The God in Red

One night, as Alir was once again going over her accounts and seeing no way to avoid financial ruin, the otherworldly spirit said, “You know, even if you don’t have an actual Christmas in Ethshar, today is the fourth day of Midwinter, isn’t it? Four days past the solstice? I think you might want to hang a stocking by the chimney tonight.”

“I might... what?” Alir stared at him.

“Hang a stocking over the hearth.”

“What are you talking?..” She stopped without completing the sentence.

He was a spirit. She was a theurgist. She was used to gods making bizarre, seemingly random demands. He claimed not to be a god, but he had appeared when summoned, like a god.

“A stocking?” she asked. “Any particular kind of stocking?”

“One of your own. The largest you have.”

She nodded. “Hung by the hearth?”

“Above the fireplace, if possible.” He blinked, as if suddenly thinking of something startling. “Open end up, toe down.”

“All right,” she said.

“Well, good night, then.” He waved a hand, then turned and headed for the attic.

Feeling foolish, Alir found a pair of stockings that had started to lose their shape, and took one of them down to the shop, where she turned down the ankle half an inch, then hung the sock from a pothook on the chimneypiece.

It looked strange and foolish, dangling there. She stared at it, then turned up an empty palm. “The gods are mysterious,” she said, as she turned and headed for her own bed.

She was awakened by Darrend gently shaking her. “Mistress?” he whispered.

She blinked sleepily.

“Mistress, I think you need to see this.”

She sat up, suddenly alert and dreading whatever had driven Darrend to rouse her. “See what?”

“There’s a sock...” the apprentice said.

She sagged. “Oh, is that all? I know there’s a sock. I hung it there myself.”

“But it’s full of gold!”

Alir was not entirely sure just how she got from her bed to the hearth, still barefoot and in her nightgown, but an instant later she was staring at the stocking.

It was indeed full of gold — so full that it was gradually tearing loose from the pothook. She reached out and touched it, and the fabric tore further; she caught it with one hand as it fell, and spilled gold coins out into her other hand.

She stared at them, then smiled at Darrend.

“It would appear that our guest will be covering some of his expenses,” she said.

“But why put it in a sock?”

“Who knows?” Alir said. “He’s a god, or something like one; who knows why they do anything they do?”

Darrend looked at the gold, then at the stairs that led up to where their guest was sleeping. “Should we thank him?”

Alir, too, looked at the stairs. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I think... well, let’s just see how it goes, shall we?”

Darrend nodded.

Santa did not appear until the morning was half-over. Alir had wearied of waiting for her guest to arise, and had gone to Tazar’s shop to make a long-delayed down-payment on the tapestry, so when Santa did finally descend from the attic he found Darrend sitting alone at the kitchen table.

“Ho!” he called. “How is everything this fine morning?”

The apprentice smiled at him. “Good,” he said.

“Did Alir find her gift, then?”

“Yes, she did.”

Santa winked at him. “You know, my lad,” he said, “Christmas properly lasts for twelve days. Particularly when it’s never been celebrated here before.”

“It does?”

Santa laughed. “It really does,” he said.

Darrend absorbed this, then hesitantly asked, “So should I put up a stocking, too?”

“You, and every other good boy or girl in this city!”

That didn’t sound right to Darrend; what did anyone else in Ethshar have to do with this red-clad spirit? But he certainly thought he should put one up.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Now, I believe I should finish up that painting of my workshop, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The fat man laughed so hard at that that his belly shook like a bowlful of... well, actually, like a bowlful of one of those nasty seafood puddings Darrend couldn’t stand. Then he turned, gathered up his board and paints, and settled in a sunlit corner to finish his illustration.

When Alir returned Darrend pulled her aside, out of earshot of the fat man — or at least, he assumed it was. “Mistress,” he said, “he says there are twelve days of this Christmas thing, and we should put up stockings again.”

“Stockings? Plural?”

“One for me, and one for you.” Darrend frowned. “And he said, ’and every other good boy or girl in this city.’ But I don’t know how he means that.”

“He’s a god,” Alir said. “He probably means it literally.” She stared thoughtfully across the room at the red-clad spirit. “That much gold could unbalance the economy, though. And why ’boy or girl,’ rather than man or woman? And we don’t know how he defines ’good.’” She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to worry too much about that part, but perhaps we could speak to a few people. Tazar, for example.”

Santa looked up from his work. “And tell them to leave the dampers open on their flues,” he called. “It makes it much easier for me.”

Alir and Darrend stared at him, then looked at each other, remembering how the god in red had vanished up the chimney, then come back down. “What is this thing about him and chimneys?” Darrend asked. “What does that have to do with being a spirit of giving?”

Alir turned up an empty palm. “Who knows?”

On the far side of the room Santa Claus laughed. Darrend tried not to think about that shaking belly.

The next morning Darrend hurried to the hearth to see whether the two stockings were really filled with gold. He knew that as an apprentice he would need to turn his over to his mistress, but still, the prospect of holding all that money was exciting.

And there the stockings were, bulging very promisingly — but they looked different. He frowned, and took his down. He turned it over.

No gold spilled out, but there was definitely something in there, something that was snagged in the fabric. Carefully, he reached in and worked it free.

It wasn’t gold. It was a book, a very old, very worn little book in a soft leather binding. Darrend stared at it, and read the title inked on the cover:

How to Win Friends and Influence People, by Deyl Karneggi, translated into Ethsharitic by Lieutenant Kelder Radler’s son.

Darrend opened it carefully, and read a few lines here and there; it seemed to be a collection of advice.

Very interesting advice. Darrend began reading in earnest, forgetting about the other stocking.

He was roused from his reverie by Alir’s arrival. “What’s that you have there?” she said.

He showed her the book. “It was in my stocking,” he said.