rare humans who crossed over during the Yuletide Crossing. The area was welcoming, with its soft, glowing lights and luxurious furnishings.

Pix and Dix stopped in front of the door, their usual confident demeanor replaced by anxious uncertainty. I pushed open the door, the heavy oak with ornate carvings depicting the northern lights creaking softly, and stepped inside.

The room was spacious, with walls painted a calming shade of midnight blue, dotted with tiny lights that mimicked the starry sky. A large, plush bed sat against one wall, its linens crisp. On the bed lay the unconscious figure of the human.

His features were peaceful, belying the turmoil of his unexpected journey. The sleigh dust had done its work well, leaving him in a deep, dreamless slumber. His clothes, those of a modern-day businessman, were in stark contrast to the whimsical decor of the room. Beside him, the limitless loot bag lay deflated, its magic spent.

I approached slowly, a mix of curiosity and concern washing over me. This young man, who defied our understanding of belief and magic, held the key to the unease that had been plaguing me.

“Why does he look so familiar?” I murmured, studying his face. Under the soft glow of the room, his pale skin was as white as the snow outside, unmarred and immaculately smooth. His lips were a gentle shade of pink, slightly parted in his slumber, revealing the edges of even white teeth. His jawline was finely sculpted and delicate.

The most striking feature was his hair, the color of wheat. Golden curls cascaded onto his gently sloped forehead. His body was slender and, even though he was a full adult human, he looked as tiny as my elves.

There was something about him, a connection I couldn’t quite place.

“We need to figure out why the List of Hearts guided us to him.” I turned to the elves. “What’s his name?”

“Landon McClain.”

“Landon,” I repeated, and the syllables rolled off my tongue. “Stay with him.”

I strode out of the room and hurried to the records room. When I stormed in, the elf on duty startled but smiled. “Santa. What are you doing?”

“I need to check the List of Hearts.”

“Of course.” He rushed toward the book, picked it up, and brought it over to me.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Is there something specific you’re looking for?”

I grunted a noncommital response and flipped through the book for the M entries. I found McClains, but none of them turned up to be Landon. My heart sank, and I shut the book with a thud. My gaze fell on the Shadow Ledger. Could it be?

I returned the List of Hearts and trudged to the lectern. Slowly, I opened the Shadow Ledger and followed the same procedure as before. And found Landon McClain’s entry. One photograph showed him as a child, the other as he was now. The words were written in charcoal, each letter meticulously inscribed as if to emphasize the severity of his actions.

“Landon McClain, age . Notorious for his cold-hearted business dealings and his callous disregard for others. Known to exploit vulnerabilities for personal gain. Has repeatedly shown a lack of empathy and kindness. Notable incidents include the harsh dismissal of employees without just cause, manipulative business tactics, and a pervasive air of entitlement and selfishness. Displays a strong skepticism toward acts of charity and communal spirit. Has lost the true essence of human compassion and connection.”

The description was a stark contrast to the joy and generosity that defined the spirit of Christmas and everything we valued at the North Pole. How had such a person been selected? Landon McClain was not just a nonbeliever; he was the antithesis of the Christmas spirit. And now he was here in Twinkle Glen, a place of joy and magic, potentially disrupting the delicate balance we had maintained for centuries.

We had to bring him back to his world. But how? The passage had already closed. He was stuck here for another two weeks. How could we put up with two weeks of his evil spirit without letting it infect everyone else?

“Is something wrong, Santa?” the elf asked.

“No, Fergus. Nothing’s wrong.”

I returned the book and walked out of the records room, curling my hands into fists at my side. Someone had messed up, and I had to figure out who it was. Eirwyin was the one in charge when the name was sent over to the expedition crew.

A thought struck me, and a chill ran down my spine. If Landon truly didn’t believe, he wouldn’t have been able to cross over into our world. Yet here he was. A part of him must still believe, and I had to find that part.