Whip of the Red Hunter
         or
The Krampus Clause
A Christmas Fable

Tobin Goodman was under the impression that his grandfather was dead. Long dead. And yet the boxes and accompanying letter FedExed from Austria seemed to imply a much livelier paternal ancestor.

Son of my son, Open and read this before December 5th!. Not the usual admonition to wait until Christmas before opening. Which was fine, Tobin wasn't a stickler for dates and ceremonies when it came to people giving him gifts. Especially if this meant his merely dead Austrian grandfather might turn out to be a live, rich Austrian grandfather, an infinitely more appealing kind. And, well, this was Dec 5th. That still counted, right?

Having a predilection for perversity that maddened his mother, Tobin made it a habit to open his gifts first, then read the card. Seeing no reason to break with that particular tradition, he quickly opened the first box from FedEx. He tore into it, and out spilled onto his dorm room floor a great pile of red wool, vacuum-sealed into a plastic bag. It took him a moment to make out the details.

"A Santa suit. An authentic, Austrian wool St. Nicolas costume. My suddenly-not-dead grandfather is a traditionalist. Great. Well, at least it's not a pink bunny suit. Let's see what's in box number zwei..."

The smallest, lightest box disgorged a black leather whip, coiled neatly, similarly sealed. Tobin took a moment to contrast the supple, well-oiled, braided leather snake next to the the red suit and blinked. Then he blinked again. Still there, both of them.

"My not-dead Austrian grandfather is a traditionalist and kinky." Suddenly memories of shots of Jägermeister and howls of Dude, google us up some German porn... flashed across his memory, along with the search results. "Oh sweet Jesus, Elvis, and Buddha, please do not let this  be the Christmas I find out I'm the heir to some weird, underground transcontinental S&M porn empire. Please let him not be that rich Austrian grandfather..."

Fearing to discover what the long, heavy box held, he turned rather to the letter From his Grandfather. Inside the letter was folded a small, glassine envelope, itself containing a lock of hair wrapped in a black ribbon. He turned to his grandfather's letter.

My Dear Tobin,

Your father wished none of this for you. He believed that times had moved on, that this would not be for you as it was not for him. But time does not move forward, it moves in circles, as sure as the Earth around the Sun. Or the Sun across the sky, season after season. And the season has come around again.

No explanation I could give you would you believe. And I will not live long enough to teach you in person. Besides, your father extracted a promise from me I may not break, that I never speak to you or set eyes on you. I have waited this long because even if you seek me out now, I will be dead before you find me. As much as I love you, some promises even a grandfather may not risk breaking.

But no matter. These heirlooms are yours. They will speak clearly enough. The Trophy first.

Hunt well. Do not let them see you bleed. And let the children stay ignorant. This is our gift to them.

Your Grandfather,

Konrad Bartholomäus Gutmann,
Jäger im Rot

A cold chill came over Tobin's spine. Things he should know were poking at the back of his mind, unable yet to find a purchase. Urgent things. He was frightened by the fact that he knew, without a doubt, that his grandfather Konrad meant the hank of coarse, black and grey hair wrapped in the black ribbon when he spoke of "The Trophy".

Fingers trembling, Tobin opened the small glassine envelope and withdrew its contents. Almost without thought, he thrust it up under his nose, and was overwhelmed by the scent. Wet, animal, angry, wretched... So angry... So much sin...

*****

The old witch reeled from the sudden blow from the hammer. She screamed as her blood stained the snow. The village blacksmith was a large man, and had been able to hide the hammer under his cloak while accompanying the witch on the village's errand.

The blacksmith had kept the hammer's head smeared with hog fat. His brave daughter had found out the witch's secret, that she could neither taste nor smell swineflesh. She ate no bacon, no ham. Nor had she smelled the hidden iron that struck her temple as she descended to the ground from the branches above.

