A Happy Christmas Ceilidh: The Shrouded Isle

Chapter 1

Becca

I’d just passed the basket of dinner rolls to Greg, my boyfriend, when he froze and his eyes widened. Rebecca, don’t move, he whispered. There’s a wee man leering at you.

What man? I asked.

Greg shook his head. Dinna spook him. He’s nae a pixie, and I dinna sense he’s fae. I’m not sure what he is. Maybe a witch made a wee manikin to torment us.

I had a pretty good idea what he saw. On a whim, I illuminated the room with my collection of Christmas-themed glass tea lights. Though we could see each other clearly, the low light distorted items in the distance. From my daughters’ expressions, they knew what he saw, but instead of explaining it, they surprised me.

My fifteen-year-old daughter whipped her head around and gasped. I see it too, Jessie whispered. Do you think it’s poisonous?

Tate, my youngest, shivered in mock fear. I hope not. Mr. Greg may be allergic.

The nasty peeping tom willna get a chance. In one fluid motion, Greg stood and hurled a dinner roll at Sir Clifford, our elf on the shelf. He nailed the toy hard, driving it to the back of the counter.

Greg grabbed his napkin and sprinted over. He reached, then howled, jerking his hand back. The wee bugger bit me! He displayed a bleeding finger.

By now, the girls couldn’t contain themselves. Shame on you, Sir Clifford! Jessie said between giggles.

Tate shook her finger in the doll’s direction. "You’re a bad elf. We’re going to report you to Santa."

The girls howled with laughter and ran to the counter.

Dinna touch it! Greg warned. The nasty thing may have germs.

It’s okay, Greg. We’ll protect you from Sir Clifford, Jessie said. She reached in carefully, mindful not to cut herself on whatever Greg had, tugged out the doll and showed it to him.

Uh oh, Tate said. You’re both in trouble. No touching the elf!

Jessie held her stomach and laughed. Between her guffaws, she said, The big strong Keeper and banisher of fae—tricked by a doll!

Let me see him. I examined Sir Clifford and found a place on his leg where a wire had sawed through the cloth. Years ago, I’d wired the elf to make him more poseable, and Greg must have snatched it hard enough to scrape his finger on the sharp edge.

When the girls were little, I’d heard mothers mention the Elf on the Shelf at toddler group and even seen photos. But I knew nothing about it other than they looked the same as the elves my mother arranged on a white ladder by the Christmas tree every year. Those elves made the trip to Florida with my parents when they retired, and I was in no hurry to inherit them. They always gave me the creeps, as did the shelf elves. When Jessie was five, she asked me why we didn’t have one and I doubted my explanation that the dolls freaked Mommy out would cut it. Jess chose a first name for him and Tate gave him a middle name. The queen knighted our elf at some point, so his full name is Sir Clifford Elvin Fields-Shaw. Clifford, for Clifford, the Big Red Dog. And Elvin, because he’s an elf. He got two last names since I kept my maiden name and the girls didn’t want daddy to feel left out. My late husband and I had agreed the girls in the family would get my last name and the boys his. Truth be told, I found Sir Clifford to be pretty shudder-inducing too, but at least he had a name, and somehow, that made it better. Then again, Chucky had a name, and he turned out to be a psychopath-killer doll.

Greg eyed Sir Clifford. Why is that thing in your kitchen?

It’s a tradition. A fairly modern one that I only found out about after I had kids.

Aye.

"The Elf on the Shelf: A Family Tradition is a book by Carol Aebersold and her daughter Chandra Bell. In the story, St. Nicholas has friends called scout elves. These elves spy on families and return to the North Pole each night to report on the inhabitants’ behaviors."

Didna sound like any I’d want nearby. Wee clipes.

I shrugged. They help Santa with the naughty and nice lists. Each morning, the elf returns to a new location in the home and the children must find him. The elves become magical by being loved and named by their family. The book comes with a box containing an elf to name, and—voila—you had your very own elf on a shelf. The elf sticks around until Christmas Eve. Then it’s time for elf vacay with Malibu Barbie until next year.

Who’s Malibu Barbie? She isna coming too, is she?

Hoping to stifle a case of the giggles, I pressed a fist against my mouth as I shook my head.​

The last day of November, I took the elf from its box and smoothed his coat. It was late and I wanted to find a place to hide him that would give the girls a bit more of a challenge, but be inaccessible to our kitten. 

I put the elf behind a cookie jar I rarely filled because of my horrific attempts at baking. The girls discovered the hiding place in less than a minute. I’d forgotten all about him by the time Greg arrived for dinner, and it hadn’t occurred to me my dear Scot wouldn’t know about the custom.

To deter the girls from touching the elf, I added the rule that anyone who handled him had to sing a song to Sir Clifford, but whoever resisted the temptation would get to choose the song. By this time, we had an entire repertoire of obnoxious, goofy holiday songs. I kept the handmade songbook and kazoo on the desk and let Tate look through it.

Why would anyone want a creepy stuffed doll spying on you? he asked, eyeing the elf with distaste.

I gotta say, I don’t like stuffed elves either, but it’s all in the name of fun and now that you’re in on it, you can help me find places to hide him.

Aye. Greg grinned. Something told me tomorrow morning the girls would wake up to find the elf in a very entertaining locale. Hopefully, Greg would do what I hadn’t by wowing them with his ingenuity.

Knowing her sister well, Tate chose the song, I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas. As Jessie sang and Tate played the kazoo, Greg whispered what his intricate