A million stars illuminated the heavens as they moved slowly across the Judean night—cold, crisp, silent. The light of a waning moon bathed the earth and sky in a quiet brilliance that seemed to extend forever. Only a light breeze interrupted the perfect stillness that filled the air. Klaus sat on the brow of a hill overlooking a tiny shepherd village of the desert and breathed in the freedom. For the first time in over ten years, his life was his own.
Klaus had only been 15 when the Roman soldiers had swarmed over his little Germanic town, far to the north. The masters of the world attacked his people without warning—killing, pillaging and burning every hut to the ground. He was carving wood that day in his father’s shop. He remembered trying to fight back. But what did he know of fighting? He was woefully unprepared as a youth to give battle to the butchers of the Roman Empire. However, time would change all that.
Amidst their scoffs and jeers they took him prisoner—the lone survivor of his hamlet—and carried him back to Rome. What an amusing prize he was—this red-headed novelty of the north countries—as they sold him into slavery. He was purchased at auction by an agent of Herod the Great and transported in chains another thousand miles to Jerusalem in Judea, where the merciless monarch had established his “kingdom”.
Had Klaus been purchased as a mere slave his story may have ended there. But Herod’s servants had selected this husky, wild-eyed youth to be trained as one of the king’s gladiators, to fight in the arena as a spectacle for the entertainment of his guests. And indeed, Klaus proved an able student, driven by anger and defiance of the Romans who had made a slave of him. Within three years, he not only mastered every weapon in Herod’s arsenal, but built his body into the perfect tool to wield them. His frame became a seamless network of muscles from his head to his foot, accented by a thick, red beard that made him the most fearsome warrior in the school of gladiators.
From the moment Klaus first stepped into the arena, he became a favorite—a fighting machine of such skill, agility, speed and shrewd intelligence that he bewildered and overpowered his rivals as much as he delighted the spectators. But surprisingly none of this brought any satisfaction to the young gladiator. Perhaps because none of the rage of his training accompanied him into the arena. His only motivation in the heat of combat was a burning desire to survive, together with a knowledge, deep within his soul, that there was more to his life and destiny than this—something worth living for.
With that conviction sustaining him, Klaus fought on, and lived on. He left the anger behind and developed a deep, booming laugh that was infectious and encouraging to his fellows. He grew big-hearted and good-natured. And he survived. The life expectancy of the typical gladiator was one or two years. Klaus endured for three, then four. And he fought on—for five, six, and finally seven years. Until, even the cruel Herod the Great was persuaded to grant this prize gladiator his freedom—with a reward of a thousand denari. And now, Klaus was going home.
And none too soon. It was rumored in Herod’s palace that one of these villages was to be the victim of his royal brutality. As early as tomorrow the king intended to kill all the children of a single town out of an insane fear that one of them threatened him as a rival. Klaus understood none of it. It was enough that Herod could commit such lunacy. Klaus was one in a million to have survived Herod’s madness. He was leaving Judea forever. He was going home away from this insanity.
Klaus inhaled a huge breath of the Judean night air and stretched his massive arms as he took one last look at the tiny village enveloped in darkness below him. What was its name? Bethlehem. He hoped it wasn’t the town that was to be the target of Herod’s wrath. Standing from the sand and picking up his traveling bag, he flung it across his shoulder. He had a long journey before him. It was time to go home.
He had only taken a few steps when a sound reached his ears—the sound of a scuffle, followed by the shouts of men, muffled by the wind in the night. He froze in his tracks to determine the direction of the struggle. But then he heard a noise that alarmed him, sending his head upright like a sentinel. It was the cry of a woman. Klaus sprang without hesitation, turning and sprinting to the brow of the sandy hill behind him.
His powerful legs catapulted him to the top as if he were in combat. Arriving at the summit, he swung his head around, surveying the situation instantly in the moonlight. A young man in his twenties and a young woman, no, a girl, no more than a teenager, were being accosted in the night by three Roman soldiers. A donkey, startled by the brawl trotted fifty feet away. A glance told Klaus that these soldiers were no mere thugs of the Empire. Rather they were mercenaries in Herod’s employ. But to Klaus, there was virtually no difference. A suppressed anger he hadn’t known for years flared in his heart. He reacted instantly. The two soldiers beating the young man were closest to him as he charged over the hill. Dropping his own gear he was upon them in one massive step.
