❆ ❆ Up in the North, where cold winds blow, Lies the magic of Northglow. A village bright where Christmas stays, Through all the long and frozen days. Inside the halls of Castle Claus, Away from winter’s icy pause, The lights are dim, the air is deep, With secrets that the shadows keep. Though snow falls soft against the gate, The family sits and contemplates, For in the warmth of stone and wall, Not all is peaceful within the hall… ❆ ❆ Bright Claus had spent all night sketching a plan to make his father proud, and his father spent one minute tearing it apart. The drawings showed small flying machines carrying parcels across the village— no more elves slipping on ice, no more misplaced items, no more mad rush to move parcel to and fro. Santa Claus barely glanced at them. “Father, you’re not even listening!” Bright snapped. “If you would just—“ “I have listened enough to know a fool idea when I hear one,” Santa snapped back, cutting off his son. Bright could feel his own muscles tense. Why had he even bothered with this? His father never listened to him. But Bright was certain that his idea was sound. “Look, if we use drones to transport parcels around Northglow Village, they’d make things much more efficient. Much faster.” Santa shook his head. “That’s what the pneumatic is for, and it has served its purpose just fine.” Partially right, was Santa, but only partially. Bright waved his hand in frustration. “The pneumatic only makes stops at certain locations, and the elves can only move so much, especially as Christmas gets closer,” Bright tried to explain, though he knew that the task was pointless. “The drones can move goods to anywhere in Northglow, and quickly, leaving the elves more time and less to handle.” “This is the way things have been done since I was knee-high to a snowball and there hasn’t been a problem yet,” proclaimed the currently not-so-jolly man in red. “We don’t need any new-fangled flying dra-whatchamacallits to come in and muck up what has always worked.” “Drones, dad. Drones. And even the Toyventor agreed with me.” Santa scoffed. "The old ways work," he said. "We don't fix what isn't broken. Not with Christmas this close." "You didn't even look," Bright claimed. “You just need to look.” Santa set down his pocket watch and folded his hands. "I know what we need, son. Right now we need you not to add problems." His voice dropped, final. The subject was closed. Bright’s fists clenched, his body tensed, but he left before he said something worse. The large red double-doors slammed closed behind him. But silence didn’t fill the room. “Kris Krisma Kringle!” boomed the voice of Mary Claus, Santa’s wife and Bright’s mother. She had been there listening the whole time. And Santa’s full name was one Mary only used when she was truly angry with him. “How dare you talk to our son like that! He’s only trying to help!” “I know he is,” Santa sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. “But I need him focused on things that really matter, not some silly gimmick that he’ll give up on in a week. You know how indecisive he is.” Mary only seemed to get more angry at that— or was it hurt? Santa wasn’t quite sure, and he wasn’t sure which was better. “It wasn’t some silly gimmick; I thought that it seemed quite interesting,” said Mary in retort. She was taking Bright’s side— she always took the side of their children. Perhaps that was just the role of a good mother. “And even if it didn’t work out in the end, so what? What of it? At least he is trying, Kris. Look at what he’s done, the thought that he put into this. He’s trying, and that’s a lot for him.” Mary was right, of course, and even Santa knew that. The sketches strewn about the dining table were proof of that, proof that Bright was putting effort into making something no matter the outcome. “I don’t think you always realize how hard it can be for a child to grow up with the Claus name,” Mary continued and her tone was gentler this time. “All of the responsibilities and expectations that the name forces onto Marry and Bright. It’s not easy, and they have no one to connect with.” Mary was right again. She was always right. Santa could feel a headache coming on. He sighed softly and replied, “I… I know. I do… Perhaps I was too hard on the boy.” Mary nodded her head as if that fact was obvious. “Go and apologize to him, you owe him that,” said Mary. “I’ll go apologize to him once things have cooled down a little,” Santa ceded at last. “You’ll go now.” “…I’ll go now…”