by Jeff Guinn
I wrote back telling Francis that I trusted his judgment. He was right; Isabella was thrilled to learn about us and our mission. Ferdinand was less enthusiastic. He wanted to use his government’s money for wars. Francis wrote me again, asking me to come to their court and meet Isabella for myself.
“Though she respects her husband the king, she also will do things she believes to be right whether he approves of them or not,” Francis wrote.
Able to travel at ten times the speed of normal mortals, Layla, Felix, and I were Isabella’s guests less than a week after we received Francis’s letter.
The three of us were introduced to Isabella by Francis in the privacy of the queen’s chambers. I wanted to like Isabella, but I found it difficult. She had decorated her rooms with the most expensive furnishings available. We could have made toys for every child in her kingdom for much less than she’d spent on curtains and chandeliers. Also, Isabella had a rather forceful way of speaking, usually interrupting whoever was talking to her and immediately forming rigid opinions about everything.
“So you’re Saint Nicholas himself,” she said immediately, her voice so loud I feared everyone in the castle might have heard her. “Did you really work all those miracles, the saving of sinking ships and so forth?”
“I’ve only heard the same stories that you have, Your Majesty,” I said politely. “As I’m sure Francis has told you, my time is spent giving gifts to children, and nothing more heroic than that.”
“Exactly why I like you!” the queen announced. “I, too, am very fond of children. Perhaps you would like to give a gift to my daughter Catherine.”
“I doubt your daughter needs our modest gifts,” I replied, thinking to myself that this woman didn’t really understand what we did at all. I caught a glimpse of Francis standing just behind Isabella; when his eyes met mine, he grimaced and shrugged. I must admit, though, that later in our visit to Isabella when we met Princess Catherine, I felt so sorry for the child that I wished we had brought something to give her.
Catherine was a very solemn girl who looked much more like her father than her mother, and King Ferdinand was big-nosed and jutchinned, rather than handsome. It was quite clear Catherine was going to be one of those unfortunate princesses who someday would be married off by her parents to create some sort of political alliance with another country and its ruler. As it turned out, in 1501, when she was sixteen, Catherine’s parents ordered her to marry Prince Arthur of England, who was the oldest son of King Henry VII. This marriage had a great impact on our mission, although the proper time to tell more about it comes later in this story.
In any event, Queen Isabella pronounced herself truly committed to helping us. King Ferdinand would not allow her to give us money from the national treasury, she said, so instead she would simply give us all her jewelry, which we could sell for a great deal of money.
“It was rather a hard choice about who should get this jewelry, you or that Italian captain who also has been asking us for financial help,” Isabella added. “What was his name, again, Francis? You met him a few weeks ago.”
“Christopher Columbus,” Francis added helpfully. “He said he thinks, or rather he knows, a quick trade route to the Indies and Japan could be found simply by sailing directly west instead of circling east around the Cape as the trading ships do now. An interesting fellow, really. I’m sorry your decision to help us comes at his expense.”
Isabella told us we would have to remain at the castle for a few weeks while she collected all her necklaces, earrings, rings, and other jeweled finery. She kept some items at other castles and had loaned others to family and friends. When I told her it probably wouldn’t be necessary for us to be given every item she owned, Isabella just laughed and said it was always easy for queens to get all the jewelry they wanted. After she gave us what she had, she’d just tell rich noblemen who wanted the king’s favor to give her more.
So we waited, and on the third day after we’d met Isabella, we were walking in the courtyard when Francis said, “Look, over there. That fellow is Columbus, the Italian captain I told you about.”
Columbus was older than I’d expected, certainly more than forty. His hair had turned gray and, like many people of that time, his teeth were yellow and nasty-looking. But he had a nice smile, though a sad one.
“I’m told by the queen that there’s no longer a chance she can help me because she’s going to give her jewelry to you,” Columbus said, sounding depressed but not angry at us. “She won’t say why you need the jewels, but I suppose it’s for some fine purpose. I have a final appointment with King Ferdinand this afternoon, and I’ll ask him one last time for money for my voyages. If he refuses, as I’m certain he will, I suppose I’ll have to go back home. I’ve already been turned down by the King of Portugal, and by every nobleman in Italy.”
“Perhaps King Ferdinand will decide to help you after all,” I said cheerfully. “Francis has told us about your idea of a new way to sail to Japan or the Indies.”
“It’s not just an idea to make me rich, you know,” Columbus said. “Everyone would benefit, even the Japanese and Indians. We have goods they want, and we want theirs. Craftsmen in every country in Europe would be able to sell more, and thus make more profits. People could live better. Fewer children would go hungry.”
After we left Columbus, the four of us talked about what he had said. “Do you really think he can reach Japan or the Indies just by sailing west?” I asked Francis. “There are still many people who think ships going west will just fall off the edge of the world.”
“The oceans have been sailed enough for anyone intelligent to know there are no edges to fall off,” Francis replied. “I do wish Columbus would get his chance. If he did, I’d like to go with him. We need to know more about Japan and the Indies, Nicholas. No doubt there are many children there who need gifts, too.”
