by Paul Haines
'Why is Rebekah sad, Father?' Emily asked.
Father stood silent for a second before crouching beside her. 'She has grown into a woman of late. She must wait up on Christmas Eve with us now.'
'I wish I was grown up. Then I, too, could wait up for Saint Niklaus.'
Father sighed softly, his eyes staring into nothing as he worked his calloused fingers through the curls on her head. 'I pray you never grow up.'
He pulled her close to his chest and asked what sort of presents she hoped Saint Niklaus would bring. They talked as Rebekah sobbed in the kitchen.
#
Emily sat on her bed, tracing her fingers through the breath on her windowpane. Outside, the grey sky blossomed with white petals. She imagined Saint Niklaus loading up his sleigh for the evening's journey, warm in his thick, red coat—ruddy cheeks shining and eyes a-twinkling. Unhappy with her reindeer drawing, she blew on the window and created a fresh canvas. The door creaked open. Rebekah slipped into the room and sat on the bed.
'What are you doing?' Rebekah asked. Her eyes were still red.
'I'm drawing Christmas,' said Emily, outlining a sharp, pointy tree on the windowpane.
'I hate Christmas.'
'I don't. I love it. I can't wait until I wake up tomorrow and open all my presents. Especially the ones Saint Niklaus will bring.'
Rebekah picked at the quilt on the bed. 'There is no Saint Niklaus,' she said quietly.
Emily's finger froze, hard-pressed against the glass. 'What?'
'I said there is no Saint Niklaus!' Rebekah leant forward, her mouth inches from Emily's face. 'It's just a game they play for babies. Like you!'
Emily's body shook and her face darkened. 'How ... how do you know?'
'Some of the older children at school told me.' Rebekah dug at the quilt's weave. 'There's no such thing as Saint Niklaus. He's been dead for hundreds of years.'
For a second the room filled with silence as Emily sucked in all the noise. Her chest expanded and her breath hitched. With a mighty wail, she burst into tears.
'Mama!'
Rebekah glanced toward the door, shot off the bed and clamped a hand over Emily's mouth. 'Sshhh! Be quiet. I didn't mean it, Emily. I just said it to hurt you. There really is a Saint Niklaus. Please, stop crying and don't call Mother.'
Emily wiped a tear from her cheek as Rebekah released her. 'You're mean. I'm going to tell on you.'
'Please don't,' pleaded Rebekah. 'I'll share my pudding with you.'
'I don't care about your pudding. We've got lots of food today. I had some chocolate.'
'No, silly. That's not for us. Most of that food is left out for Saint Niklaus.'
'Even the chocolate?'
'Especially the chocolate. It's got lots of energy in it.'
'Are we still going to be hungry tonight?' Emily's face screwed up.
'We won't be hungry, Emily, but we don't get to eat all the nice food.' She kissed Emily on the cheek. 'I'm sorry. Remember, if you don't tell, I'll share my pudding with you.'
Rebekah left the room, and Emily noticed she had started crying again. Her mother appeared in the doorway and asked what was wrong, but Emily thought of the pudding and said nothing. The sun had set, and this time, when her finger drew a line on the window, it left only blackness.
#
Emily stared at the thin, sliver of turkey, the dollop of mashed potato and the sprinkling of peas on her plate. It seemed so meagre compared to the feast her mother had cooked. The other plates on the table were equally empty. Even her father's.
'Is this all we get?'
Her father scowled and her mother said quickly, 'Be grateful we can celebrate Christmas Eve, Emily. Some families have less.'
'But all the food—'
'That is for when Saint Niklaus comes.' Mother sliced her meat, forked in a mouthful, chewed and swallowed. 'You never know. If the night is kind, there may be leftovers in the morning.'
'He can't eat all that,' Emily said. 'Not in one night. Not in a whole week.'
They ate in silence for several minutes. The cold crept in through the shuttered windows and Father threw another log into the hearth.
'Eat up, Rebekah,' Mother said.
Rebekah sat sullenly, pushing her fork around the plate—directing peas and potato. 'I feel sick.'
