Hi Friends,
With all the tumult and uncertainty in our world, I was moved to create a gift of a little extra comfort this holiday season. My hope is that you’ll curl up by your fireplace, or a heater, with a favorite pet, or a favorite loved one, or just take a break from crazy family times, grab your earbuds and excuse yourself to listen for a few minutes. Let the words and sounds wash over you, and enjoy this one night where everything goes just right.
I’m curious what you think happens after Santa leaves to make his deliveries? This party is an elf tradition—what traditions are meaningful to you this time of year?
Because in 2024 I’ve been blessed to record so many new audiobooks, I created an audio recording of this story as well. My lovely husband, Brandon Jones, who is multi-talented and generous, edited the story, adding sound effects and music to make it all the more magical.
Whether or not you believe in Santa (though you really should), enjoy this cozy holiday tale of Gertie (aka, Mrs. Claus) and her elf friends.
Happiest holiday wishes to you all. May we have peace on earth, and may each of us do our part to bring it about.
A Good Night
Story Written and Narrated by Amanda Troop
Produced and Edited by Brandon Jones
© 2024 [Amanda Troop/Andromeda Productions]
By the time the last hoof vanished into the cloud bank, even before the jingling bells stopped echoing, the elves cut loose. Gertie watched this from the warmth of the kitchen, her breath fogging the window. The younger elves threw their hats, embraced and kissed, popped crackers and fizzy drinks. The older elves mopped their brows, laughed, shook their heads. Gertie took her hands, which were warm, but not soft–they were worker’s hands and she was proud of them–and she rubbed them over her face. A deep gingerbread scented breath, in through her nose, out through her bow-shaped mouth. Gertie stepped to the door, and threw it wide. “Okay kids–get your little sparkle-butts in here. Soup’s on.”
One by one the oldest elves made their way through the dense snow to the kitchen door. Each one reached only to her knee, their hats adding another foot, but they doffed them at the door, hanging them on the white birch pegs that lined the entryway wall. Their snowshoes and curl-toed slippers were removed too, thrown in respective piles. The slippers would get washed and dried before they were used again.
Gertie had already set the long, low table. A huge pine tree was felled to make it many years ago, and a cross section was sliced out, bark left on, the wood polished to a natural sheen, the golden rings of the tree like candy stripes leading to the glowing center. Across its length, a linen table runner, dyed spruce green. Wooden bowls were placed at intervals, filled with hard seeded rolls, soft buttery buns, and thin cheese laden breadsticks. Butter-keepers were placed open, along with jars of creamy honey.
The stoneware dishes were mismatched but comforting, heavy at each place. Making them had been laborious, but Gertie liked to have her hands deep in the clay, liked the slip slick of it spinning on the potter's wheel. She and Nick had connected over making things: they both loved to be part of creating, and neither could find a way to stop. Giving it all away was the only thing that ever made sense, to either of them.
To make the stew, you needed to raid the root cellar. Carrots, parsnips, onions, garlic, turnips and rutabaga, sweet and yellow potatoes. Bouquets of dried herbs, slow simmered stock, just a little bit of hot pepper, all of this went in. The elves were vegetarians; so too was the stew. But where they abstained from meat, they more than doubled their indulgences in drink. Gertie pulled out the old brandy first, pouring literal thimbles-full for each elf.
For a long time the only sound was the slurping of stew, the scraping of wooden spoons on the bottom of bowls, the tearing of bread. The bottle got passed around a second time, then a third. Plipton let out a tiny burp, and soon the other elves joined in a chorus of belches that ended in laughter.
“Trying to cause an avalanche, eh Plips?” joked Nelia, who’s rosy cheeks were nearly glowing red under her tufty white hair.
“Better snow down than snowed in!” Plipton rebutted gleefully.
“Give us a toast then, Renrick!” barked Gaspail, a leathery fellow who’s beard had dripped in his stew, which he now sopped up with his napkin. The other elves pounded their wee fists on the table, making a sound like a herd of mice.
Renrick put out his hands, placating the gathering, and then pushed his stool back and got to his feet, which neither decreased nor increased his height.
“To all the Christmases heretofore gone, to those that are yet to come, to the young and the young at heart, we toast you!”
“We toast you!” Plimpton roared, jumping to the top of his stool.
The other elves rose to their feet, raised their thimbles, and downed the drink. Gaspail pulled his old bow-string from his knapsack and pushed his stool nearer the cast iron stove. He began to play a song that no-one could call a known carol but still pulled at the heart in the same way–it sounded of nostalgia and childhood and belief. Soon Larkspur pulled out her mouth harp, and Darby her spoons, and the music began in earnest.
