Giddy Up Jingle Horse
A Tale of Nocto's Night
by Kinto Mythostian-Claus
Silent night, solstice night. All is calm, all is bright. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. Snow lays round about, deep and crisp and even, a winter wonderland glistening beneath the chill light of the brightly shining stars. The longest night of the year. Nocto's Night.
Hark!
Do you hear what I hear? A sound. Thumpety, thump thump, thumpety thump thump. Hoofbeats. And something else ringing through the sky. Jing-a-ling, ring ting ting-a-ting, too. Bells? Yes, jingle bells! Growing louder by the second!
A white horse with a tail as big as a kite gallops across the sleeping field, blazing a trail through the immaculate blanket. Astride the ivory mare's back, so lively and quick, a girl dressed in Dark Green drives her steed on, the silver bells on her reins and harness echoing sweetly o'er the plains.
Not far behind, a second belled horse and girl race, and a third, echoing their joyous strains. Four, five, six. Seven. Eight. Nine, ten. A final pair of chestnut stallions bring up the rear, a round dozen.
This evening these twelve girls had donned their gay apparel and gathered in the town square, glittering in velvet and tulle, warm in wool and fur. Their eyes, how they twinkled; their dimples, how merry, as they presented their best selves nobly before the gods. With them their faithful steeds dancing and prancing in the frosty air, their polished leather tack ornamented in silver and gold, laden with bells and decked with boughs of holly and ribbons.
At sundown they lined up before the temple, facing unafraid the plans that they'd made, the square echoing with the prancing and pawing of each solid hoof. The crowd cheered in joy and exultation as the high priest of Nocto shouted the traditional starting command: "Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle, contestants in a race that has been run on this night every year since time immemorial, the ancient course encircling the whole kingdom from one end to the other, over field and fountain, moor and mountain, rocks, hills, and plains.
That was hours ago. Now they are in the homestretch, the last furlongs before the warmly glowing town where the finish line waits in that same square. In eleventh place, her Violet cloak billowing around her, Carola urges her short-tailed chestnut stallion Yulo on across the field, plowing through the furrow trod by ten horses already.
For weeks in the advent of this holy night, Carola's mind has filled with the tales of the glories of Nocto's Nights long long ago. To even be chosen to compete is an honor; to be allowed by the fates to win is a benediction beyond merry measure. She and the others have been training for months, practicing good works and noble thoughts to earn the favor and blessing of the gods, for there can be no victory without the gods' approval. At the finish line gifts await all twelve who compete, but not every gift is a prize to strive for. Nocto knows who has been nice, and who has been naughty.
The frosty air nipping at her nose, burning her rosy cheeks, Carola leans low over her stallion's neck, and chants the ancient mantra, passed down from youth to youth through the centuries: "Giddy up, jingle horse, pick up your feet," Carola encourages, desperate to maintain her position. She throws off her fur-lined Violet mantle, only a drag now that her night of exertion has warmed her. A thrill of hope, the weary girl rejoices as bells on bobtail ring when Yulo gains a brief burst of speed.
It is too late to attain first place, but she can't allow them to fall into last, she can't. However, the rider trailing her is just as desperate. Carola risks a look behind and sees her rival gaining. Already Carola can feel Yulo's speed flagging again, his stamina waning. Behind her, the sound of bells, then beside her, and then, terrifyingly, ahead of her as her last rival gallops past towards the lights of the village shining in the east, beyond them far. Yulo is spent, their last-place finish ensured.
Carola and Yulo enter the town square at a slow trot, the stallion's foam-flecked flanks steaming, his head hung low, the dispirited girl sagging in the saddle. At one end of the square, the presentation of gifts is already underway. The victor with her major award of gold in the form of five large rings, and second and third with frankincense and myrrh respectively, all the way down to eleventh place and her roast partridge and pear tree seedling.
Carola barely has time to take it all in before a short priest, dressed in bright green with a pointy belled hat, grabs Yulo's Violet reins. Since there's no place to go, the exhausted chestnut stallion does not resist; his mind is already away in a manger where a late dinner of hay awaits. Docilely he is led into a squat and narrow stone hut off to one side of the square, windowless except for several thin slits high in the walls.
"No, please, no..." Carola cries out, though she knows it will do no good. The gods have not favored them; misfortune seems their lot. She and Yulo have failed, and failure must have consequences. On this night her failure has doomed her to be Nocto's chosen bride.
More short, green-clad priests appear almost out of thin air and set to work. The belled cuffs on Yulo's ankles are linked with lengths of chain and then secured to iron pegs sunk into the floor of the hut, immobilizing the stallion. By the time the horse has realized something is wrong, it is too late.
Carola's wrists are bound in front of her. One priest climbs atop another's shoulders and wreathes a loop of delicate yet strong chain around Carola's throat, the metal cold against her sweaty neck. The other end is secured to a hook in the ceiling of the hut. The chain has bells on it, and at the very top a sprig of a waxy-leaved evergreen parasitic plant is twined into the links, inviting Nocto down to kiss his bride.
A gag is passed up to the priest beside her. Carola looks at it and then down at Yulo. A muzzle is already in place holding his snout shut, and his frightened brown eyes look up at her. Through the years they have always been together; he has been hers since he was only a colt, a gift on this very day years ago. The priest beside her hesitates a moment, giving Carola a chance for her final words. "You better not cry, you better not pout; let nothing you affright," her words as much for herself as for Yulo. And then the gag is tied across her mouth and Carola can speak no more. The god Nocto is mute, and by doctrine his sacrifices must be rendered likewise. Finally, rags soaked with water are tied across Carola's and Yulo's noses and mouths.
