hooked about an upthrust root. She cried, “Faster! Faster!” when she saw Sherby standing in the doorway, and there was a great deal of laughter, barking, and shouting.
“House would like you to get to know all of us,” the fox explained, “but Kite says there isn’t time for more than a glimpse. Even so, you’ll remember this Christmas as long as you live.”
The seven young men pushed and pulled their Yule log into the vestibule, where the young woman dismounted. “Merriment all through the house,” she told Sherby, “as long as the log burns. But you’ve got to save a brand to light the next one. Roast pig and peacock pie.” She hurried away in the direction of the kitchen.
“The boar’s for Frey,” the fox whispered. “Frey rides a boar with golden bristles, a dwarfgift. When he left Asgard to dwell amongst men as Fridleef, King of Denmark, his folk served him a boar at Yule to show they knew him. The apple in its mouth was the sun he had brought back to them. Finding himself discovered, he mounted the roasted boar and rode back into the sky.” The fox pointed through the open doorway. “Now look yonder, and see the type of your holly wreath.”
There was a wheel of fire rolling down the mountain.
“House’s holos can’t reach that far,” Sherby said, but the fox had vanished.
A young man came in with a spray of mistletoe, which he hung from the arch between the vestibule and the hall. “Do you see the white berries?” the young man asked. “Each time a girl gets kissed under the mistletoe, she’s supposed to pull off one berry. When the last berry is gone, the mistletoe comes down.”
Sherby went out into the snow. It was cold, and tickled his bare feet in a very chilly way, but it was real, and he liked that about it. He walked clear around House and his five-car garage, until the ground fell away in icy rocks and he could look down into the shadowed valley of the Whitewater at the foot of Lonely Mountain. He could have seen the same things by looking out of the big picture window in the family room, but looking like this, with no glass between himself and the night and the cold, made it real.
He shivered, wishing that he had worn his blue bathrobe, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Down in the valley there was a little dot of red light where something was burning, and House was flying Kite over it, a speck of black against the bright stars. The fire was probably a bonfire or a campfire, Sherby decided, and there would be people around it cooking hot dogs and marshmallows. He shivered again; House might fix real food if Sherby asked. He looked up at the picture window, then went a little farther down the slope where he could see it better. It was dark, and there was no smoke rising from the chimney.
Climbing back up was harder than going down had been, and once he slipped and hurt his knee. When he got back to the front door, a small black and white horse with no one to ride him was coming up the drive. He stopped and turned his head to look at Sherby through one wide, frightened eye.
“Here, pony!” Sherby called. “Here, pony!”
The little horse took a hesitant step forward.
“Here, pony!” Sherby recalled the donkey’s hors d’oeuvre and dashed into the vestibule, down the hall past the roaring family room, and into the kitchen.
The fat man in livery was there, talking to a plump woman in an apron as both put deviled oysters wrapped in bacon into little cups of paper lace. “Yes, Master Sherbourne,” the fat man said, “what can we do for you?”
“I just wanted a carrot,” Sherby told him. “A real one.”
The big vegetable drawer rolled forward, and a neat white compartment was elevated twenty-six centimeters to display two fresh carrots. Sherby snatched one and sprinted back to the porch, certain that the little horse would have gone.
He had not, and he cocked his ears in a promising fashion when Sherby showed him the carrot.
“You will require a halter of some sort, I am afraid,” a heavily accented voice behind Sherby said.
Sherby turned to find a very tall man wearing a very tall hat of starched gauze standing in House’s front doorway.
“That is good, what you do now,” the tall man said. “You do not look at him.” The tall man fingered his small, round beard. “We men—even boys—there is
Sherby put his other hand in front of his eyes and peeped through his fingers. Sure enough, the little horse was closer now. “My bathrobe’s got a long belt. Usually I step on it.”
The tall man nodded sagely. “That might do. Go and get it, and I will watch him for you.”
When Sherby returned, the tall man was standing beside the little horse’s head. “You are very young yet,” he told Sherby. “Can you tie a knot?”
“I think so,” Sherby said.
“Then give him that carrot, and tie your belt about his head while he eats it.”
Sherby was afraid of the little horse’s big teeth at first, but the little horse took the carrot without biting him and munched away, seeming quite content to let Sherby tie the blue terry-cloth belt of his bathrobe around his neck, though it took three tries to get the knot right. “He smells like smoke,” Sherby said. “I’m going to call him Smoky.”
“His stable burned, poor little fellow, so it is a good name for him. My own is Saint Nicholas, now. It used to be Bishop Nicholas. I was Bishop of Myra, in Lycia; and though I am not Santa Claus, Santa Claus is me.”
Sherby was looking at Smoky. “Do you think I can lead him?”
“I am sure you can, my son.”
Sherby tugged at the blue terry-cloth belt, and the little horse backed away, his eyes wide, with Sherby stumbling and sliding after him. “I want him to come in,” Sherby said. “My feet are cold.”
