by Brom
Jesse glanced at Krampus.
Krampus shrugged. “We sang to Mother Earth last night. She heard us.” He plucked a flower from the snow, sniffed it. “And this with the spirit of just a handful of drunks. Imagine . . . imagine what we might do with a thousand voices, a hundred thousand, a million.”
Chapter Seventeen
God’s Wrath
Krampus brought the sleigh down behind the old church. Geri and Freki sat waiting for them on the back porch. The Belsnickels crawled out and stumbled in, leaning heavily upon one another. Krampus strolled up onto the porch, dropped the sack on the steps, and took a moment to rough up the wolves’ thick pelts.
Isabel stoked and fed the potbelly while Vernon, Chet, and the two brothers found their beds and collapsed. Not Jesse: he hustled over to the cardboard box holding the weapons and cash, passing up on the machine pistol, going instead for a Colt revolver, wanting a gun he could depend on. He pocketed one of the stout hunting knives and a box of ammo. He snatched up the keys to Chet’s truck, feeling it would be best to take the pickup. It’d be dawn soon and a flying sleigh wouldn’t be the most inconspicuous means of getting around.
“Where you going?” Isabel asked.
“Taking Krampus on a snipe hunt.”
She scrutinized him for a moment, then shook her head. “Nu-huh?”
“Going to take care of things.”
Her face tightened. “You watch yourself.”
“Try to,” he said and headed out.
Jesse found Krampus sitting on the porch between the two wolves, rubbing their fur and looking up at the fading stars.
“Ready?” Jesse asked.
“Please, here, sit.” Krampus moved the sack over, made a spot. “There are a few words I would share.”
Jesse tried not to show his frustration; he wanted to be off—to get this thing done. He felt a growing sense of dread that he couldn’t explain, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was to be drawn into another one of Krampus’s lengthy conversations.
“I shall keep it brief.”
Jesse sat on the step next to Krampus.
Krampus inhaled deeply. “It was a glorious night. Was it not?”
“It was.”
“Jesse, your songs, they touched my heart . . . and not just me. Did you see them, see their faces? You touched them all. Your muse is full of magic.”
Jesse smiled, nodded. Magic. He liked that. It was the only way to describe how his songs had made him feel last night. “Was that your hand at play?”
“Oh, yes indeed, but the music . . . that was your muse. I only helped you to truly see her, to free yourself from your own fears, to let go. But I promise you, it was your spark that captivated.”
Jesse nodded. He’d never put himself out there like that before, never truly bared his soul. He still felt the rush; still felt one with the melody. And more, he felt no trace of his former misgivings, actually couldn’t wait to play in front of an audience again.
“And my eyes, too, have been opened,” Krampus said. “For I clearly see that mankind has not yet forgotten who they are. That deep down their wild spirit still burns. That they need only a little nudge to be set free.” Krampus grinned, beamed. “And I will always be there to give them that nudge . . . in some shape or form, no matter what games the gods may play.”
Jesse nodded; he hoped so. He’d never felt more alive, more connected with the world around him, and he fully understood that it was Krampus’s Yule magic that had awakened these feelings. He inhaled deeply, savored the feeling, found he still felt the rhythm, that strange primitive beat from last night, it faintly pulsed through his entire being.
“Jesse, when the sun rises it will be a new day . . . the start of a new age of Yule. Yule will spread, my flock will grow, of this I am sure, and I wish only to have those who desire to serve near. Thus, I intend to release the Belsnickels from bondage . . . to return those that wish it back into their human flesh.”
Jesse sat up straight, looked at Krampus in wide-eyed astonishment. “You can do that then? Change them back? Change us back?”
Krampus smiled. “Of course. It is my blood. I can call it back at any time.”
Jesse could hardly believe his ears. He’d resigned himself to dying a Belsnickel. “Wow, no fucking kidding?”
“I intend to offer each of the Belsnickels a choice. I am starting with you. You have paid your debt to me. If you intend to kill this bad man, I believe you would prefer to do that as a free man . . . for him to see the true eyes of his slayer.”
