Chapter Eleven: Hoofnok to the Rescue

Hoofnok was making some final adjustments to Dasher's saddle and reins. Dasher could tell Hoofnok was about to take him for a ride by the mumbling, fumbling and occasional nervous sneezes. Dasher also knew why. They were going to search for his son and he was eager to go.

Hoofnok tugged at his woolen hat. Once it was in place, he tied it tight under his chin. He pulled his gloves on for the finishing touch. He walked over to the barn doors and swung them open, revealing the gray, damp, cold day. It was the kind of cold that seeps through your coat and then through your clothes, finally reaching your skin, only to stop and then chill you from the inside out. The kind of cold that you can't escape from no matter what you wear. Hoofnok inhaled the thick morning air. With shoulders slouched a bit, he walked back to Dasher and mounted the sleighdeer. Dasher leaned back on his hind legs with anticipation, waiting for the words, the words all great sleighdeer love to hear. Hoofnok did not disappoint him.

"Up, up and away, Dasher!" Hoofnok commanded.

With that single order, Dasher took off as if shot from a cannon. “Ka-plunk … Ka-plunk … Ka-plunk!”  Just like Inlin, Hoofnok was off to the races. Also, just like Inlin, Hoofnok wasn't sure where he was headed but he was getting there fast.

Another thing happened at that instant. Hoofnok was not nearly as afraid as he thought he was going to be. He knew how important the rescue mission was and he trusted the Dasher’s instincts. Although Sleighclackens are far from being an adventurous lot, Hoofnok seemed like he might have a defective gene; possibly a Freebosh gene. The fact is it didn't matter much whether he had a defective gene or not. He had begun a huge adventure and he didn't mind it one bit—well maybe a little bit.

As for Dasher, he was on a mission as well. Dasher seemed to know where he was going. It was almost as if he had some kind of fancy radar built into his antlers. Dasher’s state-of-mind at that moment has been the topic of many discussions over the past few years. Most believe Dasher instinctively knew where to look for his lost son—no different from any elf or Big Folk parent. Of course this is not a verifiable scientific fact. It just seems to be one of those truths that exists for no special reason.

Hoofnok’s first thought, as the outskirts of the North Pole disappeared behind him, was that Santa was right. Once the dust settled, or more accurately, the snow settled, the rescue mission was a good idea. Hoofnok wondered when he would learn his lesson about challenging anything the great Santa Clause decided.

He also felt a sneeze coming on.

Chapter Twelve: Inlin Gets Inventive

Inlin made his way back up the slope, slipping and sliding on the ice packed snow. Once he made his way to the top, he spotted the old shed that they almost crashed into earlier that day. As he got closer to the shed, it appeared weak and unstable; so weak, in fact, that if a good strong north wind blew, the whole thing might come slamming down in a heap. The entrance door was off its lower hinge, hanging limply to one side. It made a dull spanking noise against the side of the shed as the wind played with it.

After studying the flapping door for a moment, Inlin carefully tried to straighten it out. As he attempted to move it back into place, the upper hinge broke off. With nothing left to keep the door upright, it fell to the ground; its rotted planks breaking into pieces. Inlin was growing more discouraged.

“Well that is great. Not even good enough for fire wood.”  

Kicking the broken pieces aside, Inlin entered the shed. It was hard to see much. There were no windows. The only light entered through the exposed doorway. The gray afternoon daylight created long dark shadows in the room. The shed seemed stark and empty. Inlin was surprised to find the shed had a wooden floor. He stepped onto it. The floor was in pretty good shape. Inlin thought the shed might be stronger than its appearance had led him to believe. He noticed to his right a broken axe handle leaning against the wall with the axe blade lying next to it on the floor. A big heavy tree stump stood perfectly centered in the middle of the room. It looked to be about three feet wide. He also noticed the remains of split firewood on the floor, as well as a bed of hay in the back corner. He bent down and picked up some of the split pieces of wood. They seemed dry enough to burn. He collected as many pieces as he could see and made a small pile by the axe handle. He anticipated the wood might come in handy later for building a warm fire, like the kind he built a thousand times before at the North Pole.

