A wire fence ran just the other side of the oak; three cows stood at the wire watching them with bored, unimpressed faces.
Krampus took a deep breath, seemed to inhale everything around him. “It is good to be alive this day.”
Vernon rolled his eyes.
Krampus laughed, clapped Vernon on the back. “Open your soul my dear Vernon, and let Mother Earth sing you her song.” Krampus’s voice sounded stronger, fuller, deep and lyrical like a bass cello.
Jesse plucked a branch full of gray, withered leaves up out of the snow and headed back toward the road.
“Where you going?” Isabel asked.
“Snipe hunting.”
“Snipe hunting? What’s a snipe?”
Jesse looked at her as though she must be kidding. “Really?”
She frowned. “What? What is it?”
Jesse let out a snort.
Isabel’s face clouded and Jesse couldn’t help but laugh. Isabel set her hands on her hips. “Well, are you gonna tell me or not?”
Jesse just shook his head and kept walking up the drive.
Isabel stood for a moment longer before letting out a huff and following after him.
Jesse stopped where his tire tracks left the gravel road. He brushed the limb back and forth across the fresh snow, doing at least a passable job of obscuring the tracks. He tossed the limb away. “That’ll have to do.” He noted Isabel still looked perturbed. He smiled. “If we ever get out of this mess, I promise to take you snipe hunting.”
Jesse scanned the horizon. The clouds were moving in again and the sky threatened snow. Jesse hoped it would hurry up, snow would cover their tracks. He headed back to the truck, slid out his guitar. The Belsnickels had broken in through the back door and Jesse followed Isabel inside.
There was no electricity, and it was hard to see with all the windows boarded up, but the dusty gloom didn’t stop the Belsnickels. They were busy clearing stacks of junk and old boxes off the rows of pews, making room to sit and lie down. Vernon crouched in front of a cast-iron potbellied stove, stuffing it full of broken bits of cedar paneling, prepping it for a fire.
Jesse found several oil lamps lined up on a shelf. He consolidated the remnants of oil until he had one full lamp. He doused the wick, then plucked out his lighter and got it to burn, dialing down the flame. He walked over to Vernon and lent him his lighter, and soon the stove was producing heat.
The space wasn’t much larger than a schoolroom and appeared to have been used only for storage for decades. A pulpit sat atop a small platform built against the far wall. A large, hand-carved cross bearing the suffering Son of God hung behind it. Krampus stood in front of it, staring up into the tortured eyes of Jesus, his tail twitching.
Isabel came by carrying an armful of dusty curtains. “Here.” She tossed one at Jesse. “Not much, but it will help keep the chill off. There’s a bunch more over by the stove if you need them.” She moved on, handing them out to the rest of the Belsnickels.
Jesse carried the curtain over to a dilapidated upright piano covered in old dirt-dauber nests. He dropped the curtain on the floor next to the wall and stretched out, propping one boot atop the other. He leaned his head back, letting out a long, weary breath. Feels damn good to stop moving for a bit. It struck him he’d been running nonstop without sleep, and on only a few strips of jerky, for almost twenty-four hours. He sat the guitar across his lap, seeing if he could fix the loose frets. Broke or not, he still found it comforting just to hold. He softly strummed the strings while trying to get it back in tune. “Damn,” he whispered and winced, flexing his hand. It was getting hard to move his fingers. The wound had become red and inflamed and Jesse feared it might be infected. Way things are going for me, probably have gangrene by morning.
He noticed Krampus watching him. The creature hobbled over and took a seat next to him. Krampus looked worn out, yet there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“A long day for all of us, indeed,” Krampus said. “For me it is the end to five hundred years of long days.” He pulled the sack into his lap and caressed it like a pet, as together they watched the Belsnickels situate themselves for sleep, all with the exception of Vernon, who paced relentlessly back and forth across the church, peeking out between the slats as though Santa was out there with his sword and a hungry pack of wolves.
Krampus tapped the guitar. “You have music in your heart.”
Jesse nodded.
“I would have you play me a song.”
Jesse opened his palm, showed Krampus the wound. “Can’t . . . not till this thing heals up, anyhow.” Then, almost to himself, “Maybe never again.”
“Perhaps there is something for it.” Krampus opened the sack, closed his eyes, and inserted his hand. Rapt concentration strained his features, then a smile broke. “Ah . . . all is not lost . . . some things have survived the great flame.” Krampus pulled out a cone-shaped flask. It was covered in black ash, its long neck sealed in charred wax. He peeled away the wax and plucked out a rotting cork, then placed the bottle to his lips and took a long swig. “Ahh!” He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “All the sweeter for the long wait.
“Now, hold out your hand.”
Jesse looked unsure.
“Fear not, this is not just any mead, but mead from Odin’s own stores. This,” Krampus held out the flask and marveled, “is from the cellars of Valhalla itself. It comes from the udders of Heidrun, who feeds on the foliage of the tree Laeraor. It will do your wound good. Now, cup your hand.”
Jesse extended his hand. Krampus tilted the flask and Jesse braced himself for the sting of alcohol. An amber liquid flowed into Jesse’s palm. It sparkled, Jesse felt warmth, then a pleasant tingling sensation as the liquid slowly soaked into his flesh. He flexed his hand. It did indeed feel a little better.
Krampus handed him the flask. “Here, a drink for your heart and soul.”
Jesse took the bottle, put it up to his nose, and sniffed. It smelled like the sweetest day in spring.
“I hand you the mead of the gods and you sniff at it?” Krampus let out a snort. “Drink, fool.”
Jesse took a tentative sip. It was as though someone had poured pure joy down his throat. The warmth spreading in his gullet, not the burn of whiskey but the way you feel when you’re in love. He took another sip, a long one, and tried to take another when Krampus pulled the bottle from him.
“Careful,” Krampus said. “It is not for mortals. Too much and you might sprout horns.” He rapped his knuckles against his own broken horns, winked, and took a long swig.
Jesse laid his head back. The world around him lost its edges and he felt he was floating, drifting away from all his worries and fears.
“What do you dream of?” Krampus asked.
“Dream?”
“Your passions? What dreams take you off to sleep each night?”
Jesse thought for a minute. “Playing my songs. Those are my best dreams. The music and me come together, the melody is so clear . . . the crowd digs me.” Jesse smiled. “They hold up their lighters and cell phones and sway to the tune. The encores go on all night long.”
“So that is what you most want from life? To play your music?”
Jesse thought for a minute and nodded. “That’d be enough. It’s the only time I truly feel connected . . . with myself, with people. When the music is good . . . it’s . . . it’s like I took a feeling right from my heart, took my deepest highs and lows, and shared ’em with folks. More like weaving a spell than playing. Don’t care if it’s just a bunch of drunks, neither. Don’t matter. What matters is to be able to touch someone that way.”