WE NEVER SAID HELLO

Just before three, I arrived at The Roof Top Bistro on the eighteenth floor of Sarah’s hotel. She had reserved a table for us on the terrace. It had a spectacular view of Lake Ontario and the Toronto Islands to the south.

The cheerful hostess said, “Miss Wilkerson called to say that she is running late but will be here in about fifteen minutes.” She offered a drink which I declined.

As I waited, I reviewed the unexpected email that had arrived in my work Inbox about six weeks ago. I’d read it so often, I had the contents memorized.

Hi Wyatt. This is Sarah. You may recall we met in a very odd way during a biz school conference on strategic leadership back in 2010. I was sitting across from you in the learning circle. Even though we never said a word to each other, I felt that there was a connection between us then. I think you felt the same thing. At least, I hope you did. I left suddenly at the morning break without speaking to you.

I’ve thought about that experience many times.

Now, I feel should try and connect with you. I know this may sound weird approaching you in this way.

I’m coming to Toronto on business for a few days from 

June 16^th. Any chance we could get together for a drink?

Don’t be alarmed. I’m not a psycho weirdo like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction!

I’m a writer now. I guess it’s just my natural curiosity to understand more about what happened between us back then.

I get why you might take a pass on my invitation as bold as it may seem to you.

Hope to hear from you, Wyatt.

Best.  Sarah Wilkerson

Now I’m a thoughtful, cautious kind of guy. But without too much thought as to why I shouldn’t, I accepted her invitation. 

So here I am on the roof of the Regency waiting for a mysterious woman I’d never really met or talked to.

A tall, mid-thirties woman enters the lounge, pausing to speak to the hostess while her eyes search the tables. The hostess discreetly points at my table. The woman thanks her and begins moving toward me. This has to be Sarah.

She’s an attractive woman. Short blond hair casually tucked behind her ears. Her movements are smooth and fluid, an air of total confidence about her. Smiling. The amethyst colour of her eyes immediately draws me to her. Just like eight years ago.

Around her neck is a striking necklace. Gold links interspersed with small pieces of amethyst. Ear studs of similar stones, tiny but not in competition with her eyes. A graceful neck set off by an expensive white silk blouse. Fine ruffles surround small buttons, ending with tailored, light grey slacks. Grey leather flats. Expensive.

Sarah looks as if she had just come from a Vogue photo shoot.

I stand up. I extend my hand which she lightly holds while gently pulling me toward her in a quick hug. Her scent is of citrus.

“Wyatt. Finally, we meet after all these years.”

Her eyes seem to take me in all at once. Appraising. Measuring. Deciding if this was a good idea or not.

In an instant, it’s decided.

Sarah invites me to sit down. She slips easily into the black wrought iron chair across from me.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. Have you had a drink yet? No? Well let’s get something cool and refreshing, shall we?”

A waiter appears, takes our orders and moves silently away.

For several moments, neither of us dare to speak.

Sarah breaks the silence.

“I’ve often thought about what I would say to you if we ever met. Normally, I’m not at a loss for words…” 

Embarrassed, she let the words trail off.

I move my hand in a small, imaginary circle that includes just us. “How be we just start? Not worry about the awkwardness of all this.”

Sarah laughs. I notice the faint crow’s feet at the corners. Nice. For some reason, I like seeing that in a woman.

“I tried to look you up on the net.”

I’m embarrassed at the silly way it had come out.

“You won’t find my name on the net. Right from the beginning, I’ve used a pseudonym.”

“What name do you use?”

“Gillian Moretti.”

Yes, I had indeed heard of her. Her lips crinkled in delight.

“’Becoming Myself’,” I offer. “And you’ve a second one…?”

I hesitate, trying to pull the title out of the air between us.

“’The Stone Cradle’?” offers Sarah.

“Yes, that’s it! Oh my God! That’s you? You wrote both those books?”

Sarah nods. Her eyes dance with the delight of seeing my surprise.

“I’ve a small confession to make.”

Sarah softly claps her hands. “Oh, how I love confessions. Here you are offering me one in the first few minutes of our meeting. It can’t get much better than that!”

“I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never read either of your books. Just not my type of reading.” I pause, uncertain what else to say.  “Sorry.”

Sarah reaches out, touching my hand. It’s cool which surprises me. A tingle shoots up my arm. I try to ignore it. But I can’t.

“No need to apologize. Most of my readers are middle-aged women like me. We’re all wondering about life, love, career and family.”

She smiles, her amethyst eyes now a deeper shade of green.

It seems natural to be here with her. We both relax, talking easily about our lives since that chance meeting eight years ago.

It’s a comfortable conversation, full of energy, wit and sharing. In many ways, it’s like when old friends are apart for many months and for some reason they come together again. They just seem to pick up the relationship as if they’d never been apart.

Sarah’s husband Peter was killed in a construction accident. Suddenly, at the age of twenty-six, she is a widow. Thankfully, no kids. She had hoped the Toronto conference would be her coming out socially after his death.

