Chapter 1: The Nicholas Play

“Wait, Kat,  you don’t believe in Santa Claus?” Thomas asked me, incredulous.

It was a dark, overcast winter night, and the air smelled like snow. We were strolling down 2nd street in the small sleeper suburb I call home. We were bundled up against the cold and the increasing gusts that cut right through us in spite of our coats. The wind kept blowing my orange-red hair into my face and whipped it against my skin, which in the darkening days of winter had gone from “worryingly pale” to “consumptive.”

“No, actually,” I said, matter-of-factly. “He’s an amalgamation of several actual people and creatures that evolved over the centuries and across continents. He’s only well known because he got recast as a gift-bearing figure and hyped by advertisers, and even then really only in the US. Why, do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“No, said Thomas. “Growing up in Pennsylvania , we had the Belsnickel instead.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Santa isn’t even that universal.”

“Still, I’m surprised,” said Thomas. “I mean, you’ve encountered the risen dead, the Wild Hunt, Faerie queens, a live cockatrice, and God knows what else. And that’s only since I’ve known you! If anyone’s had a run in with the big man in red, it’d be you.”

He had a point. As the town’s premier Cunning Woman, magic worker, and general supernatural fixer, I’d had more than my fair share of run-ins with all sorts of bizarre beings. Despite my relative youth–contrary to the stereotypes, I was no wizened crone, but I had a wealth of experience and knowledge. But even I had my limits in credulity. 

As we walked down the street more people joined us, and a crowd was forming. Thomas was only a few years younger than me, in his early twenties, but he was lanky and long-legged, and had to work to keep up with him, my glasses fogging up in exertion. We were nearing our destination, the town’s Christmas market. It was opening night, December 5th–St. Nicholas’ Eve. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

The crowd grew thicker, and I had to work to keep up with Thomas. There were vendors with cute little arts and crafts for sale, food stalls, people in festive costume, everything you need for a holiday fair. My town wasn’t particularly large, but we did our best to put on a show. Thomas took a look around and drank it all in, in spite of the market’s modest size. 

He had moved here relatively recently to take up the job of municipal liaison to the supernatural community, and hadn’t experienced this before. He was handling it well, all things considered, but then again Thomas was pretty laid-back (or, perhaps, young enough not to know better–he was fresh out of college after all). Meanwhile, just being in a crowd this big made me slightly nervous, but the holiday cheer was enough to counter my anxieties.

We perused the merchants, and I considered doing some minor Christmas shopping.  A number of fairgoers stopped to chat with me, clients and other folk from around town who I’d helped out, whether curing an aliment, finding a lost item, or in more dire times exorcising a ghost or lifting a curse.

The air was filled with cheerful conversation and the smell of delicious pastries and spiced wine.The snow that had been threatening all day finally started falling, adding to the ambience. It was lovely, though I worried it might make the trip back to my apartment a little challenging. 

After about an hour or so, we gravitated toward a stage set up in the center of the market. The local Catholic church was putting on a miracle play about Nicholas, and I definitely wanted to catch it. The acting was a bit amateurish, the costumes a mix of old vestments, thrift store finds, and craft supplies, and the snow on the stage didn’t help matters. Still, the play was decent enough, and faithful to the original hagiography.

 It covered not only the well-known deeds of the saint, like when he threw stockings full of gold down the chimney of a poor family, but some of the more obscure or weird ones. Like when he flew through the air to rescue sailors lost at sea. Or when he resurrected three boys who had been butchered by a cannibalistic innkeeper. Or, my favorite, when he got into a heated argument at a church council and punched a rival bishop in the face. 

“Just think,” whispered Thomas, grinning and ever irreverent, “if things had gone differently he’d be known as Saint Nicholas of the Right Hook.” Despite myself, I let out a giggle. I hoped the stern looking nuns overlooking the production didn’t notice us.

After the play ended I went up to the stage and dropped a few dollar bills into their collection basket, and the nice church lady holding it gave me a simple cardboard icon of St. Nicholas, about the size of a playing card. I thanked her and stuck it in my pocket. 

As we wandered away from the stage, Thomas returned to our previous conversation. “So Saint Nicholas is real, eh?” 

“Oh, definitely”, I replied. “Did we see different plays or something?” I said, gesturing at the stage. “He’s real, and he’s still up there doing stuff. I haven’t seen any of his miracles myself, but I’ve heard enough stories.” Thomas came from a different magical tradition and didn’t quite have my piety, but then again my abilities depended in part on staying on the good side of a whole host of Saints. 

Thomas looked thoughtful, and then smiled. “And what about Krampus?”

