Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

  Before he knew it, he was over the lap of one of the earthen-clad figures mounted upon a horse, and they galloped off swiftly. Again, his mind drifted toward the madness of where his life had just turned. Was this a punishment for taking another’s life? If so, why weren’t all warriors suffering as he? Would he make it? Would he live? If he lived, where will he be? What would he do? How could he return to Nysa? Nysa…

  “Nysa…” he groaned.

  A kind hand gently stroked his hair as they bumped along atop the galloping horse. The soft touch sent warmth through his ailing body, and just as he spoke, he became very faint, very uncomfortable, and so utterly exhausted, and then, blackness.

  2

  Your dress wants to teach me something,

  Your hope and durability provide comfort and strength.

  Nicholas slowly opened his eyes and looked around befuddled at the wood carved chairs and table, large open windows, branches and leaves weaving art and frameworks. The walls, the ceiling, everything looked like branches had naturally grown to make a weatherproof structure. He enjoyed the novel sight for a moment until his memories came flooding back. His head was a bit groggy for it felt as though he slept a long duration in a dreamless sleep. Many dreams one can figure out are just the brain’s way of processing the events of the day. Now, Nicholas figured his dreamless slumber was a sign his mind dared not endeavor the daunting task of sorting out what had happened to him the day he fell into the black cold sleep. He struggled to rise up and winced in pain as he felt as though the blade was still in his chest. The thick wool blanket dropped from his torso and he hugged his chest, now wrapped in blood soaked bandages.

  “Those wounds will take time,” said the elderly voice. Nicholas looked up, startled, and saw a thin, yet chiseled man with long silver hair pulled back into a braid, adorned with a golden leaf fairly placed above his ear. He wore green and brown tones, a green tunic under a leather vest. His face looked a bit frail, weary from hours of watching, sitting by a window, caring over Nicholas for unknown reasons. He looked to be in the middle of carving a little wooden wolf, with a small penknife in one hand and wood shavings piled on the table. “I assure you, they will heal, just our magic works by the inner power of your spirit. We have the herbs, you need the will.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” Nicholas said, not paying much mind to the words spoken to him. “Do I know you?”

  “In time to come, yes. You will know me well, and I you. Foresight is not my gift, though I have a slight knack at it.” He looked out the window and spied a little sparrow building a nest. Lifting the wood shavings from the tabletop, he whistled at the bird a replica of the animal’s natural call that could deceive even the most cunning ears.

  “You… you’re the man who saved me?” Nicholas asked, struggling through the stiffness in his chest to push air from his lungs to speak. Although, just being awake, he could notice the pain departing, only subtly.

  “Mostly correct,” the elderly person replied as the sparrow flew through the open window and perched on the table. While the elderly person lifted the wood up to the sparrow, Nicholas observed with astonishment that the old man’s ears were leaf shaped! “Save, I am no man,” said the stranger.

  Nicholas stared in a perplexed gasp as the elderly fellow let the bird fly away with a beak full of wood shavings—new furnishings for it’s home. “Your ears... who are you?” Nicholas asked, afraid to sound rude, amazed at the display.

  He then smiled and rose to his full height, just over six feet, and responded warmly, “I am Kenalfon, son of Walorfon,” he said, casually walking forward, opening his arms in a manner to present himself, “archer and member of the high council of Alfheim, at your service.”

  Save for the hair on his head, he was cleanly shaven, a quality Nicholas took note of. Those whom his company has warred against were hairy, savage men. This person, Kenalfon, standing before him now, was nothing like a barbarian. “I have not heard of your realm, nor met someone with ears like yours.”

  “I should suspect not. Few men have,” said Kenalfon with a smirk. Then shifting to a darker tone, he elaborated, “and even fewer have lived to tell of it.” Nicholas’s heart sank. Why would this stranger mend him to murder him? Nicholas froze in fright when suddenly Kenalfon laughed. “I am kidding you, sir! As surely as it is better for the sun to rise, ‘tis better to laugh than cry.” He continued to chuckle as Nicholas conceived what had just happened and then smiled along with him.

