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Special Delivery by Poetigress

Special Delivery

Special Delivery

by Renee Carter Hall

Very few people know this, but the name of the Easter Bunny is not, in fact, Peter Cottontail. His name is Phillip Cottington, the middle-most child in a litter of five, from a family whose line has been delivering candies and painted eggs every spring since long before Phillip's grandfather's grandfather was born.

But now it was December -- December 24th, to be exact, at 1:15 in the afternoon -- and Phillip was sitting by a cozy fire in his equally cozy burrow, sipping rosehip tea and leafing through a seed catalog, planning next year's garden and getting ideas for egg designs from the glossy pictures of springtime blossoms.

Then, just as he was deciding on a border of lilac, his fire went out. It didn't die down to embers or sputter into sparks and smoke. It simply went out with a flare and a short whoosh, there and then not there, all at once.

Phillip dropped his catalog, startled by the sudden darkness, but fortunately rabbits are used to dim tunnels and dark burrows, and he managed to find a small lantern and a book of matches to light it with. At last, by the lantern's soft cheerful glow, he saw something lying in the ashes of the fireplace.

It was a letter, he saw, addressed in red and green marker, the envelope decorated with wobbly drawings of triangular trees and candy canes and a stick figure with a beard and a red hat. It had been liberally dusted with red and green glitter as well.

Phillip frowned. This was addressed to Santa Claus. What on earth was it doing in his fireplace? It must have gotten misdirected somewhere.

Phillip glanced at the clock on his mantel. No doubt Santa was already preparing his sleigh, loading it with all the Christmas gifts. There'd be no time to take the letter to the post office and expect it to reach Santa before he left. And he couldn't simply mark it 'return to sender.' He'd sent his own letters to Santa when he was a kitten, each Lapine word carefully printed -- this was before he'd learned human languages -- asking for things like paints and brushes and wooden eggs to practice the colorful designs that were already swirling in his imagination. Always, when he woke on Christmas morning, he'd found the presents waiting for him. He couldn't imagine what it would have been like to wake and find... nothing.

No, this letter had to get to Santa. And then Phillip made his decision.

He put on his second-best vest of robin's-egg blue (he thought the best might get dirty on a journey, and preferred to save it for Easter), then added his favorite bow tie of buttercup yellow. He gave his brown fur a quick brush, found a little basket to carry the letter in, and then he was ready.

He was going to take the letter to Santa. All the way to the North Pole, if necessary, though he hoped it wouldn't be. He was a rabbit who far preferred comfort to adventure, and he was hoping that he'd meet Santa on the way somewhere, so he wouldn't have to go too far.

He patted the letter affectionately with one paw. "Don't you worry," he said, and he opened the door of his burrow and climbed out.

Now, it should be mentioned here that rabbits are exceptionally quick little creatures, in short bursts. And thanks to his family's line and his occupation, Phillip Cottington was not only one of the fastest rabbits in the world, but could keep up a fast pace far longer than an ordinary rabbit. The countryside went by in a frosty blur, and Phillip felt very satisfied with himself as he ran. He would reach Santa in no time. He ran a little faster, enjoying himself, and thoroughly confused two squirrels and a chipmunk, who saw him passing by and weren't sure whether they would wake up to Christmas stockings or baskets of colored eggs.

But there is one thing that no rabbit, ordinary or otherwise, can control, and that is the weather. Even Santa himself, as everyone knows, cannot stop a snowstorm.

It started as swirls of flurries, starting and stopping. Phillip slowed down a little. In truth, he was glad to have an excuse to slow down; he was used to doing this run only once a year, and he was a bit out of shape since last Easter, being somewhat over-fond of blackberry scones.

Then the snow stopped stopping. It came down steady, a haze of white flakes, and the wind grew colder and sharper. Soon Phillip was not so much running as swimming through drifts of snow, and it was still piling up. His robin's-egg blue vest was soaked through, and he thought bitterly that winter was a ridiculous time for a holiday. Still, he struggled forward, stopping only to catch his breath and make sure that the letter was still safe in the basket. It was a little wet from all the snow, but it was all right.