Sarah leans back, sipping her drink. I sense she’s carefully forming her next words.

“I wasn’t at all prepared for my strong reaction to you sitting across from me in the learning circle. It was a connection really. Stronger than I had ever felt with anyone before. You were attractive. You glanced over at me as if you felt me looking at you. You held my gaze, didn’t look away in discomfort. Was it a silent invitation to have a conversation? I didn’t know. I was frightened by my reaction, the rush of feelings that I didn’t understand. All I could think about was that I must get out of there. Get as far away from you as I could.”

Again, Sarah pauses as if judging how what she has shared of her feelings at that moment eight years ago is going over with me.

“At the morning break, I left before there was any chance we could talk. I couldn’t have handled it. I checked out of my hotel, took a cab to the airport and got on the first available flight back to Vancouver.” Another pause. “Within a month of being back at work, I quit.” She gestures with her hands as if to emphasize that quitting was just something she had to do. No further explanation. Done.

The insurance settlement from Peter’s death was very generous. Sarah decided to take a year off and travel. She’d always kept diaries, so she continued this practice all through what she came to call her ‘Just for Me’ year. Writing, yoga, meditation, travel and self-discovery.

Returning to British Columbia, she settled in Tofino, a small tourist and fishing town on the northwest Pacific coast of Vancouver Island.

“To help make ends meet, I started writing a monthly column in the Vancouver Sun about my travels based on my diaries. Unbelievably, the column was so popular it’s morphed into a blog that has a worldwide audience in the tens of thousands.”

“I wrote my first book - ‘Becoming Myself’ –  a memoir, of sorts, about experiences and inspirations from my ‘Just for Me’ year.” Sarah laughs. Her eyes sparkle.  “My agent, bless him, got me an appearance on Oprah’s Book Club. Thanks to that appearance, my book became an instant bestseller. That’s when some reviewers started calling me the next Elizabeth Gilbert.”

I recognize that name. “She wrote ‘Eat Pray Love’ as I remember. My wife read it. Couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.” Sarah smiles and continues her story.

In spite of her celebrity status and attractive publishing offers from New York, London and Madrid, Sarah remained in Tofino. The town’s emotional feel nourished her body and spirit. While settling into the rhythm of Tofino, she met Robert. He flew floats up and down the coast.

“Three years ago, we moved in together. He had a small cabin over on Meares Island across the bay from the Tofino wharf where he kept his plane and a small office space from where he ran his business. So we set up housekeeping on Meares. It was a perfect place for me to think and write.”

Sarah’s second book ‘The Stone Cradle’ was also published to considerable critical acclaim. Now she’s on a whirlwind North American tour promoting her latest book ‘We Never Said Hello’.

“It’s my first piece of fiction. The first two were about self-discovery and spiritual growth. But I’d always wanted to write about what happens between two people, complete strangers, who meet quite accidentally.” Once again, Sarah pauses, gauging my reaction to this revelation. I don’t visibly react even though I’m taken by surprise. She decides on what’s next and puts it out there.

“You know Wyatt, that connection – between you and me – well it felt like it was only the first few pages of a romantic story that was never completed.”

“I knew it should be finished. So I did.”

Finished, she sat back, a finger to her lips. Waiting.

“So your book’s about us?”

“Sort of, I guess. It’s fair to say I’ve had a few fantasies over those eight years about what may have happened between us if I’d not taken off at the break. But I saw your wedding band. That was the clincher for me.” She pauses, the eyes holding mine. “You still married, Wyatt?”

“Oh yeah, her name is Celine. We were high school sweethearts. We’ve got two kids. Out on their own now. My son’s on a rig in the Thompson oil fields. My daughter’s a grade two teacher in Oakville. Not married, lives with her boyfriend.”

The conversation between us remained easy. Even our pauses seemed comfortable.

A few times I had the feeling that Sarah was studying me, weighing my reactions to her words, to her story. Then her eyes would clear, the face soften.

Sarah reached out, taking my hand in hers.

“I’ve a copy of my new book for you. I left it in my room. So let me go and get it.”

She paused, slipped her hand from mine and again, seemed to be choosing her next words carefully.

“Or… you could come with me. Rather than wait here, I mean.”

Those amazing amethyst green eyes captured me. I felt like a high school kid on his first date.

“Ok. Lead on Miss Moretti.”

In the elevator, we stood silently side by side, upper arms gently touching. We watched the floors counting down, each aware of the other’s close presence.

Sarah’s room was on the fourteenth floor. It was a large, luxurious suite with a view of the sprawling towers, homes and parks to the north.

As I entered, I immediately noted the delicate scent of citrus. In the past hour, I’d come to associate it with Sarah. I knew I’d always do this.

“It’s over there,” said Sarah. She pointed to the foot of the large bed in front of a huge picture window looking out onto the city.

The book was wrapped in bright blue paper with a red border.

Sarah patted a place on the pale yellow duvet beneath the book. “Sit here.”

I did.

She curled up opposite.

Sarah picked up the book, holding it as if it was a sacred offering.  But she didn’t give it to me.

