by Cody W Urban
Uniting spirit, man, and beast,
Champion of Yule shall ride forth.
Undoing evil wrought west to east,
To vanquish poverty south to north.
As long as Warrior Priest does ride,
The night of nights shall never in memory fade.
And children of men find hope to guide,
Upon a golden path angels laid.”
Nicholas listened noiselessly, he dared not disturb the religious ardor this Elven versifier had expressed in his recitation. “It was your cherry-hued cape,” Kenalfon said, turning toward Nicholas with a grin. “The day after I had a dream of running deer toward a great statue of a warrior, and borne upon his head was a crown of holly and ivy. And when the holly turned crimson, our ballad came to mind when I awoke. I knew that soon I would find you.”
At Kenalfon mentioning the red cape, Nicholas was finally reminded of the tragedy and betrayal that had taken place. Within him, the fiery lava spewed forth from the volcano of his heart once again. “That was the cape of a Roman Soldier,” Nicholas snapped. He threw his crutch to the ground and relied on wrath to steady his bones. “I was a Roman soldier! That red ye speak of was part of the uniform of murderers and cowards. A visage I would gladly see rent and burned. After what was done unto me...” Nicholas felt faint and it took all his might to retrieve his crutch without collapsing. He rose up, turned around, and started to limp away. “I am not the one ye wait for,” he said with his back turned to Kenalfon.
Kenalfon quickened his pace to follow behind, trying to console his new friend. “‘Tis possible you are not the one,” he started to explain, trying to meet Nicholas on a middle ground. “The prophecy said it would be a priest, not a soldier.”
3
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,
How loyal are your needles.
Nicholas spent a few more weeks in bed, resting and eating marvelous Elven meals—food that reached down into his soul and gave it a warm massage. The flavors and aromas were nothing like he had eaten. The food never felt greasy, nor dry, never bland, nor too sharp with flavor. Every mouthful was like consuming silk, if silk tasted as smooth and soft as it felt or as splendid as it looked. And yet with all this comfort, he was horribly troubled. He missed Nysa and wondered what word of his demise may have befallen her ears as of yet. He was sure report would go back that he had been killed in battle. There was no way Flavius would let it be public knowledge he took aside a solder in order to slay him.
Nisse gave him constant attention, far more often than Kenalfon. It was through her that he learned much of their unique heritage and customs—learning that they were simple in their complexities and complex in their simplicities in every way. Nisse was a joy. He had discovered she was only about four hundred years old, which in Elvish reckoning was rather young. She could expound to him history in the eyes of her people with a childish awe about every tale she told. She said it was her uncle, her mother’s brother, who posed as Goliath. He was willing to play the part of the violent killer, to do a necessary evil in order to draw forth David as champion, the would-be king of his people, from being the simple shepherd boy.
“Then, is Goliath, your uncle, still alive?” Nicholas asked.
“Not in this world, no,” she replied with a hint of sorrow.
“I had assumed you were immortal.”
“Oh yes, we are indeed. Though as we dwell on the same plane as mortal men, death’s sting can still find us. And wickedness can still poison us,” she explained, still downcast and seemingly digressing down a dark tunnel she dare not venture through by thought or speech. “But never shall we fear. The candle still burns bright, brighter still now ye are here, crimson-clad man.”
Nicholas looked aside and gazed upon the gear he wore when he fell into the Danube. Elves found his sword and brought it to him a few days prior. In its scabbard, it rest under the windowsill, the red ribbon dangling in a calm draft moving through a gap in the window. He did not know why Nisse persisted with the nonsense that he was a prophesied hero come to make progress for their holiday. Though anytime he dwelled on the subject, he recalled Kenalfon’s words: “The prophecy said he would be a priest, not a soldier.”
******
His mind drifted back to the last conversation he had with his uncle. “This is not your destiny,” were the last words his uncle had spoken to him in the dark basement of their hidden monastery in Patara. Nicholas was eighteen years old, slimmer for lack of muscle definition, and his hair was shaven. It was tonsured only the day before and Nicholas shaved it all off. If he was to start afresh, his hair was to start anew as well. This was his last day hiding as a religious rebel standing against the rising tide of the empire. He resolved to keep his faith a social secret. He planned to dissent from the organization he was raised in to start a new life with Nysa. He would see the world and become a man—his own man.
