It was the beginning of a battle. A cold winter’s night. Though there was no shortage of good tidings in the air, wishes to warm the hearts of those who trekked out in the tundra, there was also war. A war not just between nations, but ideals. The old stories tell tales of two brothers, bound by fate but betwixt by fortune. There was the old jolly man, known as The Saint. And his brother, only known in whispers as The Kramp.

Many years ago, before this particular eve, two brothers were raised in the mountains by an anonymous figure, forgotten both by legend and by memory. Only the two brothers could or would recall such an individual – and they wouldn’t. For their experiences shaped them to be the figures they are today. 

The Saint was born with a heart of gold – jolly, and kind, as all the stories have told. He grew fat with love and loved not just one but all. The Kramp was born with guile and gall. He had no love for anyone but himself, and each Yuletide season, he would be admonished by their father, the elf on the shelf. 

“Too stubborn, too brave! Too callous, too naive!” the voice would echo through the mountains, followed by the thwack of a stick of birch. The Saint would look away, but the Kramp was brave.

“You’ll either learn, or each Yuletide night will be your turn!” 

And the Kramp would cry, shout and pout. Yet he stayed on the same old route. His brother too, hardly had anything to learn. However, with each sighting, there would be a tiding for which he would yearn.

As the two grew old, as their father would scold, the two would spend the Yuletide season, together, but alone.

“I dream of a world different from this…A world full of joy…An idea called Christmas.”

“I too dream of a world. But tell me..Of this Christmas…What’s so special about yours?” The Kramp’s brow furled.

“Ahh, you see! It’s as good as can be! Each season brings cheer, merriment, and wonder! Grins, not leers. No fears, no blunders! I wish to reward those with goodness at heart. I’d like to bring them toys, or gifts, at least that’s the start.”

The Kramp raised an eyebrow, no stranger to ‘justice’ and replied “But what of this…”

“What do you, my brother, do you consider good? Is it something you’ve done? Something you would?” 

“Why yes, of course! There’s something like that in everyone. A desire to prosper. A desire for fun.”

The Kramp first snarled, then sneered, then jeered.

“And he says I’m naive! Ha!” Along with a stroke of his beard.

And in retort, does the Saint stroke his chin.

“Well then dear brother…If it were up to you…How would this Christmas begin?”

The Kramp’s eyes lit up, and he leaned in close.

“Ahh…Something I understand, far better than most…I seek to punish those who would defy my will. Who’s hearts are weighted by debts of guilt and expectation. I’d have the forests echo with their lamentations.”

“My dear brother…You’d do to them, what he’s done to you? Not many deserve that punishment…I’d wager not even a few.”

“Come off, fat fool! Don’t make me croak. You consider the old man’s lessons a blight? A lesion? A joke?”

“Not to say that…But I’d hardly call it fair…I wish no ill will upon anyone…I have no arms to bear.”

“No arms to bear? You mean no will to invoke. Your chest is stuffed with cookies…While its fire I’ve stoked!”

The Kramp stood tall and raised his arms high.

“This is where we differ…You and I…You always had it easy…You were always the favorite…Well…I hope you enjoy your Christmas. I truly hope you savor it. Because when the time is nigh, and the Yuletide arrives…All will feel my wrath…And many will die!”

The Saint stands up and adjusts his belt.

“But my dear brother, why? Why can’t I help-”

“Too little too late, you brazen fool! You’ve done nothing for me but stammer and drool. You’ve watched him beat me into this form and now you suggest that this isn’t the norm?”

“I can’t stand by idle, if you threaten the world.”

“My pain won’t be futile!” The Kramp’s brow furled.

And on this night, they could do nothing but fight. Brothers at birth, but now separated by their perceptions of worth. 

And so the story is told, to goodfellow tinkerers of old. Who work for goodwill, and not for gold.

