Good Gifts

Written by Jessica R. Woehler

Billows of breath escaped my lips in short, staccato measures as my lungs fought against the cold to regain some level of composure. Calf and ankle alike trembled under an entanglement of skirt and bloomer; never before had they been put to such violent and sudden use. The sole of my bare foot snapped a twig as I stumbled towards a pine, the full weight of my fear slumping against it. I froze, every muscle and fiber straining to hear a sound.

  The woods were silent, yet I knew I was not alone.

“Lauf,” my mother had said. “Lauf und schau nicht zurück.” And so I did. I ran and did not look back. My apron was left draped over the chair, my blonde hair escaping its confining braids as I fled into the woods. The full moon of the solstice glistened and gleamed on the fresh coat of snow that had fallen that morning. Our village had been eagerly preparing for the arrival of Saint Nikolaus. Once again I was looking forward to placing the ragged cloth angel at the top of the tree. I had always tried to cling to the hope of the season, but was always left with more questions than answers. There didn’t appear to be enough good in the world to justify this celebration of peace, joy, and love.    

  Shoes had been polished and lay in wait, children of all ages eager for them to be filled with gifts and treats. This was the one night of the year where time and money were sacrificed to bring about even the smallest offerings of hope. The meak expectation of good gifts was a luxury not many of us had been afforded in our lives.

But the gentle saint is not what had darkened our doorways that night.

Fear had replaced faith with each quaking step it had taken. Candles snuffed as quickly as they had been lit, seeking to banish the shadow unknown to any creature of this world. As the scent of rotting flesh entered our home, my mother bid me run.

That same smell flooded my senses again. Across the path, billows of breath rose to meet my own.

I could not see its eyes yet could feel its gaze taking me in with calculated precision. It unnerved me to feel that seen. It unnerved me to feel so blind. My eyes squeezed shut, a childlike instinct kicking in. Perhaps this was all just a terrible dream.

Eins. Zwie. Drei. I counted slowly, my trembling fingers digging their nails into the damp bark of the tree.

I could hear its breathing now, air dragged down into lungs that growled with grotesque desperation. A warm substance fell on my shoulder, seeping through my blouse and falling down my arm. The smell churned my stomach.

Vier.

I opened my eyes and that was the moment I learned what darkness really was. Darkness was not the absence of light. Darkness is the antithesis of goodness. This creature that stood before me, a mutation of man with glistening devil horns shimmering red in the moonlight. We had waited patiently for peace, humbly hoped for gifts, yet this is what we had been sent.

A monster.

Yet I felt the tides of fear inside me shift. A thrill spiraled up my spine.

Our gazes held fast to each other. A grunt bellowed from its nostrils, its hellish breath escaping like steam from the pits within. Without fully realizing what I was doing, my hand reached for its face.

Footsteps sounded next to us.

Both our heads snapped to see who had found us. Saint Nikolaus stood still and stoic under the wash of the full moon, the muted reds of his coat standing in stark contrast to the white snow and black forest.

“Kind, Ich weiss dass du Fragen hast.” The saint's voice was low and calm, showing no fear or intimidation for the monster whose bloody mouth still dripped down my arm. He was right, I had many questions, none of which I was brave enough to ask.  Fear I could answer for in the face of such a creature. But the temptation of a thrill?

Saint Nikolaus took a step towards us. The monster wrapped his claws around my wrist, my pulse beating violently against its touch.

“Sie wollten ein gutes Geschenk. Du hast ein. Sie sind mutig. Sie sind nett. Mehr als jeder andere in deinem Dorf.”  Saint Nikolaus took a step towards us as he spoke of my bravery and kindness as if they were gifts I should already have been aware of.

“Wirst du diese Geschenke an andere weitergeben?” asked the Saint, who now stood before us. The monster's grip on my wrist tightened as a growl bellowed from within it. Saint Nikolaus placed something in my free hand. I was being held by both faith and fear and my heart did not know which one to follow.

And then it all happened at once.

H ues of red blurred my vision as coat and blood alike fell into the snow. Flesh was ripped open and howls echoed throughout the woods. The gentle saint never fought back, never struggled. His question rang through my head: will I give these gifts to others? I wanted to run again. Not from the monster or even the murder but away from the questions I was too afraid to ask, away from the fact that I was no longer afraid of what stood before me.

I turned back to the tree where the monster had met me, stepping to the other side, out of sight of the blood-stained snow.

My fingers rustled against the paper that enclosed my gift.

Slowly I unwrapped it. A small angel fell onto my palm. Her face was soft and serene, a hopeful smile painted on her delicate glass face. Her wings were tucked neatly into the folds of her dress, a small gilded halo acting like a crown. I had never seen anything so beautiful before. I had always done my best to believe in angels, in goodness. I closed my eyes and all I could see was the blood of the fallen saint staining the snow, the teeth of the monster gleefully stained. How could I believe in those things now? Surely the only truth in this life was that darkness was real.  My fist clenched around the angel, the edges of her wings digging into my palm.

The ground trembled behind me.

It had found me once again.

Claws laced around the tense muscles of my shoulders. This time it carried with it the scent of iron from bloody freshly spilt. Its breath warmed my neck against the cold. A low growl invaded my ears.

“Was bist du?” I whispered. If it was going to kill me I at least wanted to know what would be taking my life. Slowly its clawed fingers traced their way up my neck, grazing the skin on my cheeks and smearing them with the blood of the saint. My eyes stayed shut. Again I asked what it was.

“Komm mit mir.” It hissed as it turned me around. Our eyes met, the black of its eyes boring through mine and straight into my heart. To my surprise the creature took a step back and held out its hand, the same gesture I had seen in every fairytale I had ever read. But this was no prince and I was certainly no princess.

“Komm mit mir.” It asked again, its cadence ever so different, almost as if it was trying to be gentle. No one could make this choice but me.

I gripped her a bit tighter, tighter still, until I felt her wings shatter under the pressure of my palm. Tiny shards dove into my pale skin, this time my own blood dripping onto the spotless snow. I opened my hand and let the broken angel fall without watching. My hand met its, the blood of the saint mingling with mine as its claws encased my wounded hand. I smiled. Finally, a gift that felt good.

It took me. It changed me. I named it.

Krampus.