I could see back into the distant corners of my mind to my workbench and knife as I carved the rough ends of a wood block in an effort to shape it into a beautiful duck. I could see and feel the shavings as they fell in my imagination until I held up the roughly formed pieces of wood that would fit together to form the moving, flying toy.
“I would go each year in search of my brothers and sisters and secretly observe them in their new homes. I would not disturb them for fear of spoiling their new lives. And so each Christmas I would leave them toys and gifts I had made as a way of telling them I still cared for them and still remembered their beauty and their love.”
I looked at Jacob as he stared at me, transfixed by my story.
“And the infant?” he asked.
“The very next Christmas after the separation of my family, I went back to reunite us. All the others had new families, but I had lost Nikko. I found the cabin of the old cottager with whom I had left him abandoned.”
I stopped to take a deep and painful breath.
“The deliveries grew as I dedicated myself to bringing joy to others at Christmas. I have learned our tragedies are the ashes from which we are intended to rise again, reborn.” I reached over to the rocking horse and stopped its motion.
“Who adopts eight abandoned children from a plague-ridden countryside?” Jacob asked almost comically.
And we laughed.
“I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. “God, I guess.”
Jacob stood near the wall examining a shelf laden with colorful toys. The fire gave a pop from a burst of resin it had discovered. Sarah set down another steaming mug for me and went to the fireplace to stir the concoction brewing in the pot.
“And you crafted these for the children?” Jacob asked as he lifted one of the toys off the shelf.
“No. Those toys are Nikko’s. One for each year.”
I began to cough violently again, and Jacob rushed to my side, lifting the mug Sarah left me to my lips.
“I don’t know if it would have made a difference, but I would have liked a gift on Christmas,” Jacob said quietly.
The snowflake hanging from Jacob’s neck swayed as he moved beside me and emerged from the opening in his coat. It was a vision I never thought I would live to see.
“Nikko?” I said to him in my shock and sudden recognition of who this man might be.
“Nikko,” Jacob said softly to himself. “I never knew my true name. My new family called me Jacob.”
“It was Nicholas,” I told him. “As a baby we called you Nikko.”
“I used to dream my true father was a great hero, searching for his stolen child.” Jacob removed the snowflake from around his neck and ran his fingers across it. “That my mother was a beautiful princess longing for my return.”
We laughed.
“It’s all true,” I said, and our shared laugh slowed to a knowing silence.
“I was always out of place there. I never allowed myself to be a real member of the family. I never let them love me, the couple you left me with. I didn’t feel I deserved to be loved. If my own parents didn’t want me …”
“I wanted you,” I said to him. “For years I thought if I could just find you, all would be forgiven, all our pain would be forgotten.”
Jacob placed the snowflake and its cord necklace over my head. I grabbed his arm and held onto it for a moment as I struggled against my violent and painful cough.
“Come brother, we have to get you better,” Jacob said with deep sincerity and concern. “There are only eleven months to prepare. What would Christmas be without Santa?”
Epilogue
A sea of plush red cloth moved through the winter snow toward the cabin as Santa made his way to Olaf and Ona’s window with a large bag of toys slung over his shoulder. He gently placed two gifts on the windowsill and turned to make his way back to the sleigh. Looking over his shoulder, Jacob beamed with delight at the feelings that swelled inside after he had left the gifts for his children. He climbed into the sleigh and set off to spread more holiday joy as he traveled through his village where he planned to share presents with neighbors and friends still asleep in anticipation of Christmas morning.
Now it is the late 1700s, and a Russian merchant just back from his travels carefully places a colorfully wrapped package on the satin cloth covering a table in his store. He smiles with pride and happiness at the gifts he is about to share. His thick, black hair and mustache are expertly groomed and ready for the party that will soon begin in his establishment.
He steps back with two more packages in his arms and eyes the setting to judge how best to arrange and display them. After a brief consideration, the merchant gently slides the second package into place, and sets the final gift lovingly on top of the other two. He lays sprigs of holly carefully around them all to give an added accent of color.
Now it is 1812 in an energetic London suburb. Inside the Georgian home, pine needles and the ornaments of a Christmas tree rise above the gifts. Three partygoers enter the room and sweep up the presents from underneath the tree. The three quickly move to an archway and cross into another room where their Christmas celebration is in progress. Friends are singing and laughing there, but when the three enter the room and begin to hand out gifts, everyone pauses to cheer in excitement.
Now it is 1871, and a weathered wooden passenger ship prepares to depart from a port in Venice, Italy. A simple young woman carries a small gift in one hand and a suitcase in the other. She walks behind a line of plainly dressed people boarding in the steerage class of the ship. As she makes her way onboard, she sees a man of her acquaintance and greets him with a gentle smile. He wishes her a happy holiday, and she hands him the gift. He hugs her warmly, and tears fill their eyes.
Now it is America in 1910, and a woman’s extravagant hat flops about as she walks along the pier. She halts in front of a large cruise ship anchored there. A line of people exit the first-class decks, making their way slowly down that ship’s long, heavy ramp. A wealthy man suddenly appears behind them and waves to the woman from the top of the ramp while holding a beautifully wrapped gift in his hands. As he approaches her, the sunlight glistens off the brightly wrapped package. She runs to welcome him home.
