Yule approaches, a time of year I anticipate with mixed feelings. Each year on Mothers Night (21st December), a very old friend of mine traditionally comes to visit our home on Wintermarsh Street, he enjoys our hospitality until Yule Night (1st January). This period of time is ‘the twelve days of Yule,’ not the twelve days of ‘Christmas’ as some would have you believe.
I speak of that old rascal, the Lord of Yule himself, Krampus. I say I have mixed feelings on this matter for a somewhat discomfiting reason, difficult as it is to believe, he causes me to feel….. well, a bit jealous to be frank.
He is a demigod of course, and far older than I, however, annoyingly, he is also roguishly handsome, almost seven feet tall with the body of a steroid enhanced Austrian god, including thighs that make George North appear positively puny, he sports an unsettlingly impressive set of horns, massive, stompy hooves and an ostentatiously long, prehensile tongue. I know for a fact that Ms Crockofshit is fond of a well turned hoof, and as for that tongue, try as she might, she is unable to prevent herself from casting desirous glances toward it when the old bugger whips it out, which he does unnecessarily often. As both of them are shameless flirts, it is no surprise that during the twelve days of Yule, I keep a squint on them.
To the point then, as our annual visitation from Lord Krampus looms large, I thought it relevant to relate to you a tale detailing the events of something that occurred during a previous visit of the hoofed one.
On the fifth day of Yule, during the three days of the festival set aside to honour The Mother Goddess, offerings are traditionally left by the residents of Wintermarsh Street to Krampus to keep him happy while he is in their midst. This day is latterly more commonly known as Christmas Eve, and all on Wintermarsh Street are busy preparing for the usual capitalist over-indulgence, however they know that continuing far older traditions is the prudent thing to do. For this reason, after sunset on the 24th of December, baskets woven from holly are placed on the doorsteps of Wintermarsh Street. Nestling inside these hand-made baskets are treats for Krampus, schnapps is his favourite, but a good single malt whiskey or some cigars are also acceptable.
There is another less practical, yet perhaps even more compelling reason that motivates the residents of Wintermarsh Street to keep the old rogue happy. Krampus has connections in some lofty places, and as he has deep roots in Central Europe, where in his heyday, during Yuletide he was accustomed to scampering around snow cloaked mountain villages and rugged Alpine terrain, he does love a ‘white Yule.’ As a result, those ‘connections’ of his, who indulge him as one might a favourite child, ensure that wherever he may be between the 21st of December and the 1st of January, there is always a generous covering of snow. For this reason Wintermarsh Street will always enjoy a white Yule as long as Krampus is in residence for the duration, so everyone is happy to do whatever they may to keep him coming back year after year. It is Krampus’ personal life-size snow globe, or more accurately, snow ‘tube’, and he considers it his gift to Wintermarsh Street.
Krampus set out some time after midnight, leaving his ‘ruten’ (a bundle of birch branches used for swatting children) behind, but remembering to take with him his sack, which at one time would have been used for carrying children away for drowning, but these days is more often utilised to carry the various offerings from those wishing to appease him.
Stepping into the thick snow, which crunched in the satisfying manner only freshly fallen snow is capable of, he grinned with pleasure and not a little pride at the ‘winter wonderland’ scene before him. He snapped his fingers, and one by one the street lights faded and winked out. Glancing up at the clear, starlit sky, he gave a small nod of acknowledgement, sucked in a hearty lungful of frigid air and expelled a huge flurry of breath mist accompanied by a contented sigh.
The old rascal certainly had a bulging sack by three AM, however during his amble down the street, he had by no means deposited all of the offered treats into it. He had consumed what to any mortal would be a fatal quantity of schnapps, leaving behind him a trail of empty bottles, and to be fair to him had shared much of his booty with those residents of the street who, like children staying awake hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘Santa’, had chosen to forego their beds in favour of the opportunity to share a tipple and pass some time with a living legend.
As a result of this alcohol fuelled merriment, Krampus was rolling drunk when he stumbled to the gate of number twenty six.
I should explain at this point that number twenty six is one of the more ‘unreliable’ houses on the street, we have a number of these unusual buildings, I think of them as ‘ethereal’ or ‘passageway’ houses. It is nigh on impossible to say exactly how many of them exist, by their nature, they are difficult to pin down, the exact essence of them and why they behave as they do remains shrouded in mystery even to me, however I shall attempt to explain the phenomena to you.
Put simply, each of these houses is a passageway to somewhere else, if one walks in through the front door and directly out through the backdoor one may find oneself almost anywhere, this could mean somewhere else in this world, or somewhere in another world entirely. Somewhat disconcerting to the uninitiated I am sure you would agree, take into consideration the habit of these places to simply disappear for indeterminate periods of time, reappearing again without warning, and one has a real conundrum.
