text: # The Old North Wind Captain Frost was glad to have something warm that night as she raised the rum to her lips. A bitter wind had filled the sails of *Scorched Juniper*, pushing her southward. But the crafty captain had dug in her heels, tacking east and west looking for prey near the Portuguese colony of Brazil. A shout rained from the crow’s nest. “Ship off the port bow!” She pitched the rum and opened her spyglass: two masts, just over the horizon. “Christmas came early, boys!” she yelled. As *Juniper* closed in, her prey suddenly came to life. Had they been spotted? Looking through the spyglass, Frost was dumbfounded by the red, green, and blue lanterns hung from stem to stern. It was no signal code she’d seen before--and the captain knew “Help, pirates!” in fourteen languages. No matter. She spoke the universal language of cannon fire. Flames and thunder boomed from *Juniper’s* broadside for a moment, casting a volley into the night. Silence. Then, on the other ship, timber exploded. Their main mast splintered and fell into the sea. “Prepare for boarding!” she shouted and the crew returned a throaty cheer. Nothing looked right. No crew, no defenses. The bow had been festooned with long strands of holly. Instead of the usual odor of blood and smoke, the air smelled like nutmeg and cloves. And it might have been the excitement or the rum, but to Frost, the racks of cannonballs looked like glass. One teetered out of its broken hold and rolled to her boot. “Snow globes?” Her first mate shook another and stared at the glittery tableau inside with his one good eye. "Perchance they be rare? Made of gold and such?" She looked closer. Inside the sphere was the figure of a girl in a dinghy full of banana bunches. A tiny sign read, *All Hands on Deck*. Worthless wordplay. Behind her, something small and jingly jingled, just beyond the splintered mast and wrecked rigging. “Follow the bells,” she commanded. When they reached the aft deck they discovered the mizzen mast had been decorated like a Christmas tree. Festive baubles and ribbons hung from odd bits of green palm fronds and twigs, lashed high into a conic shape. The only things missing were the presents. That and the crew. “Come on out,” she yelled into the air. “Surrender and we’ll let you live.” A hatch cracked open and tiny hands pushed it aside. One, two, then ten short wiry figures emerged. Frost gritted her teeth. Nothing angered her more than child labor. “Where is your captain?” she asked softly. A little one pointed to the top of the mizzen mast. What had initially looked like a red ornament began to shake. “Yo ho ho!” a voice bellowed. A shadow slid down the rigging and a bearded man bedecked in red rose to face the children. “No sugar cookies for you until New Years!” He could have been Saint Nicholas, if one believed in such nonsense; Captain Frost did not. She held her sword to his side and gave him a sharp stick. “Give me one reason not to gut you right this second.” “I have to deliver these presents to the little boys and girls. Me and my little helpers,” he pleaded. “Haven’t you ever heard of Santa’s workship?” Seeing how she was unmoved, the man gestured for a little sailor to step forward. “Peppermint? Can you lift your hat? Show the nice pirates your ears.” A pixie-like girl with a green-striped cap pulled it off and the raiders gasped. Her ears were pointed. Frost could not understand such cruelty. “You... you docked her ears?” “She was born that way! She’s an elf! This one’s been making dolls for over a century. Isn’t that right? Tell her who I am.” Hat in hand, the little one looked at her little compatriots, back to him, and them again. She hugged Frost’s legs. “He’s been naughty.” Frost stared daggers at Santa. “Get the plank.” Tiny cheers erupted from the elves. “You’ll never get away with this!” he roared as his little shipmates prodded him further down the plank. “People keep telling me that,” Frost said before cutting the rope lashes. “One day I’ll listen.” The children were remarkably adept at repairs and carpentry, fixing the mast almost as if by magic. Perhaps the man really was Santa, if one believed in such things; Frost did not. Of course the privateer took all the loot she could carry. *Fair is fair*, she thought. Before leaving, Peppermint gave her a tiny treasure chest with two words engraved on the lid. Inside, a cupcake. She didn’t understand. “How did you know my name? My *real* name?” Peppermint grinned with a twinkle in her eye. “Merry Christmas, Sweet Frosting.” *** This story was written for the WP Hub's Secret Santa Story Exchange, organized by u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ. They are awesome! The constraints given to me were: - Items: twinkle lights, ornaments, snowglobes, christmas tree, presents. - Location: somewhere tropical.