A long stick like a broom handle was thrust into my hands, and I knew what I had to do. I stood uneasily in line, waiting for the peasants to be led past. I saw the doctor kneeling by Belidaev, and I was angry for a moment, wondering why he had left Endovik. And then the peasants began to march between the two columns of soldiers.
It is a strange thing to have to beat someone you hold nothing against, someone you don’t even know. Yet with Ursov watching us, we had to strike the peasants with all the strength we could manage—or we would end up running the gauntlet ourselves. As the peasants filed by, the soldiers holding their muskets were crouched and wary, lest they be struck themselves as they moved slowly backwards.
The blows fell, and the peasants didn’t seem to mind. They uttered not one sound, and I struck with all my might, for Ursov stood near me. An old peasant woman was led past me, but she did not flinch when I tried to crack her skull with my wooden rod. My arm was numb from the force of the blow, yet an old woman did not feel it!
The peasants were taken through the gauntlet, and none of them fell. Not one, not even the oldest and frailest among them. They waited at the end, and Ursov was livid. He stormed forward and grabbed the man who stood next to me. “You! You weren’t striking hard enough! Send them through the gauntlet again!” the General shouted, “And you will follow them through as punishment for your laxness!”
Then Ursov pointed at me, and my blood froze in my veins as I thought I would be forced to run the gauntlet myself. But then I realized I was to lead my companion through. His hands were stiff and trembling as I lashed them to my musket, pointing the bayonet at his chest. His eyes were wide, and I could not tell if he hated me for doing this. I didn’t even know his name—that made things easier.
We followed the peasants of Vendeévna through the two columns of throbbing sticks and whips. The man I led winced and cried out and stumbled as each blow fell—but the peasants made no sound. About halfway through the long column, my companion collapsed and would not get up again as his blood oozed through bruises and smashed skin. Ursov ordered for a flat sled to be brought, then made me slide the almost unconscious man on it. I then continued to drag the man through the lines as the other soldiers beat his motionless form.
I was drenched with sweat, both from exertion and anxiety, as I emerged from the end of the lines; the other soldiers who had led the peasants looked in a similar condition, far more distraught than the peasants themselves were. The peasants were unscathed. The doctor nonchalantly shuffled forward to look at the bloody man on the sled as Ursov bellowed for the peasants to run the gauntlet again.
The soldiers all groaned—not aloud, of course, as they were too afraid of the General for that—but I could sense their dismay. “Not this one, General,” the doctor said, indicating the man I had led. “He won’t survive it.”
Ursov scowled. “Take him to the infirmary, then.” He glared at the peasants, as if to say ‘How dare you emerge without a scratch while one of my men undergoes half what you have and almost dies.’ That look was so filled with hatred that I know I would have shriveled up right there if it had been directed at me.
“Belidaev, too?” the doctor mumbled, breaking Ursov’s silent anger.
“No! He can lay in the barracks!” Then the General, at the peak of his frustration, dismissed the troops. He turned his back to all of us and strode off toward his office, looking for all the world like a mighty man who had just had his own impotence held out before him.
* * *
It was dark and silent in the barracks; most of us were asleep, and even the sounds of the men were muted as they went deeper into their dreams, or their nightmares, or the day’s strange events. I was thinking about Endovik.
The door burst open, striking the wall to which it was hinged with a flat crack, waking us in an instant. Ursov stood alone, framed in the doorway, silhouetting himself with the glow from the lantern he held in his left hand. The General entered the barracks, his boots making his footsteps loud on the wooden floor. He was fully uniformed, carrying a pistol in his belt and his whip in his right hand.
“Up! Up!” he shouted hoarsely. Ursov strode among the bunks, rapping them with the wooden handle of his whip as the soldiers struggled to their feet. “Up, scum! You have a task to perform! Dress yourselves as quickly as you can! Hurry!”
We did so, at first muttering among ourselves in our weariness; and then, remembering our fear of the General, we placed our clothes on in silence, hastily buttoning enough buttons to make us look dressed. Then Ursov ordered us out of the barracks and into three lines.
