By Josh Kazali and Sona Wink
Affirmative:
HARK! Do ye seek Santa Claus? Aye, I’ve seen the white beard. Sit down, ye shivering boy, and I’ll tell ye a story which shall drench thy cheeks pale to the bone. Quick, to the fire! This be a story more chilling than the iciest winds of the polar North. Have ye stockings? Have ye cocoa? Look about and tremble, for here be the story of that damned Saint Nick and his sack laden with hellish holiday cheer.
’Twas the night before Christmas. Aye, that hallowed night which fast approaches us now, a frosty night not so unlike this one. My mighty vessel, The Bwequod, was deep in the arctic circle, seven months since leaving the safe shores of Manhattan. Not a creature was stirring, not even Mouse, my best harpooneer, whose lazy snores shook the ancient oak planks. The crew had turned in to sleep through the polar winds and rough waters, and visions of sugar shrimp danced through their flea-bitten heads. (What? Never had sugar shrimp? Briny prawns boiled hot in sugar water—a delicacy of the open sea.)
Thy captain, however, was not slumbering that night. From my telescope in the captain’s cabin, I was searching the northern skies for any sign of my sworn elfish enemy. My rugged sailors falsely believed that our voyage was in search of that renowned purple dolphin, Toby Blick. Nay, that plum porpoise bore no import to me—not compared to Kris Kringle, the jolly imp of the North Pole.
Since I was a boy I had heard of his mythic deeds: his sack filled to the brim with priceless loot, his mighty sleigh pulled by eight tremendous steeds, his pearly white beard which so cloaked him like a fur. Many a cold December eve I kept vigil until the wee hours, waiting for the arrival of the great sooty man. And year after year, I fell victim to that damn sandman of sleep, only to wake and find that Santa Claus had swindled me under my very nose. Blast! He left his gracious gifts, and, as if mocking me, munched the cookies and drank thirstily the glass of milk which I had set to entice him. What greedy generosity is this!
Yet, more than simple childish fantasy, it was my unquenchable desire to interrogate that sooty sleighman for the unknowable, unthinkable, most delicious and devious secret: the meaning of Christmas. Aye, here be my innermost motive, that which fuelled me to brave the dark night of Christmas Eve. If any man knew that hidden truth, it would surely be old Father Christmas himself, trapped somewhere in that mangled knot of a white beard.
A noise suddenly jolted me from my wandering thoughts—the rumbling noise of hooves. To the window I flew like lightning, and there beheld that mighty sleigh and the eight reindeer of legend. I reached for my harpoon—for no man knows what vengeance Saint Nick might lash upon his onlooker—and dashed for the quarter deck. Like a great tempest, I stormed onto the deck to find my foe standing there, just below the main mast, in all his rotund majesty.
His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! Aye, ’tis true, the droll little mouth to that laugh, the belly like a bowl full of jelly—thy rumors are confirmed. Most of all, that prodigy of plumage, that beard of pure milky white, of whiteness which fell in droves from the chin. I tell ye, lad, it froze my blood. I was in no mood for laughter. I roared with righteous wrath: “Santa Claus! I know ye, and I do not fear ye! Tell me, thou mammoth, monstrous elf: What be the meaning of Christmas?”
Father Christmas, the lily-livered, spineless lord of the North, said nothing. He winked at me with shining black pupils, paralyzing me in trembling ecstasy and fear. Carrying on with his work, he filled my deck with presents from his great peddlers pack. To spite me, he left great bundles of gifts for me and my crew—an excellent pair of wool socks which I wear as we speak. Yet, though I stood shaking with fury, Saint Nicholas looked at me with glee and placed a single finger to his nose. What secret knowledge did this simple gesture contain? What private significance did he intend to convey? I know not. Santa shot up the mast to the top of the crow’s nest, where his magnificent barge of the sky lay in wait.
I climbed up the mast with reckless abandon, vaulting to the crow’s nest. I screamed into the winds, “Since the meaning of Christmas cannot be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned Santa!” In desperation, I threw my harpoon with fiery wrath at his magic sleigh. It clattered harmlessly off the vessel’s wooden side.