I rolled my eyes. “Krampus isn’t real either. He’s simply a boogeyman parents use to keep their kids in line.” Thomas looked like he was going to say something, but too bad, I was already on a roll. 

“Now, the Perchten that Krampus is based on, they’re real. They’re mountain spirits that live in the Alps and come down during the winter and cause trouble. People see them pretty regularly, even today. But people also started dressing up as them, and at some point the Perchten troops got combined with St. Nicholas’ Eve, and that’s how you get Krampus.”

“But why dress up as him?” asked Thomas.

“Like I said, to scare kids,” I replied. “Besides, it’s fun. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Speak of the devil, I heard the loud clanking of bells and shrieks of joy. The crowd parted, and through the swirling snow came the Krampuses. Our town was only big enough to support a single troup, but what they lacked in quantity, they made up for in quality. They were covered in heavy fur, made from sheep skins and goat pelts and Lord knows what else. Wickedly long horns, made from real alpine Ibex, sprouted from their heads, which they brandished at each other and at spectators. The clamor of the bells and chains that encircled them only added to the din. Their faces were demonic, bestial visages, all teeth and tongue and snarled expressions. Some of them were beautifully carved by hand from wood or plaster, but other ones had light-up eyes, modern prosthetics, and moveable mouthpieces. The creativity was genuinely impressive. 

As they tramped down the street, they growled and snarled and lunged at bystanders, but the crowd still surged forward to get a glimpse of them. Thomas and I were pushed to the front row. As the Krampuses drew near, I braced myself. I knew a couple of the guys in the Krampus troupe, and odds were good that they’d chase after me. Sure enough, two Krampuses broke off from the pack and jogged toward me. I made a show of running away from them, all the while screaming with delight as they ponderously chased after me. 

The snow made it a bit tricky, but after a few minutes of sliding around in faux terror, they relented and I made my way back through the procession. I passed through the remaining Krampuses, who also made a point of snapping and growling at me. 

As the last of them passed, I turned back toward the crowd to find Thomas when a shadow fell over me. A clawed hand grabbed me by the shoulder and I spun around. I found myself face to face with the biggest Krampus I’d seen all evening. Its eyes glowed red, and its jaws opened wide, full of sharp teeth. It hissed at me, a bright red tongue writhing, and I felt its hot breath on my face. I was so startled I let out a shriek and stumbled backward into the snow. When I got my feet under me again, I looked around, but the Krampus was gone.

Man, that was some good costuming, or prosthetics or something, I thought. It looked almost….real?

No, it couldn’t be.

I banished those thoughts from my head and found Thomas. We followed the Krampuses along as they processed down the street, growling and snarling and casually terrorizing small children. Finally they reached the center of the Christmas Market, where the Saint Nicholas from earlier, resplendent in his hand-me-down robes and dollar store beard, managed to get them under control. The good Saint and his helpers (angels and cheerful peasant types) gave candy and treats to the children, while the Krampuses occasionally menaced the less-well behaved ones. A brass band played, there were dancers, and the night moved on.

 As the Krampuses finally trotted out of the market, I grabbed Thomas and caught up with them. As we made our way through the increasingly snow-covered street, I saw a dark fuzzy figure disappearing into the darkness. One of the Krampuses must have called it early. Shame, the afterparty was the best part.

 We headed toward a pub designated as the Krampus afterparty. The pub  was packed with people, even more so with the furry bulk of the Krampuses, and it reeked of wet fur and sweat. The smell was so overwhelming I had to step outside almost as soon as I went in. 

A Krampus sauntered up to me and looked me over. From behind the ornately carved wooden mask, I heard a muffled voice say “Kat?” The Krampus carefully took off its head and revealed a friendly face . “Oh, hey Taigh!” I said. “

“Glad you could make it!” Taigh said, wiping the sweat off his face.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I replied. “Have you seen Alex?”

“I think he’s already in there,” said Taigh, cradling his Krampus head in his arms. “Though he’s so committed to the part he won’t take off his head, even in the bar. We’re gonna have to feed him beer through a straw.”

I laughed. “You guys look really great. I really like some of the newer costumes, very impressive.”

Taigh shrugged. “Eh, I’m a traditionalist, I prefer the old style carved masks. But yeah, some of them are pretty sophisticated, lot of good costuming work.”

“The one with moving tongue was particularly neat, never seen that before,” I said.

“Moving…tongue?” Taigh asked, unsure. “Kat, what are you talking about?”

“Yeah, he had a moving tongue, working jaws, eyes that moved around, really cool.”

“Kat, there’s literally no one in the troupe with an outfit like that, we don’t have that kind of money,” said Taigh.

