"I don't want to help you. I think my Christmas Cheer has worn off," Matt muttered.
"But don't you like running through the night sky?"
Actually he did, very much, but he only shrugged, not trusting the old red-coated fake.
"Do you really want to strand the sleigh and the reindeer here? To disappoint all the other children I have to visit tonight? Would that be fair?"
Matt grumbled. He didn't care - well, he didn't. But maybe a little more running through the sky . . .
"I don't know," he muttered. "You weren't very fair to me. What do I get out of it?"
He could tell Rider didn't like that, but he figured he had the fellow by the short fur now. The sunrise was inevitable and the terminator crept toward them inexorably. If the Bishop of Myrna wanted to get home before it caught them, he'd have to make a deal.
Saint Nick heaved one more sigh and got to his feet. "All right. . . . You've got me over a barrel, Matthias. What's your condition?"
The werewolf sat up and shook his fur back down, grooming a little just for the delay. Then he said, "I want the recipe for Christmas Cheer."
"Christmas Cheer? But that only works once a year!"
"That's all right. I can be content with running through the skies once a year. It's not bad."
"Is that all?"
"Yup. Well . . . and directions out of the North Pole because that place is crazy."
Santa stroked his beard and said, "All right. It's a deal. So long as you get us back to Christmas House before dawn."
"And the recipe had better work!"
"I guarantee it will - on my word as Father Christmas. But only on Christmas Eve, remember."
"That's fine." The werewolf stood back up in the harness and shook his fur into place. "Give me a little more Christmas Cheer for right now and let's go!"
Another handful of the glittering magical dust was presented and drizzled over him while Saint Nicholas muttered his magic words. Then the man in red and his dark henchman settled themselves in the sleigh and Matt and the reindeer took off.
They raced against the creeping sunrise, dashing for the last of the houses full of worthy, sleeping children, and every time they stopped, Matthias paid close attention to what Pere Noel did. He always put his mittened hand to his face, said something, and then vanished into the snowy uproar of Christmas magic at work.
Finally Matthias asked, "How do you do that? The chimney trick, that is? How do you get in and out?"
"Mattie, we don't have time for a long discussion. We're running a bit late as it is."
"I'm not. I have all the time in the world."
"Oh, all right, I'll tell you. If I say the right words and breathe in a pinch of Christmas Cheer, I can pass through anything - I become the Spirit of Christmas itself for a few minutes. It doesn't last very long, so I have to make my trips quickly or work the spell again."
"Oh! So that's what that poet-fellow meant in the 'Night Before Christmas'! I thought he just meant you were winking at him."
"Poet-fellow . . . Oh, you mean Clement Moore who wrote 'A Visit From St. Nicholas.' Yes, yes . . . 'laying a finger aside of his nose . . .' That's what it was," Saint Nick agreed.
"Ech . . . snorting cookie dust," Matt said with a shudder. "That's disgusting." Though not quite as disgusting as some of the things he'd done in wolfskin, Matthias thought. Then he grinned a smug, wolf grin; it was just as he'd suspected.
"Well, the job's not all sugar plums and Christmas cake, Mattie."
Was it his imagination, or did the old saint seem tired and cranky? Surely Santa didn't get grumpy. . . . He was supposed to be perpetually jolly. But it was getting pretty late and even the reindeer had given up any extra expenditure of energy. Matt had noticed they had stopped trying to bite long ago and begun to pull along willingly with him, not just to show him up or get revenge. Maybe they were starting to get used to him, after all, and that was just fine with him.
Matt shrugged and waited for the crack of the whip or the flick of the reins to signal it was time to move once again, and they took to the sky in a flurry of hooves and paws.
As they finished their rounds, the edge of the sun flared on the eastern horizon like prairie fire. Saint Nicholas turned the team sharply north and urged them to run for their lives into the polar darkness. And run they did, for they were now airborne and the nighttime terminator was as deadly as any assassin robot. If the sun touched them, they would tumble to the ground with all the aerodynamic grace of flung rocks.
They dashed for the north with their hearts in their mouths, ripping at the blue-black sky with their hooves and paws. Matthias could feel the bubbly sensation of the Christmas Cheer fading, dulling the brightness of color, stealing the extraordinary scents from his nose, and letting the chill of the perpetual winter touch him even through his thick wolfen pelt. He pulled and pulled, ran and ran, sinking toward the earth. . . .
And stumbled to the snowy ground with a thud and a tumble. The reindeer skidded to a stop behind him, tugging him to a sliding halt with the weight of their bodies. He picked himself up, shaking off the snow, and looked around. He could see the edge of Christmas House and the elves trotting across the snow to help them. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The elves clustered around them, unharnessing the team, dragging away the sleigh, helping Matthias out of the modified straps of his own harness. They led the reindeer back to their stockade and helped Santa Claus - who seemed suddenly very old and frail - toward the house. Matthias trotted after them.
"Would you like a bite to eat or a hot drink, Mattie?" the Bishop of Myrna asked as they flopped down in front of a roaring fire in his living room.
"Oh, no. I should get going."
"Are you sure? It's been a long, hard night - you did very good work."
Matt scratched himself, yawned, and stretched, then stood up. "It has been a long night, but I'd rather be on my way. After you give me my present, that is."
Saint Nicholas frowned, but he got up and left the room, returning with a piece of paper and a small bag that he offered to the werewolf. "Here it is. The bag has the recipe and a few ingredients you may have difficulty finding out of season. Make it up fresh in the morning of the day before Christmas and it should be just fine. The directions out of the North Pole's influence are on the paper." He looked a little wistful as he added, "I do wish you'd stay a little while, though. We might have much to talk about. . . ."
"No thanks," Matthias replied. He took the bag and the paper and carried them off into the darkness of Christmas Day.