THE SANTA CLAUS MACHINE

The morning dawned in ocher tones that turned the blanket of snow around the castle golden as if it were burnished by a jewelers tool and gold leafed by Michelangelo. The crystal crags of the ice mountains surrounding the snowy valley glistened and sparkled like handfuls of yellow and white diamonds scattered haphazardly by a spoiled queen allowing her royal jewels to be casually left on her bureau overnight.

Weaving their way through the pristine fabric like two golden threads were the tracks of a sled pulled by two stalwart horses. Bundled against the frigid weather was a figure wrapped in several quilted coats, a knit hat pulled low on his forehead and a woolen muffler swirling over his nose with only the slits of his eyes looking out on the partially obscured road ahead. To his right he could see a signpost that pointed to the quaint village he had left an hour earlier and to the castle that was twinkling in the dawn's twilight before him.

Lights were coming on throughout the castle. Lanterns on the parapets were set aglow by teams of elves who carried torches and tiny step stools to reach the loftier poles on which the elegant wrought iron luminescence resided.

The ramparts were crowned with snow from a late summer storm that passed over the Pole in the night. An industrious elf was furiously sweeping away the thick layer that had fallen on a section of flat roof used as a landing deck for airmail deliveries. He was sending down a shower of crystal flakes that hung in the air for a magical second only to be painted gold and then silver as the morning sun caught them in their descent.

The elf spied the sled pulling through the snow and yelled out to another elf at the rear gate.

"Milkman's comin'. Open the gate, Zeke."

Zeke yawned and stretched at his post. He would be heading in for breakfast soon, relinquishing his nocturnal job to another elf and then polishing off a hearty meal before retiring for a good day's rest. He gave a wave to the milkman before he scampered down the spiral stairway to the heavy wooden gates below. He pushed up the iron latch and eased the massive doors open as far as he could before the gathering snow mound behind the doors stopped him. He grabbed a shovel and proceeded to toss the snow into yet another pile until the gates were free and he could hear the jingle of the sleigh bells coming toward him.

Mike, the route man for the North Pole Dairy, pulled the horses through the rear gate and headed up the drive to the kitchen where two elves were waiting on the stoop to help unload the order.

The large kitchen window was framed in a wreath of frost, its center revealing the activity within. Mrs. Claus was standing behind a long worktable beating a dozen eggs for a large breakfast omelet. One elf, covered in a dusting of flour, was standing on a stool cutting out another batch of biscuits. Behind him a very industrious elf was flipping flapjacks high in the air over the black cast iron stove and stacking them on plates for early risers.

A long refectory table had been set with a mélange of dishes collected from centuries of world travel. Mrs. C. had pieces from Bavaria covered with delicate flowers, fine English bone china so thin you could see your hand pass behind it, and several patterns from some of Santa's favorite restaurants in various countries.

Mrs. C. handed the bowl of beaten egg to the chief cook and went to look over the table setting. She straightened a napkin and repositioned a fork, then nodded. "Everything looks ready, Smithy. Would you call Santa and the boys?"

Smithy ran up the back steps to the elves' dormitory and rang the set of breakfast chimes hanging beside the doorway. The ones used in the morning had a softer tone than the lunch and dinner chimes that rang at a higher timbre.

"Second call for breakfast. Second call for breakfast!" yelled Smithy over the ringing. His timbre was considerably higher than the chimes.

A few dozing elves groaned slightly then caught a whiff of crackling bacon wafting up from the kitchen. Another day had dawned. More toys to make.

There was a mad dash for the lavatory as several early risers raced to be the first in line for a hot shower while others brushed their teeth at a row of tiny porcelain sinks before descending the spiral staircase to the kitchen to enjoy a hearty North Pole breakfast before starting another day of sawing and sanding and painting toys for Christmas.

The stables was already a beehive of activity. The heavy wooden doors were wide open as several elves were bringing out the last of the reindeer for their morning run. Their training harnesses were securely fastened while their belts of polished silver bells remained hanging in their stalls for a special occasion. Several deer had just finished their race through the snow and were walking back up the cobblestone drive, winded, puffs of condensation escaping from their flaring nostrils.

Bellamy, the head stable elf, a pair of currying combs in his hands, was methodically going over Dasher's thick coat, removing any bits of brush or twigs that had tangled there when the big reindeer rubbed himself against a rough barked tree in the nearby forest.

"I don't know why you reindeer have to scratch your backs on the trees when we spend half the day combing you out."

Dasher gave a satisfied snort as he got his back combed in just the right place. He always found the right tree to rub against so he could acquire just enough debris to warrant a good brushing.

Another elf was working on Dancer's long, silky mane that always thickened as the holidays approached. He brushed and brushed until each strand was glistening in the early morning rays of the sun.

An elf wearing a pair of stylish sneakers was sweeping the hay out of the empty stalls. They would be mopped before the deer were lead back to their areas, with fresh hay spread out and buckets of clean water placed in each stall.

Back at the castle, Smithy took the staircase up to the map room. He walked through the paneled suite, its walls covered with maps of the world. A huge globe stood in the middle of the floor and a telescope was aimed out the windows for Santa to check on good little boys and girls. He opened the French windows and leaned out.

"Mr. C.! Mr. C.!" he yelled. "Breakfast is ready!"

He couldn't see the massive bay window jutting from the front of the castle, its narrow windows of frosted glass sparkling in the dawn's early light, but he knew the occupant of that room could hear him.

Moments later a narrow side window opened. From inside Santa took a deep breath of chilled air and shivered. He loved the smell of fresh snow and the anticipation of a new day, especially when Christmas was just around the corner. He was wearing a red and white striped shirt, a pair of bright green suspenders and his worn red velvet work pants.