—-

It was the eve of the Yuletide season. A day seared into the minds of these figures by their actions, or by fate. The forces of the Kramp waged war not just on Yule, but on those who lived their lives without fear. The Kramp would not rest until everyone knew how he felt. He would not rest until every bottom was marred by a welt.

And though the Saint wanted to stay true to his beliefs, his people would be slaughtered if they didn’t fight back. Taught in rudimentary ways of war, with reindeer and sleds they met in the snow and turned the white red. 

But the thing that delighted the Kramp more than all was to steal the goodfellows of The Saint and make them bend to his will. This is how the story of the gnome known by many as Uncle Dunkle begins. 

It begins not in a manger, or in a hall with mead or cookies to be shared. It begins in a burlap sack, gnomes begging for lives to be spared.

—–

“Dimble…It’s too late for us…But promise us one thing!”

“Of course…Anything. What tides might I bring?”

“My boy…He’ll be born in bondage, wrapped in chains below…But do your best to protect him…Try your best to spare him from any blow.”

A tear shed by the young gnome, who was now an Uncle, and a child. He wept for a pleading mother, and her newborn babe.

“Do not worry. I will safeguard this child with my life. I will do everything in my power to protect him from strife.”

A smile in the dark, that quickly fades. A hand with no aces, even if all spades. 

Time would pass and the years would not be kind. There wasn’t much hope to hope for, not much joy to find. Dimble Dunkle would toil in chains, no stranger to love, but no stranger to pains. But there was one gift that they couldn’t take from him. An inquisitive mind and an engineer’s whim. He was impressive not just to his own, but to the horned devil on the throne. The grinch known as Kramp. Rotten to the bone. 

Years would pass, and Dimble would last, offering every spare piece of bread to his nephew, who was growing quite fast. His eyes were bright and brilliant blue. He knew not of the savagery, one of the lucky few. 

You see, Dimble Dunkle made a bargain with the Kramp. He would produce the most unkind devices imaginable, to spare his younger nephew. 

But he knew that his deal would only last for so long. Not unlike their carols, their laments, their songs. With every passing year his dear nephew grew older and the Kramp’s demands became only bolder. The fire in his eyes burned with strife, there was no stone he’d leave unturned, no reason to spare a life. There would come a time where this boy would be of age, and sent to the mines, where many would live and many would die.

But Dimble Dunkle had an even sharper mind. He knew a way out, even if it wasn’t for all to find. His first true invention that wasn’t meant to cause death, a Bag of Holding, made of scraps of cloth and what’s left. 

“My dearest nephew…I made this gift for you. I love you dearly, but this is all I can do.”

“What do you mean, Uncle Dunkle? What do you propose for us?”

“Not for us…Though in me you must trust. I will place you in this bag, and we have only minutes to spare…But when you’re let outside…You’ll be offered a life most fair.”

The boy frowned, but Dimble rubbed his brow, and toyed with his hair.

“Do not worry for me, young child. I made a promise to your mother that you would be spared from this hell. That you’d be free from this torment. When I place you in this bag, hold this watch, and count down the moments. Run from this place. And don’t look back. I will pack with you the things you’ll need to survive…And someday I will join you, and together we will find joy. Alive.”

Though uncertain the plan would work, Dimble felt that he had no choice but to stay. It would be easier for his nephew to escape, and there would be hell to pay. 

So together they waited until that fateful day. Dimble Dunkle used his wits and every trick in the book. When the moment was right he opened the bag, released his nephew. Told him to run. Run as fast as he could. There’s no point in dwelling on the past. Don’t even look.

And so he did. The nephew escaped, but Dimble Dunkle was bound by fate. 

“Bring him before me. I know what he did!” The Kramp’s voice beckoned, with dark tidings to bid. 

And dragged before the Horned man he was. Beaten nearly to death.

“Inside your breast beats a blackened heart!” Dimble shouted, struggling for breath.

The Kramp laughed, and stood from his throne.