“You sure? I could have sworn I saw someone…” I stuck my head back in the bar and did a quick headcount (or rather, horn count). “Weren’t there 11 of you?” I asked.

You are reading story The Nicholas Play at novel35.com

“No, only 10,” said Taigh, puzzled as I was. 

“Huh, wonder who that other guy was-” but before I could finish the sentence, I heard increasingly frantic yelling coming down the street.“KEVIN? KEVIN?”, a figure wrapped up in a coat and scarf dashed by, screaming. They joined a chorus of other distant cries.

“What the hell?” I said.

Thomas burst out of the pub, phone in hand. “Kat, have you checked your phone?” he said, visibly upset.

“No,” I said, pulling it out. An alert filled its screen-a  missing child, 10 years old apparently. Then another alert joined it. And another. And another.

“What the shit is going on?” said Thomas, frantically. 

We started jogging back toward the market, as more and more people filled the street. Pandemonium filled the square, as parents grabbed their children and fled, while the authorities tried to organize a search. The snow was falling more heavily.

Thomas stopped a public safety officer and tried to get a sit-rep. “No fucking clue,” he said. “We’ve got half a dozen kids missing in less than 10 minutes. Who the hell does that?”

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. It couldn’t be. Even with the things I’d seen, ghosts and ghouls and monsters, some things were just stories. Boogeymen weren’t real.

I grabbed Thomas, and started retracing our steps, following the tracks of the Krampuses. Halfway to the pub one of them split off, into the snow-covered darkness. With increasing difficulty, we followed them down a side street, looping back around to the market. It was almost empty now, with occasional parties of searchers running to and fro. Shopping bags, scarves, and half-eaten pastries lay scattered about. The tracks led around the outskirts of the market and back out into the surrounding streets.

“This must have been where it grabbed the kids,” I said, surveying the scene.

“Who grabbed them?” said Thomas.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice breaking a little. “You don’t think it could be…” I trailed off, and gestured toward a handful of Krampuses wandering aimless in the snow.

Thomas looked at me in disbelief. “No,” he said. “You said the Krampuses were made up. You said they weren’t real.”

“I KNOW!” I shouted, trying to fight the panic rising within. “But I saw someone tonight, or something, in the parade. Something that wasn’t right. I know it can’t be Krampus,but maybe someone smuggled a Percht from Austria for some damned reason, or summoned one, or God knows what. But something’s out there.”

“Or maybe there’s nothing magical about it, and we’re just chasing some nut in a suit.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” I said. With that, we started off again, racing along the deserted, silent streets.

As the gloom grew deeper, we rounded a corner and caught sight of a figure loping through the snow. As we got closer, I could make out the outline of its shaggy coat and long horns. It moved…wrong, though. The other Krampuses lurched along, but this thing sprinted smoothly on an impossibly long stride. I could even see the muscles rippling underneath its coat. On its back was a great big sack, carried by one giant clawed fist, and as it ran under a streetlight I could see it squirm. We closed the distance, and we could make out screams and crying, even as they were muffled by the snow.

No, I thought. But there it was, clear as day, a Krampus if ever I’d seen one. I could scarcely believe it. But my crisis of faith would have to wait. We had to act before this beast disappeared into the night, and the children with it.

I balled up some snow and hurled it at the creature, but it barely slowed down. Meanwhile, Thomas took a more aggressive tact.

 “Hey! Hey you furry bastard!” he shouted as he charged ahead. As he ran he grabbed a folding chair that some merchant had abandoned, and came at the Krampus with all his might, and the beast turned around to face him. It caught his chair midswing and blocked it with a massive arm, then almost casually pulled back and backhanded it, knocking it out of Thomas’s hands and sending it flying into a snowbank. The Krampus roared at him and raised up its clawed hands to strike.

Thankfully, he’d distracted long enough for me to sneak up behind it. I picked up a cup of hot mulled wine left behind by some panicking market goer, still steaming, and came around its flank. It turned its ugly head to face me, but before it could let out a snarl I uncapped the cup and threw its content into the demon’s eyes. It howled in pain, and started desperately pawing at its face with both hands. As I’d hoped, it dropped the sack, which writhed around on the ground.

“Thomas! The kids!” I shouted, but he was already on it. He pulled open the sack and half a dozen small children popped up, screaming their heads off. Thomas scooped a few of them up and grabbed ahold of the rest and ran pell-mell away from the creature, dragging them along. “Get ‘em out of here!” I shouted as he disappeared into the falling snow. 

Meanwhile the Krampus finally cleared its sight. I had to keep it distracted, so I threw myself at it, wildly punching in the chest. I might as well have been punching a furry brick wall, so thick was its hide. 