He was in a grove of pine trees now, and he paused underneath them, resting on the bed of soft orange-brown needles below, grateful to be out of the storm for a few moments, out of the wind and the wet and the cold, sheltered under these low-hanging branches...

He jerked awake and realized he'd been asleep. Frantically, he tried to see the sky -- had he been asleep long? It still looked light out. Why hadn't he brought his little gold pocketwatch? Better yet, he thought, his stomach growling, why hadn't he brought any food?

"I am a complete and utter failure at this sort of thing," he said out loud, annoyed with himself.

"That depends," said a voice quite close by, "on what sort of thing you're trying to do."

Startled, Phillip jumped about two feet straight up in the air, then tried his best to look like he hadn't. The voice belonged to another rabbit, a white one with long fur -- long fur that looked nicely warm, Phillip thought with envy -- long ears, and longer legs.

Phillip extended his right paw politely. "Phillip Cottington. Pleasure to meet you."

The strange rabbit stared at him, obviously not knowing what to do.

"Ah." Phillip dropped his outstretched paw and went back to hugging himself for warmth. "And... you are?"

"They call me Snowskimmer." The rabbit eyed Phillip curiously. "What are you still doing in your summer coat?"

"This is my second-best vest," Phillip explained with a dismayed sigh, "though I'm afraid it's quite ruined now."

"No, not that," the rabbit said. He reached out a paw to tap Phillip's arm. "I mean your fur. Shouldn't you be white by now?"

Phillip blinked, confused. "My fur has always been brown."

The rabbit considered this. Then his eyes lit with understanding. "Oh, I see now. You're a rabbit, aren't you?"

Phillip nodded, momentarily lost for words. "Aren't you?" he asked finally, afraid that he'd gone mad from the cold.

The rabbit -- or whatever it was -- laughed. "Not quite. They call us snowshoe hares. And we're brown like you in the summertime, and white in the winter."

"You're magic," Phillip said, awed.

The hare chuckled. "I guess you could look at it that way." Then he turned serious again. "But listen -- you'd better be careful out there. That brown coat's going to show up bright as berries against this snow. You won't be able to hide."

The hare's tone made Phillip shiver even more than the cold. "Hide from what?"

He got his answer about half a second later. A cry more fierce and terrible than any he'd ever heard ripped the air, and a huge sleek shape leapt so close he could smell its hot breath. In the frozen moment of terror, he saw that it was a tawny cat with bright white fangs.

"Run!" Snowskimmer cried, then leapt away in a spray of snow.

At last Phillip got his legs going, and he ran with panic burning in his chest. He had thought he was the fastest rabbit in the world, but he had never before had to run for his life, and he was already tired from the journey. He wanted to run straight to the nearest burrow-hole, but he couldn't see any in the deep snow.

He dared a glance back. The great cat was gaining on him fast. It reached out a paw to swipe at him, and its claws ripped across Phillip's vest, tearing the fabric to shreds. Phillip lost his balance and went tumbling head over heels in the snow. In another second, the cat would be on him--

--but Snowskimmer kicked a spray of snow into the cat's face, and it yowled and snarled at him, and then the hare was taunting it, calling it slowpoke and kitty-wittums and several other names that it is best not to repeat, as they were not in the least polite. And the cat leapt for Snowskimmer instead, but the hare was already away, and he led the cat off through the trees, zig-zagging down the drifts, always a jump ahead of the cat's claws, until they both were out of sight.

Phillip stood up slowly, still breathing hard from fear and the chase. His buttercup-yellow tie had come half-untied, and his vest was in ragged pieces around him, and the little basket was on its side in the snow, and the letter--

The letter. Phillip grabbed the basket, his heart pounding. It was empty.

"No," Phillip breathed. He dug frantically through the snow, searching. "No, no, no..." He ran in circles, pawing at the drifts, doubling back, but found nothing. At last he sat right down where he was in the snow, cold and wet and miserable, and his eyes filled with tears, and he didn't care if a dozen hungry cats came after him now.