The soldier within reach had just knocked the young man on the ground, fallen upon him, and was about to strike him in the face. Snatching the soldier by his outstretched fist, Klaus yanked him from the spot with one powerful jerk, practically pulling his arm from its socket. The startled soldier pivoted like a swinging gate, until his face came into sudden contact with the gladiator’s enormous fist, which sent him sprawling to the ground unconscious.
Klaus instinctively knew he did not have a second to lose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other soldier turning his attention from his brutality to lunge quickly at him. The big gladiator avoided a dagger thrust by only inches, but inches were all he needed. Lashing out with a speed and strength that terrified the Roman mercenary, Klaus grabbed his dagger hand, twisted the knife from his grasp and then quickly snapped his wrist with an audible crack.
He didn’t wait to survey his work as the man screamed and stumbled down the hill. (Klaus knew he wouldn’t be interested in either fighting or holding a dagger for a while.)
He turned immediately to the final, large soldier who was manhandling the young woman, struggling with her over a small bundle in her arms. Klaus’s legs churned into the sand with superhuman strength, but the hulking soldier and his victim were several paces away. He felt himself moving in agonizing slow motion as the Roman brute finally shoved the girl to the ground with a cruel slap. The bundle fell to the ground beside her, and then Klaus heard a sound that chilled his heart—the cry of a baby piercing the night. The soldier did not stoop to examine the infant or pick it up. Instead, Klaus watched helplessly as the trained murderer unsheathed his sword and took dead aim to kill the child. Yet as the blade thrust downward, Klaus stretched out his hand with all his effort, catching the hilt and stopping its descent in mid air.
Klaus held the sword there with a strength that not even he knew he had as he brought his second hand to the hilt and his eyes level with those of the huge Roman. The man’s face was hard and cruel. He gritted his teeth, glaring with hatred at this red-bearded intruder while his eyes burned with a will to follow through with his execution. Klaus stared back intently into those fiery eyes—eyes whose depth and meaning and earnestness he knew from the arena. This man was determined to kill! Klaus only had seconds to respond.
Unloosing one of his hands from the quavering sword hilt, and concentrating with all his might to hold the deadly blade in place with one hand, Klaus reached to his belt where his own dagger hung. As he did so the sword inched toward the baby. The Roman grinned. Now was the moment. Klaus felt his fingers on the hilt of his knife, but even as he grasped it and drew it forth to strike, a voice whispered to him in a command he could not ignore. No more killing. Responding impulsively like the gladiator he was, he rotated the dagger in his fingers and, with all of his strength, smashed the Roman in the temple of his head with the hilt of the weapon. The sword fell to the sand on its side and the soldier crumpled to the ground beside it without a groan. He lay motionless.
Klaus stood, straddling his v
anquished foe, breathless and exhausted. But momentarily he gathered his thoughts, glancing up at the young man, righting himself a few yards away, and the girl, who was stirring just within reach. He was about to turn to her when he was diverted by the cooing of the baby in the bundle at his feet. Feeling drawn to the child, to the exclusion of all else, he stooped down and lifted the bundle from the cool sand, cradling it in his massive arms. Strange. He had never held a baby before, but it felt so natural—so comfortable.
He shielded the infant from the night breeze with his immense body and looked into its eyes. Reaching up with its tiny arms the baby looked up at him and smiled, and then the smile vanished, but the eyes—innocent, bright and brown—continued to study him. He paused, captivated in the gaze of those eyes that seemed to be peering into his very soul. And then to his astonishment, he heard a voice—a peaceful, still, small, yet clear and powerful voice—speaking to the very center of his heart.
Klaus, for the service you have done me this night you shall be blessed uniquely among men—for the life which you have saved shall give life to the world. In immortality, you shall likewise give. Your laughter shall give joy. Your great heart shall share kindness. Your good nature shall warm the troubled spirit. And your generosity shall impart glad tidings in all nations. You shall never be forgotten in the memory of mankind, and you will live in the hearts of children everywhere forever.