Santa yelled back, "I'll be right down, Smithy. Tell Mrs. C. all I want for breakfast is orange juice. I'm already five pounds over my normal weight for this time of year." It was still four months until Christmas and Santa didn't want to put on too much extra weight.

"But the children expect you to be round and jolly, Mr. C."

"I want to be jolly, not unwieldy. Just juice, Smithy."

At the same time, the milkman pulled his sleigh to a halt at the back door of the kitchen. Mike jumped down and unrolled a long piece of paper that contained the day's order.

He read: "Six dozen bottles - regular, two dozen buttermilk, five gallons cream, twelve dozen eggs - super jumbo, twenty pounds butter. Oh, here's Santa's skim milk. You can sure tell it's still summer at the North Pole, Mrs. C. It's the only time of year Santa worries about his weight."

Mrs. C. stepped out the door and said, "Times are changing, Mike. I got him an exercise machine for his birthday last year."

"Does he use it?" questioned Mike.

At that moment Smithy popped through the door and said to Mrs. C., "Santa says all he wants for breakfast is orange juice."

"No," said Mrs. Clause to Mike. "But he has taken it out of the crate. Will you stay for breakfast?"

"Glad to, Mrs. C. Flapjacks?"

"With lots of your fresh churned butter, Mike."

Several elves had taken their places at the long table and were passing plates of scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon and bowls of hot oatmeal. Mrs. Claus was pouring a big glass of orange juice for Santa when he stepped into the room. All heads turned his way.

He stood in the doorway, hands on his hips and waited. Mouths were agape all around the table. He had a big smile on his face, his rosy cheeks were like polished apples ready to be picked. His eyes twinkled behind his wire rimmed glasses. Well, weren't they going to say something?

"Good morning, my dear. Gentlemen," he said. He kissed Mrs. C. on the cheek and waited.

Silence.

"What's new?" he casually asked.

Silence.

He started fingering his long, white beard, getting nervous. He twirled several strands around his fingers until he had them in a knot. Pulling his fingers free he fluffed his beard out in front of himself, but nothing seemed to prompt any response.

The change started with his hair, or rather the fringe of white that half encircled his bald head. He had blow-dried it until it stood straight out like half the ring around Saturn. His beard was a series of ringlets done by Mrs. C.'s curling iron that spiraled down from his chin to his chest like dread-locks. He curled the ends of his mustache but had left one of the metal clips in place while the moustache wax was setting. The sight was riveting.

"Well, how do you like it?" he finally asked.

"If that's the way you wanted it, dear, you sure got it that way," said Mrs. C.

Santa lowered his head, the apples rolled off his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes was eclipsed by a thin, grey cloud of dismay.

He sighed. "I thought I'd try something a little different this year."

Mrs. Claus handed Santa his frosty glass of orange juice and said in a soft voice, "How would the children recognize you if you changed too much? They have been used to seeing you your old way for an awfully long time."

"Yes, but, I just thought....maybe...."

"How did you get it that way?" she asked, touching the curly beard cascading down his chest.

"Your curling iron," he said, still lost in thought.

"Well, my dear, it just isn't you." She reached over and removed the clip holding his moustache and slipped it into her apron pocket. "Sit down and drink your juice. Are you sure you wouldn't like some toast or maybe a muffin?"

"I have some work to do." He took the juice with him."

At that moment several elves came through the back door from outside, a flurry of frosty flakes followed them in. They stomped the snow off their tiny pointed toe shoes on the rag rug under their feet and looked for a place to sit.

"Shut the door!" yelled the elf sitting nearest the door, the gust of cold air blowing the napkin he had tucked under his chin over his face.

Amos, the chief cook, ladled out several more flapjacks onto the hot griddle and tossed on a few more sausages. The appetites always picked up this time of year.

No one saw Santa leave the room, crest fallen. He walked into the workroom and turned on the lights. He stood there in the middle of the large room and stared at the familiar things around him.

The tall wooden shelves were almost totally filled with toys. There were wooden boats, and metal trains, small tin drums and glider planes, wooden soldiers and rubber ducks, stacks of blocks and small dump trucks, a big red wagon full of toys for all of Santa's girls and boys.

There were several small benches covered with work-in-progress: a skate being fitted with big rubber wheels, a rocking horse with its small leather saddle waiting for several brass tacks to hold it in place, a shiny silver airplane anticipating its propeller and a proud sailing ship looking for its topsail so it could sail the Seven Seas in some little boy's bathtub.

A myriad of hand tools was scattered atop the work benches, time being too precious to waste to bother putting them away when so much was left to do before the Big Night. There were slender, tapered awls, a tiny tack hammer, delicate coping saws and boxes full of tiny brass tacks.

Santa picked up an antique Jack-in-the-Box from a weathered wooden cupboard that contained many prize Christmas toys and undid its latch. The old porcelain head of a Santa Claus dressed like a court jester bobbed up with an anemic gasp from its tiny bellows that should have produced a whole hearted Ho-Ho-Ho.

"I guess you and I are getting old, my friend." He pushed the head back down into its ornate box and re-hooked the latch.

At that moment he heard the rear door to the workroom open and in rushed Cosmo, the most studious of the elves and one of the few of his little troop with a college education.

"It's here, boss. The special order just arrived."

Santa instantly snapped out of his doldrums. He replaced the Jack-in-the-Box and bounded across the room. He opened the top of the Dutch door and leaned out.

"Wonderful. No time to waste. Have it taken to the lab. Remember, Cosmo, no one but the Project 2001 elves must know about this."

"Mum's the word, boss." The diminutive elf started to go through the door then stopped and turned back. "Does that mean Mrs. C., too?"

"Mrs. C., too, Cosmo. Top Secret."

........Continued

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