"This was not my idea. Jack is a friend and asked, so..." Professor Molacha stood clutching a spiral notebook and looked down at the tiny man sitting on the steel bunk, his legs dangling over the edge at least a foot off the floor.
         "Shut up and sit down, Sugar. I know why you are here and I had no idea muscle head had any friends. A new situation maybe?" He motioned to the plastic folding chair the sheriff had provided after strenuous objections. 'Nothing hard, Doc. Too easy for him to grab it and start swinging. He's a whole lot stronger than he ought to be."
         Molacha's eyes widened at the mention of his childhood nickname. Raimundo was always Ray when he was young. With Molacha it became remolacha: beet. He had been a moderately popular kid, not one to take offense easily, so he had not minded when his friends made the transition from beet to sugarbeet, then to plain sugar. But that was so many years ago that few remembered it.
         "Jack was right, you know things you shouldn't. How do you do that? Can't be research. Or can it?"
         "Right, Sugar. Research. Drilled for smart and struck dumb." He sat looking at the floor, kicking his feet like a little boy. "Look. It's obvious no one, including you, has any idea who you are dealing with, so if we are going to do this let's look for some light. And with rapidity, OK?"
        "And with a minimum of sarcasm. I'll try not to be so stupid." He flipped open the spiral, clicked a ballpoint, and looked the elf up and down. "Didn't say you were stupid. Said... I meant you were...oh hell! It was a smartass remark anyway. Not dumb, ignorant." The little man seemed subdued.
        "Yes, Well...when it comes to...how shall I say this?...nonhumans I must admit my ignorance is near complete. Jack said you insist you are not human, is that right?"
         "No foreplay, huh? Not even a kiss? OK, I can live without it." he said, settling back on the bunk, his hands folded behind his head. "Where should we start? Maybe where you tell me why an astronomer is playing shrink? Maybe I should tell YOU."
         "Does that bother you? That I am not qualified?"
         "No, no, you reek of qualification. No jive, Sugar. So let me start where I want." the elf raised his head and stared at the professor with a mild, almost sad, expression. "This may seem a bit strange but...well...you deserve a bit more of the truth than you wanted to know, so..."
         Deserve? thought Molacha. Interesting he isn't nasty with me.
         "I'm not nasty! I'm just trying to get through. You have the slightest idea what it's like to be a major world figure for nine hundred years and come up to a situation like this? Of course not. Have to have been there. OK. First, I wasn't born. Not anywhere or anytime, I just am. I came with the Mother and will go out with Her. Hope I can ditch the clothes before we go." He looked with disgust at his red coat and pants trimmed with ermine, at his shiny black buccaneer boots, all the while twirling a red fur trimmed stocking cap. " I hate this stuff. Who wears clothes like this? Who EVER wore them!" "Not born, just is." The professor said it as he wrote. "That IS a bit unusual, don't you think? You make it sound like a package deal."
        "Package...? Not brilliant, but better." When the elf laughed it left a shrill trail on Molacha's nervous system. "There are a lot of us. We came with Her."
        "You are not from around here, then?" Molacha scribbled something in the spiral.
        "We settled in the north of Europe. She liked the possibilities and I found some pretty nice girls my size."
        "Tell me about your mother. Did you get along? Where was your father all this time?"
        "How could anyone but a weak fleshed human devil, with which this benighted planet teems, NOT 'get along' with The Mother? Everything you have comes from Her, every bit of food, the very basics of living are all from Her. Who in their right mind...but, there you go. That's the answer to the first two if you have ears. And Father...well...what can one say about dear old dad? What do you know about war gods?"
        "Your Father was God?" Molacha asked without looking up from his notebook.
        "Right! God! What an idiot you can be without half trying. I asked what YOU knew about war gods. Got that? Plural. Gods, with an S." The sinister smile had returned to the elf's lips. And the leer to the eye.
         The professor looked up with a start. "Wha...? Oh. I am sorry. My mind wanders."
         "Really? So lets wander, only together."
         "OK, good. I am truly sorry to have lost...hmm...where do you want to go first?"
         "History." The little man crossed his legs on the bunk and rocked side to side, a waving sea plant, a tree in a mountain breeze.
         "The basics, good. I know so little about..."
         "Just about everything, even what you profess to know well. Professor. Hah!" He shut his eyes tight as though that might stop the flow of insults.
        "OK, history, from the top, like where everything began." He closed his eyes and continued the slight motion. "You and your kind, the others, believe some strange stuff. Like infinitesimally small original matter that went bang and there everything was, even Time. Some kind of cosmic Oops. A fart, maybe. You will forgive me please if I refer hereafter to such theories as crap." He waited.
        "Yes, the Inflationary Theory. It might be interesting to hear your ideas on that."
        "No it wouldn't and I am no 'layman'. I'm Ol' Nick. I KNOW things, alright? This is no theory, no collection of pixels, buddy. We're talking reality here. So, if I may be so bold, just shut the hell up and listen." He opened his eyes and glared.
