A Sebastian Collins Christmas Adventure
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| Traditions forgotten in the New World include Santa's helpers who punish naughty Children |
It was cold, a slight breeze past through the air caused
some to shiver. The sky looked through that it threatened to snow. In the hush
of Leverington Cemetery, Sebastian Collins sighed as he looked down at the
headstone of the grave he was visiting that day. Years of acid rain had but
erased the name from the white limestone. Collins fondly remembered the
deceased buried beneath the headstone. Those precious moments together like
liberation Flanders from the Kaiser’s Army or bolting from a New York Speakeasy
before the Feds came to shut it down.
As Collins chuckled to himself, he felt the dried tears on
his cheeks. He always shed a few, walking through a graveyard. The holidays had
that effect …so many old friends. So many that he could never rejoin, not for
many, many more years yet. Collins often found Christmas to be the most
bittersweet.
Collins knew before he saw that he was being watched. He
glanced up and saw two women looking at him from a respectful distance. One was
taller than the other. They were bundled up in the fashion which befitted their
age which was fairly old.
It took a moment but Collins recognized the pair: Mrs.
Leslie Salaignac and Mrs. Bernardette Pechin. Both were old time residents of
the neighborhood. Collins liked Mrs. Pechin, who was the shorter one. She was a
quiet woman who baked a pretty good repertory of pies, cakes, etc. She was also
on the neighborhood’s Historical Society. Collins had been good friends with
her husband and they had played Cricket together for some years before Mr.
Pechin passed away over a decade ago. Collins was less inclined toward Mrs.
Salaignac. He often found her to be a pushy, self-opinionated, shameless
self-promoter.
“Let’s get on with it,” he mumbled to himself.
Collins placed his homburg back on his bald head and fixed
his trademark black, maduro cigar into his mouth. He could have chosen to walk
back to his office by another route. A graveyard is only an open field dotted
with small obstacles but Collins was never one to shy away from such an obvious
enquiry of his services.
“I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Collins,” said Mrs.
Salaignac as he walked toward them. By the tone in her voice, their disrespect
had grown to be mutual.
“Oh really, then please take a number and get in line,” said
Collins, continuing to walking toward them on the gravel path that served as
the graveyard’s roadway. Collins doffed his hat to Mrs. Pechin, who smiled and
nodded back.
“What are you going to do about these missing children,”
demanded Salaignac, her European accent grating.
“I will wave my magic wand and hope for the best,” said
Collins.
Collins was indeed disturbed by reports of children going
missing from the neighborhood, especially so close to the holiday season. His
paper had been one of the first to report on the pattern. The suspect was described as a tall man
carrying a staff and a sack. His face has been covered in blackout makeup. The
children taken have often been those who bully other people or have been known
to be troublemakers. The suspect has been considered by some to be a hero. Then
others started going missing, children not normally considered bad; not like
the earlier victims. Despite the major media outlets sinking their fangs into
the ratings-rich story vein, the story had cooled somewhat but Collins
continued to keep vigil on any new developments.
“Well, I think you should do a front page story on this
issue,” continued Salaignac. “There are so many people who are afraid for their
children. I think it is a disgrace that the Police have done nothing to find
them.”
“We have done several front page stories and continual
updates on the Police Blotter section,” said Collins. “While I cannot speak for
the police, I am sure they are doing the best that they can.”
He looked over to Mrs. Pechin, who looked up to Mrs.
Salaignac, rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders in show of solidarity
with Collins.
“My grandson is still missing. His mother cries every night.
Perhaps you should put more pressure on the Police to do something,” barked
Salaignac. “I see them all the time in their cars, doing nothing…”
“Those officers are patrolling the district, they are doing
a decent job from the data I received which shows crime going down,” said
Collins, getting annoyed. “It is the detectives who are working the missing
person cases, which is backlogged in city this sized. I am sure with a pattern
this big, it is a serious priority. I am sorry for your daughter and her
husband, I truly am but there is nothing more that can be done at this point. Now, if you’ll excuse me ladies, I must get
back to the office.”
Collins strode away as Salaignac
grumbled to Mrs. Pechin.