Number twenty six had been ‘missing’ for some time, since Yule of the previous year I believe, though I cannot be sure, certainly though, it had not been present earlier in the day, I would swear to that. What I can say for sure, is that the evergreen Yule decorations inside number twenty six had remained in the house, not taken outside and burned at Imbolc as is tradition. It is well known, certainly in this part of the world, that evergreen decorations not dealt with appropriately are apt to behave oddly, Pixies may spring forth from them, and the longer they are left, the more Pixies may be created. Inside number twenty six, Pixies had been pitching up exponentially for almost a year, hundreds, perhaps thousands of Pixies packed into a small, terraced house, all desperate to do what mischievous little Pixies do best, play their tricks and pranks, have fun at the expense of mortals.
The need to be tricksy had reached critical mass, the Pixies were fit to explode, even so, under normal circumstances they would not have dreamed of plaguing an immortal, especially one famous for birching, drowning, eating and dragging to hell, people of small stature. These were not normal circumstances and frankly the Pixies were not thinking straight.
Krampus reached into the holly basket expecting to find a bottle of schnapps or some other suitable tribute. He shrieked in pained shock, briskly withdrawing his hand to find mousetraps firmly attached to three fingers, he held his hand up before his eyes, staring disbelievingly at what he saw. Outraged at this effrontery, he shook off the mousetraps, let out a roar of rage, dropped his sack, and hoofed down the door of number twenty six.
Inside all was cloaked in darkness, without hesitation and with a further vociferous roar, Krampus blundered inside promising bloody vengeance, only to find himself flailing around in the darkness of the hallway, unable to find purchase with his hooves on what felt like a metal roller conveyor. For a moment or two he continued to thrash around like a giant hairy mutated bambi on ice, until he dropped about two feet into something unpleasantly viscous and terrifically sticky. The more he struggled, the more the gloop sucked his hooves down, and as he writhed about in his attempts to free himself, his shins rubbed painfully against something hard and cylindrical.
Abruptly, the house flooded with light.
Krampus could barely comprehend the scene before him, countless Pixies filled his field of vision, they occupied every available space, the floor, the stairs, even, inexplicably, the walls and ceiling, swinging from light fittings, the stair bannister, and door knobs as they swatted at him with their own birches.
He looked down to see his legs disappearing almost to the knees into a molasses filled cattle grid.
‘JIMINY CHRISTMAS!’ He bellowed, the humiliation of the situation dawning on him. Krampus, Lord of Yule, immortal being, progeny of a god, ancient smiter of the wicked and all round terrifying figure of folklore, caught in a device designed to deter bovines.
The pixies chortled as they capered all around him. ‘No hooved animals over a cattle grid you numpty, don’t you know anything?’ One of them shrieked gleefully, scampering up the bannister and swatting Krampus with a Christmas stocking full of rotten tangerines and hard lumps of coal as it went.
Slowly, Krampus raised his head, eyes wide and unblinking, bulging with shock and rage, his entire body visibly shaking. The hallway seemed suddenly filled with an electrical charge as his horns began to glow first red, then white hot. The air around Krampus shimmered and hummed, then began to crackle, finally there was a loud snap, the sound one may expect to hear when the expanding universe finally reaches its limit and rips apart, falling back in on itself. Krampus threw back his head and bellowed, causing the windows in the house to explode outwards. Very few have witnessed Krampus enraged and rampant to this extent and lived to tell of it.
‘Easy tiger.’ Chuckled one of the pixies above him. ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist.’ The little shit then flicked a lever next to a shelf above Krampus.
On the shelf was a large cauldron, it was brimming with hot oil, flavoured with cinnamon and cloves for a nice Christmassy aroma. Krampus was drenched in the scalding, pungent concoction.
‘That’s a marked improvement on your usual wet goat miasma.’ A delighted pixie voice chirped.
Krampus barely had time to react to this new indignity before he heard the sound of a soft, muffled explosion, followed by thousands of goose feathers raining down upon him. The Lord of Yule stood speechless with rage as the feathers adhered to his sticky body, completing his humiliation. Or so he thought.
As several of the pixies began to scamper about him winding brightly coloured tinsel around his horns and sprinkling him with glitter, Krampus finally found the strength to drag his hooves out of the molasses filled cattle grid. He made a break for it, flinging open a door to his left and stomping through into a gloomy study. He clomped around in bewilderment for several moments before realising with horror that the floor was teeming with dozens of baby cats, by this time he had crushed more than twenty to death, their pathetic, trampled remains were stuck fast to his sticky hooves. As he stared in revulsion at the bloody carnage, he was set upon by a squad of parentally outraged adult cats who tore at him with needle sharp claws and teeth, determined to avenge their pulverised offspring. Krampus, gnarly old smiter that he is, has a soft centre, he loves cats, especially kittens.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to’. He wailed as he stumbled from the room, a particularly tenacious ginger tom attached to his face, his escape slowed by the many fluffy corpses stuck to his hooves, it was like trying to run through sickeningly crunchy marshmallows.
