The Autobiography of Santa Claus

by Jeff Guinn

  “What if he can’t?” I asked.

  “Then I’ll keep on asking,” the woman said. “I know Bishop Nicholas can’t do everything for everyone at once. I’ll just keep praying until I get my turn.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Felix led me away. I was too confused to know where I was going. Eventually, I found myself in an inn that had been built after I’d left Myra. I told Felix I wasn’t hungry, and went to our rooms. I immediately fell asleep, and dreamed of a young girl I’d never met who had been blind but suddenly could see. The next day I went back to Nicholas’s tomb—my tomb, I suppose—and the woman was gone. Another woman praying nearby said, “Didn’t you hear the glad tidings? Someone came running up to her yesterday to say her daughter had regained her sight!”

  So I was dead and working miracles. Yet I also was alive and giving my gifts. That, my friends, is magic.

  The magic continued. Felix and I left Myra, continuing our journeys and our gift-giving. Days became weeks, weeks became years. One day as we were walking along, Felix stopped short in the middle of the road and said, “Isn’t this the year 410?”

  “Of course,” I said impatiently, for the question seemed foolish. Everyone knew it was 410, a year destined to be remembered as the time Rome was captured and partially destroyed by the Visigoths. The invaders had help; simple peasants and desperate slaves, disgusted with Roman taxes and cruelty, had opened the city gates of Rome from the inside to let the Visigoths enter.

  “Well, weren’t you sixty-three when we met, and didn’t you, uh, change, in the year 343?” Felix wondered.

  “You know this as well as I do,” I grumbled.

  “Well, then, friend Nicholas, doesn’t that mean you’re now one hundred and thirty?”

  I thought about it and added up the years, though addition was never something I did well. “So I am,” I finally agreed. “One hundred thirty years old! Tell me, Felix, do I look any different than when we first met?”

  He peered at me. “Well, you weigh more.”

  “Don’t be rude.”

  “Otherwise, you look exactly the same,” Felix concluded. “You don’t look young, of course. Your hair and beard are white. There are lines in your face and wrinkles around your eyes. But you certainly don’t look like someone one hundred and thirty years old, not that anyone could even know what someone that age would look like.”

  I had attached to my belt a small pouch of personal items, among which was a small circle of polished metal to be used as a mirror. I used it when I trimmed my beard or hair with a small knife. Now, for the first time in a long while, I simply gazed at my reflection.

  “See how your face is a bit more puffy from the extra weight,” commented Felix, who was watching over my shoulder.

  “Worry about your own weight,” I snapped, although I knew what Felix said was true. Of course, he himself was shaped like a ball, so I felt he had no right to criticize my few extra pounds. All right, more than a few. But not many more. Ten at the most. With the dignity of my newly discovered years, I decided a man of one hundred thirty was entitled to a wider waistline.

  “How wonderful for you,” Felix continued, a note of awe in his voice as he considered our discovery. “You’re never going to die, ever. You’ll be here to watch the world change. Seas will dry up and mountains will crumble, and still you’ll be alive to see what happens next. Lucky Nicholas, for some reason you are blessed above all other people!”

  It was a sobering thought, and I felt uncomfortable with it. “I really don’t think I’ll live forever, Felix,” I said slowly. “Time might be different for me than others, but it passes all the same. Perhaps a year for me is ten years for someone else, or even a hundred years. Who’s to say what this means?”

  “I know it means some higher power has special work for you to do on this earth,” Felix said firmly. “It must be your gift-giving, for that’s the way in which you’re most different from ordinary people.”

  “Yet even when I give gifts I’m left with the feeling I’m not doing all I can and should,” I reminded him. “We’ve talked of this often on our travels. For every child we help, so many more still have to do without. It’s a terrible problem.”

  “Well, it seems you have plenty of time to come up with a solution,” Felix replied. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you please do this before I, myself, pass on?”

  Another thought struck me. “Felix, how old were you when we met back in 343?”