“Can I ask you something, Wyatt?”

“Sure.”

Smiling, Sarah put the book down, carefully picked up my left hand in both of hers, holding it lightly but still. I felt her warmth and once again the tingling sensation in my arm. My heart was fluttering. I wondered if she could hear it.

“May I kiss you?”  Her words were a whisper.

She looked down, fixing on our clasped hands as if embarrassed by so bold a request.

“I’d like that, Sarah.” I have absolutely no idea why I said it to her. The words were out before I could think about them. All rational thoughts about my real life beyond this room were gone.

She released my hand, slowly reached up to my face and gently cradled it. Smiling, she drew me toward her. Our lips touched. Chaste - like a first-ever kiss as if we were teenagers.

She leaned back, my head still cradled in her hands. She sighed, deep and long. Her eyes held me. The scent of citrus on her fingers.

Sarah pulled me into her. This time there was a heat to our kiss.

I opened my eyes. I felt like I was falling deeply into those amethyst pools of green.

I was drowning. Strangely, I didn’t care.

Sarah’s breath softly kissed my parted lips. Her skin smelled faintly of peaches.

“Will you touch me?”

Taking my hand, she placed it gently on the blouse above her left breast.

“Undo me please” she whispered, slowly moving my hand to the buttons and then to the white lace bra beneath. My hand moved up under the bra, fully cupping her naked breast, touching the nipple with my thumb. She shivered.

“It’s been a very long time” Sarah sighed, shifting slightly to pull me even more tightly into her body.

“Back then, we never said hello. Oh, Wyatt, I’ve dreamed of changing that for so long.”

I sighed.

I was lost with her.

But I didn’t care.

First Published. In the February 2, 2018 online edition of Beneath The Rainbow, an American magazine.

The Backstory: Many years ago, a colleague told me about an experience he had at a conference in Toronto. In a workshop, he was instantly drawn to a woman sitting opposite. 'It was' he told me, 'an instant connection. We were total strangers but there was this connection between us.'

So that is where this story begins - and the rest is my imagination answering the question 'But what if...?' 

Legal Rights. 'We Never Said Hello’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.

THE STRANGE TALE OF SEAMUS O'BROGAN AND SLED O1-X

I promise my story is absolutely true. As fanciful and far-fetched as it may appear, you have my word that everything actually happened exactly two years ago today. That would be December 14, 2015. Between the chilly morning hours of 6 and 10 at my country property near the small village of Mattice in northwestern Ontario.

My dog Barclay and I were out just before dawn on our usual pre-breakfast walk in the stubbled corn fields surrounding our small cottage tucked in along the western bank of Thomas Creek. A light snow had fallen overnight and the temperature had dropped well below zero. The creek had shiny slivers of new ice forming around the rocks and deadfall branches along both banks. The air was still. Whispy-white smoke from our cabin’s woodstove rose lazily into a slowly brightening sky. Our breath was visible in misty clouds trailing behind as the crunching sound of our passing on the brittle snow announced our coming well in advance of our arrival. In short, it was a picture perfect setting for our stroll.

We were moving easily through the three small fields closest to the cottage, heading north toward about ten wooded acres we called The North Twenty. This was our woodlot. Before you ask, I must tell you that I have no idea why our furthest field was called North Twenty when it was really only ten. A former tenant of the cabin must have decided that the fields and bush lots looked like twenty acres give or take and just called it that only for convenience. Barclay and I have been out here each day for the last two weeks, felling selected hardwood trees that after Christmas I will start cutting into stove lengths with the splitter hung on the back of our old Deere tractor. Piled into bush cords, after three full seasons in the clearing, it will make ideal fuel for next year’s heating.

Barclay has never liked being on a lead. He prefers the zig-zag style of free-range exploring, suddenly heading off, nose to the ground, on unexpected expeditions, chasing down the scent of rabbits and weasels out foraging for winter food. Occasionally, Barclay will stop to lift a leg against a shrub, fence post or rock poking above the snow. It’s his daily ritual of marking his territory in the futile hope it will scare off the persistent silver fox with whom he unhappily shares our woodlot.

Barclay had just zigged off left headlong into a small cluster of white birch and cedar trees when I heard him wuff loudly. Three times in quick succession. Barclay’s wuff is not a full on bark, more like the canine equivalent of a human’s ‘what the hell is this?’ exclamation. Barclay rarely wuffs so I knew that something out of the ordinary had caught his attention. I followed his trail into the trees, calling his name.

I found Barclay standing rigidly alert on the far edge of the tree grove. His tail was straight out behind. His front right leg was off the ground as if I had caught him in mid-stalk. He was gazing intently out into the next field north at a small herd of deer that were quietly grazing on the corn bits and pieces that had fallen from the chute of the harvester just before Thanksgiving. The animals had to first scrape away the crusted snow with their front hooves, but all were hard at it. 