The more we discussed it, the more it became clear that Christopher Columbus was just as deserving of Isabella’s help as we were. This wasn’t convenient for us, of course. We needed all the money we could get. Every day, each of us felt frustrated because we never had enough gifts for all the deserving children we wanted to please. Anyone trying to do good things has to believe in the cause being served, and that can make it easy to forget that others are trying to do good things, too—different things, perhaps, but still important.
So, that evening we went back to Isabella to ask if she might spare a few items of jewelry for Columbus after all. At first she was surprised we didn’t want it all for ourselves, but eventually agreed to spare him enough to buy and outfit no more than three small ships. Francis ran to find Columbus and tell him the good news, only to be informed the captain had left court an hour earlier, headed home to Italy after King Ferdinand had refused his final request for money. Undaunted, Francis borrowed a mule and tracked Columbus down, bringing him back to court for a private meeting with the rest of us and Queen Isabella. When she told him she would finance his trip, he began to offer his thanks. Isabella interrupted him.
“There are conditions, of course, Captain Columbus,” she said firmly. “Most important, whatever new lands you might find must be claimed in the name of King Ferdinand and myself. Second, we must receive nine-tenths of all the wealth you find. And third, my friend Francis must sail with you on this adventure.”
Except for Francis, we all looked surprised. Columbus was so pleased to get his money that he was glad to have Francis come along, especially when Isabella explained he was an Italian priest. Columbus was very religious and told Francis it would be an honor to have him aboard.
Isabella collected her jewelry and divided it between us and Columbus. The captain then bought three ships, which he named the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María. On August 3, 1492, he sailed from the harbor of Palos; Felix, Layla, and I stood on the dock waving good-bye to Francis.
Columbus’s three ships—the Niña, Pinta, and Santa María
Later, Francis told us colorful tal
es of the trip. Columbus did not turn out to be an especially good leader of men. Several times, his crews were ready to mutiny. But more than two months after leaving Palos, they sighted land on the western horizon. Poor Columbus thought this land might be Japan, but it turned out to be one of a series of sandy islands inhabited by native tribes who certainly weren’t Japanese. Always ready to fool himself and others with grand exaggeration, Columbus instantly decided he must have reached the Indies. As he had promised, he claimed the first island, which he called San Salvador, in the names of Ferdinand and Isabella.
He also called the natives “Indians.” Columbus then ordered his ships to sail a bit farther, and they discovered and claimed several other islands in the next few days. One of these islands, which Columbus named “Juana,” would eventually be known as Cuba. Columbus and his crew were shocked to see natives on this island smoking a dried plant. This was the first time Europeans had seen tobacco.
Columbus didn’t turn out to be a very good sailor, either. On the night of December 24, he wrecked the Santa María on another new island, one he named Hispaniola. Today it is home to Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
“On the night of that shipwreck, after all the sailors were safe and as many goods as possible salvaged from the wreckage, I reminded Captain Columbus that it was Christmas Eve,” Francis said. “I asked his permission to lead the sailors in a mass honoring Christ’s birth. Although he was already losing himself in dreams of gold and glory, the captain said I could. I felt special sensations during the mass, Nicholas. It’s not quite time yet, but you should mark my words. Much of our future and this mission of gift-giving lies in the New World. You’ll have to go there and see for yourself.”
“Perhaps so,” I answered. “But before I set foot on a ship, I’ll want to see what happens to Columbus and the rest of the explorers who’ll undoubtedly follow him there. For now, we have enough work to do in the countries we already know about.”
The New World did, in fact, turn out to be a glorious place, but Columbus himself didn’t come to a glorious end. In March 1493, he returned from his first voyage to promise Ferdinand and Isabella that the lands he had claimed for them were full of gold and other valuable things. They sent him back three more times, but he didn’t find any gold to bring them. Columbus was disgraced, and he died a very poor, unhappy man.
Francis didn’t return to the New World on any of Columbus’s last three voyages. Instead, he rejoined Felix, Layla, and me. The jewelry we’d received from Isabella was used by Arthur and Attila to expand their toy factories. Soon we had toys for almost every child in Europe and England, with some left over. We decided we should have a regular schedule to distribute them, and this decision led us into the next phase of our mission.
Whenever possible, presents were placed in stockings hung to dry by the fireplace. This quickly caused a new flurry of myths about how Saint Nicholas must prefer coming down the chimneys to any other way of entering a home, and how children wanting to be certain of gifts should hang up their stockings there on the appropriate night.
SIXTEEN
The Christmas Legend of Saint Nicholas
Ever since I started giving gifts back in Patara and Myra, people told stories about the mysterious person who came at night to leave presents for children. Over the centuries, as the territory where I gave gifts and the number of those gifts grew, so did the myths. It wasn’t until about 1500, though, that the gift-giver was identified as me, or rather as Saint Nicholas.
