The Last Christmas
By J. R. Nova
Copyright 2011 J. R. Nova
First Smashwords Edition, December 2011
Cover art by Thomas Nast, Merry Old Santa Claus (1881), from the Wikipedia Archives.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Without mystery, life is taken for granted, wonder decays, and happiness is no longer part of the human heart.
****
We elves never called him Santa Claus. To us he was always Kris Kringle.
Kringle never delivered toys. Parents were the ones who put presents under the tree, and the occasional lump of coal in a bad child’s stocking. Kringle brought something more than what could be wrapped inside a box—and he brought it to the ones who could appreciate it, no matter how old they were, or where they lived.
So instead of making toys, elves harvested dreams and wishes. We went around the world gathering hopes and dreams, wishes and prayers. We took these precious commodities back to the North Pole for Kringle to give back to the most deserving boys and girls, those who could still appreciate what was done for them.
We were idea elves, and as small and invisible as we were, we were the ones who made toys worth playing with, and life worth living.
Almost a thousand years ago, Kringle had used hope to enchant his sleigh, his reindeer, and the elves who followed him. As long as the people of Earth had hope—in anything—there would always be a Santa Claus. Kringle would always have a purpose. Children who believed in him grew up with hope and light hearts, forever open to mystery and wonder. His magic seemed timeless, but the world proved otherwise.
Nothing we did could be done without hope, but hope was becoming rare in the world.
Kringle’s magic was not eternal. His power waned through the centuries. Over the last hundred years Kringle’s Nice List had shrunk to a single page.
Mankind had become self-absorbed. It did not take much for them to stop believing in mysteries, in better days, in happiness. The illusion was easily dashed by those who would have “truth” no matter what the consequences. If it wasn’t “right”, it had to be “wrong”. There was no room on Earth for fairy tales and bold ideas. Circles weren’t welcome in a world so squared away.
“You’re too old to believe.”
“Why should I believe in anything anymore?”
“There’s nothing left to believe in.”
Kringle could not exist in a world which no longer needed, nor wanted him, and tonight I could sense that he had something else in store for Earth than his usual delivery.