“So that's where you've been.” The hoodied boy returned a toothy, wry grin,
He turned his knife over, watching it flicker, its sharp edge cruel and thin.
“Here I am,” The boy replied, with a whisper through teeth clenched up tight,
And he took a step forward, his glare unmoving from those green eyes so bright.
(‘Slash him left! Slash him right! See if he bleeds green!’ The voice wailed,
‘Cut out his beast-heart! Tie it up with a bow… Oh! Imagine it impaled!)
The boy could almost see it! Small and wrinkled! Slimey and still beating slow,
On the tip of his knife. He could crush it and quell it, find a candy-striped bow…
Pollock let out an unhinged peel of laughter, his mind filled with feverish dreams!
He could give it to old Santy! Oh a fine gift indeed! Or perhaps dissect it at the seams...
And then a great crack! A mighty and thunderous ‘Hooo!’ and everything around Pollock stilled to a slow. All but himself, his movements still sharp (whether he was hyper speed, or they were hindered, he does not know). His wide and wild eyes dart up to the to sky, and he leans over the railing to get a better view unencumbered by the roof, no use! He jumps down the two frosty steps onto the snowy front yard. He squints at the sky, slate-black and cloudy — starless save for a large, stubborn bright glint through the cover: Polaris. And then he hears a soft ting-ting-ting, an impeccable clear and powerful jing-a-ling. He stumbles back a step, dropping his armed hand to his side, “Dasher, Dancer… Prancer! Shit!” An uncharacteristically amused smile on his smoothed face as he prys his muddled mind for the rest of the count. Elliot looks up, turning around in place to locate what he knows, beyond a doubt and despite what he has long thought of as reality, for a sleigh… if the tales have it right. He howls boyishly into the unsettlingly hushed air. “Whoop!” Pointing breathlessly at the red vehicle above and the familial old man. He turns to the elves, but they are just now taking painfully sluggishly steps out the front door. “Right.” And then the world fills with sound! An impossibly loud voice, the jingle of his harness, the snorts of his breasts of burden. And then the world picks up its natural speed, and the Grinchy steps out to the street.
“Claussss.” He hissed.
“Come now Grinch, it’s not the presents you want.” Elliot narrows his eyes, his focus turning back to that green, grinning man. (What else, then? The young man wonders.) He can see his long finger, tuffed in coarse, lime hair, pointing and like a magic wand animates his demons forward. The round, rosy man puts a stop to that operation with a shake of his pure white beard. The Grinch let out an angry bellow, calling for the temporary retreat of his garbling troops.
“I wish I could send you straight to the North Pole, but my magic is weak this far from home.” Elliot nodded, turning to the elves now gathering around his knees. “Good luck, and thank you for saving Christmas.” The boy watched him leave, just as fast as he came. Crossing the threshold of his range of sight, into the dark night sky. He glances down at the elves, a smile on his cracked lips — “Holy shit!” Was all he could make out, before the tumult of angry screams and the even angrier sounds of physical clashing filled the streets. Perhaps the elves trying to steal the boy some time. He turns back to the porch and launching with bounds back into the bungalow. Slamming the front door, he huddling down below the sight of any windows. (The white cat had returned, probably scared to familiarity by the din outside. It crouches near the dead gremlins, dark splatter on its squished face.)
(‘We made so much progress,’ Came the gnarled little squeak,
‘Well I thought we had found you, Pollock. But you’re still weak.’
It made a sound like a slamming fist, ‘One look at a fat man in red
and you’re like a wee babe,’ It slammed again, the acrimony ringing in his head!
It sighed in frustration, and a little contempt, ‘That fat old man,
He undid everything we tried to accomplish. But I’ll come back with a plan.’)
Elliot brought the heels of both his hands to his temples, hissing in pain and clenching his eyes shut. In front of him the semicircle of elves share glances among themselves. “Umm. Saviour?” The thoughtful, soft-spoken one finally pipped.
“Elliot… Pollock.” The boy spat, rubbing the sides of his head — exorcising the citizens of his mind.
“Elliot… uh, Pollock. Right. You see, we need to go. The boys out there cannot hold them off for much longer.” He watches the boy close, with big, green eyes. “I’m Horace by the way.” He fixes his triangular, red hat. “And this is,” he points first to the squat elf who had sealed the boy’s bedroom door shut; and then to the lanky elf that had rang the silver, mournful bell; and lastly to a bespeckled little man holding one sharp knitting needle, all while numbering out — “Gino, Jake... and Flopsy.” The boy lowers his hands, and they tremble with the effort of his quieting. “We’ll bring you to The Pole,” Gino nodded. “But we gotta go now.” The boy stands up tall and strides over to the corpses of their slain foe. The cat hisses, and yowls, backing away from the boy, glowering at him with large, untrusting eyes. (Does it see something? Animals can be very perceptive…) He pulls the needle out from the shoulder of the demon and extends it back without looking. Flopsy takes it from him slowly, holding the bloodied utensil out at arm’s length. Pollock tilts his head, dropping down to examine the pooling, unholy black blood; the cruel, decisive remarks of his knife — one in the back, one in the chest. He grips the handle tighter, poking the creatures here and there to test the weight and make of their skin and limbs.
