The Legend of St. Nick
Josh Sheets
St Nick was hunkered down by a low fire. He rubbed his hands together, they were dry and cracked from the cold with several small nicks across his knuckles. He brought his green cloak closer around him. His eyes, hooded, low and gathering heat in the bed of coals. His face, sharpened from the cold, from the endless winter he’d become lost in.
The last spring he remembered being in, he was around thirty, maybe more. He was a ranger for some lord as he passed through, making hand shake deals for food and shelter and a few shillings here or there which he carried to the tavern around the town fountain to drink down beers and have a good time in the bawdy house, and had been sent up into some mountains he’d never really paid any attention too to try and find a harpy.
That day, and it had become cold with wind and rain at the time, all the saint wore were brown and green leathers, finding those more fitting for vanishing into the woods were he inclined to do so. The lord of the village had given him a shield and a sword, along with a green cloak and hood. The front grip of the shield had loosened, this was more than likely a practice shield. The saint had grimaced as he walked out of the gates of the keep alone, not wanting fan fare and feeling like a fool. The sword was solid of pummel, though, and the blade didn’t looked to have any weak spots. A solid sword, and capable. The saint had decided that after this, he might try to keep this sword. It had a scrappy appeal to it, and wasn’t overly long. Solid.
He trooped up through the lower passes in good time. The old man, old sage type fellow who’d handed him his shield, sword, leather gloves and dim green hood and cloak told him, “These things are cursed, the man who rode in here thinking himself a hero fell off his horse as he made his grand exit from the fortifications with an excited young daughter of the lord here watching. Bam! Dead. Fell on his head. Well, I just kept his effects, no one came looking for him. Ee’s buried right out in our graveyard. Pleasant place it is.”
St Nick had spat on the ground. Spat on the trail while mist blew in through this little pass he was cutting across. He wanted this done so he could get back, collect, maybe the lord would have a party to celebrate. Maybe one of those chamber maids would be there, he was sure she would as he thought about it. She always walked by him and leaned a hip against his shoulder. He’d been there about a month, he got along well enough. The Lord of the Battlements, as they called him, was an easy man to work for and be around. His family was warm and kind to one another and the people who lived around. They were in the bottom of the mountains and St Nick climbed, now reaching the first steep rise before the mountain road was found. He turned. The wind whipped aside his green cloak and pushed the hood against his face. Tiny streams of smoke rose from most of the homes in the town he looked down on.
He carried on. The mountain sides were reaching up now. The road was before him, he began climbing, leading away and up, ever up. The wind increased and whistled in his ears for long moments at a time.
High up in the hills with still more mountain behind them, St Nick was glad it was still spring. The wind was cold along with the light rain that a blew at him constantly, just enough to dampen him. In this pass, if it had been winter, he’d have been buried under with snow. Nothing lived up these mountains in the winter save the lofty and wind riding demons, only to be seen in glimpses as they flew around during storms, some swooping in to snatch away a weary traveler. None were here now, the sun shown down despite the light, cold rain. Harpies, too, lived in these mountains, which was why none traversed or tried to cross, stay, or live up in the hills and high crags. None knew how far back the mountains went, possibly to the roof of the world.
A low light could be seen on the curving rise above, leading over around through the mountains. There were voices, shouting, encouraging one another. Strange metallic rustling noises. A load croak, or maybe squawk and scrabbling feet or hands in loose and dry dirt. St Nick came to the edge of a hewn cave, more shouts.
Looking in, five horse guard knights were having their way with the struggling harpy. Without doubt a post-catch celebration. The sword was in his hand, loosed from its leather scabbard, shield held out like ram’s head. St Nick charged, knocking into two of the men and sticking one under his arm pit just above the armor covering his chest and ribs. He’d live, but he’d be in no mood to lift his left arm, let alone lift his spear. St Nick spun and clacked his sword across the helmet of one of the lesser knights, standing there unsure of the fight he suddenly found himself in, then falling, holding his helmet to his head. The gaurdsmen beside him received a kick to the chest that sent him flying backward. Two knights charged and St Nick caught one by the neck with the edge of his sword. Blood sprayed up into the air for a second. He wouldn’t be getting up again. The last and largest knight caught St Nick under the arm, slamming his shoulder into the saint’s rib cage. St Nick brought the pummel of the old sword down. It was a solid and balanced pummel and sword. It connected solid to the large knight’s helmet, stopping him in his tracks and dropping him. St Nick stood with chest heaving. He took the harpy by her ankle and drug her from the cave. The lord’s right hand, a tall sorcerer type in white, as cold as the wind that blew around St Nick now had sent the horse guard knights, with his mark upon their armor, and in his service. The wizard, nay, sorcerer had been collecting soldiers loyal to the ideals he projected upon them. His constant stare, flat blue eyes, shaded brows, slightly bluish skin, hard mouth, tall, lithe like the winter wind, all effected every person near him. There were stories about him around the taverns. Stories of a stone statue on the high battlements that he believed to be alive and to have moved about in ancient times. It was that same gargoyle that had attracted the sorcerer so, long before St Nick had come to this land, but there were stories always to be heard, low talk and chilling tales. St Nick smiled at these conversations and always loved hearing them. Low fires in a warm room, drinking until the deep of night, knowing they were kings of the earth.
