Krampus: The Yule Lord (16 page)

She took a deep breath and tried to let it go.
He’s upset, been up all night. Just worried about Abi and me. That’s all, just let it go for now.
“Okay,” Linda said. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dillard stood, tugged on his jacket, and headed for the door. “Just sit tight. Noel’s casing the neighborhood, he’ll have his eye on things till I’m back. So long as you stay put, all will be just fine.”

He left the house, locking the door behind him. It wasn’t until he’d driven off that Linda realized he’d taken her keys with him. She rubbed her wrist where he’d grabbed her, couldn’t stop thinking about the way his eyes had gone so cold. She found herself wondering if maybe she’d rushed into things, if his nice house and new car had made it too easy to ignore the rumors about his first wife.

J
ESSE CAUGHT SIGHT
of a short steeple peeking up above a thicket of trees and brush, and slowed down. He found a driveway—all but swallowed by bushes—and turned off the gravel road. Brambles and saplings scraped the side of the truck as he drove down a long drive to a small church. The structure had a slight lean to it, as though one more hard wind would see it over. The boards and siding were stripped of paint and weathered pale gray. A large wooden cross lay splintered upon the front steps, apparently having tumbled from its perch atop the steeple. The door and windows were boarded up, and Jesse found no sign that anyone had visited the place in ages.

They were well clear of the road, but Jesse didn’t want to take any chances, so he pulled all the way behind the church, parking beneath a sprawling oak. He cut off the engine and got out. Isabel did the same and they came around as the Belsnickels helped Krampus from the camper. Krampus slung the sack over his shoulder and slid out. His skin and hair were even darker now, a true deep black, almost pitch, and his horns appeared to be growing back. He still had a slight hobble to his walk, but Jesse found it hard to believe that this was the same wretched creature he’d first seen in the cave.

A wire fence ran just the other side of the oak; three cows stood at the wire watching them with bored, unimpressed faces.

Krampus took a deep breath, seemed to inhale everything around him. “It is good to be alive this day.”

Vernon rolled his eyes.

Krampus laughed, clapped Vernon on the back. “Open your soul my dear Vernon, and let Mother Earth sing you her song.” Krampus’s voice sounded stronger, fuller, deep and lyrical like a bass cello.

Jesse plucked a branch full of gray, withered leaves up out of the snow and headed back toward the road.

“Where you going?” Isabel asked.

“Snipe hunting.”

“Snipe hunting? What’s a snipe?”

Jesse looked at her as though she must be kidding. “Really?”

She frowned. “What? What is it?”

Jesse let out a snort.

Isabel’s face clouded and Jesse couldn’t help but laugh. Isabel set her hands on her hips. “Well, are you gonna tell me or not?”

Jesse just shook his head and kept walking up the drive.

Isabel stood for a moment longer before letting out a huff and following after him.

Jesse stopped where his tire tracks left the gravel road. He brushed the limb back and forth across the fresh snow, doing at least a passable job of obscuring the tracks. He tossed the limb away. “That’ll have to do.” He noted Isabel still looked perturbed. He smiled. “If we ever get out of this mess, I promise to take you snipe hunting.”

Jesse scanned the horizon. The clouds were moving in again and the sky threatened snow. Jesse hoped it would hurry up, snow would cover their tracks. He headed back to the truck, slid out his guitar. The Belsnickels had broken in through the back door and Jesse followed Isabel inside.

There was no electricity, and it was hard to see with all the windows boarded up, but the dusty gloom didn’t stop the Belsnickels. They were busy clearing stacks of junk and old boxes off the rows of pews, making room to sit and lie down. Vernon crouched in front of a cast-iron potbellied stove, stuffing it full of broken bits of cedar paneling, prepping it for a fire.

Jesse found several oil lamps lined up on a shelf. He consolidated the remnants of oil until he had one full lamp. He doused the wick, then plucked out his lighter and got it to burn, dialing down the flame. He walked over to Vernon and lent him his lighter, and soon the stove was producing heat.

The space wasn’t much larger than a schoolroom and appeared to have been used only for storage for decades. A pulpit sat atop a small platform built against the far wall. A large, hand-carved cross bearing the suffering Son of God hung behind it. Krampus stood in front of it, staring up into the tortured eyes of Jesus, his tail twitching.