Jake McIntyre hung up the telephone for what seemed to him
like the twentieth time that day. It was another call from a “concerned
citizen” demanding action over a trivial matter. This time, they were concerned
by the ‘pagan’ ritual creeping into the economic activities of the neighborhood.
One neighborhood development corporation has been hosting an annual Winter
Solstice event for a number of years and the same crackpot calls in to
complaint despite many local church leaders attending the event for what it is:
community building. McIntyre wondered why some people thought the newspaper had
some sort of civic authority over the neighborhood. It was the foremost mission
of The Guardian-Sentinel to inform the populace. It has been involved in
activities such as fundraising for local charities or as a donation point for
Operation Bedding which sends goods to soldiers overseas.
McIntyre and his chief, Sebastian Collins, have also been
involved in more covert activities over the years. They have saved the world
among other things from evil toymakers, esoteric cults, and mutated canal
sludge.
But you needed to pay the bills somehow and having a day job
is one way to make a living, even if it is an old-fashioned newspaper. Collins was always keen on being ahead of the
curve and embraced ‘new media’. His paper had a modest staff; the office was
not busting with people but it was full enough. McIntyre had worked his way up,
eventually serving as Collins right hand man, Deputy Managing Editor/Digital
Content Director. This week’s stories included the first phase of the Manayunk
Bridge was completed; Shawmont Station reopened as a museum; and Cardinal Jacob
Radzinski was celebrating Mass for the safe return of the missing children at
the Manayunk Cathedral of St. John the Baptist.
McIntyre heard his boss’ footsteps come toward the editorial
department, where Collins’ office was also located.
“Status report, Jake,” said Collins.
McIntyre informed Collins of the coming stories of the next
edition and what was popularly trending on their websites and social media
pages. McIntyre also reminded Collins that they were invited to the annual
North Star Community Fundraiser that evening.
“Will need to stop home first,” asked Collins.
“No, I can directly from here,” said McIntyre, looking at
himself in Collins’ office mirror. He was dressed in navy blue corduroy
trousers, white shirt, brown tweed jacket with a red and blue striped ascot.
“You look a little like Thurston Howell III,” said Collins,
with a little twinkle in his eye. He was garbed in a double-breasted wool navy
suit with thin gray pinstripes. Collins had on a yellow floral necktie and
solid yellow pocket square.
“Well, you look like Mr. Monopoly,” said McIntyre.
“There are a few more properties along the Ridge I would
like to buy,” said Collins, fiddling with his moustache.
“Pity, you didn’t snatch up the Union House in time,” said
McIntyre.
“True, it is an even bigger pity; it was demolished for a Chi-Chi’s.
A Wendy’s would have been more palatable,” said Collins. “But enough of this
idle banter; send in Peterson. Ask him to bring the police reports dating back
to the first disappearance of the children. Don’t worry; I’m not questioning
his reporting, just curious, that’s all.”
McIntyre left Collins’ office and fetched Peterson.
When McIntyre returned a few hours later, Collins’ jacket
was off and his sleeves rolled up. Papers were strewn across his desk. He was
puffing smoothly on a cigar as he looked upon the computer monitor that formed
the top of his desk. Collins waved his hand to scroll through the document.
“Have you ever heard of Zwarte Piet, Jake” asked Collins,
without up.
“I can’t say that I have,” said McIntyre.
"Zwarte Piet is something of a holdover from the Old
Country," said Collins. "Like Santa Claus, Zwarte Piet is a hybrid
stock character of pagan origin."
Collins explained that Zwarte Piet and his equivalents in
European folklore started life as an enslaved devil, forced to assist his
captor. Like many legends, stories change over time. Santa, seen now as a nice
and saintly character was once quite severe. Santa would beat naughty children
with a birch rod or put them in a burlap sack and take them away. Many of these
characteristics were given to Piet. Over time, these characteristics were also
softened and his task at festivals is mostly to amuse children.
Collins noted that there has been some controversy of late
over the character which is seen as perpetuating racial stereotypes.
“The old Dutch Reformed Church used to celebrate St.
Nicholas Eve,” said Collins. “Zwarte Piet made an appearance then.”
“Does this have to with the children’s disappearances now,”
asked McIntyre.
