The elf who lost his list

Sprig was the elf in charge of the list. It was a long strip of paper, rolled up like a streamer, with the name of every child and what they were hoping for at Christmas. He kept it in the pocket of his green waistcoat. He read it again every night before bed.

On Christmas Eve, he stepped out onto the workshop porch to watch the snow fall. He unrolled the list to check it one last time. And a big gust of wind came, whoosh, and snatched the paper from his fingers. The list flew over the fence, spun above the fir trees and vanished into the night.

"No, no, no!" cried Sprig. He pulled on his boots, knotted his scarf and ran into the forest with his lantern. Father Christmas was leaving in a few hours. Without the list, no one would know what to put in the sack.

On a bit of branch, he found a first scrap of paper, all crumpled. On it he could read: Lea, a violin, and Karim, a kite. Sprig tucked it away carefully. Then he saw two eyes shining under a fir tree. A fox was watching him, its muzzle full of snow. "I saw something go by towards the frozen pond," said the fox. "It shone a little under the moon."

Near the pond, a hedgehog had turned a piece of the list into a bed for the winter. He slept curled in a ball with the paper under his belly. Sprig didn't dare wake him. He crouched down, slid the paper out very gently, millimetre by millimetre, and tucked his scarf in its place. The hedgehog sighed and pressed against the wool.

Further on, a squirrel had rolled another piece into its nest. A bird had pulled off a third bit to hang under its roof of twigs. Each time, Sprig asked politely, explained, left a scrap of red ribbon from his pocket in exchange, and left with another piece. After an hour he had everything, or nearly.

Sitting on a tree stump, he glued the pieces back together with a little pine resin. He read the names one by one, with his finger. There was a hole in the middle, the size of an apple. The missing name was Anouk's.

Sprig closed his eyes. He had read that list so many times that he almost knew it by heart. Anouk, six years old, a letter with a little drawing in the corner, a blue boat with a smile on its hull. The blue boat! No need for the paper: he'd had it in his head all along.

He got back to the workshop just as the village bells struck midnight. The other elves had loaded the sleigh. Father Christmas was waiting, patted him on the shoulder, and took the mended list with a broad smile under his beard. "Care to come along?" Sprig nodded, climbed onto the seat and sank between two sacks, under a woollen blanket.

The sleigh lifted off without a sound, in the snow that was still falling. The bells jingled, ding, ding, ding, at every turn. Sprig held his waistcoat close. He thought about the blue boat, the frozen pond, the hedgehog asleep in his bed of paper. And before the first chimney, he was already asleep.