Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

  As the sun’s glow started to illuminate the sky, Sleipnir trotted to the front of the small stone building that was the Church of Myra and walked up a small flight of stairs. Sleipnir scratched his antlers on the large wooden door, trying to attract attention of someone who could let him in. Bedros opened the door, looking tired at first, and then gasped in sudden surprise to find himself looking eye to eye with Nicholas’s reindeer. After that initial shock subsided, and upon hearing the moan of the passenger the beast burdened upon its back, he was astounded again when he found Nicholas dressed in a peculiar garment and his face bleeding. “Oh, dear!” he gasped and then pulled him inside.

  Bedros walked Nicholas into the back room and plopped him down on the bed, waking up Pete who shared his room. “Father?” he said in his groggy half-asleep state until he caught sight of his bloody, swollen face, and it was enough to kick him out of bed to his aid.

  Bedros and Pete stripped the red cloak off Nicholas revealing a bleeding arm and a swollen bruised back. “Oh, God. I will return with bandages at once,” Bedros declared in a fright. Bedros dashed down the hall to find items to aid his bishop, worrying the government would work the same fate on their new bishop as they had the one prior. He was thoroughly unaware for the moment that Nicholas’s bruises were not from Roman fists.

  Lysander sluggishly meandered in, roused by the commotion, as Bedros darted out. He rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes when he saw Nicholas on the bed in his battered shape, which directly woke him fully. Lysander sat down beside Nicholas and said, “What the devil happened to you?”

  Still gathering as much alertness as possible, he grinned under his cut face and said, “You do not realize the irony in your words.” Then, his tone sunk into severity. “My path crossed in the midst of the Krampus.”

  “Krampus?” Lysander asked.

  “They are demons that walk the earth, right, Father?” Pete said, recalling a story Nicholas had told him before.

  “Aye. The fell creatures you spoke of, Lysander, when you told me of the wicked deeds wrought upon the citizens of Lycia. I have met them before. Sinister beings; monsters that prey on innocents. They are drawn to the fire of corruption. Something of that sort must have beckoned them hither.”

  Pete hugged Nicholas’s arm, coming to reality of how his beloved father-figure had nearly been killed and said, “I am glad to see you alive.”

  Lysander didn’t respond so warmly. He stood, kicked a chair aside, grabbed a sack, and began to put random items into it. “Pack your bag, Nicholas. We are through. You have your wealth and nearly lost your life. I have given up all things to befriend you, feeling freed by knowledge of your survival in spite of a plot to end your life. Yet I feel an unappreciated bystander who simply tags along on your barmy quest for retribution against an unstoppable force. Pack! We take our leave of this.”

  “Forget it, Lysander,” he replied angrily at first. Then considering all his friend had sacrificed and that his motives were from concern, he changed his tone. “I appreciate all you have done, and believe my words when I say I need your help. There is a wicked man and damnable beasts reigning terror upon this land and somebody is needed to stop them.”

  “And why does that someone have to be you? You nearly lost your life!” Lysander protested.

  “And now expecting them, I can be ready to face them. This was not a defeat, but a strong caution. I have an herb that wards them,” Nicholas explained boldly. “The victory I had the other night far outweighs the peril of the Krampus.”

  “But I ask it again. Why you? This has not to do with Nysa!”

  “This has everything to do with Nysa. It has everything to do with Vasilis. The betrayal I suffered has forged me into a man strong and capable, eager and willing, to do all that I can to bring light into this world. To fight against injustice and monstrosities that seek to rob younglings of their God-given purity and innocence! I will protect them; the children.”

  Lysander sighed heavily, shook his head and slowly put his sack back down. For the next few days while Nicholas mended, he contemplated everything he told Lysander. Once again the words that slipped from his lips spoke what his innermost voice was trying to convey. He wanted to protect the children and the children he always wished he had protected were his younger twin brothers; Andreas and Mateo.