The largest of the animals stopped grazing. Its large head was up, sniffing into the wind, clearly deciding if Barclay and I were a threat. This animal had a large antler rack which told me it had successfully survived many hunting seasons and was skilled at keeping the herd safe. Satisfied we were no threat, the magnificent animal went back to scraping in the snow.

But there was something odd about these animals. I moved slowly toward the leader. Close in, this group of twelve animals didn’t look like any deer I had seen in the area. Barclay, in that slow motion, stiff-legged manner hunting dogs use when stalking, moved silently and cautiously alongside me, always keeping his attention fully on the lead animal. When we were about twenty feet away, I realized that these were not deer. Incredibly, they all looked like extremely healthy specimens of reindeer, normally found in Canada’s far north. I’d just started to process the puzzle of Arctic reindeer being in a snow-covered field so far south when a deep voice from behind startled both Barclay and me.

“I know what you’re thinking and you’d be right, lad.” There was a delightful lilt to the voice.

Barclay and I both twirled to find a small, smiling man leaning against the rotting stump of an old birch tree.

“Those are prime specimens of northern reindeer. At the moment they’re all enjoying an unexpected early morning snack of corn nibbles and dried grass.”

The man was about four feet tall, dressed from hooded head to booted toe in what I immediately recognized as a child-sized, bright orange deep winter parka. Black thermal mittens and tan leather Sorel insulated boots finished off the look. All very outdoorsy for sure, but who on earth is this fellow? It was then I noticed the small logo on the breast pocket of the parka. It was the words ‘Team Santa’ stitched in alternating red and white letters beneath the stylized face of a smiling Santa.

As if reading my thoughts, the little fellow moved slowly toward me, his gloved hand outstretched in greeting.

“Hello. My name is Seamus O’Brogan. I live in North Pole Village and I’m the Senior Engineer of Mr Claus’ Experimental Projects and Logistical Support laboratory. I’m afraid, it’s in this capacity that you find me here this early December 14th morning, unexpectedly stranded in what I understand you call ‘The North Twenty.”

I must have been in shock as I only barely understood what this wee Seamus fellow was telling me, but he had taken my hand and was heartily shaking it. At the same time, his left gloved hand quickly slid into his parka jacket, bringing out a red-green biscuit which he offered to the full-on tail wagging Barclay.

Once again, Seamus appeared to read my spinning mind. He continued.

“What am I doing here, you may be wondering? Ay, lad, now that’s a story worth telling but we’ll be more comfortable if you come with me over to my temporary little shelter where I have some heat.”

Barclay and I followed him through the nearby trees, deeper into the bush and into a small clearing. A bright orange fly tent had been set up between two tall pines. Only about five feet off the ground at its peak, it was far too low for me but ideal for him. Some spruce boughs had been spread out beneath the fly and in the centre was a green metal device, about the size of a small cereal box.

“Come sit, lad. My heater will give us a wee bit of comfort while we talk.”

The cereal box gizmo was giving off quite a bit of heat but I could see no flame, no other heat source. Snow had melted around it for about six inches in all directions. Seamus saw me studying the heater with interest.

“Ah lad, you be wondering about that.” He nodded toward the metal box. “That’s another of my inventions. I call it the GloBox 2400. It’s still in the prototype stage but it’ll be ready to go with Santa by the 24^th. That’s for sure.”

I noticed it was softly pulsing with an orange-red glow. “I’ve got it cranked up to the max, given my situation here,” said Seamus. He waved his small, heavily parka’d arms in a circle around him. But he offered no other explanation.

“Well, Don, me lad, what I’m about to tell you is highly classified.” He must have noticed my eyebrows arch at the mention of my name. Of course, I hadn’t told him my name, so he paused as if thinking about something for a few seconds, then he plunged on.

“As you will see in a few moments, you and Barclay have found yourselves in what could best be described as a most peculiar situation.” Seamus chuckled, scratched his nose, then carefully examined his glove. Satisfied, he continued.

Truth be told, we’ve been expecting you both. From the very moment you left your cabin over there on Thomas Creek, we’ve been tracking you from up there.”

He pointed upward and off toward the right in the direction of the moon hovering low on the horizon.

“Sort of like satellite tracking but far more sophisticated, I’m pleased to say. We cannot be too careful with security these days given all of this.”

Again, he waved vaguely toward the reindeer and a nearby heavy cluster of trees and shrubs.

“I must ask you to swear to me that you will keep strictly confidential all that you will see and hear in the next hour or so. At some point this morning, we’ll need you to sign something official but for now, I’ll take you at your word. You promise?”

I still had absolutely no idea what was going on with Seamus and myself but nevertheless, I nodded toward him and put out my hand. We shook and both said ‘deal’ at exactly the same time.

Whereupon, Seamus got up, pulled his parka more tightly around him and beckoned me to follow him off in the direction of the reindeer. We entered into the centre of the herd, which promptly re-arranged themselves in a ragged semi-circle around us.

“You may have guessed already but just in case you haven’t, let me introduce you to Santa’s reindeer. Team, I would like you to meet Mr Herald and his dog Barclay.”