He managed to pull the ginger tom from his face, its claws dragging bloody furrows across his cheeks; however it leaped from his grasp onto his head, swiping at his eyes from this new vantage point. As Krampus careered out of the room with the fluffy ginger cat attached firmly to his head, he resembled a satanic Donald Trump who had latterly fallen into a box of cheap Christmas decorations.
Krampus blundered through another door, not attempting to open it, simply dropping a shoulder into it, splintering the wood, almost tearing it from the hinges. Bursting into the lounge, he was already at the kitchen door on the opposite side of the room before he turned and saw he had created a bloody trail through the carpet of fluffy yellow ducklings that scampered in legions on the floor.
‘Why? Why? He whimpered, horrified at the fluffy annihilation before him. The pixies chortled delightedly.
He snatched open the kitchen door, causing a mini tsunami of ducklings, fumbling for a light switch in the next room, he found it and flicked it, filling the room with light, Krampus eyed the floor, expecting the worst, hundreds of baby badgers perhaps. The floor was made up of old flagstones, mercifully clear of anything cute and easily trampled to death.
‘Ha!’ He barked, hurrying into the kitchen, slamming the door and leaning heavily against it. He closed his eyes with relief, wondering what his next move should be. A gentle fluttering sound reached his ears and slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. He had been so intent on the floor, he had not looked up until now, and as he did so, he saw the ceiling was alive with bats, hundreds of them, woken from their slumber, wings twitching, readying themselves for flight. Krampus’ eyes bulged in horror as the light fitting buzzed and died.
‘Bats aren’t cute’. Krampus breathed. ‘Bats are hideous, I hate bats, why bats, why?’
‘When you say you hate bats, do you mean, you fear them?’ A small voice asked.
Tellingly, he did not answer immediately. Finally though, he cleared his throat and answered. ‘Well of course not, I am Krampus, I am to be feared, I fear nothing in this world or the next’.
The sound of hundreds of pairs of leathery wings flapping in flight was quickly drowned out by a high pitched girlish shrieking. Krampus yanked at the door, this time successfully wrenching it from its hinges and flinging it behind him. He then hurled his considerable bulk back into the lounge, now filled with kittens and ducklings frolicking happily together, paying them no mind, he stomped through them, sprinting as best he could through the blood and fluff and feathers, heading for the front door and what he hoped would be freedom. Still shrieking and crushing, and pursued by a horde of bats, Krampus made it to the hallway, ready to leap the cattle grid to the outside.
At the front door however, stood a pixie, taller than all the rest, almost five feet, clad in a sheer silk dress of moss green, she had a body, Krampus noted, that would make Jessica Rabbit appear positively frumpy. Even during moments of extreme duress, there are some things that Krampus cannot help but notice, it is in his DNA. Self-preservation quickly replaced lechery however, as he wondered what this furious looking Pixie Queen might have in store for him. There was a small door that opened into a cupboard under the stairs, and with only a moment’s thought to how this might look to others, Krampus, Lord of Yule cowering under the stairs from a pack of frenzied Pixies, he grappled open the door all the while being assailed by hundreds of hairy, leathery, scratchy bats.
From under the stairs tumbled at least fifty snow leopard cubs. Krampus leapt back in horror.
‘What is the matter with you perishers? Snow leopards are critically endangered you know!’ He screamed, temporarily forgetting his own vulnerability as he tried to gather the little bundles of fur up, intending to place them back in the cupboard out of harms (and hooves) way. As he attempted to usher all the cubs backward, he looked up to see a mother snow leopard launching herself at him from within the cupboard.
‘Odin’s ballsack!’ He cried as he dropped the cubs in order to protect his face from the leopard’s slashing claws and gnashing teeth. The 75kg animal latched onto Krampus and began to flail at him with her massive paws. He grabbed her head in his own powerful hands, screaming, ‘get off me you silly bint, I was trying to protect you!’
This only seemed to enrage her more and she redoubled her efforts to sink her fangs into his face. Krampus manage to roll around so he was on top of the livid leopard. ‘I’ll endanger you’. He bellowed as he yanked at her whiskers.
‘I believe the snow leopards’ conservation status has been improved from endangered to vulnerable.’ Said a husky female voice.
‘I knew that.’ Snapped Krampus, leaping up and bearing down on the wild cat with a mighty hoof, just enough to restrain, not to cause injury.
Jackie, the Pixie Queen smiled. ‘I meant no disrespect my lord, please forgive my impropriety, and the appalling behaviour of my subjects’. She looked down at the leopard.
‘You! Stop biting The Lord of Yule this instant!’
