Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

Unable to defend himself, Nicholas seemingly watched in slow motion as the axe blade moved slowly but inevitably in the direction of his neck while his brain burned with calculating options that would protect him. Finally, he shut his eyes, which was about all he could do in such a dismally precarious situation. However, the strike never landed as he expected. Upon hearing a thud, he opened his eyes and found his foe had been felled by a Roman arrow. Nicholas looked about and saw the ranks of archers unleashing a fury of red-feathered arrows into the flanks of enemy forces.

  Rough terrain made the phalanx maneuver ineffective on this uneven battlefield. Tree branches were more troublesome to their spear tips than enemy arrows. After a swift charge into the enemy forces, the phalanx dispersed. Lysander, ever the gallant hero, vanquished his foes, sword to axe. Nicholas, however, found himself swinging his sword to avoid hitting the vital organs of his opponents. He figured if they bled to death, God was in charge and would sort it out. It seemed to him to be his best attempt to keep his conscience clear of homicide, and his unorthodox approach hitherto was working.

  He sliced a mangled gash in the leg of a foe who then fell back limping like a maimed bear. In the mind of Nicholas, this was an exhilarating way to vanquishing an enemy. He felt very much the conquering weapon-wielder until he found himself blindsided. The unseen enemy knocked away his sword and Nicholas leaped after it, narrowly evading the enemy’s axe strokes. Now on the ground, Nicholas grabbed his blade and rolled over just in time to see the Barbarian about to slam a fatal blow. Finding himself face to face with death again, he figured his luck was bound to be a dry well. At that critical moment, a sword pierced his foe’s chest from behind, and as the man toppled, Lysander revealed himself to be the rescuer.

  The two gasped for air, exhausted from the constant fighting, and then Nicholas, playing the brave combatant, said, “I almost had him, you know.”

  “Stand tall,” Lysander grunted, sneering at Nicholas for his nonchalance. “This is the real thing, not a faux skirmish between friends.” These were bloodthirsty rivals and Lysander could not always keep one eye out for his friend’s welfare and race across a hot battlefield to attend his needs. “What did I say about watching your feet, Nicholas? This… this cannot happen again. I can’t always be there to…” he left the remainder unsaid.

  Nicholas nodded grimly and stood up. He then looked about and saw far more red-capes standing than Barbarians and his spirits elevated. “It would seem we are winning,” said Nicholas.

  Before a moment could pass, Flavius rode up commanding a handful of officers. “Fly, officers. Take charge of the advancing force and see that they be not outflanked!” Flavius barked and the officials rode off speedily. To Nicholas he said, “Quartermaster, follow me hence,” and trotting in another direction. Nicholas scurried behind struggling to keep pace. Flavius continued, “I beheld a small band retreat thither. You and I shall cut off their retreat.”

  It made little sense why the head of the entire legionnaire forces should take the least likely soldier alone to slay an enemy when he had far more pressing matters to supervise. But then again, Nicholas’s heart pounded rapidly, his eyes blurred from sweat, and his thoughts were too cloudy for much of anything to make sense. All he presently comprehended was his commander beckoned him and his good friend followed just behind.

  Rounding some boulders, they found Flavius dismounted and crouching down behind shrubs, his gaze fixed on something through the thistles. “Come! Come!” he beckoned impatiently in a shouted whisper, waving his hand in urgency. Nicholas and Lysander approached sneakily and squatted with their commander. “Behold two Barbarians yonder, looking to survey the Danube ravine. They either plan to retreat or flank our men. Either way, ye are to prevent them.”

  Nicholas gazed out and spied a couple rough-looking Barbarians trudging along a steep cliff. They were tall and ferocious, beastly men that might have the proficiency to even best Lysander. Nicholas was reluctant to take them on.

  “Sir, how shall we…”

  “Not ‘we,’ soldier,” Flavius cut him off. “My will is you slay them, Nicholas.”

  “At least Lysander is with me,” he thought, until Flavius took notice of Lysander, seemingly for the first time.

  “You, I did not beckon,” Flavius told Lysander sternly. “To the ranks! Anon!”

