Chapter 1: The Calendar of Doom on the night of Saint Andrew

It happened on a cold, rainy evening. A solitary crow was croaking in the only tree in the garden of Saint Thomas' Orphanage. Feefee, the children's cat, invited it hungrily to fill her empty stomach, occasionally throwing a look back at the window as she paced softly along the branch.

A shabby dinner had just ended, mostly leaving their hunger unsatisfied. Some of the children had lined up in the window, shouting at Feefee to come back inside. The cat meowed disappointedly, feeling the branch ahead with a soft paw. The crow stared at Feefee with an air of disapproval, then croaked again.

"I wish we had a man around here... Maybe this would start feeling a bit more like a family and a lot less like an orphan house... It would all be better. At least, we've had worse than this, so let's just be thankful."

"What good is it anyway?" one of the girls replied, staring sulkily at the woman.

"Oh, Jena," answered the old lady. "I know it all seems quite hopeless, my darling, especially with the new little one we found outside the door, yesterday evening, but I'm positively sure somebody will—"

"Somebody won't," answered the girl. "We're running out of food, and clothes, and here's another mouth to feed, and—"

"I thought about calling him Andrew," the old woman interfered. There was an aura of hope and possibilities around her that frightened Jena and her ever logical way of thinking.

"Listen," whispered the girl. "You said the same about each and every one of them. You said the same about Timothy, remember? And he's still here, ten years of age and growing ever older. I just don't see how we can manage to feed all—"

At that moment, little Timmy left the broken swinging chair in which he had been resting and broke into a run. He didn't know where to go and he didn't really know what to do. It seemed very much like he was about to get thrown out or forsaken somewhere far away from this place that he had never really liked to call home.

A soft-paced rain had started, and he stopped in the door, pondering whether he should step out or just go to his crowded room and go to sleep.

"I hate them! I can't stand them! Especially that Jena and the way she always makes me look like the bad boy... I am not a bad boy... It's not—maybe it's my fault that my parents left me here... I should just— I won't be sorry. I won't cry. I must not cry!"

He slowly started his way back to the dormitory. The building had grown somewhat quiet – a time of the evening he would have usually enjoyed but for the unfortunate discussion he had overheard.

Across the hall, the large staircase was covered in icy, unwelcoming darkness. He disliked the thought of climbing among the shadows, but he could hear Jena coming, closer and closer, and he really did have no other way of getting out of her way.

"Timothy!" she shrieked, seeing him starting up the stairs. "How many times must I tell you?"

He broke into a run again.

"You are not supposed to run! Timothy! Timothy? Get back here!"

He didn't dare climb down or look behind, so he ran all the way to his room. The other children had not yet arrived, so he locked himself in and hid under the bed.

A chain of loud knocks followed. Timothy covered his ears.

"I'm not here! I'm not here!" he whispered to himself time and again.

Soon enough, the old woman's voice put an end to the loud banging. Timothy sighed with relief as he dragged himself out and sat on the bed unhappily, counting Jena's steps as best he could.

"What a night!" he said to his reflection in the window. "And I guess nobody is indeed coming, so I might as well just give up. I mean, look, Timmy... You're great and all, but the Winstons gave up, and the Parkers gave up, and the Joneses and you just don't seem to fit with any family. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, darling, but you're just simply no good."

He had done a splendid job imitating Mrs. Layla's raspy voice and he congratulated himself silently. Then he stared at his eyes. In his reflection, they had grown rather wet and unnatural-looking, so he bit his lip and rubbed them hard. What good would tears do?

But then, something glinted high above, followed by what looked like a shimmering chain reaction. The thing these lights played on was rather large and ugly, full of cobwebs and dust, and had a torn corner. It seemed as though it had been nailed onto the frame, hanging over the steamy glass.

Timothy pushed the only chair to the window and reached up, praying that Jena and her unkind colleagues wouldn't spot him if they happened to lurk in the dark rain outside.

"Wow," he whispered, feeling the soft surface. "One, two, th-three. Four... Seven..." he whispered, touching the tweed pockets on what looked like an oversized calendar. "One-one... One-two... This doesn't seem right..."

He winced. He hated numbers just as much as he hated Jena because he had never learnt to count.

"It's called eleven, by my striped socks!"

"And twelve! By my jingling bell, you are quite an uneducated snob!"

Timothy turned around. His voice was stuck in his throat and he nearly fell over, tearing the large calendar off the window frame before he managed to stabilize himself.

"Who are – you?" he mumbled, grabbing the corner of the old, broken table.

"Who are you?" answered the voices in a duet. "We saw you first, so you ought to introduce yourself first," continued one of them.

Timothy rubbed his eyes.

"I'm—I am Timothy."

"Timothy what?"

"What?"

Timothy stepped down and wiped the swaying chair before seating himself, the calendar tight within his grasp.

