I spent the evening working on Son of Hel, a novel about Santa Claus inspired by the famously bad movie Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. The following is the rough draft of the first chapter:
This was the End of the World. It was a place few mortals had seen—and most who had seen it had not survived to tell.
At the pinnacle of the Earth, the Arctic Ocean’s surface turned to ten feet of ice—but beneath the ice, the deep ocean still flowed. Thus it poured, in a vast circle ten thousand feet across, into a round hole penetrating the surface of the globe, forming the world’s largest waterfall. This was the Symmes Hole: The water that flowed into it, lifeblood of the planet, ran through unseen rivers and streams throughout the Earth’s hollow interior, thus becoming the source of the planet’s innumerable springs and wells before it at last exited at the South Pole in a geyser as enormous and deadly as the North Pole’s waterfalls.
In the center of this vast circle of tumbling water, jutting up from the Earth’s unexplored interior, was the Black Precipice, a mountain to rival Everest, made all of lodestone. This mountain it was that caused all compass needles to point inexorably north. Though enormous, the Black Precipice was invisible from the iced-over ocean beyond, shrouded as it was in a permanent cloak of white mist rising from the tumbling water around the Symmes Hole. Few men had glimpsed this terrifying mountain, and most who had, had soon met their deaths in the ten-thousand-foot drop of the vasty waterfalls. Man had not yet built the flying ships capable of crossing the chasm and landing safely on the Black Precipice’s craggy cliffs, so those who dwelt on its slopes remained, for the time being, unharried by the rapaciousness of human greed.
The queen of Elfland, in her chariot pulled by atomies, passed over the deadly falls with no difficulty. Even the terrible winds howling about the great mountain gave her no trouble, as her magical steeds could easily block the frigid gusts with their gossamer wings.
No taller than a thimble, she landed on a level spot overlooking one of the Black Precipice’s sheer cliffs, but as she stepped from her car, she grew to human size—and then grew taller still, at last stopping at a regal height of seven feet. Cloaked in white fur, with a tall crown of intricately intertwined crystal, delicate as a snowflake, atop her head, she walked accompanied on either side by two fairies in golden armor, who bore spears and bows.
All around the Black Precipice’s lower slopes stood a vast city of the elves. Because of the mountain’s extreme magnetism, not a speck of iron was allowed in this place, so the great and nameless city sparkled all over like burnished gold. Every roof was of shining copper, and the high walls around its greatest fortresses were of brass. Gold leaf adorned every doorpost, and the walls of even the humblest dwellings were of marble. Although the waterfalls encircling the mountain thundered perpetually, as the queen approached the city, the noise of the tumbling ocean was soon drowned out by the cacophony of hammers and saws.
The greatest structure in this place was the Cathedral of Saint Nicholas, an enormous, domed edifice only slightly smaller—by requirement—than Saint Peter’s in Rome. It shone like the sun, and before its huge, arched doorway stood a tall, stocky man in a long, fur-lined robe of green velvet. Bald and bare-headed, with a snowy white beard that fell to his chest, he lifted his voice in a mournful, ululating, and wordless song.
As he sang, his voice rising and falling like the wind through an evergreen forest, twelve reindeer, their horns sparkling like ivory on their regal heads, gathered around him, clustering docilely, their horns occasionally touching one another with a faint click. Once the deer had encircled him, the man with the snowy beard ceased his singing and patted each reindeer affectionately with a green-mittened hand.
Like a funeral procession behind a somber bier, these noble creatures filed passed him, walking in single file toward the stables where they would spend the night—or what might be called night. This was midwinter, after all, when the North Pole sat always in darkness.
The queen approached the bearded man and bowed deeply. “Your Excellency,” she said, and she took his mittened hand and kissed it.
He bowed in reply. “Your Majesty. To what do I owe this visit?”
“We have matters to discuss, Your Excellency.”
“Come, then. I can offer you milk and cookies—or if you require stronger fare, I have eggnog, mulled ale, and wine.”
He slid his hand from hers and headed toward a house that stood near the vast church, a humble dwelling one story tall—though it had the same gleaming roof and bright white walls as most of the homes in this city.
The queen, her attendants at her side, kept pace with his powerful strides. “I am surprised,” she said. “It is Advent, is it not? I thought to find you fasting.”
“At the North Pole, it is always Christmas,” he replied. “There is no fasting here.” He threw open his front door himself, revealing a humble mudroom where he doffed his long robe. Beneath this regal garment, he had suspenders and shirtsleeves, about which he was apparently unembarrassed. Once he had pulled off his huge, black boots, he led the queen into a sitting room and offered her a comfortable high-backed chair beside a round-topped fireplace. He poked at the fire with a stoker and added a few fags. Once he had made the room comfortable, he sat opposite her and pressed whiskey-soaked tobacco into a long pipe.
The queen’s attendants still stood stiffly, flanking her. They did not seek seats, and she did not offer them any.
“Now,” said the man as he lit the pipe with a wooden match and slid it between his bright red lips, “what can I do for you?”
“Saint Nicholas,” she said with a faint smile, “you really have changed over the years.”
He patted his copious belly. He had certainly gone to fat, but there was no mistaking the ropy muscle in his arms, and his red and bulbous nose showed evidence of having been broken a few times. The thick beard, too, could not quite hide the scars on his cheeks.
“I am human,” he said with a smile. “We can’t help but age.”
She chuckled quietly, and he responded with a deep, rumbling laugh that shook the flab across his middle.
“One thing I like about you,” she said, “is that you’re not one to stand on ceremony. Call him, please. I’m sure you know I expect to see my husband while I’m here.”