Now it is World War I; along the western front explosions of mortars fade to silence. The land is covered by a sea of bitterness and blackness beneath a dome of sparkling stars. Interrupting the silence of the night are the low rumbles of shells fired in the distance and bursts of bright red light that punctuate their explosions in the sky. A British soldier sits in a muddy trench as he opens a Christmas package from home. He laughs when he pulls out a cookie shaped and decorated like a Christmas tree, which brings loving memories of home.
Across no-man’s-land, the thick stretches of mud-trenched earth that separate the armies, a German soldier bites into a gingerbread man that he withdrew from the opened package beside him.
Now it is Brazil in 1956, and a poor old man sucks the last drops of soup from a dirty bowl, settling back against the wall of a dilapidated building where he hopes to sleep. A care worker covers him with a blanket so he might have a bit of warmth throughout the Christmas night.
Now it is 1984, and a sleepy young Indian child is held warmly in the arms of her father, who tucks her into bed, giving her a gentle kiss upon the cheek. Beside him, on the girl’s nightstand, a small gift sits beautifully dressed with a red velvet bow.
Now it is 2003, and all across China, children dream of the gifts that will be left by Santa this Christmas Eve.
Now in a vast department store, children wait anxiously to greet Santa. Tabby, next in line, runs past the elf helper and plops onto the big Santa chair, scooting and pushing to make room.
“I’m Tabby,” she says. “I know you’re not really Santa, but that’s OK. I’m getting too old for that.”
“I never liked that excuse.”
Her little hand tests the softness of the white fur lining the thick red Santa coat
.
“I’ve seen Santa before in other malls,” she says as proof of her perception.
“You know, even Santa needs a little help now and again.”
“Santa needs help?” she asks, having never quite considered it that way.
“Oh, yes, there are many children …”
“I want to help Santa, too.”
“That’s easy, Tabby, be the Santa in you. Santa wants you to know that if you are good, you will have a surprise under your tree at Christmas.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Tabby wraps her little arms around my belly and gives me a hug. Hopping from my lap, she runs to her mother and tugs on her blouse. “Mommy, Mommy, Santa says if I’m good I’ll get the Barbie Dream House for Christmas!”
“What’s this?” her father asks, excited to hear what Santa said to her.
“Santa says if she’s good he’ll get her a Barbie Dream House for Christmas,” Tabby’s mother tells him resolutely.
Her father lifts Tabby high above his head and lowers her for an Eskimo kiss.
“Well, then we had best be good for Santa, hadn’t we?” he commands with a smile.
Her father looks at me as he sets his daughter on the ground, and gives me a smirk and a nod.
I wink back at him and smile. He’s a good boy, John. Always has been.
Without warning, Matthew, a fiery five-year-old boy, hops up onto my lap.
“Santa?” he asks, to make sure I am the jolly guy that he has come to see.
“Yes, Matthew,” I assure him.
He gives me a quizzical look as if to ask how I already know his name.
“I remember you from last year,” I say with a grin.
Matthew reaches toward the white fringe of my coat.
“Why is your workshop in the North Pole?” he asks.
“Oh, because they say people live forever up there.”
“Forever?” he asks in awe.
“Forever!” I respond in equal enthusiasm.
Matthew lifts the wooden snowflake pendant hanging from my neck and runs his fingers across it, feeling its engraved designs and pointy edges. “And how do reindeer fly?” he asks.
I look him directly in his eyes and whisper, “One secret at a time, little one. One secret at a time.”
The End
Acknowledgments
I truly hope you have enjoyed the story. Like a piece of theatre on opening night, this book represents a collaboration of friends and colleagues whose love and toil have coaxed from the fires of its creation a greater complexity than can come from one individual’s inception of an idea.
The simple story was born in 1995 when I first stepped in for Santa and wore the Santa suit for a group of kids in New Jersey. They were singing “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and I threw open the doors to be greeted by a four-year-old girl whose eyes grew to the size of silver dollars. Lifting her arms to the sky, she beckoned to be picked up. That day I lived as the man that would never do a child wrong. I was more than friend—I was confidant. I was more than character—I was a living legend in their minds. At the end of the day, three fathers, probably in their mid-thirties, asked if they could take a picture with me. Without thinking I said, “Have we been good this year?”
“Yes,” each one replied most earnestly.
I realized then that there is a child inside every adult who still yearns for Santa. I decided that day to start searching for the story that would give teenagers and adults back the hero of early childhood and to create the story that would resolve the question for all time—Is Santa Real?
The story I found was a story that reveals a man who, like all men, faces trials, failures and self-doubt. A man who teaches us the obvious truth that Santa lives in each of us and whose very existence is a call to action: “Be the Santa in You!”
