“The Santa Clause: Good Night, Bernard…”By M.L. Zambrana

Note: This is a non-sequalized work of Fan Fiction based on the Disney movie series, "The Santa Clause” (1994) and “The Santa Clause 2” (2002). This was created to satisfy some of the fans who wondered, "What happened to Bernard?" when he didn't appear in the third movie. Not for sale, publication or distribution.

Scott Calvin…

Santa Claus paused as he slipped on the heavy red coat with its white fur trim, and his plump fingers brushed along the fuzzy collar for a moment as his gaze wandered around his colorful, bright bedroom. The room bore all the toys that a child could ever dream of, including a small electric train that ran constantly around the bed, and in and out of the room to deliver everything from hot cocoa to freshly-baked cookies to him at any hour of the day.

Scott Calvin. That name, which had once been his name, came to him every now and then, and he paused to think about it for a moment as he always did when he remembered it. Usually it resurrected itself from the back of his mind when he saw or heard something familiar, but at that particular moment, Santa couldn’t figure out exactly why he thought about his old name.

Santa had ceased to be Scott Calvin since that night many years ago, when he’d accidentally knocked a startled Santa Claus off the roof of his house. He’d been sure that he’d descend the roof to find a dead man stretched out on his lawn, but only an empty red suit lay in the deep impression in the snow. At his son Charlie’s urging, Scott put on the clothes, only to find that he’d locked himself into a contract… to be Santa Claus.

Much had happened since then, but overall, Scott Calvin (now and forever to be “Santa Claus”) accepted his fate and relished the opportunity that he now had to be Father Christmas for the entire world. Oh, he missed little things about his old life now and then, like watching football form his recliner, and bigger things, too... It hurt him a bit to realize that he’d missed watching Charlie grow up. His little boy had become a handsome young man, but for Scott—

Santa, his mind whispered, as a hint of a smile touched his rosy cheeks.

--Charlie had gone from a precocious ten-year-old to a teenager in a heartbeat. His mother Laura and stepfather Neal had raised him… not Scott. But overall, Santa enjoyed his life immensely. Without effort or conscious thought, he always found himself in a good mood; that certainly hadn’t been the case for the troubled Scott Calvin. He lived a comfortable existence at the North Pole, with his reindeer and his elves and…

Santa swallowed and held onto the shelf above the fireplace as he slipped his stocking-covered feet into his boots.

We’re a few months away from Christmas, Santa thought with some worry, but something’s not right. I can feel it.

Santa belted his coat and waddled over to the door, then opened it and peered out into the empty but noisy hallway. He stepped outside slowly, shut the door behind him, then put his hands behind his back—with some effort, since he’d grown a bit “jollier” over the summer—as he walked towards the nearest factory room. Cheerful elfin chatter and the steady rattle of their work greeted him at the doorway of the enormous work room, but Santa could not find it in him to wander around as he usually did and touch each elf on the shoulder, inquiring about their work and supporting their tireless efforts.

Instead, Santa stood and watched as Curtis, Assistant to the Head Elf, bounced from work bench to work bench with a smile of delight, offering one piece of advice after another to his fellow elves. Best yet, the other elves seemed to be accepting his words quite well; some years earlier, when Curtis first earned his supervisory position, there’d been a bit of resentment at his determination to “make Christmas ten times better than it was.” But he’d done it. The toys, the production line, the sled… everything now ran smoother and came out at a higher quality of craftsmanship than it ever had before. Despite Santa’s earlier concerns, Curtis’ promotion had turned out to be the right move for the North Pole. Even the cynical Head Elf, Bernard, took his overenthusiastic understudy’s efforts in stride. He even doled out some rare nuggets of praise to Curtis every now and then.

Santa’s slight smile faded as he thought of Bernard. Something hadn’t been right with Bernard for a few years now. The dark-haired elf had been avoiding a lot of the activities going on. At first, Santa suspected that maybe Bernard wanted to slack off from the work. Curtis’ energetic contributions certainly overshadowed any ten elves put together, and maybe Bernard needed a bit of a break after a few hundred years on the job. But when Santa asked him whether he needed a vacation, Bernard scoffed at the idea.