Then a great bang! on the street just outside and the teenager flinches. He whips around, the elves summoning him closer, “Think of somewhere!” Horace shouts, the clamour outside reaching the steps of the porch. “Anywhere!” The boy mouths a few words, panic gripping him tight, but just as the front windows crack and cave in with a million pieces of thick glass...
He lands hard on dark pavement, choking and reaching for his dislocated shoulder. Somehow, the knife had managed to come along. He put it down on the ground, gathering himself up on his knees, and a singular gut churn wrenches up everything he has in his stomach. In front and behind him, the elves are looking around (and at him with concern and apologetics). “Sorry there Elliot,” Horace said, stepping forward and motioning for a second as if to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder before drawing it back. “It’s not an easy ride. Where are we?” There was a sad quality to his voice. Pollock stands up, running the cuff of his sweater over his mouth. “In CP,” He coughs, as if those two letters side by side had some intrinsic, powerful meaning. “Bridge...” His voice trails off, mouth agape. He know this street well. Pretty well. Whether it is just a product of more joyful days of boyhood when everything was bigger and jollier, or whether he actually truly had fun here, well, he couldn’t say. “My grandma lived here.”
But what is in front of him now is unrecognizable.
“Fuck,” He takes a jelly-legged step forward, peering down the straight, narrow main street. On his left: an old, Romanesque revival stone building; turrets and jutting bell tower. On his right: a hairdressers with low rent housing on the second floor. Behind him the street crosses a bridge. He can hear the river there, like a vein running through the center of the town (the water was always nasty). What he remembers is delicately lit up trees, in neat and evenly-spaced intervals outside an eclectic string of always-changing storefronts...
What he sees now is a street under siege. The lamplights that normally would keep the shopping district aglow are out, a few sputtering sparks. Some of the small trees are still ornamented with their lights, but they are pulled down around their trunks to lay on the sidewalks like litter. Most of them only hold chewed-through, dead strings in their limbs. It is immediately obvious that the demons had come this way, over the bridge. The windows of a flower shop and real estate agent nearby are smashed. The old, 1800s log house (that had once been in another part of town, but had been carefully moved across from the Hall) was aflame — it’s door kicked in and windows blown out. Down at the end of the street (near the town’s most popular dive, a Pizza Pizza, and a gas station) is a wild horde of black, jibbering creature — from their faraway vantage point, the boy can see that at least a few of them have torches, of some kind and make.
Fighting with them in melee combat, or chained hand-in-hand together protecting local shops, are a much overwhelmed platoon of North Pole elves.
“We have to do something!” Gino grunts, balling his fists and pulling the brim of his hat down over his brow. Flopsy, with shaking hands holds his needles up two swords; Horace is pacing back and forth to get a better lay of the land; somewhere to his right he can here the single, clear trill of a single silver bell. Do we? He wonders, remembering the orders from The Man: make it to the North Pole. The boy can see as he watches the little men around him — he isn't getting out that easy. These little men, rosy cheeked and timid, are suddenly a potent mixture of sad and angry. Pollock’s lips twist up with a chaotic little grin. The acrid smell of burning, and the high screams and grunts fill his ears alongside the eerie hums that have been steadily taking up choir in his head.
“We should make short work of this,” He hisses, and his voice is not entirely his own… or, is it more his own than it has been since this whole night begun? “We are expected.” He turns his knife in his hand, feeling its weight and size. In close combat it had served him well. But this? It suddenly feels wildly inadequate. Too short. Too puny. It had spilled blood, but his thrusts had been made at already felled (or near-felled) foes. He remembers what Horace had done in the house, and turns to the thoughtful elf. “...The Man said you had magic.... that he’d given you all he had…”
“It is not without its limits. Very limited, actually, I’m afraid to say.” He pulls at the hairs on his chin. “But, there’s potential for destruction.” His tone is disapproving, but before he can continue on Pollock is moving away towards the left sidewalk. He presses close into the brick and stone work of the shops, every now and then ducking into a doorway of a restaurant or second hand shop. He moves in the shadows. He feels oddly comforted by this dank embrace; equally so, he feels naked and vulnerable… he feels without, and in his gut he knows the need to slip away into wretched transparency — how much easier this all would be! (The harm he’d caused in the welcoming arms of invisibility…) But the thought was senseless. Passing fancies unfettered from reality. Every boy dreams of superpowers. Invisibility might be his.