The sorcerer though, his world was dark and cold, two things he loved. His rooms were in a higher part of the castle the lord hadn’t any need for before his icy friend showed up in the late of night on a deep winter.
That was exactly how St Nick had come. The sorcerer hated him from the onset, and he knew it, though the tall pale blue man held such emotions back and in check, St Nick knew anyway. He was favored from the moment of his arrival in these lands, and fires had blazed or wavered high or low now, but always warm, though the nights seemed to hold on longer. People were afraid of the howling high up in the night sky.
Then, the day of the harpy, St Nick, a younger man of himself, drug the unconscious harpy down the paths. He left the soldier knights, only cavalry horsemen with no authority, mere thugs with no voice in the halls of the lord. If one died, he would say he was only defending himself after finding them in straights with a wild vulture woman, such actions broke the laws set in stones across the land. Laws the old gods left for their children.
St Nick had carried a big burlap bag with him up the mountain, strapped under his chest belt that held the cloak to his shoulders. Now he took it out and heaved the weak and unconscious harpy into it. He took it up and walked down the hill. The feel of the harpy’s side laying on his sprang into his conscioussness, the sensation leaping out from the noise of the wind and the empty hollow of the mountain valley around him. He was glad to be heading back. The harpy was heavy, but he kept trudging. Her body warmed the side of his back where it had drawn around him within the bag. Though St Nick felt repulsed by the wretched creature seeking warmth, he continued to walk, trudging on, down the long low hills before the pass back toward the village. He could not see it in the failing light, but he knew he was nearing the soundings of the valley, still a very long way away. Night was falling, dropping like a heavy black velvet blanket, the surface of an endless black sea. He kept trudging. The wind began screaming high up and whipped and tore at him while he made his way through the pass and into the back road from town, skirting the way he’d come in, opting for a more open route in so that he’d be noticed. The wind was screaming and screeching when he reached the outer gates, roaring across him, slicing him through with cold, slamming frozen snow across him in flowing walls that came and went. He could not reach up to knock on the gate, he was too cold and too tired.
He began to yell, “Hoooooooe hoooooe hooooe hoe!”
After a short while a head peaked out from the top of the entrance turret and looked down while St Nick looked up. It was a kid, nothing more. He must have only just begun pulling duty as sentry, and must have been told that this deep in winter, he wouldn’t see anything, and would only have to worry about becoming fat while he ate good food and played cards in the quarters. Now he looked down as if he were about to scream.
“Open the gate! I am Kristoff Nicolas Klaus! Sent by Lord Yungston to fetch his prize, and fetch it I have,” Nick said.
Quickly the one of the high wooden gates swung open, light in its holdings. Guardsmen ran out to greet him, almost driven back by blasts of stinging snowy wind.
“May we take this for you?” An eager young gate guard asked.
He was warm from a fire and St Nick knocked him flat with the side of his arm as he walked toward the great hall, straight away down a flat stone paved path. The black walls stood above him, warm windows for eyes and a big set of double doors painted red underneath.
The hall was full within and voices rang off of the high beams of the ceiling and stone walls of the great chamber, lined with mounts of stag, boar, elk and still other trophy kills, one mountain goat sat among the rest. Still on the floors were mounted kills depicted in natural settings, frozen in time and staring with cold light in the eyes, against a far wall stood a giant bear, the lord of manner’s first kill when he was but a young teen. Close to the bear was a roaming mountain lion who’s eyes looked into the very soul, even though they were made of glass. The story told among children and drunkards was that the lion was haunted, and that it came to life and stalked around the castle halls at night.