We were marched across the compound to the three buildings where Belidaev and the peasants of Vendeévna were housed, standing next to the other cholera-emptied buildings.
“Another case of the cholera sickness has been reported,” the General spoke to us. “To prevent another epidemic, the doctor has placed the victim in the strictest isolation, and will not allow even the medical staff to tend him, lest they pass along the disease.” Rage filled me, and I almost flung myself at Ursov. Endovik! They weren’t even tending him!
“We must burn these plague buildings and everything in them to prevent another epidemic!”
Ursov ordered us to gather straw and pile it up around the buildings, so that we could set them on fire. We worked uneasily, and the General became increasingly impatient.
Finally, one of the soldiers spoke up. “General, sir, shouldn’t we . . . shouldn’t we get the peasants out first?”
Ursov snarled and cracked his whip across the soldier’s back. “You will follow my orders! Without question! I command! Do I not control this colony and everything in it? By the order of the Tsar!” The soldier was cowed and went back to work; the General turned and muttered quietly, almost to himself, “We will see if they are demons or not.”
Next we were ordered to gather up hammers, nails, and pieces of wood with which to board up the doors and windows of the three occupied buildings. Each of us worked rapidly, afraid, and the three buildings were quickly secured. The strangest thing, to me, about the entire business was that the occupants of the buildings never stirred, never shouted, never tried to break out, not with all our sounds of hammering, and Ursov’s shouting. An eerie, unnatural sensation filled all of us. Perhaps the General was right—maybe the peasants of Vendeévna were unholy demons. Enough had happened since the new recruits had arrived that none of us was certain what to think any more.
Ursov’s voice was laced with fear as he ordered the straw set on fire, as if he knew he finally had to confront Belidaev in an unearthly duel, but did not know what the outcome would be. The fires were set first on one of the buildings, then the next, and finally the third building where the bleeding form of Belidaev had been taken earlier that day.
The wood burned quickly, as if eager to cleanse itself, hungry to be purged of the cholera and of the spirits within. Each of us waited, fascinated by the flames, waiting with dread to hear the first screams of the peasants within. But they never came. The wood cracked and spat as it was consumed, and the fires began to climb the walls.
Belidaev’s building was in flames—and the door was suddenly flung open, the boards barricading the door shattered as if they did not exist. Belidaev stood in the doorway, framed in flames—all his lashes and bruises were healed, even the brands on his cheek and forehead had vanished. He stepped out of the burning building and turned to face Ursov, glaring at him with eyes made of shattered pain and ice.
“Good evening, General,” Belidaev said.
Ah, Tania, the horror as I write this!
Ursov used a mask of rage to cover his fear, and he lashed out at Belidaev with his whip. The General gasped in pain of his own and let the whip fall, looking in astonishment at the line of torn cloth across his chest, as if he himself had been whipped. Belidaev was untouched. Ursov fingered the sticky blood on his chest.
“You see, General, you continue to bring about your own punishment.” Ursov stood speechles
s, his fear forming its own discipline.
Belidaev crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know what night this is, General? This is our anniversary. Do you remember what happened seven years ago, General?”
Ursov clenched his fists into tight balls, but he seemed too much afraid to take any direct action.
“The peasants of Vendeévna rose up against you and your military colony—but you had them put down with your muskets and bayonets. You ordered your soldiers to pillage and burn—Vendeévna had to be razed anyway, you said, to establish the military colony here. One of your soldiers, a Corporal Belidaev, had been born and raised in Vendeévna before being drafted into the Tsar’s army. When he tried to speak out to protect the people of his village, you shot him in front of the other soldiers to show them what would happen if they disobeyed the great General Ursov who had fought so bravely at the battle of Borodinó. Do you remember shooting poor Corporal Belidaev, General?”
“You are lying!” Ursov shouted.