  Lysander paused and glanced toward Nicholas. “Sir, surely the two of us would fare better…” Lysander stressed, but Flavius silenced him.

  “Special need I have of the Quartermaster. Make haste, victory is not ours yet!” Lysander saluted from an automatic deference to his commander, but he was troubled. Why would Nicholas be preferred over all the more apt fighters, let alone be sent in solitude to fell two dangerous looking adversaries? However, Lysander could only obey and so he departed.

  Nicholas watched his friend leave with concern. THWAK! The sound of bowstrings caught his attention in an instant and he turned to find the two Barbarians shooting arrows upward, to a higher brink, at advancing Roman soldiers. “No time to waste,” Flavius demanded. “Lo, they are shooting at our men. Make haste!”

  “Sir, the two of us could fend them off.”

  “NOW, soldier!”

  Like a dog’s collar yanked tightly by his master, Nicholas turned and swiftly made way toward the archers. As Nicholas moved quickly and silently toward the two foes, he watched one shoot a passing Roman, who plummeted off the bluff down to the river far below and Nicholas shuddered as the body bounced off jagged rocks. He momentarily watched the scene in aversion, but knew he must press forward as silently as possible. Attack by surprise was his best option.

  However, to his dismay, his foot crashed against some gravel and he lost his footing near the edge and rocks slid noisily over the ledge. One of the Barbarian archers turned and, seeing Nicholas, gave him a fright. In a blink, he recovered, drew his bow, and shot an arrow, but Nicholas dove behind a boulder barely evading the missile. There he found a projectile weapon of his own, a fist-sized rock. Nicholas hurled the rock into the face of the Barbarian, jumped over the boulder, and stabbed him through the chest, his first actual kill. Guilt for what he considered murder tried to slip into his conscience like a solar eclipse, but he refused to let it. The other man engaged him in a sword fight, which maneuvered Nicholas back into a boulder. When the man lunged to finish him off, Nicholas jumped backward onto the boulder and struck the Barbarian with his feet. Thrusting his legs into the man with all the strength his thighs could rally, he cast the Barbarian over the mountainside. His second kill.

  For that brief moment, he was a battle-hardened warrior, and then sighed with relief just to be alive. He reminded himself that the scriptures did teach that there was a time for peace and a time for war. Maybe he could lean on that crutch of reason to acknowledge his fealty toward the nation that would have him play the soldier. Nicholas stood gasping fresh air and, gazing over the ravine, sheathed his victorious sword.

  But wait. What was this? He felt a sudden burning sensation through the bottom of his ribs. A lump in his throat formed as though he had swallowed a granite orb the size of his hand; then weakness surged through every cell of his body. “What was this feeling?” he wondered as fluids filled his throat and weakness brought the full weight of his head to fall forward. His gaze fell upon the point of the blade protruding from his chest covered with fresh red blood—his blood.

  The blade withdrew and his knees buckled. Somehow, he reasoned dreamily, he must have missed an enemy. One must have come up from behind without his notice. How Flavius could have seen this without rescuing him, he didn’t comprehend. Or maybe, Flavius was engaged in battle trying to save him. Or worse yet, his commander had fallen and now the bloodthirsty savage was taking the life of Nicholas. His knees slammed heavily on the rock as his heart slammed heavily upon despair. He had failed his captain.

  In the fall, he found the ability to turn about to see who had conquered his life through the cowardice of stabbing him from behind. And his
eyes saw a tragic sight that would change him forever—a sight that shook him to the fabric of his being—like a dormant volcano exploding with such fury to change the landscape around it permanently. Shocked to the core, Nicholas discovered the man who had stabbed him was not a barbarian enemy, but his commander. It was Flavius. The one for whom Nicholas would fight and die had claimed his life for reasons he could not understand. All he could think was, “Why?”

  “I am sorry, Nicholas,” Flavius began to explain. “You were to die in battle and not by my hand. Albeit, if the Governor of Lycia bids ye ensure the death of a soldier to garner his support, I must earn it.” Nicholas tried to speak, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. “See you in the afterlife… maybe.”

