‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE…

RICHARD DEVIN

 

 

There was a tale of Old St. Nick.

A tale of doom, with a hypnotic trick.

 

The tale was too true for holiday cheer.

So tales were told for those who fear.

 

That tale was told and told again.

It was told so much that a legend set in.

 

A legend of holly and holiday cheer.

A legend of sleighs and tiny reindeer.

 

A legend of gifts and good girls and boys.

A legend of workshops and elfin-made toys.

 

A legend to deceive and mask away fears.

A legend now told down through the years.

 

A legend of Santa so gentle, so jolly.

A legend of good tidings, filled with such folly.

 

A legend unlike the fable of truth.

Where vampires fangs and blood are the proof.

 

So good tidings to tales of jolly old Nick,

Know the beginnings to the devil’s old trick.

 

’Twas the night before Christmas and all that you know

Is not as it seems and never was so.

 

And Saint Nick is not the saint that you seek.

For he is not jolly nor ever so meek.

 

If he finds you, awake, not asleep.

‘Tis blood, a child or soul’s what he’ll keep.

 

If an elfin ending is what you desire,

Then this St. Nick is sure to inspire.

 

A wonderland of toys and musty old tales,

Will serve for all time, for Nick never fails.

 

 

Legend – a tale told when the truth is too unbelievable.

 

 

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

 

Steam spewed with a nearly deafening whistle from the old, rusted, heavy machinery as it drove the piston—hissing, lifting the hammer, releasing in a cloud, and smashing the hammer down onto a metal plate. Then with a great rumble, the cycle began again.

The workshop was filled with a cacophony of thuds, clangs, whistles, and bangs. Smoke filled sunlight streamed through small rectangular windows frosted over by the never-ending, frigid arctic air held at bay beyond the walls.

Scampering about the workshop, rushing from one of the massive machines to another, in a curious choreography of near collisions, squat elfin creatures scurried, hauling, pulling, plying, and maneuvering the toys that popped from the ancient machinery.  They handed off the toys down a line of bearded, grease-covered elves in a game of “new toy” hot potato until they reached the decorating tables. There, the metal and wooden toys were painted, then glossed and trimmed and bejeweled, by younger elfin boys and girls.

Laboring elves pulled trolleys laden with newly made toys, down tracks in the flooring. When they reached the ramp leading to the loading dock, they clambered behind the trolley, pushing on it with short stubby legs that strained under the effort.

Trolleys and carts were haphazardly parked with their burdens of toys by the receiving dock, where slightly larger elves hauled the toys up to the dock and stuffed them into animal-skin bags trimmed with the fur of the once living creature.

Then, filled to near bursting, the bags were loaded into the back of a black sleigh that lacked any shine or ornate decoration. Worn, chipped, and dented, the sleigh faced two great metal doors. Scenes of high walled castles were depicted on thick, mammoth tapestries that hung from the top of the doors, and despite having been closed and latched with a rusted iron rod the size of a telephone pole, snow and wind managed to creep in at the corners where the doors met, leaving slight mounds of ice-crusted snow on the workshop floor.

 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

 

Snow blanketed the fields and woods surrounding the sagging, ramshackle cottage that we called home. A fire burned and crackled in a corner of the only room. From a distance, the cottage and nearby barn—that was in only slightly better condition—looked charming dusted with snow. Smoke rose in a twisted column from the stone chimney, and tree-trunk fence rails bore a burden of windswept snow. It was a winter wonderland to the mind’s eye. And hell to us who were its inhabitants.

The past growing season had not been fruitful. The less-than-normal rains meant fewer than normal crops. Most, we harvested and stored for the winter, keeping the two cows and donkey fairly well fed, but they were by no means fat. For me, Milan, my dad, Mickel, and my mother, Jenia, there was little food to spare. As winter had settled in, my parents rationed what we had in storage, making it last as long as possible by mixing it in soups and stews with the rarely snared bird or rabbit.

We made the cabin look the season as best we could. My dad and I felled a small, unshapely evergreen tree, and along with my mother, decorated it with bits of straw, an old bird’s nest, and red berries found in the nearby woods. Then we set the tree upon a rickety table, placing both the table and tree near the fire nook, with a silent prayer that neither would go up in flames.

The tree was there, decorated and beckoning, but morning’s break would find no gifts under this tree—despite tonight being the ending of the eve of Christmas.

 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

 

All were asleep. I stayed awake to tend the fire so that Christmas morning wouldn’t find us all frostbitten and shivering. I stoked the fire with one log, not wanting to use up the dried kindling too quickly and force me to the outside and the windy, cold night.

A baying from the barn outside caught my attention and drew me to the window. I glanced toward the barn and fields, where not a creature stirred. Then a shadow in the night sky drew my eyes upward. There, the darkness of the sky nearly consumed the black, sleek sleigh that careened through the star-filled abyss, driven forward by creatures colored even blacker than the night. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would have mistaken the sleigh that flew with such soundless speed for a moon shadow.

 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

 

As the sleigh descended from the ebon sky into the moonlight, the driver and creatures leading it became clear, and the horrors of what they were became evident. They were eight-in-hand, yet not one was a horse or mule or ox, but a combination of all. They had horns that grew straight back from mule-like heads, curving down at the shoulders, with cloven hooves on long thin legs, backs that were strong and full at the loins, and a tail that looked like that of a rat’s.