For Jesse, there was nothing to consider. To return to his own flesh, to have another chance with Linda—why, he’d do whatever was asked. He nodded wholeheartedly.
Krampus held out his hand. “Your knife.”
Jesse fumbled in his pocket, plucked out the hunting knife, handed it to Krampus. Krampus pulled the knife from its sheath, tested the tip. “Give me your hand.”
Jesse put his hand out, palm upward, and winced.
Krampus laughed. “Do not fret. It is but a mere drop that I need call home.” Krampus pricked Jesse’s fingertip. Touched the mark with his own finger, and closed his eyes. Jesse’s body tingled from head to toe. Krampus opened his eyes, removed his finger, and there, on the tip, sat a smear of shimmering blood. Krampus licked it clean.
Jesse inspected his own finger. “That’s it?”
“That is all.”
Jesse didn’t feel different. He examined his hands. His flesh was still a blotchy gray.
“It will take a little while,” Krampus said. “For now we should . . .” His voice trailed off. He leaned forward, peering intently upward. His brow furrowed and slowly a look of alarm and confusion spread across his face.
Jesse followed his eyes; saw a star falling earthward.
“What’s that?”
“No,” Krampus said, and stood up fast. Geri and Freki both raised their heads, a low, menacing growl coming from deep in their throats. The shooting star headed their way, growing in size as it approached. Krampus stepped out into the yard, peering up at the pulsing light. “This cannot be so. Not now. Not so soon.”
A voice fell upon them, little more than a whisper. “Krampus,” it called. Jesse felt it more than heard it.
Krampus’s face hardened. “No, this is not fair. Why could they not wait? Why could I not have but a bit longer?”
The two Yule goats snorted and began to stomp about in the snow. Krampus walked to them, snatched the mistletoe spear from its post on the sleigh. Stood a moment, absently stroking their necks, staring at the spear, his face tense, his eyes distant. Finally, he let out a great sigh, nodding as though coming to some profound decision, and walked quickly over to Jesse. “Here.” He picked up the velvet sack, pushing it into Jesse’s arms. “The keys? You still have my skeleton keys?”
Jesse patted his pocket. “Yeah . . . why? What’s—”
“Jesse, it appears that I have misjudged, that my time here is to be far shorter than I had hoped. You must take the sack, get in your carriage, and go far away.” He clutched Jesse’s shoulder. “You are free now, so I must beg this of you. Please, do what you must to keep this sack out of his hands. Go deep into the mountains and bury it somewhere. Burn it if you have to. Just do not let him have it. Please.”
“What? No! Why?”
“Baldr comes now, and with powerful allies.”
“Baldr? But—”
“The game is rigged. A cruel joke. I will not run . . . not this time. There is no escape for me anyway. It should be interesting to see where this will all end.” Krampus smiled. “Do you not agree?”
Jesse tried to say more, but Krampus shook his head. “Jesse, make haste. Go now or the chance will be lost.” Krampus led him down the stairs, pushed him toward the side of the building. “Go!” Krampus called. “Hurry!”
Jesse stumbled around the corner, stopped, and looked back, found himself transfixed by the golden orb-shaped glow. Krampus faced the light, his tall shad
ow stretching out long behind him. He raised the spear, pointing it at the orb. “I am Krampus,” he stated solemnly. “The Yule Lord. I will hide in caves no longer.” The two wolves slunk over, stiff-legged, fur bristling, and stood on either side of Krampus.
There came a sound, soft and low, yet it blocked out all others, a chorus of a thousand voices joined together in a hymn. Krampus held his ground, pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back, eyes clear and resolute.
The orb alighted upon the snow between two apple trees, the golden glow fading away, revealing three figures. Santa Claus stood in the center, dressed in heavy white robes trimmed in thick fur. His long beard and hair loose of braid fluttered in the light morning breeze. He was framed on either side by two winged men, or maybe women, impossible for Jesse to tell, as they shared features of both, their faces stern, beautiful, and terrible at the same time. A slight golden aura surrounding each of them, thin, wispy robes fluttered loosely about their lithe, elegant frames and white wings spread out from their backs. Long swords hung in gold scabbards strapped across their chest. Jesse wondered if they were angels, wondered what else they could possibly be.