  He pondered, “I can’t say for certain, Nicholas. The birth dates of slaves weren’t always recorded. I suppose I was no longer a very young man, though certainly not much older than—wait! Are you saying what I think you are?”

  He rather rudely rummaged in the pouch on my belt, frantic to grab hold of the metal disk and inspect his own reflection.

  “Mind your manners!” I protested, slapping his hand away and pulling out the disk myself. “Here! Take a good look, but what you’ll see is the same fat face I first encountered in that dark alley outside the Roman inn. You’re a bit cleaner now, though still as stout.” I couldn’t resist this reference to his own poundage. “Let’s say you were thirty. No? Is that too old or too young?”

  “Too young, I think,” Felix said distractedly, twisting the metal mirror this way and that as he peered hard at himself. “I was probably five years older, at least.”

  “Thirty-five years old, then,” I suggested. “Well, add sixty-seven years to it. That would mean you’re one hundred and two right now, my fine friend, and though you’re not a handsome fellow, you’re certainly not wrinkled with such age, either. It would appear that whatever power paused my aging has also chosen to interrupt yours.”

  “Amazing,” Felix said. He sounded stunned, but then he had a right to be. “There was nothing very special about me before I met you—I was just another Roman slave. Do you think this means—?”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “It means my special mission of gift-giving can’t be accomplished alone. I wonder if it’s to be just the two of us, Felix, or if we’ll be joined by others? Well, I suppose we have plenty of time to find out.”

  We continued on our way, walking thoughtfully. The packs on our shoulders were heavy. We’d never gotten around to buying a new mule to replace Uncle. Felix lagged a step behind me. After we’d gone perhaps another mile, I heard him say softly, “Nicholas, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m afraid, too, but I’m also curious,” I answered. “Let’s give it another century or two, and then maybe things will become more clear.”

  I woke in the morning to find Felix carving away, and sitting amid a huge pile of wood shavings. Nine completed planks were stacked beside him, and he was almost finished with the tenth. Each was beautifully decorated with carved images that looked real enough to jump off the surface of the wood.

  SEVEN

  Carving Out Our Fortunes

  Less than a year later we ran out of money. It wasn’t a sur prise; no personal fortune, however great, could have lasted indefinitely. Although my parents had left me a comfortable amount, it was finally used up between buying the gifts we gave and the simple expenses of living—food, shelter, and clothing of our own. We had just arrived in Constantinople when our last coin was spent, paid to a woman selling apples.

  “What do we do now?” asked Felix, crunching his apple loudly. A little juice ran down his chin; my friend never could eat neatly. “What plan do you have to get more money?”

  “I have no plan at all,” I admitted. “Perhaps you should eat that apple more slowly. It might be your last meal for a while.”

  It was too late. Felix was already nibbling on the apple core. Carefully tossing it within reach of a camel tethered nearby, he remarked thoughtfully, “So no money means no meals. Well, that’s serious. We’d better think of something.” And we walked and we pondered, waiting for inspiration.

  The plan we needed presented itself in a street market. As we wandered around stalls where all sorts of g
oods were being sold, we found one merchant surrounded by curious onlookers.

  “They’re genuine!” he was shouting. “Real copies of the new gospels, copied by the monks of Saint Benedict! If you can read, you’ll find the story of Jesus here, and if you can’t read, pay someone to read it to you!”

  For the last hundred years, copies of so-called “new testaments” had been circulating. It was said that these were written by followers of Jesus to describe Christ’s last days on Earth. Most people had heard of these gospels, but few had actually read them. Since each had to be carefully copied by hand, usually by priests, they were quite rare and in great demand among rich people. I had heard stories of churches selling a single copy of one gospel for enough money to support itself for six months.

  Curious, Felix and I worked our way through the throng until we stood directly in front of the merchant. He had some parchment papers in his hand, each page covered with elegant handwriting. But the pages themselves weren’t as elegant. They were torn in some places and creased along the edges.

  “How much for one?” a tall, slender man inquired. He was dressed in wonderful woolen robes dyed bright blue, a tint so expensive only the very rich could afford it.