He was sitting there, hunched over, shivering, tears freezing in his fur, when he heard a polite cough next to him. Phillip looked up. It was Snowskimmer.

Phillip scrubbed at his runny nose with the back of his paw and tried to collect himself. "I guess... I should thank you for saving my life."

"Oh, well, that was nothing. Kind of fun, really. I haven't had a good run in a couple of days." The hare then picked something up in his mouth and held it out to Phillip. "You dropped this back there," he said, mumbling around the paper. "Thought you might want it back."

Phillip stared a moment, then swallowed the lump in his throat and took the letter. "Thank you."

Snowskimmer pawed at the snow, embarrassed. There was green glitter around his mouth from the letter. "You're welcome. I just thought it might be important."

"It is. It's a letter to Santa."

"Yours?"

"No, someone else's. I got it by mistake." Phillip paused. "You know who Santa is?"

Snowskimmer smirked. "Everybody knows who Santa is."

Phillip nodded. "I have to get this letter to him before tonight. I..." Phillip trailed off, looking around them. The snow was blue with shadows. The sun was already setting. "I don't have much time," he finished.

The hare froze suddenly. His ears swiveled one way, then the other, catching a faint sound from far away. Phillip stuffed the letter back into his basket and got ready to run again, but then Snowskimmer relaxed and smiled.

"You'd better get ready to deliver that letter," the hare said, grinning. "Hear those bells?"

Phillip listened, and his heart leapt. In the distance, getting closer, he could hear the bells of Santa's sleigh. He looked up, scanning the sky. At last he saw it, the warm lights of the sleigh flashing and twinkling on the silver bells of the reindeer harnesses, so that the whole sleigh and team looked like a golden shooting star in the dark winter sky.

Then Phillip's heart sank again. How was Santa ever going to see one little brown rabbit in the snow at night?

He had to try. He jumped up and down, waving his arms. "Santa! Santa! SANTA!" Then he lost his balance and fell backwards into the snow, and he wondered if Santa would see him and just think he was some silly rabbit making snow angels on Christmas Eve.

But the sleigh was coming closer now, and lower, and then in a scattering of snow and twinkling of light, the sleigh landed and glided to a smooth stop. The reindeer stood pawing the snow and waiting, their breath blowing clouds of steam into the air.

"Another excellent landing, boys," Santa said, laying the reins aside. Then he turned to Phillip and touched his fur-trimmed red cap in greeting. "Good evening and merry Christmas!"

Phillip brushed the worst of the snow from his coat. His vest was gone, his tie hung loose and bedraggled and dripping wet, and he was shivering so hard that he had to speak carefully to keep his teeth from chattering. Still, he reminded himself that dignity was more in what one did than how one looked, and he held out his paw with as much elegance as if he'd been wearing his best clothes. "Phillip Cottington, Mr. Claus, sir, and pleased to make your acquaintance."

Santa's red mitten enveloped Phillip's paw, and he shook it with a grave nod. "Likewise, Mr. Cottington. Paint sets and wooden eggs, wasn't it?"

Phillip smiled. "Yes sir, it was, and thank you."

"I've heard good things about your work." Santa paused, then patted the sleigh's bench. "Come on up and get yourself warm, and we'll talk business."

Phillip nodded, judged the distance, and leapt to the bench. He skidded a bit on the smooth surface, but Santa steadied him.

Santa looked back then at the hare and smiled. "Snowskimmer."

Snowskimmer extended one leg and bowed elegantly.

Santa shook his head a bit. "Go easy on the cats. It is Christmas, after all."

"I can't help it if they're slow."

Santa chuckled. "Next to your favorite hiding spot you'll find a patch of silver ice. Stamp it three times, and your gift will appear."

Snowskimmer nodded. "Thanks, Santa. Merry Christmas!" A moment later, without even saying goodbye to Phillip, he was off and bounding over the snow.

"What will appear?" Phillip asked.

"Fresh clover," Santa replied. "Only for tonight, but it'll make winter a bit easier. Now, let's get you seen to."

