Santa Claus ran his finger across the rough parchment, lightly tracing the inscription below. “Charity unto others brings its own reward,” he whispered.
Satan? I am not Satan!” the beast growled. “I am Krampus, the Lord of Yule. Now if you do not get out of my way I will tear out your heart and eat it!
There will never be an end to suffering. You do what you can, only what you can. Peace comes from knowing you helped those that you could.
Something’s just not right,” he said, shaking his head, “not by a long shot.
They headed east, deeper into hill country, leaving Krampus’s gift of Yule cheer in over three dozen homes spread about as many neighborhoods all along eastern Boone County. Most of the visits went smoothly, as smoothly as one could hope for any home invasion carried out by a host of costume-clad devils.
Makwa, my bravest warrior.” His words were earnest and measured. “The great spirits call. It is time for you to go to them, to be honored for your loyalty and bravery. Mishe Moneto has gathered all your great fathers and they all await you with a magnificent feast. Go to them with your chin held high. Take your rightful place.
So I must ask myself, what role can I play in a world where men worship the moving-picture box, where they make and consume potions that eat away their own brains, where they ravage and pillage entire mountains, kill the very earth itself? “Mankind has lost its connection to the land, to the earth, to the beasts and spirits. They gather their food not from the forest and fields, but from plastic bins and ice boxes.
Hey!” the kid screamed. “Hey, you can’t do that!” He stood up and when he did, Santa snatched the bicycle out from under him. He lifted the bike over his head and chucked it down the hill.
He noticed Millie Boggs’s little plastic Jesus wedged between the back of his cab and the front of the camper shell. The baby Savior appeared to be looking directly at him and smiling. “You having yourself a good time?” Jesse shouted up at the doll.
Just be careful what you say. Don’t upset him.” “You mean the Grumpus guy?” “It’s Krampus.” “Just who’s this –.
You are not made out of needs, you are made out of your dreams and desires.
Abitha managed to be astounded by the impossible: a Puritan minister and the Devil praying together, praying to Jesus and Mother Earth and who knew what else, all in an effort to save her.
That is not what you want, that is what you need. You are not made out of needs, you are made out of your dreams and desires.
She called to them: the cicadas, the moths, the beetles, and fireflies, the little gnats and mosquitos, the thousands and thousands of little mosquitos. And they responded, their tiny voices swelling, coming together like a song, filling the woods with their melody as they flew to her, swarming and swirling together like a growing storm cloud.
Abitha could see that these people believed, truly believed, that they were doing God’s work here this day. And there was something about these people that horrified Abitha even worse than those whose faces were lined with cruelty. As at least cruelty was a thing that could be pointed out, confronted. But this belief, this absolute conviction that this evil they were doing was good, was God’s work – how, she wondered, how could such a dark conviction ever be overcome?
A hard grimace set on Abitha’s face. “If it is a witch they want,” she hissed, “then a witch they shall have.
The towering trees grew ever denser as she went, leaning in on her from either side, blocking out the sun – a twisted tunnel of branches and leaves and gnarled roots that felt ready to swallow her at any moment.
He inhaled deeply, felt some vestige of strength returning to him, the moon’s rays, the stars, and forest air all like food for his starving soul.
Silly man, no one is asking you to denounce anyone. Only to open your heart. To invite them all into your house.
I am not Abitha. Abitha was murdered. I am the witch, and the witch cares not for your tears.
Abitha laughed loud and hard, realized it was more than this bawdy song, it was being able to let her hair down, to be her vulgar, sassy self in front of someone again, even if that someone might be the Devil himself.