Pointing to each, in turn, Seamus proudly gave me the names we all have come to know. “Dasher. Dancer. Prancer. Vixen. Comet. Cupid. Donner. And Blitzen. And of course, you’ve already met Rudolph” he said, pointing to the large stag that had watched us earlier while he and the herd had been grazing. With the mention of their name, each reindeer would quickly lower its head almost like a bow, and extend their right hoof forward and tap the ground twice in greeting. Obviously, these were well-trained animals. There were three remaining animals that had not yet been introduced.

“We have three senior trainees with us today as well. Hudson. Bathurst. And Ellesmere. Santa named these guys after his favourite navigation points near the North Pole.” Seamus waited while each of the animals bowed and tapped the ground.

“Since all of this was to have been a straightforward long distance, night training flight, Santa wanted these boys to get in some practice just in case one of the regular nine came down with a cold on the 24^th and couldn’t make the trip. But none of us ever expected all of this to happen. These boys will have quite the story to tell when they’re back home!”

Introductions now complete, Seamus pulled twelve carrots from his parka and went around the semi-circle, giving each animal his special treat and a friendly rub behind the ears. He turned toward Barclay and me and extended his arms as if in greeting.

“There’s something else you need to see over here before the Search and Rescue boys arrive.”

Back we went past his shelter, down a small winding foot and hoof-marked trail in the trees and then out onto a larger, much longer-than-wide clearing in the northernmost meadow I called Fox Den. At the end closest to us, sat a large, bright red sleigh.

It was a massive but sleek vehicle, about twenty feet long and maybe eight feet wide. Up front, there was a small cockpit with a number of gently flashing and scrolling LCD screens arrayed in a two-level console set before a large, moulded leather seat with massive armrests. At the end of each arm were what appeared to be a combination of four round push buttons and toggle switches. Immediately behind the cockpit was a small fibreglass covered area with numerous thin antenna poking up about six inches. Obviously, this was some sort of communication centre. In the remaining two-thirds of the sleigh was an empty cargo bay. Around the top edges was a line of small pulsing lights that changed colour. Beneath the entire superstructure was thin, rail-like runners curled up in front and extending flat about six feet out beyond the rear wall of the cargo bay.

On the side, beneath the cockpit, was the following inscription: SantaSled-01-X.

“It sure’s a beauty, eh?” offered Seamus, obvious pride in his voice.

“Me and my boys designed it ourselves with some help from NASA and a few private contractors. Absolute state of the art carbon fibre skin, super advanced avionics and communication gear, sophisticated heating elements, 3D cargo creation and delivery equipment linked by a high-frequency satellite to North Pole Control. We could have easily included an advanced propulsion system using quadra warp technology but Santa felt he had to stick with the nine reindeer for tradition’s sake, even though it cuts down our travel and delivery times considerably.” That’s when I noticed the leather harness lines studded with bells and now dark navigation lights, lying partially covered by the lightly falling snow.

Now as you can appreciate, I was having a hard time taking all of this in and trying to make sense of it. Intuitively, I knew I’d stumbled into one of the best kept, ultra-secret toy fulfilment and delivery systems in the world. But still, the question remained - what was all this super sophisticated equipment, the twelve reindeer and Seamus O’Brogan himself doing here at the top end of North Twenty?

“You’re wondering what’s going on here, eh?” Seamus asked with a chuckle in his voice. Looking more closely at him, I realized that he could be forty years old or easily two hundred and forty years old. It’s always hard to tell age with elves, I thought.

“I’m not an elf, lad. No, no, no. I’m an Irish leprechaun. Here’s the short version of me story. Fifteen years ago now, when the Irish economy started to tank, there wasn’t much call for us leprechauns to do our magic thing with villagers and kids. Lots of us were unemployed. It was hard times. Then Santa’s Human Resources Team came calling, looking for skilled labour and artisans to join his team at the North Pole. Me and fifteen others took Santa up on his generous offer and we began new lives there with his hundreds of Elves. It’s been a good life and Santa’s a fine fellow to work for but he can get cranky in the weeks leading up to Christmas.” Seamus gave a deep sigh followed by a discreet, soft chuckle.

“Well, as you know, the world population’s been growing wildly and as the global economy tanks, harder times have come to hundreds of thousands more folks all around the world. And human nature being what it is, regardless of your culture, people naturally turn to someone like Santa for at least one or two days a year. It’s a time when they can get some of their wishes answered and maybe feel safer and free from hunger for a bit.”

“On New Year’s day, 2015 Santa calls me into his office. ‘Seamus,’ he says, ‘I need some new technology in every way it’s possible to imagine so that I can get around in one night to everyone in the world who believes I will visit them. Work with our partners, contract with whomever you feel you need to but I need a super sled. It must still be pulled by Rudolph and the gang but it must meet all the demands of the travel, the logistics and our vastly expanded supply chain. Oh, Santa says, Seamus, I need it ready to go, absolutely foolproof by December 20^th this year. Can you do it?”