“I’m not entirely sure,” said Collins, thoughtfully. “But I
feel like Obi-Wan Kenobi right now…”
“There’s a great disturbance in the Force,” asked McItyre.
“There are voices, Jake, crying out and they will not be
silenced,” said Collins. He looked down at his watch. He pulled a cigar from
the humidor, also hidden in the top of his desk and put it his shirt pocket and
stood up straight.
“I believe it was time we were
leaving,” said Collins.
The holiday season was aglow inside the Water Club Room of
the Manayunk Brewing Company. The restaurant was a converted warehouse along
the neighborhood’s revitalized commercial corridor. The room was reserved for
private parties, such as this year’s holiday gala for the neighbor’s oldest
community center.
An eight-foot tree radiated with the light of a rainbow of
an LED sting. The multitude of baubles, handcrafted by the children of North
Star, hung on its branches. Holly and garland hung along the walls around the
room.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Kwanzaa,” Collins hummed
to himself, in a parody of a popular Christmas tune.
Founded during the Great Depression, North Star has enabled
people of all ages and abilities, especially those most in need, to reach their
full potential as productive and responsible citizens through initiatives that
support and enrich children, teens, and families. North Star's vision to
support and strengthen this diverse set of neighborhoods by meeting the
evolving needs of individuals and families, working to develop the whole person
from education to providing sustenance, and thus, cultivating a vibrant
community. Their current services include a year-round childcare for school age
children, tutoring, youth development programs, arts and recreation, emergency
supports, parenting workshops, teen employment, and neighborhood access to
technology.
“The trouble is no one has been the center in weeks,” Jane
Giordano, executive director of North Star, told Collins. “Families have told
us how much they are scared that their child might be the next to be snatch. Despite
our offers of volunteer chaperones, no one comes, even our evening programs are
starting to suffer.”
Collins was making his rounds throughout the evening,
meeting with local businessmen, all supporters of the center. Some are more
than happy to give back since they benefitted from North Star when they were
children. Collins saw McIntyre standing at the bar on the other side of the
room. He was not alone. Jake was with athletically-built brunette. Collins
recognized her at North Star’s new Director of Institutional Advancement, Dina Holmes.
Her title was just fancy way of saying, “I’m the one who looks for wealthy
donors.” But Collins liked her anyway. She was a fierce, independent woman,
exactly the sort of woman, Jake McIntyre needed in his life. Jake looked over
and saw Collins. They nodded to each other. McIntyre worked his way over with
his evening’s companion.
“It is indeed a terrible shame,” said Collins. “I shall be
sure to write a column about it in the next edition. We should not let some coward
make us afraid to go out of our homes.”
“Indeed,” said a new voice. It was heavily-accented. “What
should good people have to fear except punishment if they do wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I do not believe we have met,” said Collins,
introducing himself. McIntyre and Holmes joined the group.
“Andreas van der Rijn,” said the man, in his thick accent,
“I have the holiday pop-up store, ‘De Zwarte Speelgoedkist’.”
“The Black Toybox,” said Collins.
“You speak Dutch,” said Van Der Rijn, slightly impressed.
“een beetje,”
said Collins, with a smirk.
Collins and Van
De Rijn began talking to each other exclusively in Dutch. The others looked on bemused as their
conversation became joyfully animated; both men gesticulated wildly at times
while making a point. It was as if the two men had been old friends for ages
and not only just met.
“It so nice to
know someone with intimate knowledge of The Netherlands,” said Van Der Rijn.
“But Ms. Giordano, there was something I wanted to speak with you about.” He
started to walk with Giordano away from the little circle of people to another
part of the room.
“Some late
Sinterklaas event complete with Zwarte Piet, to coincide with Christmas, no
doubt,” Collins called after him. Van Der Rijn started, then turned with a
smirk. “Not a bad idea,” he retorted.
“I didn’t know
you spoke Dutch,” said Holmes.
“It’s among my
many talents and one of a dozen or so languages I am still fluent in,” said
Collins, keeping his eyes on Van Der Rijn and Giordano. Judging they were out
of ear shot, he turned to McIntyre and Holmes, lowering his voice, just to be
certain.
“If he’s a
purebred Dutchman, then the Queen of Spain is Russian,” said Collins.
“How do you
know,” asked McIntyre.
