by Brom
“I offered him brotherhood, gave him a place at my side. Together we took the task of spreading Yuletide. But he seemed ever in a state of brooding, and made only a halfhearted effort at best. One night, as I ravished a house honoring Saint Nicholas, I saw Baldr pocket a small book bearing the saint’s mark upon its cover. I should have taken it from him, thrown it into the fire, but my pity made me weak. It was not too long thereafter that he began to don the red and white, to mimic Saint Nicholas in dress. Still I held my tongue, hoped it was but a passing fancy. Then I found the cross. It sat brazenly upon the mantelpiece in his room, the sight hitting me as a slap to the face—the very symbol of my torment in my house! This was more than I could bear. I stormed into his room and threw the cursed item into the fireplace. I tore open his coffer, intent on finding and destroying this book. I did not find that book, but I did find a treasure trove of artifacts and scrolls filled with the dead saint’s teachings. I tore them apart, threw the shards at his feet, and demanded explanation. Asked him how he could embrace such evil. He showed no emotion, his face like stone as always. He told me then that the old ways were dead. That I was too blind to see that the ancients’ time upon earth had passed. He snatched the smothering cross from out of the fireplace, held it before me as though it were a great talisman. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here is the world we now live in. And unless you learn to serve it you will soon be a relic.’
“I knocked that cross from his hand and slapped him across his face. He hardly flinched, just stared at me with those cold eyes. Enraged, I hit him again, a blow that would have felled an ox. Nothing, it was as though he did not even feel it, and it was then that I did first see him smile. A smile of pity. Pity, for me. The way one would look at a misguided child! This disparaging look, it burned into me and so I snatched up the iron poker from the fireplace and struck him soundly across the face. He laughed, a sound that I can still hear to this day. It went into my brain and drove out all sane thought. I struck him again and again, meaning to murder him . . . yet I made no mark. It was as if I were beating stone and still he laughed, the sound seeming to multiply in my head. It was then that I truly saw him for the monster that he was, that I understood that he had been playing me all along, that even though he had been reborn into flesh, Odin’s spell still held protective power over him. Still I would not stop; I beat him until I could lift the poker no more. He took the poker from me as easily as from a child, knocked me to the floor, kicked me and struck me upon my head until all began to fade. I fell into darkness with his laughter ringing in my ears.”
Jesse coughed, leaned forward, clutching his stomach.
“Yes, it is a hard story to hear. I know.”
“What?” Jesse muttered.
“Here, another sip.” Krampus held the flask for Jesse. “Drink yourself silly. There are worse ways to pass on to the afterlife.”
Jesse sipped. “God, you . . . sure like to . . . talk.”
“What?”
Jesse grimaced, closed his eyes.
“Talk? Yes, at times.” Krampus took another sip as well and continued. “I awoke in my own cellar with chains around wrist and ankle, shackled to a great oak beam. He sat upon a chair, my chair, staring at me with that stone look upon his face. Loki’s sack sat in his lap like a trophy. He offered me my freedom if I would but teach him the secret of the sack. As you know there is no secret, one has to be of Loki’s direct blood. I knew of no other way, the sack was not my magic but Loki’s great sorcery. I did not reveal this, as I feared it would spell my doom, instead acted as though unwilling to tell.
“He took my great house in the forest for his own, left me in the cellar to rot without sun or moon in hopes that time would change my mind. Decades crawled by with nothing for nourishment but slugs and stagnant water. I withered, became but a frail shadow of myself, but my spirit held. I knew even then that if I could but hold on, that the time would come for my revenge.
“He did not wait for the sack to pursue his ambitions. His obsession with the saint grew, and though Saint Nicholas had died over a thousand years before, Baldr took his mantle, stole his name, growing long his white hair and beard, dressing and adorning his robes all in ridiculous imitation of the dead saint.