  The merchant, quick to notice those blue robes, named an outrageous price. The rich man laughed and said mockingly, “Look at how your pages are falling apart! Look at the fingerprints made by sweat mixed with ink! And you have the nerve to ask such a high price?”

  “What would you pay?” asked the humbled merchant. The rich man named a much lower price, and the sale was concluded. The rest of the crowd still found the new price beyond their means, and so they drifted away.

  The merchant unhappily gathered up his remaining copies, preparing to put them in a canvas sack. As he did, and without a word to me, Felix walked up and said cheerfully, “You didn’t make much profit on that sale, did you?”

  “There was hardly any,” the merchant agreed sadly. “The monks drive hard bargains, too. I’m supposed to pick up six more copies of this Gospel of Mark from them next week. I’ve already paid for those copies, and if I have to sell them at such low prices I won’t make enough profit to buy myself a single decent meal.”

  He and Felix both winced at the thought of missed dinners.

  “Well, just protect the pages better,” Felix suggested. “If you can keep people from smearing the pages with their fingers and protect the pages from being torn and creased, you should be able to ask a much higher price. Put the pages between covers of wood, like some people in the Roman Empire have done. The wood protects the parchment. The pages remain clean and attractive.”

  “I like the idea, but I don’t know where wood covers could be found on such short notice,” the merchant replied. “The monks only make parchment copies. Even if they had the right sort of wood, I don’t think any of them have the woodcarving skills to cut and decorate the covers properly.”

  I listened in amazement as Felix, sounding much like a modern-day salesman, smoothly suggested, “My friend and I can help you. Give us money to purchase the wood—treated oak is best, I believe, and I know we can find some in this great city—plus a few extra coins as an advance payment for our work. We’re woodcarving craftsmen. Then next week we’ll present you with six sets of fine wood covers. Take them with you when you get your new parchments from the monks; bind them about the pages and you’ll sell every copy as quickly as rich men can pull out their purses and fill your hands with money!”

  Felix must have sounded persuasive, because the merchant, whose name was Timothy, agreed almost immediately. He asked only that we first show him the inn where we were staying so he could be certain we wouldn’t take his advance payment and run away. We took him there, and the innkeeper confirmed we had already paid for ten days’ lodging. I stood watching in amazement as Felix then argued with Timothy over how much more we’d be paid when we brought him his book covers. They finally agreed on a price that, if we really got the money, would pay a month’s worth of our traveling expenses and gift-giving costs.

  After Timothy left, I asked Felix sharply, “What fix have you gotten us into? If we don’t have those covers ready next week, that merchant might have us thrown in prison! Six sets of wooden book covers. Why, it would take both of us a week to carve decorations on one set!”

  But Felix didn’t seem worried. “Let’s go find someone selling the wood we need for the covers,” he suggested. “Then I think we need to give ourselves a fine dinner so we’ll have the energy to go back to our room and start working.”

  We found the wood easily enough. We bought twelve small planks of it, two for each set of covers. The planks were heavy, but Felix only carried four of them back to the inn. I had to carry eight. When I grumbled about having the heavier load, Felix casually told me he needed to save his strength for the job ahead.

  After using more of Timothy’s money to buy dinner—some roast lamb as well as the usual cheese and bread—we went to our room, pulled out our carving knives, and got to work. The carving was a delicate process. Even a single slip of the knife would mean a whole plank was ruined. As was the custom, we planned to carve stars and angels and elegant patterns on each cover. Some very rich people also decorated their covers with jewels, but we had no jewels. Timothy’s customers would have to settle for simple wood.

  “I don’t think we can do this,” I told Felix. “Two men can’t carve so much in so little time.”

  “You’ve carved a lot of things,” he answered. “You’re good at it, too. Remember the story you’re always telling about the time you gave a little girl a set of crutches? You carved them, didn’t you?”

  “That was just one set of crutches,” I said, but Felix was already bent over a plank. Sighing, I picked up another plank and began pushing the point of my knife blade into the grain of the wood.

