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Chapter One
Many years ago, when magic was as real as the breeze against your face, Father Christmas lived with his twelve beautiful daughters and one handsome son in a low, rambling house by a great forest. When the wind howled down from out of the north, as it almost always did during nine months of each year, they were thankful for the high ridge of stone that stood protectively between their home and the great forest beyond.
The only sorrow in his childrenâs lives was that they had no mother: no smiling face to sing them to sleep at night, no kind hand to wipe away their tears. In the short northern summer, when the wind sighed softly through the trees, or when they heard the murmur of water tumbling over rocks in the nearby stream, they would imagine it was their motherâs voice.
When they asked Father Christmas where their mother might be, he grew sad, and would tell them that long ago, sheâd been forced to leave them, yet he never told them why.
But I know. Would you like me to tell you?
Listen and I will.
*****
Nikolasâfor that was Father Christmasâs given nameâwas orphaned when he was three years old. After that tragedy he was raised by all the families who lived in his small village, which is the same village where you and your mothers and your fathers live today. As he grew older and taller and stronger, he became the best hunter the village had ever seen. He always returned from a long day spent in field or forest with a deer or a string of rabbits hung from his broad shoulders, and he shared that meat with any who were hungry.
When the snow was too deep or the wind too strong for hunting, he spent his days learning other skills from the village carpenter. Soon Nikolas could carve or build anything that could be made from wood, and his skill grew very great indeed.
Then, one midsummerâs night, when sunset caught Nikolas deep in the wildwood in search of fresh game, he saw a vision that made everything he had ever seen before seem as nothing to him. It was a young woman, beautiful beyond compare, who rode on the broad back of a great snow bear through a cascade of soft moonlight.
Nikolas chased after that vision as any hunter would pursue his quarry. All night he ran past waterfalls and lakes, mountains and valleys. Always she remained far, far ahead, until, come the brightening dawn, she simply vanished. Desolate, he returned home, and fell exhausted into bed.
He awoke from that sleep still seized with a great longing to see the beautiful maiden once more. His dreams had been haunted by her beauty, and Nikolas felt he could not rest till he had done so.
In those days his hair was as black as the space between two stars, and his belt did not need as many notches as it does today. I have been told that young Nikolas possessed a fine, handsome figure and on his well-featured face was a bright smile that lit his eyes and creased his ruddy cheeks. Many were the comely young women in our village then who had cast themselves at him, but Nikolas would return nothing except kindness for their efforts. For none stirred his heart as the forest maiden had.
Night after night after night he returned to the forest, but found nothing in that wild tangle of undergrowth and immense trees but his own hunger to see the beautiful maiden once more.
Long months passed in that manner, until the ancient wise woman of his village saw that he had begun to waste away. He, who had once been the proudest and strongest of all the villageâs hunters, was now pale and thin. Taking pity on him, the wise woman invited Nikolas into her cottage, and there told him a tale older than even she.
âIn the midst of the great forest there lives a race of trolls. Savage they are, as well as superb hunters. I fear that they like us humans not at all, for we have ever done whatever we could to rid ourselves of their kind.
âThe Troll King and his Queen are the most terrifying of that great and
Chapter One
Many years ago, when magic was as real as the breeze against your face, Father Christmas lived with his twelve beautiful daughters and one handsome son in a low, rambling house by a great forest. When the wind howled down from out of the north, as it almost always did during nine months of each year, they were thankful for the high ridge of stone that stood protectively between their home and the great forest beyond.
The only sorrow in his childrenâs lives was that they had no mother: no smiling face to sing them to sleep at night, no kind hand to wipe away their tears. In the short northern summer, when the wind sighed softly through the trees, or when they heard the murmur of water tumbling over rocks in the nearby stream, they would imagine it was their motherâs voice.
When they asked Father Christmas where their mother might be, he grew sad, and would tell them that long ago, sheâd been forced to leave them, yet he never told them why.
But I know. Would you like me to tell you?
Listen and I will.
*****
Nikolasâfor that was Father Christmasâs given nameâwas orphaned when he was three years old. After that tragedy he was raised by all the families who lived in his small village, which is the same village where you and your mothers and your fathers live today. As he grew older and taller and stronger, he became the best hunter the village had ever seen. He always returned from a long day spent in field or forest with a deer or a string of rabbits hung from his broad shoulders, and he shared that meat with any who were hungry.
When the snow was too deep or the wind too strong for hunting, he spent his days learning other skills from the village carpenter. Soon Nikolas could carve or build anything that could be made from wood, and his skill grew very great indeed.
Then, one midsummerâs night, when sunset caught Nikolas deep in the wildwood in search of fresh game, he saw a vision that made everything he had ever seen before seem as nothing to him. It was a young woman, beautiful beyond compare, who rode on the broad back of a great snow bear through a cascade of soft moonlight.
Nikolas chased after that vision as any hunter would pursue his quarry. All night he ran past waterfalls and lakes, mountains and valleys. Always she remained far, far ahead, until, come the brightening dawn, she simply vanished. Desolate, he returned home, and fell exhausted into bed.
He awoke from that sleep still seized with a great longing to see the beautiful maiden once more. His dreams had been haunted by her beauty, and Nikolas felt he could not rest till he had done so.
In those days his hair was as black as the space between two stars, and his belt did not need as many notches as it does today. I have been told that young Nikolas possessed a fine, handsome figure and on his well-featured face was a bright smile that lit his eyes and creased his ruddy cheeks. Many were the comely young women in our village then who had cast themselves at him, but Nikolas would return nothing except kindness for their efforts. For none stirred his heart as the forest maiden had.
Night after night after night he returned to the forest, but found nothing in that wild tangle of undergrowth and immense trees but his own hunger to see the beautiful maiden once more.
Long months passed in that manner, until the ancient wise woman of his village saw that he had begun to waste away. He, who had once been the proudest and strongest of all the villageâs hunters, was now pale and thin. Taking pity on him, the wise woman invited Nikolas into her cottage, and there told him a tale older than even she.
âIn the midst of the great forest there lives a race of trolls. Savage they are, as well as superb hunters. I fear that they like us humans not at all, for we have ever done whatever we could to rid ourselves of their kind.
âThe Troll King and his Queen are the most terrifying of that great and
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