The Krampus looked down on me, its red eyes gleaming with pure malice. Then, effortless, it reached out with one hand and swung at me. 

The blow was tremendous, and I was suddenly flying through the air. Well, at least snow would soften my landing. But then, with an audible crunch, I slammed into something hard and metal. My head snapped back and I saw stars. I couldn’t breathe, my entire torso felt like it was on fire, and I felt things inside me grinding against each other in ways they shouldn’t be. I tried to stand up, but my legs just laid there motionless.

Dazed and in agony, I watched helplessly as the Krampus stalked through the snow toward me. I tried to dig into my pocket to pull out my phone and call for help, but all I managed to unearth was the tiny cardboard prayer card, with its image of Saint Nicholas on it. It tumbled into the snow, the saint’s tiny eyes staring up at me With nothing else to do, I looked at it and  prayed.

 “Saint Nicholas, please, help me, get me out of this.” I gasped, each word a stabbing pain in my chest.

As the Krampus towered over me, clawed hand raised and ready to strike, a light descended through the night sky like a flare, growing brighter and brighter. The street was suddenly lit up, silhouetting the Krampus. Then there was a rush of air, and for a moment I was snowblind. But the snow cleared, and the light remained. 

In the center of the street stood an elderly looking man. He looked nothing like the jolly old elf on wrapping paper and TV specials. He was tall, slender, and almost wirey. He had thinning grey hair and a grey beard, a vaguely mediterranean complexion, and dark, stern eyes. In spite of his apparent age, he projected immense power. He was dressed in ornate byzantine robes, with an embroidered stole wrapped around him. In his hand was a bishop’s staff. A brilliant halo of light surrounded his head, and flames wreathed the top of his staff. 

The Krampus immediately forgot about me, and squared up against the saint. It charged toward him and swung with both fists, but with lighting speed he blocked them with his crozier, before snapping the top of his staff into the side of the beast. It howled in pain, and backed off, dancing around the saint, trying to press its advantage. But the bishop never relented, swinging and stabbing with his crozier, driving the monster back, shouting at it in what vaguely sounded like Greek. With another blow, he knocked it off its feet. The Krampus sprung back up, and rushed the old man, grabbing the staff and trying to grapple with him. 

Before the monster could bring him to the ground, the saint cocked back that fabled right fist and delivered a divine haymaker into the toothy mouth of the Krampus. With a loud CRACK the beast’s head snapped backward, and it staggered a bit, then toppled over. The saint stood over it, immune to the biting wind and snow. The monster feebly rose, but before it could make another attack, he issued some sort of invocation, and a chain shot out of his sleeve and started wrapping around the Krampus. It howled in rage and struggled, but was impotent against the iron links binding it. Then, still chanting, the saint slowly pulled the beast toward him, hand over hand. 

With the demon finally secure, he concluded his spell, or prayer, or liturgy, or whatever it was, and calmly walked toward me. His previously wrathful demeanor was replaced by one of kindness, like a reserved but loving grandfather. He knelt down before me, and I felt the warmth of his presence radiating outward. He placed a calloused, wrinkled hand on my forehead, and muttered something-I caught the phrase haigos and theos- and made the sign of the cross. Instantly, I felt my bones knit themselves back together. The pain faded, and feeling returned to my lower body. 

Then the saint raised his head to the sky. The snow tapered off, the clouds broke, and the stars appeared. He looked once more at me, smiled, and then rose into the air, the chained Krampus trailing after him. Like a meteor, they shot across the night sky, disappearing from view.

I unsteadily got to my feet. I saw lights bobbing toward me-flashlights, I realized. Thomas had come with help. Apparently he’d witnessed the dramatic showdown.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, incredulously. 

I stared up at the night sky in awe. 

“A visit from Saint Nicholas,” I said reverently. 

***

After giving a statement and answering what few questions I could, I was released to go home. Thomas assured me that all the missing children had been reunited with their parents. I stumbled into my apartment and collapsed into bed, but not before removing my shoes and leaving them by the door. As a kid I’d left them out on St. Nick’s Eve so my parents could put candy in them, but this year I hadn’t gotten around to buying any for myself. 

When I went to put them on the next morning, much to my surprise, I discovered my shoes were stuffed full of gifts. There was fruit, nuts, chocolate, and even an ancient gold coin or two. And in my right shoe, sticking up from the heel, was my prayer card of Saint Nicholas.

You can find story with these keywords: The Nicholas Play, Read The Nicholas Play, The Nicholas Play novel, The Nicholas Play book, The Nicholas Play story, The Nicholas Play full, The Nicholas Play Latest Chapter