The Autobiography of Santa Claus
Page 11
And it was in a small Italian village on December 24, 1223, that the rest of us met Francis. Layla, Felix, Arthur, Attila, Dorothea, and I had been traveling nearby, visiting small farming communities for a few nights to learn which children lived there, and then using one last night to enter their homes and leave them toys. We didn’t have to wonder which children might be poor; all of them in that area were. We did some night gift-giving on December 23, then found ourselves the next morning in a village where Francis also happened to be. It was a tiny place; Francis was standing in its square singing some gospels in Italian to about twenty people, and when we heard his high, melodic voice we stopped to listen, too.
After Francis was finished singing, he thanked everyone for listening. He said a short prayer, then prepared to walk to the next village and do the same thing again. Francis was a short, thin man dressed in very shabby robes. He looked tired and thirsty, so we offered him a drink from the water gourds we carried.
Francis
“Thank you,” he said gratefully, and drank carefully so the water wouldn’t run out of the corners of his mouth and be wasted. “God always blesses those who are generous to a stranger.”
“You must be Francis of Assisi,” Layla said. “As we’ve traveled, we’ve heard people talking about you. It’s wonderful that you sing the gospels in a language people can understand. We’re all honored to meet you.”
Francis looked embarrassed. He wasn’t a man comfortable with praise. “I’m no one special, unless you believe that in God’s eyes we’re all special. Thank you again for the water. I hope to get to the village of Lauria before nightfall, and it’s a long walk. I’ve been asked to help the people there celebrate Jesus’ birthday. When I was in Lauria earlier in the year, I made a suggestion about celebrating the holiday that they said they might try, and I’m anxious to see if they’ve done it.”
“What suggestion was that?” asked Attila, who was usually the last among us to warm to anyone he didn’t know. Apparently, he approved of Francis and the way he cared for ordinary people.
“Will you walk with me a while as we talk?” Francis asked. “I’d welcome the company, and the story takes some time to tell. I have to be on my way, so if you want to hear it I’m afraid you’ll have to come along.”
We had no reason not to; our current plans were only to do more gift-giving in the same general area, and the village of Lauria would be as good a place as any other. So the six of us joined Francis on the road there. We had two donkeys laden with packs. One of these packs held our supplies; the rest were crammed with toys. Francis had the good manners not to ask what the donkeys carried. He himself had no pack animal, and in fact didn’t even have a small bag to carry on his own shoulder. Francis trusted so much in the kindness of others that he never traveled with provisions. Instead, he counted on meeting people who would share their food with him.
It was a cool day, but sunny. As we walked, Francis told about what he hoped would happen that night in Lauria.
“I have thought for some time that the real circumstances of Jesus’ birth are being forgotten,” Francis explained. “In our churches now we see great paintings of Jesus rising to Heaven, and so we forget that he came into this world as the child of poor parents, and even was born, it’s told, in a Bethlehem stable. I think it would comfort poor people today if they remembered that the baby Jesus was really one of them. Religion should be a source of comfort, don’t you agree?
“Anyway, I suggested to the people of Lauria that they remember Jesus and his humble beginnings by building another stable and acting out the night of his birth, complete with cattle lowing and the donkey Mary rode tethered near the baby’s bed, which would be blankets placed on straw just as it must have been in Bethlehem.”
This nativity scene sounded like a sight well worth seeing. It was late afternoon before we got to Lauria. As we reached the village square, Francis gasped with surprise and delight. A life-size stable, or manger, as it was called in those days, had been built. A small water trough was inside, and cattle were drinking from it. Several villagers were bustling about, placing piles of straw and pounding on the manger’s dirt floor with heavy sticks to flatten out lumps of clay.
“Brother Francis!” one of them called. “See, we’ve done what you asked. Tonight, we’ll act out everything, with someone as Joseph, someone as Mary . . . all of it! Then tomorrow on the holy day you can lead us in prayer, and afterward we’ll feast. This will be the best Christ’s Day ever!” (The word “Christmas” still wasn’t in wide use, except in England. Since 1038, people there had referred to their annual December 25 church service as “Cristes Maesse” or “Christ’s Mass.” This special name for a special day would gradually spread from England to the rest of the world with English explorers and traders.)
And, afterward, we all agreed it just might have been the best Christ’s Day, or Christmas, that anyone anywhere ever enjoyed. The whole reenactment of the nativity, or birth scene, added a special meaning to Christmas Eve. The humble villagers of Lauria were reminded that Jesus came into this world poor, and that he lived as a simple man, not as some sort of royalty. Francis sang appropriate gospel verses in Italian. The six of us traveling with him were invited to stay with some of the villagers. Their cottages were small, but very clean.
The next morning all the people of Lauria gathered for a breakfast that would not have been anything special for rich people, but was undoubtedly splendid for them—hot fresh bread, assorted fruit, bits of cold meat, and especially delicious pastries. The gingerbread was the best I’d ever tasted, and since everyone was so generous in urging me to have more I kept gobbling it until Layla pointedly told everyone that her husband Nicholas was getting much too fat.
