by Brom
“Gonna see to it you ain’t destitute.”
He emptied the work clothes from the gym bag and put half of the cash into it, zipped it up and pushed it over to her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“Yes, I do have to do that.”
She took the bag and gave him a grateful smile.
“Listen up, now. Don’t let anyone know about them bills. You hear?”
She rolled her eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Jesse. I might look like a kid, but I’m over fifty. Believe it or not, I got some sense.”
He tapped the bag. “There’s around twenty thousand dollars cash there. Won’t go far these days, but should help you get on your feet. Oh . . . and here.” He handed her a wadded-up piece of paper. “This here’s Linda’s mother’s phone number. Her phone might not be working just yet, but if you get in a fix, run out of money, if anything, I mean anything, comes up you don’t hesitate to give—”
She put her fingers up to his mouth. “Jesse. It’s okay. I’m gonna be all right.”
Jesse let out a long sigh.
“Jesse . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. Thank you for looking out for me.”
He grinned. “Of course.”
Isabel leaned forward, surprised Jesse with a kiss on his cheek. Before he could respond, she opened the door and hopped out.
“Wait,” he called. “Jeez, you forgot your bag.” He held it up.
She came back, trying not to meet his eyes, but he could see her tears.
“Hey,” he said. “Don’t be forgetting that snipe hunt I promised you.”
She shook her head and grinned, took the bag, and headed away toward the church. Jesse watched her mount the short flight of steps, pausing on each step. She sat her hand on the door, stood that way for a long moment before finally pushing the door inward and walking inside.
Jesse caught a glimpse of soft, warm light, of people holding hymn books, the organ and the sound of their song drifted across the parking lot. The church door swung slowly shut and he was left alone with the falling snow.
Jesse waited close to an hour. When she didn’t come back out, he figured she just might be okay.
VERNON FOLLOWED THE railroad tracks north along the Coal River, doing his best to avoid the icy patches as he trudged through the hard-packed snow. He’d forgotten the true bite of winter, but now, returned to human flesh, he clutched himself, trying to stifle his shivering. Dusk approached, and with it falling temperatures. Vernon wondered bitterly if, after all his trials, his final fate would be to freeze here alone, along this desolate river.
He’d been trapped up in those hills for close to a hundred years and realized anyone he’d ever known would now be dead, the world he once knew gone. He had no money, no real idea of where he was headed, other than as far away from Krampus and those terrible angels as he could get. Yet, he couldn’t help but smile. I am free! He inhaled deeply, filling himself up with the feeling. I can go anywhere. Do whatever I like. He laughed. At least until I starve or freeze to death.
A freight train headed down the tracks toward him. Vernon climbed the embankment and watched it clang past. He smelled grease in the air, his stomach rumbled. He glanced up the highway, spotted a familiar structure, and started toward it.
Horton’s didn’t appear to be open yet, but a light shone from inside and a vehicle sat out front. Vernon hoped it belonged to Horton, because the two of them had hit it off pretty good the night before, well enough that he felt sure the man would let him come inside and warm up, perhaps even give him a bite to eat.
Vernon noticed that the fresh buds, new grass, and flowers about the place had all withered, as though in mourning for the Yule Lord. Vernon hated to admit it, but a part of him actually felt bad that the old goat had come to such an ill demise. He sighed, stepped up onto the porch, and noticed a COOK WANTED sign propped in the window. He plucked the sign off the sill and carried it inside with him.
“THEY’RE NOT REAL happy with you, Jesse,” Elly said.
Jesse leaned back in the steel office chair, peered through the glass partition into the lobby of the sheriff’s office. He could see Sheriff Wright talking with the state investigators; the conversation didn’t appear to be going very well.
“Can’t please everyone, I guess.”