Inlin’s concentration was broken by the whirling sound of the gusting wind. He turned his attention outside the shed to see snow had begun to fall again. He walked outside to take a better look. Once out on the crusted ground, Inlin turned his long pointed nose toward the wind and purposely sniffed the air. In addition to many other things, most elves know their winter storms. The heavy cold air of an advancing snowstorm has a distinct scent. Elves know that scent. Inlin took another sniff of air. His ears involuntarily twitched and then pointed in the same direction as his nose. Inlin Freebosh was the best of the best when it came to detecting storms.

“This is going to be a bad one. I’ve got to get Thrasher into the shed.” Inlin said. His words were spelled out by his warm breath as it spilled into the thick, damp, chilled air.

As he was walking back into the shed, he was startled by the sharp sound of a twig snapping. Inlin turned quickly in the direction of the sound.

“Who goes there?” he yelled into the unfriendly day.

Nothing. The only sound he could hear was the soft tapping of snow flakes against the outstretched branches of the tall pine trees surrounding the shed. It was soothing music to Inlin. He took momentary refuge in the peacefulness.

It did not last long. The calm was soon interrupted again. This time it was by the distinctive sound of quick steps. They were no longer alone. Something was out there. Inlin’s ears instantly pointed in the direction of the sound. He concentrated on the pattern of steps. There were too many steps to be those of a two-legged variety. This was definitely the sound of a four-legged animal, and, judging from the deep thumping of the stride, a fairly large one at that.

He sniffed the air slowly and deliberately. He could not pick up a scent. It was down wind. “Whatever it is, it is clever,” Inlin thought.

He listened again hoping to hear something that might better reveal what it might be. After a minute of silence, Inlin’s ears retreated back to their normal position. The visitor had apparently been scared off by the tone of Inlin’s voice; so he hoped anyway.

“Probably just a deer,” he concluded.

The scent of Thrasher probably attracted the attention of the curious animal. There was nothing to be afraid of. Inlin returned to shed. Once back inside, he continued to work on the task at hand. With the certainty of the storm approaching, time was growing short to get Thrasher up to the shed. He calculated about two hours of light remaining; but the accumulating snow was going to give him less time than that, probably about an hour.

Inlin jumped up onto the stump to sit and think. As he planted his hands to lift himself up, it suddenly tilted to one side, making a snapping sound. Inlin’s arms gave out and he rolled off the stump, falling to the ground.

“Whoa!” Inlin yelled out.

Lying on his side, Inlin rolled over onto his stomach and pushed up to get on all fours. He crawled to the bottom of the stump to inspect it. It had broken through a floor board and tilted to one side, exposing the remains of a dolly on which it had been resting. Apparently when he jumped up on the stump, the additional weight caused the floor board to break. The stump slid down the dolly, breaking the dolly apart and wedging itself into the floor. Inlin carefully reached under the tilted stump and pulled out three boards that lay loose underneath. They were in pretty good condition—made of hard oak. One still had the wheels attached, one behind the other.

He sat up for a moment and collected his thoughts. Since he was a Freebosh and Freeboshes build everything needing wheels, he had made plenty of dollies exactly like this one at the North Pole. They were used to move heavy containers around the shop floor. He was admiring the wheels and wondered if possibly a Freebosh had something to do with this particular dolly. After further inspection, Inlin doubted that. These wheels were fixed to move in one direction and unable to rotate like a good dolly should. This dolly was obviously homemade and used to move the heavy stump in and out of the shed; probably for chopping and splitting wood.

It was too bad the dolly broke apart. It might have been just the thing he needed to get Thrasher up to the shed. Again, he was struck by how bad his luck had been and contemplated how he would never venture off the North Pole again if he was ever fortunate enough to return—an outcome that seemed more and more unlikely with every passing minute. Before Inlin became completely overwhelmed with doubt, he paused, collected his thoughts, and erased such notions from his mind. It was time to return to work.

He placed the two plain boards aside. They might make a good splint to support Thrasher’s broken shin; however, moving Thrasher was a whole other story. Thrasher surely wouldn’t be able to apply any weight on his bad leg. Holding onto the board with wheels, he climbed back on his feet and dusted himself off. He examined the wheels more closely. As he did, he turned his back to the stump and leaned against it. Again the stump shifted. It rolled through the floor boards—this time completely falling over on its side. As Inlin fell off to the side, he knocked over an old pail that was hidden in the shadow of the stump.

