I have a lot of work to do to produce Son of Hel, my next project. Although the story is going to be an action-focused tale of Krampus, the Christmas demon, I want to do it justice in spite of the inherent silliness. My goal is to create a fully realized culture for the North Pole where Santa Claus lives, and to integrate as much existing folklore as I am able.
To that end, I am currently sitting here with stacks of books on folklore and making notes about various kinds of fairies from different cultures in order to integrate them into the society of elves at the North Pole. I’ve also been discovering the various companions of St. Nicholas, figuring out which ones I can combine into a single figure and which ones I must make separate characters.
Although they are of rather recent origin, I am also determined that Santa’s eight-plus-one reindeer will figure in the story. The following is a draft of how they appear thus far. I originally intended this scene to be a raucous party, though the result (at least at present) is surprisingly subdued. That may change in later drafts.
In a few hours it would be the fifth of December, the eve of what those at the North Pole had come to call the First Run. Mistakenly but understandably believing Nicholas to be dead, the universal Church had long ago chosen December sixth as his saint’s day, so that was the first day he delivered toys to children. Compared to Christmas Eve, St. Nicholas Day was a small, brief run with few deliveries, requiring no more than a few hours. But it helped Nicholas and the elves ensure that the sleigh and its accoutrements were in working order and ready for the Big Run, when he delivered toys to children all over the world. The First Run had a high margin of error; it was a good time for troubleshooting.
But the fifth of December, the day before, was not St. Nicholas’s day. It was a dark day, a day of fear, and it belonged to someone else, someone decidedly less jolly—and considerably less generous.
As evening came on, in anticipation of the First Run that would begin in twelve hours, Alpha Squadron congregated in the stables. This squadron consisted of the eight reindeer who had achieved the highest marks on the annual flight test, and for almost a century, the same eight reindeer had held this honor.
In scientific terms, they were Arctic reindeer, also known as Greenland caribou, or Rangifer tarandus eogroenlandicus, and those in the stables of Saint Nicholas were the last of their kind, for their subspecies had been otherwise extinct for almost four decades. It was thanks to the magic of the elves that they had powers of speech and flight as well as unusually long life. The Black Precipice of the uttermost North was a haven for them, just as it had become a haven for the last of the fay folk whom an encroaching modernity had driven from their woods and meadows.
Contrary to popular depictions, they were not tiny. They were huge, muscular brutes with shaggy coats, thick shoulders, and wide, blunt muzzles. Most were bareheaded, for they had shed their antlers the month before once their rut had ended. The only exception was Vixen, the one cow who had scored high enough for Alpha Squadron. Though considerably smaller than the others, Vixen’s tall, sweeping antlers lent her certain air of sober majesty. She would keep her antlers until spring.
In a dim corner of the stable, Comet, formerly the squadron’s captain, brooded atop a mound of hay. Although this was supposed to be a time of revelry, he was silent, and his hard expression had its effect on the rest of the squadron: The others spoke in low voices, giving Comet occasional, uneasy glances. Vixen, somewhat apart from the rest, gazed at him steadily for a minute before she shook her head and sighed.
Usually a rowdy bunch, the squadron was strangely subdued, but they had reasons to be uneasy—major changes had recently come to their close-knit and long-established group.
An impish elf with a long nose and a glimmer in his dark eyes, bounded into the stable, rolling before him an enormous cask. He whistled a tune as he brought the cask to a halt and sat upon it. Crossing one leg over the other, he lit a pipe and grinned mischievously as he smoked.
Comet lifted his head and scowled.
“Puck,” Comet grumbled, “what do you think you’re doing here?”
Puck leapt from the cask and with a snap of his fingers, produced a wooden tap, which he knocked into the cask with a mallet.
“Old St. Nick,” said Puck in his reedy voice as he chewed the stem of his pipe, “wants his reindeer to make merry, aye?”
Comet’s scowl deepened as Puck poured rum from the cask into a tin cup, drank it off neat, and then filled it again.
As Puck was a hobgoblin, Comet was tempted to banish him by offering him clothes. He eyed a heavy blanket hanging against the far wall and wondered if it would suffice.
As the rum rang pleasantly against the enameled tin of the cup, Prancer—always fond of strong drink—lifted his head. His nostrils quivered, and his soft, blue-black eyes grew round as saucers.
Puck gave him a wink before passing him the cup. Prancer took it in a trembling fetlock and raised it toward his lips.
“To Nicholas,” Prancer said.
“Aye,” Puck answered with a deep bow as if he were the one toasted.