“And flight.” It takes like rot on his tongue.
Closer to the throng now, he slips into an alleyway, blocked off by a fence. No escape. The elves gather in too, squeezing into the damp, cave-like space. Pollock motions with his knife, Horace flinches and turns slowly to the fight. He concentrates hard, bringing his hands in a cupped shape up to his chest. And then in the space between his fingers: a blue flames (like the ones a science teacher of his had transformed with copper chloride!) It grows a bit in size as the elf pulls his hands apart, until just smaller than a basketball. And then with a forward motion like passing a ball from the chest, Horace flings the unearthly blaze at the scene on the street. It casts off a queer glow, lighting the street up like a flash of electricity. Then it hits the ground just in front of an awe-struck gaggle of gremlins. For a moment it looks dulled and extinguished by the slush. But then it leaps up, reanimated, and explodes in the air! Four nearby demons catch fire, their bony arms waving in the air, patting themselves with their long, hideous fingers. But it is no good. Not the slush, or not rolling relieves them of the inferno. The smell of flesh — sicky bitter tasting on the air — draws other gremlins forward. A seemingly endless supply of cackling critters spilling from the spaces between buildings like oil.
“Again!” The boy hisses. He know too well that they have only so long until the gremlins pinpoint their location. Horace exhales sharply, closing his eyes. Before he can conjure up another trick, a particularly short gremlin slips around the corner, at first just as surprised to see them as they were to see him. And then it panics. It’s eyes first grow wide, and then it’s wide mouth gapes open and it lets out the very same cry that the gremlin in the house had — (it had been rewarded with a blade in the chest.) He does not need to look up, he knows they all hear it. Feel it. He knows, without truly knowing, that this shrill call is something inborn in them. Like the howl of a wolf.
The gremlin is on him before he can react. It’s sharp, crooked teeth digging into his lightly clothed tigh. Pollock yells, adrenaline pumping his body, like an analgesic it numbs the flare at the site of the bite and his shoulder. He kicks out, and it dislodges the mohawked demon. He stumbles a step back, falling to one knee. Beside him Horace pushes his hands out, palms facing the opening of the alleyway, and then with a look of mighty effort, the opening fills with a whiteout. An impassable micro-blizzard. The angry and frustrated cries of a great many demons rise to greet the loud sound of wind. He squares off against the demon. It is jibbering and jumping from one leg to another, and then it charges. He is more ready this time, but the tight space and his wounded body makes maneuvering difficult. The gremlins snaps at his arm, catching the sag of his hoodie’s sleeve and tearing a hole in the fabric. He makes a hard sweep down and to the side with the arm, hoping to stumble the demon — it just barely does, his bad shoulder owing to a serious weakening of his left arm. It falls back, landing awkwardly on its hip. Pollock shifts forward, thrusting his knife out. It makes contact, sliding easily into the gremlin’s shoulder. But it is not a mortal wound.
The black critter grabs itself, howling and shaking furiously. And then Horace’s arms fall, and with the last of his effort...
...they are winding through a tunnel at unimaginable speeds. They land in snow, deep but crusted with ice. He has nothing left to heave so he gags for a minute or two. The knife is gone. Whether it had spend off into some other exit of that tunnel (perhaps flung, like out of nowhere, at someone unsuspecting…), or whether still lodged in the shoulder of the gremlin. It is gone. Pollock blinks. It is light here. Stark, white light, glinting off the impeccable cover of snow. Everywhere. Snow. Snow drifts. Snow-capped mountains in the distance. He wonders, for a peaceful moment, what time it is exactly. Where are we? And then the searing pain in his thigh catches up to him, and he grips around it, blood staining the snow underneath it...
As he looked at that bite on his leg, and wondered, more angry than ever,
He had no family, really, so the Grinch's plan had been out. But this endeavor?
He had never had things. Never went to Disney! He never could play sports,
Capitalism had given him nothing! He had never had any special possessions of any sorts!
Oh! But he’d hoped! He’d hoped for it madly! He’d hoped, and he’d dreamed,
for Playstations, and television sets; (for two whole wings that gleamed!)
But this world had not been fair. In fact, in had been very cruel indeed,
He made a fist, and blinked through angry tears, (‘This spite is exactly what we need!
You see,’ said the voice, ponderously, ‘I've been thinking, dear boy,
this Santa Claus must know you're weak minded. You've fallen for his ploy,
Just as easily as you fell for old Grinchy's. and I think it's a trap.’)
Fear and betrayal filled the boy up, and he screamed, “He takes me for a sap!