Black Peter didn’t believe it, but then again he did. He’d seen the tail of the cat disappear around corners more down darkened halls than once. He’d felt the breath and weight of something furred and warm laying next to him at night, and on one occasion, on top of him, panting in his face. He took a drink of wine, leaned his head back, swished and gurgled the drink in his mouth and at the back of his throat. Felling lazy, he picked up a hunk of bread with some cheese and chewed on them. The lord was a fool, but a good man, which made him all the more of a fool to begin with. He sat over at the high table, and good that he did. Black Peter wanted no such attention. He poured another beaker of dark wine and took it with him out of the dining hall. No one noticed, which was fine with him. Once the high and heavy doors closed, Black Peter had looked out across the court yard. The man whom the lord of the castle had sent away into the mountains, he’d returned. Kristoff Nicolas Klaus. Black Peter stared from the shadows. The man’s large form loomed out there in the snow. He stumped toward the doors of the great hall, burdened by the form slung across his back in a great burlap bag. Black Peter cracked open one of the double doors, high and made from heavy oak planks and bands of iron set on huge hinges of brass. The man was too tired to walk, let alone open the great doors, or life the iron knockers and clap them down. Black Peter waited in the shadows, his leather pants and over shirt offering little warmth from the snow. He didn’t want to wait for this man, he wanted to be in the gate house playing dice or cards and drinking hot brandy that the guards kept there. The great man stepped into the high archway before the doors.
“Go easily my lord,” Black Peter told him.
The man’s head snapped over to him, wild eyes searching the shadows. Black Peter smiled and leaned back against the wall, his open palms feeling the cold stone behind him.
A line of gold light lit a sliver of the great man in the green cloak carrying his burlap bag. The gray of his eye could be seen in stark contrast to his weather beaten face, tanned and aged by the tireless wind and snow. He looked through the space of the open doorway, no more space enough to expose him as he watched the great hall full of people dining and drinking. Servants drifted about, young women and young men, filling tankards, taking away plates of those too full to continue to eat. They slipped through the crowds at long tables to take stacks of plates back to Wart, the dishwasher, no doubt soaked with water and suds from his duties.
Black Peter had watched St Nick’s face while he searched the room for familiar faces, green eyes searching the face of the great man before him, tired but full of wonder and maybe a little dread.
“My lord,” Black Peter said, “it has been a year since you left the castle. Your own face has grown seasoned, your beard long, I can see the passage of time written across your face. Before you go inside, know that we no longer serve the same lord of the castle, he is but a figure head now, a weakened man with no spirit left to reign over his subjects.”
St Nick flashed his face at Black Peter, a quick burn of eyes from under his green hood, he asked, “And whom do we now serve, Black Peter.”
His face darkened, and Black Peter said, “Frost, the lord of the castle’s mystic. He has slowly and insidiously taken control of the castle. He has even eyed the lord’s own daughter for his bride. This is the deepest winter the people have ever known. Nothing grows and children go hungry with barely any clothes to provide warmth. One boy went beyond the walls just last week and we found him frozen to stone out in the wood. The wolves didn’t even have time to eat at him, he froze so fast.”
St Nick cast another sharp look into the shadows where Black Peter stood, then back through the sliver of space into the great hall. He saw the lord of the castle sitting on a great wooden chair looking tired and board and out of touch with the people around him. His daughter was by his side, worried and fidgeting. St Nick watched her eyes, her hands, and he long blonde hair pulled back and woven into a thick single braid that ran down her back. Her blue eyes pierced his heart. To their left, to St Nick’s right hand as he looked, the new lord of the castle sat on a black stone chair, a few steps raised above all. Lord Frost sat with chin held high, a chrome crown upon his head, nothing St Nick had ever seen before, must have been of one of Lord Frost’s own making, consolidating and focusing his mind into what St Nick could see was a blue flame above his head, though he knew in his heart no one else would see it for if they could, they would be aware that something unearthly was among their presence in the great hall. The people gathered in the hall seemed blind the malignant force sitting at the head of the great hall. Their eyes were like glass, their manners robotic in all ways, laughter stale and forced from tight chests, no one relaxed, no warmth to the air, no free spirit. Every now and then a wild squeal would emit from one of the people, or some lewd act would take place, either cheered or mechanically ignored by others. Children ran about wild and un-bathed, some fought over scraps of food in the floor and ignored by adults at the table. Babies cried un-attended by slovenly mothers.
“Well,” St Nick had said in a low rumble, “I happen to have a gift for Lord Frost.”
St Nick kicked open the door to the great hall and stepped inside. Wind and snow roared around him. The green cloak waved and its hood shrouded his face, only his beard and gray eyes could be made out. When he spoke his voice thundered across the stone walls and trophy mounts, the tables, the people, and the sorcerer sitting on his stone throne.
“People of my beloved North Mound, hear me! You have been swindled!” St Nick boomed.
The new lord sat up, mouth aghast and ram rod straight on his throne, ice blue eyes searching across the hall and penetrating the man before the hall, standing by the great double doors.
“Who let such filth disrupt our winter festivities?” Lord Frost hissed.
His eyes, St Nick noticed, were black around the blue irises, unlike normal man’s. No one spoke, no one moved.
“This trickster has blinded you! He has lied to you about who you all are! He has sucked the life force from our beloved lord and master of this castle! See his daughter who sits by his side! She worries for you all!” St Nick’s voice cracked through the air of the hall.
