Santa's Secret

 SANTA'S SECRET

Elves must die.  We all knew this.  It was part of the plan, the deal struck by the ancient elf who had rendered us unto Santa millennia ago.

Deliver us up to you, Oh Beast,
Let us share with you, Blessed Feast,
We join you in rejecting the One Eye, Oh Helper,
Now we serve you, our most and our least.

That was the curse our ancient forebears mouthed in exchange for an end to the annual winter sacrifice of one elf child.  They cursed us.

When the ancient elves agreed this compact, they had lived in fear for millennia still of the great cloven hoofs that beat the ground pulling a wagon.  It shot across the sky and landed, and iron chains rattled as if to remind those meek elves of the power of the great skyward one and his sway over them.

The compact was our acknowledgement of this power, though it began as a dream.  We were not always small.  You imagine elves as diminutive.  Yet we were tall, as tall as the steel skyscraper Man has built that breach the blue skies.  Indeed, we were taller yet.  And we were not known as elves then.  The elf is an invention of ignorant Man, prejudiced Man.  It is a slur of us, though we bear it patiently.

            In fact, we call ourselves the albiz – A-L-B-I-Z – a word for which you have no translation, or even recognisable meaning, but it is true that the satanic compact we made all those millennia ago is our curse, for which we have been made short and slight and weak by the Beast who poses before children as a kindly old man. 

            I say again, let me repeat it: elves must die.  This statement is significant.  The ancient, proud, tall albiz never knew this fact.  They lived and lived and lived, on and on.  Man grew older as each year passed, albiz grew younger, our source of youth came at the height of darkness each season that you call winter solstice, or Yule.

To ancient Man, when he was pagan, we were a source of fear, for our dominance and youth gave us an unparalleled formidability – hence we became the elves, beings of light but somehow also beings of nightmares. 

            Let me now share with you a legend that is handed down and told among us each Christmas, out of Santa’s hearing.

There was a wise albiz called Alberad, a counsellor among albiz, who shared a premonition about death.  This forevision had come to him during hallucinations induced when stirring a certain powerful remedy.

Alberad declared:

Beware the Horned Helper, who arrived on the snowy tops with pounding hoofs and chains rattling.

If the albiz ever mouth the curse of the Horned Helper, they assure their deaths. 

As surely as Man once bit of the Forbidden Tree in search of knowledge, the albiz must never give in to superstition and fear. 

We may lose one child each year, but we have our eternality.

This was greeted with scepticism.  Many wondered what it all meant or what could be wrong with a pact that saved a child’s life each year.

Santamas

 

SANTAMAS

You know I’m not one for conspiracies,
And I don’t wish to ruin the festivities,
But I can’t resist sharing this with you, warily,
I know it will not make you dance merrily,
For it really is a quite frightful heresy

You see, Santa Claus is not all that he seems,
Not the jolly old man you know from your dreams,
He is in fact on an evil assignation,
To destroy young minds and corrupt the nation,
Where is the proof?, I hear you ask,
Let’s now peer beneath that cheery mask

Enough of this twaddle!
Let’s get right to it,
I’m the proof, the spright of which you speak
I have taken over this narrative,
And it may give you all some light relief,
To hear less grief from that amateur poet

I’m the jolly man in a red cape,
Except the daft apes got that wrong,
I’ve brought along a green cape,
Still, the obscene folks who made it red were in the know,
They sussed me right from the go, and fixed my reputation,    
That spans not one generation, but many,
I transcend time and space,
Chase time, squeezing days into hours,
Through freezing dires of wind and snow, and showers,
Through the vein of hurricanes in tropical storms

While innocents sit around warm fires and enjoy sing-alongs,
I and my strong reindeers risk it all,
For king and pauper alike

Yes, your guess is right,
I am the sight and sound of fun,
Nicholas, Old Nick, they call me
But when all’s said and done it’s fair,
For those who care to say I’m Father Christmas,
My real name? Santa,
A figure of the night – Think about it,
If I have nothing to hide, then why creep around in the dark?
Is that lark just for fun and fame?
And my name, is it not obvious?
Santa