"What-what? Oh, he is being ridiculous! I told you, I said 'Hinky,' I said, 'one must not pick the uneducated one,' I said. But," he followed, "does Hinky ever listen?"

Coming from the far corner of the bed, a small voice answered negatively. Timothy stared in the shadows. As if Jena wasn't enough! As if the newly-found kid wasn't enough! As if he was not scared enough!

"Hinky never listens, because he thinks he's oh-so-smart, doesn't he, Dinky? Doesn't he?!"

The same small voice answered affirmatively and a frightening pointy-headed shadow on the wall nodded to the rhythm of the words. "Yes, yes he does!"

"Says Stinky! Stop embarrassing ourselves, you cinnamon-stuffed pudding! I think he's about to have a fit!"

Timothy shook his head, squeezing the calendar to his chest.

"I don't like him," declared the first voice. "He certainly doesn't pop or anything!"

"Pop?" cried the first voice dramatically. "Hinky, you gingerbread-man! You lollipop, you!

He is not supposed to pop!"

Timothy shivered. "To pop?" he asked in a desperate whisper, feeling his feverish forehead with a trembling hand.

"Oh, look at this, Stinky! Look at him! I think he will actually pop!"

"Don't pop!" whispered the voice in the corner, and the pointy-headed shadow shook its head nervously again.

"Oh, Hinky! Out of all the misbehaved boys in the world, you had to pick one that grows blue in the face!"

"He's quite funny, isn't he? I think I'll give him a piece of candy. Here, boy! Here!" said the second voice and followed with a whistle.

The candy struck the boy in the cheek. He looked around ever more scared, for there seemed to be nobody else in there but himself and a frightening shadow on the wall opposite him.

"He's funny cause he doesn't see! You had to pick a blind one, Hinky! And I said to him, I said," continued the first voice, turning towards the shadow," 'Hinky, don't go picking one that can't possibly see us,' but does Hinky ever listen?"

"Hinky never listens," came the answer from the corner.

"Shut up, Stinky! Just shut it! Old man Klaus will throw a tantrum, you know he will.

And it won't be my fault! Kid! Stop growing blue in the face! Hey, Dinky, is he supposed to look like that?"

The shadow shook its head amply across the blotchy wall.

"Catch him!" cried the first voice. "By my striped socks, he's about to—"

Little Timothy hit the ground with a loud thud. Nobody in the whole Orphanage seemed to have noticed the sound.

"Pick him up, Stinky! You made him sick with your unbearable cinnamon stench! I have told and told you to change that perfume once and for all!"

Small footprints started to appear on the wooden floor as the owner of the voice made for Timothy's collapsed body. His arm was lifted slowly, apparently fearfully, as the unseen creature seemed to be sniffing the sleeve of his patchy jumper.

"I don't like this! He doesn't even smell appetizing!"

"By my jingling bell, you absolute cinnamon-roll you! He doesn't need to smell good.

Old Klaus will not eat him, and neither will we!"

A frustrated grunt followed as the boy's hand twitched in the air.

"It wouldn't hurt you to get over here, Hinky! Come, help me out. And you, Dinky! Get here!"

Two other sets of footprints appeared. Timothy opened dizzy eyes and struggled to mute a scream of horror when he saw his arms floating freely.

"He's heavy! I propose we retrieve the calendar and scamper away. What do you say? What do you mean no? Don't you contradict me, Dinky! Heaven knows I could have been rolling in the snow up North right now if Hinky hadn't broken Rudolph's silly nose!"

Nearly on his knees, the boy pulled an arm free. The unseen beings screamed as they threw his other arm down.

"Who—what do you want?" Timothy asked tremblingly. "If it's this old thing," he continued, pushing the calendar in front of himself (to which three voices yelled "yes" in a choir), "then you can have it. Just go away! I'm about to be kicked out of here anyway and I have no idea where I should go... So I guess one more night under this roof won't hurt me, but I just can't have invisible people prancing around this room."

The three voices disagreed in a choir.

"You saw it and you took it down. Now, dear boy, you must play the game which, by the way, is twenty-five days long."

"What?" whispered Timothy. "You said you wanted it back. Take it and go!"

"By my striped socks! He's throwing us out!"

"Wait, Hinky. Just wait. You don't want the calendar, boy? Do you have issues?"

Timothy threw the calendar on the floor.

"Yes, I do. Three of them. Hinky, Stinky and Dinky, I believe. Go away!"

"Rude!" muttered one of the voices. "Come on, lads!"

The calendar went floating through the air above the three sets of footprints that were making for the door. For a moment, Timothy felt quite sorry for throwing whatever they were out of the room and then, as clear as day, he could see them.

One elf on the left wore a blue attire. He had no shoes and his ears were so pointy – as far as Timothy could see from behind- that they nearly reached his temples. One elf on the right was about an inch shorter and had a head of curly red hair only partly covered by some sort of red-velvet cap with a bell on its hanging end. As for the one in the middle, he was taller than the two on his sides though very skinny. His pointy ears flapped when he walked and his arms stretched in an open hug around the necks of the other two.