“His betrayal of the ancient ones, of his own heritage, seemed to know no limits. Even with my captivity, Yuletide still held its place in the land, but that all began to change once Baldr started his reign, began to visit homes far and wide on Christmas Day in the guise of Saint Nicholas, handing out gifts and charity, preaching his gospel of lies. It was not enough for him to simply usurp Winter Solstice—he was not happy until all things Yule were buried, lost. He was trying to make the people forget, forget where the traditions came from, forget Yule and the Yule Lord.
“And how easily he fooled them, how easily he had them eating poison from his hand. For when Baldr was out amongst the people he did play the role of the kindly saint as though born to it. They flocked to him, could not resist his charm, his gracious manner, embraced his words of kindness and charity as he played on the popularity of the Christ God. He became a master of public manipulation. He printed and distributed glorified fables of his charitable deeds and soon his fame spread far and wide, as did the popularity of Christmas.
“But it was all lies, one great ruse, for even as he preached Christian virtues he was delving into the sorcery of the ancients. From my cell I watched him unearthing the dark arts, secretly pursuing the very things he publicly condemned as heresy and demonography. Trying, always trying to break the spell of Loki’s sack. Even then on the track of blood, as he bled me almost dry in hopes of manipulating the spell with my blood. He tracked down the last of the old peoples, mostly elves, a few dwarves; put them to work serving his purpose. They fortified my forest home with buttress and stonework walls topped with spikes, dug out the cellar into a great vault from which he pursued his sorcery and wicked ambitions. And while leaving me to rot in that cellar, he went—”
Krampus’s voice trailed off, he glanced at Jesse. Jesse’s head lay on his shoulder, his eyes closed; there came no sign of breath.
“It appears I am talking to myself.” Krampus crossed his arms atop his chest and grunted. He looked around at the dead, inhaled deeply, drank in the smell of blood. It had felt good to kill the wicked. He had not felt so alive in over a thousand years. He thought of the bad man Jesse had spoken of. Who is this wicked man, Jesse? This Dillard? Do his deeds truly merit death? I, for one, would like to know.
He poked Jesse. Jesse didn’t respond. Krampus leaned over, sniffed him, and smiled. “Jesse, your spirit is strong. You hold on when you should be dead.” He looked at the man’s mangled hands. It would be a shame to lose one gifted with song.
“Would you like to come along with me? Would you like to kill the Dillard yourself?”
There came no response from Jesse.
Krampus drummed his long fingers on the spearhead. “I think you would. Yes, most certainly.” He lifted Jesse’s arm and bit him on the wrist.
Chapter Ten
In the Bones
A song . . . far away . . . “Achy Breaky Heart.” Jesse decided he must’ve ended up in Hell, because there was no way they’d play that god-awful song in Heaven. He opened his eyes. Hell looked a lot like the crew cab of a truck. Jesse sat up fast, too fast, and the world began to spin. He braced himself against the seat and let out a moan.
“You will feel better soon.”
Jesse found Krampus sitting next to him, a mischievous grin upon his face. “Fuck,” Jesse said, trying to focus his eyes. “You’re still here.” He tried not to swoon, thought maybe he was still a bit drunk, noticed the sack and spear across the Yule Lord’s lap. “You’re not wearing your seat belt.”
“Seat belt?”
“Where are we going?”
“To kill Baldr. Your friends have decided to join us.”
Jesse blinked, rubbed his eyes, and saw Chet driving. Only Chet wasn’t exactly Chet. Chet was a Belsnic
kel, or well on his way to being one, at least, as his skin was spotted charcoal gray. Someone, Jesse wasn’t sure who, was riding shotgun. The man looked back at Jesse and Jesse realized it was the General, his skin changing also, his eyes orange. He looked terrified.
“Too bad for you, motherfucker,” Jesse said and laughed.
Krampus laughed, too. “Found the short one peeping out from beneath a dead man. He looked lost and scared, so I brought him along. What do you say, little peeper? How about you and Chet sing me a song?”
The General didn’t answer, just stared at Krampus with haunted eyes, like a man who wanted to wake up from a bad dream but couldn’t.
“General, I command you and Chet to sing me ‘Jingle Bells’ . . . soft and sweet please. On the count of three: one, and a two, and a three . . .”
