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"So then we're not really saving Christmas then, are we?" the fairy princess Magweed asked as the three of them tromped through the crusty snowpack. Despite the fact that she was wearing only her bedclothes (an oversized flannel nightshirt, leggings and big, fuzzy, purple slippers--plus a long striped scarf which Zebulon had offered her from his pack,) she was surprisingly comfortable in the harsh environment. She did, however, wrap her arms about her body and tuck in her hands in deference to the impressive dreamland glacial landscape, which she wouldn't want to offend by taking for granted.
"Well, okay... maybe not the holiday..." Zebulon the elf conceded, his arms held out from his body to keep his balance on the slick surface. "I know that it's not something that's celebrated in the Mythlands , so you'll have to believe me when I tell you that the more secular legends and trappings of it are still a big deal in the mortal world. In fact, the North Pole operation is the only aspect of Faerie that that parents still teach their children to believe in. Well, okay... maybe the whole tooth collecting operation too... but don't you find that kind of creepy? I mean, sneaking into children's bedrooms and paying them off for a discarded body part? Ghoulish, I say. Santa, he only sneaks into the house once a year... and not into anyone's bedroom. Those tabloid rumors have no basis in fact, I'll have you know... Paris is so not his type. Now, Mrs. Fields the cookie Mogul... maybe I could see him getting tempted. But he's a one-woman jolly old elf, I assure you..."
"Why are we walking?" Griffin grumbled, his talons crunching the frozen tundra. "If this is my dream, we so should be flying. I'm sure I could get airborne carrying the two of you... I just need to run downhill a bit to pick up speed..."
Zebulon snorted. "I'll pass, thanks... I heard about your last flight. Word is there's still an imprint of your face in the beach."
Griffin's feathered head shot up. "You... heard about that?"
The elf shrugged modestly. "I, um... have an in with elfin intelligence. Those naughty and nice lists are very thorough, with the whole "sees you when you're sleeping... knows when you're awake..." thing."
The beaked boy nodded and rolled his eyes. "Yeah... and the Tooth Fairy is the creepy operation"
"Hmmmph" Zebulon replied. "In any event, we're just using your dream to keep the three of us together while we travel northward through the dreams of other people. It's really the quickest way to the North Pole and the gate to the Mythlands there."
The lion/eagle/boy looked around him. "This isn't my dream any more? Then whose is it?"
"That guy's" the elf noted, pointing to an ice fisherman hunched over a small hole in the surface of a frozen lake. He was struggling mightily with the line as something gargantuan took his bait. "Murry Felderman of Edmonton, Alberta. Nice guy... has this dream every night, but never lands the fish."
Magweed waved a polite hello to the man, but he never looked up from his catch. She glanced instead to their tiny elfin guide "Why do you keep looking behind us?" she asked curiously, looking back herself. "Are you expecting someone to follow us?"
"Er... no reason. Of course I'm not" the elf flushed guiltily. "I'm on a perfectly valid mission to save Christmas."
"Secular Christmas" Griffin reminded him.
"Right" Zebulon agreed. "No reason to encourage angry letter writers" he added cryptically. "Anyway, you'd be surprised how much Mythland politics are involved in that side of the holiday."
Magweed wasn't so sure she would be. "What is it Poppa always says about politics, Griff?"
Her brother cocked his head to the side. "Well... it's kind of this muffled, moaning sound..." he answered. "Although Sir Mumphrey tends to use phrases with various combinations of "bloody", "bounders" and "right sound thrashing" mixed with more colorful bits we're not supposed to repeat."
"Well, same thing here... only with politicians that are ageless, and so likely even more stubborn and crooked" Zebulon reasoned. "It's like this... Magic isn't supposed to work outside of Faerie any more... at least not the kind of magic that we're talking about. Most of the Fey magic that's still in the modern world is either there by special dispensation of the Queene , or is the work of renegades and exiles. In short, Santa has to be licensed to run his North Pole workshop, with unionized elfin labor and all magic imported through Mythland trade agreements."
"Okay" Magweed nodded, following so far.
"The problem is that the mortal realms aren't too popular in Faerie court right now... What with all that trouble with the Parody Master, the general consensus is that we should be stockpiling all of our magic in case of future invasion, and not exporting it in a money-losing venture to bring toys to a world full of people that don't believe in us any more. Some of the loudest voices on the Queene's council are the Isolationists. If they get their way, Santa would be cut off. No more oats to make the reindeer fly. No more time-displacement sleigh." He sighed. "No more fairy dust for dreamy elves to sprinkle..."
"Dreamy elves?" Griffin asked.
"Er... what?" Zebulon replied. "Did I say that last part out loud?"
"Yes" Magweed confirmed absently, chewing on her lip as she considered things. "So how do we help?"
"Well, that's simple..." Zebulon said, puffing up his chest. "We go into the dreams of the Isolationists and we try to talk them out of voting to recall Santa at the next council meeting!" He smiled triumphantly. "Santa gets to stay in business, the children of the world get their secular Christmas traditions, and the very hard-working and deserving elves don't lose their jobs and get reassigned to miserable desk assignments in remote kingdoms where I'll... er, few will ever see them again." He gestured hesitantly as he continued walking. "Okay, so maybe the Isolationists weren't willing to hear my arguments when I approached them on my own before... but you're a Fairy Princess! They'll have to grant you an audience! And really, politicians are all about the quid pro quo ... they really just want to cut off contact with the mortal realm because it isn't benefiting their districts in any way. But if we can add a little pork to the trade agreement for them, I'm sure they'll come around."
