Oh Wicked Krampus

Krampus, the demonic half-man half-goat creature who children loathe, and parents depend upon to discipline their offspring where they cannot. Legend says that our horned myth is the antithesis of St. Nicholas, a bringer of whacks instead of presents, and one who loads children into his basket instead of giving them gifts from it. A visit from Krampus is determined by the status of their behavior year-round, whether they have been naughty or nice, according to the extensive record kept by Father Christmas. All those children whose names aren’t found on his nice list, are due the proper sting of Krampus’ bundle of birch sticks for their rebellious misdoings. After a few whips and cracks to subdue them, Krampus puts the wretches in his basket and carries them either straight to hell or to the woods to be devoured in privacy.

If this is the tale you’ve always been told, I’m sorry to inform you that it is an unkindly contrived load of tripe, generated by none other than St. Nick himself. The gossip turned fairytale has gotten a few things correct however, like the bundle of birch sticks and the naughty or nice list, but the malignance of Krampus himself is largely a falsehood. While Krampus is the opposite of good old St. Nicholas, it is by appearance and occupation alone. Eating children? Blasphemy! Every tooth in Krampus’ mouth is square. You may be wondering to yourself, “Who is this narrator that speaks with such authority, denouncing all we know to be true about the myth?” There is no one who knows the story better than I, for I am Krampus. Let me tell it to you.

It was the evening of December 5^th, and little Wilhelmina sat on the rug beside the hearth, listening to her mama read Katze und Maus in Gesellschaft, Cat and Mouse in Partnership, her favorite of the Grimms. It was so warm, the fire, and Wilhelmina’s eyes, heavy with sleepiness slowly fluttered as the image of die Katze licking the pot of fat clean conducted the beginning of a sweet dream. Her papa sat in his rocking chair and the sound of wood creaking tightly to-and-fro swayed her a little forward and a little back. She began to slouch over her knees and didn’t much care since once Mama finished the story, Papa would sweep her up from the floor and tuck her into bed.

What an angelic sight. A pretty family of three set up nicely in their warm log house with a big fire and plenty of logs to keep it going well into the morning. Thick, sparkling blankets of white snow covered the yard outside, and fluffy flecks fell quietly onto the roof. Wilhelmina’s eyes shut at last, and her breath fell into a slow, even pattern, and behind her mother’s soft voice, mimicking the last meow of die Katze, she heard the distant stamping of hooves. Two hooves, coming right for the house. Then there was a crash and a bang. The door was thrown open and slammed into the wall, and a wild flurry of snow swept across the living room floor. She started awake with her eyes as round as saucers. There stood the adversary of every child ever born! It was I, Krampus, with my black matted fur, coal-black hooves and horns, and long sweaty black snout.

Mama shut the book and looked at Papa with one brow raised. She mouthed the words, “Is it Franz this year?” Papa exhaled the smoke from his tobacco pipe and shrugged.

Though it never pleased me to do so to any child, I gave her a mean look before I stomped over to snatch her up. Wilhelmina’s scream pierced the air. I set my basket on the carpet and picked her up by the neck of her pink nightie and deposited her inside, then swung her onto my back. Over the rim of the deep basket, her plump arms reached for Mama then Papa, but neither made any real effort to save her. She had been really naughty that year after all and seemed to have forgotten all about the threat of Krampus. With their assumption that it was Franz was under a heavy goat-man costume, they relented to that year’s especially theatric performance.

With my list of supposed hellions that reversely listed names W through A, I went to nearly every house in town after that, and every household reacted the very same way. The child shrieked, some struggle ensued, and if it were a lot, I’d reluctantly employ the use of my birch stick bundle, then speed away with my collection of children tumbling over one another in the basket. Off I went galloping into the woods, laughing excitedly and trekking up a storm of powdery snow behind me.

Once deep enough within the wood, I did not open a portal to hell, nor did I pick the children out one by one and drop them into my mouth. I instead brought them to my house tucked behind a thick cluster of pines and briars and sat them down in a circle on the floor. I snapped my fingers, and a flame ignited in the hearth. Each child, red faced and covered in snot, blubbered with tears and asked in broken sobs to go home, until I set a small, lacquered table among them and laid a white cotton cloth over it. Distracted by their hosts activity their tears eventually dried up. I brought over a porcelain tea set and gave a cup and saucer to every guest and encouraged them to blabber amongst themselves while I put on the kettle.

A little went by and some of them inspected the dishware carefully, then made apprehensive comments.