Klaus stood, transfixed, gazing into the face of the tiny angel in his arms, the words of promise still echoing in his mind. As he stared in wonder he felt the hands of the young woman reach up to his face and gently stroke his beard. He forced himself to glance away from the child into the eyes of the teenage mother who looked intently up at him, smiling, with tears in her eyes. Momentarily, her young husband stood beside her, holding her with one arm and clasping Klaus’ burly bicep with the other. Not a word was spoken.
Gradually Klaus loosened his hold on the swaddled child as the mother took the babe in her loving arms. He watched mother and child in their personal reunion and then turned away, leaving them to their moment. He straightened to his full enormous height and took in a full breath of the fresh, desert air. He suddenly felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life.
Striding to his bag on the ground he reached inside for his pouch of denari. Counting out one hundred of them he turned to the young father and handed them to him. He spoke no Aramaic, but did his best to impress upon him to hurry in his departure, and use the money to advantage. Herod and the Romans would be in pursuit soon enough, but there was time now.
Gathering up the family’s few scattered belongings, Klaus packed them onto the donkey and readied the couple to go. When he finally turned to them for his farewells, the young mother looked up at him again and, handing the baby to her husband, raised a hand to his beard. As gently as she could, she slowly pulled his face down to hers and kissed him sweetly on the cheek, before letting him go with a smile.
Klaus pulled back in surprise. With the single exception of his mother, no woman had ever kissed him. And that had been a long, long time ago. A deep laughter slowly rumbled irresistibly within his huge chest and suddenly burst from his red cheeks, resounding into the night. He wrapped the young father and mother—and the child—once more in his muscular arms and released them. There was a tear in his eye.
Turning, he tossed his bag over his back and went on his way, through the night, rejoicing. He marched until morning and on through the day. He rested the next night, but never really seemed to get tired. He continued over the weeks to walk north through Syria, and then east through Cappadocia, Galatia, and Asia. He spent very little of his remaining denari on his own needs, but instead bought food, and clothing, and care for those who needed it.
As he journeyed, he found himself drawn to children and they were drawn to him, his happy nature and his booming laughter. He shared stories with them, spent time with them and carved gifts for them. And wherever he went, the little ones remembered him.
He traveled on through Thracia, Macedonia, Dalmatia, and Germania—from town to town and country to country—fulfilling the promises of the child of Judea—giving generously until his money was gone. But still he continued to give of himself and his heart.
The weeks stretched into months, and the months into years. Over those years and miles Klaus grew older, his beard turned in time from red to grey to white. But in a real sense Klaus never seemed to age. He was forever vigorous and hearty, always kind, endlessly good, and forever sharing his gifts, as well as the message of the holy child who had sent him. And finally, in the passage of time, Klaus ventured from his homeland to the countless nations beyond, where children awaited him, year after year, for the gifts which he brought them and the spirit he bore.
And it was ever said of him that his laughter gave joy, his great heart shared kindness, his good nature warmed the troubled soul, and his generosity imparted glad tidings. He has never been forgotten in the memory of mankind, and he has lived to this day in the hearts of children everywhere, and will forever.
He came to be known as Santa Klaus.
STEPHEN J. STIRLING
Stephen J. Stirling was born in Los Angeles, California, and grew up in Huntington Park is Southeast LA. Graduating from high school in 1970, he received a scholarship to Brigham Young University at the age of seventeen.
He earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Journalism in 1976 and spent the next few years wandering America in search of adventure. Interspersed through his college career and days on the road, he served a mission in Chile and taught for eight years as an early morning seminary teacher.
Settling briefly in Chicago, he entered the profession of advertising, a field in which he ultimately held many positions with companies from the Midwest to the Pacific Coast. He eventually planted roots in Orange County, California, where he established Stirling Communications and spent fifteen years as a freelance copywriter, scriptwriter, and video producer.
In 1994 he was hired by the Church Education System and relocated with his family to Gilbert, Arizona, where he has fulfilled a lifelong dream of teaching released-time seminary for the past twenty years.
He and his wife, Diane, were married in 1981 and are the parents of five children—Jennifer, Lindsey, Brooke, Mariana, and Vladimir. Brother Stirling is the author of several books, including The Ultimate Catalogue and Shedding Light on the Dark Side.
Typeractive Tales: A Collection of Clean Short Fiction Page 17