One of them set eyes on Jesse, cold, penetrating eyes that weighed his very soul, that promised his due. Jesse’s fingers bit into the velvet sack as a chill shot to his core, his throat constricted as though icy hands were about his neck. He stumbled away, struggling for breath, back around the church, out of sight of the terrible angels. The chill faded. He gasped, trying to regain his breath. What the fuck was that?
Go! Go! He heard Krampus’s voice in his head. He didn’t need to be told again, sure that things were going to end badly and there was nothing he could do other than get himself killed.
Jesse sprinted for Chet’s truck, yanking the door open and throwing the sack into the passenger’s seat. He hopped in, fumbled for the truck keys, jammed them into the ignition, and fired up the engine. Jesse shoved it into gear and stomped it. The big wheels spun in the icy mud, caught, and the pickup lurched forward, fishtailing back and forth, spraying mud as it plowed up the small drive.
He could still feel the chill on his neck, still hear that hymn, a thousand voices pursuing him. Jesse focused on keeping the vehicle out of the ditch as he careened onto the gravel road. He floored it and raced away, shooting down the road as fast as he dared, trying to push the voices from his head, wanting only to escape those terrible angels.
CHIEF DILLARD NOTICED the sun peeking at the horizon and glanced at his watch; it was just after seven A.M. Shit, never gonna get out of here. The fire crew was still hosing down parts of the church, which was just a waste of time, in Dillard’s book, at least at this point, as the structure appeared a total loss. He would’ve left several hours ago, if not for the pileup. Seems Billy Tucker had tail-ended some teenage girl’s jeep and then Johnny Elkins came along and plowed into the both of them. None of which would’ve happened if the three of them had been watching the road instead of the fire. Noel had been rushed off to the emergency room after sustaining burns along his arm while trying to keep Mrs. Powell from going back in the church after some precious hymn book. This left Dillard to take care of the mess, all while trying to keep the scene secure.
The sheriff had been no help, leaving a couple of hours earlier, him and his deputies out scouring the area for Jesse and that gang. Fuck, that son of a bitch’s probably snooping around the General’s compound this very minute. And on top of that Dillard still had Linda and Abigail to deal with. Least they ain’t going nowhere . . . least I hope not. He felt his chest tightening. Calm down . . . no way they could’ve gotten out of there. Shit, just too many loose ends . . . too many loose ends. Dillard knew he didn’t do well when things got out of his control and he couldn’t remember things ever being more out of his control. He took off his hat, rubbed the side of his head. Wished he’d brought along a few of those pills.
The fire chief, John Adkins, came walking over. “You seem out of sorts, Dillard. Something bothering you?”
“Yeah . . . got a darn headache that just won’t let up.”
John looked at the burn mark on Dillard’s face. “You ought to get that looked at.”
“I will.”
“Looks like all the bystanders are gone home,” John said. “Don’t see much reason for you to be standing out here in the cold. Why don’t you head on home and get some sleep. A bit of shut-eye is the best thing I’ve found for a headache.”
Shut-eye, Dillard thought. Won’t be getting any of that for a while. Not until I’m done with Linda and Abigail, anyway. “Well, all right, if you think everything’s under control.”
“Looks that way to me.”
Dillard bid the fire chief a good one, got in his patrol car, started up the engine, and got the defrost going, warming his hands up in the heater. He dropped it into gear and started home. Gonna have to make it quick, just get in there and get this mess over and done with.
SANTA CLAUS STEPPED forward. “Krampus, I gave you fair warning. Told you there would be no place to hide. You did not listen.” His voice calm, almost melancholy, contrite even, no hint of anger or malice.
“The dead should not speak, for their words smell of rot,” Krampus replied.
Santa shrugged. “It seems the gods do not wish me dead. It appears my destiny is bound to their whims and I am eternally condemned to play my role.”