The leopard instantly ceased scrabbling and biting Krampus’ hoof and transformed into a dozen Pixies, who all writhed out from under the hoof and scampered away. Gradually, all the leopards, cats and ducks transformed back into now rather more meek little Pixies, bowing and curtsying to their Queen, before darting away to a respectful distance until finally there was only one remaining, the former ginger tom still clinging to Krampus’ head, a tiny little chap dressed in a green tunic, with orange and black striped tights, sporting a jauntily placed cone shaped hat with a bell on top. The little fellow stood to attention, hands clasped above his head, then executed a perfect triple somersault, nailing the landing. He skipped over to his fellows accompanied by raucous applause. Jackie gave them all a glare and they quieted down.
Krampus looked around him, his righteous rage tempered somewhat by bewilderment and embarrassment, he tried to glare imperiously at Jackie, however the look resembled more of an appreciative gaze, as he took in her curvaceous form.
‘What the blazes?’ He managed.
‘One moment my lord.’ Said Jackie, curtsying in an insanely cute manner. She turned to the gathering of Pixies.
‘Now then you little heathens, Lord Krampus is currently residing at the home of Vladimir and Ms Crockofshit, which places him under my protection, not that he needs help from a lowly Pixie such as I.’ Jackie allowed her gleaming emerald eyes to flick Krampus’ way, and he nodded magnanimously at her.
‘While I sympathise with your plight, trapped in this place for almost a year with no outlet for your instincts, I have to ask you…… what the actual fuck? This is Lord Krampus, an immortal, a demi-god of legendary status, a pagan figure still respected by so many even in these dark, unhallowed days, you should know better. You will apologise right now, and you had better mean it.’
Krampus turned his best burning stare on the Pixies, waiting.
The little chap, former ginger tom and eye slasher, stepped forward, he removed his hat, wringing it in his hands causing the little bell to tinkle. He looked up at Krampus, green eyes wide, deep, limpid pools of deference. ‘We’re sorry Mr Krampus, we couldn’t help it, we tried to be good, honest we did.’
Krampus looked into the pleading, repentant eyes of the tiny little Pixie and sighed. Yes, Krampus really does have a soft and chewy centre.
‘Get on with you, you little delinquent, no harm done, bit of Yuletide spirit, that’s all’.
The Pixie grinned and stepped back to join his friends.
‘Okay then, thanks to Lord Krampus’ remarkable benevolence, you shall be spared punishment, however you must return home immediately.’ Jackie said.
The Pixies looked none too pleased.
‘Can’t we stay until Yule night?’ They whined as one.
‘No! Now scour the entire house and find every scrap of evergreen, take it into the garden and make ready for a bonfire. And don’t give me those eyes Billy Twelvetrees, they won’t work on me.’
The Pixies groaned, but went about the business of collecting up all the evergreens industriously, until they had a decent pile in the garden, where they gathered together. As Krampus and Jackie came outside the Pixies began to dance around the jumble of holly and fir. Reaching the gathering, Jackie handed Krampus a box of Lucifer’s matches.
‘You should do the honours.’ She said.
Krampus looked at the box. ‘Appropriate.’ He said, removing one of the matches and striking it to life. ‘Bringer of light.’ He said, flicking the match toward the pile of leaves and branches, which burst into incandescent life.
The Pixies’ dancing became more frantic, faster and faster they pranced, capering around and around at such speed they seemed to blur into one another, becoming ethereal, translucent, until they were smoke, entwining with the smoke of the fire, spiralling into the early morning sky.
‘Well that was easy.’ Said Krampus, turning his attention to the Queen of Pixies, now able to fully appreciate her remarkable charms. He licked his lips.
Jackie gave Krampus a knowing look. ‘Is that a bat in your breeches, or are you liking what you see?’
Krampus looked down, there was an unmistakable stirring in his pants, he reached in and pulled something out.
‘Actually it really is a bat.’ He said, flicking the creature away with a look of revulsion. ‘I’m not afraid of bats.’ He said hastily as the bat transformed into a Pixie, fell to the ground and disappeared in a wisp of smoke.
‘Of course not my lord.’ She placed her dainty hand in his huge one. ‘I don’t want to go home yet, what do you say to finding the bedroom?’
‘It won’t be full of infant alpacas will it?’
‘No.’
Krampus looked at the perky Pixie Queen, thought for a moment, then grinned and swept her into his arms.
‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed at being overwhelmed by the largest Pixie infestation in history you know.’ Jackie smiled up at Krampus from her position in his mighty arms. ‘No-one could have seen that coming, nor defended against it, it was a freight train of flimflam thundering down a mountain with no brakes, totally unstoppable.’
‘Fine.’ Said Krampus. ‘But let us never speak of it again.’
‘Of course my lord.’
Later, the pair lay basking in the glow of post coital warmth, and as the light of dawn began to creep through the window Krampus sipped a particularly good ‘Silkie’ whiskey, looking rather pleased with himself. Jackie snuggled close to him, her head on his chest.
Under the bed, a dusty holly wreath shivered, rattling and scratching the pine floorboards, there was the sound of a distant giggle.
‘What was that noise?’ Asked Krampus.