The pail was filled with oats. They seemed fresh; that is, they seemed good enough for eating. He carefully, scooped up the oats and placed them back in the pail. It would make a good meal for Thrasher. He thought his luck might be changing for the better. But he still needed to get Thrasher up to the safety and protection of the shed. Time was running out.

He picked himself up off the floor once more; this time making sure he did not lean or sit on anything. There had been enough surprises for one day with things breaking and things moving. He focused his attention back to the board with wheels. As he held it in his hand, he slapped at the wheels with his free hand, watching them spin. Inlin loved wheels. He slapped at them over and over. While the wheels spun, he unconsciously backed up a step. He continued to take a step backwards with each slap of the wheels, until he stepped on the two boards he had placed aside. He looked at the boards and then at the board with wheels. He looked back down at the boards and then back at the board with wheels. This was repeated several times as his inventive brain worked overtime. Suddenly he stopped slapping the wheels and slowly pulled the bundle of yarn out of his pants pocket.

A hint of an elfish grin flashed across his face. It had been a long time since the last smile; way too long. He put the yarn back in his pocket. He tugged on his hat and straightened out his pants and shirt. Stacking all the boards under his arm, he walked over to the bucket filled with oats. He put a handful of oats in his back pocket, and turned to face the shed’s doorway.

“A promise is a promise Thrasher!” he announced confidently, as he strutted out of the shed.

 The early night’s darkness was beginning to creep up behind him.

Chapter Thirteen: Returning to Hoofnok’s Adventure

Hoofnok's exhilaration was short lived. Not too long into his flight on Dasher’s back, Hoofnok started to become more like … well like … Hoofnok. He was sneezing again and it wasn’t from the cold air. He was doubting the whole plan again.

Meanwhile, Dasher was striding through the gray sky in quiet confidence, a complete contrast to poor Hoofnok who was way in over his head. All that training definitely prepared Dasher but it didn’t prepare Hoofnok at all.

They had crossed over land some time ago. Hoofnok spied the soft muted golden lights of the scattered farmhouses below, beaconing intermittently through the cloud breaks. Mesmerized, he began to have thoughts of his own barn at the North Pole and how he would enjoy a warm plate of pickled beets as he sat next to a nice cozy fire.

A snap of a frozen gust hit his face, ending his little fantasy and gruffly reminding him of the task at hand. The lights below were becoming blocked by the heavy clouds which were rising up to greet the would-be rescuers. Hoofnok needed his wits. There would be time for dreaming later. Holding the reins in one hand, he used his free hand to grab the front of his heavy coat and pull it tight around him. The weather was changing for the worse. Like Inlin, he could smell the warning scent of an approaching winter storm. To make matters worse, night was crawling in from the east. If they couldn’t find the ground, how the heck were they ever going to find Inlin and Thrasher? This was not good.

Fortunately, none of these worries entered Dasher’s mind. He was navigating by scent and scent alone. When it comes to looking for something or someone, Santa and elves usually depend on their eyes and ears. Not so with sleighdeer, they depend almost entirely on their nose. That is why Santa and sleighdeer make a good team. Sleighdeer use their sense of smell to locate isolated farm houses hidden under cloud cover by zooming in on the scent of chimney smoke. Once below the clouds, Santa takes over by using his sight to navigate the sleighdeer around tree tops and tall silos, as they make their approach for rooftop landings.

Smoke is not the only scent sleighdeer can identify. Sleighdeer are trained to recognize the scent of cookies, hot chocolate, pizza, and even rice. In fact, they are trained in over twenty thousand different scents from over two hundred different cultures on Earth. That is one reason why it takes so long to train them. However, sleighdeer, even the untrained ones, always find a couple of scents attractive no matter what the circumstances. They are: oats, smoke, and a loved one—not necessarily in that order.

Scent or no scent, for the moment, Hoofnok didn't have an adventurous gene in him. He was not a Freebosh; not at all. He was a Sleighclacken through and through. Sleighclackens stay where they belong, near the warmth of a fire after a long day of sleighdeer training. Although Hoofnok was well aware that he was far from his potbelly stove, it could have been worse. At least Dasher’s huge antler rack deflected the icy wind from hitting Hoofnok’s face. Hoofnok occasionally studied the antlers when he relaxed enough to lift his head up and look forward. The antlers were magnificent. Hoofnok felt quite safe behind them. He also had a blind faith in Dasher, and rightfully so for little did he know that Dasher had been locked on Thrasher's scent for some time.