He thinks I'm stupid and useless, he's got something tricky up his sleeve!”
Horace looked at him cautiously, “Elliot… we are close to home I believe...”
Pollock looks at the little men, all of them staring at him in dread.
“What?” He demands, his voice now entirely possessed by… By… Something inside of him. Not some bodysnatcher or virus, although… that’s not so far off. Something of him, a second form held captive. And it riots against it passionately. He can feel it, a thrum in his chest threatening to rip his ribcage apart; the disparate hums in his head sewing together into one wild and violent shriek. His own. Releasing from his cells, moving through his body like a pulse. Thick like tar. He is breathing quickly, all at once light headed.
Pollock moves to get up, but succeeds only in falling backwards again in his throne of blood and snow. “We… We are close. I need only a brief moment to recuperate.” Horace’s voice is heavy and tired. Pollock looks around again. This land of endless ice and snow stretches up and around them — they are in a valley, tucked between mountainous desolations on either side. It is utterly foreign. Cold seeps into him, shivers taking the control of his muscles. “I need to get up,” He chatters, again pushing himself up, this time slower and steadier.
It could be the middle of nowhere, but it is now. Just a few feet in front of their landing spot he spies the hills and valleys of a snowmobile tread. He takes wide, high steps. The snow is deep, a much tougher go for the elves than he. He shades his eyes and looks down the trail towards a village, not very far — vibrantly colourful and nestled around the edge of cold looking water. Europe somewhere. Scandinavia he supposes. He limps along, the bitter cold air meeting the open flesh of his wound unhappily. It stings. There is nothing to do but wander the village’s way. All around is nothing, in endlessness’ form.
After a few minutes they happen upon and a sign, a reprieve for the boy to double over and breath deep. It is a cautious looking triangle, black with a thick orange outline, and in its center the white silhouette of a bear. Distinctly polar. Below it, on a white triangle in clear, black letters: “Gjelder hele Svalbard”. He winches, staring back at the sign as they pass it by, his mind a-wander.
When they reach a proper road it is a mercy for all involved, the hard uneven treading had caused more than one of them to stumble. They had passed a blue sign with white litters: Longyearbyen, as well, but he was far too preoccupied in his pain to care. This is a breaking point. He feels his body growing now hot, still wracked with shaking — something in him, his survival instinct he suspects, it rattling the bars of its cage.
The town before them is festooned with lights and garland, all in tact. “I guess we’re just too far North…” Horace offers, “too remote.” It is quiet. Deep and tranquil. He scans the copse of blue and red and orange houses, squat community builds, and boats just off the coat. He looks down at his leg, and sighs a deep sigh. “Are you ready?” He mutters, unwilling to look back up at the small remnant of unscathed Christmas. He is not quite sure why. His heart thumps in his ear, thump-bump, thump-bump, rhythmic and hard. He feels an uncomfortable swell behind his eyes, and yet in this quiet he feels still compelled by chaos. If he could he would dash their lights out; send polar bears to their front doors! Spill them out on the clean snow of their streets. Find their joy and rip it clean with his hands.
“I think so,” Horace replies, drawing fresh, arctic air into his lungs. “We are very, very close.”
Pollock braces himself...
They land at the beginning of a short, twisty, shovelled path, lined on both sides with red and white striped poles ever few feet. At the end of the path is a tall, stone curtain wall like the protector of a fort. It is clad in tinsel and merrily manned in even intervals by tall and fully-decorated pines. The boy rights himself, following Horace, running his good hand vacantly over the smooth top of each candy-striped post, one. Two. Three.
They approach an arched, heavy wooden door set into the wall. Around the top curve of the stone frame are large stones carved intricately — a polar bear’s head bearing teeth, a pair penguins touching beaks intimately, two narwhals cross their swords, a stately coniferous tree with a star on the top; and, the panel in the very center, between the regal heads of two caribou: OMNIBUS BONAM NOCTEM.
Then Horace approached the door, and knocked a very, very specific way,
The white world around Pollock begun to spin and spin. It got bleary and grey.
His breathing grew heavy, his raised his hands to his face, his fingers dark with blood.
He tumbled to one knee, clutching his leg, shivers washing his muscles like a flood,
“He’s bit!” Comes the yelling, sounding hollow in his ears, “Bring him in! Quick!”
The world around him grew dark, and elves moved in. Ready! With their wrist a flick
All together. One motion! And perhaps he did hover, or maybe he just dreamed
The strange sensation.. (‘Still weak, I see Pollock. A shame. Yet unredeemed.
Not even all of this, all of this chaos and violence could make you less of a rat!’)
He blinked, sure now the voice was familiar… the vile hiss of his dam, angry and flat.
He turned his knife over, watching it flicker, its sharp edge cruel and thin.