  The erupting volcano within began to spew forth ash and smoke. He tried to rise with explosive rage, but Flavius planted his foot square into his wounded chest and thrust a kick that vaulted Nicholas over the precipice. He fell through the air followed by a small trail of blood and tear drops.

  Chapter Two

  O Tannenbaum

  You’re green not only in the summertime,

  No, also in winter when it snows.

  “C’mon, Nicholas, let me see!” Nysa pleaded as she jumped onto a bed in a small room lit by the exterior sunset. It was summertime in Myra and the sun set later in the day. Citizens bustled in the streets, flowers bloomed to their fullest, birds came out of the shade as the air cooled to a gentle warmth and the nighttime Mediterranean breeze began to waft in from the sea. It was a perfect day, just a few short days until Nicholas was to ship out on his deployment. Nysa eagerly waited for him to step out from behind a linen curtain fully dressed in his Roman infantryman uniform for the first time. She clutched a large pillow to her bosom and dropped to her knees on a mattress waiting anxiously.

  Nicholas threw aside the curtain and swept his red cloak behind him and then struck a Herculean pose of valor. It was his every intention to have her swoon a little, but it was her instant giggle that made him drop the victorious masquerade and be his humble self again. “Ye find this funny?” he asked.

  “Admit, I must, I never saw you like this before now,” she said, now looking entertained by the man before her. She rose from the bed and went straight to fiddling with the red cape and adjusting it a bit on him. “Though the red does suit you.”

  “That is for the best,” Nicholas replied, thoroughly enjoying her attention and attraction. “Seeing how I shall don this often henceforth.” He now looked soberly in her eyes. “I depart in two day’s time.”

  “Nicholas,” she sighed. “Why are you doing this? Has this been your lifelong dream? Could there be another profession of your choosing?”

  He took her hand gently. He knew exactly where she was coming from, and he nearly agreed with her wholeheartedly, if it wasn’t for some gut nagging feeling. “This is my new path, Nysa. I have chosen it and I will stick to it.”

  “But why, I ask? You were in training for priesthood.”

  “Marriage is not often found practiced among priests. There is a great motion toward disallowing it. Yes, I see their argument. Paul of Tarsus did urge men of the cloth like himself to forego such pleasures. And yet, he also talks about pastors being married and having a family.”

  “You see? Why cast aside your life’s ambition?” she quarreled. She wanted very much for him to be happy. And a little selfishly, she wanted him home… not overseas. She wished he’d take on a profession, even a meager one, close by.

  “Nysa,” Nicholas began, taking a deep breath to seek the lexis of his heart. “For the past three centuries the Empire has slaughtered believers, and priests wear a far greater target on their heads. Would that I give you the whole world, at least a world of peace. As a soldier, united with the sovereignty, I can have a prosperous career. One that will earn the wealth for our marriage, the wealth my uncle stole from me a time ago.”

  She stepped back and walked toward the bed and straightened the sheets, finding some activity for her idle hands, to defend herself from what she was going to say. “That was a lifetime ago. I know in time you will see to it to forgive your uncle.” She knew Nicholas as a lamb, but sensed that a lion slept beneath his soft exterior. At times like this, she would guard herself from possibly waking it.

  Nicholas was almost tempted to be upset with her, but he knew better. In fact, he could easily forgive his uncle for withholding his inheritance. He only kept his anger about it to disguise his true quarrel with his uncle, which was his disdain for his relationship with Nysa. He stepped forward and took her hand once again. “You’re right, that was a lifetime ago. My life is now in your hands. It is yours, as is my heart.”

  They kissed. Their kiss was intended to be brief, but they seldom were. As soon as her soft lips pressed against his, and his hands felt her hips and slender frame, he easily succumbed to the whirlpool the world instantly became. His hands naturally found their way through the wide-open slits of her dress and began to caress the small of her back. Her smooth skin was the smoothest surface he had felt in the world and instantly the sense of touch was intoxicating to him. To Nysa, being touched was an exhilaration all the same.