The preparations complete, the white-bearded high priest appears, big and fat, dressed from his head to his foot in red with white fur trim, and carrying a matching sack, bulging and heavy, and Carola knew in a moment it must be the guise of Silent Nocto himself. The girl whimpers through her gag, fighting to hold back her tears. Nocto's priest speaks not a word, but goes straight to his work, opening his bundle and pouring it out all over the floor. There arises such a clatter as the gift that Carola has received tumbles across the flagstones, black and shiny: coal.
More sacks are brought forth by his short assistants, and the dusty black coal piles higher and higher, all around Carola and her horse. Yulo shifts uncomfortably, his bells jingling faintly, as the lumps knock against his legs. More and more, until the entire floor is covered in depth halfway to the stallion's knees. The priest gives Carola one last scowling look and then the iron door to the hut clangs shut and the lock clicks.
Outside, a small boy with a drum rolls out a crescendo. Pa-rum. Pa-rum. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. In the pitch dark inside Carola shivers in miserable dread, finally surrendering to her tears, letting them weep freely down her cheeks. It no longer matters whether she is bad or good; she belongs to Nocto now. She cannot imagine what she has done to turn the gods away from her, but she never doubts that the fault is hers alone.
A small hatch halfway up the iron door is opened and a pile of white-hot glowing coal is shoveled inside. For a moment, nothing happens, the small heap smoldering innocuously, filling the darkness with a warm glow. Then, the mass of coal piled on the floor catches alight. The fire spreads, and spreads quickly.
Yulo tries to rear away from the growing flames, setting the bells on his saddle straps jingling, but the chains around his ankles hold firm. Like a flash the fire is all around his legs, prickling painfully at his vulnerable jiggling belly. Soot rises toward the ceiling and the smoke it encircles Carola's head like a wreath, stinging her tear-reddened eyes, but the wet rag over her nose and mouth keep her lungs relatively clear, prolonging her life. Nocto's bride and her horse will die hard, an ignoble and disgraceful death.
The air in the well-insulated hut heats up quickly, going from bonechilling cold to comfy cozy to searing hot in mere minutes. Her beautiful Violet clothes now all tarnished with ashes and soot, Carola begins to sweat anew beneath the insulation of her heavy winter dress, her legs cooking inside her woolen stockings as the flames grow higher and hotter. Beneath her, Carola can feel Yulo in near constant motion, muscles writhing beneath his shining hide, the stallion trying desperately to escape the agony. Fresh sobs escape Carola's throat as she watches her beloved chestnut roasting on an open fire.
Yulo's harness bells deform in the heat, the merry jingling morphing into discordant clacking as the silver tarnishes. The hair of his hide burns away, the flesh beneath raw and red, so bright you could even say it glows. Steam seethes from his nostrils as his panicked breathing becomes more uneven, his powerful heart straining to endure. Even though he is muzzled, Carola can hear him screaming in agony on the inside, his suffering even worse than her own.
In the fire they are both slowly dying, and it doesn't show signs of stopping. Her faithful friend who is dear to her, gathered near to her once more and for all, united now and forever. Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, Carola tries to comfort her horse, stroking what bit of his neck she can reach with her bound hands. She weeps in sin and error, pining for the happy golden days of yore when she herself was watching the solstice ceremony, never once imagining in those days of Nocto's Night past that it might someday be herself within the mighty kiln.
After what feels like an eternity, the torment finally becomes too much. Yulo falls on his knees and collapses with an almighty crash into the coal-fired inferno that consumes the ground. The tortured stallion struggles for a moment longer before he at last lays down his sweet head.
For an instant, Carola falls with him, but then the choke chain around her throat pulls taut, cinching excruciatingly tight against her throat. She is hanged, suspended above the blazing Yulo before her. The silver bells on her strangling noose jingle sharply, ring-a-ling as Carola's stockinged feet kick in desperate and futile reflex, her Violet velvet dress sparkling like a vision of a sugarplum as she dances. The last breath trapped in her lungs, weak and poisoned with coal, does not last her long. Carola thrashes about in her last struggles, jingling all the way. With her last thought, Carola bemoans her fate: "I wish I was never born." She goes still as her dress catches alight and, in a Nocto's Night miracle, is dead before the flames consume her flesh.
The fire inside is frightful but the weather is so delightful, the midnight clear. The atmosphere in the square is festive, and someone has brought some corn for popping. Words of good cheer from everywhere fill the air as the crowd huddles close to the warmth emanating from the sacrificial furnace, and tiny tots with their eyes all aglow in the light of the flames will find it hard to sleep tonight. Their parents smile wistfully; these wonderful things are the things they remember all through their lives. The crowd is listening close for the sound of bells and cheers when they hear them sing, heralding Carola's deliverance into Nocto's embrace.
Afterwards, as the longest night reigns, in houses across the land before they are tucked snug in their beds the children will hang their own stockings by the chimney with care in Nocto's honor.
When yonder breaks a new and glorious morn, if they have been nice, the stockings will be filled with gifts from Nocto. If they have been naughty, they will receive a warning of the fate that awaits.