The village's sins had been captured in a bag and left to hang in a high tree, deep in the forest. That done, the village was under no circumstances about to pay the witch off in the form she had demanded, that of the next babe born within its precincts. Not if the blacksmith could help it.

As the witch screamed and bled, the blacksmith dug into his pouch and pulled out a long iron nail, also smeared in hog fat. He drove it into the ground through the witch's shadow with his hammer. Pinned in place with wrought iron, the old woman screamed painfully again as she tried vainly to flee. But her shadow was pinned at the hip to the ground, and no power she had could dislodge it.

Taking no chances, the blacksmith smashed her teeth from her mouth so she could speak no spells of vengeance against him or the village. Finally, he took his second long iron nail, smeared in more concealing hog fat, and drove it through the witch's heart with a mighty hammer blow, pinning her to the tree beneath the bag of sin.

"There, let her hang like a wolf pelt, and let her shade guard our sins forever." With that, the blacksmith returned home, a hero to a village without sin.

But while the blacksmith had known about the swineflesh, and had known how to pin a witch in place and kill her with iron nails, what he had not known was that the witch's spell was incomplete. She had done what she had promised. She had lured and captured the village's sins in her magic bag and hung them deep in the forest where no one would find them. But to seal the bag forever would take the lifeblood of the next village newborn, thereby ensnaring the village in an entirely new, unforgivable sin.

And if they did not pay...

It was December 4th, with the snow falling on the ground, when the blacksmith nailed the witch to the tree of sin. A year and a day later, with her bones a pile beneath the iron nail in the tree, a claw from within the Bag of Sins tore the fabric. And down to the forest floor spilled the village's sins. Howling, wet with birth and snow, cold as the deep winter and wretched with anger, vicious as an animal and as cruel as a man, the sins of the village had returned.

*****

Tobin fell back onto the floor. What the fuck was that? The visions of the forest, of murder, of that, that... hairy sin-thing. Where the HELL did all this shit come from?

Suddenly he realized that his head had landed on the bag holding the Santa suit, popping the seal. The smell of wool filled his nose...

*****

The frost-haired giant who guided his sled into the haunted town was clad from head to toe in red. Broad of girth, he had the strength of ten men, with strong shoulders and legs like tree trunks. Three long boar-spears jutted up from the rear of his sled. At his hip was coiled a black leather whip. Over his left shoulder, a large red sack. And over his right, a großes messer sword. But strangest of all was the sled. It was magic and moved on its own at its master's direction, pulled by neither horse nor reindeer.

The giant's name, he said, was Nikolaus Jäger. He scowled, an angry look in his eye when he spoke. "I do not like you people," he bellowed. "No village has ever offered a giant a place to stay, or a wife, or even a warm cup of glögg by the fire. No, it's always Come build a wall, giant. Come fix my roof, giant. Here's a wheel of bad cheese and a stringy goose for your dinner, now go away! Never am I made welcome to stay." His brows knitted as he fumed.

"SO BE IT," he roared, and all the villagers not already hiding in their homes cowered. "I am a hunter and a killer. I spill so much blood it stains my clothing. I have killed monsters and wrested treasure from sorcerers. I am Nikolaus Jäger and I AM MIGHTY!"

Men, women, children, and beasts of the village trembled at the giant's voice. "I am not here to save you. I am not here to take pity on you. I am here to hunt and kill the claw-beast so that all will know the name of Nikolaus the hunter, Nikolaus the blood-spiller, Nikolaus the demon-queller! Now, who is brave enough to step forward and speak to me of the fiend?"

From behind his anvil, the blacksmith screwed up his courage. He had killed the witch, he could talk to a giant. He stepped closer to the runners of the giant's magic sled. "Oh mighty Red Hunter, we have been tormented by the beast for two years. The witch said she would take away our sins, and instead she made them into a beast that turned on us. Now the wild-man stalks our land, coming at night, killing livestock, destroying crops, but worst of all, he hunts our children. Because the Krampus is made of sin, it wants to destroy those without sin. Such is the product of witches."