  “I know this be sin,” she said softly into his cheek, “just can we for tonight only pretend we have made our wedding covenant?” At the same time, it was everything Nicholas hoped she would say, and everything he hoped she wouldn’t. He was allured and grieved alike. But after years in the underground monastery, certain inhibitions were placed in his psyche, and he logically thought through their purpose. As much as he wanted her, fornication was not what he wanted. He would regret it, and he would sooner die than regret loving Nysa, in the passionately physical sense.

  “Nysa, if only…” he began to say, still struggling deep within. “Yet I would not violate the law on my heart. It’s because I love you that I want you so badly, and it’s because I love you I will wait for you to be mine under the blessing of our Lord.”

  Nysa expected this response, and while in her moment of passion she figured it was worth a try. His soberness planted her feet back on the ground. She knew this man all too well and trusted him with her heart, and his strength to resist her made her love him all the more. With a warm smile she replied, “One can remove the boy from the church, except hardly remove the church from the boy.”

  “Yea, and further the boy can become his own man and see the world outside the church,” he said, reemphasizing his goal. It was to keep his mind resolved to do what he meant to do and to convince himself that he wasn’t only fleeing the responsibilities of his relationship. For as much as he enjoyed it, he was still the naïve boy afraid of change.

  It reemphasized the dagger in Nysa’s heart, how it grieved her to see him go. Without him, there wasn’t much in Myra for her. She turned, fighting a sob and gripped her hair, trying to find something to cling on to steady herself, and keep diligent in being strong for him. And in her hair, her fingers found a little apple-red ribbon Nicholas had bought for her a year ago. This ribbon was him in her mind, and now she wanted it to be her in his; to remind Nicholas of Nysa always. Red, the color of her love that burns deep for him, a burning in her longing for them to remain together always. She untied it, clasped the hilt at Nicholas’s hip, and strung it around the handle. “Then as you travel or battle, behold your hilt and remember that love waits for you hither,” she said tenderly.

  With the ribbon fixed upon the sword, Nicholas embraced her yet again and brought his chin to rest on her head. “And hither shall my heart be, forevermore.”

  ******

  Nevertheless, “hither” was no longer where Nicholas found himself. He was ice-cold floating down the Danube like beech wood in a crimson stream. The cold numbed the pain in his chest but nothing could numb the pain of his heart. It is hard to say what went through Nicholas’s mind as his limp body floated adrift. It held either a thousand thoughts at once, or blankness. Treachery of such a lethal kind did that to the mind. It was far more disor
ienting than to not know which was up and which was down. It was like being flung into a whole other universe where the night stars were black seeds and the darkness was a blanket of white; where snow burned and fire froze.

  Though it felt to him that his spirit had already departed and his voyage down the river an eternity long, it was actually only about ten minutes until a strong hand snatched his red cloak. His weightlessness ended now that his body felt the full drag of the current pressing against him. Then the strong arm lifted him out of the water and the pain in his chest intensified. He strained to behold the event, but his eyes were far too glazed over and the water in his ears made the voices inaudible. He only knew he was being carried and then set down on soft grass and leaves.

  His ears opened briefly and the blurry faces about him moved in haste, quickly trying either to rob him or heal him. Their language was indiscernible, though it resembled the angelic choir he heard earlier that day. They verbalized syllables and letters that meshed together like the sound of a flowing brook or the placid rustle of leaves. Trying to focus on their words brought developing clarity to Nicholas’s mind, finally unclouding it, putting the treachery in the past for now and placing his attention in the present. And presently, he was dying rapidly. “Help… help me!” he forced himself to say.

  One blurry face now looked him square in the eye, or so it seemed, and spoke in a tender elderly male voice. “Aha. A Greek? You find yourself in good hands, lad, I assure you. Stay strong, I pray, stay strong.” He then pulled away and spoke his eloquent gibberish in a more assertive tone and then another blurry face filled Nicholas’s sight.

  His mouth was fed what felt like minced leaves and tasted sweet and bitter, like oregano and marjoram fused together is the closest thing he could describe. “Consume these herbs, friend. It’ll help,” said a younger sounding voice.

  “Only, be prepared, it will make you feel rather dizzy, lad,” said the older voice.