Only the fire made any noise while it sighed and popped in the hearth to the left of the people crowded into the great hall. Black Peter watched from the split seem of space between to double doors of the great hall entrance. The frost lord stood up from his black stone throne. He pointed a metallic wand at St Nick.
St Nick looked at Lord Frost, his gray eyes boring into the sorcerer’s own and he said, “Here is my gift.”
St Nick tossed the harpy into the middle of the floor of the great hall and it ripped out of the large burlap bag, wings flapping, voice screeching, belching, gibbering as it scrabbled around on the floor trying to straighten its wings enough to fly, swiping at the legs of people as they ran from the long table, falling and climbing over one another to escape the monster. The harpy had black eyes that sat deep in its skull, a large hooked nose, lank hair with stringy muscles shredded across her body, for all of its monstrous appearances, clawed hands and feet, ragged wings, wiry muscles, hideous face, the breasts were beautiful in its stark nakedness. Finally the monster gained the wind underneath the dirty feathers of its abominable wings and began to circle in the air high up, near the ceiling, and above the scene of anarchy. Now Lord Frost had no choice but to, for the moment, forget St Nick and aim his strange wand at the flying nightmare above him. The harpy shit everywhere and great brown globs of stinking waste smacked the table top and the feet of the frost lord.
“GIM-MAH!”
Something cracked through the air like lightning striking. The daughter of the true lord of the castle stared, wide eyed and aghast as the harpy was struck from the air and landed on the floor of the great hall with a smoking hole in its chest. The young woman stepped backward and tripped, landing near the large wooden chairs she and her father sat in. Her father, for his part, hunkered down against the back wall, covering his eyes and shielding his face.
St Nick saw his moment and released the sword from the old leather scabbard. The blade was well balanced. He slung the sword at the frost lord. The blade struck true and buried itself into the tall, slender man’s chest. His black colored eyes with their ice blue irises swiveled downward to the old blade protruding from his heart, he could not believe what he was seeing. The old handle and heavy pummel, dull gray like a lump of stone, old leather just about to come unraveled around the fixed wooden handle, carved with the grip of fingers in mind, much like the soldier warriors of the far south where there were cities unheard of. His heart stopped in his ears.
There was a crack in the room, splitting the air. As she stood her legs buckled from the cut in pressure filling the room, she caught herself in time to see Lord North begin rising into the air. His black eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hung open. His hair rose off of his back, which was long and white in the fashion of those who served in magic and mystic arts, though this sorcerer wore no beard, he was more elvan than that, not some sloppy magician in horrible clothes or a shabby wizard wandering up out of the wood. He ruled over the winter world he could not remember the end of, and now he was dying, but it wouldn’t be so, he saw this through the ceiling as he floated above the long table, it knocked aside when the thunder crack had sounded through the room.
The frost lord attained balance between his physical body and his kinetic self, and though his heart no longer beat and had been pinned inside of him, fixed even now by the blade of a sword, he looked down at St Nick. He smiled. The blue of his eyes glowed and a low blue light shown up from his throat when he spake.
He voice was so loud that the lord’s daughter thought she might scream, but that her voice would never be heard, and then that when that occurred, she would die.
The sorcerer’s words were fueled with mockery, accusing and malicious, squirming evil taken over. He looked down at St Nick, the smile digging itself across the mouth of the sorcerer. There was wild glee stabbing his eyes.
“You! I send you on a made up errand so that you would die! And you come back to me with your prize! I suspect that you shall expect payment! Riches! Glory! All of these things you shall receive!”
The sorcerer Lord Frost pointed the strange metallic wand at St Nick. When he spoke his voice not only cut across the great hall in a thunder clap like wave, it broke the walls, cracking each side of the hall from the ground up and splitting timbers across the roof, a bolt of lightning meeting the top where a dragon weather vain and a blue flag flew. The sorcerer Lord Frost spoke one word, meaning banishment.
“SHIM-LAH.”
The voice did not only come the sorcerer’s blue glowing throat, but echoed from his entire body. The lord of the castle’s daughter, Noel, thought that she was about to die from the shock wave, violence and bone crushing vibration of the word. Her father was down, laying against the wall as if he slept. A white light swirled together at the end of the sorcerer’s wand, Noel jumped in front of what she knew was heading for St Nick. When the voice broke across the air and cracked the building and lightning struck the roof, the white light shot toward them both and then expanded at the last moment, drawing open time and space in a great white flash, thunder exploding all around them. Again Noel thought they were going to die from the sound.
Black Peter had seen all from the small space between the double doors. He thought he would be protected, and he wanted to see what happened. The snap through space and time reached out and took him too, and at the last moment he had the fleeting feeling and then cold realization that the spell the sorcerer had cast on St Nick had taken him as well, just to spite him.
