Krampus: The Yule Lord

by Brom

Santa Claus, my dear old friend, you are a thief, a traitor, a slanderer, a murderer, a liar, but worst of all you are a mockery of everything for which I stood. You have sung your last ho, ho, ho, for I am coming for your head.

I, Krampus, Lord of Yule, son of Hel, bloodline of the great Loki, swear to cut your lying tongue from your mouth, your thieving hands from your wrists, and your jolly head from your neck.

It should be just that easy. He should only have to envision the key while holding the sack, command it to seek it out, and the sack would open a doorway—a threshold between the here and the there—and the key would be waiting for him to reach in and take. For it was Loki’s sack, after all, a trickster’s sack, a sack created for the sole purpose of stealing. The very one Loki used to snatch what he pleased from the other gods. It was certainly never meant to be something as trivial as a gifting sack, to deliver toys to good little boys and girls. Only Santa Claus could have so twisted its purpose.

“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.”

“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.” “What’s not to love about that?” Krampus squinted at Jesse. “You are being sarcastic.” “Naw.” Krampus gave Jesse a disdainful look, but continued.

Krampus reached over and wiggled one of the nails protruding from Jesse’s leg. “Ow, fuck!” Jesse cried. “Watch it. Goddamn, what’s wrong with you?” “You still live.” “Yeah . . . I still live. Lucky me.”

“You worship death. You and all the One Gods. They seduce mankind with their promises of glory attained in the hereafter, thus blinding men to the splendor before them here on earth. One can never expect to achieve enlightenment if one does not first live life to its fullest.”

One does not get to forgive one’s self. You cannot just walk away from your guilt. Forgiveness can come only from those against whom you have trespassed. Only they can absolve you of your crimes.

Drinks were spilled, tables and chairs knocked over, but Krampus’s spirited laughter could be heard above all the ruckus, a booming sound that warmed the heart. Jesse had never seen this side of the Yule Lord, and it occurred to him that he was seeing the real Krampus, the Krampus of ancient times, the great and wild Yule spirit that galvanized mankind to brave the darkest primeval nights, kindled their will to survive the trials of the harshest winters. He could almost see the horned beast dancing this very jig within the communal houses of primitive man. Jesse saw the way the people fed on Krampus’s spirit, and how, in turn, Krampus fed on theirs. And understood now just why those shoes, with their small tribute of candies, meant so much to the Yule Lord. That what Krampus needed more than anything was a flock to shepherd, to protect and inspire. Jesse found he was tapping his toes and smiling, that he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help but get caught up in the fervor.

“I think he’s real,” the boy said. “Me, too,” the girl agreed. “Well,” the mom said. “If enough folks believe in a thing, I guess it becomes real enough. Don’t it?”