The World of Myth Magazine

I see you there, on the other side of the glass and my heart surges. You are a fresh face, someone new. I take a deep breath and I smile. My face is full of hope, but I am slightly skeptical. Have you come to laugh like the others? I guess there is truly only one sure way to find out.

“I will not bother telling you my name,” I say, and you nod.

We both know who I am, though some days it is only through hearing someone else shout it as my meals are delivered, should they choose to call me something else often enough I swear I don’t know if I’d just believe them.

“Nor will I ask you why you are here,” I add.

If you are here to listen and believe, then that is all well and good. If you are a copycat image of the others that came before, well I will find your name out from the voices and add you to the list, those who feature in my prayers each night, offered up to whatever gods are listening that you all die in your sleep and spend eternity in anguish. I quite like that word, anguish. It gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling deep inside.

“You are here I hope, to listen, to learn, and most importantly to believe.”

“Yes,” you say.

I look into your eyes, and for now, I can see sincerity.

“I am the one who has seen, and remembers,” I say.

You begin to scribble down notes upon your tiny pad.

“Underline that last word,” I stress. “It’s important.”

I wait, and I watch. Three lines are scratched under that word, *remembers*, and I consider whether that is sufficient emphasis. Obviously, I am pondering and considering for far too long, lost in my own memories. You tap on the glass. The young are so impatient.

I cough, apologize, and then promise to begin my tale. You smile; nod, and then I see you make yourself as comfortable as you can upon the cement bench they provide for visitors.

“You must understand that this happened many decades ago, to me anyway, but it is happening each and every year, and has happened for only the gods know how long,” I blurt out.

Without looking up you scribble each and every word I say. Maybe you are here to listen. I have been burned by journalists before. I am cautious, but your presence makes my confidence grow.

“You think that the man who delivers the gifts in the night is human,” I then say. “He is not what you think, perhaps not even a he, certainly not a man.”

I wait to see how you respond to this, but you don’t. You don’t look up surprised, you don’t give me a questionable glance, nor do you laugh or smirk, or get up angrily. You just sit there with your head bowed, listening, scribbling, in my mind I am hopeful that you are learning.

“The beard, the hat, the suit, gloves, boots, belt, laugh… That is all nothing but a disguise.”

Still, you choose not to look up. I watch your pen travel across the page. My words, my knowledge, it is finally being captured.

“Even the reindeer are not what you think they are,” I say.

“What?” you ask, and finally I see your eyes again. “They’re not reindeer?”

“No,” I say. “The reindeer are not reindeer.”

“Then what are they?” you ask.

It surprises me to discover no sarcasm in your tone, no blatant distrust. You seem genuinely eager to know what I know.

“Children,” I say. “I should know, I was one of them.”

“You were a reindeer?” you ask, but then you realize your blunder. “Sorry, I mean, you were one of the children that pulled the sleigh?”

“Yes,” I say. “I was Donner, the Christmas of seventy-three, or perhaps seventy-four.”

Your pen writes down both dates with a question mark after each set of four numbers.

“I was quite naughty both years, so it must have been the later date when Santa kidnapped me,” I consider. Then I nod, emphasizing that this must be right.

“Were you good after that then?” you ask, a stupid question, but you would only understand how stupid if you had suffered the same fate as I have.

“Of course,” I answer. “I would have far preferred to see coal in my stocking, but some lessons just have to be learnt the hard way.”

“So, the reindeer are children, why are they depicted as reindeer in the stories and songs then?” you ask. I notice that the pen has stopped scribbling.

“Santa lives in the realm of the fairies, a magical place where true elves live and magic is frighteningly real,” I explain. “When Santa visits the real world, he uses the magic he has gathered from his home and uses it to transform himself, the sleigh, the children, all of it gets a lick of sparkle to make things more palatable for the likes of us.”

You nod, like everything I’m saying actually makes sense, then your head bows again, and that pen continues its journey. I patiently wait for you to catch-up. I repeat some of the things I’ve said so that you don’t miss any of the important details. In my mind I see the bland, stark, freezing landscape of the North Pole, and then the place where we step between worlds and suddenly we become children again. Santa’s homeland is a swamp; warm, steamy, full of life. I tell you that, describe the sounds and scents, the busy biome, a place where Mother Nature truly rules.

I pause and look at you writing, and I wonder if you are spying for them. For all that I have suffered that one Christmas and for all those who suffered the same fate before, now, and onwards into the future, I dare not give away all of Santa’s secrets. No, to reveal the way to such a place would be the ultimate betrayal. I’m bad, or at least I was bad once. I promised that I would never ever be that bad though. I slow my speaking down so I can watch what it is that I am telling you. You notice, I can see from the way you look up and cock your head. You are curious, you have heard the change. I am grateful that you do not question it. Your pen slows, now you can keep up.

“You have yet to ask the ultimate question,” I say.

“I was hoping that you would just tell me,” is your cheeky reply.

“No, I will not tell if you do not ask,” I say. Then I wait, but not for long. I know that you will ask me soon.

“So, if Santa isn’t the jolly fat man, then what is he?”

“You’ve said it again…” I murmur. “You have called Santa, he…”

“Force of habit,” you admit.

