I saw a joke online the other day that said, “‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas’ sounds pretty condescending.”
I commented that it sounds like something the sheriff of a small mountain town would say when the local crazy brings him a story about some impossible horror. “Why don’t you go home and have yourself a merry little Christmas, Ed.” Right before some horrible sound makes him spin, draw his gun, and go dashing off into the woods while Ed looks on in sheer terror.
There were several people who saw the comment and wanted to know more. So I used it as a writing prompt and added a very short, unpolished piece of fiction onto the end of it. Here it is in its raw and unedited form.
The Story
The sheriff takes off for the woods, his boots crunching through the remnants of last week’s snowfall. He’s getting up there in years and can’t run as well as he used to. He knows he should think about retiring, but the thought of the empty house, a quiet and cold place since Ethel passed, keeps him focused on the work. He focuses now on the treeline, listening for a hint of the screeching howl that brought him out here. His heart pounds as he tries to catch his breath, but his hands are steady on the Smith & Wesson. The sun hangs low; it’s Golden Hour and his vision is distorted both by the blinding low light and the long shadows of the trees. But then he catches a glimpse of movement and wheels towards it to find…a reindeer.
The creature is tall and majestic. He eyes it with respect and wonder for a moment before he notices that something about it isn’t quite right. Where its four legs should be are eight long, spindly ones, and the sheriff’s stomach turns with repulsion.
A branch snaps and a vivid red beam emanates from somewhere behind the not-reindeer. In several loud thuds, a man like no other emerges from the trees. This one-eyed giant is decked out in a red velvet suit trimmed with white fur, and his one good eye is glowing an angry red (like a lightbulb), which he trains on the sheriff. When he speaks, it comes out in a boom. “Are you one of the naughty ones or the nice?”
The sheriff stares. The giant’s red eye stares back at him, expectantly. In the background, the not-reindeer has mutated into an eight-legged horse, and the sheriff can bear it no longer. He snickers.
The giant continues to stare, but then his mouth twitches at the corner, and a booming laugh rumbles out: “HO HO HOOOO!”
And now the two of them are cackling. The sheriff has lowered his gun. The giant slaps him on the back, nearly knocking him onto his face, and still the fits of laughter will not cease. The eight-legged horse neighs his approval.
Eventually, when they have finished laughing and hugging, the giant pulls a bottle from within his coat. “Oh, it is good to see you, old friend! Share some spiced mead with me.”
The two of them find a relatively clear spot on the ground and toss a blanket over the space before opening the bottle. The giant waves his hand, and a crackling fire appears nearby.
“The red eye was a good touch,” the sheriff says. “That’ll keep Ed talking for months and have half the town looking over their shoulders for monsters in the woods. But one thing’s for sure: They’ll be scared straight off of my naughty list this year! You’re making my job easier for me.”
The eye, which has stopped glowing, now twinkles a frosty blue. “Oh, it’s my pleasure.” He takes a great swig of the mead and passes the bottle back to the sheriff.
“And Sleipnir? What was with the half-assed disguise?” The horse snorts indignantly beside him, and the sheriff pats one of his eight legs with affection (and a little twinge of nausea–he’ll never quite get over the Uncanny Valley of it all, no matter how many times they meet).
“His glamours aren’t very good these days, I’m afraid. He keeps trying to make reindeer happen, and I keep telling him it isn’t going to happen!”
“How’s Frige?” the sheriff asks.
“She keeps busy! You know it’s harder for her since Balder met his fate. For both of us, really.”
“Of course. I can’t imagine losing a son.”
As the two chat and the evening passes into night, they are kept warm by the mead, the companionship, and perhaps an older magic, as well, and the sheriff’s chronic loneliness is lifted away, at least for the time being.
“Well, we’d better be on our way,” says the giant. “We’ll drop you at your door before we go.”
“It’s been good catching up with you, old friend. Same time next year?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I just wrote this on the fly, and the idea was some in-between stage in the supposed evolution of Odin/Woden to Santa. (I like to think maybe Sleipnir looks at his legs and is inspired to make eight reindeer appear, and takes Woden’s glowing red eye as inspiration for a Rudolph-type installment.) I also added a nod to the “not-deer”, an internet creation that purports to be from Appalachian folklore.
If you read this and are feeling in a Yule-ish kind of mood, you might want to check out my Yule and Winter Solstice playlists!
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