The sorcerer began to glow with a blue light out from under his white robes. The strange metallic wand burned and fused his hand to itself, a star of pure white. A sudden scream filled the entire country side and the sorcerer began burning in his white robes and split into a thousand light spears, then nothing. A low rumbled of distant thunder tumbled across the outer country side of high pines and low hills with the occasional small mountain among them.
The great mountains standing behind the castle were gone. For one hundred years winters came, each darker and colder than the last it seemed, each intent on punishing the people of the land with howling winds and endless snow and ice. Frozen bodies were found regularly throughout the winters, children and drunks, called out at night by the winds and the ghosts flying in the snow, eager for companions. Wolves would run through town on full moon nights, too dark and inhospitable even for them so that they raided towns and villages, taking and eating whatever they found, tearing it apart among themselves.
The people starved and their houses were buried in deep and heavy snow. Rarely would the sun break through the winter skies. Summers short, then cold falls, after which again winter would take everything over, as if angry with the summer and fall for being beautiful. The old castle lay broken on top of a high mound, falling into ruin and haunted. The winter, cold and dark, concentrated the most in the old great hall from ages past, a cold so brutal one would begin to scream if standing in the direct center of the room, to scream and speak in strange tongues, seemingly blind to the world around them, panicking.
Time was forgotten, St Nick’s last night on earth as he knew it was forgotten, some distant disturbing dream that the people would hesitate to speak of, children shushed by their mothers upon bringing up the old legend and forbidden to wander near the hill upon which the ruins of the old castle sat.
Noel, St Nick and Black Peter had woken in the snow. The cold air was still across a dark land. St Nick opened one eye and it roved around in its socket, searching for something he knew, anything for his racing mind to grasp and connect with. Above him was a night sky. Cold stars watched from above. There was a sound of snow frozen over with an ice glaze being broken by a heavy foot, then the sounds of silence. He lifted his head. On top of a hill above where he lay, green waving lights shown across the sky moving slowly between earth and heavens. Also, there was a stag, a great reindeer stood with plumes of steam blowing from his nose. He seemed to be taking in the night, the sight of the mystic green lights across the sky, and the three people lying before him.
I am thunder, a voice spoke inside of St Nick’s skull while he lay looking up at the reindeer who looked back at him, holding him in his gaze. Then the great stag broke his hold and shifted on his feet, the snow crunching under his weight. He sniffed the ground. St Nick moved his arms and then sat up. His entire body hurt and his bones and muscles felt stiff. He felt as if he’d aged one hundred years. He now wore a great and long white beard that at the moment was frozen over with snow. He took it in his hand and broke the ice away from it.
There was laughter out in the darkness surrounding them. Noel rolled over and a sharp gasp shook her, cutting through the still night air.
Black Peter rose up out of the snow, he being the only one completely covered by it. He groaned loud. The laughter coming from the shadows beyond where they lay stopped for a moment and then returned louder, chattering and giggling faster and faster. St Nick stood. As he did, another reindeer landed in the snow atop the hill. It looked at the three people, then looked at the other stag, who cast he gaze once again to St Nick.
I am lightning, a second voice spoke inside of St Nick’s head, the second reindeer watching him with lazy eyes. The three people were standing now, looking all about. Several small creatures were closing in and jumped back as the three turned to look at them. There was laughter and squabbling among crowd edging in the darkness. St Nick, Noel and Black Peter saw several smiles out in the shadows, wicked and full of pointed teeth to go with their pointed hats. They wore small pointed shoes and multicolored clothes with big broad belts. They edged closer and then jumped back as St Nick swirled around to try and gain his bearings. He reached for his sword, forgetting he had thrown it, a time that seemed like ages ago. The giggling and laughter became louder and faster as he lashed around, searching for a grip on the new reality he had found himself in. Noel came close. Black Peter stood out away from them watching the little creatures.
Finally St Nick stilled himself in the cold. The reindeer remained aloof just at the top of the hill but made no offer to leave. A small man with deep gray skin and blood red eyes, sharp, hideous teeth and pointed ears with white hair, long sideburns and bushy little white eyebrows stepped forward, he seemed the leader of the group of elves. He wore a red hat that curved over in front of him, little glasses and a brown shirt with little blue pants and a black belt. He stood on top of the snow, not denting in its surface, and put his hands to his hips.
“You Santa Klaus,” he said up to St Nick, causing his cohorts to erupt with devious laughter.
St Nick kicked at the little man and one of the elves lit a torch to laugh and jab and poke the flame at Black Peter. St Nick looked upon him for the first time as he was, bathed in flame light in this dark hill with the high sky above them and its stars and green phantom lights. He almost asked how he’d come to be there but looked back around at all the elves surrounding them. Black Peter kicked the little man away. The little gray colored man with the white beard and strange clothes who addressed St Nick watched him with his little fat belly sticking out over his broad leather belt and smiled with pointy teeth. He flipped a coin up to St Nick who caught it and eyed the little man. In his hand was a strange silver coin struck with the image of a man who wore a beard and cloak much like what St Nick was adorned in.