After the meal came the presents. These, of course had been customary ever since the first Saturnalia celebrations in Rome. Everyone had a little something for each member of his or her family, and neighbors exchanged gifts as well. The gifts were really tokens, like cut straw for brooms or small squares of leather for patching sandals. Still, everyone made a fuss over what he or she had received, and there were hugs and loud expressions of thanks.
“Each person is so grateful for the gifts, yet they’re just small items anyone could acquire at any time of the year,” Felix said quietly to Francis, who hadn’t eaten much of the wonderful food, preferring to sit and happily watch the villagers rejoice over their presents.
“It’s not the value of the gift, but the philosophy of the giving and receiving,” Francis replied. “It’s a hard world, all in all, and to receive a present means someone else cares for you, that you’re not alone.”
“I already know that,” Felix said a little huffily, and I knew he was thinking he’d been secretly giving gifts eight hundred years before Francis had even been born. But Francis’s words were further proof, if we needed it, that he was someone who would perfectly understand our mission. I’d been thinking since soon after we’d first met Francis that it might be a good idea to invite him to join us. But just as Charlemagne had his own job to do that was separate from ours, so, I decided, did Francis. We ended up saying good-bye to him that afternoon. He walked off toward another small village, while we stayed one more night in Lauria, leaving before dawn. When the children of Lauria awoke that morning, they all found toys beside their bedding.
Two years passed; Francis’s idea of a nativity scene to help celebrate December 25 spread quickly. A few villages had great debates about whether it was really proper to act out the night of Jesus’ birth since the actors would be mere humans, while Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were holy. Other communities were so small and poor that sufficient wood and other building materials for a life-size manger couldn’t be spared. So, many families made miniature mangers instead, and filled them with little clay or stick figures representing the baby, his parents, the animals, shepherds, even the three Magi, or Wise Men. The nativity scene custom then spread throughout the rest of Christian Europe; within two centuries, few house
holds celebrated December 25 without one.
Then, in 1225, we happened upon Francis again, once more in a small Italian village, and once more just a few days prior to December 25. This time we met at a crossroads. He looked exactly the same as when we’d last seen him in Lauria, except perhaps a little more tired.
After hearty greetings, we suggested he join us along the roadside for a meal. Francis accepted, saying he hadn’t eaten for almost two days.
“Sometimes the villages I come to are so poor I don’t accept offers of food because I know none can really be spared,” he explained. “Obviously, your group is especially blessed and always has enough to eat, if the waistlines of Felix and Nicholas are any proof.”
We took out cheese, fruit, and bread. I was careful not to eat too much, feeling somewhat embarrassed by Francis’s comment. Felix, I noticed, felt no similar shame. He ate his share and most of mine, too.
“What have you been doing lately, Francis?” Layla asked. “Your idea of the manger scenes was certainly successful. We feel so lucky to have been part of the first one in Lauria.”
“Would you like to be part of another first effort?” Francis asked. “I’ve been thinking more about December twenty-fifth celebrations, and it seems to me that music should be included, too. I’ve heard some church officials grumbling lately that there’s too much drinking and other inappropriate behavior used to celebrate Christ’s birthday. Well, ordinary people love to sing and dance, and their everyday lives are so busy that they can’t indulge in these pleasures too often. Of course, they want to sing and dance whenever they have one of their rare chances to stop working and enjoy themselves! So I’ve been thinking it might be best for everyone if we found some way to connect celebrating Jesus’ birth with songs as well as feasting and presents.”
Francis paused to sip some water and swallow a few bites of cheese.
“Tell us more,” urged Felix, who always liked to sing and dance. “I like this idea even more than the mangers.”
“It involves carols,” Francis explained. Now, in 1225 the word “carols” didn’t mean what it does today. Medieval carols were dances in village streets. Flutes would be played to provide the proper music. The people who danced would join hands in a circle and move to the rhythm. Sometimes words would be sung, too.
“So there should be carols written that celebrate Jesus’ birth,” Francis said. “I have a few already prepared, just the parts of the new gospels dealing with Bethlehem, really. I’ve spent some time lately at the village of Banyoli. There are some brothers there who play flutes as well as the angels must in Heaven. We’re going to attempt some carols at Banyoli’s December twenty-fifth celebration. Would you like to come along and see what happens?”
Of course we wanted to come, and it was just as splendid a success as the nativity scenes had been. People laughed and danced and sang, all in celebration of Jesus being born, and somehow it seemed right that such joy should be part of their thanks for his birth.
“Feasts, presents, mangers, carols—what a very special occasion December twenty-fifth has become!” Arthur chuckled. “I believe I’ll find myself looking forward to this day all during the rest of the year!”
“The most important thing is that people are being happy together,” Francis emphasized. “For at least one day of the year, past quarrels are forgotten and strangers are greeted as friends.”
