The God in Red

She was awakened by the sound of laughter. “Santa!” she exclaimed, sitting up.

“It’s traditional to leave a glass of milk and a plate of cookies, and slip the note under the plate,” he said gently. He leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll come around on the seventh, shall I?” Then he stepped quickly to the fireplace, and vanished up the chimney.

She stared at the spot where he had stood, and wondered, in her half-asleep state, how he did that. Then she stood up and took down her stocking.

Candy, a few unfamiliar coins, an orange — nothing of any real value, but still, she found herself smiling. She thought about eleven more days of little treasures — but then she decided not to be greedy.

Besides, in three days Santa Claus would be going home to his own world.

She wondered whether anyone else had thought to put up a stocking.

On the afternoon of the seventh of Midwinter it was snowing, and Alir was wondering whether that would keep Santa away, when there was a knock at the shop door, and Darrend opened it to let Santa in. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, and was laughing heartily. “Merry Christmas!” he called.

“Merry Christmas, Santa!” Alir replied.

They chatted for a few minutes; Santa wanted to know how business had been, how her three brothers were, and so on, and she wanted to know where he had been all year.

“Srigmor,” he said. “And Kerroa, and Aala, and both Sardirons.” Before she could ask for more details, though, he said, “Isn’t there somewhere we should be going?”

“Yes, of course!”

Twenty minutes later they were in Tazar’s shop, where he cautiously unveiled the tapestry.

“My goodness!” Santa exclaimed at the sight of it. “That’s very realistic, isn’t it?” He reached out.

“Don’t touch!..” Alir began, but it was too late; the fat man in red had vanished.

For a moment the three magicians stared silently at the tapestry and the empty patch of floor where Santa had stood.

“Well, it apparently works,” Tazar said at last. “You understand, we couldn’t test it — there’s no way back.”

“Then how do you know he wound up in the right place?” Darrend demanded.

Tazar turned up an empty palm. “We don’t,” he said. “But if that picture was accurate, that’s where he is.”

“I hope it is,” Alir said, staring at the image of that weird workshop.

That was, she realized, a god’s home.

Well, more or less. Santa had said he wasn’t a god, but Alir really wasn’t sure the difference was meaningful. He was something like a god.

No one had ever seen where the gods lived. None of Ethshar’s gods were willing to say anything about their homes; when asked, they would either deny the existence of any home, or say that mere humans could not comprehend it.

But there was Santa’s workshop, looking fairly comprehensible. And she could step into it, if she wanted.

But she couldn’t come back.

“Well, now that he’s gone, what do you want to do with the tapestry?” Tazar asked.

Alir started. “What?”

“You paid for it,” Tazar explained. “It’s yours. What do you want to do with it?”

“Put it away somewhere safe,” she said.

“You said there’s no way back?” Darrend asked.

“Somewhere very safe,” Alir said.

Tazar nodded. “We can do that,” he said.

Alir stared at the tapestry a moment longer.

She was almost tempted to reach out and touch it herself, to fling herself into that alien world that had produced Santa Claus, the world where there was an annual holiday dedicated to peace, generosity, and good will.

But it was a world without theurgists; she would be out of a job there. And there was no way to know what lay beyond the workshop door. She turned away.

“Somewhere very safe,” she repeated. She hesitated, glanced at the tapestry once more, then asked, “But could I have the original painting?”