There he stood in Greek civilian clothing with what little belongings he considered were his wrapped in a rag. A few candles lit the room and only one crucifix decorated the pale, cracked walls. The building was transformed into a church during the days of Paul of Tarsus, who made visits to Patara and immortalized the town in his epistle. Uncle Nicholas, Epiphaneos’s brother, whom Nicholas was named after, stood dismayed in the doorway. “Nicholas, my son,” he pleaded, “this is not as it should be. Why are you doing this?”
“There comes a time, Uncle,” Nicholas explained with his back to his uncle, “when a man will cut his losses, and join another side. You say I should live in poverty. You say I should remain loyal to our cause. You do not seem to see our people killed or taxed to death. I-“ he stopped himself. He wanted to say all that he sought to, but he was trained not to be greedy. He was trained to be silent when no good words could be found.
“From whence did you learn such foolishness? You know very well there is so much more to this life. That we are ambassadors of peace and salvation living in a dark world. We are the light!”
“I have seen too much bloodshed, torture, rape, and murder, to our people, Uncle,” Nicholas explained passionately. And that was a strong reason to hide his faith, to preserve his life. But he knew he owed his uncle enough to give him the full truth, even if he wouldn’t stand to listen to his uncle’s rebuttal. “I have fallen in love, and a priest cannot marry, you say. Nor does one earn an income to afford a wife living as a man of the cloth.”
“Nicholas, Nysa is-“ Uncle Nicholas began to explain, but Nicholas would not hear it.
“Nor does a priest earn any respect!” Nicholas continued fervently, finally turning and facing his uncle. His eyes were puffy and flushed, but he was determined to head down this path. “Seems only respect is found at the tip of a Roman blade. Now I will be the one to wield said blade and will ensure justice is done with it!”
“Justice? As a Roman?”
“I can find a position of authority. Maybe I could be as Joseph to Pharaoh!”
“If only that was the will of God, my son. This is not your destiny, Nicholas.”
Nicholas was hopeless. He couldn’t reason with his uncle and he certainly knew his uncle might reason with him if he stayed longer. He could be talked out of this hard decision, and he would the next day talk himself back into leaving. If he was ever to leave, now was the time. He wouldn’t end up a martyr like his parents. That was an odious destiny that he rebuked vehemently.
“You cannot tell me what my destiny is. Nobody can!” And Nicholas stormed through the doorway, not to see his uncle again.
******
Now he found himself in the city of earthbound angels who told him of his destiny, and his old negation of fate, no matter what form it presented itself, rose in him once again. As soon as he was healthy enough, he planned to take his leave from the land and find a way home. He contemplated his goals, ignoring Nisse, and rubbed his chin. His face was now shaven. The Elves naturally were barren of facial hair, and from days as a Roman soldier, he was wont to shaving. At least this way in the n
ation he dwelled in he looked less like an alien. Kenalfon entered the timber hut and gave Nicholas a serious look.
“Out of bed, Nicholas,” he told him. “The time for bed-ridden healing has passed. Now is the time to enter a bright and splendid morn, to mend the Elven way, to set you on your path and breathe new vitality into your bones.” The way he said it, like Roman commanders had, Nicholas instinctively complied.
This was Kenalfon: He was the aroma of fresh dried herbs, a seasoning to any bland life he came into contact with. In his wisdom, from vast experience and eons of age, he was a mentor to a multitude of Elves and men; whether or not the men knew he was an Elf or not. Such as Plato, whom he arranged personally to learn under Socrates. His philosophical works had gained him great renown in Elven communities, and it was often questioned as to why he wasn’t seated in the office of Alaric.
