Krampusnacht

All through spring and summer, the Krampus sleeps.

It sleeps in my attic, hanging, like a great bat, upon the coat-rail. Its fur is dark brown, almost black. Its face is a wooden mask, smiling enigmatically, eyes dark holes. The arms and the face and the great horns hang down, the body and limbs empty and flat for now. When I venture upstairs, I can see its eyes but I know it is asleep. There is no sense of watchfulness. Sometimes I run a hand over that thick, rough pelt, or scrape a fingernail along the silvery zipper that runs the length of its back.

The Krampus sleeps sedately, neatly, throughout spring. As snowdrops give way to daffodils, as brittle sunshine and sudden rain wash over the skylights, it sleeps on.

During the summer, as the attic heats up and the air becomes stifling, it seems to sleep less soundly. Sometimes, at night, I imagine I can hear it moving in the dark space above my bedroom. The fur seems shaggier and it looks more dishevelled as it lies there. But if its sleep is disturbed, it is not unhappy. When children shriek and play outside, I know it can hear them in its dreams. I know the smile is real, even if those wide dark eyes are still not awake and aware. Now I look to the open-topped leather satchel and the great bundle of birch switches propped beside its feet and I smile too.

In autumn the Krampus stirs. As the nights grow longer, I know it will wake soon. Finally, around Halloween, it awakes. Now when I go into the attic, I know those dark eyes are watching me. As October gives way to November and the first frosts come, as the nights grow longer and darker, I know we are both waiting.

Then it is time. The day before Krampusnacht, I go upstairs and we look at each other and share that enigmatic smile. Carefully, I gather the Krampus up together with its satchel and birch switch. We make our way to a northern coastal town, a place of steep narrow streets facing the cold and surging North Sea, where all the Krampuses gather. I unzip the pelt and climb inside, feeling, as always, both more and less myself. I am something other, something ancient, born from the cold and darkness of the season. I done the leather gloves and the lightweight hooves that hide my trainers from view. I – we – swing on the leather satchel and pick up the birch switches. Finally, I lower the mask over my face and the Krampus and I stare out together. We are smiling. This is our time.

The Krampuses howl. I – we - howl with them. We through back out head and we stomp our feet, great hooves clattering on the cobblestones, and the noise is resounding. Together, we run through the dark of the night. We embrace the cold and the fear and embody them. The townsfolk come to watch us, to leave their own darkness with as, a cathartic rebirth at this darkest time of year. The children – and more than a few of the adults – shriek in mingled joy and fear. We race through the town and this night is ours.

Afterwards, sated, we separate. I carefully remove the mask and the pelt and return to my daytime life. The Krampus returns to the attic and, as the winter solstice passes and the days begin to lengthen, the Krampus sleeps.