Wee Barbarians

I shall confess here and now that I have never been completely comfortable with children. It's something we are made to be ashamed of, as a favorite Hollywood conceit tells us that people who prefer not to be around children are very bad people, not to be trusted, possibly conservative toetappers. It is in fact the opposite--people who like children a bit too much are to be suspected.

But I have digressed already.

My daughter is now in preschool, a kind of advanced placement program to help one's children get into the very best Kindergartens. In dropping her off and bringing her home, I have been in contact with some of her classmates, and countless billions of germs as well. But I have found to my delight that I really enjoy interacting with children and their incandescent little skulls.

I learn so much from these wee barbarians, for that is what they are. What we call Innocence is actually a primitive and brutally honest packaging of our own impulses, except in bodies too small and cute to do much damage. When they are displeased with some breaking of the order, there is no passive-aggressive blocking of lanes or presentation of the birdfinger; they simply push the transgressor's oversized head down a sliding board. I can almost see the wisdom of making preschools gun-free zones, for in them a real potential for mayhem exists.

What we as adults forget is that children's senses are hypercharged; they perceive things openly and directly; colors are so vivid as to be almost tasted. And surroundings are viewed as much more imposing. I stood aside at her school's tiny playground--an average sized yard, really--and tried to see the playset and the trees and the sky as they did. I mostly felt sad because it was so very hard for my dulled senses, jaded over nearly half a century. I felt touches of it only when I walked down a basement stairwell to look up at the fence, playset, and teachers, and imagined them to be 20 feet tall.

At bedtime I always read H a story. If I'm feeling playful of an evening, I might improvise. What's interesting is that when I make up a story, H is entertained, and that is the aim, but I take some learning from it. A couple of her favorite themes are vicious beasts, such as grizzly bears, arctic wolves, and bumbles (Sasquatches), and punishments for wicked children. Children are not particularly interested in warm morality tales, save that bad children are punished in extravagantly cruel ways, and besides, what morals the kids take away may be imposed ruthlessly on others.

Out of these tales has arisen a hero of sorts, from the German folk tale of Knecht Ruprecht ("Servant Rupert"), a dark figure whom Santa Claus employs to punish bad children. Children are fascinated by the Santa trope insofar as it cajoles them into a sense of morality (admittedly artificial, at first) that nevertheless allows them to reckon their potential year-end haul for being good. It is rewarding but tedious. What is really satisfying about the Ruprecht legend is what happens to other rotten little bastards who trangress The Rules.

It is a splendid tale to frighten the bejeezus out of the little skulls, and it goes something like this:

Ruprecht arrives every year to leave coal or other droppings in the stockings of badly behaved children. True delinquents receive a good switching, or possibly a sjambok to the soles of the feet if Herr Ruprecht is in a foul mood that evening. But the worst of the worst, the truly rotten and irredeemable, are put into a giant sack and Shanghaied to his castle for a year of purgatorial labor.

Now, if Santa lives at the North Pole, where must Ruprecht live? This provides the opportunity to grope the globe and learn a bit of geography. At the opposite end, of course--the South Pole! Here the very worst children are brought for horrible punishments. The young mind is eager to know all details. What happens to these wickeds?

Rupprecht wears a costume similar to Santa's, except it's green with black fur trim, the opposite of Santa's colors. No quaint sleigh and charming reindeer either for this adversary of the bads. On Christmas Eve, Ruprecht travels the world over in a green and black Zeppelin powered by flying penguins. He metes out punishment in his penal colony at the South Pole. In the prison, like Dante's Inferno, each punishment is diabolically engineered to fit the child's sin.

Kids who are mean to animals are given honeysuckle soap to bathe in, and are beset upon incessantly by insects and woodpeckers that painfully peck the vermin off them. Braggarts are fed a special kind of supergenerative bean casserole, so they can puff up all they like. Liars find that Whopperslugs have crawled into their ears overnight, special slugs that expand, contract, and squirm tortuously whenever a lie is told. This, because liars spend their time filling others' ears with abominations.

For dinner, junk food and candy gluttons are given mud soup with turnip, plus sandwiches made with real sand and a little peanut butter. Tattlers have lead weights suspended by a string tied to their tongues. Cheaters and kids who take credit for others' work are tarred upon arrival, so that all manner of things--paper, pillows, utensils--stick to them. Bullies wear a kind of mail made of pennies; they move so slowly that would-be victims can simply pace off to a safe distance and mock them. And the lowest of the low, graffitists (especially those who consider themselves artists) are tickled unto incontinence but also rather nicely decorated by having paint-covered worms crawl over their armpits, backs of the knees, and between the toes.

Ruprecht has installed tubes leading to his dining room so that the ghastly screams can be piped in while he sups. An elaborate panel of tuning knobs allows him to bring up the low moans and attenuate the shrillest shrieks, for a more enjoyable listening experience. So beware, all ye who have been extra naughty.

Rulebreakers and intransigents are made to sit in their nudity on a giant ice cube. And made to sleep on a tray of hard, uncooked peas. Or cooked, depending on the foulness of Ruprecht's mood. The really hard cases spend six minutes a day in a tiled room where an ill-tempered Chinese nanny waits with black rubber gloves, a jar of chili paste, and a much-applied wire brush.

The punishments are not at all meant to be remedial. Ruprecht has tired of redemption ("I so hate it vhen dey repent.") and believes that he is an unappreciated artist, for truly deserved punishment is a lost art.

Perhaps you, gentle reader, have been likewise naughty and your curiosity has been piqued. You have been mostly good, but not entirely. You would like to know what reward lies in store for you. You will have to wait for the rest of the story. The fear lingers at the end of the allotted time. We never outgrow it.