By now Seamus and I were sitting in Santa’s sleigh and he was totally caught up in telling me the story. So Seamus recruited a top level team of specialists at the Pole and with a few encrypted phone calls, brought in some talent from NASA, Boeing, the EU, Israel and China. Then the sled project team set to work in the deepest of secrecy.

“Our team created many amazing innovations, installed and tested them on a completely re-designed Santa’s sleigh. Our team named the prototype sleigh ‘SantaSled 01’. We added an ‘X’ after the name to identify it as an experimental test vehicle. In fact,” - Seamus points this out with some pleasure - “it’s the very one we’re sitting in now.”

According to Seamus, as December 14^th approached, only one final piece of navigation gear remained to be tested. Codenamed ‘SantaGuide 411’ or the ‘SG411’, this system is the most advanced satellite navigation and communication system ever developed by any nation in the world. Seamus and his team tested it successfully many times in their simulation lab at the North Pole. Several actual field tests of the 411 in the restricted North Pole airspace were successfully completed three weeks earlier with only a few minor glitches. Patches for the software were created and installed.

“This morning just after midnight our time, we launched from North Pole Control for our final long distance night trial south from the Pole to Galveston Texas and back. Yours truly was at the controls.”

“For the first hour of our flight, all went well for me and the twelve reindeer. We were being tracked by the International Space Station. Their encrypted tracking reports were transmitted to both North Pole Control and NORAD command buried deep within their famous mountain bunker in Colorado.” 

“On the return leg of our flight, as we entered the frigid airspace over Sault Ste Marie in northern Ontario, SG411 inexplicably failed. SantaSled 01-X started gliding silently but falling rapidly toward earth. To save the sleigh, myself and the reindeer, I had to take manual control of the glide while the onboard nav systems continued to collapse around me one by one.”

Incredibly, and a testament to the skill, coolness and quick thinking of Seamus, he saw the long snowy meadow in North Twenty right at the last moment and brought the sled and team in fast over the trees and set it down hard but safe on the frozen corn stubble. While the sleigh disappeared from conventional radar, the Space Station’s laser geo-guidance system, targeted Seamus’ position, reported it to NORAD who immediately dispatched Search and Rescue Squadron 401 out of Canadian Forces Base Thunder Bay to lend assistance to Seamus and the downed sled.

“And that lad, is the quick version of me story,” said Seamus. Pulling back the cuff of his mitt, he glanced at a small luminous dial on a red band around his wrist. Looking toward the horizon, he observed calmly “They should be here any time now with a backup SG411 unit. Pre-flight, we store several of these units at bases along the flight path just in case something goes wrong…like happened tonight.”

As if on cue, the ‘wup,wup, wup’ sound of a helicopter moving at full speed echoed across the fields. Suddenly, a white painted machine rose up over the trees and raced toward us sitting in the downed sled.

“Ah, that my lad is an Apache AH-64 chopper. It’s a fast-attack platform from the Americans that we’ve converted into a rapid deploy S&R unit” observed Seamus with a pleased smile. “Those are very serious dudes in that machine, my friend. It won’t be long now.”

The Apache flared to a heavily mufflered but still noisy hover about one hundred yards from us, shifted slightly to the left, then gently settled down onto its skids. The port side door slid open and three crew, each in winter white flight gear, jumped from the chopper, hauling a box the size of a beer case out behind them and then, running low to the ground, approached the sled.

Seamus had jumped out and run over to greet them. Handshakes all around, a brief shouted conversation over the clatter of the helo’s idling jet engines and then all four darted back to where I was sitting in the sled.

All business now, Seamus made no introductions.

“You’ll have to move away and back from the sled while we work. It’s all ultra-secret stuff happening here. Please get out now!”

I scrambled quickly out and away from the sled, joining a quiet Barclay who was sitting over at the edge of the trees that hid Seamus’ shelter.

It took maybe twenty minutes for the S&R technical team to swap out the broken SG411 for the new one. When the team had finished, the leader removed a brown envelope from a breast pocket of his flight suit, handed it to Seamus, then turned and ran with the others toward the waiting Apache. Within moments, the helo was airborne at full throttle and had disappeared behind the jagged line of the nearby hills to the west toward Thunder Bay.

“Well, lad, we’re ready to get back home. But first, you’ll have to sign this Secrecy Act agreement. Two copies. One for you. One for me.” He handed me the document. The sun was up now so I was able to read the two pages of legalese. In brief, it said that I could not tell this story to anyone for two years. That is until December 14^th, 2017. There was stuff in there about the Official Secrets Act, the stiff judicial penalties and possible imprisonment options for any breach of the terms of the agreement. I signed the forms with a stubby old pencil that Seamus had found in what I supposed was the equivalent of a glove compartment in the sled’s cockpit.

Papers signed, off we went to round up the twelve reindeer. Seamus hooked them up to the sled in an oddly spaced pattern that only he and the reindeer seemed to understand. Sitting in the cockpit, Seamus flipped a couple of switches, pulled on a traditional looking Santa hat that cleverly disguised a jet pilot’s type helmet beneath. Navigation lights winked on along the harness lines and the side of sled’s fuselage. The white strobe pulses clearly marked the profile of the sled and the team of reindeer strung out in front. 