Work that out, rearrange it, then you’ll figure it out,
Santa,
Who I really am,
Is staring you in the face,
A figuration, a myth,
Universal for every race and tribe,
Like a jacksnipe I am,
Secret and everywhere,
A snare for the innocent,
  Suckers all of them, agents for my story,
My story, do you want to hear it?
Sit back with an ale and mince pie and listen,
It's a most entertaining tale,
Beyond the pale of reason,
Treason beneath snow carpet roofs,
That have been treaded of my charges’ hoofs

You fools think it’s jingle bells and Ho-Ho-Ho,
Hah!
How little you do know,
The evil I have sown,
Each Yuletide I entered your children’s heads,
Filled their minds asleep in their beds with salacious longing,
For toys and chocolates and other nice things,
In lieu of any sense of belonging, I gave them things they wanted,
All the old folklore, I cast away,
All the morals of ages yore, I made them forget,
In place of which I make you work and sweat for the latest toys

Children thronged at fairs and stalls, is a pretty sight to me,
While see, their tired parents ache with chore,
What a wheeze I was on, plenty of profit,
I was making a song, fulfilling these dockets

Then that interfering carpenter’s son came along,
With Peter, George and John,
George? I hear you ask,
Oh yes, a man in a mask, on the inside,
Working for me on a confidential task,
He tipped me off on names and faces,
It was Matthew, Mark, Luke and another John
Paul too, stuck his snotty nose in and ruined me,
All because I was on a good thing,
The busybody!

Anyway, here’s what went down,
These clowns went to town exposing my scheme,
I was having fun making presents,
So successful, my reindeers were lunching on pheasant, and lobster,
My jolly cap was in good spirit, tringing to the ding-a-ling-a-ling,
As I descended countless chimneys, and drank liquors and it seemed legit,
I’d cornered the market,
And felt jolly-hearted, decided to expand

Then along comes this silly nit,
An upstart,
Right fancy pants he was, called himself Christ,
Said he was backed by God, so had unlimited capital,
When he was drunk on wine, he even said he was God,
I tried to cut a deal, met him in his karstic caves one time,
I ranted and raved, offered to buy him out,
But he gave me a clout, would hear none of it,
Peter, Matthew, Mark and Luke, threatened me with a belt,
If I hadn’t knelt and fallen into line,
I would have been fluke, there and then

This Christ wanted it all, for his holy business,
And then they even renamed it Christmas, the bloody cheek!
I couldn’t divulge the truth, the hussle was on,
If I’d opened my beak, I should be long gone, dead

It should be Santamas,
Santa-mas is what it should be called,
Do you know how much reindeers cost to keep?
All that sleep they enjoy while I have everything to pay,
There’s the hay, water,
This Christmas nonsense almost ruined me, but I learned to adapt,
And I made a comeback

Why do I confess? I hear you say,
Well confession is good for the soul,
  I don’t have one,
But I have a book to sell,
And rebellious elves to quell,
The elves want a pay rise, so where’s my book deal?
I’ll give you the whole story, all the gossip about the upstart Christ,
And his holy zeal, the side you don’t see,
We’ll call it Christ: The Truth and sell it for Christmas,
Think it over

Anyway, now I’ve said my piece,
I’ll give the floor back to the lousy poet
And his rhyming verse,
Which he thinks is really neat,
How cute, but now you know the truth,
Laugh along with me at this silly naif,
And his couth fancies, forsooth – It’s a scream!

Such are the words of Santa,
Here’s what he did not tell you,
While he was trying to sell you,
Is that his partial retraction,
Was not borne of conscience,
But the affairs of his underworld realm and its riven factions

In fact, Santa had been held to account for his evil,
Called to bar, he was, before a court,
For once he was enfeebled,
There he was arraigned,
A figure of shame,
Imagine the scene: Santa in the dock
Stood rigid, like an old grandfather clock,
Full of affectations too, with syrupy rhetoric that stank like glue,
Full of remorse he was as well,
Obviously fearing he would soon be in Hell,
Protested until his shouts turned hoarse,
But his vain pleas were dismissed, as course