The creatures brayed as the crack of a whip sliced into their backs. They bucked in the air, tossing their heads, horns clashing, with the sound echoing into the night.

 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

 

The driver, dressed in black fur with a cloak that undulated behind him, snapped the whip once again and called in a voice filled with malevolence to each of the creatures pulling the sleigh. A guttural sound that no man could make or understand, he growled what to my ears I thought might be their names. As each creature was called, it responded with a snort.

 

"Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

 

Then with the whip twice as long as three men, the driver stood, pulled his arm back, and cracked the leather lead onto the backs of the creatures. They grunted and brayed like no animals on earth. A horrendous sound of terror descended upon my ears and heralded their arrival. Then a cackling and hiss from the driver could be heard above the creatures’ cries. The sound sent an uncontrollable shiver throughout my body.

 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too.

 

The driver directed the creatures by pulling on a harness of leather embedded with nails, creating deep scratches in their darkened hides, where a black liquid oozed out. Scars blighted their sides and flanks, where harness and whip had met the creatures’ bodies many times before.

 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

 

The sleigh turned and dropped, heading straight for the cottage. It was out of sight for only a few seconds when I heard it light upon the roof. Snow, dust, and soot fell from the old broken beams supporting the roof, filling the interior with a curtain of particles. I quickly covered my mouth and nose with the sleeve of my shirt.

 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

 

Out of the dust and from the fire, a figure appeared. He was covered in soot and ash and it cascaded around him, falling from the black fur collar and cuffs of his cloak. The fire instantly flashed, nearly igniting the table and tree. Even though only one log lay in the hearth, flames burst forth as though it had been stoked full.

 

His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

 

He hesitated, then caught sight of me crouched on my bed in the corner of the room. In the loft above, my mother and father slept soundly, unaware of the intruder. I pulled the blanket up closer to my shoulders, hoping it would help to hide me. His eyes gleamed a reddish glare and he scowled in my direction. His face was black with soot and a dark beard hung from his chin. He remained where he was, and his eyes also remained staring directly into my soul. After a moment, a slow smile spread across his face.

 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

 

At first, I thought I could make out a pipe hanging from the corner of his snarled smile, but as he moved into the dim light cast by the moon coming through the window, it became apparent that it was not a pipe at all, but a long, twisted tooth that hung like the fang of an old hog. Then, while I watched with dread, a second tooth in the other corner of his mouth extended and snaked its way down till it met the length of the other. He cackled and stepped closer. As he did so, the flames in the hearth faded and the room grew suddenly cold.

 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

 

The black fur collar and cuffs, along with the wide cloak that wrapped around him, gave him the appearance of some girth, and he stood taller than most men. As he closed the few feet between us, I could make out more of him: hands that were skeletal and a face that betrayed his many, many years.  His skin was near gray and patches of it were bruised and rotting. I wanted to look away, but dared not. He took another step.

 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

 

He moved slowly, nearly gliding over the warped and worn floorboards. Not a sound did he make as he stepped closer and closer to me. I sat with the blanket pulled up tightly as possible, with my back flat against the wall in the corner of the room, where the small bench that served as my bed at night and for storage during the day had always been. I could not move.

Then he sprang. His body reached mine in the blink of an eye, and should I have blinked, I would have missed seeing him move at all. Suddenly, he was over me, leering at me. I was paralyzed in fear. I tried to yell for my father, but my dry throat would only choke out a strained whisper.

He cackled at me, then let a long hiss slip between the blackened fangs and his lips.  He slowly moved down toward me, lowering himself as if he were a puppet on a string. I could feel the bristles of his fur cuffs as his hands reached for my head. They brushed my cheek, and if the circumstances had been any different, they would have tickled, but now they caused a deep chill to rush down my spine. He leaned in, pushed my head to the side, revealing the throbbing vein in the side of my neck. I tried to resist; I could not. As if possessed, I allow my head to tilt without resistance, exposing my neck to him. I could feel the hot breath on my neck, then the scratch of fangs on my exposed skin, tearing slowly across my jugular. And then they pierced. Scalding pain seared through me, and yet I did not move. I was in his trance, before falling into a nightmarish slumber.

 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ’ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

 

I awoke, confused, panting, my lungs hungry for air. Darkness enfolded me. I tried to raise my hands but hit rough canvas. Reality began to settle in, and an image filled my mind’s eye. I was inside the large cloth sack the monster had brought with him. I could now hear the wind and felt the occasional bump as the sleigh rose into the night. Then, just before I went unconscious again, I heard the unmistakable sound of his cackle.

I was not alone when I woke. There were others: another boy of twelve or thirteen, a girl nearly an adult. We had been piled in a corner of a room that was clearly a tinker’s workshop. Machinery stood silent, and sawdust littered the floor, capturing little footprints from those who had worked the machines. It was dark and quiet and smelled of wood and grease and sweat. A calendar on a distant wall hung crookedly from a nail. Red marks were drawn through each of the days: day number 1 marked, day number 2 marked. And so were all the remaining days up to the 24th, the last day marked. The 25th remained unmarked. Christmas.

A small, thick wooden door opened near where the calendar hung. A figure appeared in the doorway and beckoned to us. “Come.”

The girl stood and started moving first. The other boy and I followed.

As we drew nearer to the figure, I could see that he wasn’t a man, but a boy. Not much older than I was. He looked into my eyes as I passed through the doorway and he whispered to me, “The story was wrong. He does not bring gifts... He takes them.”