As he'd grown older, the whole holiday thing - his whole life - had become terribly depressing and the Season of Light had seemed shabby and dim. He'd gotten into fights, talked back to the nuns, and cheated on his schoolwork and exams - not just at Christmas but all the time. He kept himself warm in his anger at the world that seemed to hate him - it was better than the constant chill of fear and despair.
The year he'd pushed Lindsey Strathorn down the chapel steps on the third Sunday of Advent had marked his first visit from Black Peter. He'd only been reaching for her braids to give them a yank, but it had been too tempting to give a little shove instead - just a little shove. . . . He hadn't meant to break her arm - it wasn't really his fault.
The year he'd started smoking had been the last time he saw the bleak specter of the fiery-eyed man. He'd woken to the rustle of someone's garments in the dark and the thud of a stick against the bedpost. Matthias had jumped from beneath the covers and run screaming into the chapel, turning over the ranks of burning votives and cursing God and the nuns as he bolted out into the snowy Christmas night.
Wandering in the snow-drifted streets in his pajamas, he'd fallen in among wolves of the human kind and pushed his past aside forever, burying it in the darkest part of his mind, along with the death of his parents and the sight of the burning chapel.
At first he had been just the youngest predator in the human pack, but he'd fought and bit and clawed and gouged his way up until he met a bigger, meaner wolf than he was; an inhuman beast that still walked upright like a man. Maybe, he thought, it had been inevitable that he'd end up a werewolf. He hadn't minded. Actually, he'd kind of liked it and taken to it with ferocious glee. He'd had enough of being hungry and poor and hated for no reason at all. He'd be a wolf and he'd never be hungry or cold and no dark man would beat him. And if somebody hated him, they had good reason, and if they feared him - even as a tale in the dark of night - so much the better.
He'd rejected everything he'd learned from the Sisters of Mercy so thoroughly that he hadn't believed there was a Saint Nicholas. The fellow in the sleigh didn't look that much like the jolly fat man of American soda commercials and sidewalk collection kettles - more like the European figurine his German-speaking parents had put on the mantel - so who could blame him for not recognizing the man? Well, he wouldn't make that mistake again. Yet here the fellow was and he had the power to let Matthias fly through the air - if only for one night a year and in the company of bad-tempered reindeer who held grudges. He seemed to have a great many powers and that was interesting. Very interesting indeed . . .
They paused again on a rooftop made of moss-shagged wooden shingles. From below, Matt could detect the odor of sleeping babies and Christmas cookies with hot tea. He watched Kris Kringle closely this time as he stepped down from his sleigh and walked across the rooftops to vanish in a flurry of snow and a sparkle of icy glitter. Matt wasn't quite sure how the trick was done, but he had an idea.
When the jolly old elf and his not-so-jolly companion returned, Matthias cleared his throat and asked, "Just how many children do you visit every year?"
"A few thousand. I'm not sure of the exact number."
"Why not all of them? I thought that's what you did."
"That would be impractical," the red-clad saint replied with a sad nod. "These days I make personal visits only to certain children - the ones for whom hope, charity, and comfort are the greatest need."
"What about the rest?" Matt growled. "Don't they deserve that stuff, too?"
"Of course they do. But I've a great many helpers and no need for me to try and visit every child. There are over six billion people on the planet now, you know."
"That many?"
Santa nodded. "That many. Of course, many of them don't believe in me and I cannot enter where there is no memory or belief in me - even just the memory of belief, as you have, Mattie. Atheism and pragmatism have cut into my old territory, and of course, there's also commercialism."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"Oh no. Who do you think started it? All that Christmas buying frenzy and advertising - the commercialism of Christmas that so many decry - has lightened my workload tremendously. Every hopeful, believing child who receives a gift bought by their parents and labeled 'From Santa' is still, in a way, receiving a gift from me. It's the Spirit of Christmas that's important, not the size or the origin of the gift."
"Seems like a con job to me," Matthias muttered.
Sinterklaas stroked his beard and climbed into the sleigh. "Seems to be working out all right. I hadn't taken you for such a traditionalist, Mattie."
"I'm not," the werewolf growled and started to say more.
Santa Claus shook his head and picked up the reins. "We can talk as we go, but we have a great deal yet to do, my furry friend. Trot on!" And he snapped the reins, urging the team up into the sky once more.
They ran between the stars and the earth, and Matthias paused a moment to snap at a bit of stardust that sprinkled from above and hauled the sleigh up and around into a huge, swooping loop - just to see if the red-coated man and his load of gifts would fall out. But Saint Nicholas only clung like a limpet to his seat and laughed, "Ho, ho, ho! Excellent, Mattie!"
As they raced ahead of the terminator, the weather became damp and misty, though none of the team or the driver seemed bothered by the cold. The fog, however, was a different matter.
"Oh dear," muttered Sunnercla. "Now I do miss Rudolph - that nose of his lit the way through even the densest fog. I hope we won't get lost in this murk."
"I have a nose," Matt objected.
"And it's lovely, but it's not exactly casting light in the darkness, dear boy. How will we find the houses of the deserving children if I can't see them?"
"I'll bet I could smell them out," Matthias said.
"Really? Well . . . most of them do leave me cookies but there're a lot of cookies around this time of year."
"And hope. You said your special children have hope."
"Yes. And belief. But those don't have a smell."
"Oh yes they do," the werewolf said, remembering. "Hope smells like despair before it goes sour. Belief smells like candle wax and incense. And I smell that right now." He also smelled the odors of sleeping children and gingerbread and fir boughs near a wood fire. He was sure that only a house full of Christmas could smell like that - all the others had - but he didn't say so. Rider had his tricks, but so did Matthias and he wasn't going to let on that the Christmas Cheer had made his nose as magical as his flying paws.