Gertie threw another log in the stove and let the elves get on with it. She’d poured herself a generous measure of the brandy, and then pulled the keg of vintage ale out from where she and Nick had hidden it. This batch had juniper berries and fir sap mixed in–it was heady and herby and strong enough to take down a bear. The elves would consider it a tipple. Sparing a glance outside, she noticed that the great wine cask had been rolled out to the frozen pond. She knew the young elves would be roasting nuts in sugar and cinnamon, and sipping the spiced wine, hot. Little bonfires had broken out all along the village path, and shadowed by their glow, the elves danced, kissed, and made very merry.
She didn’t have to excuse herself from the gathering–Gertie was no host, neither expected to entertain nor stay, and she certainly wasn’t a mother to the elves. She was their friend, but now wasn’t her time to be with them. This was the rare night of the year when there was no work to do, no Nicholas to impress. She liked to let them be.
The large double-paned windows of the house’s living area faced out toward the tundra. A green glow spilled in from the aurora, dancing on the floor and walls, mingling with the firelight. Gertie settled herself on the sofa, kicked off her slippers, and pulled a wool blanket over her lap. One of the many cats jumped on her lap… this one was Trinket, she thought. There were really too many. The elves loved them, would ride around on their backs, and they were good at keeping mice from gnawing the wood shavings in the workshop. Gertie looked up toward the rough hewn log that marked the mantle over the fireplace. No stockings for the kids this year. She and Nick were used to being empty-nesters by now, but she had to admit that having your kids tell you they wanted to have Christmas at their place, when their father was who he is? Well, it made her feel a bit low. A quiet Christmas then. Maybe they would fly out after the big day.
Gertie sipped her drink, scratched the cat, who purred, and looked at the photos and paintings that covered the white pine walls. Nick had told her he wanted a big family. It was big alright. Kids, grandkids, a few great grandchildren now. All spread out over the world. In the hearth, the log burned. It never had to be fed, this fire, it just started up after the autumn equinox and burned until spring. Some things in life were predictable like that, but most were not.
As if her thoughts made it happen, the phone began to ring. Gertie pushed herself up off the couch, sending Trinket scampering across the woven rug. The phone was a Thomas edition, wall mounted, rotary. Reliable. They’d tried for electricity and using satellite signals, but nothing worked better than the old stuff. Gertie took a tiny sip of her drink, and then picked up the receiver. There was always the tiniest chance that Nick might be stranded somewhere–weather running too bad, reindeer wanting to graze on forestops for too long, or, her greatest fear, a collision with an aircraft. But when Gertie answered, it was the voice of Petra, a granddaughter, on the phone.
“Grandma!”
“Hello, darling,” Gertie exclaimed. “Merry Christmas Eve!”
“Merry Christmas, g’ma,” Petra cooed. “Is grandpa there?”
In the background she could hear the older child, Lincoln, chiding, “He won’t be there, Petra, I told you, he’s Santa.”
“Is that for real?” Petra again. “Is grandpa there or not?”
“Oh no, honey. He’s out for the evening.”
For a moment, nothing but breathing down the line. Little shallow breaths, and Gertie could tell Petra was thinking, pondering. Gertie had done this with every grandchild. Each one had to find out their own way, that Santa Claus was real. But they also had to keep wondering, questioning the adults in their lives. Keeping the grown-ups on their toes.
Finally: “Is he out with reindeer?”
Gertie chuckled, “He may be. I haven’t checked the barn. It’s possible.”
“And, and… is the sleigh gone?”
“Why, you know what? I just noticed that it is!”
In the cottage, a loud crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of elves clearing the floor to dance. The sound startled Gertie, and pulled her mind to Christmas Eves past, the festive sounds not just of elves but of children tumbling and dancing. The elven music spilled into the room, and Gertie tapped her toes in time with the song, hummed under her breath.
“Grandma, are you there?” Petra’s voice, plaintive.
“Oh yes, sweetness, I’m here.”
“So, is grandpa, you know? Is he?”
“Darling, I think you know.” Another crash in the kitchen, which meant it was time to move the elders out to town center to join the others. “But right now, it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“Wait, grandma! What’s grandpa’s favorite kind of cookie?”
Ahhh, she was catching on. “Did your mother make hörnchen this year? Or thumbprints?”
“Yes, she made both!” Gertie was glad. All her kids learned to bake, because of course they did. But sometimes making the old recipes took too much time and care.
“Make sure you put one of each out,” Gertie said, leaning her back against the wall by the phone. “Can you put your mother on?”
“Goodnight, I love you,” came the hurried reply, the sound of the phone clattering down, little feet running. Farther off she heard Petra calling to Lincoln, telling him which cookies to put out, and his knowing replies. She heard the phone being picked up again, and then her daughter’s warm voice calling after her children, Who left the phone off the hook? You’d better get in bed, Santa’s coming. Oh, I think I hear bells! The shriek of children’s laughter, the click of the line as she hung up the phone.
Gertie sighed. She and Nick had been good parents, she thought. Loving. But maybe having to care for all the children in the world every year, well, maybe that brought about a little distance at times. She decided she’d convince Nick that they’d visit the next day. After lunch, so they could sleep in.