“During our
conversation, Van Der Rijn mentioned a few places in Holland that he used to
frequent. Places that aren’t there anymore,” said Collins.
“How do you
know,” asked Holmes.
“Because I blew
them up myself during the Second World War, they were never rebuilt,” said
Collins.
McIntyre closed
Holmes mouth his hand.
“There is also
something else amiss about him,” said Collins. “I try to give people the
benefit of the doubt but after that conversation, I noticed things about him.
He moves too slickly. His mouth is a little too red.”
“He also had some
rather large canines,” said Holmes.
Collins and McIntyre
looked at Holmes. She stared back at them, puzzled.
“I thought you
noticed. I assumed they were a body modification from his euro-clubbing days,”
said Holmes.
Collins looked at McIntyre and said, “I really miss when Christmas was a
quiet time of year.”
Collins’ Bentley
wasn’t the most inconspicuous vehicle for a stakeout but it was pretty warm and comfortable. Jake McIntyre knew it beat other
surveillance methods he had been engaged upon for others. Mannheim Steamroller
played quietly over the sound-system. They
were both dressed like Boondock Saints, Peacoats over t-shirts and blue jeans. Collins
and McIntyre kept an eye on the shop, currently occupied temporarily by Van Der
Rijn. It had been a few days since the
fundraiser and Collins suspicions of the Dutch merchant had grown.
“You know the Cardinal’s mass will be celebrated at the
Cathedral in a few hours,” said McIntyre, looking down at his pocket watch. It
was a gift from Collins after their first adventure together.
“This should all be over in plenty of time,” said Collins.
There was a tap at the window that startled McIntyre a
little. Collins rolled down the window. It was Dina Holmes. Steam blew out of
her small mouth as she spoke.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you boys, doing out here?”
“We’ve only just arrived,” Collins bluffed.
“No, I’ve been watching you from the café. You’ve been on
this block for almost an hour, now,” said Holmes.
“He’s coming out,” said McIntyre.
“Are you watching Andreas,” asked Holmes.
“Yes,” said Collins.
“Are you going to follow him,” asked Holmes.
“Yes,” said Collins.
“Can I come,” asked Holmes.
“I don’t know, let me ask your boyfriend,” said Colllins, who
pressed the button to unlock the doors.
The trio followed Van Der Rijn to the edge of Valley Park
where they had to leave the car. Collins went to the trunk and removed a ruck
sack. They then continued on foot, going slowly, not make too much noise.
“How do you know where you’re going,” asked Holmes.
“I can smell him,” said Collins.
The moon was bright in the cloudless sky and the lack of
leaves of the trees helped increase the low visibility of the wood. They had
come to a trail and the bottom of a hillside. McIntyre was about to say
something when a howl pierced the silence.
From a behind a large hemlock, there was devilish figure.
The tall beast in the half-light was brown and very hairy, with cloven hooves
and had the horns of a goat. Its long pointed tongue was lolling out, flicking
this way and that as if smelling the around toward them. Chains were wrapped
around a staff of Birch; they jingled like rusty bells as he brandished it at
the trio. McIntyre moved in position to shield Holmes from the creature. Holmes
picked up a nearby rock and threw it at the massive hulk. It brushed it off
like it was a marshmallow.
There was then the sound of a cannon shot and the head of
the figure ahead of them exploded. More cannon fire and more destruction of the
beast. The lower torso and legs of the figure fell with an anti-climactic flop.
Instead of animal offal, as McIntyre was expecting, McIntyre saw metal parts
and smelled oil. The pair saw Collins holding his trusty Webley revolver.
“Krampus automaton, we must be close,” said Collins, putting
down his rucksack. “Now, time to get changed.”
“Wait, I know a little about guns,” said Holmes, “how did
that thing explode when you hit it?”
“Magic bullets,” said Collins, opening the rucksack.
McIntyre saw what was inside.
“You can’t be serious,” said McIntyre.
It was a Santa suit.
After Collins was satisfied with his attire, the trio set
off in the direction that the automaton was guarding. Collins picked up the
chain that was wrapped around the birch staff and put it in his rucksack. He
put the staff under his arm.
“You never know when it might come in handy,” he whispered
as they continued on.
