No footprints in the snow

It was nearly midnight and I was beginning to hope I could spend the last hours of my shift quietly cleaning tables and polishing glasses. Then the door blew open and a man dressed as Santa Claus stepped inside.

“Merry Christmas!” he said, beaming at me and throwing his arms wide. He even ho-ho-hoed.

“And to you,” I said, smiling my customer service smile. “What can I get you?”

“A glass of coke, please.” The guy in the Santa suit was broad and round-bellied and had a little difficulty getting onto a barstool. The padding was probably his own.

I poured him a coke and set the glass down in front of him.

“What brings you here this late?” I asked. “Dressed like that, I mean. I thought the Christmas market closes at six.”

“I’m always dressed like this.” He sipped his drink. “It’s a work thing. A few of my colleagues will be joining me soon. We do this every year to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Christmas of course! Ho ho ho!”

It wasn’t exactly the quiet shift I had hoped for, but it could have been a lot worse. Santa here seemed a friendly sort. He could have stepped right out of a Christmas movie. His eyes were twinkly and his beard was probably real. His outfit looked like it was made of thick, red, good quality wool. He was a far cry from the usual tired old man in the polyester suit they had at the mall in December.

“What company do you work for?” I asked, picturing a band of jolly old men dressing up to visit sick children in hospitals.

“You could say we’re self-employed. We’re in the business of gift-giving and we solve behavioural problems in children.”

Ah. Well, if he wanted to stay in character, I could play along. “So tell me, what’s the ratio of naughty to nice children this year?”

“Same as usual.”

“Ten percent coal? Twenty percent?”

“I don’t do coal,” he said. “Even the naughtiest bullies get toys. The economy, you see.”

“Huh.”

“Yep,” he said, scratching his beard and grinning from ear to ear. “Toys are brilliant. Plastic, unnecessary electronic parts, made in China, bound to break in six months. And impossible to repair, of course, so a replacement will have to be bought. It’s amazingly good for the economy.”

“Shouldn’t you be convincing people that Christmas is about peace and love and family?”

Santa Claus threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Ha! You’ve got me confused with someone else! Show your family you love them, by all means. Get your father a fancy cordless hedge trimmer and your mother an anti-ageing face cream containing twenty vitamins. And don’t forget your girlfriend. Boyfriend?” He eyed me curiously.

I shrugged. It was none of his business.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, reaching over the bar to pat me on the shoulder. “As long as you buy ‘em a diamond, or a week in Cuba.”

He drained his glass and held it out. “Could I have a refill?”

I reached into the fridge under the bar and found we were out of coke.

“Be right back,” I told him. “I have to get a couple of bottles from the cellar.”

It took me a little longer than usual to find what I needed because the boss had obviously been tidying and we had very different ideas of what that actually meant. I was climbing the stairs, crate of bottles on my hip, when I heard the service bell ringing.

“Just a minute!” I shouted. “I’m on my way!”

I closed the cellar door and stepped behind the bar again. Santa had been joined by two others, one of whom was tapping the service bell with a steady rhythm. He was a young man - a boy? - with the face of a Christmas card angel and a mass of golden curls. I snatched the bell away and hid it under the bar. Stupid thing.

“These are my colleagues,” said Santa. He clapped the man on his right on the shoulder. “This is Father Christmas.”

Like Santa, he was an old man with a beard, but the resemblance stopped there. He wore green robes lined with straggly grey fur and a crown of holly. He didn’t look like a man who would sit on a tacky throne in the mall and ask snotty kids what they wanted for Christmas.

“And this is Christkindl.” Santa indicated the bell ringer.

“What can I get you two?” I said, as I refilled Santa’s glass.

“White wine,” said Christkindl. His voice was clear and high. Choirs throughout town must be fighting over him.

“I’m going to have to see some ID first.”

He laughed and held out a card. I was having trouble focusing on it. The photograph was definitely him, and when the letters stopped jumping around I realised he was older than I was. I thanked him and poured a glass of white wine.

“And you, sir?” I asked Father Christmas.

“Pint of cider, please. The local one you have on tap.”

“Sure thing.” I pulled him a pint and he took a sip immediately.

“Good stuff,” he said.

Santa leaned forward, putting both elbows on the bar. “Our friend the bartender here thinks Christmas is about peace and love and family.”

“Nah,” said Father Christmas. “Eat, drink and be merry. That’s what I say.”

“Well, that’s part of it, I suppose,” I said.

“Winter’s horrid,” Father Christmas continued. “All that cold and darkness, it’s not good for humans. You need a bit of song and something to drink to get through it all.”

“Utter rubbish,” said Christkindl. “It’s not about feasting.”

I couldn’t help noticing he had all but finished his wine. He tapped the glass meaningfully and I refilled it for him.

“Christmas is a religious holiday,” he continued. “Don’t you agree, bartender?”

“Er,” I said. “I’m not religious, personally. For me, Christmas is about spending time with family. I’m looking forward to that. I haven’t seen my sister in four months. She’s been away at university.”

I found that steering conversations away from religion and politics was the best way to ensure a quiet night in the pub, but it seemed I was not getting off so easily this time.

