Krampus nodded. “Those dreams . . . they are your soul. You must live them to their fullest.”
“Yeah, but they’re just dreams, y’know. And the problem with dreams is you have to wake up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s time for me to grow up . . . I guess. To give it up. Time to leave the dreams behind . . . because there’s no room for dreams in the real world.”
“No.” Krampus’s voice grew stern. “That is not true. Your dreams are your spirit, your soul, and without them you are dead.” He made a fist. “You must guard your dreams. Always. Lest someone steal them from you. I know what it is to have your dreams stolen. I know what it is to be dead.” His voice was almost a growl. “Guard your dreams. Always guard your dreams.”
They were both silent for a long while.
“How is the hand?” Krampus asked.
Jesse looked at the wound, most of the redness was gone. He wiggled his fingers, there was almost no pain.
“It is better?”
“Yeah,” Jesse marveled. “It is.”
“Good.”
Vernon walked past, stooped, and peeked outside through the slats in the window next to them.
“Vernon,” Krampus called. “Stop your fretting. It is helping no one.”
Vernon threw up his hands. “How can you act so casual knowing those things are hunting us?”
“Vernon, come here.”
Vernon stayed at the window, nervously twisting the ends of his beard. “You know, it’s not like they were all that far back up the road.”
“Come, Vernon. I command it.”
Vernon came over.
Krampus held up the flask. “Drink.”
Vernon pushed a long strand of greasy hair from his face and eyed the flask suspiciously.
“Mead.”
Vernon’s face brightened. “Oh.” He took the flask, took a long sip, then another.
“Pass it around,” Krampus said. “Give some to Nipi . . . he is in need.”
Jesse noted that Nipi had removed the blood-soaked rag from his wound. The gunshot was red and swollen, but not raw, and actually appeared to be forming a scar already. Jesse might’ve been more amazed, but he’d seen enough wonders this day to understand some sort of magic was at play.
Vernon walked the flask over to Nipi. Nipi took a deep swig and passed it on. The bottle went round and round until all the Belsnickels were sitting or lying upon their makeshift beds, their faces mellow.
Jesse noticed Krampus staring out into space, gently caressing the velvet sack, a dreamy look upon his face. “So,” Jesse asked, “what does a Krampus dream of then?”
Krampus stopped stroking the sack, didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I dream of spreading the splendor of Yuletide once again across the land, of returning sweet Mother Earth to her glory. To see my temples and shrines all across the world. To have all the peoples pay me homage. That, Jesse, music-maker, that is my dream.”
“All across the world, huh? Nothing wrong with shooting high, I guess.”
Krampus nodded, his eyes still far away.
“Yuletide? Thought that was the same thing as Christmas.”
“Christmas,” Krampus spat. “No, Christmas is an abomination. A perversion! Yule is the true spirit of Mother Earth. Yule is the rebirth of the seasons. Without Yuletide, Mother Earth cannot heal herself . . . will wither and die. That is why it is so important that I reawaken the spirit within mankind. Help them to believe again. Because it is their power of belief, their love and devotion, that heals the land.”
“And let me get this straight, that Santa Claus fella, I take it he’s in your way somehow?”
“That name is a lie. A sham.” Krampus’s lip curled into a sneer. “His name is not Santa Claus. His name is . . . his true name is . . .” He hesitated, seemed incapable of saying more.
BALDR, KRAMPUS THOUGHT, then said it out loud. “Baldr. That is his true name.”
“Santa Claus?” Jesse asked.
“Yes. His true name is Baldr.” There, it is said. After five hundred years his name again touches my tongue. He scowled, hating the bitter taste of the word. “Vernon, bring me the mead.”
Vernon hopped up, brought over the flask. Krampus drank deep, trying to wash the bitterness away.
“My grandfather, Loki, killed him once, long ago. Now I shall do so again.” He clutched the velvet sack. “So tragic, Baldr’s death. Fair and beautiful Baldr, beloved by all.” Krampus sneered. “Or so it is told, as I knew him not before his death. I learned of those events from my mother, Hel, queen of the netherworld. She would tell this tale and so many others as I sat as a child upon the steps of her throne. Her sweet words, accompanied by the woeful singing of the dead.”
“What’s not to love about that?”
Krampus squinted at Jesse. “You are being sarcastic.”
“Naw.”
Krampus gave Jesse a disdainful look, but continued. “She spoke that all in Asgard loved Baldr, the second son of Odin. All praised Baldr, so fair of feature and so bright that light shone from him, fair-spoken and gracious. She told that they spoke of his charitable nature, his benevolence toward the downtrodden, going on and on about this gentle champion of the woeful and dispirited until one wished to hang oneself.
“But there was one not taken in by Baldr’s charm and beauty. Loki, being the king of all tricksters, was quick to recognize deceit no matter how fair the package. He saw Baldr for the fraud he was and took it as a challenge to expose him before all, especially Odin, as there was no love between the two. And the opportunity to bring disgrace and shame to the house of Odin was too great a temptation to resist.
“His chance came when Baldr schemed to become more than a deity, but to have life and beauty everlasting. And to this means he spun a tale to play on his parents’ great love. He told his father and his mother, Frigg, of his recurring nightmares, dreams that spoke of his impending death. His parents, not able to stand the thought of harm befalling their most beloved son, fell into Baldr’s design. They traveled the nine worlds, sought and received an oath from everything in Creation not to harm Baldr. All, that is, but from a young, distant plant called Mistletoe, as Odin felt this weed to be too lowly and feeble to matter. And thus, Baldr gained his immortality.”
Krampus snorted. “That is how the myths spin it, anyway. But myths are full of flowering fancy, and as much as I adore such tales, Hel told me the truth. Odin, being the great sorcerer that he was, concocted a spell and placed it upon Baldr. A spell that prevented any element of the nine worlds from ever harming him. Only the spell was contrived from the poison of Mistletoe, and thus, Mistletoe remained immune.
“Once Baldr had this wondrous gift, he did not wait to show it off, encouraging all comers to amuse themselves by trying to harm him with weapon of their choosing. Mother told that he made great sport of it, reveling in the attention, that the other gods loved the game, and as Baldr’s popularity grew so did Loki’s determination to expose him.
“Loki disguised himself as an old woman and tricked Frigg into revealing the secret of the Mistletoe. Armed with this knowledge, Loki sought out the plant and made from it an arrow, an alchemy of Mistletoe and ore. Loki took this arrow and the next time he found Baldr at play, he slipped in amongst the gathered crowd. There he found Baldr’s blind brother Hoor. He asked Hoor why he did not participate. Hoor replied that this was no game for a blind man. Loki presented Hoor with a bow and the charmed arrow, offered to guide his hand. Hoor was thrilled to have a chance to play and pulled the bow with great vigor. The arrow hit Baldr in the chest, drove deep into his heart, and Baldr fell down dead right there before Frigg, before Odin. It is said that the silence was deafening. Poor Hoor could not see their fearsome gazes and Loki could not bear it. Loki fled.