“And after you had turned your soldiers loose on the village to rampage, you went through the people yourself like a wolf. You raped my sister Marta, General—do you even remember? She had long brown hair, braided—and a mole on her left cheek. You told her you would shoot our parents if she did not submit—and even though in her fear she cooperated with you in every way, still you rammed your bayonet into her throat when you had finished with her! Do you remember? You thought you had no conscience, General—I am here.”
“You can’t know! You were dead!”
“The village of Vendeévna was here for generations, General. The peasants farmed here, sweated and died here—for generations. You don’t think you can remove all that by tearing down the buildings and erecting your own? Your military colony, General, is like a thorn in the skin of the earth, which is being pushed outward. The time has come, General—the splinter will be removed.”
Ursov turned to us with a strange, wild expression in his eyes. “Lies! They are not true!”
The building roared in flames behind Belidaev, but he didn’t seem bothered by the heat. He beckoned to Ursov. “Would you care to enter the fires of Hell a few moments sooner, General?”
Ursov grabbed the pistol from his belt and pointed it at Belidaev. “You will die, demon!”
“Yes!” Belidaev hissed. “The demon will die!”
The General fired—and fell to the ground with a bullet hole in his chest, and shock on his face. His blood soaked into the soil of Vendeévna to mingle with the peasant blood he had spilled there so many years ago.
Belidaev laughed and turned to step inside the burning building, vanishing in the flames.
* * *
Just this morning, when some of the soldiers ventured into the still-smoldering wreckage of the cholera buildings—under direct orders, since no one had willingly ventured into them since the night of the fires—they found no bones or any other remains of Belidaev or the peasants of Vendeévna. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.
I went to visit Endovik this morning, but he had already died. The doctor wouldn’t even let me say goodbye to the body of my friend. It was too risky, he said. However, Endovik’s death is allowing me to send you this letter. Lieutenant Goliepin has the command now, and he is very confused with all the new duties thrust upon him. I have told him that Endovik had a sister, and I asked him if I could write her a letter of consolation. Goliepin was happy to have one small duty taken from him and he quickly waved me away. He won’t have time to read this letter either, and so I will trust that it reaches you uncensored.
I believe that the “official” story states something to the effect that Ursov died of cholera, and the buildings were routinely burned to remove the threat of pestilence. Officially, we never received any new recruits from Vendeévna.
Give my love and greetings to Father, and I will write you again if I can, but it may not be possible for a while. Know that you are with me and that you are my strength to endure twenty-five years of military service. I love you all, and God’s blessing upon you.
Alexis
The End
Santa Claus is Coming to Get You!
Author’s Note:
For many years, myself and several writer friends—including Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Dean Wesley Smith, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Jerry and Kathy Oltion, and others—would each write a special story for Christmas Eve, to be read aloud and shared before opening presents.
What does happen to the kids who don’t show up on the “nice” list anyway?
* * *
Twas the night before the night before Christmas, and all through the house little sounds were stirring . . . sinister, creeping, whispers of noise. Echoes of things better left unseen in the darkness, even around the holiday season.
Jeff stared up at the bottom of his little brother’s bunk. Ever since Stevie had gotten rid of the night light, he always feared that the upper bunk would fall on top of him and squish him flat.
A strong gust of wind rattled the window pane. Wet snow brushing against it sounded like the hiss of a deadly snake, but he could hear that his brother was not asleep. “Stevie? I thought of something about Christmas.”
“What?” The voice was muffled by Stevie’s ratty blue blanket.
“Well, Santa keeps a list of who’s naughty and nice, right? So, what does he do to the kids who’ve been naughty?” He didn’t know why he asked Stevie. Stevie wouldn’t know.
“They don’t get any presents I guess. . . . Do you really think Mom and Dad are that mad at us?”
Jeff sucked in a breath. “We were playing with matches, Stevie! We could have burned the house down—you heard them say that. Imagine if we burned the house down. . . . Besides, it doesn’t matter if Mom and Dad are angry. What’ll Santa think?”