“Prancer, stop,” Comet said, rising to his feet. Prancer slopped the rum onto the fur of his breast as he quickly lowered the cup.
The stable was silent. The reindeer stared at Comet. Puck chuckled quietly and rubbed his hands together.
Comet licked his lips with his thick tongue, cleared his throat, and said, “No drinking before the run. If you want to celebrate afterwards, that’s your business—and you’ll have a good seventeen days to do it. But for now, no drink, and you’re all to turn in early.”
The other reindeer murmured.
Puck took the cup from Prancer. “Aye, your captain’s a hard one, ain’t he—? Ah, but it seems to me I heard he ain’t the captain no more.”
Puck drank the cup off and filled it yet again, his teeth gleaming wetly in his broad smile. As if from nowhere, he produced a milking stool and sat down with one arm on the cask as if he were leaning against an old friend. “’Tis pity,” he said, “that I’ll have to sit here and drink it all my own self.”
“Puck,” said Comet with a puff from his nostrils, “surely King Oberon wants your assistance in the toy shop.”
Puck only tipped his head back and laughed, downed another cup of rum, and produced from behind his back a tall, green bottle. He set it down on the packed-earth floor with a satisfying clunk.
“And here I have this aged eggnog, too,” he said, his voice whistling through his teeth. “Made with sherry. A favorite among you lot, if I’m not mistaken.”
Prancer shot to his hooves. “Oh, Comet, please—”
“Lie down,” Comet snapped.
Prancer dipped his head. Slowly, as if crumbling, he lowered himself back to the stable floor.
Nearby, Blitzen snorted, and white vapor flew like steam from his nostrils. He had an old scar crossing his left eye, which made his face look hard and fierce. He pulled his lips back from yellowed teeth. “Vhy are ve taking Comet’s orders? He ees not ze captain, ja?”
Puck, still chewing his pipe, pulled the stopper from the bottle, poured a quarter of it out into another cup, and passed it to Blitzen, who received it with a nod before drinking.
Comet merely turned his head away, silent.
“Do as you like,” he muttered after a minute.
Tin cups full of nog dispersed among the reindeer. When one came to the shy, fidgeting Cupid, he blinked his watery eyes, raised a hoof, and shook his head, letting it pass by. After a minute, he stood up from his place, shuffled across the stable, and lay down beside Vixen.
He nudged her with his muzzle and murmured in a low voice.
She glanced at him. He nodded toward Comet and then looked back at her.
He began, “Look—”
“I appreciate it, Cupid,” she said quietly. “But don’t bother. Really.”
She took a cup of eggnog offered by Dancer, drank it down, and then passed it back with, “Get me another.”
Cupid sighed.
Prancer was soon on his third cup. The eggnog was running low, so he used the rum to dilute it. With his cup in one fetlock, he rose to his hooves, staggering and giggling as he shakily tried a dance step with only three feet. He soon fell on his face, spilling cream and rum across the earthen floor. Some of the other reindeer laughed.
Comet merely lowered his chin to his front hooves.
“I didn’t think he’d take it so hard,” Cupid muttered in Vixen’s ear. “You should have a word—”
“Where is our new captain anyway?” Vixen interrupted. “He ought to be here.”
Cupid shrugged his shaggy shoulders. “He doesn’t go out in public much, and I can’t say I blame him.” He gazed up at the rough-cut roof beams for a moment before adding, “I’m not much for alcohol, at least not of this kind. Maybe I should—”
Vixen patted his shoulder with a hoof. “You’re always thinking of others, Cupid. Just relax tonight. C’mon, have a drink.”
He shook his head and then inclined it toward Comet, apparently meaning to gesture with an antler—though his antlers were gone.
Vixen laughed quietly. “You’ll be the only one obeying him, you know.”
“I’m content with that.” With a low groan, Cupid rose to his hooves and wriggled as if throwing snow from his back. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Where are you going?” Vixen asked.
Cupid smiled faintly and shrugged again. “To check on the captain.”
#
The tendons in his feet made a rhythmic, metallic clicking as Cupid padded through the elf village, winding his way between the marble-walled, brass-roofed houses. The road he walked was deep black and coated with a faint tinge of red, cut as it was directly from the side of the lodestone mountain.
Cupid, like all the reindeer, was of course bare-hooved. No one dared bring iron near the Black Precipice, and that include shoes for hoofed animals.
After passing several rows of lavish, elvish villas, he stopped at last before a tiny, humble stable wedged between two tall, pure white towers. A small family of reindeer had formerly lived here—but the mother and father were dead, and only their son remained.