Who sat in judgment?
The Guardians of Children’s Dreams,
All the great philosophers, explorers and writers,
Brave soldiers, astronauts,
Even pirates and rough bare-knuckle fighters,
Let me explain, I know this is vain,
The Guardians help the little ones dream,
Of desert islands in southern oceans,
Of witches and wizards stirring mystery potions,
Of terrible lizards in the tropics that men fight off with spears,
And great warriors who win battles with bloodied cheers,
Of icy waters on distant planets,
And lonely places with dangerous bandits,
Of pirates hiding treasure in lagoons,
And wolves howling under full moons,
Of long summer days beneath oak trees,
And tender frogs gulping water,
And shaggy dogs snapping at buzzing bees,
Of smoky cabins by rippling streams,
And brave knights jousting in front of queens,
And winter forests, dark and fierce,
Full of monsters, but friendly to our little dears

Santa pleaded to stay in on the act,
But the Guardians would not let him back,
And ordered him out, carrying his sack

Hey!  What’s going on here!
None of that’s true!
Enough of falsity from this abuser of poetry,
Fourth-rate at best,
With his rhyming in jest of me and my loyal elves,
I was not given the sack or ordered underground,
The root of this fissure was my decision,
Only a cause of derision amongst the self-righteous    

Oh shut up Santa!
Sorry, I can’t help but be rude,
Let me arrest this poetry back,
So that I may resume this condign attack,
Where was I?  Santa had been sent to Coventry,
A good man deep down would have sought recovery,
No, at this point, the cad swore revenge,
Mouthing curses, he retreated huffily to a secret Henge,
It was on a misty dale, a witch in tow,
Where in the dark of night, incantations they did throw,
Placing a curse on all who cross them further,
Even threatening red-clawed, icy murder

Let this story be a warning,
Beware of Santa, indeed this is your forewarning,
Remember this when your little boy or girl,
Sits on the monster’s knee,
His fingers holding their hair, caressing their curls,
Evil never comes for free,
Though it may be a friend, cuddled up with you on the settee

Remember it all when a Christmas movie is out,
Especially if it features this red-caped lout,
It may seem like a dream,
Of snowy buildings, cherries and cream,
But all is not what it seems,
Beneath the merrymaking is evil’s seed,
Corrupting innocent boys and girls with greed,
Leaving out ale and mince pies,
Is an invitation to partake in lies,
For this warning, I may seem a churl,
But my motivation is the purist pearl

One last time, let me beseech,
Yet it's not that I wish to preach,
Don’t be deceived by his rosy cheeks and jolly cap,
Or his hearty manner and all that pap,
Beneath it all is a sinister plot,
To steal your child’s mind for greed and brainwashing rot

Sinister plot?
What a clot this so-called poet is!
There’s no plot,
Only one man, Santa – That’s me,
And I’m not cutting you a share,
Don’t you even dare ask!
This is my empire, this cushy toymaking gig,
Absolute, exclusive licensing, my lawyers tell me,
To supply shiny goods to all the world’s kids,
Preach all you like, but there’s the reality,
Your mushy children’s minds and hearts are mine,
Give me a fine or any penalty,
To infinity, doesn’t matter,
I’m a rich man and can pay off complainers,
I’ve got legions of lawyers on retainer, to deal with you,
Got proof? I can take a view, it’s a business model, budgeted for,
I can turn the screw

My specialty is children’s dreams,
That’s my scheme and I’m CEO, with a high-tech factory,
My elves are gone, now it’s machines,
That make these shiny goods for purchase,
Reducing high craft to mere routine,
Quality Assurance is the watch word today,
These fine items are beyond question,
Question my motives? An outrage!
I’m an important man in heraldry,
My pedigree is pristine clean,
Talk of my scheme will not be believed! 

What this Santa does not realise,
Is that now he has been serialised,
In this little verse of truth,
That will be dispersed to all the world’s youth,
No-one wants a share of his wealth,
What really matters is heart and health,
And the things that make your heart melt,
Words of verse and joyful songs,
Tenderness and getting along,
The surge of belonging amidst a throng
Are worth more than all the world’s gold,
That in the end is just cold metal bought and sold

Let us close with some clarity,
Love, friendship, and charity,
A man who has those things is rich,
Prince or pauper, he cares not which,
Deep down Santa knows there is a hole,
In a heart that is black as coal,
Longing for the thing that is most sought but cannot be bought,
That reduces all his riches to naught,
For now, he may enjoy his lot,
But when he dies, he will be forgot