"Elves?" whispered Timothy. "But—How?"

"What did you say?" asked the one on the left, turning with big bright eyes on the boy.

"Elves," repeated Timothy. "I've heard of you. What do you want?"

"What did he say?" inquired the one on the right. "I couldn't quite hear him over the sound of the fact that I don't care!" He rolled the calendar and tucked it under his arm.

The elf on the left grabbed the one in the middle by the shoulders, turning him around.

"He can see us," he whispered. "Good evening, dear boy, good evening! If I may... yes... well, I am known as... Stinky..." He shoved his chin in his chest, shaking his head desolately, and he continued hopelessly, pointing at his two companions. "This here is Dinky, and this is Hinky. We are Christmas elves, not regular elves. We—"

"What do you want? Have you come with news for me?" asked Timothy.

He was starting to grow excited. Never had he heard good news save for "the Joneses will foster you, Timothy" which had ended badly when he had lost their dog. Moreover, he had never received a present before, and he quite regretted the decision to give back the calendar.

"News?" repeated Hinky. "Have we got news for you, indeed. You, dear boy, have been chosen."

"What do you mean?"

"He means the Calendar let you see it because it wants to play with you, dear boy," answered Stinky. "You must help us take the game all the way to the end, or we will vanish forever at exactly 24:48 on Christmas day... And we will never return... Ever..."

He hiccupped.

Timothy felt quite sorry. "You mean you will die? All three of you, or only you?"

"All three of us will disappear," answered Stinky dramatically, "and do you want to know why—"

"Don't start!" interposed Hinky.

"Because he—"

"—Shut it, Stinky! I said –"

"— decided to steal Rudolph and the sleigh and he convinced the two of us to get in it.

Then he flew it all the way above the clouds and –

"— Honest mistake, really—"

"— The next thing we knew, Rudolph didn't have his red nose anymore, the sleigh was out of control, and we crashed on the workshop. Old Klaus threw a temper tantrum and he cursed us. And we are set to vanish forever on the twenty-fifth unless somebody plays the game." He brought the calendar back to little Timothy, and the boy took it happily.

"Did you make a huge mess?"

"Did we!" shouted joyous Hinky. "We broke through the roof and hit the tree which collapsed with the top in the fire. The workshop was eaten by flames, and there are no toys left. All the fireworks went out. Luckily, people thought it was a very strange Aurora Borealis or something..."

Timothy climbed his bed and urged them to come closer. The elves went running around the room, messing up the other three beds and throwing whatever looked like confetti.

The boy gasped in horror.

"Don't worry!" said Hinky. "It doesn't show to just anybody. Only to those who can see and, frankly, this old thing," he said, letting the calendar unroll freely, "has been hanging around your room for at least half a year."

"We were starting to be worried," interfered Stinky. "Nobody saw it until tonight... It's almost December, you know, when—"

"Do you have any food?"

Timothy shook his head. He was feeling pretty hungry himself, but the thought of meeting Jena somewhere around the ground floor made him want to starve.

"We're hungry!" cried Hinky, and Stinky threw him a disappointed glance.

"Where is your friend, Dinky?" asked Timothy, looking around for his shadow.

Stinky climbed the chair to come face to face with the boy. He bore a massive cluster of freckles on his nose and a pair of very bushy eyebrows. Timothy smiled at him, and Stinky made a face after stinking out his tongue.

"Erm, sorry. We elves just can't help it," said the elf apologetically. "If you smile at us, we'll go like this," and he made the face again, screwing his mouth and sticking out his tongue. "We're bad like this, you see? Klaus likes to spoil his elves, so we're basically rotten... As for Dinky, he is quite... unnoticeable most of the time. He likes to be on his own so he just disappears."

"So why did he give you these horrible names? Is it because you burned down his workshop?"

A series of hiccups was presently heard from under a nearby bed, followed by an answer that came straight from the hiding place.

"So everybody would laugh at us."

"Oh, Dinky! You poor things..." whispered Timothy. "Will you come out now? I'm not going to hurt you!"

Dinky hiccupped again.

"He doesn't care about anybody hurting him. He's just... crazy like that. Let him stay under the bed. He'll be there all night long. Mind you, he'll even start singing himself to sleep. A piece of advice – stuff your ears."

Timothy gasped. They couldn't just sleep over, he thought, though the idea of where to put them simply would not come to him. He took the calendar and fingered its weird tweed pockets, wondering what their purpose was until, suddenly, the sound of steps and voices started growing nearer.

"Everybody, hide!" he whispered, distraught.

Knock-knock went his roommates. Timothy looked back at the hidden elves with his heart in his throat and opened the door.

#prose #theprose #christmasstory #christmas #fantasy #magic #adventure