  “Oh, I-“

  “We are a surreptitious folk that enjoy the lighter side of this world. Dancing, merriment, and humor,” he said, finishing his friendly chuckle. “Have ye not heard of angels?”

  Nicholas was taken aback yet again, rising in his bed, trying to comprehend this fellow. Surely, this was another poor attempt at a joke. “Angels? You say you are an angel?”

  Kenalfon didn’t laugh this time. In fact, his tone became more stern and his demeanor more authoritative. “We are angelic,” he said with an attitude to express that he was not mincing words; rather that he was absolutely serious in his elaboration. “A lower order of angels that dwell on Earth with the charge to muse, inspire and guide.” Nicholas still waited for the joke to expose itself. He expected Kenalfon to divulge a punch line; something that he could make sense of. Nicholas had been through far too much recently to take his spiritual understanding of the world and knock that upside down as well. Angels were invisible spirits in a plane of existence man couldn’t directly mingle with; an invisible realm. And to him, that was where they belonged—not revealing themselves to him in the guise of aged woodsmen.

  Kenalfon continued explaining to the dumbfounded patient on the bed, “I have been on this earth for thousands of years. My father, Walorfon, came to the world along with Gilgamesh in the years shortly after the Great Deluge. We have gone on to do many great things, always on the side of humanity, even if that meant to pose as the enemy of man to stir up their hearts and draw forth your greatest champions. All cultures have experienced us in some way. The Greeks calls us Nymphs. The Slavs call us the Vili. And the local Nordic folk call us Elves.”

  “Elves?” Nicholas sighed. Though he asked, it wasn’t really a question. In fact, Kenalfon’s tone left little room for doubt. Truly, they had the talent to mend his lethal wound and ears unseen on any man he had ever met, but it was the captivating genuineness of Kenalfon’s eyes and voice that gave his words their authenticity. Nicholas rubbed his chin, prickly from the shadow of a rising beard, in deliberation.

  “I must ask that you don’t stare at me too long and hard. I fear I must remind you of your manners, sir, to introduce yourself to me,” Kenalfon said, with authority in his voice, tenderness in his tone, and a smiling twinkle in his eyes.

  “Pray, forgive me,” Nicholas said. “I am Nicholas, son of Epiphaneos.”

  Kenalfon reached out his firm hand toward Nicholas, “Come with me, Nicholas.”

  Expecting to instantly fall after having been whisked out of bed, Nicholas was amazed at the strength he had already gained in such a short amount of time. He was supplied with a crutch, however, seeing how there was still much healing needed, and was then led outside.

  Once through the doorway, instantaneously, all five senses were struck overwhelmingly. His nostrils opened wide to carry in a sweet pine fragrance and the smell of unrecognizable cooking cuisines so aromatic as to awaken his appetite with immediacy. The scent was so strong he could taste it. His ears felt like they widened open as well to try to receive as much as possible of the soft song floating along the breeze, filling the atmosphere with such delight. Mingled with the melody were the sounds of laughter, giggles of children and the mirth of those older. After his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, he beheld a city in the trees.

  Alfheim was an organic society, a network built into the forest. Not quite built, however, more like grown, as though the architects of this macrobiotic municipality were master gardeners. Branches grew like byways between the trees and
the structures developed in their boughs. There were rope bridges and other earthenware and Elf-made items about, though they were rare. Decoratively placed above all doorways perched a little green mossy shrub. Nicholas would at some point later inquire of their nature to which Kenalfon would say very little, only just that they were “mistletoe; a ward against an evil I shall not speak of.”

  The Elven community bustled about adorned in leaves and forest tones, looking like extensions of the trees themselves. Children were at play. Adults congregated together telling humorous tales, or were at some task that they did not look to be laboring over. It wasn’t labor, it was life, and they sang their portion of the lively tune that filled the air like one united choir. In fact, this was Nicholas’s first taste of the harmony of the universe. The ever-dancing spirals from the large Milky Way to the tiniest organism moved together in a functioning unanimity that made life thrive.

