How I Saw What I Saw
When Morphiophelius “Chuck” Smith hired me to chronicle the events of that particular holiday season, he insisted that I not only record what happened, but feel it.
Apparently, he’d had poor luck with historians who simply stood at a safe distance, scribbling whatever their trembling hands could manage between explosions.
To correct this, he personally brewed a potion…an emerald-green concoction he called Insight Juice.
The contract (which, yes, you’ll find faithfully reproduced at the back of this book) required me to drink the entire vial before beginning my duties. It tasted faintly of cinnamon, guilt, and the underside of a lightning rod.
A bit of beard hair floated in it…which he apologized for later, though I suspect it was intentional; wizards are sentimental about their follicles.
Once swallowed, the potion established what Chuck referred to as “empathetic resonance.”
In less arcane terms, whenever I was within about fifty feet of him, I could sense his emotional state, surface thoughts, and the occasional intrusive image. This is useful for storytelling, less so when he thought about lunch.
The effect allowed me to experience his fear, his triumphs, even the moment he forgave himself, as though they were my own. It’s a strange thing to write history while also needing a nap from someone else’s feelings.
So if, while reading, you found yourself wondering how I knew what Chuck felt as the Prime Gate cracked open, or how I described the exact weight of his regret—well, that’s why.
The Insight Juice made me not only his witness, but, briefly, his echo.
And before you ask: yes, the empathy wore off eventually.
Mostly.
I still get misty-eyed around sleigh bells.
Proof of Employment
Skeptics…and there are always a few…should know that a copy of my official employment contract is printed at the end of this story.
It details every clause, every dangerous condition, and every promise of payment (including funeral coverage and one genuine pat on the back, should the work prove worthy). The original document was signed by both parties, witnessed by Dax, and filed under “Legally Binding and Possibly Ill-Advised.”
So, there you have it:
I didn’t guess, spy, or embellish (well, not much).
I simply told the truth exactly as I felt it—because for that one remarkable season, I literally did.
— Höbin Luckyfeller
Historian of the Impossible,
and occasional emotional support gnome
Chapter 1 — Tavern of Lost Causes
Snow came at the tavern sideways, angry and relentless. It struck the windows until the glass rattled in its frame and the wind’s thin whistle found a way inside to sing above the bar.
Chuck raised a chipped glass toward the broken snow globe across from him.
“To seasonal lies,” he muttered, tapping glass to glass. “And to the fools who believed them.”
The red coat hanging from his shoulders had seen better ages. Scorched cuffs, crooked stitching, and the smell of burned pine followed him wherever he went. The hearth spat sparks at him, offended by the color.
Dax pulled up the stool beside him, bare feet thudding on the floorboards.
“You’re early,” he said.
“I’m late,” Chuck replied. “Four hundred years late, maybe more, depending on who’s counting.”
Across the room, I had already claimed a corner beneath a mounted stag head, its antlers pressed into service as a coat rack. My ledgers were stacked in a fortress around me, quill twitching for the next entry. Without looking up, I spoke.
“Weather entry: malicious sleet. Ambience entry: sincere despair with hints of boiled sausage. Chuck entry: red-coat menace, volatile, handsome only to candles.”
Chuck squinted. “Read that last part again.”
“No,” I said, still writing.
The tavern’s regulars kept their eyes low. These were people who preferred anonymity, cheap stew, and the kind of darkness that didn’t ask questions. Two card players near the fire were losing coins they couldn’t spare. Mara, the widow behind the bar, cleaned a glass that didn’t need cleaning and pretended to ignore the conversation.
Dax nodded at Chuck’s drink. “That helping?”
“It slows the past down,” Chuck said. “Makes it easier to throw rocks at.”
“Cute.” Dax took a pull from his mug, swallowed, and sighed. “You said there was work.”
“There is.” Chuck stared into the snow globe, where a crooked village leaned away from its little church. “There’s truth to deliver.”
“Holiday truth,” I added, brightening. “We have a shortage of that.”
Chuck snorted. “Holiday truth is fruitcake. Dense, heavy, and ruins friendships.”
“Title suggestion,” I offered. “The Forgiveness Clause.”
“No clauses,” Chuck said. “Just cause.”
Dax’s eyes shifted to the coat. “You hate that thing.”
“I hate what it asks,” Chuck said. He set his glass down, missing the coaster. “You ever notice how people act nicer this time of year? Like the calendar’s got them by the throat.”
“It reminds them to practice,” Dax said.
“It bribes them with tradition,” Chuck said. “I tried that once. Built a machine that paid people to pretend.”
I looked up. “Define machine and pretend for the record.”
Chuck smiled, thin and tired. “Santa’s real. And I made him.”
The air in the room shifted. Even the wind outside lost its rhythm.
Mara paused in mid-step, set down two bowls of stew, and walked away.
Dax didn’t blink. “You didn’t make Santa. You made up stories so you could give me presents. Probably to keep me from burning down the cottage.”
“That’s only half true,” Chuck said. “You were a menace with a torch. But he’s real. All of it.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“I bound him,” Chuck whispered. “And I need to make it right.”
Dax leaned forward. “You said truth to deliver, not vengeance.”
“Truth isn’t vengeance,” Chuck said. “It just weighs more when you’re the one who lied first.”
My quill scratched faster. “Motivation note: Chuck seeks absolution through confession. Companions brace for collateral damage.”
Chuck reached inside his coat and drew out a stone the color of sunrise through smoke. Runes crawled across its surface, shifting like insects made of light. The tavern lamps dimmed and then steadied again.
Dax’s jaw set. “That what I think it is?”
“It’s what it was.” Chuck turned it in his palm. His fingers trembled; the stone didn’t. “It still remembers.”
I stood on my chair for a clearer view. “Rune integrity compromised,” I said. “That pulse… has it been feeding?”
“On the only thing it ever loved,” Chuck said. “Belief.”
He set the stone on the counter. The wood beneath it glowed with slow heat.
“Not on the finish!” Mara shouted. Dax slid his bowl aside.
“Explain,” Dax said.
Chuck’s eyes stayed on the stone. “He owes me.”
“Santa?” I asked.
“Nick,” Chuck corrected. “He owes because I wrote the contract. He pays because I turned giving into a cage. I did that the night Gwen…”
His voice failed. The air went brittle. “We’re leaving tonight.”
“Leave?” I asked. “You hired me to scribe, not vanish into a blizzard.”
Chuck slammed the stone onto the table.
Windows flared white.
Every candle bent low.
The tavern sign outside screamed against its iron hinge and fell to the snow.
Mara swore like a saint forced to audit Hell.
I capped my ink, closed my ledger, and tucked it under my arm. “Entry complete,” I said.
Dax stood, muscles tight, ready for whatever trouble his old mentor had just invited.
The door opened. Snow roared through it and swallowed the firelight.
Chuck pulled the coat close. I followed, because someone had to record the madness. Dax followed, because he always did.
The wind carried Chuck’s final words before the dark took us all.
“Time to tell the truth about Santa.”
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
I’m loving it dad. I’m so excited about the “Truth” coming out.
Filly keeps asking what mistake Chuck made.
We are looking forward to taking this adventure through December 😁