A young fairy girl came forth. St Nick realized that he couldn’t see the end of the crowd of elves, that it simply became darker and darker further out, filled with living shadows jumping and fighting among themselves, falling over one another and wrestling. The girl glowed where she floated toward them. She took St Nick’s finger and walked with him up to the top of the hill with Noel and Black Peter close behind, hemmed in by elves, talking and bickering excitedly among themselves and keeping close. Several times they fell wrestling under Black Peter’s feet and he stumbled over them, cursing and kicking at them amid squealing laughter and soft, light bodies wrapping around him, causing him to cry out.
They crested the hill. The little fairy elf pulled at St Nick’s hand, leading him toward the ruins of an ancient temple. The crowd of elves hemmed them in around a stone circle and broken stone walls.
“Santa Klaus! Santa Klaus!”
Noel shrunk away from the horrible little voices and gibbering laughter around them. Black Peter grabbed the torch from the little blue elf who seemed to have taken a liking to him and showed his affections by poking the fiery stick in his butt. He yelled at the ever growing crowd and they hopped back, tittering and jeering. St Nick ignored them, he took the torch from Black Peter’s hand and peered at what the little pale elf fairy was pointing at at the top of the hill.
She looked back at the three, “You. Three. Giant man. Friends. Come. See!”
There were stairs leading down into the center of the old hill. St Nick turned to look back from where they’d come, nothing but black. He moved toward the steps. Noel gripped his arm in her hand, staying him. Her blue eyes were like glass.
“Kristoff,” she said to St Nick, “you cannot go. Do not leave me here with these horrible little men.”
St Nick smiled at her with a face creased in laugh lines, or squint lines, crows feet at the corners of his eyes, somehow lit with a quiet glee of happiness which she could not fathom the source of.
“You’ll be fine, it’s Peter I worry about, they’ve really taken a shine to him,” St Nick told her.
He grinned over his shoulder. The torch light illuminated the descending stairs, shadows threw themselves down it and all around the mound top they stood on.
“Come,” the little fairy elf said to St Nick and glanced at Noel and Black Peter as well.
The three followed her down the frozen steps.
She smiled and held St Nick’s finger, turning to them again as she lead them downward, “Come.”
The mass of male elves stayed on the hill top, silent and watching now with fixed grins on their faces filled with sharp little teeth. As they passed from view Black Peter heard their wild chittering laughter erupt in something like wicked excitement. St Nick’s broad shouldered back blocked any view further past him. Noel followed close. Black Peter brought up the rear. The air was heavy the further down the group traveled, ever further into the high hill. Turning back, Black Peter could still see the waving green lights in the sky with cold stars, that and the faces of the horrible little elves smiling down on them shrouded now in shadows that grew as the failing torch light slipped farther away.
After four landings of the downward staircase, wide enough for two people abreast, they group came to a wide cavern. The stood in a small rounded entrance looking out into it. A slight decline lead to the proper floor of the place. The ceiling soared above them, glistening in the torch light. Crystals, the entire place was made from crystal, sparkling like the night sky above the world. Further into the vast empty space a small pool of glowing blue water lay waiting as the little fairy girl led them toward it.
“This,” she said, “you must look.”
The three stepped to the edge of the pool. A small dark fish with no eyes swam away, waving his tail fin lazily back and forth. He disappeared into the abyss of the deeper waters.
“Your world,” the little fairy began, “it is trapped by the cold. The cold, the frost, the endless winter punishes it, punishes the people. Whole houses I have found, families, frozen in their homes. No warmth, no fires for which to whisper to the hearts of man. Children, many children, hearts have turned wicked, have become unkind. Soon your world will be swallowed by night, by cold, will be frozen, like this place, where the cold begins. This place, it is but one small beginning to another world, a world beneath, a world of dark, a world of…..terror. When your world has been possessed of the dark cold, the world beneath will creep out, slowly, all you know will become terror.”
In the cold blue water scenes of what the little fairy elf spoke resolved, proving what she spoke.
Noel’s wide blue eyes watched the little fairy as she spoke, now she leaned forward toward the little creature, “What must we do?”
The men looked over at her, cutting unsure glances from weary eyes. They would never have asked such a thing. The little fairy smiled and brushed Noel’s cheek with the back of her hand, causing a soft blue light to pass between them.
“You must, all of you must, help them, warmth must be brought back into the hearts of the many people who live where you have come from, so that it may spread to the world which you do not yet know, it is the only salvation,” the little fairy told her.
