Gabe knocks on my hotel room door. He made me promise, no matter how late we were out last night, that I would join him for coffee this morning. I saw a cafe yesterday that looked perfect. Large windows looking on to the town square bedecked in garlands filled with customers. But I didn't think it would be this early.

  It is quite empty compared to the bustle of the town yesterday. As our waiter comes over, we ask him why the lack of customers this morning.

  “The festivities of Krampusnacht often keep people in bed a little bit longer this morning,” he laughs.

  “You really take this holiday quite seriously around here?”.

  “It's fun. But for some of the older generation, especially of those who grew up in these small mountain communities, they take it quite seriously. Krampus was a constant fear in their childhood. The story is that Krampus steals away bad children. Some people still believe Krampus live up in the mountains, hidden away by the snow-capped peaks of their mountain lairs.”

  “Some of your townsfolk were pretty serious with their costumes. The ornate wooden masks.”

  “And the ones that just wear horns without masks.What do they do - glue the horns on their scalp? I saw a few guys like that.”

  “You did? Are you sure it wasn't a true Krampus?” His voice joked but his eyes shone a more serious question.

  “I wouldn't know a true one from a fake one. They all were pretty scary to me, especially the ones with whips.” We all laugh at that.

  He pours us coffee and, unprompted, continues, “While the legend tells of a demon that punishes bad children, the opposite of St. Nicholas, some believe that the Krampus are demons who turned good. Their old habits are the ones that persist in folklore, but for some reason, they have better intentions now. Or maybe their acts are hardly evil when compared to the other magical beings hidden in the shadows of the mountains. Some say they keep peace in the mountains - prevent avalanches and the evil of alps to reach humans. Most agree they have magical abilities and can create snowstorms.” He is gazing wistfully towards the mountains as he speaks. In his pause he turns back to us. “Or, I suppose the storytellers get more fanciful over time. Who doesn't love a twist to the classics?”

  “What are alps?” Gabe asks. His love of history is intertwined with his love of folklore.

  “Ah yes. I believe the English term is elves. The ones that bloom the delicate spring alpine flowers. Most tales describe them as playful creatures full of magic. But when the flowers die in the fall, they become feral and bloodthirsty. They need human sacrifice so the tales say. Supposedly, the Krampus keep them at bay and in turn get blamed for any evil. Though most of the younger generations blames wolves.” He smiles. “Now, what can I bring you for breakfast?”

  Once the waiter is out of earshot, Gabe teases me. “You think that broody guy at the bar was a real Krampus?”

  “No.” Gabe sees I hesitate in my response and lifts an eyebrow. “Last night, after I left you at the hotel, I wandered around town. I met another guy that looked just as creepy as the one in the bar... no, actually, he was more sleazy than creepy. Anyways, he also wore horns, no mask. He was getting a little too close for comfort and at that exact moment the dark Krampus from the bar showed up, acting like a complete gentleman and offered to walk me back to my hotel." Gabe's disbelief in my story shows in his eyes. "Okay, hear me out. Aside from showing up on cue, he was also talking to me about… well I don’t even know what he was talking about. But something secret he thought I was in on. That I knew about. I know I sound out of my mind right now. So of course the fables the waiter just spun seem to align with the odd conversation I heard last night.”

  “I think you need more caffeine. Need I remind you that you had plenty of wine by that time of night?”

  I laugh but know that part of the night was clear in my mind. Thankfully, our waiter arrives with our orders and I shove food in my mouth so I don’t need to explain further. I sip on my coffee while running through everything from last night. Did I actually hear the conversation correctly? Or maybe it was a difference in translation.

  “What are you dreaming about, Isa?”

  “Sorry. I didn't hear - what did you say?”

  “I was asking if you want another coffee. I’ll take that to mean you need an espresso, probably a double shot.”

  Obligated by the fact we are supposed to be teaching, Gabe leads a historical walking tour of town. How he knows all this - either he planned in advance or is making it up as he goes, I can not tell. I notice he seems to be particularly drawn to the historical markers affixed to most buildings.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  As Gabe is going on about some battle and the quasi significance to this town, I take in the scenery. Gabled roofs covered in lights, wooden balconies covered in pine boughs, shop fronts decorated with baubles and ribbons. I am tempted to walk in to the chocolate shop but need to keep up. While I take in the aroma of the chocolates, I notice a cute floral shop which has even decorated their bonsai with mini lights.

  The market, just a block away, is already bustling but calm. Music is drifting slowly from the distance. The serene town is completely different from the town of last night.