They didn’t have to go very far until they found something
important. It was Holmes who heard it first. It sounded like a child
whimpering. It didn’t take long to find a small boy, quietly sobbing in some
rhododendron. The boy tried to flee before McIntyre tackled him. Besides the
boy’s grimy, tattered and careworn appearance, it was obvious that he was
frightened. The trio worked to calm him down. They learned that he had escaped
from a pit where children had been sent to mine for gold and other materials.
The boy, whose name was Jim, said that a man was in charge; dressed in ‘strange
clothes’ and would beat the children f they didn’t work hard enough. He would
yell at them and remind them of the bad things that they had done and
repeatedly told them that they deserved this treatment. Jim told them that this
man had servants. Jim described the Krampus Automaton that Collins had recently
dispatched. Just then, a couple of howls filled the night. Holmes cried out.
“It looks like there are two more of those things coming
over here,” she said.
“We have to run,” said Jim.
“They don’t get tired and they never give up,” said Collins.
“I’ll deal with this.” He stood up and gained a bearing on each Krampus figure.
When they got close enough, he fired his revolver caused the hulking figures to
crash down to earth.
“Jim, I know it is difficult for you but I need you to show
us that mine,” said Collins. “Do not be afraid, I am going to do them, to
whatever gets in our way.”
The entrance of the mine was overgrown with brambles and
fern. It was barely noticeable, a perfect bolt hole, thought Collins. Moving
some plants aside, Webley in hand, he squeezed through the hole. The others
followed. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the tunnel. He saw a brighter
light up ahead and walked toward it. It was large cavern, below were dozens of
children, chained to the wall, chiseling the rock; their faces grimy and
sullen. Krampus guards watched over them.
“It’s almost like something out of Dante,” said McIntyre.
In the center of it all seated on a dais, was a man dressed
in Renaissance garb, he was eating from a silver platter with his bare hands.
He would point to one child or another and a guard would punish them. It took a
few moments for everyone to recognize the man.
“That’s...” started Holmes.
“Yes, it is and it’s gone far enough,” said Collins.
“It’s over, Van Der Rijn,” shouted Collins. “Take off the
mask and show everyone who you really are. Yes, I know who you are, Zwarte
Piet. Show us the real face behind the one you’ve been hiding behind.”
Van Der Rijn stood up, his face a mask of contempt. He
pointed to the foursome, now that young Jim had joined them. Four Krampus came
toward them. Collins dispatched them with his revolver. He then fired a shot at
Van Der Rijn’s feet, which sent up a large amount of sparks.
“I will not warn you a second time,” said Collins, his voice
colder than the rock around them.
Van Der Rijn reached behind his head and pulled off his
human mask. Zwarte Piet looked like a devil in pantaloons, with short curtly,
black hair like a spaniel; a dark swarthy complexion; with a mouth like a dog
but with red lips and serpent tongue.
The demon giggled and then spoke in Dutch, obviously
directed at Collins. Collins parried also in Dutch, then Van Der Rijn lunged
for him. During the struggle, McIntyre urged Jim and Holmes to start freeing
the other children. He knew that others had underestimated Collins. Beneath his
bulk, Sebastian Collins was a skilled fighter. He soon had the upper hand over
Van Der Rijn and had him in chains.
“Start taking these children back to the car, won’t you, my
dears,” asked Collins. “I’ll join you in a few moments.”
Collins reached into his ruck sack and pulled out what
looked like to McIntyre demolition explosives.
There was a faint rumple when they all arrived at the
parking lot where they left the Bentley.
Van Der Rijn mumbled something. Collins swatted him with a
birch bundle.
“Mind your language, there are children and a lady present,”
said Collins.
“So what do we do with him,” asked McIntyre, indicating the
chained Van Der Rijn.
“I’m about to make a phone call to The Ruby City,” said
Collins. “They’ll send a transport to take him to the facility. We’ll also need
their help in getting these children to the Cathedral.”
“The Cathedral,” asked Holmes.
“Of course, it is Christmas, a time for miracles and what
could be more miraculous than Santa bringing all the missing children back to
their families,” said Collins grinning as he reached into his rucksack for a
cell phone and fake white beard.
FIN