They continued their flight into the quickly darkening day, as Hoofnok left an occasional nervous sneeze in their wake.

Chapter Fourteen: Get to Shelter

Inlin was kneeling over Thrasher’s leg. He did everything he could do to prepare Thrasher for the painful process of putting a splint around his broken shin. He placed a peeled pine branch across Thrasher’s mouth so he would have something to bite down on when Inlin tightened the splint. Inlin talked to Thrasher and told him exactly what to expect. No one really knows if Thrasher understood a word Inlin was saying, but there is no doubt Inlin did everything he could think of to help Thrasher through this.

The two boards were loosely placed around the front and back of Thrasher’s injured shin. Inlin carefully wrapped the yarn several times around the loose boards. Everything was in place.

Inlin took a deep breath as he patted Thrasher on the chest. Thrasher did not move. In a single swift movement, Inlin tugged on the yarn and tied it off. He fell back and took a big gulp of air, waiting for Thrasher’s reaction. Thrasher winced a bit, biting down on the pine branch but that was it. Inlin was relieved. It went better than he had anticipated.

Now came the tricky part. Using his trusty whittling knife, Inlin had carved a couple of holes, four to be exact, in the board with wheels. He had also rigged the remaining mitten yarn in and out of the holes, sort of like shoelaces. The yarn crisscrossed and went straight back and crisscrossed some more. To the untrained eye it would have seemed a mess, but it was actually quite clever. Inlin pulled on the yarn to spread it out like one might do to boot laces before pulling a boot over a foot. He approached the hoof of the bad leg and carefully slipped the yarn over the hoof and behind it. After a few wraps, Inlin tightened the yarn until the board with the wheels sat firmly at the base of Thrasher’s hoof. It looked like a small skateboard with one difference; it had two wheels in a line, not a pair in the front and a pair in the back.

Thrasher did not seem to mind the rigging at all. Inlin stood up and looked at the hill they had to climb. The snow was getting deeper in a hurry. Barely any light remained to this cold snowy December 23rd. If he was to get Thrasher to the safety of the shed, this had to work.

The first challenge was getting Thrasher on his feet. Inlin reached into his back pocket and pulled out the handful of oats he had stored earlier. He didn’t even have to approach Thrasher. Thrasher’s nose began to twitch. Inlin knew Thrasher could smell them once he saw the sleighdeer’s ears perk up and his thick knobby tale wag. Thrasher rolled over onto his hind legs. They began to straighten. Thrasher kept his front legs bent so any pressure was on the knee caps and off the injured shin.

“Come get some oats Thrasher,” Inlin gently prodded.

Thrasher was now up on his hind legs, leaning forward on the knee caps of his front legs. He looked like he was kneeling to pray—perhaps he was. He managed to lift his good front leg up and place his hoof squarely on the ground. Then Thrasher eased forward on it. He gingerly stood up, finally getting completely upright on three legs. He kept the bad front leg bent, holding the hoof with the wheels attached off the ground.

“Nice tasty oats Thrasher and there are plenty more up that hill,” Inlin said.

Inlin walked over to the upright Thrasher and held the oats to Thrasher’s mouth. Thrasher sniffed and snorted and then gladly ate out of Inlin’s hand until all the oats were gone.

Inlin petted Thrasher on the side and said, “Let’s go up the slope to the shed and get out of this snow. More oats are waiting for you.”

Thrasher was able to turn around on three legs and face the slope. It wasn’t much of a slope but with snow under foot and a bad leg it was going to be difficult for Thrasher to climb.

“It’s all right Thrasher. You can put your leg down,” Inlin urged.

Inlin imitated what he wanted the sleighdeer to do with his bad leg. Thrasher watched and then looked at his own bent leg and did exactly what Inlin had showed him. He gingerly placed his leg down until the wheels could go no further. He then began to walk using the other three legs, rolling his bad leg along on the board with wheels.

“That’s it Thrasher! You are doing really well!” Inlin yelled, trying to contain his joy.

It looked like his little invention was working. He reached down and grabbed the pillow made by wrapping his coat around the bag of sparkles. He dusted the snow off his coat and put it on. He then placed the bag of sparkles under his arm. The two walked side by side slowly up the slope and into the shed.