Jeff swallowed. He had to get the ideas out of his head. “I gotta tell you this, Stevie, because it’s important. Something a kid told me at school.
“He said that it isn’t Santa who puts presents out when you’re good. It’s just your Mom and Dad. They wait until you go to sleep, and then they sneak out some presents. It’s all pretend.”
“Oh come on!”
“Think about it. Your parents are the ones who know what you really want.” He pushed on in a whisper. “What if Santa only comes when you’re bad?”
“But we said we were sorry! And . . . and it wasn’t my idea—it was yours. And nothing got hurt.”
Jeff closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the bottom of the upper bunk. “I think Santa looks for naughty little boys and girls. That’s why he comes around on Christmas Eve.
“He sneaks down the chimney, and he carries an empty sack with him. And when he knows he’s in a house where there’s a naughty kid, he goes into their bedroom and grabs them, and stuffs them in the sack! Then he pushes them up the chimney and throws the bag in the back of his sleigh with all the other naughty little boys and girls. And then he takes them back up north where it’s always cold and where the wind always blows—and there’s nothing to eat.”
Jeff’s eyes sparkled from hot tears. He thought he heard Stevie shivering above him.
“What kind of food do you think Santa gets up there at the North Pole? How does Santa stay so fat? I bet all year long he keeps the naughty kids he’s taken the Christmas before and he eats them! He keeps them locked up in icicle cages . . . and on special days like on his birthday or on Thanksgiving, he takes an extra fat kid and he roasts him over a fire! That’s what happens to bad kids on Christmas Eve.”
Jeff heard a muffled sob in the upper bunk. He saw the support slats vibrate. “No, it’s not true. We weren’t that bad. I’m sorry. We won’t do it again.”
Jeff closed his eyes. “You better watch out, Stevie, you better not cry. ‘Cause Santa Claus is coming to get you!”
He heard Stevie sucking on the corner of his blanket to keep from crying. “We can hide.”
Jeff shook his head in despair. “No. He sees you when you’re sleeping, and he knows when y
ou’re awake. We can’t escape from him!”
“How about if we lock the bedroom door?”
“That won’t stop Santa Claus! You know how big he is from eating all those little kids. And he’s probably got some of his evil little elves to help him.”
He listened to Stevie crying in the sheets. He listened to the wind. “We’re gonna have to trick him. We have to get Santa before he gets us!”
* * *
On Christmas Eve Dad turned on the Christmas tree lights and hung out the empty stockings by the fireplace. He grinned at the boys who stared red-eyed in fear.
“You guys look like you’re so excited you haven’t been able to sleep. Better go on to bed—it’s Christmas tomorrow, and you’ve got a long night ahead of you.” He smiled at them. “Don’t forget to put out milk and cookies for Santa.”
Mom scowled at them. “You boys know how naughty you were. I wouldn’t expect too many presents from Santa this year.”
Jeff felt his heart stop. He swallowed and tried to keep anything from showing on his face. Stevie shivered.
“Oh, come on, Janet. It’s Christmas Eve,” Dad said.
Jeff and Stevie slowly brought out the glass of milk and a plate with four Oreo cookies they had made up earlier. Stevie was so scared he almost dropped the glass.
They had poured strychnine pellets into the milk, and put rat poison in the frosting of the Oreos.
“Go on boys, good night. And don’t get up too early tomorrow,” Dad said.
The two boys marched off to their room, heads down. Visions of Santa’s blood danced in their heads.
* * *
Jeff lay awake for hours, sweating and shivering. He and Stevie didn’t need to say anything to each other. After Mom and Dad went to bed, the boys listened for any sound from the roof, from the chimney.
He pictured Santa Claus heaving himself out from the fireplace, pushing aside the grate and stepping out into the living room. His eyes were red and wild, his fingers long claws, his beard tangled and stained with the meal he’d had before setting out in his sleigh—perhaps the last two children from the year before, now scrawny and starved. He would have snapped them up like crackers.
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