The Secret Feast of Father Christmas by Darryl Pickett

Author:Darryl Pickett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Christchurch Christmas, 1930s New Zealand, 13 year old protagonist, Portal fantasy, Artist's memoir, Surprise reveal, Awkwardness of first love
Publisher: Odsmil Press
Published: 2022-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve: A Gilded Gaol

“What did Kris say to you?” Martin asked urgently.

“He said he’d meet me here,” I answered. “Was Trimble... on the sleigh?”

“No,” said Ariast. “Should he have been?”

“Kris loaded his body there.”

All three of the men were silent. The eyes of Andras and Ariast might as well have been razors, so cutting were the looks on their faces.

“I thought I felt it,” said Andras. “Then Trimble is...”

“Is dead, yes...” I said. “I saw it happen.”

The two Sami men conferred with each other in their own language, then talked to Martin.

“He’s got to be arrested!” they told him. “We will need a full statement. What does he know? How did he get that medallion?”

“Lemuel stole it,’ I said. “Do any of you know Lemuel Greenleaf?” The other three exchanged meaningful looks.

“That, at least, I can believe,” said Andras.

“All the same, Martin, we’ve got to follow protocols.” Ariast jerked his head toward the stairs, and the floor above. “Take him into custody. At least until we know what’s happened to Kris.”

Martin faced me solemnly. “I don’t have the authority to place you under arrest. All the same, until Kris arrives, I am responsible for this place. There are holding cells at the next landing. I ask that you remain in one of them, voluntarily, until such time as I can make inquiries.”

“Won’t one of you just take this medallion?” I said. “I don’t want it. I never wanted it.”

“We can’t,” said Andras. “She would curse us.”

“Mother Solstice, you mean?” I said.

“You seem to know an awful lot for an accidental visitor,” said Ariast. I suddenly felt like an enemy.

Martin proceeded up the winding steps, and I went along. Andras and Ariast followed after, with grim expressions.

At the next floor, we walked a dark hallway. Black iron lanterns hung from primitive sconces on both sides. Martin stopped at a door with a golden plate, on which was etched Cell Number Six. Beneath this was a lock, and Martin removed a key from his own long coat.

As soon as the door opened, I felt a waft of chilled air. The cell was a spare stone room, with bare floors and no windows. A tiny pot-bellied stove sat in the corner by a wooden bench, alongside a cot so short, I could tell that my legs would hang off the end of it if I tried to lie down. A small door, sized for gnomes, was installed on the right-hand wall.

“I will see to a fire for the stove,” said Martin. “In the meantime, please wait patiently. Oh, and if you wish to visit Cell Number Seven, that door leads right to it. That’s assuming the prisoner in Seven hasn’t locked it from his side.” He gestured toward it with his head, as if making certain that I had heard him mention it.

Martin and the two Sami herders backed away without another word, and the cell door shut. I heard the sound of tumblers rolling and locking into place.

I have heard people speak of a sense of unreality, even in mundane everyday pursuits.

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