  Nicholas gazed at the society with wonder as several citizens returned the fascination his direction through intrigued expressions and quirked eyebrows. “You, lad, are the first human being to step foot in our realm for a very long time,” Kenalfon explained in response to the inquisitive eyes pointed toward his guest. Kenalfon had waited for the spell to sink its way into Nicholas’s psyche before further elaborating on their civilization. “You will find, Nicholas, that we Elves are a simple folk that live in harmony with nature and prosper. A lifestyle I yearn that man would emulate. Indeed, if man would take our way of life, war would be a word of myth until long forgotten in the annals of history. This is community.”

  Nicholas watched with great interest in an Elf woman singing gaily with a choir of colorful birds perched upon a bough just over her head. This was a world of wonder and truly he wished it could be a lifestyle practiced around the earth. “You say you watch over us, then why is it ye are so hidden from mankind?”

  Kenalfon patted Nicholas’s shoulder to guide him along the bough byway. “Your artists, prophets, and poets have sighted us oft,” he said with some gravity in his tone of voice. “Yet, verily, it is man’s lust for power and thirst for war that drives us away. Alas, too many of us, like a moth to the candle, were so entreated by savage man with the intent to rescue them only to be crushed by despair, killed, or worse…” his voice trailed as he seemed to discover his digressing thoughts.

  “And all of you hide away here?” Nicholas persisted, truly intrigued by the concealed community.

  Kenalfon, to keep control over the topic, lead Nicholas to a spot where the Elven City Hall was visible and their mayor discussed matters with other citizens. “This is Mid Alfheim, ruled by Alaric,” Kenalfon said, motioning toward their mayor, a tall impressive Elf in bright green with a white sash. He had just finished an amusing anecdote and laughed with other Elves, and watched Nicholas out of the corner of his eye. Alaric looked at Nicholas unlike Kenalfon had, a quality of disdain was what he evoked. Nicholas suddenly felt like an intruder, even an invader there to undo the greatness of their country. Alaric looked away leaving Nicholas shaken.

  “South is Lesser Alfheim and to the north lay Greater Alfheim, home of Völundar, Elven King,” Kenalfon continued, not taking notice of Nicholas’s pause. He pressed upon his shoulder again to lead. “Come along. Alaric only doesn’t trust you so that everyone else doesn’t have to worry about it. The society can live in peace, and he will bear the burden of suspicion until a time when he knows for certain you are worthy.”

  “Worthy of what, pray tell?”

  “All in due time, lad,” he replied with an assertive nod and went on to lead his guest further. “Come along.”

  They passed by more Elves speaking in their enigmatic tongue walking on a wide bough and around a bend, past spruce trees that made up their hall and then they entered the grand square, the center of Mid Alfheim. It was a marvelous courtyard clearing in their forest village and in the center stood the tallest pine tree imaginable. It stood about twelve stories high and it was adorned in twinkling colors and glistening decorations. Using pulley systems for hoisting, Elves were raised up and suspended into the limbs and needles of the great tree to dress garland strands, beads of many colors, knick-knacks of majestic design, and large glass balls. This novel spectacle took several moments for Nicholas to survey.

  “What event do I gaze upon here?” he asked, marveling at the grandeur.

  Kenalfon again led him by touch onto a small wood platform hovering by cables and released a timber lever activating a system of counter-weights that easily lowered their stage down toward the forest floor. “This is the Grand Tannenbaum,” he said with an almost childlike delight. “It is a focal point for the Yule Festival which is only just over a month away.”

  “Yule festival?” Nicholas asked.

  Their platform had just arrived on the ground when a lovely blonde Elven girl, who looked not a day over eighteen years old, although ages were far too difficult to calculate, worked one of the pulley contraptions and greeted them from a distance. “Kenalfon! This must be the stranger ye spoke of,” she said absent-mindedly releasing her lever causing another Elf, hoisted up into the Tannenbaum, to drop.

  “Hoy! Nisse!” he shouted, annoyed and alarmed.

  Nisse caught the lever straightaway and the dangling Elf halted his fall. Nisse looked back up toward Kenalfon, and gave a shy smirk toward Nicholas and blushed. She then turned her attention toward the Elf hanging by the cables. “I beg your pardon, Tomte,” she shouted up to him. “You’re doing a mighty fine job!”