“Of course.” Nicholas swiftly rose from his seat and struck a bell against one wall.
The queen felt a brief moment of irritation—he was calling her husband as if he were a servant. Not only was this humiliating, but it suggested that he had expected her visit.
A moment later, Oberon, tall and youthful and beautiful as always, entered through a low door. He wore a leather apron over his bare torso, and he wiped grease from his strong hands with a kerchief.
The queen felt another hint of annoyance. So this was what the so-called saint had reduced the king of Fairyland to—a \ laborer.
“Your Excellency,” the king said in his deep voice, taking Nicholas’s hand and kissing it.
“Have a seat, Oberon,” Nicholas replied as he puffed on his pipe. “Your wife would speak with you.”
Eyeing the queen warily, Oberon took a footstool, pulled it near the fire, and sat down on it, resting his thick wrists on his knees.
The queen felt another twinge of annoyance.
A moment later, the door opened again, and a dark-skinned man entered in the humble garb of a butler, a waistcoat about him and a black tie sloppily tied at his neck. He held a tray bearing three goblets of wine and bowed deeply at the queen’s elbow. She took a cup of wine with a sickly smile.
With a quick sip, she found the wine to be heated and spiced, but she caught herself before she made a face.
She glanced up at the man serving her, and quickly suppressed another grimace. This was a trick of Nicholas’s, no doubt—she recognized Schwarte Piet, one of Nicholas’s closest confidants. He was obviously no mere servant, but was apparently playing the role of one, perhaps so he could listen in on the conversation. Presumably, Nicholas thought she wouldn’t notice.
She felt another twinge of annoyance. She took a deep drink from the spiced wine and granted Nicholas a tight-lipped smile.
Nicholas now held a goblet of his own, though he merely turned it in his hand while he smoked his pipe. As the queen well new, he drank almost nothing these days except milk, but he apparently still made a show for his guests.
Oberon, on the other hand, made no show. He drank off most of his cup in one pull. Apparently recognizing the impropriety, he smiled guiltily and said, “The workshops—they can make a man thirsty.”
Nicholas laughed deeply yet quietly at that remark.
“Quite a sight,” the queen said through clenched teeth, “the king of all Fairyland reduced to making trinkets for human children.”
“Yet it is honest work,” Oberon replied after another drink, “work I would not trade for any kingship. You should join us, Titania. When I came up from the water, under the hands of His Excellency, I realized I was finally free.”
The queen leapt from her seat. Wine sloshed from her goblet, but she paid it no heed as it splattered the polar bear rug before the fire. “I am no longer Titania!” she hissed. “I am Mab, queen of all the fay! And we, we are the ones who are free! You bow and scrape before this—this—”
She gestured toward Nicholas, but the requirements of courtesy stopped her from saying more.
Oberon laughed and finished his wine. “Free, Titania? Really? Are you not still obligated to the tithe?”
“The humans pay it for us,” the queen answered with a cold grin. “We can always produce enough changelings, Oberon. It is the children of men, not we, who must feed the ever-hungry mouth of hell.”
“And that too would be unnecessary,” Oberon said quietly, “if you submitted to be baptized.”
“I would damn a million children,” the queen whispered, “nay, a billion—to remain free of the god you serve.”
A moment of silence passed, after which Nicholas cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he said in his deep voice, quiet and genial yet somehow commanding, “it would not be permissible for me to stand between the visitations of wife and husband, no matter how estranged, and for that reason you are always welcome at the North Pole. Nonetheless, I must ask—what has prompted your visit?”
The queen sipped her wine and then rose from her chair. At her full seven feet of height, she glared down at the flabby, bearded saint, and said, “I think you know: I have come to request the release of Krampus, Saint Nicholas.”
Now Nicholas pulled the pipe from his mouth and drank from his own goblet. Piete, still faking the role of a servant, stood impassively at his elbow, but gave the queen a cunning glance. She returned it with a cold stare.
“He is the last living descendant of the old gods,” the queen said. “You have no reason to keep him. He would be better treated in my care.”
“He serves a purpose,” Nicholas said quietly, now drinking deeply of his wine, “as do I. I cannot release him.”
Oberon set his goblet down on the hearth and said, “A bargain, then? What would you offer in exchange, Titania?”
“My goodwill,” she replied. “The goodwill of all Fairyland.”
Nicholas responded with another deep belly laugh, but quickly cut it off.
Oberon tapped his fingers on his empty gold cup. “I would gladly see that creature gone from us—”
Nicholas raised a hand, and Oberon instantly fell silent.
“I am sorry,” Nicholas said. “But Krampus is under my care. I am not at liberty to release him.”
The queen gazed down at him. “I can offer you the friendship of Fairyland, Saint Nicholas. Would you have me as an ally—or an enemy?”
“Do as you will, Your Majesty,” Nicholas replied as he stuck his pipe back between his teeth. “In this matter, I have no choice.”
The queen bowed and placed her goblet, from which she’d barely drunk, on the armrest of her chair. “I thank you for your hospitality,” she said coldy, and then she turned toward the door.
Both Oberon and Nicholas rose from their seats, but the queen reached the door long before either of them could open it for her.
As her hand touched the ice-cold latch, Oberon said, “Titania, Titania my bride, it is not too late: Even with everything you have done, even with all the innocent babes you have damned, a single drop from the wounds of Christ can still make you clean.”
She didn’t look at him. With her right hand freezing against the killing cold of the copper door handle, she whispered, “If cleanness means the life you lead, Oberon, a life of base servitude, then I will gladly throw myself headlong into filth and wickedness and even hell—and I will regret nothing.”
She threw the door open and, with attendants in tow, flung herself out into the bitter, howling wind.