“Here I am,” The boy replied, with a whisper through teeth clenched up tight,
And he took a step forward, his glare unmoving from those green eyes so bright.
(‘Slash him left! Slash him right! See if he bleeds green!’ The voice wailed,
‘Cut out his beast-heart! Tie it up with a bow… Oh! Imagine it impaled!)
The boy could almost see it! Small and wrinkled! Slimey and still beating slow,
On the tip of his knife. He could crush it and quell it, find a candy-striped bow…
Pollock let out an unhinged peel of laughter, his mind filled with feverish dreams!
He could give it to old Santy! Oh a fine gift indeed! Or perhaps dissect it at the seams...
And then a great crack! A mighty and thunderous ‘Hooo!’ and everything around Pollock stilled to a slow. All but himself, his movements still sharp (whether he was hyper speed, or they were hindered, he does not know). His wide and wild eyes dart up to the to sky, and he leans over the railing to get a better view unencumbered by the roof, no use! He jumps down the two frosty steps onto the snowy front yard. He squints at the sky, slate-black and cloudy — starless save for a large, stubborn bright glint through the cover: Polaris. And then he hears a soft ting-ting-ting, an impeccable clear and powerful jing-a-ling. He stumbles back a step, dropping his armed hand to his side, “Dasher, Dancer… Prancer! Shit!” An uncharacteristically amused smile on his smoothed face as he prys his muddled mind for the rest of the count. Elliot looks up, turning around in place to locate what he knows, beyond a doubt and despite what he has long thought of as reality, for a sleigh… if the tales have it right. He howls boyishly into the unsettlingly hushed air. “Whoop!” Pointing breathlessly at the red vehicle above and the familial old man. He turns to the elves, but they are just now taking painfully sluggishly steps out the front door. “Right.” And then the world fills with sound! An impossibly loud voice, the jingle of his harness, the snorts of his breasts of burden. And then the world picks up its natural speed, and the Grinchy steps out to the street.
“Claussss.” He hissed.
“Come now Grinch, it’s not the presents you want.” Elliot narrows his eyes, his focus turning back to that green, grinning man. (What else, then? The young man wonders.) He can see his long finger, tuffed in coarse, lime hair, pointing and like a magic wand animates his demons forward. The round, rosy man puts a stop to that operation with a shake of his pure white beard. The Grinch let out an angry bellow, calling for the temporary retreat of his garbling troops.
“I wish I could send you straight to the North Pole, but my magic is weak this far from home.” Elliot nodded, turning to the elves now gathering around his knees. “Good luck, and thank you for saving Christmas.” The boy watched him leave, just as fast as he came. Crossing the threshold of his range of sight, into the dark night sky. He glances down at the elves, a smile on his cracked lips — “Holy shit!” Was all he could make out, before the tumult of angry screams and the even angrier sounds of physical clashing filled the streets. Perhaps the elves trying to steal the boy some time. He turns back to the porch and launching with bounds back into the bungalow. Slamming the front door, he huddling down below the sight of any windows. (The white cat had returned, probably scared to familiarity by the din outside. It crouches near the dead gremlins, dark splatter on its squished face.)
(‘We made so much progress,’ Came the gnarled little squeak,
‘Well I thought we had found you, Pollock. But you’re still weak.’
It made a sound like a slamming fist, ‘One look at a fat man in red
and you’re like a wee babe,’ It slammed again, the acrimony ringing in his head!
It sighed in frustration, and a little contempt, ‘That fat old man,
He undid everything we tried to accomplish. But I’ll come back with a plan.’)
Elliot brought the heels of both his hands to his temples, hissing in pain and clenching his eyes shut. In front of him the semicircle of elves share glances among themselves. “Umm. Saviour?” The thoughtful, soft-spoken one finally pipped.
“Elliot… Pollock.” The boy spat, rubbing the sides of his head — exorcising the citizens of his mind.
“Elliot… uh, Pollock. Right. You see, we need to go. The boys out there cannot hold them off for much longer.” He watches the boy close, with big, green eyes. “I’m Horace by the way.” He fixes his triangular, red hat. “And this is,” he points first to the squat elf who had sealed the boy’s bedroom door shut; and then to the lanky elf that had rang the silver, mournful bell; and lastly to a bespeckled little man holding one sharp knitting needle, all while numbering out — “Gino, Jake... and Flopsy.” The boy lowers his hands, and they tremble with the effort of his quieting. “We’ll bring you to The Pole,” Gino nodded. “But we gotta go now.” The boy stands up tall and strides over to the corpses of their slain foe. The cat hisses, and yowls, backing away from the boy, glowering at him with large, untrusting eyes. (Does it see something? Animals can be very perceptive…) He pulls the needle out from the shoulder of the demon and extends it back without looking. Flopsy takes it from him slowly, holding the bloodied utensil out at arm’s length. Pollock tilts his head, dropping down to examine the pooling, unholy black blood; the cruel, decisive remarks of his knife — one in the back, one in the chest. He grips the handle tighter, poking the creatures here and there to test the weight and make of their skin and limbs.