Nicolaus pondered the blacksmith's words. He could tell there was more to the story. Witches were bad news, but you had to seek them out and make a deal with one. Those deals rarely went as planned, but they didn't cast dooms upon the hapless and unwary for no reason. And if villagers made a deal with a witch, they were up to no good in the first place. Still, it mattered nothing to him. These village folk were like the rest. Greedy, cowardly, venal, and not his friends. But the Krampus, that was a trophy for a hunter.

Despising the villagers for their weakness, he decided to be cruel. "Children of the village. You little innocents. I will kill the monster and I will bring you its bloody head so you may know it troubles you no more. In no more than twenty days, you will wake up to a bright morning with no monster hunting you. This I vow.

"But I require bait for my hunt."

Every parent gasped. Was this not what they were hoping to avoid by killing the witch?

"I require your toys," bellowed the giant. And he crossed his arms and waited.

One by one, the little children brought forth their dolls and little rocking horses. Toy soldiers cast from lead and toy swords made of wood were carried into the square. Each child in the poor, haunted village brought forth their single toy to the giant in red, and he put them in his magic bag.

But the children dared not cry, because they feared the Krampus more than they feared Nikolaus. They simply said, one by one, as they handed him their toys, "Please, Red Hunter. Make the monster go away."

*****

Tobin stared at the ceiling, dizzy.

"I am not in some long-forgotten forest in old Europe. I am in Redstone Hall on the University of Vermont Campus in Burlington, Vermont. I am in room 206 where Jane and I had sex last night for the first time together and in which we're going to have sex again tonight, and this is so not happening to me. Can I go back and get the porno-grandpa option?" he asked the Universe. But he could sense what the answer was, even if he didn't want to believe it.

Almost without volition, he opened the bag containing the whip and pulled it out. Again, the visions came.

*****

The beast howled its inhuman howl as it broke cover and leaped at the child playing with its toy. It could sense the love and joy of child's play and wanted to punish and destroy that sensation. The children, so loved, so perfect, were everything it was not. And the Krampus lashed out at the source of its hatred.

But instead of young childflesh in its claws and lifeblood in its mouth, Krampus discovered no child, but a cairn of coal with a rag wrapped around it, standing mute watch over a doll. Fooled again, it ripped the doll to shreds like it had all he others it had been tricked with.

"No dinner for you, monster," laughed Nikolaus. Time after time, his bait worked. Krampus was so consumed with hate for the children that he could feel the love they had poured into the toys they had given up. This pure love enraged the beast so much, it was blinded to the fact that the actual "child" was a decoy.

Up came the Red Hunter, his magic whip lashing and scourging the furry ogre before him. The horns on Krampus' head shook as he roared with each whip blow. The giant was fast with his snake, and Krampus could barely get close enough to rake his claws across Nikolaus' belly. Even as the sin-beast charged in and rent bloody furrows in the laughing giant's flesh, Nikolaus' other hand brought his huge sword down on the beast's matted fur.

Nikolaus, whip still in hand, seized his magic bag from his shoulders and shook it. Out spilled five carved wooden reindeer. Quickly the giant cracked his magic whip over them, and where there had been five toy reindeer, now there were five living huntsmen. They stood unspeaking, three with spears in hand, two with bows, all wearing wicked sæx knives on their belts. There had been nine to start with, but the hunt had gone on for many days now. Rudolf had been the first to be broken, his face smashed to a bloody pulp.

The huntsmen made at the beast and it fled. Immediately, they gave chase, urged on by the Red Hunter. "On Swiftfoot, on Dancer! Don't lose him or I'll have the hides off your bones!" The giant's whip licked at his own hunters' heels when they began to flag in the chase.

Krampus was wily though. The huntsman Donner was smashed under the ogre's huge club when Krampus turned on his pursuers. Vixen, her bow snapped by the beast, stabbed her sæx again and again into her killer even as the monster crushed the life from her bloody throat. And as each mute hunter fell, a broken toy reindeer fell to the floor in their place.