'It's okay, honey. It's just nerves. It's not as bad as you think.' Mother paused, the hint of a smile on her lips. 'There is a certain amount of ... pleasure ... involved, and after a while you almost long for—'
'Marthe!' Father, his face stone, glared at Mother. He squeezed the knife in his burly hand, turning his knuckles bone-white.
'Pleasure?' asked Rebekah.
'That's enough!' Father thumped the table and the plates rattled. Emily jumped in her seat. Mother sat quietly, eyes downcast. Father glowered at each of them, stood and went into the kitchen. He returned with a chunk of raw meat and shaved off several slices.
'You must eat this,' he said.
'What is it?' Rebekah's hands shook as she reached for the meat.
'Liver. I don't want you with thin blood.'
She swallowed and grimaced.
'If you don't like the taste,' said Father, 'then swallow it with some of your dinner.'
He sliced some more and passed it to Mother. 'Just to be sure.'
'What about me?' asked Emily.
'You're not yet a woman,' her mother said softly.
'I am so!'
Father interrupted, his voice gravel. 'You are not staying up, Emily. Be thankful you do not need to eat it.'
Emily wanted to cry. Why was her father being so mean on Christmas Eve? When she found the courage to look back at him, she saw tears in his eyes. Rebekah sat pale and silent, staring at the tablecloth. Mother stared wistfully past the shutters out into the darkness and the cold.
'Be thankful,' Father said.
#
Emily lay tucked under the quilt. She struggled to sit upright against the pillows when Mother came into the bedroom. Mother placed a tray holding a mug of hot chocolate and a biscuit onto the bed stand.
'Remember. Saint Niklaus won't come until you're asleep,' Mother said, sitting on the bed. 'He knows if you're awake.'
'How does he know?'
'He just does. You want him to come, don't you?'
'Of course! Will he bring lots of presents?'
'We'll all go down to the village tomorrow to get the presents with what Saint Niklaus brings. You, me, your sister, and your father. Together.'
Mother picked up the steaming mug and handed it to Emily. It was hot against her palms and the chocolate smelt rich and delicious. A white swirl of cream crowned the thick, syrupy drink. Emily sipped the cream, and a thought crossed her mind.
'Will he still come if Rebekah doesn't go to sleep? She's not going to bed like me. You said she's staying up until he comes.'
'Rebekah is a woman now. Remember the blood? It's different when you grow up. One day you'll understand.' Mother stroked Emily's brow; the dreamy look from her face had gone, replaced with eyes that crinkled at the edges and lines that crossed her forehead. 'Has Rebekah been telling you things?'
Emily paused, the chocolate and cream coated her tongue, and her sister's pudding was a warm presence in her tummy. 'No. I just wish I could stay up to see Saint Niklaus, too.'
'One day, sweet child.' Mother smiled, touching Emily's cheek. 'One day. Now finish your drink and have your biscuit. It will help you sleep.' She leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. 'Goodnight, sweetness. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.'
After Mother left, Emily carefully opened the window and poured her drink outside into the snow. The biscuit followed, spinning out into the drift and disappearing. She shut the window, climbed back into bed and pulled the covers tight against the cold. When Mother returned later that night to close the shutters, collect the tray and blow out the lantern, Emily pretended to be asleep. It was all she could do to contain the excitement that threatened to spill out
and announce her deceit to the house. Saint Niklaus was coming!
The night wore on, and Emily's eyelids slowly slipped over her eyes. The comforting, muted sounds of conversation from the living room lulled and soothed her, and sleep came. The bells from the village church had tolled eleven so long ago that Emily felt it didn't matter if Rebekah got to see Saint Niklaus and she didn't. The bed was just too nice and warm, the pillow soft, the tinkling of sleigh bells so sleepy ...
Her eyes opened wide. Sleigh bells! Outside the window, tinkling and chiming. Emily slipped out of bed and inched open the window, ignoring the cold as it rushed in to feed on her warmth. The bells suddenly went silent.
All she had to do was unlatch the shutters, push them open and she would see him. Fear stayed her hand. What if Saint Niklaus saw her? She couldn't risk it. She closed the window and crept back into bed, snuggling into the blankets. Shutting her eyes, she again pretended to sleep.