St Nick’s face had change from wonder to grave worry, he spoke, “I have no sword with which to help. It has become, lost.”
The fairy smiled and slowly turned to him, “No sword will help you in this task, great man.”
She looked from each, finally resting her eyes on Black Peter, saying, “The hearts of man are the only tools which can pull them from darkness.”
Black Peter shuffled and looked down at his feet.
All about the little group was quiet and dark lit, muted and low, with soft blue waving light. St Nick looked down at his black boots, his worn pants, his green cloak, his leather gloves, he opened his right hand.
“This,” the little fairy said, “is who you are.”
She reached up and held St Nick’s hand by the edges, small as her own hands were, then floated toward him, bringing his own hand closer to his face. The coin. The little leader of elves had flipped it up to him. On the face of the coin was a man who must have looked a lot like St Nick himself, though the embossed figure obviously came from dry desert lands unknown to such as St Nick. The two men wore the same beard and the same facial expression. The man stood astride some sort of machine or carriage. He held what amounted to a pine cone in his hand, pointing it away from himself. On the reverse of the coin was a seven pointed star.
“The north star himself,” the little fairy girl told St Nick.
She pointed straight up through the high ceiling of the great cavern.
“He will guide you, he is you, though you do not know it, for you cannot remember, our lives are long, but your memory is not.”
She floated before St Nick’s face, which she took in her cool little hands, guiding his gaze to the glowing blue water. The scenes of suffering people had been replaced by another castle set upon snow.
“This is where we must go now, this is where you are destined, this is where you will help your world, from our world. The heart of winter is cruel, it had manifested through the man you fought long ago, though now you may not remember him. Though you might,” the little fairy said, directing her stilling gaze to Black Peter.
He once again shuffled and looked at his feet, hands behind his back. St Nick turned from him and grinned at the little fairy, now standing on the ground, more than half shorter than Noel where she stood.
“Come,” the little fairy elf said, “we must go back up, to linger here is to forget time, and time is running short for us in this land of forever night.”
St Nick rubbed his face, warming himself by a small fire he’d shown the elves to make in his new manse. He and Black Peter had cleaned the place up while Noel set about arranging the scant furniture to her satisfaction. Elves set food out at a great table. From their stores, they had told him. He had questioned them no further, and the food was quite good. He marveled at it, really, but had not wanted to know how and where from the glistening sweets, steaming fowl, warm bread, deep brandy and hot coffee came from. It was intoxicating though, and he and Noel along with Black Peter ate to their fill any time they pleased, and the seemingly wicked little elves were only too happy to serve them. In his heart, St Nick knew that the more food eaten, the more tied to this place they would all become. He turned back to the low fire. Here came the little elves now, giggling and bickering in their terrible little language. With many bows and gestures, ironic, ridiculous, hilarious, and charming in their ugly way, presented him with a big red robe to replace his old green one. St Nick rubbed a hand down his now long white beard. He stood above them, towering over his little ugly friends to take the robe. They squealed and fell back, swept away by the cloth as St Nick spun it around his shoulders. He laughed at them then, great mirth filling the warm hall. Across from them Black Peter lay wood in a large fire place and Noel looked up from setting their table.
The great red cloak was warm but did not suffocate. Now the little elves brought out a red hat, much like their own. St Nick bowed and allowed them to place it on his head. It fell over to the side and lay, much to the squealing delight of the sharp toothed little men of every color and hue of skin and clothing.
“Kristoff! Food!” Black Peter said across the hall, raising a tankard of beer to him.
St Nick walked past the group of elves and joined his friends at the table. The little fairy elf drifted from item to item satisfying her worries once more. All was accounted for. In the old castle that the little fairy elf, Delilah, she finally named herself, had shown them to there was a store of old wood and multicolored fabrics. St Nick had been thinking, mulling over what could be done for the world he had left with so little. Dropped among the twisted old branches and tree trunks, left over from a bygone age by a lord long ago lost, he knew the answer he’d been searching for. With Noel busy setting the horrible little laughing elves to their work about the old castle and Black Peter hovering near, watching over St Nick’s shoulder, he decided what should be done. He had picked up an old knife. He’d looked over his shoulder at Black Peter.
“Well,” said St Nick, “we have a work force in those ugly little half men I enjoy the company of so much, let us get to work.”
St Nick had whittled the first toys, a lion, a wolf, and, thinking of those two sentinels who stood guard over the castle out under that green wavering light, watching for what he could not guess, Thunder and Lightning, a reindeer, also a spinning top and wooden ball fixed by a string to a cup, and a chess set. Afterward he had caroled a few of the elves around him and had shown them the figurines, to which they had instantly and much to the dismay of Black Peter, produced their own hidden knives from beneath their belts, flashing the blades all at once, and had set to work carving all sorts of intricate figures, bears, Noel, St Nick, Black Peter, pigeons, wolves, walruses, an owl, a dragon, and hundreds of elves cavorting in all sorts of positions, actually more elves than any other animal, which they found to be hilarious. They also proved skilled at making clothes in all sizes, though some purposefully miss-measured some arms and legs of several items and had to be made to correct their jokes. When all was finished St Nick brought out the old burlap bag he’d brought with him, hidden away at the first meeting place of the elves.