I give a nod, a sign of mutual understanding. I still do it too. Even after all I know, all I have seen and all I have done, it is still difficult to break out of habits, to tell the truth and make it stick.

“I have a picture I have drawn, a sketch, something I did in craft a few years ago,” I say. “I stuffed it somewhere they don’t dare look and then hid it in a special place I have in my cell.”

“May I see it?” you ask.

“Of course,” I say.

The cameras are watching, and I know after today I will never see my picture again. You seem to believe though, so I am willing to risk giving you a glance.

“You must remember,” I say as I stand and begin to rummage around in my jumpsuit. “They took my pencils and pens away after they caught me drawing the picture of the children transforming.”

You nod and patiently wait.

“They don’t know about this picture, do they?” you say, to which I give a sheepish grin.

I pull forth the tiny scribble, part black and white, part color. I slam it hard up against the glass, and then I realize that it is upside-down. You take a picture with your phone. I tell you it is wrong, I can turn it around, but you wave your hands at me dismissively.

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I’ve emailed it to myself; I’ll fix it when I get back to work.”

I’m satisfied with this. I tear the picture up and swallow the evidence. There is no water, my mouth is dry, but somehow I manage to get the pieces down my throat and into my stomach where the acid can destroy what is there. Some days I wish that I had acid in my mind. Having this knowledge is such a burden, having this knowledge and not being believed is the true burden if I’m honest. I suggest this to you, and you laugh.

“I’ve seen things too,” you tell me. “I know exactly what you mean.”

I spend what feels like a moment contemplating your comment, wondering exactly who you are and where it is you have been. For the first time since meeting you, I am genuinely afraid. Have I said too much to the wrong person? There is a lot to digest. Acid would be handy right now, something that could take me away and forget. There is nothing like that here, at least nothing like that which has been prescribed for me. I look at you, really look at you. You seem harmless, regardless of what you just said. You tap on the glass again, this time getting up from the concrete bench. I notice a tattoo on your neck and there is a moment where I think I have seen that same snowflake design before. It cannot be true though, so I dismiss the possibility.

“Is it a mask?” you ask, trying to get me talking again.

I am more than happy to oblige.

“What, the hat and beard?” I clarify.

“Yeah, that and the rest of the face,” you say.

“The rose-red cheeks, the button nose, even the ears which he supposedly uses to know if you’re awake,” I say with a smile. “All fake, all part of the costume, all made, out of latex mostly.”

“All made in the greatest toy factory that ever existed,” you murmur.

Your head is down again, and you begin to write with renewed vigor, now you are writing independently. I can see that I have planted the seed and that you are nurturing the story and letting it grow. You seem like a great writer, very passionate, quite talented. It needs someone with a great imagination to be able to tell this story. It is going to take a very brave fool to reveal this to the world. This is the story of Santa, and whether you believe or not, the Santa everyone has heard of is going to be revealed as a fraud. You seem like the perfect person, a touch mad, a little angry, you are listening, and then I see that you are remembering too.

I pluck up the courage and finally decide to ask.

“You were there too, weren’t you?”

You do not look up, but your pen stops moving. I know that you have heard me.

“It is not by accident that you have come to speak with me today,” I suggest, ninety percent certain that there is more to you than just journalism.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“Sorry?” I say, one eyebrow arched. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

I stretch forward as far as the restraints allow me to go. I want to be close to the glass in case you whisper again. I need not have bothered though. When you speak next, your voice comes strong and loudly.

“YES!”

I smile and let out a sigh of relief.

“It is no coincidence,” you admit. “When I heard you were here because of Santa, I knew that this was an utter injustice.”

“And what will we do next then?” I ask.

“What will we do next?” you question, surprised. “We will do nothing.”

“We do nothing?” I cry. It takes all of my strength not to shout and bring the guards.

“You sit tight, leave the rest to me and a few of the others,” you say.

“Don’t you dare forget me,” I warn.

“Or what are you going to do?” you say. “Stuck in here there are not a lot of options for you.”

“Agreed,” I sigh. “You’re right.”

Your sneer morphs into a look of sympathy and I wonder what I hate more.

“I promise I will tell your story to those I know who will believe me,” you then say.

For some strange reason I actually think you are telling the truth.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “Thank you for listening and for believing me, very few people do.”

“Thank you for reminding me of what I know, or at least once knew,” you say as you tap the glass one more time. “Be patient, you’ll get the gift you deserve.”

I think about what gift I would truly desire. Beyond revenge, beyond freedom, even beyond a family to spend Christmas with, what I truly long for is the ability to forget. I wonder if that is the gift you are promising, I am at least ninety percent sure that it’s not.

As you get up from the cement bench and turn away from the glass and me I call out, the same words that I said before.

“Don’t you dare forget me.”

This time it is a plea, not a threat.

“Those that know, know,” you say, as if I am supposed to understand what that means.

I watch you disappear, down the corridor, growing smaller and smaller, until you are a speck and then nothing more than a memory.

“I wish you a Merry Christmas!” I call. I just can’t help it.

The words sound wrong rolling off my tongue but seem so appropriate for the moment.

The last thing I hear is your laugh. It is a humorless thing of pure sarcasm. It makes me shiver.

“Ho… Ho… Ho…”

Just like a slow clap.

And it is then that I realize, I’m never getting out.

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