“And you and your family, you’ll enjoy yourselves, won’t you?” Father Christmas said. “Good food, nice wine, perhaps some music…”

“Well, yes.”

“Presents,” Santa said. “Everything is commercialised these days.”

“Christmas is about the birth of Christ.” Christkindl gestured with his hands and spilt a little wine over himself. Then he glanced towards the door and smiled. “Oh, look who it is!”

A fourth man had entered the pub. He wore long robes that might at one point have been white. His face was tanned and his eyelids drooped, making him look like a solemn basset hound.

“Blessings upon you and upon this house,” he said, making some sort of gesture with his right hand.

“Saint Nicholas!” Father Christmas shouted, raising his glass. “Good to see you! We’ve been waiting for ages.”

“I was delayed.” Saint Nicholas sat down on a barstool and ordered a small glass of red wine.

“What happened?” Santa asked.

“I was donating to charity.”

“And that took you more than an hour?”

“Yes.” Saint Nicholas took a small sip of his wine. “It’s important to choose the right charity. Something that will help poor children live good, virtuous lives.”

Christkindl leaned forward to speak. “You agree with me, don’t you, that Christmas is about the birth of Christ?”

“Of course,” Saint Nicholas said. “And as we are reminded of his generosity, we ourselves must give freely to those less fortunate than us.”

Father Christmas snorted and ordered another cider. “Have you got anything to eat?”

“Crisps and peanuts,” I said, tossing him a few packets.

“Thanks,” he said. “All this discussion about religion makes me hungry. Did you know that plenty of old religions and cultures have a midwinter feast and that our modern Christmas is a jolly mishmash of all of them?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“He can tell you all sorts about old customs.” Father Christmas pointed over my shoulder.

I turned and nearly jumped out of my skin. In the doorway stood a man wearing the most lifelike costume and mask I had ever seen. He looked like a nightmare. Horns sprung from his forehead and twisted over his head. His face was covered in dark, scraggly fur, and a big red tongue lolled from his mouth.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said once I had gotten over the shock. “You can’t wear that mask in here.”

“It’s not a mask,” he said in a low growl. All of it - the horns, the fur, the tongue - moved smoothly as he spoke.

“Well, the make-up, then,” I said. “I can’t serve you unless I see your face.”

“That is his face,” Santa said. He raised a hand to greet the newcomer. “How are you, Krampus? Scare any kids tonight?”

“A few.” Krampus the nightmare sat down, set both elbows on the bar and rested his chin in his cupped hands. “Sometimes I really hate this job.”

“Oh God,” Santa muttered. “You morose bastard. Cheer up.”

Saint Nicholas patted Krampus on the shoulder. “You are doing important work. A brief moment of fear can inspire a long period of good behaviour.”

“Give the man a drink,” Father Christmas said to me.

I hesitated. This could be a fourteen-year-old in an impressive costume. Then again, I could embarrass myself asking a demon for ID.

Father Christmas sighed. “Give me a drink, then. Double whiskey.”

I decided it was not my problem what Father Christmas did with his drinks. Besides, Krampus was probably of age. His fur had grey in it. I poured a generous double whiskey and set it down in front of Father Christmas, who immediately put it into Krampus’s clawed hand.

“Drink up,” he said. “You’re an important part of all this. Everyone loves a good scare every now and then. Horror movies have never been more popular, you know.”

Krampus made a noncommittal sort of growl and continued staring dejectedly in front of him.

The door blew open then, and in stepped an old man wrapped in a thick cloak with a blue hood. With him came the smell of bare trees on a cold night in December.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” Santa said.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” The man approached the bar. “A pint of your best ale, please.”

“Coming right up,” I said.

He threw back the hood, revealing a weathered face with a long grey beard and bushy eyebrows. Where his left eye should have been there was just a mass of scar tissue. His right eye was grey like the sea and it seemed to me it was just as deep, as if he saw more with his one eye at this moment than most people saw with two throughout their lives.

I blinked and looked away.

“Are you taking the hunt out tonight, Wodan?” Father Christmas asked.

“Yes,” said the one-eyed man. He nodded towards the door. “They’re up there already, waiting for me to join them.”

“Good night for it,” Krampus said. “Clear and cold.”

Wodan smiled. “I love midwinter. Creaking frost, shivering trees, cawing ravens, rattling bones.”

I shivered, despite the heat of the room.

“I won’t interfere,” Christkindl said. He was on his fourth glass of wine and his cheeks were turning pink. “If you promise not to interfere with my job.”

“I promise.”

The phone rang, and for the second time that night I nearly jumped out of my skin. I grabbed it and turned away from the bar. It was the boss, calling to see how I was coping with the late shift.

“Fine,” I said.

“Apparently there’s a riot of sorts going on downtown. Lots of screaming, people acting weird. Probably drunks pub crawling.”

“It’s rather quiet here, actually. I’ve got a small group in on some sort of Christmas do.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “They’re weirdos, but in a nice quiet way.”

“No trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“All right. I’ll leave you to close up then.”

“Thanks for checking up on me. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I turned back and found the pub empty. There were half a dozen glasses on the bar, all sparkling clean. I wandered out from behind the bar and peered through the door. The street outside was empty and the snow was undisturbed.