Checking It Twice

I have been thinking about what happens when the people in charge of keeping the record decide the record is inconvenient. History is only useful if we are honest about it, including the parts that reflect badly on us.

Spatterblot understands this. He has spent more than a hundred years writing down what people actually did, not what they wish they had done, and he is not about to let that change without a fight. This is a Christmas story about accountability, revisionism, and one very caffeinated elf who refuses to let the past be erased.

---

Spatterblot cracked his knuckles, dipped his nip in the inkwell, and turned back to his page in the big book of deeds. He looked up at the calendar on the wall, reminding him of the looming, immovable deadline staring him down. He sighed, took one last nip off his cocoa and pressed forward.

Life as the scribe of the great Kristopher Kringle meant long hours, hunched over the enormous white tome that held the name of every living soul. Bearing a full account of their heroics and misdeeds, every entry was as robust as the person it described. From their innermost thoughts to the most well-publicized heroic actions, nothing escaped Spatterblot and Kringle’s notice.

At the end of another day of recording the actions of the millions of names in the book, Spatterblot was ready for his cozy little bed and to set down his quill until morning.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he was passing when he overheard Kringle speaking with the head elf, Starburst. Their voices were low, but what was spoken crept into Spatterblot’s mind all the same.

“The rules of good and bad are changing,” said Starburst. “We must change with the times, sir.”

“There’s no such lenience when it comes to good and bad. They are always opposite and there’s no middle ground. There’s no way to rewrite a bad and make it good, Starburst.”

“But we control those judgements, sir. You have that power. Spatterblot can make it so.”

“You would have me change everything, now? We’re moments from the biggest day of our year.”

“We must consider the changing world around us, sir. Standards shift, societies evolve. These are not accounted for in our current system. Far too many deeds fall on the bad side of the list, overlooking the fact that many go on to be redeemed by their goodness. Surely you can see what a waste of our time and resources it would be to continue this way? Why must we castigate so quickly?”

“Starburst, I understand your concerns, but we are just six days before Christmas, surely we cannot upend everything? The toys and gifts are nearly prepared. Think of how hard everyone has worked.”

“Of course, sir. I understand completely – and you are, as ever, right to remind me of our North Star. We will discuss further after this year’s work is done and you’ve had your well-earned rest. The next volume of the book of names can be written with these new rules.”

Not wanting to be overheard and fearful they’d hear his racing heart, Spatterblot hurried down the corridor to his quarters. He spent the whole of the night pacing, dreading the moment when he would have to return to his desk and scheming of a way to thwart what, to him, sounded like the end of everything the North Pole held sacred.

For more than one hundred years, Spatterblot had been the scribe for the book of deeds, the annal of good and bad, the defining record of who was naughty and who was nice. Despite what all the children’s songs suggested, these were static categories that had been the same since Spatterblot’s grandfather: good was good, and bad was bad.

Some who are marked down as bad can redeem themselves, sure, but what Starburst was suggesting…well, it curdled Spatterblot’s innards.

Every year, after Christmas was over and the new year’s bell had been rung, Spatterblot’s white book was as new. Those who were newly-born appeared while those who had lived the longest brought with them the account of their actions from the beginning of their lives, all summarized by the symbols and glyphs that decided these things.

If Starburst had his way, there’d be no history in the book of deeds and everyone would start over each year. Spatterblot knew the North Pole’s tallies weren’t solely for the presents and treasures that Kringle delivers, they meant something about the balance of things. The honest assessment of whether a person’s good deeds outweigh their failings is as essential to the world as light and dark.

Starburst’s plot would rob the world of its past, the best teacher the future has to offer. If everything that has been done can be overwritten, overlooked, and forgotten, then what merit does goodness hold? If there’s no accountability for having done wrong, what motivation would a person have for being good?

Seated at his desk the next morning, bleary from his sleepless night, Spatterblot wondered what he could do. There were only five days left until Christmas, five days before the words in this year’s book of deeds were recorded and a new volume begun.

“How goes it, Spatterblot?” Starburst’s voice startled him and he quickly closed the book. Technically off-limits to anyone but himself and Kringle, Spatterblot immediately doubted Starburst’s motives for appearing in the scribe’s chamber.

“The book will be ready as it always is, no need for concern,” he replied gruffly.

“And you? Surely you could use a respite? Perhaps after Christmas you can take a holiday. There’s naught to record for the week before the new year is rung, why don’t you go out to the shores? My cousin has a dacha you can use and the way the narwhals frolic at this time of year…I hear it is a sight to behold.”

“What a kind offer, but I must decline. There can be no rest in my line of work. As soon as this year’s book is closed, I must begin preparing for the next. There are a great many things about the books to which I’m sure you have not been privy. It wouldn’t be right, abandoning my post.”

“Suit yourself, though I know a fair measure more than you might expect.” Starburst reached into one of the magical extendable pockets commonly found in elfwear, drawing out a book the size and shape of a book of deeds, but bound in shiny red. “You’ll find your work for next year is already well underway. Here’s your new book.”

Spatterblot’s blood ran cold.

This was no idle wondering, Starburst had broken nearly every covenant the elves held dear. An elf never does another elf’s duty; they never interfere in the business of others. A toymaker would be a terrible reindeer keeper, and Starburst was no scribe.

“Thank you all the same, but the book of deeds will be refreshed according to the scribe’s usual standards.”

“Times are changing, I’m afraid. Beginning next year, you’ll record everything in this red book, are we clear?”

Spatterblot could only nod as Starburst placed the book on the desk and left.

Numbly, Spatterblot reached for the red tome. It felt prickly in his fingers, its energy rough. He opened to the first page, hoping to find that he’d been wrong. The first names laid bare the truth that the foundations of good and bad were indeed being shaken. Comparing the first names with their records in the white book for the current year, Spatterblot’s eyes widened.

This went beyond what Starburst had said to Kringle.

As much as the tallying of good and bad—naughty and nice—can be left up to chance, there are some souls well past redemption. Each year, Spatterblot dreaded adding further bad deeds to their records, his stomach soured by the cruelty and malice that drove their actions. Turning to the page that should have borne their names, he found it wiped clean. The names were there, but their nature had been revised, their bad deeds washed away as though they’d repented on a cosmic level.

This wasn’t a simple clean slate for everyone, it was a complete erasure of any wrongdoings…for all of time. Knowing the contents of the white book inside and out, having written them by his own hand, Spatterblot flipped through the red book more quickly. Disgusted, he closed it, placing it in the lowest drawer of his desk.

Out of options, he resolved himself to memorize the standings in the white book before Christmas Day. This gave him five days to memorize the millions of names and deeds and the tallies that proclaimed them as fitting on one side of the line or the other. As the scribe, he knew the book very well already, but this would be a challenge of the highest order.

He knew that if he failed, instead of relying on the magic of the book, the world’s sense of good and bad would be entirely upended. He worried he wouldn’t be able to stop Starburst from forcing him to use the red book, but either way, the future of the world seemingly fell upon Spatterblot’s shoulders.

He added some espresso to his cup, knocked back the rest of his cocoa, and reached for the quill.