During all of this the little fairy elf had been growing, and now was the size of a young woman. She came to him that last night.
“I have something else to show you. It is the only way you will be able to return to your world, but you must come back here by sunrise. Here you must remain, for you have eaten the food of the gods, the food of the little people, and you will be invisible in your old world, left to fade away if you do not return. Come, let me show you what I have found for you, Santa Klaus,” she lead him away, once again down, now to the bowels of the castle.
Through a heavy door she lead St Nick. There was no light within. Something sat in the center of the dark. Delilah glowed a soft blue light and a sheen began to reflect from metallic edges. St Nick put his gloved grip to the back of a polished leather seat.
“This is what the old lord arrived in, long ago. Help me,” Delilah said to St Nick.
Together they pushed the brushed blue steel sled and it rose in the air while Delilah held her hand for St Nick saying, “Get in!”
He hopped into the sleigh. They rode it up through a darkened tower. Black sky pin-pricked with stars grew over their heads in the open circle of the high tower stack. They were out in the air and the sleigh settled onto the deep snow. The entire thing began to thrum. Heavy steps crunched in the snow around them, slow steps, heavy breathing, cold air blasted to steam.
St Nick turned, “Donnor, Blitzin.”
Thunder, the reindeer spoke in his mind.
Lightning, the other’s voice spoke.
Both reindeer cast their eyes skyward. Their hoofs crunched frozen snow. Breath plumed from their nostrils. Then the elves had drug out the large burlap bag, pulling it up onto the sleigh, breathless and laughing.
Clouds gathered and grew dark. Something rumbled within them. They expanded across the normally clear dome of the night sky across the land of endless night, of endless winter. There was a BOOM.
Something flew from the night sky. It landed in front of the sleigh, snorting and kicking up snow and ice, throwing its great antlers around. Donnor and Blitzin bowed. A great reindeer stood proud, its barrel chest struck forth, he raked the snow and ice with its hoof.
The elves gazed up at the great creature, their mouths stood open, pointed teeth and pointed hats, broad belts and pointed ears, they each said, “Voooooodolf.”
The great reindeer lowered it head to look upon St Nick, its eyes glowed read. Donnor and Blitzin remained bowed before their lord.
Delilah slipped from the sleigh to stand beside the elves, she told St Nick, “This is Rudolph, he will guide you, he sees your mind, he sees the land you must relieve, sees the children who need hope, the families that suffer, he will lead you.”
Noel and Black Peter stepped over to the sleigh.
“Come back safe,” Noel told St Nick.
St Nick smiled down at her, “Surely, after all, you got me into this, it was your idea to make gifts. Black Peter, I will need you with me, there are plenty of children in need where we are going, but there are also plenty who are wicked, I will need you to take care of those, in your way.”
Black Peter grinned, he kicked at the snow, “I guess I know what is to be done with them.”
St Nick took up reins in the sleigh, “I thought that you might.”
Something howled in the high winds above them. A giant figure landed on the roof of the castle. This figure dug its hoofs into the roof of the castle. Great curving horns reached back behind its head. There were glowing blue eyes under a blue fur lined hood. St Nick stared up and everyone followed his gaze.
“Krampus,” Delilah told him, “the spirit off all that is here, all that we are is from him.”
The giant figure nodded its head at the gathering below. Rudolf nodded in return and stepped in front of the sleigh, Donnor and Blitzin followed suit. The sleigh rose and St Nick snapped the reins in his gloved hands. The strange machine gripped the three reindeer with thing blue lights strung from the chest of Rudolf back to the low gleam of metal and took off into the air with Rudol’s red eyes glowing and steam blowing from his nostrils, the reindeer pulling the sleigh with some invisible force and St Nick laughing loud across the night sky.
Far below St Nick and Black Peter could see snow covered pines stretching away into the distance. Smoke rose in thin wisps from roofs buried in winter, little villages slept in the dead of night, waiting to be lifted from the heart of winter.
Deep thuds sounded on the roofs of homes in the night, knocks upon doors, gifts left, clothes, food and toys. Laughter could be heard high in the night sky. Bells rang as the sleigh and three reindeer passed over a great pine, little lights fell and clung to its bows. As the villager stepped out into the night to find their gifts, to try and see who had left them, a star rose and hovered above the top of the tree. In the heart of darkness and winter cold, humanity’s warmth began to spread across the land.
Legend