Truth be told, it was his humility. He had somehow, in spite of the thousands of years he’d walked this world, maintained an innocent, pure, and even childlike perspective on things. He dwelled in hope and still felt elated by the many wonders of Mother Earth. Almost every activity, from fishing to carving, from cooking to archery, enchanted him, and he became greatly proficient at most tasks. His passion was discussing philosophical topics with anyone who would dare chew the fat with him. It was daring to do so for he would keep them for days at a time if he could, just to talk deep and profound themes.
In this personality was his pining for the coming of the man who would bring the Yule to the world and preserve the Holy Day, the special celebration of life, and the magic of the event that took place three centuries before. And now he was every bit the definition of a sage to Nicholas for, without too much insistence and pressure, he believed Nicholas to be the one.
His first lesson for Nicholas was botany, to study the plants, herbs and such, and learn the art of healing. He taught Nicholas what the natural world had to offer—that grown out from the dirt, hanging in trees, clinging to moist rocks, was an abundance of nutrition fashioned to supply all living creatures in a perfect harmony. Just as the charming songs the Elves would sing, the universe operated in accordance, a cosmic dance to perfect time and rhythm. Kenalfon and Nicholas, regularly with Nisse joining them, would go out and pick from the shrubs and brush to mill the plants in stone grinding bowls. They would brew some into teas, others they could keep as fine powders or pastes.
One day the three walked along a brook when they found a bird with a broken wing on the ground below its nest. Kenalfon seized the opportunity to demonstrate their healing power and fed the little bird some powder from a pouch. “When our heart wields these remedies any creature can be saved. The medicine carries the dormant potential for healing, yet it is the divine spark within you that can vitalize the curative magic.”
Within the minute, the bird’s wing was mended. Kenalfon kindly kissed the bird’s head and lifted it up and it flew away. Nicholas marveled at the supernatural result before him. “How is it that I cannot mend so rapidly as that fowl?” Nicholas asked. “I have been consuming your remedies for nearly a fortnight and still I ache.”
Kenalfon exhaled heavily. “The herbs can cure your wounds if it were not for the poison still in your heart.”
Later that evening, after letting those words ruminate in his mind, Nicholas came to Kenalfon’s porch over-looking the torch-lit woodland city. Kenalfon rocked in his chair while painting a little red and white striped cane. “Can I rid myself of the poison ye speak of?” Nicholas inquired with deep concern.
“You have yet to truly divulge the whole episode that brought you to float along the waterway on the rim of fatality,” Kenalfon replied, eyes still locked on his project.
Nicholas sat on a guide-rail, heavy-hearted. “I can barely comprehend it myself. I was betrayed, Kenalfon. My commanding… I’d rather not utter another word about it.” He rubbed his ailing chest in thought; rather trying to avoid thoughts.
“We all have our own paths, Nicholas. The fork in your road will be a choice based on forgiveness,” Kenalfon told him.
“Forgiveness…” Nicholas hoped he was kidding. Forgiveness reminded him of redemption, and redemption of his religion, and religion of God. The God, whom he was told was all-loving and merciful, had just now allowed a murderer to go free and steal from him everything. This was after his mother, father, and brothers were all killed. Was he nothing but a pincushion to God who disregarded Nicholas as a breathing feeling being, but something to stab and punish needlessly?
He didn’t want to brood over this. His faith was shaken and it felt it would be a long while before the vibrations ceased. He needed to put it aside, maybe to be picked up at a later time. Now, he needed strength, healing, and courage. He required growing and mending so that he may leave this land. Until then, he had a good friend in the aged sage now adding finishing touches to his little trinket. “I thank you, truly, for your aid. If ever you are down in Lycia—wait, do you ever leave Mid Alfheim?”
“On occasion.”
“You must have spent time in Greece to have learned my language,” Nicholas stated.
“I had been there, but I will tell you something about our tongue,” Kenalfon replied and then leaned forward. “We use the tongue spoken by all ere the division of languages among men. Fable has it that if one should glean our speech they can truly deduce all tongues of men.”
This was most intriguing to Nicholas. He had learned Latin and Greek, and a good amount of Hebrew, in his schooling, but the idea of learning all languages of men… this was a stimulating exploit. “Would you teach me?” he asked of Kenalfon.