She smirked at him. Elly had gone to school with Jesse, he liked the way she played guitar, and at one point they’d even collaborated on a song or two. These days she worked for the sheriff. “Every news agency in the country is covering it,” she said. “They got the governor breathing down their necks to come up with some answers. Why, you should’ve heard ’em on CNN this morning, going on and on about all them mutilated bodies and speculating on rampant gang warfare in rural West Virginia.” She snorted. “Talking about Boone County like we’re some kinda Third World country.”
Jesse just shook his head.
“Oh, here, one last thing.” She pulled a blue form out from the stack in front of her and handed it to him with a pen. “Need your John Hancock right there if you want your stuff back.”
Jesse signed the form and she handed him a manila envelope.
“So that’s it?” he asked. “I’m free to go?”
“Looks like it.” She smiled. “Sheriff ain’t none too happy about it though. He’s just sure you know more than you’re telling.”
“Hey,” Jesse asked in a casual tone. “Thought I overheard someone say Chet Boggs might’ve had something to do with all this mess?”
“All I know is they had me issue a statewide APB on him. But no one seems to have found him yet.”
Jesse thought they were wasting time looking for Chet in West Virginia; thought they’d do better to look down Mexico way, or even Peru. Jesse opened the envelope, pulled out his wallet and keys.
“Chet’s not the one I’ve been wondering about,” Elly said. “I wanna know what happened to Chief Dillard Deaton. Last I heard they still hadn’t found a clue of his whereabouts.”
Jesse shrugged. “My bet’s he’s sitting in Hell right this minute wishing he’d been a nicer person.”
She shook her head. “Still don’t surprise me none that he was wound up in this mess. There was something offputting about that man.” Elly leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell no one I told you, but turns out they got some hard evidence linking him to his wife’s death.”
“You don’t say.”
“They found this photo of her . . . dead . . . I seen it.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Gruesome. I sure hope you’re right, I sure hope he is rotting in Hell right now.”
“We’re done then?” Jesse asked.
“Yeah, we are.”
Jesse stood and she escorted him to the door and let him out into the lobby. The sheriff and investigators stopped talking when he came out. The sheriff gave him a hard look. “You remember what I said, Jesse. Things will go a whole lot easier on you if you just come clean with what you know.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, sheriff,” Jesse said as he pushed out the door. “Now you have yourself a real fine day, you hear.”
Jesse pulled into Linda’s mother’s driveway. He drove a Ford Ranger with the extended cab, not new, but newer, paid for in full. He parked, walked up onto the porch, and knocked on the door; a minute later, footsteps shuffled his way. “Just a sec,” someone shouted. Polly Collins opened the door. “You got a haircut.”
Jesse nodded. “I did at that.”
“Looks sorta funny.”
Jesse frowned.
“Bet you’re not here to talk to me,” she said.
“You’d make money on that bet.”
“Well, I got something to say to you anyhow. I don’t know what part you played in all that mess, but . . .” She bit at her lip, seemed to be searching for the right words. “Well . . . it’s just . . . well, the way Linda tells it, sounds like she got herself in a bad spot . . . a really bad spot. I don’t know exactly what it was you done about Di
llard . . . don’t ever need to know, but Jesse . . .” Jesse realized the old woman was choking up. She touched his hand. “I want you to know . . . I appreciate it.” She smiled at him then, the first time she’d ever smiled at him. “Let me fetch Linda.”
“Mrs. Collins, could you maybe do me a favor? Could you take Abigail out back for a bit, just need some time alone with Linda.”
She nodded. “I can do that.”
Jesse waited maybe a minute, felt more like ten. He noticed he was wringing his hands and made himself quit, shoving them deep into his pants pockets. This was the first time he’d seen Linda since that morning at Dillard’s and he had no idea where he stood.
Linda pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch. The two of them stood apart, neither speaking, neither seeming to know what to say.
Linda looked at his feet. “See you got yourself some new boots.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They’re real nice.”
“Yeah . . . Linda?”
“Yes.”
“I’m heading to Memphis.”