Isabel came by carrying an armful of dusty curtains. “Here.” She tossed one at Jesse. “Not much, but it will help keep the chill off. There’s a bunch more over by the stove if you need them.” She moved on, handing them out to the rest of the Belsnickels.

Jesse carried the curtain over to a dilapidated upright piano covered in old dirt-dauber nests. He dropped the curtain on the floor next to the wall and stretched out, propping one boot atop the other. He leaned his head back, letting out a long, weary breath.
Feels damn good to stop moving for a bit.
It struck him he’d been running nonstop without sleep, and on only a few strips of jerky, for almost twenty-four hours. He sat the guitar across his lap, seeing if he could fix the loose frets. Broke or not, he still found it comforting just to hold. He softly strummed the strings while trying to get it back in tune.
“Damn,”
he whispered and winced, flexing his hand. It was getting hard to move his fingers. The wound had become red and inflamed and Jesse feared it might be infected.
Way things are going for me, probably have gangrene by morning.

He noticed Krampus watching him. The creature hobbled over and took a seat next to him. Krampus looked worn out, yet there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“A long day for all of us, indeed,” Krampus said. “For me it is the end to five hundred years of long days.” He pulled the sack into his lap and caressed it like a pet, as together they watched the Belsnickels situate themselves for sleep, all with the exception of Vernon, who paced relentlessly back and forth across the church, peeking out between the slats as though Santa was out there with his sword and a hungry pack of wolves.

Krampus tapped the guitar. “You have music in your heart.”

Jesse nodded.

“I would have you play me a song.”

Jesse opened his palm, showed Krampus the wound. “Can’t . . . not till this thing heals up, anyhow.” Then, almost to himself, “Maybe never again.”

“Perhaps there is something for it.” Krampus opened the sack, closed his eyes, and inserted his hand. Rapt concentration strained his features, then a smile broke. “Ah . . . all is not lost . . . some things have survived the great flame.” Krampus pulled out a cone-shaped flask. It was covered in black ash, its long neck sealed in charred wax. He peeled away the wax and plucked out a rotting cork, then placed the bottle to his lips and took a long swig. “Ahh!” He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “All the sweeter for the long wait.

“Now, hold out your hand.”

Jesse looked unsure.

“Fear not, this is not just any mead, but mead from Odin’s own stores. This,” Krampus held out the flask and marveled, “is from the cellars of Valhalla itself. It comes from the udders of Heidrun, who feeds on the foliage of the tree Laeraor. It will do your wound good. Now, cup your hand.”

Jesse extended his hand. Krampus tilted the flask and Jesse braced himself for the sting of alcohol. An amber liquid flowed into Jesse’s palm. It sparkled, Jesse felt warmth, then a pleasant tingling sensation as the liquid slowly soaked into his flesh. He flexed his hand. It did indeed feel a little better.

Krampus handed him the flask. “Here, a drink for your heart and soul.”

Jesse took the bottle, put it up to his nose, and sniffed. It smelled like the sweetest day in spring.

“I hand you the mead of the gods and you sniff at it?” Krampus let out a snort. “Drink, fool.”

Jesse took a tentative sip. It was as though someone had poured pure joy down his throat. The warmth spreading in his gullet, not the burn of whiskey but the way you feel when you’re in love. He took another sip, a long one, and tried to take another when Krampus pulled the bottle from him.

“Careful,” Krampus said. “It is not for mortals. Too much and you might sprout horns.” He rapped his knuckles against his own broken horns, winked, and took a long swig.

Jesse laid his head back. The world around him lost its edges and he felt he was floating, drifting away from all his worries and fears.

“What do you dream of?” Krampus asked.

“Dream?”

“Your passions? What dreams take you off to sleep each night?”

Jesse thought for a minute. “Playing my songs. Those are my best dreams. The music and me come together, the melody is so clear . . . the crowd digs me.” Jesse smiled. “They hold up their lighters and cell phones and sway to the tune. The encores go on
all
night long.”

“So that is what you most want from life? To play your music?”

Jesse thought for a minute and nodded. “That’d be enough. It’s the only time I truly feel connected . . . with myself, with people. When the music is good . . . it’s . . . it’s like I took a feeling right from my heart, took my deepest highs and lows, and shared ’em with folks. More like weaving a spell than playing. Don’t care if it’s just a bunch of drunks, neither. Don’t matter. What matters is to be able to touch someone that way.”