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Replied Jackie, manoeuvring herself on top of him.
Krampus placed his glass on the bedside table and whipped out that legendary tongue.
Jackie licked her lips and smiled coquettishly.
I speak of that old rascal, the Lord of Yule himself, Krampus. I say I have mixed feelings on this matter for a somewhat discomfiting reason, difficult as it is to believe, he causes me to feel….. well, a bit jealous to be frank.
He is a demigod of course, and far older than I, however, annoyingly, he is also roguishly handsome, almost seven feet tall with the body of a steroid enhanced Austrian god, including thighs that make George North appear positively puny, he sports an unsettlingly impressive set of horns, massive, stompy hooves and an ostentatiously long, prehensile tongue. I know for a fact that Ms Crockofshit is fond of a well turned hoof, and as for that tongue, try as she might, she is unable to prevent herself from casting desirous glances toward it when the old bugger whips it out, which he does unnecessarily often. As both of them are shameless flirts, it is no surprise that during the twelve days of Yule, I keep a squint on them.
To the point then, as our annual visitation from Lord Krampus looms large, I thought it relevant to relate to you a tale detailing the events of something that occurred during a previous visit of the hoofed one.
On the fifth day of Yule, during the three days of the festival set aside to honour The Mother Goddess, offerings are traditionally left by the residents of Wintermarsh Street to Krampus to keep him happy while he is in their midst. This day is latterly more commonly known as Christmas Eve, and all on Wintermarsh Street are busy preparing for the usual capitalist over-indulgence, however they know that continuing far older traditions is the prudent thing to do. For this reason, after sunset on the 24th of December, baskets woven from holly are placed on the doorsteps of Wintermarsh Street. Nestling inside these hand-made baskets are treats for Krampus, schnapps is his favourite, but a good single malt whiskey or some cigars are also acceptable.
There is another less practical, yet perhaps even more compelling reason that motivates the residents of Wintermarsh Street to keep the old rogue happy. Krampus has connections in some lofty places, and as he has deep roots in Central Europe, where in his heyday, during Yuletide he was accustomed to scampering around snow cloaked mountain villages and rugged Alpine terrain, he does love a ‘white Yule.’ As a result, those ‘connections’ of his, who indulge him as one might a favourite child, ensure that wherever he may be between the 21st of December and the 1st of January, there is always a generous covering of snow. For this reason Wintermarsh Street will always enjoy a white Yule as long as Krampus is in residence for the duration, so everyone is happy to do whatever they may to keep him coming back year after year. It is Krampus’ personal life-size snow globe, or more accurately, snow ‘tube’, and he considers it his gift to Wintermarsh Street.
Krampus set out some time after midnight, leaving his ‘ruten’ (a bundle of birch branches used for swatting children) behind, but remembering to take with him his sack, which at one time would have been used for carrying children away for drowning, but these days is more often utilised to carry the various offerings from those wishing to appease him.
Stepping into the thick snow, which crunched in the satisfying manner only freshly fallen snow is capable of, he grinned with pleasure and not a little pride at the ‘winter wonderland’ scene before him. He snapped his fingers, and one by one the street lights faded and winked out. Glancing up at the clear, starlit sky, he gave a small nod of acknowledgement, sucked in a hearty lungful of frigid air and expelled a huge flurry of breath mist accompanied by a contented sigh.
The old rascal certainly had a bulging sack by three AM, however during his amble down the street, he had by no means deposited all of the offered treats into it. He had consumed what to any mortal would be a fatal quantity of schnapps, leaving behind him a trail of empty bottles, and to be fair to him had shared much of his booty with those residents of the street who, like children staying awake hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘Santa’, had chosen to forego their beds in favour of the opportunity to share a tipple and pass some time with a living legend.
As a result of this alcohol fuelled merriment, Krampus was rolling drunk when he stumbled to the gate of number twenty six.
I should explain at this point that number twenty six is one of the more ‘unreliable’ houses on the street, we have a number of these unusual buildings, I think of them as ‘ethereal’ or ‘passageway’ houses. It is nigh on impossible to say exactly how many of them exist, by their nature, they are difficult to pin down, the exact essence of them and why they behave as they do remains shrouded in mystery even to me, however I shall attempt to explain the phenomena to you.
Put simply, each of these houses is a passageway to somewhere else, if one walks in through the front door and directly out through the backdoor one may find oneself almost anywhere, this could mean somewhere else in this world, or somewhere in another world entirely. Somewhat disconcerting to the uninitiated I am sure you would agree, take into consideration the habit of these places to simply disappear for indeterminate periods of time, reappearing again without warning, and one has a real conundrum.
