Tracks in the Snow
Reindeer Fields - February 1509
The snow hadn’t melted yet from the rooftops of Santa’s Village when Bernard called the meeting. Neik — now known throughout Evela’s elven circles as Santa Claus — sat hunched on a pinewood bench near the fire, bandaging his blistered feet. His boots, cracked and crusted with ice, leaned against the hearth. A faint steam rose from his cloak where snow still melted into the seams.
“You can’t do that again,” Bernard said, pacing in front of the great fire. “Not on foot. Not with a sack that heavy. Not year after year.”
Santa gave a tired smile. “It was worth it. You should’ve seen their faces, Bernard.”
“I’ve seen your bruises,” Bernard shot back. He pulled a small jar of pine salve from his pouch and passed it over. “We need a better way.”
The room was warm but tense. The Council of Elves had gathered in Hearth Hall — elders and scouts, crafters and cooks — all bundled in wool and moss-dyed cloaks. They murmured as Bernard spoke, nodding in agreement.
“We can’t keep relying on his strength alone,” Lira added. “The magic is growing, yes, but it’s not ready to carry that kind of burden.”
Fenril, the sharp-eyed scout, cleared his throat. “There is another way.” He unrolled a rough parchment. “The northern herds. Reindeer. They’ve been used by the mountain villages for centuries. Strong, sure-footed, and no creature knows snow like they do.”
“They’re wild,” Lira warned. “Not bred for pulling sleighs.”
“But they’re wise,” Fenril countered. “They understand the cold.”
Santa straightened. “Then we go to them. Not to conquer. To ask.”
---
It took weeks to prepare. Santa and Bernard left in early February, snow still thick across the Reindeer Fields. They crossed frozen streams and wound through frost-bitten pines until they reached the hills beyond Lone Pine — where few elves ever wandered.
On the fourth morning, they saw them.
Reindeer — more than two dozen — moved through the snow like shadows. Their breath curled in the morning light, and their hooves barely disturbed the powder. They didn’t startle. They watched.
Santa stood silently at the treeline, resisting the urge to step forward. He lowered his pack, unwrapped a handful of dried apples, and placed them on a stone. Then he backed away.
The herd didn’t move.
They returned the next morning. The apples were gone.
On the third morning, the first reindeer stepped forward.
Brisket was thick-chested and broad-hoofed, a storm in fur. He snorted and stamped once, then approached with slow certainty. His eyes met Santa’s and didn’t flinch.
Behind him darted Frostmane — slender and white-maned, weaving between trees with fluid grace. He circled twice before stopping at Brisket’s flank.
Hearth followed days later. He never moved quickly — only watched, calm and unshaken, like a sentinel evaluating the man who had come to speak without words.
Then came Thistle. She charged twice. Once with a snort, once with her head low. Santa held his ground. After the second charge, she veered off and returned to the herd… but turned back to glance at him.
Mirth arrived the next morning and nosed through Bernard’s pouch, pulling out a strand of jerky. Bernard scolded her, laughing through chattering teeth.
Beryl wouldn’t approach. But she ran — fast and wide circles through the drifts. Always watching. Always testing.
Tundra lumbered out on a quiet dusk, slow but relentless, crunching snow with every heavy step. He didn’t greet Santa — just stood nearby and stayed.
Solace came on the coldest night. Santa was dozing by a flickering flame when he felt warm breath on his shoulder. She had curled beside him like an old friend.
“They’ve chosen,” Bernard whispered, eyes wide.
---
Training took weeks. Harnesses weren’t natural. Sleighs weren’t familiar.
Brisket wouldn’t walk next to Thistle until Mirth stood between them. Beryl spooked at the jingle of the silverbells until Bernard swapped them for quiet frostvine loops.
They learned in pairs, then in rows, then together. They tangled lines, slid sideways, broke a runner once. But they kept trying. And so did Santa.
Lira arrived mid-March with the first sleigh prototype — low-slung, icewood runners, frostvine traces, and a seat deep enough to brace against high winds. It wasn’t fast. But it was solid.
On the eve of their first test, Santa stood beside the team. The sleigh rested behind them, half-shadowed by snowfall.
“What if they don’t move?” he asked.
“They will,” said Bernard.
The sun broke over the eastern hills. Snow shimmered like powdered glass.
Santa took the reins.
“Easy,” he whispered.
Brisket leaned forward. Frostmane snorted. Hearth braced. The others followed.
The sleigh moved.
Then it slid.
Then it flew — not into the sky, but across the ground, smooth as a drifting leaf.
Elves stepped from the tree line to watch. Lira’s hand was over her mouth. Bernard jogged alongside until the runners outpaced him.
When they returned, Santa stepped down, stunned and beaming.
“They listened,” he said.
“No,” Bernard said. “They believed.”
And so, the tracks in the snow that morning were not just from hooves or runners — they were the first paths drawn on a journey that would one day circle the world.