They were exhausted. Inlin was not certain how long they would be staying in the shed. Much of that would depend on the storm which by then had kicked into high gear. So Inlin had to be careful and ration the oats Thrasher would eat. He grabbed a few scoops out of the bucket and placed them on the shed floor. While Thrasher frantically ate them up, Inlin discreetly took the bucket outside and placed it beside the bag of sparkles which lay next to the shed entrance. After Thrasher finished, he wheeled his way over to the bed of hay and carefully lay down on his side. Inlin sat next to him and leaned back against the sleighdeer’s exposed underbelly. Inlin was too tired to think anymore that day. He had done quite a bit. It was time to rest for he was sure the next day would be equally as challenging. With that, they drifted off to sleep.

Darkness was complete.

Chapter Fifteen: Angry and Worried

Hoofnok was having a very bad time of it and losing control. He began cursing Inlin. He never cursed out loud. That would have been extremely unusual. That kind of cursing was only known to come from the elf clans that dealt with music, especially rock and rap music. Those elves where special in their own right, usually misunderstood but favorably chronicled by the Booker clan.

As mad as he was, he tried to keep his cursing inside his head; however, he was afraid that it was so loud inside his head that some bad words may have leaked out somehow. Apparently Dasher turned his head back and glowered at Hoofnok as he was thinking the worst and loudest curse. Hoofnok said that the usually expressionless Dasher was squinting and curling his lips as if to say, “Hey, I hear you; knock it off!”

Hoofnok took note of Dasher’s silent objection and stopped his internal cursing. It really wasn’t doing much good anyway, although he did feel a little better, like some steam was released. Cursing aside, the truth was that he wanted to find his old friend Inlin alive. He promised himself that the moment he set eyes on Inlin Freebosh, he would give him a big old hug, to be immediately followed with a proper and well deserved tongue lashing.

He held on to the hope of seeing his friend as hard as he held on to the reins and saddle horn. The North winds were turning fiercely turbulent. In time the unrelenting battering shook loose Hoofnok’s grip on hope, as it tumbled freely into the ugly darkness behind him. There was no turning back to recapture it. There was little he could do except wrap the reins around his wrists and hold on tight for fear that more than hope would be the casualty of the winter storm’s fury.

Soon Hoofnok filled the void of hope with worry—something even the stormy winds could not pry free. He knew if their mission failed, there would be no Christmas in 1985. That was a heavy weight to bear on the narrow shoulders of this reluctant elfin hero.

While Hoofnok worried about failure, Dasher dealt with practical obstacles, like darkness and exhaustion.

Chapter Sixteen: Uninvited Guests

Sleep did not last long for exhausted Inlin. The winds were whirling outside the rundown shed in which he and Thrasher huddled, trying to stay warm. Inlin wasn’t sure how long he slept but he remembered he was dreaming of the prior year’s Christmas parade with and endless line of sparkling floats. He dreamed he was the Grand Marshal, proudly standing in the lead float.

But something reached into his dream and pulled him out. He awoke startled and momentarily disoriented. Reality crept up swiftly. Inlin rubbed his eyes and checked on his crooked antlered patient. Thrasher seemed okay and deep in much deserved sleep. Inlin rolled over and stared out into the night lit darkness parked outside the opened shed door. But there was something else in that darkness. Inlin could feel it; his ears pointed to the outside. Something was very wrong.

Inlin slowly gathered himself up and made his way cautiously toward the edge of the shed floor, standing guard at the opening. The wind continued to make a racket. Inlin took in a deep breath through his pointed nose. There was something very distinctive about the air. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he had smelled that scent once before.

“What is that?” Inlin said under his frozen breath. Inlin took another long slow sniff of air. “Is that what I think it is?”  Inlin began to churn inside. He could feel the knots in his stomach grow uncontrollably tighter and tighter.

He instinctively picked up the broken axe handle, careful not to make a sound or any sudden movements. The wind continued to howl or was it the wind—other things howl too. Inlin listened carefully and smelled the mysterious whiff once again.