“What, and risk letting you down?” Bernard said at the time. “No way, Santa! Forget about it. I’m here for you, big guy, and I’m not about to let you down.”

He then laughed out loud and went gone off with that lopsided grin of his, but there’d been an expression in Bernard’s eyes that made Santa stop and wonder about his head

elf’s well-being.

That look in Bernard’s eyes looked like fear.

For a couple of years after that, Bernard worked harder than Santa had ever seen him work before. But the frenetic pace slowed down, as he knew it would, and Bernard became even less visible around the workshop than ever before. Now it had been a full four months since Santa had even seen him. When he inquired about Bernard, the other elves shrugged their shoulders, shook their heads and walked off. Nobody gave him an answer.

Scott Calvin would have grown irritated, perhaps even angry, at such behavior and at the lack of answers. But Santa Claus only felt a growing sense of curiosity… and trepidation. His worry over the missing Head Elf grew daily, but because Curtis had stepped up and taken care of everything in Bernard’s stead, any concerns about getting ready for Christmas proved to be unfounded. In fact, Curtis had established a schedule that had them ready for Christmas five years from now.

Santa’s eyes narrowed as Curtis brushed along through the room in his direction. He forced a wide grin on his face and waved the roly-poly elf towards him. Sure enough, Curtis came at Santa’s wordless summons.

“Santa! You’re up early,” Curtis said with a wide grin.

“Yes, yes,” he replied. “Well, you know how it is. The closer we get to the season, the more excited I am to see how things are progressing. You’ve done a wonderful job on the new batch of computer games, by the way…”

As they talked, Santa put one hand on Curtis’ shoulder and led him down the hall, into a quieter realm of the facility. A number of elves wandered by them at first, but the farther they walked down the passageway, the less foot traffic they encountered. Finally, Santa stopped and listened to the silence around them. Curtis did the same, his head cocked to one side and his pointy ears perked up.

“There doesn’t seem to be a lot of activity going on in the bakery,” he murmured.

Santa glanced farther down the passageway at a pair of oval doors. “Well, it’s a bit harder for the baker elves to plan ahead,” he pointed out. “Bake a gingerbread house too early—“

“And some kid who doesn’t know any better is going to eat it,” Curtis finished. “Unfortunately we can’t put medications for heartburn in their stockings.” He paused. “Although maybe we should consider some herbal remedies…”

“Curtis,” Santa interrupted softly. “I didn’t bring you down here to talk about gingerbread. Or diarrhea treatments, for that matter.”

“Did you know that a tablespoon of vinegar usually does the trick?” Curtis interjected cheerfully.

“Ah… no. I didn’t. But, uh, thanks for that.” Santa cleared his throat. “Curtis, I want to talk about Bernard.”

A shadow fell over Curtis’ round face at the mention of Bernard’s name, but he said nothing.

“Curtis,” Santa persisted, “there’s something going on here. Nobody will tell me where he is, what he’s doing…” He bit his lower lip. “Please. I’m worried about Bernard. He didn’t seem very happy the last few times that I saw him.”

“Well, he was never a particularly ‘happy’ elf, Santa,” Curtis pointed out.

Santa’s eyes widened. “What do you mean ‘was’?”

“I…” Curtis swallowed in a sudden fit of nervousness. “I mean… is. I mean that he’s not a very cheery elf, and he never has been, really. Yea. That’s what I mean.”

“But that’s not what you said.” He paused. “Curtis, where is Bernard?”

The chubby elf wiggled in place with obvious discomfort, but Santa knew that he couldn’t back down in his questioning. He leaned forward and put both hands on Curtis’ tiny shoulders, and in that moment the blue-eyed, warm-hearted Santa Claus dissolved and Scott Calvin stood there, determined to get an answer.

“Where is Bernard?” he demanded.

Curtis let out a little squeak of distress, and his face crumpled up as if he wanted to cry.

