Santa’s big chest was covered in a heavy red suit. Wearing a wide black belt and high black snow boots he stroked his frosty white beard. At night, on the grounds of Castle Njorn, together, they gazed to the rich, green forest. Helper elves listened as Santa went on.
“I’m going to present you with a gift. A precious marvel, born from an ancient cousin, protect it carefully as you would your villagers, your castle.” Santa spun. Pointing to his spacious, shiny red sleigh he called to elves. “Bodgkin, Ni, Pippy…please.”
“Let the tree grow,” Santa rattled words. “Figgle and his generations are to care for it. The tree’s spruce seeds will bear fruit, fly with the wind, land on your rich soil, and more nearly-like trees will grow. From the trees, like bayberry leaves, from the needles, you might extract the finest wax to help make even finer candles. As well, from the trees, you might carefully gather star’s rays—the golden amber that causes trees to glisten. With the amber, the resin, your villagers will create exquisite picture frames. Everyone likes pictures of their children. They like portraits. They like candles, too. At Christmas Eve, I might carry the finest picture frames, the finest candles to all the, ho-ho world. In return, my elves and I will bring your village-children, time-honored as well as newest toys. Then, stuffed with candy cones and cheer, Figgle’s children will always whistle while they work. They’ll be happy. Is it a deal?”