Her lips tightened. “Your music? You gonna go play your songs?”
He nodded. “Gonna go give it all I got and then some. No more honky-tonks. Gonna follow up with that DJ, see if he can get me some leads. If I can’t land something in Memphis, I’m headed for Nashville.”
“Jesse, that’s wonderful. And it’s about damn time. You’re gonna do just—”
“Linda, you once asked me how you were supposed to believe in me if I didn’t believe in myself. Well, I met this . . . this . . . uh . . . real tall fella just recently, and let’s just say he opened my eyes to a whole lot of things. The long and short of what I am trying to say is I do believe in myself, my music . . . but I also believe in us . . . more than ever. And I was hoping that maybe you and Abigail might just wanna come along with me.”
Her eyes brightened.
“I ain’t saying it’ll be easy, but I can assure you that I’m a different person now. I got a bit of cash tucked away, but more importantly . . . I got a plan. Whaddaya say? Think we’re worth another try?”
She looked long and deep into his eyes, seemed to be searching for something. Jesse guessed she must’ve found it, because she nodded. “I’d like that, Jesse . . . like to give us another go.”
He smiled and she hugged him, hugged him tight, and after a minute he felt her crying. “I’m sorry, Jess. I’m so sorry about . . . about all of it. I just didn’t know—”
He put a finger on her lips. “Hush. None of that. If we go to Memphis, we start over. We leave all that behind. Deal?”
“Deal,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
Yuletide
BOONE COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
One year later
The night before Christmas
Excerpt from the Boone Standard, December 24
by Contributing Editor Bill Harris
Nashville up-and-comer Jesse Walker played to a packed house Saturday night, headlining the first-ever annual Krampus Festival held at Horton’s out on Route 3, near Orgas. Horton White, the proprietor of Horton’s and festival organizer, says that the festival is a celebration of Winter Solstice and ancient Yuletide traditions. Participants engaged in folk dancing, body-painting, chanting and drum circles, with the highlight of the evening being the massive Yule Log bonfire. Prizes were awarded for best costumes. Activities continued on well into the morning hours.
The festival was not without controversy, as the sheriff’s office received several complaints claiming a group of intoxicated revelers dressed in furs, wearing chains, bells, and horned masks, arrived in town and chased bystanders with switches. Sheriff Wright confirmed reports of public intoxication and nudity, but stated rumors of deputies joining in on the festivities are greatly exaggerated. Reverend Owen condemned the event, calling the festival a sinful and shameful display of pagan heathenism and a pathway to eternal damnation. He warned that all God-fearing Christians should stay away.
The Krampus Festival is just the latest in the growing local fascination with the little before known mythical spirit of Krampus. Ever since the notorious and as-yet-unexplained incidents of last Christmas season, interest has spread statewide. But Boone County has all but claimed Krampus as their own, with souvenirs of the devilish character to be found in most local gift shops, including switches, cheap knock-offs of those infamous triangular gold coins, and T-shirts and mugs sporting cartoons of the fiendish Krampus, bearing such notable taglines as “I Believe in Krampus” and “Krampus Is Coming to Town.”
Heavy clouds rolled across the hills as twilight turned to night. A string of Christmas lights came to life, blinking along the gutters of a small ranch home on the edge of town. A boy of about ten and his little sister, no more than eight, came out onto their porch. Their mother came along with them. The children each held a pair of old shoes and carried a sack of candies. They set the shoes on the step and carefully arranged the candy.
When they were done, the boy looked up at his mom. “You think Krampus will really come?”
“Might,” she replied. “Might not. That’s what they say. Right?”
The children nodded.
“Josh,” the boy said. “He said that Krampus came to his house last year, said he actually saw him.”
“Yep,” the little girl added. “So did Charles. Susie said she saw him, too, but I don’t believe her. She’s a big fibber. But I believe Charles, because he had one of them funny gold coins.”