Number twenty six had been ‘missing’ for some time, since Yule of the previous year I believe, though I cannot be sure, certainly though, it had not been present earlier in the day, I would swear to that. What I can say for sure, is that the evergreen Yule decorations inside number twenty six had remained in the house, not taken outside and burned at Imbolc as is tradition. It is well known, certainly in this part of the world, that evergreen decorations not dealt with appropriately are apt to behave oddly, Pixies may spring forth from them, and the longer they are left, the more Pixies may be created. Inside number twenty six, Pixies had been pitching up exponentially for almost a year, hundreds, perhaps thousands of Pixies packed into a small, terraced house, all desperate to do what mischievous little Pixies do best, play their tricks and pranks, have fun at the expense of mortals.
The need to be tricksy had reached critical mass, the Pixies were fit to explode, even so, under normal circumstances they would not have dreamed of plaguing an immortal, especially one famous for birching, drowning, eating and dragging to hell, people of small stature. These were not normal circumstances and frankly the Pixies were not thinking straight.
Krampus reached into the holly basket expecting to find a bottle of schnapps or some other suitable tribute. He shrieked in pained shock, briskly withdrawing his hand to find mousetraps firmly attached to three fingers, he held his hand up before his eyes, staring disbelievingly at what he saw. Outraged at this effrontery, he shook off the mousetraps, let out a roar of rage, dropped his sack, and hoofed down the door of number twenty six.
Inside all was cloaked in darkness, without hesitation and with a further vociferous roar, Krampus blundered inside promising bloody vengeance, only to find himself flailing around in the darkness of the hallway, unable to find purchase with his hooves on what felt like a metal roller conveyor. For a moment or two he continued to thrash around like a giant hairy mutated bambi on ice, until he dropped about two feet into something unpleasantly viscous and terrifically sticky. The more he struggled, the more the gloop sucked his hooves down, and as he writhed about in his attempts to free himself, his shins rubbed painfully against something hard and cylindrical.
Abruptly, the house flooded with light.
Krampus could barely comprehend the scene before him, countless Pixies filled his field of vision, they occupied every available space, the floor, the stairs, even, inexplicably, the walls and ceiling, swinging from light fittings, the stair bannister, and door knobs as they swatted at him with their own birches.
He looked down to see his legs disappearing almost to the knees into a molasses filled cattle grid.
‘JIMINY CHRISTMAS!’ He bellowed, the humiliation of the situation dawning on him. Krampus, Lord of Yule, immortal being, progeny of a god, ancient smiter of the wicked and all round terrifying figure of folklore, caught in a device designed to deter bovines.
The pixies chortled as they capered all around him. ‘No hooved animals over a cattle grid you numpty, don’t you know anything?’ One of them shrieked gleefully, scampering up the bannister and swatting Krampus with a Christmas stocking full of rotten tangerines and hard lumps of coal as it went.
Slowly, Krampus raised his head, eyes wide and unblinking, bulging with shock and rage, his entire body visibly shaking. The hallway seemed suddenly filled with an electrical charge as his horns began to glow first red, then white hot. The air around Krampus shimmered and hummed, then began to crackle, finally there was a loud snap, the sound one may expect to hear when the expanding universe finally reaches its limit and rips apart, falling back in on itself. Krampus threw back his head and bellowed, causing the windows in the house to explode outwards. Very few have witnessed Krampus enraged and rampant to this extent and lived to tell of it.
‘Easy tiger.’ Chuckled one of the pixies above him. ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist.’ The little shit then flicked a lever next to a shelf above Krampus.
On the shelf was a large cauldron, it was brimming with hot oil, flavoured with cinnamon and cloves for a nice Christmassy aroma. Krampus was drenched in the scalding, pungent concoction.
‘That’s a marked improvement on your usual wet goat miasma.’ A delighted pixie voice chirped.
Krampus barely had time to react to this new indignity before he heard the sound of a soft, muffled explosion, followed by thousands of goose feathers raining down upon him. The Lord of Yule stood speechless with rage as the feathers adhered to his sticky body, completing his humiliation. Or so he thought.
As several of the pixies began to scamper about him winding brightly coloured tinsel around his horns and sprinkling him with glitter, Krampus finally found the strength to drag his hooves out of the molasses filled cattle grid. He made a break for it, flinging open a door to his left and stomping through into a gloomy study. He clomped around in bewilderment for several moments before realising with horror that the floor was teeming with dozens of baby cats, by this time he had crushed more than twenty to death, their pathetic, trampled remains were stuck fast to his sticky hooves. As he stared in revulsion at the bloody carnage, he was set upon by a squad of parentally outraged adult cats who tore at him with needle sharp claws and teeth, determined to avenge their pulverised offspring. Krampus, gnarly old smiter that he is, has a soft centre, he loves cats, especially kittens.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to’. He wailed as he stumbled from the room, a particularly tenacious ginger tom attached to his face, his escape slowed by the many fluffy corpses stuck to his hooves, it was like trying to run through sickeningly crunchy marshmallows.