Still, the survivors harried the sin-beast along the paths they had prepared with traps and snares from their master's magic bag. Barbed hooks set in the mulch and steel wires, fine as a maiden's hair, strung between the trees, tore at Krampus as he was driven into them by the spears and arrows of the huntsmen and their cruel master's whip.

As it had for days, the battle raged, Krampus again wounded, yet again able to escape into the forest. Nikolaus was left bleeding from his own wounds, too tired to pursue. But even as his toy huntsmen were broken one by one, so the Red Hunter knew his prey was weakening. Krampus had not fed on any children or farm animals since his hunt began. Nor had the beast any friends or allies from whom to seek aid.

For that matter, neither did Nikolaus. No true friends. The children had given up their toys out of fear. Nothing more. But the bait was working.

And so, bleeding and wounded, Nikolaus headed back to the village after another night's hunt, his three surviving reindeer-hunters back in the bag. An advantage of his red suit he had not mentioned to the villagers was that no one could see him bleed either. He could not afford to let the villagers see any weakness. That was their flaw, not his.

When he emerged from the woods, Nikolaus was surprised. The children of the village had painted and decorated his magic sled. Holly and mistletoe and boughs of sweet pine. And the sled was bright red, like his suit. For the first time, the giant smiled. He had never had reason to decorate his sled. And no one had ever offered to do it for him. Before now.

But then he remembered that he was Nikolaus the Red Hunter, and these villagers were not his friends. With a shout he chased away the children from his sled, and they ran, giggling as children do. But he did notice how fine his sled looked, though he did not smile outwardly, for he could tell the children were watching him.

And once again, one of the urchins had left a cookie on the front of the sled again. Every night, he would return from the hunt and find the clumsy little brats had been on his sled. And one of them always seemed to forget their dessert behind. Nikolaus brushed it away.

*****

His hands over his eyes, Tobin felt sick as he rolled onto his side. This was all some sort of bad mix of dining hall burrito and that Germanic mythology class Jane was taking, that's what this was. She'd been going on about shit like this right up to the point when he kissed her. This is all some sick joke by those rope-smoking gamer geeks in the Sci-Fi/Fantasy Lit program over on East Campus. Yeah, bad burritos and bong hits with Sci-Fries don't mix, and insanity is the result, he determined.

Tobin didn't have a cryptic grandfather, a magic S&M Santa suit, or some ancestral monster-killing destiny. What he had was a Geology final and a French final and a Walt Whitman paper less than half done and a new girlfriend with a wicked smile who talked dirty in bed and he was NOT opening the box with the sword, dammit...

How did he know there was a big sword in the other box?

As if they had a will of their own, Tobin's hands opened the last box. From it he pulled the giant's großes messer, the "big knife". The grip accommodated both of his hands, and tall as he was Tobin didn't think he could wield it one-handed as the giant had. As the giant had...

*****

Broken trees and smashed boulders littered the clearing where Nikolaus Jäger, the Red Hunter, and Krampus, the claw-beast of sin, battled. The last toy reindeer had been smashed and every living animal had fled the stench of sweat and blood and rage.

For twenty days had the hunt gone on. The giant's magic bag was empty. Every magic trick and hunter's secret was used up, every magic trap set and sprung, every toy used as bait for the monster's jaws, every faithful hunter torn to pieces by its claws. The prey had been harried as far as it would go, and here is where it would die. All that was left was the bloody killing, a process that had drawn on for some time now.

Finally, broken by the barbed hooks and snares and arrows and spears and hunter's magic and the giant's "big knife" and his cruel, cruel whip, the sin-beast collapsed in a pile of bloody fur and cracked bones, wheezing its last wet breaths. Not willing to let it expire on its own, Nikolaus stepped forward and struck its head from its shoulders with one blow.

