Chapter Text
ONE:
It wasn’t the norm, for an adult to hold onto his or her Belief. In fact, such a thing almost never happened. Most children started to forget, around the end of their preteen years, and the Guardians had learned to accept that. They protected children, after all, not adults. Their strength came from the pure simplicity of a child’s Belief. Adults were too world-weary and skeptical to ever maintain such a thing on their own. It made sense that they would lose so many in the transition between the two.
Ingrid was something of an exception… not because she was special in and of herself, of course, but rather due to an odd series of events.
It had started just after her ninth birthday, really, just as her Belief had begun to fade into adult cynicism and disenchantment. Her parents were divorcing, the fighting was a constant weight on her shoulders, and school –contrary to most other kids’ opinions- was the closest thing to a sanctuary for her.
It was December 24th and Ingrid could not sleep. School was out for the holidays, and her parents were desperately trying to pretend that they still loved each other so that their daughter could have some semblance of normality… but Ingrid wasn’t immune to the thinly veiled barbs and the subtle jabs, even if they weren’t directed at her. She’d always been too smart for her own good.
But that wasn’t the subject at hand. It was December 24th and Ingrid could not sleep.
The sounds of the world outside her window were muffled and distant, far-off traffic and sirens barely reached her ears, and the silent snowfall blanketed the world in smears of white. Skeleton-like trees bore snowflakes instead of leaves, and sleeping flowers displayed delicate icicles instead of petals. Mud and grass and concrete alike were hidden behind loose and powdery snow-banks, and ice glittered under the streetlights.
It was a peaceful scene, quiet and subdued, but it was of little help to a young girl with a restless mind.
She’d tried rolling onto her sides and stomach, had fluffed and stacked and re-fluffed her pillows, had even tried sleeping with her head at the foot of her bed. She’d tried counting sheep, and going through her multiplication tables – but that had only made her more awake, because she’d had to concentrate.
By the time it was nearing dawn, Ingrid had resorted to staring up at her popcorn-textured ceiling and counting the bumps out of sheer boredom.
And then there had been the tiny tinkling sound of a bell. Quiet at first, almost subdued… and then loudly, rattling away like a hyperactive child’s toy, followed by muffled thumps and bumps and a number of strange and unfamiliar sounds. It honestly hadn’t occurred to Ingrid that she should be frightened of strange noises in her home, in the middle of the night. She’d always been a curious child, after all, and in all of her detective books it was perfectly sensible for the protagonist to go and investigate.
So investigate she had. Ingrid had put on her fluffy purple housecoat and her silly lobster-shaped slippers, and had grabbed a flashlight, too, because all good investigators had those, right? As silently as she could, the little girl crept past the master bedroom where her mother slept, and the guest bedroom where her father slept, cleverly avoiding all of the creaky floorboards. Down the stairs, keeping to the far edges near the wall, where there was little to no creaking and a hand-rail to hang onto, she crept, and at this point Ingrid was feeling quite proud of herself for being so quiet. She hadn’t even dropped her flashlight or knocked anything over this time!
The living room had a heady aroma, half pine from the Christmas tree and half citrus and cloves from the little mandarin oranges speckled with cloves like pincushions scattered around the house. Mom did that every year, Ingrid mused to herself, and while it was certainly very nice smelling, Ingrid rather though that the oranges should be eaten, not left lying about.
Stockings hung from the mantelpiece above the fireplace, bright and colourful in the otherwise neutral space. All of the colours were shades of browns and beiges and carefully chosen creams – the only non-seasonal splashes of colour stemming from pictures on the walls or tiny little knick-knacks. Usually, the space was also filled with Ingrid scattered toys and puzzles, but her father had insisted that Santa wouldn’t like it if he stepped on her Lego pieces like he did, and he might not leave her any presents if she didn’t tidy up.
Blackmail, she was sure of it – problem was, Ingrid couldn’t exactly ask Santa what he thought about the subject.
A car drove by, one with a quiet engine that didn’t make a racket like the neighbour’s noisy truck did, and the beams cast by its headlights threw shapes and shadows across the room. The Christmas lights flickered, flashing colours in different patterns, and each tiny ornament caught the lights like diamonds… Or so Ingrid thought; she wasn’t too clear on how real diamonds caught the light, but it was a popular description in many of the books she read.
Turning her attention back to investigating that little tinkling bell, Ingrid crept around the beige love-seat of her living room, and looked around with large and curious eyes. The plate of cookies she had left out for Santa was empty –and, strangely, on the floor- and the glass of milk was empty, too, though it at least had stayed on the coffee table. Ingrid felt giddy.
And, oddly enough, it wasn’t because of the presents under the tree – though she saw several which had not been there when she and her parents had gone to sleep, and all of them were brightly wrapped and tied off with pretty ribbon bows. Quite strangely indeed, Ingrid ignored her child-like desire to pick up the boxes and try to figure out what was in them. Why? Because she was on a mission.
