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 children’s 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 mother’s voice. When they asked Father Christmas where their mother might be, he grew sad, and would tell them that long ago, she’d 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. ***** Nikolas—for that was Father Christmas’s given name—was 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.