“You really think you know everything? Mr Dimble Dunkle? Your life is worthless, your body weak…All the way down to the bone. Do you think your nephew will survive out there? Frightened and alone? Don’t think yourself so coy…We know of the boy. We’ll find him and kill him, and make his skull into a toy. And you’ll stay here, thinking about what you’ve done, about what battles you’ve fought, yet hardly won. You’ll be beaten and broken, and when your name is spoken, it will be a reminder to the others never, ever, to trust anyone. Not even their own brothers. You’ll have failed your nephew, his mother, and yourself. You’ll be kept a reminder. A little Elf on the shelf!”

“You’re wrong. You might keep us here and force us to die, but I know your tongue is forked, and all you can do is lie. My spirit rings true, of Yuletide cheer! I’ll never surrender! I’ll never know fear!”

And the Kramp’s laughs bellowed, indifferent, and loud. Around Dimble Dunkle there formed a crowd.

“Beat him within an inch of his life. Show him what pain is to come. And when you find the boy…Bring him to me. Before everyone!” 

Each night was the same. Dimble Dunkle prayed. That his nephew found help, and was not found flayed. He knew that the surface was dangerous, that it could be unkind, but he never lost hope, he never lost his mind.

That was until the day the bells were tolled. Dragged once more before the throne, no longer so bold. 

“Look at this little Dunkle. Do you know what this is?”

“My…My nephew’s hat! This cannot be true…I can’t believe that!”

“Oh but you will. You know what this means. His corpse was ground into coffee beans. And you will stay here, wondering what went wrong? Tell me, little boy. If you have the strength to even sing a song!”

Silence filled the room, followed by the sobbing of a gnome, who was now without family, without a home. 

But something inside of him twitched. A fire was stoked. He would not live as a message, his promise would not end as a joke. 

—–

Two weeks would pass from that day. And Dimble Dunkle would do a lot but not pray. No…He taught himself to weaponize his mind, and to turn his desire for freedom and joy into wrath. He built himself a suit of armor, with which to carve a new path. He escaped from the Kramp in the dead of night, not without turmoil, not without a fight.

And he would not see the surface until the dawn of first light. Covered in blood, standing in mud.

“Nephew!!! I’ll find you! I swear this to be true! Hear my voice! I am Dimble Dunkle! And I will be known to the downtrodden as Uncle!”

He scoured the wilderness for days and days, his heart filled with lust, his mind in a craze.

“I must find the boy…I must find the boy! The Kramp’s words were a sham…His threats but a ploy…I know you live…But where are you hiding? I’ll find you soon, before the next Yule’s Tiding!”

And find him he did at the brink of dusk. But the boy was not well. He was fading – but a husk.

“Uncle…Is that you? I knew that you’d come…That your words were true…” 

And so did the Uncle sob, throwing his helmet into the snow. Angry at himself for wasting so much time below.

“This is my fault…If I had come with you…You might’ve been spared…If only I knew…”

“No…Uncle…You did what you could…I built myself a fire…I chopped down some wood…I ate some berries…And hunted some game…But the hills were steep…The forest far from tame…I tried my best…To be just like you…And now we are together…At last…Now what should we do?”

Dimble knew that no invention could stave off death by natural causes. Maybe a contract with a devil riddled with clauses.

But there was no devil in sight. The only choice they had was to share this one night.

And so they did, as any nephew and Uncle might.

But by the next sun’s rising, the boy’s soul had taken flight.

In a sick way, the Kramp’s words were right.

That Dimble Dunkle’s quest…His hope was folly. He would bury his own nephew covered in holly.

“Nephew…I’ll never fail again. Someday we’ll be together, though I know not when…” 

And in his grief, Dimble died in his own way, but not without something loud and boisterous to say.

“Hear me, hear ye! All creatures of old! All denizens of might! The brash and the bold! I am Uncle Dunkle! The bringer of joy! I will fill this world with cheer, with laughter! With toys! And I will be known as the one who is most jolly!”

And as his voice echoed through the mountains, he fell to his knees as his eyes wept like fountains.