        Molacha looked down at his spiral, ballpoint poised. There was a feeling about this tiny...what? Man? Elf? Oh come on! Give me a break! he thought. Ok, I'll listen and try not to be condescending.
        "That would be good. You are an opinionated arrogant bastard, you know that?" The professor kept his eyes on the notebook and said nothing. Santa closed his eyes and began.
         "The coupling of genders is not the beginning. It is not even what IS. Coupling is the process not the product. Like the Word that was formed by The Tongue and put out by The Breath. It all has an importance unknown to you, Sugar. It is the Creator. But withal, none of Them are The Speaker. No history starts or carries on without The Speaker. He is not He, She is not She. The Speaker is the One Who Is. The Unspeakable. The problems arose when humans tried to put genitals on God. Or Goddess, whichever."
        "‘Course that nearly drove your black robes mad. They heard it, saw it from the Fires of Beltane to the Crow Mother of the Hopi people and they feared it, hated what they feared and were drawn to it like moths to a candle. It wasn't the priests we feared. It was the ones who had shut themselves away, the ones who not only lived a celibate life...which I understand, by the way...but hated the other side of life, the fecundity if you will. These were the ones who worked their arcane darkness on the people. These were the ones who planned the takeover of the different forms of The Mother and made Her into something syrupy sickly sweet. Blue is definitely not her best color."
         Molacha would have grown restive if he could have moved so much as a cell. The visions came as the elf spoke. He saw The Great Mother draped in cheap cloth, made to stand on serpents She Herself had nurtured and set to their messenger tasks. He could sense the downward motion of thought as the black robes, his ancestors, beat the joy from the folk, made heathen a mortally dangerous thing to be, poured the waters of fear on the fires and generally being very bad guys.
         Santa reached into a pocket Smiley Jack John had missed in the body search. He produced an elaborately carved briar pipe, tamped a bit of black-as-night vegetable matter into it, produced a flame from his finger tip and drew the smoke deeply into his lungs. He settled into his bunk, his back against the concrete wall, legs outstretched straight across the width of the iron bed. "Stuff'll kill me one day. Maybe. If they're lucky." He cackled at his own wit.
        "They found me in the fields. Not that it was so hard to do but they RECOGNIZED me. That was amazing, you know? These bemused ersatz holy men knew something of what they were looking at because of their experiences with my brothers and sisters in another part of the planet. We are extraordinarily hard to kill, they knew that, so they made a plan. Oh they were great for plans! Plans for huge buildings planted atop old holy places, plans for organizations that brought what they thought was holy fear to the hearts of the faithful. Just giant barbecues. The fat bubbled in the streets as they called out to Jesus! Humans never do anything by small measure. Anyway, they made one of those plans for me. They discovered that I had volunteered to The Mother to take the part of Father Winter, the image of Justice, teller of tales...never mind. You wouldn't understand. Had to have been there. Sure put a wet cloth on my other work." The little man stared sadly into the bowl of his pipe. The sweet smoke had softened the light coming through the cell window. He sighed a sigh much too large for such a little being.
        "Oh well. They used what they had learned from us and from friends who used to help. That's the point, isn't it? To help, not to hurt? These bats of darkness put a geas on me. New clothes, jolly laugh and all. The other stuff, the reindeer and clothes and houses set in eternal ice, that came later. It stuck because that was the nature of the geas. Whatever people perceived, whatever they wanted to pass on to their brats, was added. No matter that they were the superstitious ramblings of drunken fools and old women so squeezed in the vise of male custom that they remembered only hate. What you have done to the nature of women is..." He stiffened, his hands formed into ugly fists thrust into the air. "You make me think about it, you bastard! You make me remember that these last centuries I have had other duties I had to leave undone. Duties I liked one hell of a lot better. Oh well..I was able at least to plant a few well crafted thoughts about those that kept the boat afloat. I'll get back to them one day. We are many and One! We can be sweet and kind, gentle and soft as a fawn's coat. We are also things you cannot imagine except in your deepest nightmares! We are..."
        A howl came from him. Rage, frustration of the Beast. Professor Molacha opened his eyes very wide and half rose from his chair. He could move now and was of a complete mind to get the hell out. But the elf held up his hand and smiled. It was not at all the sort of look the professor expected after so hideous a sound. He sat down, a question on his face.
         "I know I know, I'm sorry. Please stay. I'll make it short. OK?"
         Molacha grunted assent but there was still a nervous tentativeness to his posture.