"They can't find pigs to eat in the Mythlands?" Maggie asked, feeling a bit lost now.
"Wait a minute..." Griffin interjected. "Santa sent you on a mission to bribe the Queene's council?"
"Er... well... not exactly. I'm more of an independently concerned citizen. And bribe is an ugly word... It's really more of a negotiation."
"And the Queene of Faerie..." the feathered twin continued shrewdly, "She's going to be okay with Maggie of all people trying to influence her closest advisers?"
"Ah... um..." Zebulon hemmed, tugging at his collar. "That's where things might get a bit delicate..."
to be continued
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 [Previously: Cinderbelle the Christmas Fairy and Dancer are roaming through people’s dreams trying to track Cindy’s accidental husband Zebulon the Elf, who has “borrowed†Cindy’s dream-stalking fairy dust. Dancer is just pleased it’s not her with the accidental husband for once.]
[The Scene: Smoke is everywhere. Mighty warriors lay sprawled across the landscape, their once-mighty bodies now gory ruins. Small fires burn in the smouldering wreckage of the hall.]
Cinderbelle, with a gasp: What happened here? Some kind of terrible battle?
Dancer, sniffing a fallen warrior’s breath: A party, I’m guessing. Maximum quaffing. Although in Ausgard it’s kind of difficult to tell the difference between a really good party and a small war sometimes.
Cinderbelle: We’re in Ausgard, legendary home of the legendary Ausgardian Gods?
Dancer: Yep. And can I say that was really good exposition narrative you managed there, working vital plot information into the situation without seeming to lecture the readers.
Cinderbelle: We’re in a man’s dream, aren’t we? Look at the proportions of those women. Nobody could really have physiques like those and still be able to stand upright.
Dancer: Um, those are valkyries, and they really look like that. I think they have super-strength for the standing part of their duties. I know for a fact that Brunhilde can strangle a man to death with her bare thighs. There’s a waiting list.
Cinderbelle: So we’re in the dreams of the Legionnaire Donar, right? You think that sneaky sonofahag Zebulon might have hidden out here with my stolen pixie dust? And what have I just trodden in?
Dancer: Well, it’s from inside a god, so it might be kind of sacred. Take comfort in that. I know I’m taking comfort from the fact that you’re not wearing my shoes any more.
Cinderbelle: What are we wearing? Aaagh! Cold iron! Cold iron chainmail and cold iron… eggcups?
Dancer: The secret is not to flex your arms upwards too much. It really hurts if you get your nipples caught between the links. Also, it can be embarrassing having to ask the rest of the cast for help to get them loose.
Cinderbelle: Fairies can’t wear cold iron. We have an allergy! Get it off me!
Dancer: You really might want to reconsider that here in the Hall of Quaffing. Some of the not-quite-passed-out warriors could misunderstand. And what would your husband think then?
Cinderbelle: He is not my husband in anything but a strictly accidental sense of the word. One minute that damn Zebulon’s all “have another ambrosiaâ€Â, the next we’re jumping over the broom and under the buffet table. If I ever find out who spiked the punch with reindeer pee I’m going to send the tooth fairy round with a big bag of sixpences.
Dancer: I don’t see Zebulon round here. We might want to get away before the ogres arrive. And the really big goat carts.
Cinderbelle: Ogres? Goat carts?
Dancer: Well, Donar tends to have a fairly limited list of enthusiasms. Be glad we’ve not run into any Vampire Slayers or Warrior Princesses.
Cinderbelle: Zebulon? Are you hiding out here, you no-good double-crossing orc-breathed good-for-nothing? When I find you you’re going to pay for dragging me through this lurid dreamscape with the smelly hairy warriors draped over the weapons of mass destruction and for stealing my bag of pixie dust when I had a specially heavy night of naughty and nice-ing to get on with and for that whole sequence with the clockwork Snoopys where you… er, never mind.
Dancer, intrigued: Don’t mind me. Carry on. But I think you’re wrong about Donar’s dream though. Look past the smelly hairy warriors and see the rest of it. See the sunrise, breaking over the fresh clean land? The birdsong? The way the light shimmers off the water and the way every lintel is so carefully carved? If only you see past the obvious traits that every man can’t help but have because they’re basically men, there’s a whole lot of other stuff they try so hard to hide.
Cinderbelle, looking round the Hall of All-Quaffing: I don’t see them hiding very much right now. Especially that guy who’s passed out sprawled hanging from the tusks of that huge stuffed pig thing on the wall.
Dancer: What I’m saying is you might want to give Zebulon a second look. I mean sure he’s an obsessive gadget-ridden fabulist with the emotional maturity of a teabag, but… that’s men. If you were only to…
Sound effect: Crashhhh!!!!!!!!!!
Dancer: And queue the ogres, stage left.
Cinderbelle: Ogres? We have to run! Eep!
Dancer: Nah, don’t worry. Remember who’s dream this is. These are just temporary ogres, for sure. Transient ogres. Momentary ogres. [Behind her the ogres are mugged by a Warrior Princess and a Vampire Slayer]
Cinderbelle: It’s pretty clear that Zebulon’s not here. We’d better move on. I need to get out of these eggcups before I need audience participation.
Dancer: No problem. I think that’s another Legionnaire dream I see wafting past right now isn’t it? Let’s take the plunge. And hope that somebody else writes something to catch us. Geronimo!!!!
Continued by some kind person. By tomorrow.
Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2007 reserved by Sarah Shepherdson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2007 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Sarah Shepherdson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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