"It is done." But the hunter in red felt no joy. Mighty was his conquest. Great were the feats of this hunt. But he had suffered mortal wounds in quelling the beast. His magic was killer's magic, hunter's illusions to confuse the prey. He had no magic that could heal the wounds he'd suffered in this final struggle.

Nikolaus did not fear death. Death was the hunter's companion, and he knew one day it would come for him. No, what made the giant sad was that he would die forgotten. Who would remember the tale of this mighty hunt? Who would remember Nikolaus Jäger and the Krampus beast?

Not the villagers, to be sure. They were cowards, huddling in their homes in the dark. Not a one of them had come to see Nikolaus the Demon-Queller slay the thing that tormented them. Besides, they had betrayed the witch, and that was why the giant made no agreement with them. Still, it was for the glory that he had hunted this beast. Was it all to be for naught? Would no one be told of his deeds?

It was well after midnight when the dying giant made his way back to the village, the bloody head of the sin-beast over his shoulder. All the village was asleep. They would wake to find his dead body next to the head of the beast. At least these wretched cowards would know of his triumph. Let them clean up the mess.

As he approached his magic sled, he saw something strange. The children of the village were all inside it. They were wrapped in blankets and huddled together for warmth like puppies, and they were all sleeping. But it was a cold night, colder than children might stand. At the front of the sled, he found a small basket of cookies wrapped in a kerchief, covered in snow. Not one cookie accidentally left behind, but a whole basket, not a one of them eaten.

Around the far side, one young boy sat alone by the remains of a fire. Alf was the boy's name. When the giant came upon the lad, he found him dead, frozen in place. He was reaching out a small twig towards the ashes. And in the ash of what once was a tiny fire, a fire that never had a chance of surviving the night, he saw a small ceramic mug. In it was a few nuggets of spice and raisins and a little wine, though what had not steamed off while the fire still burned had frozen.

Suddenly the giant realized what was going on. The children were waiting for him.

He had told them this was the last night of his hunt, and they had believed him. Believed that they would wake without a monster terrifying them. While the adults who had set the village on the road to this suffering hid with fear, the innocent children had believed he would protect them as he said he would.

Then he looked at the basket of cookies. Nikolaus realized that all those nights he had come from the hunt and found a cookie on his sled... those had not been forgotten by careless children. They had been left for him by generous children, children who had little enough sweetness in their lives already.

And now, awaiting the morning he'd promised them, a morning to wake without pain and fear, they had baked him a whole basket of cookies, and one of them had tried to have a mug of glögg ready for him when he arrived.

These young children, who had given up their toys to a snarling giant to save their village, had waited for him to come bearing the dead monster's head. They trusted him, didn't fear him, had painted his sled for him, and had prepared him sweets and drink to welcome him in victory.

Nikolaus the Red Hunter had killed monsters for villages before. Few had ever said thank you when it was done because they still feared him. None had ever made him welcome.

And no one had ever baked him cookies. He didn't even know what they tasted like.

Tears streamed down the giant's face. Not tears of pain, but tears of sadness. For he had been wrong. He had friends. They had been leaving him cookies for 20 days. And now he would die without ever knowing the friends he had. This pained him worse than any wound he had ever suffered.

Then to his horror he realized that the children aboard his sled would die as well. Even huddled as they were, the night was too cold. They would freeze to death like young Alf.

NO! thought Nikolaus. I promised them a bright morning!

Squeezing his ebbing lifeforce into his whip he cracked it once overhead. At once, the sleeping children were all nestled safely in bed, warm and cozy. A second crack of the whip, and gifts and toys appeared, waiting for the little ones to wake up. The dying giant poured every bit of his magic into making it so, though with each breath he felt colder and colder.

The last drop of lifeblood that was his, he held in his fist, gripping it as tight as a giant could, willing the last ounce of giant-magic he commanded to spark it. A tiny, intense fire, fueled by the last drop of his lifeblood, burned in Nikolaus' fist.