I can only say that God placed the core story inside my head because I woke up one day, and it was there. Then years of research and the contributions of many expanded its scope and detail. The first person I told the story to was a dear friend of mine, Dan Mackler, whose intense response launched me into a committed pursuit to see this story made into a movie. He, along with Bill Hill, John Higgins, Dominick Salfi, Bob Di Cerbo and others, spent the next six years of their lives in the dedication of that cause. The original short story was taken in dictation by my amazing and supportive wife, Joanne, who on that day kept me from making a tragic mistake in its writing. She then gave me two beautiful children, Caius and Jinnai, who taught me what a challenging and rewarding task Santa has taking care of all the children on the earth.
Over the next eight years, the story took multiple forms—from the screenplay to the pseudo-historical documents of the first Santa is Real book published in 2006. Each form has influenced the subtleties and depth of what is in this novel. I would like to thank my incredibly talented collaborator Joseph Kenny who served as a contributor and writer on this novel. His work helped me transition the story from its many forms into the book you read today. Without him there would be a beauty missing from its reading. I must also thank my primary writing partner on the screenplay and many other aspects of this project, Donte Bonner. His thoughts flow throughout the entire story. Early on in the screenplay process, Ben and Stephanie Lowell were very helpful. Sandy Thrift lent me her years of experience. Stella Sung gave him music. Connie Chattaway gave him poetry, Huaixiang Tan gave him art, Eric Craft and Alvin DeLeon designed his first home, and Bill Brewer gave him clothing. Chris Sprysenski gave us legal counsel, Frank DiPietro made us accountable, Tim Baker and Doni Keen gave us the “Santa Talks,” and Per Heistad pulled no punches on his analysis of our entire project. Shannon O’Donnell helped me keep it together, Peter Weed gave me heart, and Jayson Stringfellow gave me motivation to jump. My dear friend Jason Diller brought his incredible writing talents to this project and even lived with my family for more than a year as we refined the total work. The song about snowflakes was written by my friend and business partner John Higgins, and the song about the lumberjacks is an American folk song from the mid 1800’s.
Without doubt my stalwart business partner Dominick Salfi has been mentor, friend and champion from the beginning of this project in 2001 and has given over his law firm, Salfi Law, to the dedication of this endeavor. Gayle Hair has been my faithful cheerleader from the very beginning. My partner and CEO of KRS Media Group, Bill Findley, brought personal resources and then jumped into the trenches with us—his effort has been monumental. Marcia Findley’s faith and tremendous assistance made this book a reality. Pam Findley, outside of her constant support, has personally project managed the distribution of this book. Without her, this venture would have had little hope for success. My great love and thanks to them all. As well, I would like to thank Kennan Burch and all of my Dream Builder friends for stoking the fires of my dreams and for always showing up, including Mark Carbone for his social media expertise, Roy Reid for his public relations guidance, and Derric Johnson for his counsel.
I must thank my publisher, Dave Welday, owner of Higher Life Publishing, for his immediate dedication to the creation of this novel, my production manager, Marsha McCoy, for keeping us organized, my supervising editor, Alice Bass, for her love and expertise, and my copy editor, Kathryn DiBernardo, for her brilliant if sometimes brutal comments. Their truth and artistry can never be paid for. (The extraneous preposition is just for them.) My great appreciation goes to Doug Berger and Simon Jacobson for the “Kris” titling and Santa is Real website, my friend and colleague director of photography Elie Alakji for taking pictures in the Arctic cold, Kaye Hanna for her masterful calligraphy, and Dave Murray for the cover illustration. I should probably thank Doug twice for all the different versions of the story I made him listen to and for graphic designing most aspects of the project over the last eight years.
It is important that I not forget to thank my Norwegian friends, whom I miss dearly. Kjetil and his wife, Gunn, opened their home up to me and made me feel l
ike family. To their friends Mikal and Marianne, who introduced me to the living folk musical art form thriving in Norway today. Much thanks to Svein Anderson, who introduced me to his Sami relations. And maybe most of all to the Sami leader, Ole Mathis, who somehow got me up into the mountains of Lapland three hundred miles above the Arctic Circle and then brought me back out alive. He transformed the story completely by teaching me that elves and reindeer are real. He is Pel.
The goal of this project is to add a piece to the global legend of Santa, and it is hard to express the sheer hours and collaborative thought that it has taken—though the above list looks long, it is by far complete. To all who have walked this journey with me, I thank you for your belief and contribution to the cause.
Christmas is a time of joy, a time of hope, a time when we are just a little better and the world is a little brighter. As I write this, I realize there are two very important people whom I have forgotten to thank.
Santa, thank you for the gifts. Thank you for never really caring if I was naughty or nice, for inspiring my dreams and imagination, and for sharing your story with me. I will look for you in the eyes of children this Christmas season.
And to the Child whose birth has inspired the season, thank You for hope. God bless.
Here are more ways to keep the magic of Christmas alive…
Tell friends about this book on Facebook, Twitter, your blog, and other social networks.
Download the eBook edition of KRIS—The Legend Begins. It’s available through Kindle, Nook, iBookstore and other popular eBook download sites.
Order a deluxe hardbound edition of KRIS—The Legend Begins to share with friends and family.
We are working now on a fully illustrated children’s edition of the story, illustrated by Huaixiang Tan. To request a special premier edition, visit our website at www.santaisreal.com
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