There was no mistaking it this time. The scent was that of a wolf; possibly a pack of wolves. Inlin’s ears automatically pointed at the swaying pine trees. He focused all of his attention to the sounds coming from behind the evergreen drapes. Soon his ears confirmed his nose. The screeching wind had been masking howling wolves. He wished he knew what they were saying to each other. The knot in his stomach pulled tighter.

He looked at the pathetic axe handle he held tightly in his clenched fist, knowing that it wasn’t even enough to fend off a squirrel, let alone a pack of hungry wolves. Inlin surmised that the animal he had heard a while ago was not a deer, as he originally hoped. It was probably one of the wolves that were now stalking Thrasher and him, hiding behind the thick grove of trees—their voices cloaked by the noisy darkness. Inlin thought a sleighdeer might be pretty tasty to a hungry wolf pack in the dead of winter. They might even enjoy a little elf meat on the side if they had a chance to try it.

Well Inlin was not going to let them try. He’d put up a fight like they’ve never encountered before. Who was he kidding? He was going to be an appetizer if he didn’t do something quickly.

While he tried to devise a strategy, he continued to listen to the handful of haunting sounds that filled the night, one of which was his pounding heart.

Chapter Seventeen: Where are Dasher and Hoofnok?

There was something a bit different in Dasher's flight. Hoofnok could see that Dasher was more focused than before. Dasher seemed to be homing in on something. Unfortunately, having been flying for some time through thick, snow-filled clouds, Hoofnok could not be sure what was beneath them. Visibility was limited to an arm’s length— a short elf arm’s length at that. As if poor visibility was not enough, the winds were constantly shifting and turning. Hoofnok knew that this would make tracking a scent very difficult; nearly impossible. It was evident that Dasher was changing directions more abruptly and frequently. Hoofnok thought they might be either closing in on their target or frantically chasing false trails—two outcomes that couldn’t be any more different.

Suddenly something set Dasher off. Dasher's head uncharacteristically reared back and turned to look at Hoofnok. It was in Dasher's eyes that Hoofnok saw complete distress. Dasher let out a sound that Hoofnok knew was a cry of desperation. Hoofnok has heard the sound before by other sleighdeer, but never by Dasher. It was clear that something was terribly wrong. That was the only thing clear in the midst of the storm’s wrath.

He was right on both counts. Dasher had been meticulously closing in on Thrasher's location by circling around the scent, closing in on it in a spiral, descending into tighter and tighter circles with each new pass. It was on the last descent that Dasher caught the scent of something else, something dreadful. It was the sudden, thick scent of wolves.

Once Dasher was sure of the imminent danger surrounding Thrasher, his natural sleighdeer instincts took over. All the training was put on hold. His desperate call was to Thrasher; not to Hoofnok. More than ever he was consumed with the goal to find Thrasher. It was impossible to see anything, even though they were only a hundred feet above the ground. Dasher's experience taught him that it was too dangerous to fly much lower for fear of hitting a rooftop or tree—something the untrained Thrasher learned the hard way. It was also too difficult to track to a specific location by scent. The conditions had become insurmountable.

The only thing left was to call out again and again into the swirling storm, hoping that Thrasher might hear him and call back. Even that was futile. Dasher's cries were captured by the howling winds and silenced by the bending branches of the great pines below.

It would take a miracle to get there in time.

Chapter Eighteen: Danger Attacks

It had been a few minutes since Inlin heard that first sound. He looked back into the shed to see if Thrasher was still sleeping; he was. Inlin remembered feeling quite peaceful for a fleeting moment as he watched Thrasher sleep.

That was not to last long though. A sudden thud on the shed roof made sure of that. Startled, Inlin looked up at the ceiling. He could see the roof planks bend. Whatever was on the roof was big and it was slowly making its way to the front of the shed, just above the entrance.

Inlin grab a loose board in his free hand and continued to hold onto the axe handle in the other. He positioned himself behind the dark shadows of the entrance. He would wait there in hiding for whatever was walking across the rooftop to jump down. Then he would pounce on it with all the fury of an enraged elfin warrior. This element of surprise seemed like the best plan available. He stood guard motionless, like a stone pillar, not making a sound, anxious for the intruder to make its move.