  “Hail, Nisse,” Kenalfon began. “You are all doing a mighty fine job. The Tannenbaum looks absolutely splendid. Oh, forgive me, this is Nicholas. The man we rescued, he’s from Greece.”

  Nicholas clutched his chest, growing tired from the exertion, but feigned polite manners. “Lycia, actually. Greetings – er – Nisse.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, dropping the lever and clasping Nicholas’s forearm. The spool released and Tomte dropped again and on his cry, both Kenalfon and Nisse clutched the handle and stopped him. Needless to say, Tomte turned flushed. “Oh, convict this contraption!”

  Tomte strained to adjust the harness, being in great discomfort from having his breeches hiked tight between his thighs. “Nisse, please!”

  Nisse turned right away and started reeling him back upward. To remove the tension of her double-blunder, she asked without thinking, “I presume you are the one to fulfill the prophecy?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Nicholas.

  “Has Kenalfon not told you?” Nisse asked just when Kenalfon stepped in.

  “To your work, Nisse,” he reproached. And then he held Nicholas’s arm to tug him along. “We leave you. Carry on.”

  “It was a pleasure, Nicholas!” Nisse called to them as they departed. She had never seen a human before. She had always heard stories of their ruthlessness, greed, and malice toward each other. But she also heard of the heroes of men. Those who have come to pass and others expected still. And she held a high naïve hope that Nicholas was the one they were waiting for. She sighed and leaned down again on the apparatus popping the handle lose, and Tomte dropped thirty feet, fortunately, into a thick mound of leaves.

  Tomte slapped the ground and kicked up the leaves in a heave of frustration. Nisse looked away to hide her laughing and went to wind the spool once more. She was a little embarrassed by her blunder, however, far more mentally occupied with thoughts and dreams of the stranger present in their quiet undisturbed land.

  Kenalfon still showed Nicholas around their town, while Nicholas’s mind lingered elsewhere. “There,” Kenalfon said pointing to a hut built into the roots of a thick tree trunk where smoke billowed through a small gap in the bark, “you shall find the finest baked goods in all Alfheim.”

  “What meant Nisse by ‘prophecy’?” Nicholas asked, not paying attention to his guided tour.

  Kenalfon sighed, stopped, and faced him with a look of gravity. “The Yule is a great Holy Day for us,” he explained, th
e gravity lessening and his childlike joy began to shine again. “With it we celebrate the birth; when the great Creator of all became incarnate as a man. That was when the universe was changed forever, when our Creator made a path for peace and love on this earth unlike ever before. ‘Tis a festival we have mused the locals into keeping, sadly their measly reverence has turned to gluttonous revelry.” The magnitude returned and Kenalfon looked up to the clouds. “Those whom we have given the Yule use it for drinking and carnal enjoyment, rather than for thanksgiving. I would that all mankind hold this celebration to remind themselves of a truth—that there is hope. And so, a prophecy, there is, that a man shall come and convey the Yule, a message of love, generosity, and selflessness, to the children of men.”

  “Nisse thinks that I am he?” Nicholas asked at first with shock. Then he bemused the notion with insincerity and asked, “Why the staid feeling about that? How big or small a task is it to tell others about a holiday?” Nicholas asked with a smirk.

  Kenalfon did not smile in return. He turned and straightened his back and began to recite the prophetic poem passed down for centuries:

  “Turtle doves flew on night of night,

  Lo, there a star shone in the sky.

  Herald of the coming king of might,

  Who beckoned all of creation nigh.

  The birth signals the storm to end.

  The warmth brought demise upon the cold,

  A spark of life into hearts to mend,

  As captives dreamed of in times of old.

  Peace of heart, only there to find,

  On shaken hill, the king did die.

  Tearful eyes watched with demons behind,

  Secret unthinkable, truly ‘twas a lie.

  As dawn broke forth, Majesty then rose,

  Surety of hidden root planted in quiet night.

  Forgotten endless candle still glows,

  ‘Till crimson-clad man lifts it to height.