The little bell jingled again, closer this time.
Ingrid gripped her flashlight, half excited to discover the source of the noise, and half terrified that it might be something scary. It took her a moment to pluck up the courage to poke her head around the corner of the love-seat, but when she did…
Well.
Err.
Whatever little Ingrid had been expecting to find, it certainly hadn’t been a pointy-headed wobbly thing with a bell on one end and striped toe-less socks on the other. It was running around, tiny little arms waving in the air, and it seemed like it didn’t know if it wanted to hide amongst the brightly coloured Christmas presents, play with the shiny baubles on the tree’s low-hanging branches, or climb up the chimney. In the end, the poor thing seemed to have settled for running around in circles and flailing.
Unexpected, Ingrid allowed, doing her best to approach this like a real detective as she quietly set her flashlight down on the carpet and folded her arms. But never fear! Unexpected things happened to detectives all the time in her novels, and if they weren’t flummoxed by it, then she wouldn’t be either!
Even if she was fairly certain none of those detectives ever had to deal with a tiny thing with a pointy head running around their Christmas tree and flailing…
Well. Nothing for it, the girl supposed, and she crept forward a little.
“Hello,” She whispered, because she wasn’t supposed to be up and the funny triangle-shaped thing looked very upset. It was red and green, and that struck Ingrid as strangely fitting, given the date.
The thing squeaked and fell over, half way between the tree and the fireplace, and the scene was so adorable that Ingrid had to giggle. It had a round little nose and big yellow eyes, with long ears that poked out of its pointy little outfit. Its hands and feet were tiny, but they looked pretty normal – no claws or feathers or anything that Ingrid could see. The little girl with grey-green eyes knelt down to have a closer look at the thing. It was kind of cute… and it smelled oddly of cookies.
More so, because it was giving her an indignant frown and jingling its bell angrily as it tried to get back on its feet, rolling back and forth like an overturned turtle.
“I’m Ingrid – who are you?” The little girl asked, because funny-looking pointy creatures in her living room were no excuse for poor manners. Mommy said manners were very important, and Ingrid thought that since her mother was right about most things, she was probably right about that stuff, too.
The creature flailed its arms and legs and somehow managed to use that momentum to swing back into its feet. It dusted itself off and straightened out its little green belt before staring at her strangely.
“Can’t you speak?” Ingrid asked after a long moment of waiting for a response.
The pointy-headed fellow shook his head from side to side, looking put-out.
“Oh. Well… can you write?” Grey-green eyes looked around the living room, with its gaudy Christmas décor and snow-frosted windows. Surely, she had a paper and pencil somewhere! After all, all good detectives did.
Another shake, this time more emphatic... and then, suddenly, a spark of inspiration appeared in those googly-yellow eyes, and the creature tottered away before Ingrid could think to stop it.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Ingrid called after it, only to cringe and remember that she was supposed to be sleeping. There was a sudden clattering sound from the other side of the blue-grey loveseat, painfully loud in the otherwise silent room. Freezing, the little girl listened for any signs of her parents stirring. She didn’t know precisely what was so bad about being awake on Christmas Eve, except that her parents got tired of trying to explain it to her a few years back and just insisted that she’d be in trouble if she didn’t go to sleep.
Thankfully, the only sounds to be heard were those of the tiny brass bell at the top of the creature’s pointy body-shirt, and the quiet clacking of plastic on plastic on the other side of one of the great big loveseats.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Ingrid stood up and followed the sound of the tiny little bell until she came across the creature.
Somehow, the little devil had found the Scrabble board game that she had hidden under one of the loveseats (her parents fought over spelling and “legal” words too much) and it was tottering around with big plastic tabs and laying them down on the off-white carpet. It almost looked as if the little guy was spelling something out. At least, Ingrid assumed the creature was a boy. A girl would be prettier, right?
Curious, Ingrid padded over in her Hello Kitty pajamas and fluffy bunny slippers, and sat down nearby.
Slowly, almost painfully, words began to form in wobbly letters on the floor.
‘ALF’ said one cluster of tablets.
‘DINGLE’ said another.
‘DINGLELITTLELOSTCANDINGLEGOHOMENOW’ said the largest block, and it took Ingrid a moment to decipher just what the little creature was trying to say.
Hopeful yellow eyes stared up at her, as tiny hangs wrung together and tiny toes nervously wiggled amongst the carpet fibres.
Ingrid suddenly felt very sad. “Your name is Dingle?”
Dingle nodded.
“And you’re lost?” No wonder the little guy looked so upset. Ingrid didn’t think being lost was a very good feeling at the best of times, but being lost in a place even the low-set coffee table was bigger than you must be horrible.
Another nod and a watery look came over those big eyes.
“What’s an alf?”
Dingle frowned up at her and then pointed at the word in question again, as if that explained everything.