But as he watched the ceiling beam bend, his nerves began to fray. He was getting nervous; not a good thing. Soon he felt something coming on that he did not want to happen. He felt a sneeze brewing. The more he worried about it, the more nervous he became. The more nervous he became, the more the sneeze grew inside. The more the sneeze grew inside, the louder the sneeze was going to be. He squatted to lay the plank down gently, treating it like a fine piece of fragile crystal, careful not to make a sound that might reveal his secret position to the intruder. The element of surprise was his only hope. Once his hand was free of the board, he was able to pinch his nose. He tried to think about other things, hoping to reduce his anxiety. Nothing worked. The sneezing sequence was initiated. There was no stopping it.

“Ah ... ah ... ah ...”  

He was right at the very top of the sneeze, when the urge suddenly and unexplainably disappeared. He couldn't believe his good fortune; no sneeze. Inlin let go of his nose and let out a bit of a sigh.

“Ah Chooooo!”

The sneeze almost blew his head off. It was a sneak attack sneeze if there ever was one. As if a gun was shot to start a race, something loud and large began running up the slope toward the shed. This was it. Inlin and Thrasher were under attack. Inlin picked the plank up and held the axe handle hard. He peered out into the darkness in the direction of the approaching thuds. It was getting closer and it was getting louder.

The first features he saw were the eyes. They were black like marble and they glowed. As it charged toward him, he could make out two large white fangs dancing to guttural grunts as a thick dirty gray wolf zeroed in on him. Inlin forgot about the noise on the roof and ran out to greet the enemy armed only with his plank and axe handle.

In two or three short elf steps Inlin met his enemy head on. As the wolf was coiling to make a lunge at Inlin, he hit the wolf square on the nose with the axe handle. He immediately followed that strike with another, hitting the wolf in the mouth with the plank. The second wallop broke a fang; but, Inlin lost the plank in the process. The stunned wolf let out a loud yelp, like a dog might make when someone steps on its tail. The wolf backed up and sat for a second to regain its senses.

“Get out of here! Go! Go on! Get out of here!” Inlin yelled. “There’s more of that where it came from!”

The wolf looked at Inlin with blood on its tongue. It reared back on all fours and began to growl, curling its red drenched lips, enjoying the taste of its own blood, exposing its fangs once again. Suddenly a noise from the roof top caught Inlin’s attention. He spun around in time to see a second wolf leaping off the roof top. He fell back, certain he was about to be mauled, when, from out of shadows, someone smashed the wolf in mid air with the sack of sparkles and then clobbered it over the head with the bucket of oats.

The first strike ripped the bag of sparkles apart, exploding glitter in every direction. They lit up the area like millions of multicolored lightning bugs. The oats were scattered in clumps all over the ground.

Inlin scrambled to his feet to find that he was eye ball to eye ball with his first Big Folk. It was a girl, of that he was sure. He had no idea what her age was because he didn't really know much about Big Folk. One thing was certain, she was big. She was twice his size.

He also remembered thinking an odd thought at such an odd time, “We should rethink making dolls for girls because I think this girl would like a baseball bat, the way she swung that bucket.”  That indeed was an odd thing to think. That also was Inlin, always thinking about what's good for business, even while under attack.

Inlin also remembered the bewildered look on her face. She stared at him in a most curious way, saying nothing. That image of her became a snapshot in Inlin’s mind that he has never forgotten. She looked as if she had just seen a ghost. Of course she hadn’t. She had just seen an elf!

The bewilderment was quickly erased when the two wolves repositioned themselves in front of Inlin and the girl. Inlin grabbed onto to his trusty axe handle with both hands, raising it behind his right shoulder like a baseball player does with a bat before a pitch. The girl slowly picked up the empty bucket in both hands, never taking her eyes off the two wolves, which by now were slowly moving towards them, snarling with every step.

Armed with only an axe handle and bucket, they stood defiantly in the face of certain death. Suddenly, from behind them came the deep growl of another wolf. They turned around to face a third wolf. He was by far the largest. His fur was black as black could be, except for his massive head, which was a dirty gold color.  He was so enormous that Inlin and the girl initially didn’t even notice that he was flanked by two smaller wolves. They looked like two gargoyle bookends, standing ominously on either side of their leader. Inlin and the girl were hopelessly trapped.