Cupid gently tapped a hoof against the heavy door. He heard no response, but he nonetheless pushed his way inside. Reindeer knew little of privacy.
“Cupid.” A raspy voice reached him out of the shadows.
The room was dim, but to a reindeer’s sensitive eyes, its contents were plain as day. No ornaments adorned the walls. Moldy hay, which had probably not been changed in months, littered the floor. There was no furniture. On the far side of the room lay a young reindeer bull, barely more than a calf. He was small and thin—much thinner than the typical reindeer of the North Pole, who trained hard to build their strength for the privilege of pulling Nicholas’s sleigh. But what was most striking about this young reindeer was the heavy, crudely sculpted mask of gray lead he wore over his face. Although apparently meant to resemble the face of a caribou, the mask instead had the aspect of a wolf—lean and hungry, much like the almost emaciated reindeer who wore it. Cupid could not shake the impression of a predator glaring at him out of the darkness.
“Captain,” Cupid said, and he dipped his head in the reindeers’ version of a salute.
The young bull spoke, and his voice was surprisingly high, though muffled by the mask. It was a youth’s voice, but it held a great weariness that belied the young reindeer’s tender years. “You … you’re Cupid, aren’t you?”
“I am, captain. Thank you for remembering me.”
The captain’s mask clanked faintly as he nodded. “Why are you here, Cupid?”
“I thought I should invite you—”
The captain laughed faintly. “Invite? You other reindeer never let me join in your games.”
Cupid lowered his head, and his lips twitched with a faint smile. “Captain, you know I never mocked you like the others. I hope the same thing for you that I hope for everyone—happiness.”
The captain chuckled. Muffled by his wolfish mask, the sound was almost like a growl. “And how is your meddling coming along, Cupid? Have you succeeded in convincing Vixen and Comet to confess their undying love for each other?”
In spite of himself, Cupid grinned widely. He lifted one front hoof and stroked it against the shank of the opposite leg, the reindeer’s equivalent of gleefully rubbing hands. “Not yet, captain. But soon! Tonight, the rum and wine are flowing freely in our communal stable! In time, perhaps even Comet’s icy exterior will melt, and if he pulls up close to Vixen for warmth and conversation, why—”
The captain cut him off with a barking laugh. “Enough, Cupid! Enough. I don’t need to hear your fantasies.”
Cupid chuckled, now slightly giddy. He swayed on his hooves. “You really should join us, captain. Come, have a drink with the other bulls. You’re our leader now, and you shouldn’t shun us. I promise we won’t shun you.”
The captain merely shook his head. “You wouldn’t, I know. The others would only associate with me because they’re obliged to.”
“You don’t need to impose this exile on yourself, captain. I know you don’t like it. There was a cow once, wasn’t there, to whom you took a fancy—?”
“She’s dead,” the captain snapped, and Cupid immediately closed his mouth.
After a pause, the captain added, more quietly, “Like my parents. Everyone who’s gotten too close to me is dead.”
A long silence filled the tiny stable. An icy wind whistled past the rickety door.
“My condolences,” Cupid said at last with a slight dip of his head. Even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow.
The captain snorted, but then tapped a hoof against the wolf-like cover on his face. “You too, you know. You shouldn’t be in here. I’ve done my best, but this mask won’t necessarily protect you. In time, you too could get sick and die—”
“I’ve lived a long life,” Cupid replied. “Were I a typical reindeer, I’d be dead nine decades past.”
“The sickness still isn’t a pleasant way to go,” said the captain. “I watched my parents wither away with their teeth and coats falling out. I wouldn’t see the same thing happen to anyone else, especially not the only reindeer who’s tried to befriend me.”
Cupid bowed his head again. “You are our leader, captain. It would be good—”
“I’ll fly with you,” the captain replied, “tomorrow and again on Christmas Eve. I will do my duty. But then I ask you to leave me to myself. The others never let join in their games, but I don’t want to join.”
Cupid cleared his throat faintly. “Nicholas chose you because—”
“He thought he was doing me a kindness,” the captain interrupted, his voice low and unreadable. “He was wrong. If he wanted to do me a true kindness, he’d take the elvish magic from me and let me die.”
Cupid swallowed loudly. For a brief moment, his whole frame trembled as if the North Pole’s cold had reached even through his heavy fur and hide. “It’s not good to be alone, captain.”
The captain, with a deep sigh, stood up on his rickety, thin legs. The top of his head barely reached Cupid’s dewlap. “Everyone is alone, Cupid. Everyone. But I know you can’t understand that.”
With that, the captain pushed past Cupid and headed out the door.
