A War of Gifts by Orson Scott Card Page A

you’ll get something in it.”
    â€œCoal,” said Crazy Tom, the Brit.
    â€œI don’t know what it is yet,” said Dink, “but it’ll be there.”
    â€œIt won’t really be from them,” said Wiggin.
    â€œNo, it won’t,” said Dink. “It’ll be from Santa Claus.” He grinned.
    Wiggin shook his head. “Don’t do it, Dink,” he said. “It’s not worth the trouble it’ll cause.”
    â€œWhat trouble? It’ll build morale.”
    â€œWe’re here to study war,” said Wiggin.
    Zeck whispered: “Study war no more.”
    â€œAre you still here, Zeck?” said Dink, then pointedly turned his back on him. “We’re here to build an army, Wiggin. A group of men who work together as one. Not a bunch of kids hammered down by teachers who think they can erase ten thousand years of human history and culture by making a rule.”
    Wiggin looked away and said, sadly, “Do what you want, Dink.”
    â€œI always do,” answered Dink.
    â€œThe only gift that God respects,” said Zeck, “is a broken heart and a contrite spirit.”
    A lot of kids groaned at that, but Dink gave Zeck one last look. “And when were you ever contrite?”
    â€œContrition,” said Zeck, “is a gift I give to God, not to you.” Only then did Zeck walk away, back toward his bed, where he’d be hidden behind the curvature of the barracks room.

7
STOCKINGS
    Rat Army was only a small percentage of the population of Battle School, but word spread quickly. The other armies began picking it up as a joke. Someone would pick up some scrap of leftover food and drop it on someone else’s meal tray, saying, “There you are, from Santa with love.” And everybody at the table would laugh.
    But even as a joke, it was a gift, wasn’t it? Santa Claus was giving gifts all over Battle School within days.
    It was more than just gifts. It was stockings. Nobody could say who started it, but after a while it seemed that the giving of every gift was accompanied by a stocking. Rolled up, hidden inside something else, but always a stocking. Nobody hung the stocking up in hopes of getting it filled, of course. It was the other way around—the stockings were being given as part of the gift.
    And the recipient of the stocking found a way to wear it, whether it fit or not. Dangling from a sleeve. On a foot, but not matched with the other sock. Inside a flash suit. Sticking out of a pocket. Just for a day, the sock was worn, and then it was given back. It was the stocking more than the words now that said, This is from Santa Claus.
    The stockings were needed, because what were the gifts? A few were poems, written on paper. Some of them were food scraps. As the days passed, however, more and more of the gifts took the form of favors. Tutoring. Extra practice time in the Battle Room. A bed that was already made when somebody came back from the showers. Showing somebody how to get to a hidden level in one of the video games.
    Even when it wasn’t a tangible gift, there was the stocking to make it real.
    Father was right, thought Zeck. The parents of these children put the lie of Santa in their hearts, and now it bears fruits. Liars, all of them, giving gifts as homage to the Father of Lies. Zeck could hear his father’s voice in his memory: “He will answer their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with the poison of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood.” These children were not believers—not in Christ, and not in Santa Claus. They knew they served a lie. If only they could see that when you do charity in the name of Satan it turns to sin. The devil cannot do good.
    Zeck tried to go see Colonel Graff, but he was stopped by a Marine in the corridor. “Do you have an appointment with the commandant of Battle School?”
    â€œNo, sir,” said Zeck.
    â€œThen