Krampus nodded. “Those dreams . . . they are your soul. You must live them to their fullest.”

“Yeah, but they’re just dreams, y’know. And the problem with dreams is you have to wake up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s time for me to grow up . . . I guess. To give it up. Time to leave the dreams behind . . . because there’s no room for dreams in the real world.”

“No.” Krampus’s voice grew stern. “That is not true. Your dreams are your spirit, your soul, and without them you are dead.” He made a fist. “You must guard your dreams. Always. Lest someone steal them from you. I know what it is to have your dreams stolen. I know what it is to be dead.” His voice was almost a growl. “Guard your dreams.
Always guard your dreams
.”

They were both silent for a long while.

“How is the hand?” Krampus asked.

Jesse looked at the wound, most of the redness was gone. He wiggled his fingers, there was almost no pain.

“It is better?”

“Yeah,” Jesse marveled. “It is.”

“Good.”

Vernon walked past, stooped, and peeked outside through the slats in the window next to them.

“Vernon,” Krampus called. “Stop your fretting. It is helping no one.”

Vernon threw up his hands. “How can you act so casual knowing those things are hunting us?”

“Vernon, come here.”

Vernon stayed at the window, nervously twisting the ends of his beard. “You know, it’s not like they were all that far back up the road.”

“Come, Vernon. I command it.”

Vernon came over.

Krampus held up the flask. “Drink.”

Vernon pushed a long strand of greasy hair from his face and eyed the flask suspiciously.

“Mead.”

Vernon’s face brightened. “Oh.” He took the flask, took a long sip, then another.

“Pass it around,” Krampus said. “Give some to Nipi . . . he is in need.”

Jesse noted that Nipi had removed the blood-soaked rag from his wound. The gunshot was red and swollen, but not raw, and actually appeared to be forming a scar already. Jesse might’ve been more amazed, but he’d seen enough wonders this day to understand some sort of magic was at play.

Vernon walked the flask over to Nipi. Nipi took a deep swig and passed it on. The bottle went round and round until all the Belsnickels were sitting or lying upon their makeshift beds, their faces mellow.

Jesse noticed Krampus staring out into space, gently caressing the velvet sack, a dreamy look upon his face. “So,” Jesse asked, “what does a Krampus dream of then?”

Krampus stopped stroking the sack, didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I dream of spreading the splendor of Yuletide once again across the land, of returning sweet Mother Earth to her glory. To see my temples and shrines all across the world. To have all the peoples pay me homage. That, Jesse, music-maker, that is my dream.”

“All across the world, huh? Nothing wrong with shooting high, I guess.”

Krampus nodded, his eyes still far away.

“Yuletide? Thought that was the same thing as Christmas.”

“Christmas,” Krampus spat. “No, Christmas is an abomination. A perversion! Yule is the true spirit of Mother Earth. Yule is the rebirth of the seasons. Without Yuletide, Mother Earth cannot heal herself . . . will wither and die. That is why it is so important that I reawaken the spirit within mankind. Help them to believe again. Because it is their power of belief, their love and devotion, that heals the land.”

“And let me get this straight, that Santa Claus fella, I take it he’s in your way somehow?”

“That name is a lie. A sham.” Krampus’s lip curled into a sneer. “His name is not Santa Claus. His name is . . . his true name is . . .” He hesitated, seemed incapable of saying more.

B
ALDR
, K
RAMPUS THOUGHT,
then said it out loud. “Baldr. That is his true name.”

“Santa Claus?” Jesse asked.

“Yes. His true name is Baldr.”
There, it is said. After five hundred years his name again touches my tongue.
He scowled, hating the bitter taste of the word. “Vernon, bring me the mead.”

Vernon hopped up, brought over the flask. Krampus drank deep, trying to wash the bitterness away.

“My grandfather, Loki, killed him once, long ago. Now I shall do so again.” He clutched the velvet sack. “So tragic, Baldr’s death. Fair and beautiful Baldr, beloved by all.” Krampus sneered. “Or so it is told, as I knew him not before his death. I learned of those events from my mother, Hel, queen of the netherworld. She would tell this tale and so many others as I sat as a child upon the steps of her throne. Her sweet words, accompanied by the woeful singing of the dead.”