***

Santa entered the darkened room as quietly as he could, but nothing could every get past the sharp ears of an elf. He’d done little more than close the door and take three steps towards the bed when the voice came out of the darkness.

“Don’t give up your day job, Santa,” said Bernard. “You’ll never make it as a burglar.”

The flash of a match penetrated the darkness as Bernard brought the golden flame to the top of a candle. After a few seconds, the wick grabbed hold of the flame and let it grow, and Bernard shook out the match and dropped it onto the brass base of the candlestick.

Feeble yellow light touched the corners of the room as Santa approached Bernard’s bed.

Bernard lay beneath several layers of blankets, dressed in a baggy pajama top with a matching pajama cap over his head that ended in a little jingle bell. Each movement of his head caused the bell to release a cheerful little ring. Bernard reached up and held the jingle bell between his fingers.

“This was Judy’s idea,” he muttered. “I’m sure she meant well, but the darned thing keeps waking me up every time I roll over.”

“Curtis said you weren’t feeling well,” Santa said slowly. “But somehow I think it’s more than that.”

“It is more than that, I’m afraid.” Bernard bowed his head and let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Santa,” he said at last. “I told you that I wouldn’t let you down. But I just… I can’t do it any more. I can’t keep up with the pace. Year after year, this whole operation keeps running along, and I feel like I’m being left behind. No, I am being left behind. I know it.”

“That’s not true...” Santa sat down gingerly on the bed. He took Bernard’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze, surprised and disturbed to find how weak the elf’s grip felt in his.

“It is, though.” Bernard lifted his head, and glossy tears filled his eyes. “I don’t mind what’s happening to me. Really, I don’t. It’s natural and I can accept that. But I don’t want to leave you, Santa.”

“Wha-- Hey!” Santa brought one hand up to brush away a stray tear from Bernard’s smooth cheek. “What do you mean, leave me? You’re not going to…”

Santa’s words froze in his throat as Bernard reached up and pulled off the night cap, which dropped onto the bed with an obscenely cheerful jingle.

Bernard had bleach-white hair. Not even the tiniest sliver of gray could be seen in the curly locks that covered his head. The sight of Bernard’s white hair made his black eyebrows seem that much more prominent.

“I’ve been hiding it as best I could,” Bernard confessed. He brushed one hand over his head, then touched his eyebrows. “And dying my hair wherever anyone could see it. Even on my ears,” he admitted with an attempt at a smile.

“Well… so you’ve got a little snow on the roof!” Santa replied with a grin. He touched his own hair, also white and curly. “So what? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed of it. But…” Bernard sighed and sank back onto the bed. “Oh, Santa. I’m one thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven years old. I’ve outlasted every other elf that I ever heard of. Because I loved doing what I did. I loved being Head Elf. It made me

feel so happy and alive. But now I can’t do it any more.” Bernard squeezed Santa’s hand as best he could, but his thin fingers did little more than curl around Santa’s plump ones. “I’m tired, Santa. I’m old.”

Santa’s throat tightened as he grasped the meaning behind Bernard’s words. He could sense the growing weakness in what had once been a vibrant, alive being. The cavalier elf with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit that he’d first met had all but disappeared, and now he knew why. He squeezed Bernard’s hand again, and found that tears had sprung to his own eyes; in the space of a few minutes, Bernard’s grip had grown even weaker than before, and the thin pulse at his neck pounded less fiercely than it had just a moment earlier. Bernard’s eyelids sagged shut, and twin trails of tears streamed down his face.

“I’m sorry, Santa,” he whispered.

Santa sniffled and leaned over Bernard. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Santa whispered back. “You’ve done an excellent job over the years, Bernard.” He brought Bernard’s pale hand up and kissed the back of it, then tucked the elf’s hands beneath the covers and stroked him gently on the cheek. “You’re the best elf that Santa Claus could ever ask for. Thank you.”

Bernard opened his eyes again, and in the candlelight his gaze seemed clear and pleased. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, but instead he let out a sigh and his eyelids half-closed. All the tension in his small elfin frame disappeared with a gentle shudder.

Santa bowed his head... and cried.