The Spark of Motion
Santa's Workshop - April 1512
Long after the last candle had flickered out, Santa sat alone in his workshop, bathed in the dim orange glow of coals from the hearth. The room was silent save for the occasional creak of wood adjusting to the cold. Tools lay untouched on the bench, scrolls of parchment curled half-read, and above it all—like a single ember refusing to die—a small pouch glimmered softly in the dark.
The red fairy dust.
It had been a week since he met Forlot, the fourth-dimensional being who shimmered into his world with mysteries on his breath and mischief in his smile. A week since Skit had delivered the glowing pouch from the woods near the Reindeer Fields. And for that week, the pouch had remained sealed.
Santa had not been idle—he had pondered, reread the Old Elvish scrolls, and stared into the fire as if it might speak answers.
But no book could tell him what this dust would do.
And tonight, at last, he knew: he had to begin.
🪵 A Careful Start
He opened a fresh journal, inked his quill, and took a breath. A single pinch of dust sparkled between his fingers—light as thistle fluff, but warm to the touch, as if it carried the memory of motion.
He sprinkled it gently over a plain wooden block.
Nothing.
He tilted his head. Then tried again—this time warming the block briefly near the hearthstone before dusting it again.
Still nothing.
Finally, half-smiling at himself, he whispered a word under his breath:
“Rise.”
Not a spell, not even a command. Just a hope.
The block did not move.
But the dust?
It shimmered—upward, for just a moment. Not floating like ash, not stirred by wind. Pulled. As if some unseen force had gently tugged it skyward for a heartbeat before letting go.
Santa leaned in. He inked the moment in his journal:
“Observed: minute upward shift of dust particles upon verbal prompt.
Suggests sensitivity to intent, not just mass or heat.”
He sat back, heart thudding a little faster. It was small. But it was something.
🪶 The Feather Test
Next came something lighter.
Santa retrieved a snow goose feather from a drawer of oddities. He placed it gently on the bench, smoothing its downy edge.
Pinch of dust. Brief waft of warmth. Another whisper, this time with more conviction:
“Lift.”
The feather trembled.
Then, like a slow breath rising, it lifted off the bench—just a few inches. It hovered for a moment, dancing with invisible strings, then gently drifted back down.
Santa blinked.
His beard twitched.
Then he sat perfectly still, replaying the motion in his mind.
Not a gust. Not chance.
Response.
The dust hadn’t simply made the feather float—it had reacted. To movement. To intent. Perhaps even to joy.
He turned again to the journal.
“Feather reacts more noticeably—less mass, but also more motion potential?
Dust appears drawn to things that are already willing to move.”
He tapped the quill thoughtfully.
“Not levitation. Not magic in the usual sense.
This... this feels like cooperation.”
🦌 The Reindeer Reaction
Three days later, after several more object trials (including a juggling ball, a teacup, and an overly excited squirrel), Santa decided it was time for something bolder.
At sunrise, he visited the stables.
He selected Comet—one of his steadiest reindeer, calm and observant. She nuzzled his mitten as he mixed a single grain of red dust into a tiny portion of moss and berry mash.
She sniffed. Nibbled. Chewed thoughtfully.
Then blinked, stretched, and took a few experimental steps forward.
“Easy, girl,” Santa murmured.
Comet twitched her ears. Then—suddenly, and without warning—leapt.
Santa’s breath caught in his throat.
Not a clumsy bound. A clean, arcing leap—light on the snow, almost too perfect. She should have landed a second later. But instead, her hooves lingered in the air longer than gravity would permit.
Two full seconds passed before she touched down.
Santa scrambled forward, checking her legs, her hooves, her breath.
She was fine. No strain, no distress.
Just... puzzled. And proud.
“Glided,” Santa wrote. “Not flight. But a longer leap than natural.
A momentary defiance of gravity.
A whisper of what might be.”
📓 The Journal Entry (Excerpt)
It seems to bond with motion—especially joyful, willful motion. It does not act alone.
Rather, it encourages what already wishes to move.
It is not force. It is invitation.
And when the invitation is accepted—by a feather, by a breath, by a reindeer—it lifts.
Not suddenly. Not recklessly.
But with permission.
I suspect this could be... a source of flight.
More tests are needed.
Carefully. Slowly.
And always with wonder.
🌌 The Window at Night
That evening, after tucking the pouch safely back into his satchel, Santa stood at his window, watching the snow drift across the distant hills. The stars blinked overhead. A wisp of aurora fluttered along the horizon.
He wasn’t just cataloging a substance.
He was decoding a language.
A language of joy and motion. Of movement made meaningful.
Something ancient. Something kind.
And this—this was only the beginning.