“Mama does not let me touch the China…”

“Nor I!”

“Are we really allowed to hold these?”

Wilhelmina, poor dear, dropped and broke her saucer. She erupted in a series of breathless wails and snot flooded from her nostrils into her grief-stricken open mouth. I carefully rushed over with a tray of biscuits, a pot of cream, and a metal teapot and set it down, and warned the others it was hot. With a piece of cloth torn from the table covering, I wiped up her nose.

“There, there. Mistakes help us learn. No need to cry.”

The broken saucer was replaced with another, and Wilhelmina’s shuddered breaths calmed. It was quiet for only a few seconds until another catastrophe struck our small party from across the table. A little boy clutched his fat, burning red forefinger and hollered miserably. He hadn’t heeded the warnings given and touched the metal teapot confidently. I flew to his side just as quickly and dunked his finger into the pot of cold cream.

“There, there. Mistakes help us learn. No need to cry.”

I wrapped a piece of cloth around the boy’s finger and swept away his remaining tears with my fuzzy knuckle. Everyone settled down and grew silent watching me fill each of their teacups with steaming hot chocolate.

“Now,” I began, “We must let our hot chocolate cool before we drink it. Or else our tongues will be burnt right off.”

After Wilhelmina’s and the other little boy’s folly, everyone listened to my warning closely and blew on their drinks fervently until they no longer steamed. They sipped loudly and smacked their lips on the biscuits, and some smiled and some giggled. I joined the indulgence and drank the hot chocolate up in one gulp and ate my biscuits in one swift bite.

Once the children fell into their own worlds, playing pretend, giggling, and prattling to one another, I left the table and came back with a large bag made of maroon velvet. I opened the drawstring top and pulled out a long golden cylindrical thing with a piece of glass on one end and a hole on the other. I brought it to my eye and twisted the end of it, and smiled, then handed it to Wilhelmina first. Her little fingers struggled to coordinate the twisting properly and I happily assisted. When all the sparkles and glowing shapes inside expanded and shrank she laughed and kicked her feet beneath the table. The object was passed around in order, until the little boy who burnt his finger earlier shouted.

“I want to go next! I want to go next!”

I shook my head sternly, “No, August. It’s not your turn. Wait patiently.”

“But I want to go n—”

August snapped his mouth closed at the sight of the birch stick bundle, perhaps remembering how it stinged earlier when he tried to climb out of the basket. If his mother could see him now, she would declare it a miracle. At home the boy listened to no one, not even his father who routinely whipped him with his leather belt for his daily mischief. But the truth was that August’s natural curiosity which produced natural consequences, was often mistaken by his parents for naughtiness. If he fancied to pour himself his own glass of milk without assistance, and spilled it all over himself and the floor, he would be reproached with a smack and kick. Thus, at being treated unkindly because of an earnest desire to learn, he grew crooked. It was my duty then to mend the natural learning functions that the parents, of all these children, had most likely broken. Through gentle words, patient instruction, and righteous discipline, this could be achieved.

Every child had a go at the kaleidoscope and so I put it away and pulled out another curio from the velvet bag, a wooden automaton. When the lever on the side was turned, three wooden jesters, with their tights, tunics, and jingling hats painted orange, red, and yellow, danced and waved their arms. After everyone had a turn at working the contraption, I put that away and pulled out several more objects from the bag. At last, with their bellies full and their minds expanded, every set of eyes shut closed, except for Wilhelmina. She slouched, her lids heavy, and held tightly onto the last trinket from the bag: a stuffed toy lamb with soft white fur, two glossy black buttons for eyes, a pink nose, and pink ribbon tied round it’s neck. This was the stuffed animal the family mut, Oskar, swiped from the house one afternoon during lessons when Wilhelmina wasn’t paying attention, and tore it to bits in the backyard. Ever since then, she cried more often, never wanted to finish her supper, and refused to get into bed on time. I was not allowed to give presents. Only to show them my trinkets and let them have something to play with until they went home. I had no authority and no right, but… Poor Wilhelmina. When I carefully set each child inside the basket again, I let her hold still tight to the lamb, and even when I laid her into bed and tucked her in, I could not take the beloved toy from her arms.

There. That is the true nature of your wicked Krampus. So, next time you ghastly human men put me on as a costume and run around foolishly, remember all the mending I did for you and your ancestors. It wouldn’t really be so hard to leave out a bit of milk and cookies for me either, as you so easily do for jolly fat Nick.