  As I trail behind the group, I try to find the small alpine lake we plan to walk to this afternoon. I scan the massive expanse of mountains surrounding the town. There are peaks as far as I can see. Since the lake is supposedly walkable from town, I shift my gaze more on the horizon between buildings. As the students ahead turn down a side street, I follow though I am looking the opposite direction, in hopes to see the lake down the cross street.

  “Oof.” An ungraceful noise as I walk into a wall. A soft wall. A person. Seriously Isa, wake up. “I'm so sorry….”

  “Damn American tourists not watching where they go.” The person mutters in English, obviously for me to hear.

  I am about to apologize again but I suddenly recognize who I walked into. I chortle softly in disbelief. “It seems you are watching a little too closely where I go. Or did you just happen to catch my scent coming from nearby?”

  He still didn’t look at me, busying himself with the front page of a newspaper from the rack outside a kiosk. But I can tell he is doing a horrible job at hiding a grin.

  He gives no response but finally looks down at me. There is no recognition in his eyes. Curses. He looks exactly like the Krampus with dark hair from last night but obviously not the same person. He doesn’t have his horns. Of course he doesn’t have horns, I tell myself. I need more caffeine. Or sleep.

  “I'm so sorry, I thought you were someone else… I’m a bit distracted today.”

  But as his face turns fully to me, I see his impressive silver scar that curls around his eyes. Those endless black eyes.

  “Oh, good morning Ice Queen. I didn't realize it was you. You look a little more… put together.”

  Obviously, I was a disaster last night. Though I feel no better this morning, I guess I had on clean clothes and combed my hair. I want to ask if he meant that I smell better than last night, but decide better of it. He’d probably use the quip against me.

  “I should be saying the same to you. I see you put your horns and claws away.” I say as I casually take a long look down to his hands, pausing briefly on his chest and arms. He is wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and top buttons undone. His scent of pine and snow tickles my nose. How he looks today, I would not be surprised if he tells me he owns a cCristmas tree farm or something very hallmark-movie-esque.

  “I do enjoy dressing up for Krampusnacht but it is not my everyday look.” I wonder if he heard Gabe’s concerns in the bar. “Try to look professional when I'm working.”

  Flannel is professional wear for very few businesses, including owning a Christmas tree farm.

  My eyes question him, which he recognizes and responds, “I have a tree farm. I just delivered a load of trees to my friend who has that stand over there.” He points to a Christmas tree stall at the end of the market a few blocks away. I see an older man setting up trees that are in a pile behind the stall. He was not making this up.

  As I slowly turn back to him I see little pine needles sticking out of his flannel in places. I absentmindedly pick a clump of needles off his shoulder, as if I need palpable proof. He is really a walking holiday story.

  I need him to pull away from my touch, turn from my social awkwardness. Something to keep me from swooning over this tough-exterior but absolute gentleman of a Christmas tree farmer.

  Instead, he leans in and whispers to me. “What about you, Ice Queen, in what occupation do you find yourself with those icy powers?”

  I feel my inside melt.

  After a moment to clear my mind, I reflect on the question. Was he calling me an icy bitch or was he continuing down this weird obsession that I can make my own ice? I choose the former.

  “My icy personality is well used as a middle school teacher.”

  He laughs but he narrows his eyes, searching me for more. He really means the latter. I keep my stare, curious about his institance that I have the ability to create ice.

  “Isa!” The moment is broken as I hear Oliver call my name. I look up the street where Oliver is waiting for me, the group already moved on.

  “Isa? It is a pleasure to meet you, Isa.” He softly rumbles my name.

  Oliver calls again.

  “I think your friend is calling you.” This seems to irk him.

  “He’s not… he’s a coworker.” I fluster over my assumption of what he is implying. I am falling apart in front of him and I don’t even know his name. My head and heart are pounding, “If I want to see you again, can I call you?”

  His dark eyes soften and sparkle gold. I feel the warmth of last night, the warmth of after a fresh snow.

  He does not give me a phone number.

  “You can ask anyone in town for me. Ask for Reinmar. But you can call me Remme.”

  I want to say something more. Something poetic. Something witty, or even cloy. But the silence seems stronger than anything I can say. I can't stop myself from pushing away a stray strand of brown-black marled hair that has fallen in front of his eye. My fingers burn with the touch. He tries to hide a soft guttural sigh. Oliver calls a third time.

  As I walk away, I glance back just to confirm that he is real. Remme. A name to the man who haunted my dreams last night. He walks into the shop, apparently to buy the paper he was reading and behind him leaves a trail of snow on the sidewalk. On a blue sky day.