Santa wrapped him a thick red woolen scarf -- "the missus makes me bring it, but the coat's warm enough for me" -- then took out a large thermos and poured Phillip a cup of something hot. Phillip sipped it and found it was rosehip tea. It warmed him completely.

"I didn't know you liked that," Phillip said as he handed the empty cup back.

Santa winked and poured a cup for himself -- only this time it was hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream. "So what brings you out tonight, Phillip?"

Phillip held out the letter. He hoped Santa would still be able to read it; it was wet and smeared and crumpled. "I got this today by mistake."

"Ah." Santa took it and nodded. "I was wondering where her letter was. I thought... perhaps... but here it is." He nodded again, looking satisfied. "Here it is," he repeated softly.

Phillip didn't understand, and Santa must have seen, because he added, "It's a good thing you brought this to me. She's been very good this year, you know." A shadow passed briefly over his face. "Very ill," he said quietly, "and very good."

"It was Snowskimmer, really," Phillip replied, feeling the tips of his ears growing warm. "I almost lost it. If it weren't for him, I would have lost it."

Santa nodded and finished his hot chocolate, then took up the reins again. "All right, boys, we'll have to circle back for a special delivery. Top speed!" As the reindeer started out, he turned back to Phillip. "We'll drop you off on the way."

Phillip started to protest, but they were already in the air. He found that it made him dizzy to look down, so he settled back and enjoyed the sound of the bells instead. The wind tingled along his whiskers, but he stayed nicely warm in the scarf, and when he found that many children left carrots out for the reindeer, he nibbled gratefully on one until he felt full.

The soft, rhythmic chiming of the bells lulled him to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was being carried and set down in his chair, the scarf still warm around him, and the fire was crackling, and he was warm and full and very, very tired, and then he was asleep again.

When he woke, it was morning. The fire had died down to ashes, and a stocking knitted in pastel colors hung from the mantel. Sticking out of the top was a small card of thick, creamy paper, and in fine gold script it read, "With my thanks. S. Claus."

Phillip peered into the stocking and grinned. It was stuffed with packets of seeds, daisies and lilac and bellflowers and columbine, foxglove and sweet pea and morning glory and honeysuckle. And in the very bottom, neatly folded, he found a brand-new vest of robin's-egg blue.

* * *

Santa rose and stretched. The sun had just come up, and he got out of bed carefully (Mrs. Claus was not an early riser), put on his red-and-green-striped robe, and headed to the kitchen to start the hot chocolate. This was going to be a big day; every April he went out to meet the new reindeer fawns and their proud parents.

He passed by his office on the way, and as he glanced in the doorway he saw something sitting on his desk. Frowning slightly, he went to take a closer look.

It was a basket, tied with a glossy green bow and lined with his red scarf. Inside he found a box of chocolate chip cookies, somehow still warm, as if they'd just been taken from the oven a few minutes before. And there was something else, cushioned on the scarf: a painted egg, delicate and beautiful, covered with designs of holly, painted so well and carefully that each leaf and berry looked glossy and perfect and alive.

Underneath, there was a card, written in ink of robin's-egg blue:

With my thanks for your hospitality. Sincerely yours, P. Cottington.

And far beyond the North Pole, in the pine wood that spring, a brown hare feasted on the finest crop of clover any of the animals had ever seen.

The End

(c) 2007 Renee Carter Hall ("poetigress"). May not be reprinted or redistributed without written permission.

Special Delivery

Poetigress

It's Christmas Eve, and Phillip Cottington -- a.k.a. the Easter Bunny -- is already planning for spring. But when a letter intended for Santa gets delivered to him instead, Phillip has to make sure it gets through in time.

In some small ways, the character of Phillip is my homage to Beatrix Potter's characters, who I've loved since childhood. This might read like a children's story, but like so much of my work, it's really intended for child-hearted adults, those who never exactly grew up (and don't plan to anytime soon).

If you'd rather listen than read, check out the audio version of this story from the Anthro Dreams podcast:

Special Delivery

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