His life all but gone, Nikolaus Jäger lifted Alf's frozen body into his arms. "Come, my little friend. We need be cold no longer." He mounted his magic sled, placing the head of Krampus on his last boar-spear. Setting the sled towards the deep forest, he picked up one of the cookies and bit into it.

It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever tasted.

As the children awoke and ran out into the snow, heedless of the cold, the giant willed one more illusion before he expired. He willed forgetfulness on the village. No memory of the terrible beast, the night hauntings, or the fear remained. It would all be forgotten, misremembered, a fable story no one really believes...

The children waved "thank you" and cheered as old Saint Nicholas rode away in his magic sleigh. His bells jingled, and the breaths of the nine tiny reindeer pulling it puffed into the cold morning air. The children were sad to see young Alf go, but he waved happily to them and they knew he was going with St. Nick to make toys for good children.

And there hanging on the back of the sleigh's runner was Old Krampus, St. Nick's rascally traveling companion, wagging a finger at the children, reminding them to be good and not naughty, lest they get a lump of coal (or worse) next year. But still, Old Krampus smiled and winked. St. Nick would never let him do them any real harm.

Only Margarete, Alf's older sister, saw the truth. She was just young enough to see into childhood and just old enough to see into adulthood. Margarete had woken with a sword and coiled whip under her bed, along with the toys & gifts for her and her siblings by the fireplace.

Though she saw what the other children, and now the waking adults, yawning as they stepped out into the morning, thought they saw, she also saw the real nature of the mortuary sled retreating into the forest. She saw her dead brother, cradled as if sleeping on the bloody giant's lap. She saw the severed head of the Claw-Beast, mounted on the unbroken boar-spear at the back of the sled. And not even the children's red paint could hide the signs of violent death.

And as the children and their parents saw a magical sparkle of color and lights garland the trees as St. Nicholas disappeared over the horizon, Margarete watched as the giant's grip loosened for the last time, dropping what looked like a hot ember to his feet. The flames caught as she watched the retreating sled carry the bodies away into the forest, burning with a fire that somehow did not ignite the trees, but which she knew in her heart would leave not even ashes behind.

As parents herded their children home with songs and happy faces, Margarete smiled to see a joy she barely remembered return to the village. And happy as she was for her home, Margarete shed a tear for her brother and the Red Hunter.

Margarete shed one for herself as well, and for her sons yet unborn, and her sons' sons. For she knew the weapons she had found under her bed would be heirlooms to her line. And that they, and their secret, would bring her descendants no joy.

From that moment, she was never a child again. Nor were the children of her line ever to be allowed to remain so long.

*****

Tobin put down the sword on his bunk and stepped back, remembering his grandfather's words:

Hunt well. Do not let them see you bleed. And let the children stay ignorant. This is our gift to them.

Konrad Bartholomäus Gutmann,
Jäger im Rot

"No," he said, as he sat down at his desk. "This is not real and I am not doing this. I am not putting on some magic S&M Santa suit and going monster hunting in California..."

California? Why did Tobin have this unshakable certainty that someone on the west coast had just found a shaggy old pelt under strange circumstances?

Tobin looked at the calendar. December 5th. Krampusnacht. Twenty days to kill the monster. Or what?

"No. No freaking way am I putting on that suit. Because this is all too crazy for words. I have to get this shit put away before Jane comes over and..."

Twenty days, he heard the sword say.  The beast must die before twenty days followed the whip.

Tobin shrieked as he fumbled the sword and whip into the closet, slamming the door shut. In a desperate voice he said, "I have finals and a new girlfriend. And I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU!" He stood there glaring at the closet door, his expression almost daring his weapons to talk back, his heart pounding with terror that they might.

When they didn't, Tobin Goodman resolved not to believe a word of any of this, no matter what truth echoed in the chambers of his soul.

"Twenty days..." he whispered, as he kicked the suit under his bunk and turned to change the sheets. Jane was coming over again tonight.

"Twenty days..."

Der Anfang*


(* The Beginning)