A scratching sounded against the outside wall. The bells rang louder this time. Emily heard a stifled scream from the living room. Father was saying something now, but she couldn't make out the words. Emily's breath caught in the bowl of her throat, as she listened for the restless stomping of hooves and the impatient neighing of reindeer. Something scrunched through the snow on the roof, accompanied by a score of bells.
Emily wondered whether Father had put out the fire, so Saint Niklaus could enter. She crawled out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and crept to the bedroom door. Slipping into the darkened hallway, she tiptoed toward the crack of light under the living room door. She heard her sister's muffled cries and the muted bass of Father's voice.
Easing the door open, Emily peered through. The table lay spread with roast meats, vegetables and fruits. Rich, steaming puddings stood next to bowls of brandy custard and piles of chocolate, amongst flasks of wine and mead. Enough to feed two or three families, Emily thought. Did he eat at all the other houses, too? She inched the door a little further and saw Mother, wearing her best evening clothes, sitting on the floor by the hearth. She gazed longingly toward the chimney, and Emily noticed the embers in the fireplace had all but gone out. Something scrabbled inside, loosening soot, and Mother shuffled forward on her hands and knees, weeping and smiling.
'Get back, Marthe,' said Father, still out of view. His voice sounded like it had passed through a throat of thorns.
Another muffled scream made Emily push the door wider. Father sat on the rug in the middle of the room. One hand wrapped Rebekah to his chest and the other smothered her mouth. His legs were coiled around her and Rebekah kicked and struggled against him. Her sister, too, wore her evening's finest.
Before Emily could growl at her father, something large fell into the hearth and a ball of soot billowed into the room. Mother gasped and Father uttered a curse or a prayer, Emily couldn't be sure. Her ears had filled with a rush of blood and her knees trembled.
The thing in the hearth twisted and elongated, and stepped into the room. Its red skin, where it was not coated in ash, shone with sweat and oil. Two long, thin arms stretched out, flexing sinewy muscle and tendon-lined bones. Its torso was small and stout, and a thick, glistening organ hung loosely between its thighs. The head, too large for the body, swivelled on a thin neck, as its snout-like face studied them with pale eyes that reflected yellow in the lamplight. Bells woven into the thick tussocks sprouting from its head tinkled as it moved. A fibrous tongue flicked out between ragged teeth.
It smiled and Rebekah screamed. Emily's scalp crawled and she shuddered. Impossibly long fingers snaked out from its hand, curled and beckoned for Rebekah.
'Aaaahhh,' it sighed, the sound deep and rich, the humming of a choir. 'My blessings have served you well. Look how she has bloomed.'
It shuffled closer and leant forward, nostrils flaring, chest quivering as it sniffed. 'And she is with the moon. Perfect. You have done well, woodsman. Give her to me. My hunger is great and I must taste my fruit.' A leathery finger caressed Rebekah's cheek and she convulsed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.
Father rocked back and forth, cradling her and sobbing. 'I can't. I can't.'
'Take me, Domovoy,' Mother said, her arms reaching out towards the creature. 'I am ready, too. I have waited.'
Domovoy stretched out a skeletal hand and held Mother's chin. Its fingers wrapped around her jaw and splayed up and across her cheeks to her temples. It slowly massaged there, its voice soothing. 'Soon, woman. First I must have my fruits.' Mother slumped back on her haunches, smiling and moaning as she hitched her dress and parted her thighs.
'No!' Father scrambled back with Rebekah limp in his arms. 'I will not yield her to you!'
'You have no choice, woodsman. If not for me, your life would be barren. I bless this house, I bring you gifts.' Domovoy slunk close on spindly legs. 'She,' it said, a long finger pointing at Rebekah, 'would not be here if not for me.'
'Please. I will give you anything. Please, not my daughter!'
'You have nothing left to give. Everything you have comes from me. She is already mine, just as she is yours. Without me, they can never be complete. Now, woodsman, let me make them fertile for you. It is for the good of your village.'
'No,' Father sobbed, as Domovoy's sinewy arms pulled Rebekah away from him.
Emily wanted to scream, to run forward to protect her sister, but her feet would not move. She stood frozen, filled with fear and panic. Nothing worked. No mouth opened wide to yell a warning, and no eyes closed so as not to see.