  While it had never been proven, it was possible that his parents’ mansion was set ablaze by those set against their religion, hoping to send a striking message home. He sat down with Lysander and Pete and tried to express one of the deepest wounds on his heart that drove him along his path. “I never told you, Lysander, of my two brothers. They were twins; Andreas and Mateo. They were trapped in my parent’s house when it caught on fire one dark night. Everyone tried to fight the blaze, though it took a long while before anyone could enter. They hid upstairs, unaware of the danger they placed themselves in, not knowing that was where smoke was bound. When the fire was tamed enough, my father and I made our way inside. And when we found my brothers... they were lifeless. We found them… they were both holding each other in their arms—holding on to their brother’s love for encouragement unto the bitter end!”

  The image of his two brothers holding onto each other was one Nicholas could never erase from his mind, and he loathed the sight of two pure innocent beings suffering. “I am sorry, Nicholas, for your loss,” Lysander said consoling. “How did the fire start?”

  “The fire, I believe, was started by those who kill out of intolerance and hatred,” Nicholas said as he slowly stood in spite of his aching bruised flesh, “I, Nicholas son of Epiphineos, will stand against such inhumanity. That is the destiny I choose.”

  It was then, standing in the backroom in the presence of Lysander and Pete, staring at his red cloak hanging on the wall, he declared his undertaking—the mission he conceived since his coronation and commissioning as Bishop. “I will ride fast. I will give to the needy. I will fight the corrupt principalities. Under cover of night, I will give to those in need and take from those who steal by force, intimidation, and terror. And by day, I will be the good Bishop, leading the people of Myra. This will pierce Vasilis. This will honor my loved ones. This goodness will conquer the plague of wickedness.”

  Chapter Ten

  O Come, All Ye Faithful

  O come, all ye faithful,

  Joyful and Triumphant

  As the sun began to set, dynamic clouds filled the sky, darkening the already dim scene where hundreds of citizens of Myra had gathered and shuffled into ordered lines to face Roman tax collectors. The overcast sky matched the downcast faces of the dirty men who had taken a break from their work to give up a large portion of their already meager income to the armored, red-caped soldiers. Around them, among wood and stone structures, stood the women, both daughters and wives, taking breaks from making cheese and drying fish on racks to watch in suspense as many of their beloved fathers or husbands had to make reasonable excuses for not having enough money to pay to Emperor Augustus Caesar Diocletian.

  “Two shekels for Augustus and one for Governor Vasilis,” said the ruthless tax collector who stood confidently flanked by soldiers who kept their hands on their hilts and their eyes piercing through the filthy ragged men.

  “Sir, I beg you,” pleaded Aetos, a meager stonecutter who just reached the front of the line. His wife and daughter, Agatha and Clio, looked on the scene with dread in their eyes. It had been long since they had an adequate meal for they were still recuperating since the last time the tax collectors came and robbed them of their money.

  “Beg all you want,” barked the tax collector.

  “I pray, I can only give one shekel,” begged Aetos.

  “Pray! Pray all you want, reality is here, hard and cold just like this sword,” replied the tax collector who rose from his wooden bench and rested his hand on his hilt. “The reality is you have to pay one way or another.” The collector looked around to the dismal gathering and continued in exasperation, “What is it with y
ou people? Everyone has excuses and grievances. Think ye not that I do not pay taxes as well! Can ye not remember that life is not free?”

  Aetos glanced over at his wife and daughter for the support of their gaze, but instantly knew he had betrayed them by pointing them out, and quickly looked back to the tax collector hoping that he hadn’t followed his eyes. It was too late. The collector grinned and looked over at the lovely sixteen-year-old, Clio. “Fair enough, she is easily worth the remainder of your debt.”

  The tax collector nodded to another soldier mounted on a horse and he trotted over to Clio. “No, sir. Take me! Do with me as you will! Harm not the girl! Please! Somebody, help me!” Aetos begged loudly, pleading for his daughter and those around began to shout in opposition. When the crowd began to panic and clamor, the tax collector stepped back and the soldiers unsheathed their blades and brought silence.

