Another Story from Brian “Fox” Ellis

We are very please to be able to offer you another story from the incomparable raconteur and storyteller Brian “Fox” Ellis of Fox Tales International
Dancing Toy Soldiers, Wrestling Ballerinas and A Nutcracker

The ballet company’s annual production of “The Nutcracker” is a ritual for many families with young children. Every little girl dreams of dancing with the sugar plum fairy. It is the one time a year when everyone and their mother dresses up for a night at the ballet. Everyone wants to see their niece, granddaughter, or little sister in their glorious moment.

My daughter danced as one of the little mice who fought the toy soldiers in a ferocious mock battle. The choreography was thrilling. The audience gasped, held their breaths and let out a palpable sigh when things turned south for the mouse king. In graceful pirouettes the mice wrestled the toy soldiers and everyone applauded. My daughter crowned the Nutcracker with her sword and sent him reeling. Everyone laughed, except the Nutcracker.

For one night we can imagine a cornucopia of candied confections twirling and leaping, exotic treats prancing and dancing on stage. The whole production takes the Victorian idea of ‘visions of sugar plums danced in their head’ to a sweeter level of fancy.

The nutcracker is the prized toy, gallant in his uniform, firm in his self confidence, and the one who cracks the hardest shells so you can get at the goodness inside. He leads an army of toy soldiers to protect the confections from the wicked mice.

At the cast party after the show my daughter won a door prize, a three foot tall nutcracker, nearly as tall as she was! She beamed as she struggled to take it out to the car after the late night wound down. I placed it on the hearth of our fire place, next to the Christmas tree, next to the little table where we would place Santa’s cookies. We all went to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, the Nutcracker had moved. It was over near the back door. The doggy door looked askew. I peered through the frosty glass. There were a wide variety of fresh tracks in the new fallen snow, tracks large and small, some like feet, or should I say boots, and others looked like paws, mostly little tiny paws, but one set was huge. There were also more than a few indistinct wet footprints inside on the rug.

Did the mouse king track down the Nutcracker for round two? Did the Nutcracker beat back another attack on the sweetest confections and exotic treats? What happened last night as visions of sugarplums danced in our heads?

As I placed the Nutcracker back over by the fire place he looked a little disheveled, but there was a hint of a smile painted on his stern face I had not noticed before. As I turned to walk into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, I thought I heard that song, that unforgettable melody of Tchaikovsky’s most famous waltz whistling in my head. I turned to see where it was coming from. Just then a gust of wind lifted the doggy door. A flurry of snow blew in on the rug, wiping clean the footprints inside and out. This could not all be in my head, but now there was no proof. No one would believe me… it was only the wind I tried to convince myself, it was only the Tchaikovsky whistling wind…
Our Nutcracker still shows the faintest hint of a smile.