A gust of cold air blew in down the hall, and Gertie marched into the kitchen. The elders were there, singing a doleful song about an elf that had been frozen in ice 1000 years and awoke to find his beloved had married another, and some youngsters were rolling the old vintage ale keg out through the door. Snow was tracked-in all over the floor, and she spotted two younglings creeping up the old pine ladder to the loft. The loft above the kitchen was a wonderful place, the kids used to love to sleep up there, among all the herbs drying in the rafters. But she didn’t like to find elves up there–they had their own beds at home they could use for merry making. She grabbed the closest by his suspenders and held him up. His legs kicked but she kissed him on the forehead and set him down by the door.
“Time to go, my friends! Your welcome is warm but this party has grown too hot–take it down to the pond with the others.”
The elders grabbed hats, fresh slippers, and snowshoes and scooted out the door, the singing and music accompanying them. Old Renrick reached up and grabbed one of Gertie’s fingers, and with a bow and flourish, planted a kiss on the tip.
“Join us, Gertie! The old man won’t be back until dawn. I haven’t seen you on skates all season.”
“Skates!” Gertie laughed, “you want to see me fall on the ice again like I did last year? I think I’m getting too old!”
Renrick just shook his head. “Don’t talk to me about old until you’ve crested 100. I’m asking you to be young.”
Gertie thought on it for only a moment longer, then downed the last of her brandy and pulled her own coat off its peg. A lovely velvet thing, crimson, with white fur trim, and fur lining, a matching hat and scarf. The elves had given it to her. Had made it, Gertie thought, but it was very old. Had been restitched and repaired many times. A pair of wooden clogs waited by the door, and she slid her wool-socked feet inside. Renrick gave a wink and a toboggan appeared. Even after so many years, Gertie still was amazed by the magic of this place. She climbed aboard and let Renrick steer them down to the pond.
As they glided down the village path, Gertie looked up to the giant clockwork sun and moon that topped the workshop at the center of the tiny town. The elves lived in cottages that wrapped around the pond, and the workshop was behind it, a beautiful two-story building that seemed truly giant to the elves. The clock gave them the feeling of day and night, which was especially needed during the long winter, when day never broke at all. The sun would rise on the clock and a golden radiance would cover the little town, as true and glorious as the real thing. At night the fairy lights bloomed brightly on strings tied to poles and rooftops. Their home was always suffused in light, always aglow and luminous.
When the toboggan stopped at the pond, an elf child (up past her bedtime) ran up to Gertie and gave her a set of newly polished and sharpened skates. Gertie pulled them on while laughing as a family of foxes spun wildly around on the ice. The elves glided with no effort at all–they had been born into winter, and learned to skate as they learned to walk. A cup of hot wine was thrust into Gertie’s hands, and before she knew it she was on her feet, making her rotations around the pond. Above them the stars were like bright windows to heaven.
More animals made their way to the pond’s edge–a polar bear, a few adolescent reindeer, several cats, a warren of snowshoe hares. Eventually, the elves at the edges started to drift away in pairs, in family groups, or even some alone, singing softly to themselves as they trudged to their homes through the snow. All around her, the sound of cottage doors closing. Across the town, fires were kindled in hearths, sending thin plumes of smoke from tiny chimneys.
Renrick skated by and took Gertie’s hand. They glided together, as they’d done since she’d come to this place, so many years ago. He tilted his old wrinkled face up toward hers, smiled and winked. She squeezed his tiny hand in hers. Gertie felt light and young, very young indeed.
It was so late as it was actually early by the time Gertie made her way back to their cottage. Most of the elves had wandered off to their beds, or to find beds, though a few still sat by fires and sang. Even as morning approached, it would still be dark, well until March, but the clockwork sun had begun to emit a predawn light.
Inside her kitchen, Gertie saw the dishes had been washed and stacked on their shelves. The floor had been swept. The fire in the stove still burned, but had been tamped down low. A kettle bubbled with hot water. Gertie poured some into her hot water bottle, which she then wrapped in an old mohair scarf. In the living room, the one log still blazed, as it always did. She looked at the pictures of her children, and their children, all framed and on the mantle and walls of the room. She whispered, “I love you,” then lowered the lamps until the only glow came from the hearth.
In the bedroom, Gertie pulled off her layers of clothing, even her wool long underwear. She bathed in the basin, brushed her teeth and hair. She pulled on a set of flannel pajamas and crawled under the down tick comforter. She loved how it crinkled, and her toes sought out her hot water bottle that she’d nestled at the foot of the bed. Finally, Gertie turned down her bedside lamp. The sheets smelled like woodsmoke and cinnamon and old growth forests. Gertie began to dream. In her dream she was a girl.
She never heard the sleigh bells. But she did feel cold toes find her warm ones under the cover, the tickle of beard on her cheek.
All is calm? Gertie murmured.
All is bright. Merry Christmas, darling.
Merry Christmas.
© 2024 [Amanda Troop/Andromeda Productions]
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