Nicholas Kringle's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Nicholas crossed the snow with the light burning in his hands. The wind cut through him, and each gust dimmed the glow. He was a ghost, so the cold should not touch him. But it touched the magic. The light shrank with every breath of frost. He looked at his cupped palms and saw the truth. The cold was killing the gift faster than his own fading ever could. He stopped and pressed his hands close to his chest. The wind found him anyway. A thread of light peeled off and vanished into the dark. He had less now than a minute ago. His son's house was still far. If the light died out here, it would leave the world for good, and no cold ground would ever give it back. He looked for shelter. Then he saw it. A beanstalk rose from the snow ahead, thick as a barn beam and wrapped in living fire. Flames curled up its green coils, and the wide leaves glowed like coals. The snow around its roots had melted to bare earth. Heat rolled off it in waves. Nicholas moved toward the fire. He did not know why it burned in winter and did not care. He needed warmth, and the beanstalk gave it. He knelt at its base where the melted ground steamed. He held the dying light up beside the flames. The warmth reached the magic. The shrinking stopped. Slowly the light swelled back, brighter than before, until it lit his solid-looking hands and the smoking roots below. He laughed, and the sound did not crack this time. But the heat that fed the magic also reached him. He felt himself loosen at the edges. The fire that saved the gift was pulling at what little held him together. He watched his own arm thin until he could see the flames through it. The choice pressed on him like a hand. Stay in the warmth and lose himself. Leave the warmth and lose the magic. He made his choice fast. He plunged both hands into the hottest curl of the beanstalk's fire. The magic drank the heat and blazed. He poured his own thinning self into holding it steady, giving all the warmth he could gather into the light before he had to run. When the glow burned hot and full, he pulled back and rose. His body was fainter now. He could barely see his own feet against the snow. But the magic in his hands was strong again, banked like an ember that could ride the cold a long while. Nicholas turned from the fire and walked into the wind. The light no longer shrank with each gust. He had bought the magic time. He had spent his own to do it. He fixed his eyes on the far house where his son slept and forced his fading legs forward.