“I will go as far as having to suffer transformation, and I will be viewed as non-existent, but still known as a voice: the fates will bequeath me a voice.” - Metamorphoses, Book XIV

The North Pole’s reunification saw the appointment of a new Santa, a chairperson to whom all unions reported and through whom all unions were syndicated. Yet, when asked, not one official will claim to have met the Santa, only to have heard its odd, keening voice through PA or pager. Nor does anyone recall the date of that Santa’s appointment, though legend retains it was a Monday. Sometime in December. Or November. Or January. In the year 1823. Or 1824. Some – mad as it is and with sensible reluctance – admit to hearing the Santa on the air itself, receiving commands from the air, and not thinking to question them. (Until the moment of interview, that is.) “But the Santa is an elf of course,” we suggest. But they say no. Of one thing the elves are certain: that Santa was not an elf.

The Santa was a voice, says an old, old elf. “The people’s voice?” No, they say. Not that. “And there was no elf in it? Nothing elf about it?” No, they say. None in it. But about? To? There is something all through the Santa, something that is elf… based.

Twice our researchers heard the jangle of the PA and the grating, natural song that followed. The singer’s voice, unplaced yet, was once the Santa’s. Though long succeeded, a testament to the Santa’s once-existence endured in mechanical record. It was during that selfsame interview – our conversation with the old elf – that the PA crackled awake for a third time and, so, the case of the unknown Santa was closed.

“Santabel, Santabel, Belle of the Santas’ Ball.” A snarling mess of noise. As if the system were echolocating, taking our shape with each screech. “Cue Sibyl. Use me well. Avernus claims us all.” The old elf startles. The lyrics are new to them. “Call me Angela. Call me Cruella. Call me the Cumaean Sibylla.” The old elf demands an audience. Who speaks?

“Who I am. I’m who too. As long as you call me.”

Cumaea.

“Bella Santa. San Tibia. Sans toute. Bloody, bloodless Sibylla.”

So, with the old elf’s assistance our researchers began a second interview. Subject: The Sibyl of Cumae. Rotted to naught but voice. Wits gone with all else. She told of the revolution days. The reunification years. Her song in the elf-fighters' ears. The battles she led. The inspirations she gave. And when asked what day – what monday, what month – was the true anniversary of that celebrated reunion, she told of 2024, the first Monday of December. Elfbased. At Red Betty. Happy Hour 6-7. Questions lingered. How came she to the Pole? What bother of hers, the fate of our mad, hermit state and the hapless elves within? But the echo dislocated, the song disjarred and the Sibyl, the Santa, Cumaea was lost in a whisper. It said, “Elfbased.” We looked, then, to that first Monday of December, when all things would be answered.

6 for 6.30

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