Then a great bang! on the street just outside and the teenager flinches. He whips around, the elves summoning him closer, “Think of somewhere!” Horace shouts, the clamour outside reaching the steps of the porch. “Anywhere!” The boy mouths a few words, panic gripping him tight, but just as the front windows crack and cave in with a million pieces of thick glass...
He lands hard on dark pavement, choking and reaching for his dislocated shoulder. Somehow, the knife had managed to come along. He put it down on the ground, gathering himself up on his knees, and a singular gut churn wrenches up everything he has in his stomach. In front and behind him, the elves are looking around (and at him with concern and apologetics). “Sorry there Elliot,” Horace said, stepping forward and motioning for a second as if to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder before drawing it back. “It’s not an easy ride. Where are we?” There was a sad quality to his voice. Pollock stands up, running the cuff of his sweater over his mouth. “In CP,” He coughs, as if those two letters side by side had some intrinsic, powerful meaning. “Bridge...” His voice trails off, mouth agape. He know this street well. Pretty well. Whether it is just a product of more joyful days of boyhood when everything was bigger and jollier, or whether he actually truly had fun here, well, he couldn’t say. “My grandma lived here.”
But what is in front of him now is unrecognizable.
“Fuck,” He takes a jelly-legged step forward, peering down the straight, narrow main street. On his left: an old, Romanesque revival stone building; turrets and jutting bell tower. On his right: a hairdressers with low rent housing on the second floor. Behind him the street crosses a bridge. He can hear the river there, like a vein running through the center of the town (the water was always nasty). What he remembers is delicately lit up trees, in neat and evenly-spaced intervals outside an eclectic string of always-changing storefronts...
What he sees now is a street under siege. The lamplights that normally would keep the shopping district aglow are out, a few sputtering sparks. Some of the small trees are still ornamented with their lights, but they are pulled down around their trunks to lay on the sidewalks like litter. Most of them only hold chewed-through, dead strings in their limbs. It is immediately obvious that the demons had come this way, over the bridge. The windows of a flower shop and real estate agent nearby are smashed. The old, 1800s log house (that had once been in another part of town, but had been carefully moved across from the Hall) was aflame — it’s door kicked in and windows blown out. Down at the end of the street (near the town’s most popular dive, a Pizza Pizza, and a gas station) is a wild horde of black, jibbering creature — from their faraway vantage point, the boy can see that at least a few of them have torches, of some kind and make.
Fighting with them in melee combat, or chained hand-in-hand together protecting local shops, are a much overwhelmed platoon of North Pole elves.
“We have to do something!” Gino grunts, balling his fists and pulling the brim of his hat down over his brow. Flopsy, with shaking hands holds his needles up two swords; Horace is pacing back and forth to get a better lay of the land; somewhere to his right he can here the single, clear trill of a single silver bell. Do we? He wonders, remembering the orders from The Man: make it to the North Pole. The boy can see as he watches the little men around him — he isn't getting out that easy. These little men, rosy cheeked and timid, are suddenly a potent mixture of sad and angry. Pollock’s lips twist up with a chaotic little grin. The acrid smell of burning, and the high screams and grunts fill his ears alongside the eerie hums that have been steadily taking up choir in his head.
“We should make short work of this,” He hisses, and his voice is not entirely his own… or, is it more his own than it has been since this whole night begun? “We are expected.” He turns his knife in his hand, feeling its weight and size. In close combat it had served him well. But this? It suddenly feels wildly inadequate. Too short. Too puny. It had spilled blood, but his thrusts had been made at already felled (or near-felled) foes. He remembers what Horace had done in the house, and turns to the thoughtful elf. “...The Man said you had magic.... that he’d given you all he had…”
“It is not without its limits. Very limited, actually, I’m afraid to say.” He pulls at the hairs on his chin. “But, there’s potential for destruction.” His tone is disapproving, but before he can continue on Pollock is moving away towards the left sidewalk. He presses close into the brick and stone work of the shops, every now and then ducking into a doorway of a restaurant or second hand shop. He moves in the shadows. He feels oddly comforted by this dank embrace; equally so, he feels naked and vulnerable… he feels without, and in his gut he knows the need to slip away into wretched transparency — how much easier this all would be! (The harm he’d caused in the welcoming arms of invisibility…) But the thought was senseless. Passing fancies unfettered from reality. Every boy dreams of superpowers. Invisibility might be his.