  “Be still! This is reality! The state of the world equals harsh coldness as the veracity of my blade!” the tax collector declared gruffly as he drummed his fingers on his hilt. “And the sun has set—this has taken far too long. Do not try my patience further! Accept the actualities and ye may yet live.”

  As one soldier kicked Aetos out of line, knocking him to the dirt, he looked up through watering eyes and saw Agatha holding Clio’s hand, running beside her, as the soldier rode off with her until at last they lost their grip with each other. While soldiers laughed and hooted, knowing that they too would have their chance with the girl later, Clio disappeared around the bend behind stone huts and bushes. Aetos began to weep, praying silently unto whatever god would hear his breaking heart, but then a sound filled the night that silenced all in the assembly.

  The sound was a man shouting just beyond the stone huts. Shortly after he was silenced, Clio came racing around the bend back into her mother’s embrace. “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the infuriated tax collector. “Who dares to-?”

  Before he could finish his sentence an arrow pierced a wood pillar just behind him baring a scroll. Everyone gasped at how the arrow missed the tax collector’s cheek by a hair, in fact the collector was sure it shaved a few off. He turned, removed the scroll in a huff, and read it. “Depart from these people!” he read, “Your lust for blood has come to an end for God has created man to be free and equal and those who steal that right shall inevitably fall. I say,” barked the tax collector toward the crowd. “Who dares defy Rome? Who? What impertinent miscreant with a death-wish has done this? Show yourself!”

  Then as the soldiers readied their weapons, one arrow after another shot out from the darkness of the east from the shadows of trees over the stone huts and knocked the blades from the soldier’s hands. Then one last arrow shot onto the other side of the tax collector, bearing a small sack. The assembly paused and watched in suspense as the tax collector removed the pouch and poured into his other hand numerous gold coins.

  “That ought to satiate you,” declared a booming voice from above. Everyone turned in the darkness and saw a shadowed man, clad in crimson, holding a bow, standing tall and powerful upon the roof of a stone hut.

  “Who are you?” asked the tax collector, more stunned than aggravated.

  “A friend of the people. You have what you came for, now be off!” While the tax collector detested the audacity of the mysterious archer, he could not argue that he had what he came for, possibly more than he had expected and so his superiors would laud him when he returned with a full supply of collections. Without another word, and with stern glances to his men, the tax collector mounted his horse and the Romans galloped off. When the red-capes fully departed, Nicholas bid everyone, “Let there be peace on earth, goodwill to men, and may you all have a good night!” Then he jumped out of sight and those with the keenest vision could see the red-cloaked figure ride off swiftly in the night.

  The next months were a series of gift-giving adventures, Krampus battles, ministries, and victories of light over darkness. Folks from Myra, and all over Lycia, came to the church where Nicholas presided, for they heard reports of miracles revolving around the new Bishop. Nicholas—using Elven remedies, though many he couldn’t concoct without the herbs he could find in the land of the Clandestine People—was able to cure and heal most problems that came to him. Also, as he would hear the confessions and prayer requests of others, he was clued into what deeds he could do to help these impoverished and oppressed people. And all public charity done outside the church was done in secret. In one instance, a young man came and asked that Nicholas pray for a girl he knew. She was born lame and her mother cared for her as best as she could, but they were greatly in need. So Nicholas, under cover of night, sneaked into their home and left them supplies of food. The young man returned saying they had miraculously received a supply of food and were happily fed until the supplies ended.

  “What can be done, do you think, so that they may be fed and stay fed?” Nicholas asked.

  “Well, she is a talented seamstress, and if she could afford crutches, she would have a better way of making her way to a place of employment, and then she could help her mother earn an income,” the young man said.

  So, that night Nicholas went and left the mother a small sack of coins, certainly enough to buy a set of crutches. The next day, dressed as his mild-mannered Bishop persona, he strolled the streets of Myra spying on any news of the woman and, to his pleasure, he found her. But she was buying food with the money, and Nicholas went closer to snoop. “It was another miracle! Heaven sent us money, right when our rations had run out. Now, I can purchase enough food for a month!”

  “What shall ye do when the month has passed?” Nicholas asked, feigning to be a pleasant eavesdropper.