The next morning we ate breakfast with Francis. He had plans to be in another village that night, singing the gospels in Italian. In the early light, I noticed how the lines around his eyes were much deeper, how his hands trembled just a little when he raised a crust of bread to his mouth.
“What’s troubling you, Francis?” I asked. “For all the happiness you’re bringing others, I sense you’re not very happy yourself.”
Francis shrugged. “It’s just that often, now, people expect me to be able to do things I can’t. I’m a man, a human being, no more than that, but I’ll come to a village and find they’ve heard stories of how I’ve magically made the real manger fly to Italy from Bethlehem, or how I call down choirs of angels to sing the gospels with me. When they find I can’t do those things, that all I have to offer is my own poor voice, well, sometimes I know they’re disappointed. I gladly give all I can, but for many that isn’t enough. I wanted to help bring about a world that treated every day as specially as December twenty-fifth, but I wonder if instead I’m not somehow ruining all the other days of the year.”
Sitting beside me, Layla gave me a powerful poke in the ribs with her elbow. I grunted in surprise. Francis, lost in his sad thoughts, didn’t seem to notice.
I leaned toward my wife and whispered, “What did you do that for?”
Layla whispered back, “Tell him everything, Nicholas! This is the right time.”
“What about leaving him alone to accomplish his own mission?” I muttered.
“Maybe it’s been accomplished; perhaps it’s time to help him find another one,” she replied.
I trusted Layla’s instincts above those of all others. I asked Francis to postpone his travels for a day, and to walk out into the fields with me and my companions for a talk. We spent that day telling our story, which, since it involved ten centuries, took its usual long time to explain. Francis listened intently, looking especially amazed when we explained who Attila and Arthur really were. I spoke, Felix spoke, Layla added several comments; it was a lot for poor Francis to take in.
But he did, and he believed us, too. “In this great world, all things must be possible,” he said. “Somehow I know I’m really talking to Saint Nicholas of Myra, and Attila the Hun, and Arthur, legendary High King of Britain. King Arthur, I’ve read of you just lately in Geoffrey Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain!”
“I was only a tribal chief,” Arthur said gently. “Don’t believe everything you read. But in that sense, several of us here know what you mean when you say stories of what you’ve done are so exaggerated that no reality can measure up. Who wants to believe I was a war chief who lived in a straw and mud hut, when they can picture me sitting on a golden throne in imaginary Camelot?”
“We should get to the point,” Layla interrupted. “Francis, you’ve done as much in a normal life as anyone could. Join us, and you’ll have limitless time to do good deeds, but without the pressure of being recognized and expected to work miracles every day.”
“I’m not sure I can,” Francis said humbly. “I’m a simple priest; I don’t think I will be able to live forever, or at least hundreds of more years.”
“Well, why not try?” boomed Attila. “Nicholas’s magic has somehow attached itself to us, too. If for some reason you join us and aren’t as lucky, well, you haven’t really lost anything, have you?”
And so Francis of Assisi was persuaded to join our band, and a wonderful addition he was, too. Above all we treasured his marvelous mind and his knack for understanding the simple needs of ordinary people. Determined to properly close out what he called his “mortal” life, Francis first returned to Assisi, where he arranged for trusted friends to announce he died unexpectedly while praying in the Portiuncula Chapel, his favorite church and the first headquarters of the Franciscan movement he founded.
After staying out of sight for a few months, during which he rested and regained much of the strength he’d lost earlier, Francis met us outside Rome. No one else paid any attention to the slight, smiling man in ragged robes and patched sandals. They would have been very surprised to learn he was the same Francis of Assisi who, just a year later, was named a saint by the church.
“Saint Francis and Saint Nicholas,” Arthur laughed when the news of Francis’s new title reached us. “I feel second-class because I was only supposed to be a king!”
“Are you convinced?” Marco Polo asked, looking over his shoulder to the spot where Attila had been standing. But Attila wasn’t there any longer; panicked by the exploding gunpowder, he’d dived under a nearby cart.
FOURTEEN
Soon after Francis joined us, many other things happened, and quickly, too. The world went through one of its periods of great change. Of course, some changes were more welcome than others.
In 1270, Europeans first heard about gunpowder. The Chinese had invented this explosive material much, much earlier, but since Europeans really didn’t travel into China until the late 1200s, it took that long for the information to spread west. An Italian writer published a report on gunpowder he called “Book of Fires for Burning Enemies.” While the rest of us thought this new thing called gunpowder sounded extremely dangerous, Arthur and Attila were curious to see how it really worked.
They got their chance twenty-five years later. While traveling in Venice, our party met a merchant-explorer who had just returned from a long series of adventures in China. The man’s name was Marco Polo. Although he was constantly surrounded by people who wanted to hear more about the mysterious place where he’d been, we were lucky enough to catch up with him near a big house where he was staying. A friendly fellow, Marco Polo invited us all inside. When Arthur and Attila asked him about gunpowder, he took a small container from a wooden chest. Opening the container, he spilled some black smelly particles into their palms.
“That’s gunpowder,” Marco Polo said. “What do you think of it?”