He managed to pull the ginger tom from his face, its claws dragging bloody furrows across his cheeks; however it leaped from his grasp onto his head, swiping at his eyes from this new vantage point. As Krampus careered out of the room with the fluffy ginger cat attached firmly to his head, he resembled a satanic Donald Trump who had latterly fallen into a box of cheap Christmas decorations.
Krampus blundered through another door, not attempting to open it, simply dropping a shoulder into it, splintering the wood, almost tearing it from the hinges. Bursting into the lounge, he was already at the kitchen door on the opposite side of the room before he turned and saw he had created a bloody trail through the carpet of fluffy yellow ducklings that scampered in legions on the floor.
‘Why? Why? He whimpered, horrified at the fluffy annihilation before him. The pixies chortled delightedly.
He snatched open the kitchen door, causing a mini tsunami of ducklings, fumbling for a light switch in the next room, he found it and flicked it, filling the room with light, Krampus eyed the floor, expecting the worst, hundreds of baby badgers perhaps. The floor was made up of old flagstones, mercifully clear of anything cute and easily trampled to death.
‘Ha!’ He barked, hurrying into the kitchen, slamming the door and leaning heavily against it. He closed his eyes with relief, wondering what his next move should be. A gentle fluttering sound reached his ears and slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. He had been so intent on the floor, he had not looked up until now, and as he did so, he saw the ceiling was alive with bats, hundreds of them, woken from their slumber, wings twitching, readying themselves for flight. Krampus’ eyes bulged in horror as the light fitting buzzed and died.
‘Bats aren’t cute’. Krampus breathed. ‘Bats are hideous, I hate bats, why bats, why?’
‘When you say you hate bats, do you mean, you fear them?’ A small voice asked.
Tellingly, he did not answer immediately. Finally though, he cleared his throat and answered. ‘Well of course not, I am Krampus, I am to be feared, I fear nothing in this world or the next’.
The sound of hundreds of pairs of leathery wings flapping in flight was quickly drowned out by a high pitched girlish shrieking. Krampus yanked at the door, this time successfully wrenching it from its hinges and flinging it behind him. He then hurled his considerable bulk back into the lounge, now filled with kittens and ducklings frolicking happily together, paying them no mind, he stomped through them, sprinting as best he could through the blood and fluff and feathers, heading for the front door and what he hoped would be freedom. Still shrieking and crushing, and pursued by a horde of bats, Krampus made it to the hallway, ready to leap the cattle grid to the outside.
At the front door however, stood a pixie, taller than all the rest, almost five feet, clad in a sheer silk dress of moss green, she had a body, Krampus noted, that would make Jessica Rabbit appear positively frumpy. Even during moments of extreme duress, there are some things that Krampus cannot help but notice, it is in his DNA. Self-preservation quickly replaced lechery however, as he wondered what this furious looking Pixie Queen might have in store for him. There was a small door that opened into a cupboard under the stairs, and with only a moment’s thought to how this might look to others, Krampus, Lord of Yule cowering under the stairs from a pack of frenzied Pixies, he grappled open the door all the while being assailed by hundreds of hairy, leathery, scratchy bats.
From under the stairs tumbled at least fifty snow leopard cubs. Krampus leapt back in horror.
‘What is the matter with you perishers? Snow leopards are critically endangered you know!’ He screamed, temporarily forgetting his own vulnerability as he tried to gather the little bundles of fur up, intending to place them back in the cupboard out of harms (and hooves) way. As he attempted to usher all the cubs backward, he looked up to see a mother snow leopard launching herself at him from within the cupboard.
‘Odin’s ballsack!’ He cried as he dropped the cubs in order to protect his face from the leopard’s slashing claws and gnashing teeth. The 75kg animal latched onto Krampus and began to flail at him with her massive paws. He grabbed her head in his own powerful hands, screaming, ‘get off me you silly bint, I was trying to protect you!’
This only seemed to enrage her more and she redoubled her efforts to sink her fangs into his face. Krampus manage to roll around so he was on top of the livid leopard. ‘I’ll endanger you’. He bellowed as he yanked at her whiskers.
‘I believe the snow leopards’ conservation status has been improved from endangered to vulnerable.’ Said a husky female voice.
‘I knew that.’ Snapped Krampus, leaping up and bearing down on the wild cat with a mighty hoof, just enough to restrain, not to cause injury.
Jackie, the Pixie Queen smiled. ‘I meant no disrespect my lord, please forgive my impropriety, and the appalling behaviour of my subjects’. She looked down at the leopard.
‘You! Stop biting The Lord of Yule this instant!’
The leopard instantly ceased scrabbling and biting Krampus’ hoof and transformed into a dozen Pixies, who all writhed out from under the hoof and scampered away. Gradually, all the leopards, cats and ducks transformed back into now rather more meek little Pixies, bowing and curtsying to their Queen, before darting away to a respectful distance until finally there was only one remaining, the former ginger tom still clinging to Krampus’ head, a tiny little chap dressed in a green tunic, with orange and black striped tights, sporting a jauntily placed cone shaped hat with a bell on top. The little fellow stood to attention, hands clasped above his head, then executed a perfect triple somersault, nailing the landing. He skipped over to his fellows accompanied by raucous applause. Jackie gave them all a glare and they quieted down.