They both began to sing, a sad mumbling chorus, out of synch and out of tune.
Jesse laughed again and felt a deep discomfort in his back and chest. He fell quiet. I was stabbed. And through the haze of the mead it came back to him. He touched his stomach, his leg. The nails, they were gone, as was the pain, most of it anyway. I’m still alive! He slowly tugged up his sleeve, afraid to look, knowing too well what he’d find. His skin, it was speckled gray and black. “No,” he said. “No, you didn’t!” He glared at Krampus. Krampus nodded, smiling. Jesse pulled up the front of his shirt, exposing his stomach. He could see where the nails had been, the wounds were still there, not oozing blood, as they should’ve been, but well on the mend.
“I have granted you a life,” Krampus said.
“You’ve turned me into a monster.”
“Of sorts.”
Jesse held up his hands, wiggled his fingers, and winced. They were stiff and sore, but he could hardly tell they’d been broken. “How . . . can this be?”
“My blood will do that,” Krampus said with obvious pride.
“This is wonderful. I think. Now change me back.”
Krampus frowned. “Why would I wish to do that?”
“Because I’m telling you to.”
“Enough song,” Krampus called and both men ceased singing. “Jesse, you are confused. There is only one of us that gives orders and I am afraid it is not you.”
Jesse grabbed Krampus by the arm. “No, fuck that. You’re gonna change me back. Now!”
“Release my arm, I command it.”
And, to Jesse’s surprise, his body did exactly as told, as though someone else was driving while he watched. Jesse’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, that’s some shit.”
Someone snickered and he saw Chet smirking at him in the rearview mirror.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Welcome to the club, dumbass,” Chet said.
“You can’t do this,” Jesse said to Krampus.
“You prefer death?”
Jesse started to say yes, found he wasn’t sure. “Just turn me back.”
“I cannot.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Krampus shrugged.
“You son of a bitch.”
“We have great wrongs to right. Both of us. We go to kill Santa. When that deed is done, then perhaps, if you serve me well, then we can go take care of this other evil, this Dillard if you so wish it.”
Jesse fell silent. He so wished it alright, but what did it mean to be a Belsnickel? Had he been condemned to a life of slavery? Did he truly believe Krampus would make good on his offer? No way to know. He did know that for now he’d been given another life, perhaps another chance to take care of Dillard, to kill him if it came to that, to save his Abigail, and that was what mattered.
CHET DROVE THEM down the narrow drive and pulled up behind the church. A giant wolf stood next to the great oak, its fur bristling. “Oh, what in the shit now?” Chet asked.
A moment later all three Shawnee dashed from the church, clutching spears and pistols. Krampus opened his door and stepped from the vehicle. The Shawnee let out a whoop. The wolf’s fur settled and it came trotting over. It licked Krampus’s hand and the Yule Lord rubbed it behind the ears. Its tail began to wag.
“Out, all of you,” Krampus commanded and Chet, Jesse, and the General opened their doors and climbed out.
Jesse stepped down into the snow and realized he’d lost a boot somewhere along the way. He could feel the frost on his bare foot, but, oddly, it had no bite and though it was certainly below freezing out, he hardly noticed the chill. He became aware that he could actually smell the snow, the dead leaves beneath the snow. He inhaled deeply; it seemed everything was crisper: smells, sounds, colors, and he assumed all these sensations must be some effect of Krampus’s blood.
Chet and the General clung to the Chevy, their eyes shifting back and forth between the Shawnee and the wolf as though they were about to be eaten.
Isabel came out onto the back steps, saw Jesse, and let out a cry. “Krampus! No! You promised. Your oath.”
“Save your temper, little lion. It was he that broke the oath. Not I.”
Isabel walked down the steps and over to Jesse, touched his face with the back of her fingers. “Oh, Jesse. I’m so sorry.”
“Things could be worse,” Jesse said, surprised to find he pretty much meant it.
“Come,” Krampus said, and headed into the church, his tail swishing excitedly.