Although we hadn’t realized this at the time, it was inevitable at least some of the truth would become widely known after Arthur and Attila opened their toy factories and hired staff to work in them. Back then, simply the presence of factories that only made toys was unusual enough to arouse local interest, and, try as Arthur and Attila might, there were workers who learned something of what we did and couldn’t resist telling family and friends. In centuries to come, some companies would require employees to sign “secrecy agreements,” where they promised not to tell anyone else about the work they did. But in 1500, that hadn’t been thought of yet.
A few very trusted workers knew everything: Willie Skokan, for instance, occasionally would come with Felix, Francis, Layla, and me when we delivered toys he had made. Willie wanted to watch children at play with their gifts. He would take notes on any problems they had with the toys, and then try to fix these design flaws when he got back to the Nuremberg factory.
At any rate, once the first Saint Nicholas tale was told there was no stopping the story from spreading. People seemed relieved to have a name by which to identify the mysterious gift-giver they’d been wondering about for so long. From Rome to London, and in every city and village in between, children began to hope they’d get a nighttime visit from Saint Nicholas.
“This is going to be very awkward,” I told Layla one night as we sat by a tiny campfire in the hill country of France. Felix and Francis were asleep, rolled up in their blankets as close to the warmth of the fire as they could get without setting their bedding ablaze. “I understand many children now pray at bedtime that Saint Nicholas will visit while they sleep and bring them something. I certainly don’t want to disappoint anyone. What are we going to do?”
As always, Layla’s commonsense approach to problems was helpful.
“You know that for some time we’ve been thinking about picking just a few very special nights each year for the gift-giving,” she reminded me. “That way we can spend most of our time preparing the toys and choosing which children should receive them. We’ll recruit more people to help deliver the gifts on these nights. That way, we’ll be better organized and more children can wake up to delightful surprises.”
“How will we find the right people to help with the gift-giving?” I wondered. “And how will we choose the special nights?”
Layla favored me with the sort of lovingly impatient look wives use when their husbands ask especially silly questions.
“Somehow, Nicholas, when you are concerned, things simply happen because they need to,” she said. “When you needed Felix, you found him. When you needed me, you found me. The same is true of Attila and Dorothea and Arthur and Francis and Willie Skokan. The right people will find us. As for the nights to choose, well, I think we already know the most important one.”
And, of course, we did. Christmas had become an almost universal day for exchanging gifts. What better time for children to receive our gifts, too?
“For reasons of time and convenience, in some countries we could choose other dates associated with Christ’s birth and presents,” I mused, suddenly inspired. “For instance, in some places gifts are given on January sixth, the day the three Wise Men are supposed to have arrived in Bethlehem and offered their presents to the baby Jesus. So there are two dates. Don’t you think we need at least one more?”
We did, and, as Layla had guessed, that day was chosen for us. December 6, the anniversary of my supposed death, had been declared “Saint Nicholas Day” by the church. As soon as my name was connected with the mysterious gift-giving, families in some countries assumed I would come visit their children on that day instead of Christmas.
It took a few dozen years for us to arrange this new schedule. Eventually a plan evolved where Arthur and helpers would distribute gifts in England and the British Isles; Attila and Dorothea and assistants in Germany, France, and the European “middle countries”; Willie Skokan and helpers in Eastern Europe; Francis and associates in Spain, Portugal, and Western Europe; Felix and helpers in Scandinavia; Layla and helpers in Italy; and me assisting wherever I liked, working with one group one year and with another the next. Everyone went in Saint Nicholas costume, the traditional red robes trimmed with white that I had worn in my days as a bishop. They also glued on white beards to match mine, and Felix began the rude custom of stuffing a pillow under the belt of his robes—to imitate, he said, my “considerable” waistline.
Traveling faster than normal mortals could imagine, the var
ious groups moved from city to village, from house to cottage, leaving gifts inside for the children who lived there. Whenever possible, presents were placed in stockings hung to dry by fireplaces. This quickly caused a new flurry of myths about how Saint Nicholas must prefer coming down chimneys to any other way of entering a home, and how children wanting to be certain of gifts should hang up their stockings there on the appropriate night.
It came as a welcome surprise that some parents, who hadn’t before now, began using these special nights of December 25 and January 6 to give their children gifts, too. We might leave a doll for a little girl, and on that same night her mother and father might add a new dress, pieces of fruit, and perhaps even some candy.
The helpers we recruited came from all sorts of places, and from all kinds of professions. They were good-hearted men and women, sworn to secrecy, and people we somehow knew we could trust not to talk out of turn. Many helped us for a few years; some assisted us for decades, and a special few became part of our core group and stopped aging altogether, just as we had.
Even as our ranks grew and we were able to distribute more toys to more children, the quality of the toys we gave improved as well. One of our finest new companions came to us from Italy in 1519. Leonardo da Vinci was the greatest painter of the time, and his Mona Lisa might be the most famous painting ever. It is still on display to the public in Paris’s Louvre museum.