Seamus turned toward me. With a quick nod and a shout at Rudolph, the sled began to move rapidly down the field, lifting gracefully off over the trees and heading north into a quickly brightening sky.

I have not seen or heard from Seamus O’Brogan again.

So now I’ve told you my story. I swear it is true. I did not dream it. Nor did I make it up just for all the celebrity attention I know it will surely bring me when this tale becomes public.

One final question remains to be answered. Why did I have to wait two years before I could tell the story? I’ve decided that Santa, Seamus and their technology partners wanted to be certain that the SG411 operated perfectly that Christmas. Since there were no reports of Santa missing anyone on his worldwide rounds in 2015 nor again on Christmas eve 2016, I can only assume that all systems are still ‘go’ with SantaSled 01 and that the ‘X’ has been permanently removed.

Merry Christmas 2017 to everyone. I hope you enjoyed this quite incredible story. Oh, and please don’t forget to leave out some cookies and non-alcoholic eggnog for Santa this year!

First Published. In the December 5, 2017 online edition of Under The Rainbow, a US magazine.

The Backstory. I’ve always wanted to write a fanciful Christmas story. This story about an early winter morning encounter with Seamus and his secret Santa sled is it.

Legal Rights. ‘The Strange Tale Of Seamus O’Brogan And Sled 01-X’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.

FRONT CENTRE STAGE

My wife peered over the rim of her morning coffee. “But you’ve never acted before. Ever.”

“How hard can it really be?” I replied. “I’m going to audition this coming Sunday for a part in that upcoming community theatre production. I think it’s called ‘Crystal Palace’ or whatever.”

She set down her mug, smiled a bit like the Mona Lisa and went out to the kitchen to feed the dog.

We never talked about it again.

On Sunday afternoon, I turned up at the audition with other aspiring actors – two teens and thirteen adults of all ages. There was an anticipatory buzz of energy flitting unseen about the room.

At a long, bare table set up in the middle of the room, sat four very serious looking characters. I quickly figured out they were the business end of the production. David the Director, Angie his assistant, Devo the stage manager and an unnamed fellow who appeared to have something to do with making the set. Him-Without-A-Name didn’t say a word through the entire audition but kept up a steady, terribly annoying ‘click, click’ of his ball point pen when he wasn’t doodling circles and squiggly lines on the back of a torn paper napkin from a nearby sub shop.

On David’s command, each of us stood up and read a few pages of what appeared to be a script. Angie took one of the parts, leaving the other character to us. I thought I did my lines pretty well. But some of the others seemed more experienced and comfortable with such things. The teenagers rarely glanced at their lines while adding in some appropriate gestures and emotions. I have to admit they were impressive.

After each of us did our lines, the folks at the table would quietly confer, jot down some notes then stare stonily at the next candidate. Him-Without-A-Name continued to click and doodle.

After about two hours, David declared a short break and offered us cold coffee, weak tea and not enough Oreos. He and the team withdrew to another room to decide our fates. We all waited nervously, making the silly chatter one always does in such socially uncomfortable situations.

Upon their return, David solemnly announced that some individuals could go home, adding in a decidedly theatrical voice, “Please accept our sincere thanks for coming.” He didn’t mean one word of it.

Six remained. Unbelievably, I was one of them.

Without explanation, Angie lined us up about ten feet in front of the table. Tallest to shortest, left to right.

David walked stiffly along in front of us. It felt as if he was royalty inspecting the assembled honour guard. He stopped in front of each of us, staring intently. Head to toe, then back up again. He’d silently nod, then move on.

Stepping back from his inspection, David announced in a too loud, theatrical voice, “Congratulations. You’re all in the cast. Angie will assign your role and give you a script. Our rehearsals begin back here next Sunday afternoon. Promptly at 2. Make sure you start learning your lines now. For the next three weeks, you can use the script. But after that, it’s ‘no book’.”

Driving home, my mind raced with the infinite possibilities surely lying before me. Stratford, maybe the Shaw or dare I even hope, Hollywood.

My wife seemed shocked when I told her the news. After a short, but too loud gasp, she recovered skillfully with a heartfelt hug and a whispered “That’s wonderful dear. You’ll be great. I just know it.”

I began reading the script every chance I got. I liked the idea that I had more lines than most of the other actors. Reading my lines aloud and alone in our downstairs laundry room was giving me some confidence. By the time Sunday’s rehearsal came, I was pretty familiar with the general intent of my lines.

From my perspective, the first rehearsal went quite well.

I read my lines flawlessly. My exchanges with the other actors seemed effortless. David smiled, laughed, cajoled and sometimes prompted all of us. Several times, he repeated ‘Remember everyone. In two weeks you’ll not be using the book. So make damn sure you know your lines.’