Chet and the General remained next to the truck as though frozen in place. Makwa gestured toward the steps with his spear. Chet and the General exchanged a fretful look and then tromped along after Krampus as though being marched through the gates of Hell.
Jesse entered the church, found the second wolf, the larger one, lying upon its side. It lifted its head, keeping a watchful eye on the new- comers. The smaller wolf came over and began licking its face. Isabel picked up one of the mead flasks, poured some into a pie pan in front of the wolf. The wolf lapped at it. “This is Freki,” Isabel said, stroking its fur. “He’s doing a lot better.”
“And no thanks to you,” someone said with open hostility. Jesse found Vernon glaring at him. “We had to carry him out of that ravine. Damnable beast weighed a ton.” Vernon walked over to Jesse, looked up at him, his eyes two angry slits. “You pushed me.”
“Yup, that I did.”
“You’re a son of a bitch. You know that?”
“Yes, I most certainly do.”
“Must’ve walked ten miles through the woods to get back here. Had to carry him all that way. All the way. That’s a long way to carry a giant canine.”
“Vernon,” Isabel said. “Quit your bellyaching. You’ve been going on about it nonstop. Starting to get on everybody’s nerves.”
“Yes, well, you’re not the one who was shoved down the side of a mountain. Now were you?”
“You didn’t fall down no mountain. You got stuck up in a tree.” She laughed. “Looked just like a treed coon.”
Vernon gave her a thunderous scowl, shook his head, and walked away. “One day I’m gonna wake up from this goddamn nightmare. One day, and it can’t be too soon.”
Krampus dropped the sack in the middle of the room. “All of you . . . here to me.” He held the spear out. “I have it!” The Shawnee gathered round. “The day we have waited centuries for is at hand. Today is the day I face Baldr. Today is the day I make him pay for all his crimes!”
He looked from face to face, eyes gleaming. “Let me tell you why you must never make the same mistake as I and pity this monster. Why he must be put down like some rabid dog.”
Krampus sat a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Jesse, I told you of his guise, his worship of Saint Nicholas, but there was no end to his deceit. Let me finish the tale, let me share with you the rest of the story.”
Jesse shook his head. “Can’t really stop you, now can I?”
The Yule Lord’s brow furrowed and Jesse thought he might’ve overstepped, then slowly a smile crept across Krampus’s face. “No . . . no, you can’t. No one can. Not anymore. This story will be told . . . told again and again, until the whole w
orld knows the truth behind the lie.”
Krampus clutched the spear in both hands. “His is a story of betrayal, of a foul creature having no conscience, no regard for anything except his own blind ambitions. For even after I brought him into my own house, even after I showed him brotherhood, after all my charity, still he betrayed me, betrayed all Asgard.” Krampus’s eyes glowed. “He stole everything from me, locked me away in his dungeon. Was that enough for him? No. He wanted more, wanted my name erased from the land. He thought he could make them forget . . . forget Yule and the Yule Lord.” Krampus laughed. “But he underestimated my great spirit, and even into the 1400s, there were those who still held to the old traditions, still paid me tribute.
“This did not sit well with our beloved Baldr. He decided something should be done. Come that Christmas, he had me shackled and carried from the fortress, set upon a throne of rotting vegetables atop a cart drawn by goats. He bound a pitchfork to my arm and draped a necklace of goat tongues about my neck. He dressed his slaves in coats of filthy fur, wearing horned masks and chains. They paraded me along the countryside and through the towns and villages, dancing and prancing, hissing and growling like silly beasts, ridiculing me and all I stood for. And Baldr, in his guise of Saint Nicholas, would cry out, ‘Behold, it is the devil, Krampus. Not but a silly old fart.’ The villagers would throw clod and manure, while the children would prod me with sticks. I was too weak and frail to do more than hang my head. He went further, knowing well the power of lies. He printed posters that portrayed me, the great Yule Lord, as nothing more than a wicked imp, an evil buffoon, and pasted them across the land. Year after year this continued and he promised no end unless . . . unless I should reveal the secret of the sack.