suppose I could tell you that I moved to Finland, and you would have no problem believing that, because Finland is on a map. And it is, technically, true. I did move to Finland, in the far far far North, beyond the bit of Finland known as Lapland. The somewhere else I lived was simply called the Far North and the town was Elfhelm. Now, Elfhelm isn’t on any maps. Not human ones, anyway. And the reason for this is that most people can’t see it. It’s invisible to them. You see, Elfhelm is a magical place, and to see magical places you have to believe in magic. And the type of humans who draw all the maps are the people least likely to believe in magic.
But Elfhelm is an ordinary town in lots of ways. A small town. An oversized village, really. And there are normal things there, like shops and houses and a town hall. There are streets and trees and even a bank.
But the people who live there are very different to me. And very different to you too.
They aren’t even people. Not human people anyway.
They are special. They are magic.
They are, well . . .
They are elves. But the thing is, if you are surrounded by elves, it isn’t the elves that are the weird, unusual creatures.
No.
It’s you.
7 Reindeer Road
His house, like many of the houses in Elfhelm, was made of reinforced ginger-bread, and – unlike almost all other houses in Elfhelm – it had a front door so large you didn’t have to bend forwards to walk through it.
It was full of fun things. There was a slide down from the first floor to the ground floor. The doorbell played a version of ‘Jingle Bells’. There were toys everywhere. The kitchen had shelves full of the tastiest sweet things in jars – chocolate, gingerbread, cloudberry jam. There was a reindeer clock in the living room, which was like a cuckoo clock but instead of a cuckoo popping out it was a reindeer. Oh, and it didn’t tell ordinary human time with boring things like ‘six o’clock’ and ‘twenty past nine’. It told elf time, and elf hours were called things like Very Early Indeed and Way Past Bedtime.
Father Christmas had been living on his own but he quickly got Slumber, the elf bedmaker, to build two extra beds and ‘the world’s comfiest cat basket’ for Captain Soot.
‘Though tonight,’ he said that first day, ‘I’ll sleep downstairs on the trampoline.’ Father Christmas insisted that it was a very comfy trampoline.
The reason Father Christmas needed two extra beds was because of Mary Ethel Winters and myself.
Mary was the woman Father Christmas was in love with. He blushed every time he looked at her. And she loved him too.
Mary was the kindest and loveliest woman I had ever met. Her cheeks were as rosy as apples and her smile could warm a room. I had first known her when I was in London, when the very worst thing of all happened. My mother caught a horrible illness from cleaning chimneys. I did all I could to look after her, but in the end the illness was too powerful. I couldn’t stop her dying. My father had left us when I was very little, so after that I was sent to Mr Jeremiah Creeper’s workhouse. I was utterly miserable, but Mary – who worked in the kitchens there – was always nice to me. She would secretly add a spoonful of honey to the watery gruel we had to eat. I’ll never forget that.
She’d had a tough life. Before she had gone to the workhouse she had been homeless and slept on a bench next to Tower Bridge, surrounded by pigeons.
Anyway, when Captain Soot and I eventually escaped the workhouse, thanks to Father Christmas, Mary came with us. And, like me, she was very pleased to be here.
We arrived in Elfhelm on Christmas Day, when every human child in the world was opening their presents, and we ate the biggest Christmas dinner I had ever seen and listened to the most brilliant and happy music played by an elf band called the Sleigh Belles. We laughed and sang and spickle danced. Spickle dancing is a very complicated type of elf dancing which involves a lot of energetic leg work, a lot of twisting, and some floating magically in the air.
‘I think you are going to like it here,’ Father Christmas told me later, as we went ice skating on a frozen lake.
‘Yes, I think I will,’ I said.
And I did. I did like it there. Well for a while. Before I managed to smash my own happiness into a million pieces.
Hope Toffee
Anyway, as we walked along the Main Path the whole street was bustling with elves. There were clog shops, tunic shops, belt shops. There was something called the School of Sleighcraft on the Main Path too. All kinds of sleighs were there, though none looked as impressive as the one I had ridden on my journey to Elfhelm – the one Father Christmas kept parked in Reindeer Field.
Father Christmas waved at a tall (by elf standards), skinny elf who was polishing a small white sleigh. The sleigh gleamed and looked quite beautiful.
‘Hello, Kip! Is that the new sleigh I’ve been hearing about?’
The elf smiled. It was a small smile. The kind of smile that was surprised to be there. ‘Yes, Father Christmas. The Blizzard 360.’
‘She looks a beauty. Single-reindeer?’
‘Yes, single-reindeer.’
And then Father Christmas started on a long and technical conversation about speedometers and harnesses and altitude gauges and compasses.
He finished their discussion with a question: ‘So you’ll be letting the children ride in it when the school term starts?’
Kip looked worried suddenly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a child’s sleigh. Look at the size of it. This is for bigger elves – grown-ups only.’
Then Mary joined in. ‘Well,’ she said, putting her arm around me, ‘the school is getting a new child this year. A child who is bigger than an elf child. A child