“Aye, Nicholas,” he answered with a smile. “It is verily my intention to tutor you in all the ways of the Elves.”
The second lesson continued with the first, but now everything was taught in Elvish. Kenalfon started by pointing at nouns and giving their Elvish equivalent. He continued with verbs, adjectives, numbers, and so on. The language wasn’t too difficult really, though here and there he came across sounds that he had naturally never had to make as part of speech. But Nicholas was persistent with this study. Somehow, he knew that being conversant in other tongues would be a tactic in his mentally forming plan.
On a day as Nicholas and Kenalfon strolled through the forest, while Kenalfon searched for new objects to teach Nicholas the Elvish word for, they heard a remote, terrible howl. From the dale on the north side of the mountain Mid Alfheim was built on they perceived the beast making the howl was not too far off. The dreadful bellow made Nicholas want to retreat back to the safety of the village, but Kenalfon courageously and curiously hurried through the woods. Nicholas had no choice but to follow toward the wild animal’s howl. After rounding a bend, nearing a brook, they passed by a few trees and found down in a small ravine a gray and white wolf pinned under rocks. It continued to howl and the sound wasn’t like a communicating howl used in wolf packs, it was a wolf equivalent of a scream in agony.
“Either by the work of darkened hearts, or by malignant luck, rueful events take place in this world,” Kenalfon said leading the quickened pace down to the animal. “It is up to those able to perform all they can to correct such wrongs.”
Judging by the amount of dust in the air, Nicholas guessed that the wolf probably lost its footing, slid down amid a rockslide, and was now crushed under the weight of the rocks. Nicholas and Kenalfon, both using the extent of their strength, lifted the largest boulder off the animal and then scattered the smaller stones underneath aside and cleared the creature’s poor smashed paw. Nicholas looked at the creature with pity, but hesitated nearing its fangs. He looked to Kenalfon to take care of the situation with himself standing at a safer distance. However, Kenalfon rested an assuring hand on Nicholas’s shoulder, encouraging him to administer the healing himself.
Nicholas nodded in reply, knowing it’s never much use in arguing with the wise sage. He timidly approached the wolf and pulled out his pouch and loosened the drawstrings. Nicholas examined the broken leg
, but the wolf writhed and growled at him. Nicholas froze at the snarling fangs now inches from his face. “Fear has encompassed the living by fallen man. Forsooth she is just as afraid of you. Now, never ye stay your heart by this, for deep within all creatures is the desire for harmony,” Kenalfon explained. Nicholas heard just enough of the words to understand the gist of it; all he really heard was an angry beast growling at him.
Nicholas nodded and pet the wolf gently. The wolf barked and fought him, but Nicholas gently hushed and calmed the beast. Little did he know he conjured that spark of life Kenalfon told him about as he stroked the soft coat of the white wolf. There was a twinkle in his eye as warm, fuzzy feelings rushed down his arms. He respected this beast as a fellow creature that shares the same world with him. He was overjoyed that she survived the accident, and now he wished her benevolent tidings from his heart of hearts.
In Elvish he spoke in a soothing voice, “Shh. All is well. Be still.” The wolf whimpered. He then rubbed the herbal paste over the wolf’s wound until the blood dissolved away and the fracture faded.
As quick as that, the wolf hopped up to its feet and moved to run away, but paused. She then turned and tenderly licked Nicholas’s cheek—an act that nearly moved him to tears. And in a flash, the animal scurried off into the woods. Nicholas sat down onto a boulder and pondered the episode for a moment. It was such a tender moment of connection with a beast and, despite their differences, they respected each other. Kenalfon stepped over him, “Nicholas, behold your bandages.”
He took a second to figure what he meant and then complied. After lifting the warm layers of fabric, he exposed his belly to the frigid air. Nicholas peeled back the top of the wrapping and saw that his scar was less than half the size it was the last time he looked at it, and there was certainly no more fluid pouring from it.
Nicholas looked up to Kenalfon amazed, too moved to speak. Kenalfon nodded with a grin and as he moved to hike away he said, “Know now that your true healing has begun.”
