I have a lot of work to do to produce Son of Hel, my next project. Although the story is going to be an action-focused tale of Krampus, the Christmas demon, I want to do it justice in spite of the inherent silliness. My goal is to create a fully realized culture for the North Pole where Santa Claus lives, and to integrate as much existing folklore as I am able.
To that end, I am currently sitting here with stacks of books on folklore and making notes about various kinds of fairies from different cultures in order to integrate them into the society of elves at the North Pole. I’ve also been discovering the various companions of St. Nicholas, figuring out which ones I can combine into a single figure and which ones I must make separate characters.
Although they are of rather recent origin, I am also determined that Santa’s eight-plus-one reindeer will figure in the story. The following is a draft of how they appear thus far. I originally intended this scene to be a raucous party, though the result (at least at present) is surprisingly subdued. That may change in later drafts.
In a few hours it would be the fifth of December, the eve of what those at the North Pole had come to call the First Run. Mistakenly but understandably believing Nicholas to be dead, the universal Church had long ago chosen December sixth as his saint’s day, so that was the first day he delivered toys to children. Compared to Christmas Eve, St. Nicholas Day was a small, brief run with few deliveries, requiring no more than a few hours. But it helped Nicholas and the elves ensure that the sleigh and its accoutrements were in working order and ready for the Big Run, when he delivered toys to children all over the world. The First Run had a high margin of error; it was a good time for troubleshooting.
But the fifth of December, the day before, was not St. Nicholas’s day. It was a dark day, a day of fear, and it belonged to someone else, someone decidedly less jolly—and considerably less generous.
As evening came on, in anticipation of the First Run that would begin in twelve hours, Alpha Squadron congregated in the stables. This squadron consisted of the eight reindeer who had achieved the highest marks on the annual flight test, and for almost a century, the same eight reindeer had held this honor.
In scientific terms, they were Arctic reindeer, also known as Greenland caribou, or Rangifer tarandus eogroenlandicus, and those in the stables of Saint Nicholas were the last of their kind, for their subspecies had been otherwise extinct for almost four decades. It was thanks to the magic of the elves that they had powers of speech and flight as well as unusually long life. The Black Precipice of the uttermost North was a haven for them, just as it had become a haven for the last of the fay folk whom an encroaching modernity had driven from their woods and meadows.
Contrary to popular depictions, they were not tiny. They were huge, muscular brutes with shaggy coats, thick shoulders, and wide, blunt muzzles. Most were bareheaded, for they had shed their antlers the month before once their rut had ended. The only exception was Vixen, the one cow who had scored high enough for Alpha Squadron. Though considerably smaller than the others, Vixen’s tall, sweeping antlers lent her certain air of sober majesty. She would keep her antlers until spring.
In a dim corner of the stable, Comet, formerly the squadron’s captain, brooded atop a mound of hay. Although this was supposed to be a time of revelry, he was silent, and his hard expression had its effect on the rest of the squadron: The others spoke in low voices, giving Comet occasional, uneasy glances. Vixen, somewhat apart from the rest, gazed at him steadily for a minute before she shook her head and sighed.