“Yeah,” the boy said excitedly. “So did Josh! He brought his to school and I actually got to hold it.” He looked up at his mother again. “Mom, do you believe Krampus is real?”
“Well, it don’t hurt none to believe. Now does it?”
“Nope, but it might not to. Josh said if you don’t put out candy, Krampus will put you in his sack and give you a beating.”
“Yeah,” the girl said. “All the kids at my school said they were putting out candy, y’know . . . just in case.”
Their mother grinned. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re putting out candy then. Wouldn’t want either one of my children to get put in a sack and beat silly.”
“I think he’s real,” the boy said.
“Me, too,” the girl agreed.
“Well,” the mom said. “If enough folks believe in a thing, I guess it becomes real enough. Don’t it?”
THE SNOW FELL the whole night long that Christmas Eve, fell all across Boone County, across Goodhope and the surrounding hills. The snow blew about the entrance of a small cave cut into the rugged mountainside, swirled inside, and a few flakes even drifted far back to a mound of rocks surrounded by dried mistletoe.
From beneath the rocks came the sound of laughter, at first as light as a whisper, but as it grew in volume a small patch of snow about the entrance of the cave began to melt. A single flower poked its head up through the winter snow. The flower bloomed, fluttering to some unheard pulse, and the laughter swelled, deep and booming, echoing out from the cave. The wind and snow carried the sound down the valley and there were those the next morning who swore they heard it, swore it was Krampus, the Yule Lord. And they told their children they better be good, because Krampus . . . Krampus is coming to town.
Afterword
In Search of Krampus
Several years ago my wife, Laurie (who is infinitely hipper than I), turned me on to a devil that prances about at Christmas, whipping naughty children with a birch branch. I was immediately smitten with the character. “Stuffs them into a sack and beats them bloody, you say? Tosses the really bad ones into the river? Takes some home to devour? Please . . . tell me more!”
My endearment for the horned beast only deepened as I discovered the abundance of vintage greeting cards portraying him cheerfully carrying bawling children to Hell in a barrel and spanking the bottoms of buxom women with fiendish delight. What was not to love?
I soon discovered that this holiday gem had a long and color
ful history, that there are winter festivals called Krampusnacht in many Alpine villages, where participants don wonderfully wicked, handcrafted Krampus costumes then roam the streets, rattling chains and bells and chasing random victims with sticks and switches. These runs, called Krampuslaufen, are fueled (not surprisingly) by alcohol; schnapps being the customary offering to Krampus. I noted Krampus was often portrayed in the company of Saint Nicholas, the tall, thin saint adorned in his bishop vestments, carrying his ornate ceremonial staff and looking stern.
There was a lot that seemed not right here, at least by my North American perceptions of Christmas and Santa Claus traditions. I had a litany of questions, but foremost in my mind was . . . hey, what does Santa Claus think of this guy? What exactly is their relationship? Call me crazy, but to me it seems a bit disingenuous for Santa to have an evil imp brutalizing and kidnapping children while he’s handing out gifts and shouting “Ho, ho, ho!” Who came first? Whose idea was it to work together? Were they doing the good cop/bad cop thing, like God and the Devil? Was Krampus Santa’s slave? Were they pals or mortal enemies? Which leads to the question most every schoolboy would ask: Who would win in a fight? And it was these questions, especially the last, which inevitably led to the writing of this novel.
Thus began my search for the origins of these two seemingly diametrically opposed holiday figures. Working backward from modern perceptions through the vast variations of Santa and Krampus, I traced Yule traditions to their earliest pagan roots in the winter solstice. And for those who enjoy such things, I would like to share my findings, but with the disclaimer that, as with most ancient folklore, there are many versions, varying from country to country and even region to region. Here I have gathered together the most common threads from which I wove the mythos of this fable.
Who came first? Santa Claus or Krampus? It could be argued that they both sprouted from the same origins, but variations of Krampus far preceded any of the more humanized, charitable versions of Santa Claus.