         "What I'm getting at is this. It's all a play. Drama is the first thing and is supposed to incorporate humor. Great teaching tool, but they made it serious. Did a lot of damage. They changed the poetry into fire and hurt. If I seem to hate them it's only because I do. So for the last twelve centuries, give or take, I have been doing a forced duty of representing them and their ideas. At first I was dressed more or less like the old days. Candles, holly, mistletoe. But the beard itched and these stupid clothes...where the hell did they get that idea? Yes. Hell. Well...there were times when I gave a lump of coal to bad boys and girls, a present for them to remember and be ashamed of themselves. Great way to raise kids, ain't it? No matter that a lump of coal to the poor might be the perfect gift. The ice had receded only a little while before and the winters were pretty stiff. But where was I to get the ditzy little things, carts with silver wheels, dolls, JUNK! Where does all that come from? The folk said it was the elves that made ‘em but I resisted that one. Bad enough they made a mockery of one of my names by making me a Saint. I don't make slaves of relatives. And no one lives at the North Pole. That's plain stupid. But where does it all come from? You guys! I steal it. Been stealing it for a long long time and it has gotten so that whole economies depend on the theft. Oh yeah, Ol' Nick is the friend of Man! And bankers and grifters and politicians! Sorry. I get excited too easily these days. Makes me mean."
        "I understand." the professor said. From the look on his face the elf could see he really did. Or was beginning to. This seemed to embarrass the little man.

        "So, I steal. Always have. The folk used to put out food for me so I would let them alone. Ate pretty good in the old days! But now? I am in jail for shoplifting! Only in this pissant town would someone exist like the jolly white bread giant out there who would arrest Santa Claus. And he says the judge, who I know well, won't be back for weeks. Fishing! What a geek! Christmas will be long gone and have you any idea what it will be like if it passes without me? You won't like it much. The crowrobes missed that part. They had no future sense and didn't limit the operation. It swelled and bloated until the whole world was involved. Without my visit there isn't closure to the year. Nothing ends. Winter could go on forever! Do you get it, Sugar? I MUST be out of here before Christmas!"
        The professor ducked his head at the statement. There was nothing he could do and the little man should know it. He scribbled something on his pad and looked up. "Let's get back to the subject at hand. About your father...?"
         "My Father, OK, so back to the lab. I asked you before what you know about war gods. Well?"
        "Nothing, because we left all that behind a long time ago. This IS the age of reason after all."
        "You have no idea, do you? About reason or anything like it. You and your kind have been so busy doing in the innocent and denying Spirit that reason has escaped you. I'm not talking reason or even reasonable. I'm talking war gods. Do you know who or what one is? Or have an idea what one would be if they existed?"
        "Your father was a war god. OK, let's go with that. Which culture is that from? What was his name?"
        "No good! How do I get through here? Right. I'll change the appellation. In what you call psychology there are personified impulses, ideas that are primal and need discipline. If they get away from you there is hell to pay..literally. But these feelings are not new with your race. They existed from the Beginningless Beginning and will be with whatever people are in the right condition to gestate them. Is that better?"
         "Much! Thank you. So your father was one of these primal instincts."
         The elf paused and took a deep breath. This was such a tedious conversation. "Right, that will do. It's still easier to say things in mythological form. Well..The Mother has always had a consort of one kind or another. She is constant, always what She was created to be but these others...they come and go, if I am being clear here. Just which one is My father is irrelevant. At least, it has never occupied my thoughts at all. It makes no difference. My brothers and sisters are of the same mind. Who Dad is just doesn't cut the corn."
         "Colorful phrase but it doesn't relate to my question."
        "Look, Sugar, the answer would relate even less. Suffice it that I am here, The Mother is my mother, as She is yours, and this session is staggering like a drunk. Is there anything else you want to know? Am I crazy or what?"
        "Two questions if you don't mind. First, where do you live the rest of the year? Are you busy stealing all that time? And second, if you are a primal being, or the son of one, why don't you just...leave?"
        "Excellent! You do have a mind after all. Where? Just about anywhere at all, anywhere I like. And yes, I'm always stealing something from somebody. The second is more complicated. Haven't you ever heard of elves and iron? How it is supposed to melt us, kill us, weaken us somehow?"
         "My grandmother used to tell stories...".
         "A good woman, she. And in her role as elder she tried to tell you the truth but you insisted on education that took you away from the core of things. >From Unity to Chaos. But..that's OK. Iron doesn't do squat except slash and pierce. Much of that were tales we introduced and encouraged. Helps to keep the enemy off balance. But there are things that bind me. ‘Just leave?' Suffice it to say I can't and lets put it down there. You have your business, I have mine. Americans are too used to what they call Liberty to bow their heads before anything or anyone, let alone a Law that is not explained. Anything else?"
        "Actually...", Molacha said as he looked at the pages of notes before him, "no, I guess not. It would be wonderful to talk longer but Jack needs the report by tonight. Maybe we will speak again sometime."
        "Oh, we'll speak alright. Just not to each other. I need to say one more thing to you. Off the subject, but the words keep coming and if I don't pay attention.... Time is not a line or a circle or anything sensible. Time is a thought and thoughts change." He was especially intense, eyes boring into Raimundo Molacha like diamond drills. He held up one hand as though to stop motion. "I know that makes no sense but it will. Trust me, it will. And you will remember."
        And he did remember...for awhile. But the forgetting process in humans is strange, more like storage capacity. Later it made less sense than the first time, but he remembered.