“Do not dare blame the gods for your own misdeeds. You have sold your soul. Sold it cheap.”
“Cheap?” Santa replied, his voice somber. “The cost has been more than one can bear.”
Krampus leveled the spear tip at Santa Claus. “How many times is your god willing to resurrect his little dancing dog? Come closer, my spear would like to find out.”
“No, my friend, I will not be the one who dies, not this day. God will not allow it. Maybe one day my servitude will be finished, but until that time my sacrifices are for her glory.”
“Stop playing the martyr, it does not suit you. You, Baldr, you are the villain in this fable. You have committed foul deeds, have stolen that which does not belong to you . . . betrayed all who have aided you. Fate will punish you.”
“Fate? God? What is the difference? Either way, I am afraid it has already doled out plenty of woe. Once, I was as you. I thought I could build my own kingdom. Build it right under the noses of the gods. Instead all I have built is a prison. One from which there is no escape . . . not even through death.”
Krampus snorted. “Should I shed a tear?”
“Death has taught me many things. But here is the truth, the only one that matters. God takes on many faces . . . many guises. But no matter which guise, she is always . . . always before, always after.” Santa laughed harshly. “And that is the joke . . . on me, on you, on all of mankind. There is only the One God, has always been only the One God. All the gods that have been and that are, they are the same, all part of the One God. We are but pawns in her great game. We all serve her . . . even you. Beyond that, there are no answers . . . for that is the only one that matters.”
Krampus mulled this over, then shook his head and spat loudly. “What absolute, utter dung. Losing your head has not been good for you. Go on, concoct tales to try and placate your own guilt, but do not try and sell me your fantasies. The truth, the only one that matters, is that you are a buffoon, a nitwit, a puppet, a tick upon God’s wrinkled scrotum.” Krampus laughed. “How can you even hold your head up? Where is your shame?”
Santa let out a long sigh. “Krampus, my dear old friend, there is no reasoning with you. There never has been. Your arrogance, your single-minded stubbornness makes you blind. All my efforts to save you were wasted, because you cannot leave the past behind, and thus have condemned yourself to extinction. And even now, in the face of all your failings, you are still too bullheaded to know when to call it a day.”
“I am not your friend. And I do not seek an excuse to prostrate myself such as you. I am a lord, I kneel for no one. You, you are but
a pathetic ass, and shall always be a pathetic ass, one who suckles upon the end of your god’s cock like a gutter whore. I will kill you as many times as need be to be shed of your stench. Now, come hither. I hunger to taste your blood.”
Santa shook his head, a contemptuous sneer upon his face. “Sadly, you still do not see what is right in front of you.” He nodded to the two angels. They drew their swords, shimmering blades of silver light, and came for Krampus. The wolves shot forward, snarling, leapt for the angels. The angels’ movements were quick, precise, their swords but blurs of silver. The blades passed through the wolves; there came no blood, no wounds, only a loud yelp, and a second later both wolves lay dead upon the ground.
“More death, more murder!” Krampus cried. “How much blood does it take to placate your god?”
“Krampus?” Isabel called. She stood on the porch, clutching the door frame, her eyes wide and terrified. Vernon and Chet leaned out the door behind her. There came a wild cry, and Wipi and Nipi pushed through them, running for the angels, spears raised.
The angels faced the Belsnickels.
“Wait!” Krampus shouted, raising his hand to Wipi and Nipi. “Stay back.” The Shawnee halted, poised, glaring at the angels. “There is nothing here for you but death.”
The Yule Lord pointed his spear at Santa. “So, the son of the great Odin shows his true face at last, hides behind the skirts of angels. Come, coward. Face me!” Krampus came for Santa Claus, tried to dart around the angels. The angels intercepted him, brought their swords up and down in a great arc. Krampus made to block the silver blades, but the swords passed through his spear, through his arm, and down his torso. Searing, biting cold followed their path, yet they clove nothing, not spear, arm, nor torso. Still, the pain was beyond his experience. He grit his teeth, glared at the angels, determined to keep his feet.