Her father, a giant of a man, huddled with his knees up under his chin. He sobbed, rocking back and forth. Rebekah's evening dress and petticoat were pushed up over white thighs. Black pubic hair, vaginal lips, fresh with new blood; Domovoy gulped from her sister's thighs. Red, glistening torso expanded, hovering over Rebekah, teeth bared, sinking into her throat while its fingers weaved up and into her sister, sliding into her vagina, throbbing, pulsing with the life it found. Rebekah moaned, slick with sweat, nipples taut and brown, clothing now stripped from her body. Domovoy drank, ate and slaked itself on blood.
Mother spread herself wide. She thrusted up, moaning, bucking against the beast that entered her mouth, nose, vagina and bottom. Domovoy probed, erect and thick with blood and energy. Mother keened, smiling, shining, laughing, ecstatic.
Withering, paling. Wasting away.
Her father, small and broken, wailed; knuckles and fingers bled as he beat the floor.
Emily stood terrified and the room shrank until all she could see was Domovoy's approaching head, its yellow-slit eyes mesmerising, its voice sliding into her to chase the fear from the marrow of her bones.
It kissed her softly on the lips, sending shudders of bliss through her small body and whispered to her lovingly, like a father. Sleep, daughter, and be silent with this knowledge. Your time will come. I await your flavour with anticipation.
Emily's eyes closed and she fell, forever and dreaming, until she awoke covered in sweat and burning in her bed.
'It's all fine, my darling.' Father cradled her, rocking back and forth, wiping her head with a damp cloth.
'Domovoy ...' The word struggled to pass the dry thickness of her tongue.
'You have a fever, Emily. Domovoy is a dream, a fairytale.'
'No, I saw him! I ... I ...' She recalled red, slick skin, and nearly wet herself. 'I need to go to the bathroom.'
'Come on then.' Father took her by the hand.
She noticed his hand was cut and bleeding. Splinters porcupined the skin.
'Nothing to worry about, Emily. I cut myself chopping down the mistletoe I hung above the hearth.'
They passed the living room on the way to the bathroom. Light shone from under the door.
'Where's Mother?' she asked.
'She's in bed sleeping. So is your sister. Hurry, we don't want to wake them. They're very tired.' He passed her the lantern as she went into the bathroom and waited for her in the hallway.
The chamber pot was cold against her ski
n, a contrasting relief to the fire burning up her body. She urinated hot and long. Afterwards, she sat there watching the lantern flicker, listening to the noises in the house. She heard Father shuffling in the hallway, the wind rustling the trees. And noises from the living room, hungry and slurping.
Domovoy was still in the house! Her stomach cramped and she vomited into her lap. Father rushed in and she started to cry.
'Domovoy,' she whispered through sobs. 'He's still in the house. In the living room. He wants to eat me, too.'
'Ssshh.' Father removed her nightgown and cleaned her with a damp towel. 'There's no such thing.'
'He's in there. I can hear him!' she wailed.
'Quiet, honey-pie. You'll wake your sister.' He wrapped her in her robe. 'Let's get you back to bed.'
He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. They passed the living room, and she managed to reach out and push the latch, kicking the door with her feet. The door swung open, spilling light into the hallway. Father cursed. Her mother and sister sat at the table staring guiltily, startled mouths stuffed full of meat, grease running from chins and fingers. Gold coins lay scattered near the hearth.
'Emily!' Mother said around a mouthful of lamb. She looked radiant, her hair black and shining, lips full, cheeks dashed with colour.
Rebekah paused briefly, flashed a smile, eyes sparkling, and began to devour the food in front of her once more.
'There,' said Father. 'Are you satisfied? There is no Domovoy in the house.'
As he tucked her into bed, he felt her forehead again. 'Your fever has almost gone. Maybe you threw it all up.'
'You told me they were in bed.'
'Who?'
'Mother and Rebekah. You said they were sleeping. You lied.'
'No I didn't, my baby. They must have got up when I came in here to look after you. Sshh, now sleep.'
'You lied to me! And you lied about Domovoy!' Emily shuddered and her voice hitched. 'I saw what happened, Father. Domovoy spoke to me. He said ... he said ...' The lingering burn of its kiss ushered forth a new tumbling of tears.