“And flight.” It takes like rot on his tongue.
Closer to the throng now, he slips into an alleyway, blocked off by a fence. No escape. The elves gather in too, squeezing into the damp, cave-like space. Pollock motions with his knife, Horace flinches and turns slowly to the fight. He concentrates hard, bringing his hands in a cupped shape up to his chest. And then in the space between his fingers: a blue flames (like the ones a science teacher of his had transformed with copper chloride!) It grows a bit in size as the elf pulls his hands apart, until just smaller than a basketball. And then with a forward motion like passing a ball from the chest, Horace flings the unearthly blaze at the scene on the street. It casts off a queer glow, lighting the street up like a flash of electricity. Then it hits the ground just in front of an awe-struck gaggle of gremlins. For a moment it looks dulled and extinguished by the slush. But then it leaps up, reanimated, and explodes in the air! Four nearby demons catch fire, their bony arms waving in the air, patting themselves with their long, hideous fingers. But it is no good. Not the slush, or not rolling relieves them of the inferno. The smell of flesh — sicky bitter tasting on the air — draws other gremlins forward. A seemingly endless supply of cackling critters spilling from the spaces between buildings like oil.
“Again!” The boy hisses. He know too well that they have only so long until the gremlins pinpoint their location. Horace exhales sharply, closing his eyes. Before he can conjure up another trick, a particularly short gremlin slips around the corner, at first just as surprised to see them as they were to see him. And then it panics. It’s eyes first grow wide, and then it’s wide mouth gapes open and it lets out the very same cry that the gremlin in the house had — (it had been rewarded with a blade in the chest.) He does not need to look up, he knows they all hear it. Feel it. He knows, without truly knowing, that this shrill call is something inborn in them. Like the howl of a wolf.
The gremlin is on him before he can react. It’s sharp, crooked teeth digging into his lightly clothed tigh. Pollock yells, adrenaline pumping his body, like an analgesic it numbs the flare at the site of the bite and his shoulder. He kicks out, and it dislodges the mohawked demon. He stumbles a step back, falling to one knee. Beside him Horace pushes his hands out, palms facing the opening of the alleyway, and then with a look of mighty effort, the opening fills with a whiteout. An impassable micro-blizzard. The angry and frustrated cries of a great many demons rise to greet the loud sound of wind. He squares off against the demon. It is jibbering and jumping from one leg to another, and then it charges. He is more ready this time, but the tight space and his wounded body makes maneuvering difficult. The gremlins snaps at his arm, catching the sag of his hoodie’s sleeve and tearing a hole in the fabric. He makes a hard sweep down and to the side with the arm, hoping to stumble the demon — it just barely does, his bad shoulder owing to a serious weakening of his left arm. It falls back, landing awkwardly on its hip. Pollock shifts forward, thrusting his knife out. It makes contact, sliding easily into the gremlin’s shoulder. But it is not a mortal wound.
The black critter grabs itself, howling and shaking furiously. And then Horace’s arms fall, and with the last of his effort...
...they are winding through a tunnel at unimaginable speeds. They land in snow, deep but crusted with ice. He has nothing left to heave so he gags for a minute or two. The knife is gone. Whether it had spend off into some other exit of that tunnel (perhaps flung, like out of nowhere, at someone unsuspecting…), or whether still lodged in the shoulder of the gremlin. It is gone. Pollock blinks. It is light here. Stark, white light, glinting off the impeccable cover of snow. Everywhere. Snow. Snow drifts. Snow-capped mountains in the distance. He wonders, for a peaceful moment, what time it is exactly. Where are we? And then the searing pain in his thigh catches up to him, and he grips around it, blood staining the snow underneath it...
As he looked at that bite on his leg, and wondered, more angry than ever,
He had no family, really, so the Grinch's plan had been out. But this endeavor?
He had never had things. Never went to Disney! He never could play sports,
Capitalism had given him nothing! He had never had any special possessions of any sorts!
Oh! But he’d hoped! He’d hoped for it madly! He’d hoped, and he’d dreamed,
for Playstations, and television sets; (for two whole wings that gleamed!)
But this world had not been fair. In fact, in had been very cruel indeed,
He made a fist, and blinked through angry tears, (‘This spite is exactly what we need!
You see,’ said the voice, ponderously, ‘I've been thinking, dear boy,
this Santa Claus must know you're weak minded. You've fallen for his ploy,
Just as easily as you fell for old Grinchy's. and I think it's a trap.’)
Fear and betrayal filled the boy up, and he screamed, “He takes me for a sap!
He thinks I'm stupid and useless, he's got something tricky up his sleeve!”
Horace looked at him cautiously, “Elliot… we are close to home I believe...”
