• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The second I realized what I walked into, it was too late to turn back because a couple of sets of reindeer antlers pierced the door behind me like it was made of paper. The points coming out of the wood wiggled and bounced like they had a life of their own. Still, I think I would have preferred trying to outrun an antlerectomy instead of dealing with what stood staring at me. I had walked right in on the Pottersville version of Twelve Drummers Drumming. By the look in their eyes, I was in for a good beating.

The room was smoky and dark, but I could see that there were bongos and war drums. There were big bass drums, too, like you see in parades and drum sets reserved for rock stars. There were kettledrums and little toy drums no bigger than a cup. And there was one ragged old piece made from a hollow stump with a brown sheet of animal skin stretched across the top. It was strapped with a rope to a brown little man who pulled down his sunglasses to get a good look at me. “Say cats, dig what the dog drug in!”

“Our train done stopped at Square Town,” said a drummer in the back.

“Wrong riff, short gator,” said another.

“That ain’t cool,” said a third voice so deep it shook the room.

The brown little man held up his hand for silence. “Let’s take five and catch his vibe,” he said and walked over to me. “What’s the jump, chump?”

I extended my hand and said, “My name’s Gumdrop Coal. Is there any way out of this funhouse? As you can tell, I’m not very good at reindeer games. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No can do, Scooby Doo,” said the man. Then there was a rim-shot from somewhere in the back. “If the gimp with the stick is done with your shtick, you are out of bounds and the boss don’t grease our mitts to let you give us the slip, dig?”

“That’s a fact, jack,” said the deep-voiced drummer.

“You’re the Little Drummer Boy, aren’t you?” I asked, trying to make friends in a hurry.

“Bur-rump-pah-bump-bahm!” he answered. “You got the name cool, but you’re a fool, and that’s the truth. You might as well turn around and face the music, amigo. Go back. March, that is.” The Little Drummer Boy started to bang his drum to a marching beat and it only took a few seconds before the other drummers joined in. I could feel the noise all the way down to the bottom of my feet. The reindeer were slowly drilling their way through the door behind me and now the drummers were moving toward me. They all looked strong and they all had sticks. I noticed a door halfway in the middle wall to my left. Even if it was a closet, getting in it would buy me a couple more seconds, but I needed to distract the drummers. The only thing I could think of was to clap.

I went opposite the beat.

The drummers went BOOM.

I went slap.

BOOM.

Slap.

BOOM.

Slap. Slap.

It worked. The drummers were taken out of their rhythm, and they stopped advancing my way. Twelve hardheaded drummers started to bang away, each trying to establish a new beat, but what they got was noise. It sounded like someone had pushed a chest of drawers down the stairs.

“Bur-rump-pah-bump-BAHM!” shouted the Little Drummer Boy, banging his drum with extra emphasis. “Follow me, dig?!”

“No, I got the bass, baby,” rumbled the deep-voiced drummer, pounding away. “Talk this way!”

The other ten drummers started blasting their own ideas. During the hubbub, I made a break for the door on the left-hand wall. If it was a closet, I was a goner. If it led back into the hall, I imagined I’d find Not So Tiny Tim and the killer caribou. As I jerked open the door, I tried to imagine which would be worse—and then I saw what would be worse.

It wasn’t a closet or the hall. It was another room just like the first, only this time—wait for it—

Eleven Pipers Piping.

So this is what Potter had tucked away upstairs like some half-wit aunt—the mob from the Twelve Days of Christmas. Even in Kringle Town, this crowd was tiresome company, so I imagine Potter recruited them with the