  “Oh, my, I did not see you there. You are that new Bishop, eh?” she asked. After Nicholas nodded with a smile, she explained, “I never know what I shall do when the food runs out. The Governor does little to help us poor folks and my earnings just never quite make enough to support my daughter. But, I will make the best of this blessing and for the time, we shall feast like royalty!” After that, she was off. While Nicholas felt glad they were eating, he couldn’t help but feel defeated in his mission to fix the problem of that household.

  After discussing the matter with Lysander, the answer he gave made Nicholas feel rather ignorant. He said, “Why not just give crutches to them, lest you keep granting them money they spend on other goods?” And so, Nicholas’s eyes were opened to that new possibility, and from then on his gift-giving was more than just food or money, but specific needs. He even figured he could use his handcrafting skills, a practice he often missed since his exile from Mid Alfheim, and he whittled wooden crutches and broke into their home a third time and left them in the room of the young woman.

  The next day, Nicholas strolled about outside the home and saw the young woman using the crutches, smiling gaily, and making her way down the road. What a joy filled his heart again. Once more, by not simply swinging a sword, he had conquered something bad with an act of goodness. Once more he felt he could picture his departed loved-ones smiling down upon him from Heaven. He rested his hand on the stone wall of the city alleyway and sighed with joy until he felt a sharp cold point jab him under his shoulder.

  “Hey, you,” said a mysterious gruff voice. “I want your money.” Nicholas turned and found some weak-kneed runt of a tramp, half-starved and on edge, holding a crooked shank at him. “Did ye not hear me?”

  “I did,” Nicholas responded without a hint of fear. He noticed by his attacker’s stance that he could most easily take him down. “I was just giving you time to think through this course and change your heart on the matter.”

  “Do not be a fool!”

  “Do you not see I am a clergyman? One typically living a life of poverty and generosity? Should you have asked, I would have gladly given. Since you have chosen otherwise…” he said, and then with a swift move he grabbed the blade from the man’s hand and kicked his legs out from under him. In a flash, Nicholas now bared the
shank held to the mugger’s throat, pinning him to the ground. All he could do was gulp. “What wickedness has driven you to mugging fellow mankind, my friend?”

  There was something in what Nicholas said, the substance of his words, the compassionate manner of his speech, that the mugger broke to sobbing and said, “I am sorry, sir. For I have resolved to put behind me my old life. Yet in that abandonment, I have found myself on the run from government officials, dirt poor, and on the streets.”

  Nicholas sat with the stranger in that alley and the two conversed about the man’s past for most of the day. Nicholas knew what it was like to regret past decisions and was a huge inspiration to the mugger. But moreover, Nicholas gleaned valuable information from him. He used to work for Vasilis who paid him to place lumps of coal in the homes of children or, if he could manage, drop coal into their pockets. He would target children who had a father going on a trip, or orphans, or any vulnerable child he could find. What surprised him most was that if he could find rebellious, mean-spirited younglings, they were of especially fine targets to leave the coal. He did this and was paid handsomely until one night he exposed the reason for this bizarre activity he was assigned to do.

  “I saw these demons,” he said, “they would be drawn to where the coal was and then would kidnap the children.”

  “Where do they take them?” Nicholas asked.

  “I do not know,” he said, quietly and ashamed. “I confronted Vasilis on the matter and was attacked by his guards. I escaped by my skin and have been in hiding since.”

  Nicholas brought the man to his church and gave him a place to stay. He was the first person of his new mission he would start. He and members of the church began to build a large home that would facilitate the people whose lives were ruined by the Empire. He took in orphans and homeless first, and then after meeting a crippled beggar he found out there was a population of former Roman soldiers who lost limbs in battle for the glory of Rome and were then cast aside as useless dogs to fend for themselves. Nicholas’s outreach programs began to stir strong feelings of compassion and generosity among the people of Myra, and those in need began to flock to his parish in ever-growing droves. And from them, he continued to scheme his plan to defeat the Krampus and Vasilis.