Pollock looks at the little men, all of them staring at him in dread.
“What?” He demands, his voice now entirely possessed by… By… Something inside of him. Not some bodysnatcher or virus, although… that’s not so far off. Something of him, a second form held captive. And it riots against it passionately. He can feel it, a thrum in his chest threatening to rip his ribcage apart; the disparate hums in his head sewing together into one wild and violent shriek. His own. Releasing from his cells, moving through his body like a pulse. Thick like tar. He is breathing quickly, all at once light headed.
Pollock moves to get up, but succeeds only in falling backwards again in his throne of blood and snow. “We… We are close. I need only a brief moment to recuperate.” Horace’s voice is heavy and tired. Pollock looks around again. This land of endless ice and snow stretches up and around them — they are in a valley, tucked between mountainous desolations on either side. It is utterly foreign. Cold seeps into him, shivers taking the control of his muscles. “I need to get up,” He chatters, again pushing himself up, this time slower and steadier.
It could be the middle of nowhere, but it is now. Just a few feet in front of their landing spot he spies the hills and valleys of a snowmobile tread. He takes wide, high steps. The snow is deep, a much tougher go for the elves than he. He shades his eyes and looks down the trail towards a village, not very far — vibrantly colourful and nestled around the edge of cold looking water. Europe somewhere. Scandinavia he supposes. He limps along, the bitter cold air meeting the open flesh of his wound unhappily. It stings. There is nothing to do but wander the village’s way. All around is nothing, in endlessness’ form.
After a few minutes they happen upon and a sign, a reprieve for the boy to double over and breath deep. It is a cautious looking triangle, black with a thick orange outline, and in its center the white silhouette of a bear. Distinctly polar. Below it, on a white triangle in clear, black letters: “Gjelder hele Svalbard”. He winches, staring back at the sign as they pass it by, his mind a-wander.
When they reach a proper road it is a mercy for all involved, the hard uneven treading had caused more than one of them to stumble. They had passed a blue sign with white litters: Longyearbyen, as well, but he was far too preoccupied in his pain to care. This is a breaking point. He feels his body growing now hot, still wracked with shaking — something in him, his survival instinct he suspects, it rattling the bars of its cage.
The town before them is festooned with lights and garland, all in tact. “I guess we’re just too far North…” Horace offers, “too remote.” It is quiet. Deep and tranquil. He scans the copse of blue and red and orange houses, squat community builds, and boats just off the coat. He looks down at his leg, and sighs a deep sigh. “Are you ready?” He mutters, unwilling to look back up at the small remnant of unscathed Christmas. He is not quite sure why. His heart thumps in his ear, thump-bump, thump-bump, rhythmic and hard. He feels an uncomfortable swell behind his eyes, and yet in this quiet he feels still compelled by chaos. If he could he would dash their lights out; send polar bears to their front doors! Spill them out on the clean snow of their streets. Find their joy and rip it clean with his hands.
“I think so,” Horace replies, drawing fresh, arctic air into his lungs. “We are very, very close.”
Pollock braces himself...
They land at the beginning of a short, twisty, shovelled path, lined on both sides with red and white striped poles ever few feet. At the end of the path is a tall, stone curtain wall like the protector of a fort. It is clad in tinsel and merrily manned in even intervals by tall and fully-decorated pines. The boy rights himself, following Horace, running his good hand vacantly over the smooth top of each candy-striped post, one. Two. Three.
They approach an arched, heavy wooden door set into the wall. Around the top curve of the stone frame are large stones carved intricately — a polar bear’s head bearing teeth, a pair penguins touching beaks intimately, two narwhals cross their swords, a stately coniferous tree with a star on the top; and, the panel in the very center, between the regal heads of two caribou: OMNIBUS BONAM NOCTEM.
Then Horace approached the door, and knocked a very, very specific way,
The white world around Pollock begun to spin and spin. It got bleary and grey.
His breathing grew heavy, his raised his hands to his face, his fingers dark with blood.
He tumbled to one knee, clutching his leg, shivers washing his muscles like a flood,
“He’s bit!” Comes the yelling, sounding hollow in his ears, “Bring him in! Quick!”
The world around him grew dark, and elves moved in. Ready! With their wrist a flick
All together. One motion! And perhaps he did hover, or maybe he just dreamed
The strange sensation.. (‘Still weak, I see Pollock. A shame. Yet unredeemed.
Not even all of this, all of this chaos and violence could make you less of a rat!’)
He blinked, sure now the voice was familiar… the vile hiss of his dam, angry and flat.
- Carleton Place, Onatrio, Svalbard, Norway
- fire ball to attack gremlins, blizzard to keep away the horde, hovering spell at the end to try and get him to safety
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)