Santa Claus's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Santa Claus had four hundred gifts left to deliver and no way to see the ground. The blizzard hit fast. Snow packed against his goggles and turned the world white. His reindeer strained against wind that shoved the sleigh sideways. Below him, somewhere, waited children who would wake to empty stockings if he failed. That thought scared him more than the storm. He had never once missed a Christmas, and he did not plan to start now. He pulled the reins and searched for anything solid. The wind screamed. His lead reindeer stumbled in the air, wings of snow tearing past. Then a dark shape rose through the white below him. A steep roof. A frozen bell tower crusted with ice. A small chapel of frozen stone stood alone in the drifts, its windows pale and still. Santa aimed the sleigh down. The runners hit ice and skidded hard. Santa gripped the seat until the sleigh stopped against the chapel wall. He climbed down, legs shaking, and hauled the reindeer under the tower's shelter. The wind could not reach them there. But he could not fly, and every minute cost him a child. The chapel door groaned open behind him. Warm light spilled onto the snow. Mrs. Claus stood in the doorway, her green apron dusted with flour, holding a lantern high. His wife. She should have been home, miles away, warm by the fire. "You stubborn old fool," she said. She did not smile. "I tracked you the moment the sky turned. Get inside before you freeze to that beard." Santa stayed by his reindeer. "I can't stop. The list isn't finished." "The list won't matter if you're a snowman by dawn." She set the lantern down and grabbed his arm with both hands. Her grip was stronger than the storm. "Come in. Warm up. Think. You've never once flown blind, and you won't start tonight." He let her pull him through the door. Inside, the chapel held a low fire and a pot she had already set to boil. She pressed a hot cup into his hands. He drank. His shaking slowed. He listened to the wind fight the frozen walls and knew she was right. He could not beat the storm by charging into it. "So we wait," he said. "We wait," she agreed. "And we make a plan that doesn't kill you." By the time the fire burned low, the wind had dropped to a whisper. Santa stepped outside. The snow had stopped. But the sky above the chapel glowed a strange green, not dawn, not moonlight. Something waited in that light. And on the fresh snow near his sleigh, he found tracks, small and pointed, that were not his own.