“Yes, alf. What is it?”
The tiny fellow stomped one of his feet and pointed to himself.
“You’re alf? But you said your name was Dingle.” Now Ingrid was just confused.
Spindly little arms flailed in a show of frustration just as the pieces fit together in Ingrid’s mind. “Ohhh! An alf! Your name is Dingle and you’re an elf!”
And then, a gasp of realization. “You’re one of Santa’s Elves!”
Dingle gave her a look that spoke volumes – a sort of ‘better-late-than-never’ expression that made Ingrid feel as though she probably should have figured that out much earlier… Which was unfair, really. How was she supposed to know? Ingrid had always thought that Santa’s Elves were bigger and could talk and looked like the ones in the stop-animation movies.
“But you can’t be here!” Ingrid protested with a furrowed brow. Her little heart was pounding in excitement; Elves were real! Santa was real! Oh, her friends were never going to believe her! “You’re supposed to be at the North Pole!”
Dingle latched onto the name like a lifeline, nodding vigorously.
Something occurred to Ingrid as she knelt before the tiny Elf, something which led to all kinds of problems. “Do you… can you get home from here?”
The poor thing looked like he was going to cry.
“Oh no!” Ingrid rushed, panicked by the look on the little creature’s face. “Don’t cry! I’ll help you! Santa’s going to notice that you’re gone, right? All we have to do is send him a letter to tell him where you are!”
And, of course, that is precisely what Ingrid did. She wrote a very polite letter with her nicest coloured pencils and in her neatest spelling and even included a drawing of Dingle to show that he really was there, and asked her parents to help her send it to the North Pole.
It was simple, and short, and to the point, and Ingrid was fairly certain Santa would be able to read it. Sometimes her father complained that her writing was too messy.
When her parents asked why on earth she’d want to send another letter to Santa, Ingrid smiled and said, “Because I want to say thank you!”
For the first time in months, her parents shared a fond look.
All the while, Dingle stayed in her room, entertained in by her toys and fed with a hidden supply of short-bread cookies. Ingrid had made him a bed out of a shoebox, a towel, and some small blankets from when she was a baby, and set it up beside her own much larger bed. She snuck him a tiny glass of milk or juice whenever she could, and even shared her chocolate orange with him.
Dingle hoarded chocolate nearly as much as her mother. Sometimes, when Ingrid could sneak him a ginger cookie or a chocolate, he made her little aluminium foil presents from the wrappers. They were always odd, disfigured-looking things, shaped like rough approximations of trees or bows or stars. Ingrid always made a point of displaying them on her dresser. Dingle always did a little happy-dance when she did that, and it was hard not to giggle.
They played games, built things out of Lego and tiny fortresses out of cardboard, construction paper, and a liberal amount of tape. Everything was Dingle-sized, of course.
In the days after Christmas while Ingrid and Dingle waited for Santa to come and collect his wayward Elf, things between Ingrid’s parents worsened… and Ingrid didn’t really notice. She spent all of her time with Dingle, sometimes wandering around outside with him or playing pretend-games. Once, she made him a little yellow paper crown and built him a castle, and he was King Dingle for a day.
In hindsight, she probably should have felt bad about lying to her parents, but Ingrid was a shrewd child; helping her new friend was important, and her parents wouldn’t understand if she tried to explain it, so she was saving everyone a lot of trouble by keeping quiet.
To be fair, the letter did include a note of thanks, so that part wasn’t a lie, at least.
For a few days, it was fun. Ingrid didn’t have to sit in her room and pretend she didn’t hear her parents shouting at each other. She wasn’t quite so lonely, either, with Dingle to talk to and to go on adventures with. The sound of a little brass bell became associated with comfort and a degree of solace. And Dingle was endlessly entertained by the sketches she did of him – eating cookies, pretending to be King Dingle, climbing things, trying to draw with a pencil nearly the same size as him.
The day Ingrid woke up and found a letter in the shoebox where Dingle should have been broke her heart.
‘Dear Ingrid,
Thank you for looking after Dingle for me – the other Elves missed him very much. He’s back home now, safe and sound!
See you next year!
North’
At the bottom of the letter, with its neat little letters and empty statements, was a drawing. It was clumsy, and misshapen, and a blur of bright colours. The drawing was of a little girl (possibly –or a peachy blob with red fuzz) and a point triangle with a big yellow ball on his head, and they were holding hands. In awkward and leaning letters, someone had scribbled, ‘BYE’ next to the childish drawing, and there was even a tiny –lumpy, misshapen, possibly congenitally-defective- heart in bright pink.
Ingrid pondered the signature at the bottom of the short and vapid letter for years – but she held onto it nonetheless, to remind herself of a tiny little Elf who had gotten lost in her living room.
And if that hadn’t been enough, tiny little brass bells and aluminium-foil shapes appeared in the toes of her stocking for years to come.