Weeks two and three passed easily for me. I was really enjoying the wordplay back and forth with my fellow actors. Reading lines seemed natural to me. I noticed all of the others hardly ever used their scripts now. It was only me still using the book. Of course, each rehearsal always ended with David’s ‘no book’ warning. It really didn’t make any impression on me.

Week four. It’s our first ‘no book’ rehearsal.

I had a mild twinge of panic as I stood behind the closed set door awaiting my first stage entrance midway through the first Act.

‘Not to worry’ I comforted myself. ‘As long as I know the general gist of my lines, I’ll be alright. Besides, if I can improve on the playwright’s words, why not do it?’

I heard my entry cue. A deep breath and out the door toward Jonas who played the far too handsome murder investigator.

What can I tell you? My mind went blank. There was no script in my right hand.

Jonas said his next line, ‘And where were you, Senator Enright, at the time of her murder?’ Suddenly, I remembered not the exact words from the script but other ones that seemed pretty darn close to the original. Relieved, I spit these out. Jonas looked taken aback. Desperately he glanced toward David sitting down front, then back to me. 

He repeated his line, ‘And where were you, Senator Enright, at the time of her murder?’

At that precise instant, I realized I was in big trouble.

After what seemed like minutes of dead air, David shouted angrily.

“What the hell’s going on here? Angie give him his damn line!”

She did. I repeated it but in my growing panic, got it wrong.

Frustrated, David very reluctantly came to my rescue, calmly telling me I could use the book but just for this one rehearsal. 

But never again.

That night, upon hearing the heavily edited report on my first ‘no book’ rehearsal, my wife somewhat gleefully mimicked those six words that still haunt me to this very day.

“How hard can it really be?”

She was enjoying this whole situation far too much for my liking.

Quite frankly, I think she put just a bit too much dramatic flair into both her tone and her facial expression - all at my expense, of course. But I decided to let it pass.

“Ok, old man. The fun’s finally over. It’s time you got serious about this acting thing” waving her hand in the air with a flourish. A bit too much flourish it seemed to me. She smiled.

“From this point on, every night after work and all weekend long you and I will rehearse until you’ve got the entire script down cold. Out of the blue, I’ll throw you a cue line and expect to hear your correct lines. If you’re in the shower, expect a line. In bed at night, expect some lines. Or maybe we’re waiting in the Tim’s drive-through, expect another bunch of cue lines. For damn sure, you’ll be ready by next Sunday. Or I’ll suffer a nervous meltdown trying!”

Next Sunday arrived. I wasn’t ready. David and Angie appeared on the verge of their own nervous breakdowns judging by the threats they yelled at me. The other actors now expected me to mess up. They wouldn’t hang out with me during the breaks. It seemed as if proximity to me might infect them with my no-word virus.

In desperation, David assigned Hamud, one of the set painters, to stand beside me and prompt me with the correct lines. Every line had to be said exactly as it was written in the script. None of the much better word riffs I offered up was appreciated.

I felt terrible. I began to imagine creative ways I could fall deathly sick and have to drop out of the play. Opening night was only four weeks away and we had an eight evening run.

It was impossible for me to get my lines right.

Over those weeks, my wife gave it everything she had and then some. It didn’t help my self-confidence that she’d quickly learned every character’s lines and could correctly give lines without using the script.

My stress was unbelievable. I rarely slept. At crosswalks, I started entering late on the yellow as if I was daring the rushing cars to end my misery. I secretly prayed that David would call, fire me and ask my wife to take on the part at the eleventh hour.

But then something unexpected began to happen in rehearsals. I started getting more and more lines right. The other actors started to visibly relax when I came on stage. I even glued my entry lines behind each of the three entry doors onto the set. I would stand there – unmoving - before going on, poring over each word, each stage movement instruction that I’d scribbled in with a dark Sharpie beside my lines.

Ten days before opening night. It was our first full dress rehearsal. Everyone was feeling the pressure. I was still making small, silly mistakes that threw off the other actors. David and Angie looked like they both could use permanent IV drips.

Dress rehearsal started. 

Magically, my words came out with no stumbles. No errors. I could do no wrong, say nothing wrong. I think psychologists call it a ‘peak performance’ moment. Whatever it’s called, I was joyously riding the flow.

At the end of the last Act, as I stood at front centre stage and delivered my final lines, the crew and cast all burst into applause and shouts of ‘bravo’.

A standing ovation for me! It could never feel better than this!

Our run sold out and received rave reviews.

But I never acted again.

Many years later, I am often asked by family and close friends if I’ll ever be returning to the stage. I must admit I sometimes still get a tingly feeling deep in my gut urging me to take another audition.

After all, I tell myself, how hard could it really be?

First Published. In the September, 2017 online edition of Fiction-on-the-Web, a UK online magazine.

The Backstory: A long time ago I had this unexplained urge to become a stage actor. The stars aligned, I did an audition and got a part. I had never acted before. This story is my recollection of that experience. I had no idea what I was getting into. I've taken some slight dramatic license with some of the details to help create the scene for you. But you'll get the picture. 

Legal Rights. ‘Front Centre Stage’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.