Remembrance Day is different in Sang Sacre. People gather in groups; at Town Hall, the Cenotaph, the Tombs. It's quiet in the city; people speak, when they speak, in hushed voices. The dogs don't bark. The birds don't sing. The very pavement grieves. At eleven the silence is broken by the crack of cannon fire; the flapping of a thousand wings mingles with the booming echo. And then, faintly, just on the edge of human hearing, comes the mournful howl of a wolf. The bells start ringing, even as the wolf squeezes our hearts with pain. The majestic tolling of the Tower Chimes, the nostalgic bong of the school bell, the shrill tinkling of a hundred bicycle bells. The air is full of sound for a full minute; commemorating every drop of blood that has fallen on the soil, every tear that has been shed in pain and sorrow and joy. Our ears continue to vibrate even when the bells stop pealing.
Memory is long and deep in Blood; the crowds remain silent, reflective. The mood is not broken, but shifted, subtlety, in stages. It begins spontaneously; sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears, always with singing and dancing. Flasks are passed, bottles decanted, kegs tapped. And we celebrate our memories into the night.
As is only fitting.
"no hat no hat no hat!"
"It's festive. You want to look festive when we go see Santa, don't you?" I ask, the Devilbunny-sized Santa hat in one hand, Clovis in the other.
"not festive. dorky. not appropriate for evil overlords. crumples my ears", Clovis informs me, waffling his nose in righteous indignation.
Pete looks up from the sketch he's doing, "I still think you're mad for taking the rabbit to see Santa in the first place. You know he's just going to ask for more minions. Or mind control rays."
"miiiiiiiinions."
"I know. But the photos will be priceless! Besides, I like visiting Santa."
"Jilli, Santa won't bring you an arc welder. No one who knows you will give you an arc welder."
"never hurts to ask", Clovis points out.
Pete gets up from his seat on the fainting couch to give me a kiss. "Have fun. Don't terrorize whatever poor teen is working as an elf this year."
"We didn't last year", I remind him.
Sang Sancre's Santa doesn't set up shop in any shopping mall or store. Every December a cozy little faux gingerbread cottage just ... appears next to the outdoor ice skating rink in the park. It's past 9:00 when Clovis and I get there, just late enough that most of the parents and kidlings have headed home.
This year, I don’t recognize the Santa’s Helpers. Usually they’re at least vaguely familiar, in that “oh, I’ve seen them around” sort of way. But they don’t seem alarmed by a goth girl holding a stuffed fanged rabbit who is nervously brushing his ears, so I don’t worry about it.
We get to the head of the line, order form for the pictures in my hand. “Pictures first or talking to Santa first?” asks the tall, thin, blonde “elf” in dark green velvet.
“Pictures, I think. That way Clovis won’t be bouncing around so much.”
We walk up to Santa, who raises his eyebrows and smiles at Clovis. The photographer fusses around with our position next to the jolly old elf, and re-fluffs the tulle veil on the back of my top hat.
“Say ‘presents’!” he carols, then blinds us with the flash bulbs.
After a few seconds of blinking, I sit down on the chair next to Santa. He looks at us and asks “Have the two of you been good this year?”
“I helped save the town from inter-dimensional forces of evil, does that count?”
"didn’t eat any minions. took a …” Clovis wrinkles his nose in disgust, "bath.”
Santa looks a little non-plussed by this, but forges ahead. He taps Clovis lightly on the nose.
“So, what do you want Santa to bring you, since you’ve been so good?”
"minions! lots of ‘em!” stuff from castle gudanov!”
I catch Santa’s eye and interject “Uh, Santa, just ignore the stuff from Castle Gudanov part. That would be a bad idea.”
"would not. fun toys. explody.”
Santa gives Clovis a mock-stern look. “Santa’s Workshop doesn’t have a contract with Castle Gudanov anyway.”
"minions. minions, minions, minions. gingerbread ones and real ones.”
“He just wants to eat the arms and legs off the gingerbread ones”, I stage-whisper.
Santa shakes his head, then looks at me. “What about you, miss?”
I think about it.
“I’d like a black and white stripy Victorian walking suit with full skirt, a bottle of absinthe, and a corset made from oil-slick finish PVC.”
Santa blinks.
“Oh, and a copy of the black and white stripy dress that Christina Ricci wears at the end of Sleepy Hollow”, I add, then smile in my best gosh, aren’t I just adorable, and don’t I deserve all of that? manner.
Santa hands me a candy cane. “Well, I’ll see what I can do. But you two are sure you’ve been good all year?”
"yep. good devilbunny, good witchy goth. deserve prezzies! and to rule the world. can we rule the world, please? oh, and candy!”
After shaking Santa’s hand I walk off the podium, trying to keep my candy cane away from Clovis.
“No. No sugar for you. It’s almost your bedtime.”
"nuh-uh. hours away. candy candy candy.”
One of the ‘elves’ (is it the same one? If not, then they hired twins this year) hands me the envelope with our pictures. “No charge,” he tells me. “We liked the bunny.”
"cute bunny.” says Clovis smugly. " deserves candy.”
I take our pictures, then head back out into the winter night.
“Look Clovis, it’s starting to snow again. Wanna stop and make snow angels?”
"snow devilbunnies.”
“Sure, if you can explain to me how it works.”
I catch a glimpse of Jilli and Clovis, cutest Dark Lord ever, leaving the small hut where Santa's set up his Sang Sacre branch office. I do hope Gudanov is not going to pout when the Best Of issue of the paper comes out with the listings. Hopefully the Scariest Minions category will satisfy him.
After a moment's thought, I wander in to check out the chubby ol' elf. Pagan dieties of all stripes deserve at least a Hello.
At least this one's beard is real. Though I didn't know elves grew beards and got fat. Note to self: no matter how cute Orlando Bloom is, he may not be the best example of authentic elvin physiology out there.
I wait till Santa can catch his breath after the small horde of kidlet disappears. "Yo, Santa Dude."
You'd think Santa would learn not to flinch in Sang Sacre. "Um, yo, yourself. What can I get for you this year?"
I spare him my weight on his lap. "Let's see. I could use a new printer, preferably one that doesn't blush."
"Um, blush?"
"Well, I do write porn for a living, and my current printer seems to be a Puritan. A nice Unitarian Universalist printer would be nice, they're cool with anything. Achmed the Clever needs a new robe and some of those neat slippers that turn up at the points. He says a turban is a cultural stereotype and refuses to wear one, so we can skip that. Oh, I know, Bob and the crew on top of the Folly would really like some good Pigeon-B-Gon--or a bug zapper with the amperage turned way up."
Santa kept blinking. "I don't know, that sounds dangerous."
"That's OK, Gudanov should be opening up his Christmas Bazaar any day now, I can get the specialized stuff there. Can you think of anything I can get Am-Chau for a cult-warming gift? It's her first."
"Incense burner?"
"That's an idea, something in the shape of a grapefruit." The vibe of season overwhelmed me and I kissed him on the cheek. "Happy Christmas, Santa."
"Um, oh, thank you, Merry Christmas to you too."
I dropped a tip in the jar in lieu of a picture and headed home. Evening was coming on, and my nighttime visitor had hinted he might be coming by and to leave the window that looked out on the lightwell unlocked. Last year I'd found him waiting in bed with the mistletoe--well, when I asked him if he wasn't worried about the pointy bits on the leaves poking him in delicate bits, he just smiled that pointy smile and said I could kiss it better.
I can hear The Pack howling Christmas carols from down near the river. Christmas in the Blood, it's a festive time of year.