The five wolves snarled and snorted through their noses, singing a strange harmony that they probably had sung countless times before to other victims. Everything stood still except for the warm steamy breath that poured from their nostrils. Inlin faced the leader and his two sidekicks, holding the axe handle so tightly that he felt like it was molding to his grip. The girl slowly turned to face the two original wolves, who had recovered from the blows of their first attack, and safe to say, were in a very foul mood. She slowly raised the bucket over her head and pressed up against Inlin, back-to-back—actually more like butt-to-head. This was not very comforting to the much taller girl.

Time was as frozen as the bitterly cold night. That was, until Inlin sneezed his last sneeze ever. It was a dandy too. It was so shockingly loud that the wolves stopped their hunting song instantly. The lead wolf, curled its lips back, exposing his enormous fangs, and reared back to pounce on Inlin. But before he could put those fangs to bad use, Thrasher, shin splint and wheel contraption in full operation, flew out of the shed, ramming him with his large crooked antlers. The lead wolf was sent tumbling through the snow. Thrasher turned and kicked one of the bookend wolves with his hind legs, sending it flying through the air. Immediately, the remaining three wolves began their assault. Inlin and the girl were poised to make at least one hit each before the charging wolves would rip them apart. It seemed as if this terrible ending was inevitable.

But before a strike could be made, like a mighty stallion descending from the heavens carrying a prince on it’s back, Dasher broke through the clouds with Hoofnok holding on for dear life and sneezing—well maybe not so much like a prince. Dasher’s great antlers lifted one of the wolves attacking the girl off the ground and tossed it into a nearby tree. The girl bopped the other wolf right on the head with the bucket, stopping it dead in its tracks. Inlin swiftly moved around her and smash the stunned wolf with his trusty axe handle, breaking off the other fang. Dasher then scooped him up in with his antlers and tossed him on top of the wolf that was just sent flying into the tree. The remaining wolf retreated like a little frightened sheep to the safety of the leader. He didn’t want any part of these combatants.

Dasher with Hoofnok atop, tugging at his wool stocking cap that had fallen over his eyes, walked over to his son to stand by his side. He mooed defiantly at the scattered and startled wolves.

The wolves that Dasher had tossed into the tree shook off the blanket of snow covering their thick coats, and seemed somewhat confused as they licked their wounds. The leader of the pack by now was back on his feet, as was the wolf Thrasher kicked. Dasher with Hoofnok sitting a bit disheveled, Thrasher visibly limping, Inlin and the girl, gathered into a tight, shoulder-to-shoulder ring. By now all the wolves were upright, recovered from initial pains of their bumps and bruises. They carefully circled around the ferocious rag tag team of the elves, sleighdeer and stranger, eventually regrouping at the side of their gold coated leader. The giant wolf stood slightly in front of his gang, the stench of their heavy breathing filling the damp cold night air. Dasher took a few steps out in front of his band of warriors. Hoofnok sat nervously rigid while he sneezed a few anxious whoppers. The great wild wolf and broad shouldered sleighdeer looked like two generals standing in front of their respective armies on a battlefield.

Thankfully, there would be no more war that night. The lead wolf knew they were no match for the enormous size and strength of a sleighdeer like Dasher. Even if they were up to the task, the cost would be too high. These wolves were use to hunting the meeker reindeer of the pine forests. They had never encountered anything quite like the giant antler rack of a sleighdeer nor the fearless bravery of a cornered North Pole elf. These wolves weren’t stupid. This was not a battle of territory or pride to them. It was merely another hunting expedition for food. Far more easy meals could be found in the woods.

It was quite eerie. Dasher and the lead wolf had clearly reached some kind of understanding even though sounds were never exchanged. It seems animals don’t need to speak to talk. The wolves at the leader's side, as if on command, turned away and walked back into the gray, green darkness of the evergreens from where they came. They never looked back. They never hurried. They slowly marched off in formation.

Their general, standing alone, took a few steps towards Dasher. Dasher took a few steps towards the giant wolf. Hoofnok grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and his long runny nose with the other. They had to be no more than two or three feet from each other. The wolf lifted his golden snout to the sky and let out a single, wailing howl. Dasher reared back on his two hind legs and bellowed a single mighty moo into the clouds. Hoofnok sneezed a squeaker. The wolf turned and made its way slowly back into the pines, following the tracks of his defeated pack. Dasher stepped back, watching the wolf until he was no longer in sight, waiting for the last remnants of his vile scent to be carried away by the winter winds.

Hoofnok stopped sneezing.