  We worked for hours. My hands became very tired, and because it was a hot night, sweat began to drip into my eyes. I felt discouraged, but whenever I looked over at Felix he was always carving away, looking very pleased with himself.

  Far into the night, I had only carved a small part of one plank. My design was clean and attractive, but there wasn’t much of it to admire.

  “This is going to be hopeless,” I informed Felix. “Tomorrow we’d better seek out Timothy and admit we can’t do the job he’s paid us to perform. Perhaps he’ll give us an extra month or two. After all, the money he gave us is mostly spent, and if he has us thrown in prison he won’t ever be able to get it back.”

  “Oh, are you tired already?” Felix asked cheerfully. “Well, why don’t you go to sleep? I know you can walk all night while we’re on the road, but it’s still good to sleep when you can enjoy an inn’s nice clean bedding. Go ahead, get some rest.”

  “What about you?” I responded. “You always need to sleep more than I do. Admit you had a bad idea. At least you tried. There’s no disgrace in that. Get some sleep, too, and in the morning we’ll face Timothy together.”

  But Felix just insisted I go to sleep while he kept working, so I did, and despite my sincere concern about what would happen to us when Timothy found out we hadn’t kept our bargain, I soon nodded off.

  I woke in the morning to find Felix carving away, and sitting amid a huge pile of wood shavings. Nine completed planks were stacked beside him, and he was almost finished with the tenth. Each was beautifully decorated with carved images that looked real enough to jump off the surface of the wood.

  “What kind of miracle is this?” I gasped, jumping up, tangling my feet in the bedding and falling flat on my face into the pile of wood shavings. I got some of the shavings in my mouth and had a coughing fit. Even as I coughed, I could hear Felix laughing.

  “It’s not a miracle, it’s just some of our magic,” he chuckled. “Maybe I should say it’s my magic, something special to me. I just kept on carving, intending to stop when daylight came, and the more I carved, the longer it stayed nighttime. I’m not tired at all. I feel as if I co
uld keep right on carving all day, but I won’t because we have six days left and just one more plank to complete, not counting the one you’ve been working on. Do you think you’ll be able to finish it in time for Timothy, or should I just include it with the other I’ll carve tonight?”

  Of course, we had all the covers ready for Timothy by the date upon which we’d agreed. He was excited to have them, and offered many loud compliments on the quality of the craftsmanship. Timothy had gotten his new six sets of gospels from the monks, and Felix and I helped him bind these to the covers we’d carved. Then all three of us carried the books to the marketplace and offered them for sale. The rich man in the blue robe was back, and he bought four gospels, paying an amazing amount of money for the privilege of owning them. The other two were quickly sold as well. Even after Timothy paid us, he still made a handsome profit. Everyone was happy.

  Felix didn’t stop there. He immediately agreed to carve Timothy a dozen more covers during the next week. Timothy had a friend who owned a ship; this friend took six finished sets of covers with him on his next voyage to Rome, and sold them in one of the marketplaces there. We soon fell into a pattern. Felix and I would travel around, giving our gifts in secret. Every few months when our money ran low, we’d buy wood planks and Felix would spend a few nights practicing his woodcarving magic. Then we’d contact Timothy, who would take the covers, sell them, and divide the profits with us. In this way Felix and I were able to make a comfortable living and keep on with our mission and travels. Timothy became our good friend. Eventually we revealed some of our secrets to him, and he worked even more closely with us.

  Meanwhile, being the one to solve our money problem did Felix a great deal of good. He gained self-confidence from it and felt more assured that he would play an important part in whatever the future might hold for us. That certainly proved to be true.

  We spent a few months in and around Constantinople, building up our new business with Timothy and planning further travels. In particular, the islands of Britain sounded interesting and we decided to see them for ourselves. Then, just a week before we planned to leave, Felix and I went out one night to give gifts to several needy children we’d seen. They were living in tents on the outskirts of the city. It turned out to be perhaps the most important night of my life.