Krampus looked around him, his righteous rage tempered somewhat by bewilderment and embarrassment, he tried to glare imperiously at Jackie, however the look resembled more of an appreciative gaze, as he took in her curvaceous form.
‘What the blazes?’ He managed.
‘One moment my lord.’ Said Jackie, curtsying in an insanely cute manner. She turned to the gathering of Pixies.
‘Now then you little heathens, Lord Krampus is currently residing at the home of Vladimir and Ms Crockofshit, which places him under my protection, not that he needs help from a lowly Pixie such as I.’ Jackie allowed her gleaming emerald eyes to flick Krampus’ way, and he nodded magnanimously at her.
‘While I sympathise with your plight, trapped in this place for almost a year with no outlet for your instincts, I have to ask you…… what the actual fuck? This is Lord Krampus, an immortal, a demi-god of legendary status, a pagan figure still respected by so many even in these dark, unhallowed days, you should know better. You will apologise right now, and you had better mean it.’
Krampus turned his best burning stare on the Pixies, waiting.
The little chap, former ginger tom and eye slasher, stepped forward, he removed his hat, wringing it in his hands causing the little bell to tinkle. He looked up at Krampus, green eyes wide, deep, limpid pools of deference. ‘We’re sorry Mr Krampus, we couldn’t help it, we tried to be good, honest we did.’
Krampus looked into the pleading, repentant eyes of the tiny little Pixie and sighed. Yes, Krampus really does have a soft and chewy centre.
‘Get on with you, you little delinquent, no harm done, bit of Yuletide spirit, that’s all’.
The Pixie grinned and stepped back to join his friends.
‘Okay then, thanks to Lord Krampus’ remarkable benevolence, you shall be spared punishment, however you must return home immediately.’ Jackie said.
The Pixies looked none too pleased.
‘Can’t we stay until Yule night?’ They whined as one.
‘No! Now scour the entire house and find every scrap of evergreen, take it into the garden and make ready for a bonfire. And don’t give me those eyes Billy Twelvetrees, they won’t work on me.’
The Pixies groaned, but went about the business of collecting up all the evergreens industriously, until they had a decent pile in the garden, where they gathered together. As Krampus and Jackie came outside the Pixies began to dance around the jumble of holly and fir. Reaching the gathering, Jackie handed Krampus a box of Lucifer’s matches.
‘You should do the honours.’ She said.
Krampus looked at the box. ‘Appropriate.’ He said, removing one of the matches and striking it to life. ‘Bringer of light.’ He said, flicking the match toward the pile of leaves and branches, which burst into incandescent life.
The Pixies’ dancing became more frantic, faster and faster they pranced, capering around and around at such speed they seemed to blur into one another, becoming ethereal, translucent, until they were smoke, entwining with the smoke of the fire, spiralling into the early morning sky.
‘Well that was easy.’ Said Krampus, turning his attention to the Queen of Pixies, now able to fully appreciate her remarkable charms. He licked his lips.
Jackie gave Krampus a knowing look. ‘Is that a bat in your breeches, or are you liking what you see?’
Krampus looked down, there was an unmistakable stirring in his pants, he reached in and pulled something out.
‘Actually it really is a bat.’ He said, flicking the creature away with a look of revulsion. ‘I’m not afraid of bats.’ He said hastily as the bat transformed into a Pixie, fell to the ground and disappeared in a wisp of smoke.
‘Of course not my lord.’ She placed her dainty hand in his huge one. ‘I don’t want to go home yet, what do you say to finding the bedroom?’
‘It won’t be full of infant alpacas will it?’
‘No.’
Krampus looked at the perky Pixie Queen, thought for a moment, then grinned and swept her into his arms.
‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed at being overwhelmed by the largest Pixie infestation in history you know.’ Jackie smiled up at Krampus from her position in his mighty arms. ‘No-one could have seen that coming, nor defended against it, it was a freight train of flimflam thundering down a mountain with no brakes, totally unstoppable.’
‘Fine.’ Said Krampus. ‘But let us never speak of it again.’
‘Of course my lord.’
Later, the pair lay basking in the glow of post coital warmth, and as the light of dawn began to creep through the window Krampus sipped a particularly good ‘Silkie’ whiskey, looking rather pleased with himself. Jackie snuggled close to him, her head on his chest.
Under the bed, a dusty holly wreath shivered, rattling and scratching the pine floorboards, there was the sound of a distant giggle.
‘What was that noise?’ Asked Krampus.
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Replied Jackie, manoeuvring herself on top of him.
Krampus placed his glass on the bedside table and whipped out that legendary tongue.
Jackie licked her lips and smiled coquettishly.