I felt bitter, hateful tears sting my cheeks as the jolly man gave a whistle to his reindeer. The polar winds whipped hard against my flesh, roaring in my ear and blowing salty snow into my battered eyes. Kris Kringle had left me forsaken once again. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight: “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Curse you, Santa Claus! I have seen ye, and I do not wish to see ye again.
Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina
Negative:
Dear brother,
A fortnight has passed since our crew touched off aboard The Bwequod & I fear I may never see home again. I doubt, dear brother, that this message will ever reach you. I oft think of the long evenings I spent at supper with you & Jane, evenings of revelry, discussing all sorts of wondrous things, and the hilarity of discovering little Tim stuffing his face with lard in the pantry-room, thinking himself alone—O, what laughs we had!
Alas, those warm days are behind me. I write to you from my “quarters,” which, I quickly realized upon boarding The Bwequod, is a storage closet. I sleep on a pile of empty barley-flour sacks & write upon a barrel. Sometimes the men need the sacks in the middle of the eve & toss me from my “bed” & take the sacks. I believe that at first they did so out of a genuine need for sacks, but have since begun to harass me for entertainment. For they know I will not put up a fight—as you know, from birth I have had a fragile constitution. The Men, a gang of rogues, put me in a sack and swing me around until I shriek (& I inevitably do). Sometimes they take me to the kitchen and pretend I am barley-flour (for the sacks once contained barley-flour); they put me in a cast-iron pan and sprinkle salt on me. Smee, the wittiest, calls me “flour-boy” (I do appreciate the wisecrack). Mouse, a roguish harpooneer, calls me “the silly fellow we put in a sack” (he is not particularly imaginative, nor fine with words). I know, in my heart, that they commit these cruelties because they are fearful for their future, as I am, for the Captain is a RAVING MADMAN.
I was told, after setting sail, that the Captain sought to kill an infamous dolphin. This was all well & good for my purposes—I sought to catalog the natural wonders of the arctic circle. On land, the Captain was congenial. He told me he was happy to have a Man of Science like myself aboard the ship. He promised me a lofty, comfortable bedchamber (a pompous lie, I came to learn). We were to cast anchor Dec. 1. When I asked if we would be back in time for Christmas, the Captain let out an eerie chuckle and whispered, “Oh yes ... I’ve never forgotten Christmas.” I left our meeting with an abiding sense of dread.
On board, it quickly became clear to me that the Captain was not, in fact, seeking the infamous Toby Blick. We tore past dolphin sanctuaries day after day; the Captain was reckless with his direction. He stood red-eyed and unblinking at the wheel, his beard frosted, day in and day out. His blue lips formed a steely, trembling line. He referred constantly to his compass, and made every effort to go North, North, and further North (despite the fact that dolphins prefer warmer waters). This was a man on a monomaniacal mission.
The situation deteriorated on Christmas Eve. My “bedchamber” lay below the Captain’s quarters. That night, I was adjusting the barley-grain sacks into a sleep-nest, as usual, when I heard Captain dash, heavy-footed, across his quarters and toward the deck. I threw on my jacket and rushed to the deck to see what the fuss was about.
There I saw the disheveled Captain standing, fully nude, shouting nonsense. He was irate at someone, yet there was not a soul on the deck besides himself & I. He began to weep. Snot poured from his red nose; his pale body trembled. Suddenly, he grabbed a harpoon and scurried, like a devilish lobster, to the crow’s nest, from which he hurled the instrument toward the black sea with a furious cry. (The wind was so strong that his flesh-harpoon flapped between his legs like a flag at half-mast.) I scurried back to my sack-nest, desperately seeking to avoid the man. It is where I write now.
What I do not understand, dear brother, is what I heard him scream from the crow’s nest: he cursed the name of Santa. All I know is that I saw no Saint Nicholas on board—just a shivering, flaccid lunatic.
As the icy sea breaks upon the ship’s hull and the captain cries profanities into the bleak night sky, I feel prone to honesty, for I doubt that I will live to deliver you this letter. I will admit to you, dear brother, a secret I have long harbored: My longtime bedfellow, Sebastian, was not merely my friend. Our friendship was Special. It was Special in the sense that we engaged in frequent butt-fucking and other acts that I lack names for. & I love him.
I will never see my dear Sebastian again, nor you, because I am trapped at the whim of a raving madman. So much for the Christmas spirit.
Sincerely,
Your adoring, ill-fated brother.
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