Advent Letters: Year One, Letter One

My dearest Sam, Susannah, Piper, Noah, and Shepherd,

Warmest greetings this first Sunday of Advent. Sam, my sincere congratulations on learning your alphabet and mastering the word “Uncle.” Susanna and Piper, I hear you are almost sleeping through the night. While Shepherd and Noah are sitting up and grabbing for pacifiers. Impressive accomplishments, all around!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You’re probably wondering how I know all this. Well, I see you when you’re sleeping. I know when you’re awake. I even know if you’ve been bad or good.

No, I’m not Santa Claus. But for the past two hundred and seventy-three years, I have been the Head Secretary to Santa Claus at the North Pole. I am in charge of Santa’s daily schedule, correspondence, and public relations. My name is Erno, and yes, I am an elf.

And speaking as North Pole Head Secretary, it is my honor to present to you, for the first time, the full and true account of your father and uncles’ role in The Great Crisis of 1997. I will tell you how, through a series of shameful events, they helped cause the crisis. I will also tell you how, through a series of less shameful events, they helped solve it.

What have your father and uncles told you about The Great Crisis? My guess is nothing, and that is as it should be. After those events, they were pledged to silence by Santa Claus himself. Those of us at the North Pole were also pledged to silence, but only for twenty years. As this is the twentieth anniversary, Santa has given me permission to tell the tale. The one condition is that I can only tell it one piece at a time, and only on Sundays of Advent. So each Advent Sunday, expect a new letter with a new piece of the story. I am sorry I cannot share it more quickly. But please understand, I don’t make the rules.

You may be tempted to ask your father and uncles about this story. But because they are still bound to silence, do not expect them to answer. Likely, they will just smile and change the subject.

But enough preface. We elves are said to ramble when excited, and I fear I am confirming the stereotype. So with no more ado, I present the Tale of the Great Crisis. Our story opens on Christmas Eve, 1997, in the backyard of your Grandpa Dan and Grandma Sue’s house.

***

Brian stood, feet in the snow, binoculars to the stars. He checked his watch and shivered. Almost midnight. But no matter. This was going to be the year he saw Santa coming to his house, even if it took all night. Besides, it was Christmas Eve, and he was almost six years old--the perfect age for feeling the magic. With the Christmas lights reflecting off snow and the moonlight brushing the aspen, magic hung in the air. He took a deep breath and smiled.

Inside, the house was warm and still. Wrapping paper lay strewn across the floor, cocoa mugs were stacked in the sink, and the only light came from the Christmas tree. Jeremy was nestled all snug in his bed, as visions of Mario Kart danced in his head. A shake of his shoulder startled him awake. It was Matt, standing over him and scowling.

“He's doing it again.”

“Huh?” Jer rubbed his eyes.

“Bri is out in the yard, making his yearly fool of himself.”

“So?”

“It’s crazy.”

“That sounds like Bri’s problem.”

“Mom wouldn't like him outside all night--coyotes and mountain lions and stuff.”

Jer rolled his eyes.

“Plus . . .” Matt lowered his voice, “it’s not like he’s going to see anything.”

The boys were silent. Matt had stopped believing last summer, when he read an article about the number of homes Santa would have to visit per second on Christmas Eve. Jer’s belief was hanging by a thread after seeing the mall Santa drain a Bud Light after his shift. Neither brother had talked about it.

“Fine,” Jer said, “let’s get him.”

After pulling boots and coats over their pajamas, they trudged out to Bri, who stood in the same spot with his binoculars fixed skyward.

“Come one, let’s go inside.” Jer said.

“No thanks.” Bri replied, not even turning around.

“It’s late, and there could be mountain lions out here.”

“No, I want to see Santa.”

Jer and Matt both shivered.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Matt said, “Why don’t you just--”

“No.”

“Brian,” Matt’s voice grew louder, “there’s no such--”

A wooshing clatter burst over their heads--the sound of pounding hooves and jingling bells, a streak of crimson, a faint smell of peppermint. It was so sudden and close that the boys fell to the snow in a shocked heap. Before they could look up, it was gone.

“What was, I mean, was it…” 

But before Matt could finish, their eyes all locked on the same thing: a giant red jewel, pulsating in a snow bank.

***

The boys . . . Oh, bother. Avvu just informed me of an “emergency in the mail room.” That can only mean one thing. *sigh* Confound that polar bear. . . I am afraid I must go, but I will resume the story next week. 

Until then, I remain yours truly,

Erno

1  This rule, in fact, derives from a loophole in the North Pole’s “Code of Magic.” The pledge of silence which we all made applies “for as many days as is fitting to maintain the pledge from this day hence.” However, as Advent is the time of preparation for the Coming King, each Sunday of Advent is a day of proclamation to this coming arrival. It is, therefore, not a day in which it is “fitting” to keep secrets at the North Pole. This rule was given magical and legal significant in the 763 case of Ruuta v. Dag, where the Commission of Magical Rules and Practices first recognized the principle.