Page 92 of Run, Run Rudolph
Tamara moved again, and I hugged her from behind, shushing her quietly.
“This is so bad,” she moaned.
“You’re going to get yourself zapped,” I whispered.
Mrs. Claus heard me, her lips quirking, a pleased glimmer to her dark eyes. She tipped her head to the side, addressing Tamara, the pleased look becoming frosty. “Are you doubting my elf’s ability?”
“Uh, no. I just think that—ooph!” I gave her midsection a tight squeeze, temporarily knocking the air out of her, for what I hoped was her own good.
A blast of fierce wind hit us, showering us with flakes that swirled off the barn roof.
The witch’s eyes warmed into a fiery red, and she glowered off to our left, her body expanding as though about to shoot fireballs or something equally terrifying.
“Why are you here?” Mrs. Claus growled. Beside us, a woman with violently dyed red hair and black leather pants smirked, trying to cover up her obvious fear.
“I believe Tamara would like to make a wish.” She swirled a pointed finger upward as though it was a magic wand.
Tamara nodded. Hugo, having forgotten his task, was watching with his mouth ajar.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Tamara. The tall, slim woman’s unnaturally bright hair was startling against the subtle blues, pale greys and white surrounding us.
“Estelle. Fairy godmother.”
“What? Where are her wings?” She didn’t look anything like the fairy godmothers I’d heard about. Then again, Mrs. Claus didn’t look the way I’d expected, either. Santa’s appearance and demeanour, however, very much met my expectations.
“Trying to circumvent me?” Mrs. Claus asked Estelle. Her voice was low, her stance wide, her body poised, as if she was about to duel with the fairy.
“They’re trying to be helpful,” Estelle said.
Mrs. Claus sashayed toward us, reminding me of a tiger coming to toy with its wounded prey. I could practically feel her well of confidence draining Tamara’s.
“And you’re one of hers?” she asked Tamara.
She nodded, mutely.
“She’s not here to meddle,” Estelle said.
“And how do you know she’s not?” the witch asked. Her eyes were still red, and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to reconcile the image of the sweet, doting grandmotherly type with Mrs. Claus ever again. Not even if I visited Santa’s Village in Bracebridge, Ontario and saw an actress embodying the image we all believed in.
Tamara was leaning into me, and I backed us up a half step at a time, trying to create distance between us and the witch without her noticing.
“Christmas is a very important holiday,” Mrs. Claus said, eyes narrowed at Tamara.
“We recognize that. Tamara asked me to x-ray Rudolph. Nothing is broken, but he?—”
“Darling,” Mrs. Claus said in a clipped tone, “you know nothing. Absolutely nothing. And you are interfering where you are not only unwelcome, but also with something so much larger and grander, and immensely more important than your tiny little human lives.”
“You can’t touch them,” Estelle said, stepping forward.
Tamara was talking under her breath, seemingly arguing with herself. I couldn’t make out the words, but I sensed panic and a great internal debate.
“They have to be tried in the courts before you can touch them,” Estelle warned Mrs. Claus.
“I am the judge, and Christmas is my domain.” Her voice was getting louder, more powerful, as if she was summoning energy from the universe. “We don’t have to be in court for me to make my ruling, as they are clearly interfering with my domain.”
I began edging Tamara backward again, toward the barn door. My plan was to grab our coats, my truck keys, and then sneak out the small door at the back. We’d circle around when it was safe again, and escape.
Mrs. Claus, without turning to look at the sleighs parked behind her, snapped her fingers. “Hugo! Sleigh. Now.”
