Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

  Nicholas took the lead, smiling as though he’d already won, but Hákon rode up hard and kicked Nicholas, guiding him off the path, and causing Sleipnir to run up a butte. Hákon chuckled as he rode on toward the next turning point and back on a path toward the shore. He sprinted toward the finish line in the sand, closing in on it quickly, believing victory was sure. But Nicholas, riding his reindeer, vaulted through the air from a higher ridge—a sight Hákon and all spectators found hard to believe. Hákon stared up in wonder as the animal soared overhead and landed down upon the sand and took off rapidly. Sleipnir then pushed to his maximum speed, faster than any could ever expect, and they dashed across the finish line with Hákon far behind trotting through the risen dust.

  “Thus ends the race!” Ranveig announced. “The winner, Nicholas the Peacemaker!” The strange group of Northerners, who deeply loved a good competition more than acting dismayed for their defeated captain, burst forth an applause and boisterous cheer. Nicholas was taken aback by their laud, watching them in wondrous delight, as Hákon trotted up alongside him.

  “Well done, stranger,” Hákon said. “I can see why you wear mistletoe about your neck.”

  “Pardon?” Nicholas asked, thoroughly unsure how this ward against Krampus had dealings with racing.

  “In our lore the god Baldr was killed by mistletoe,” Hákon replied, turning his horse to lead Nicholas to trot with him. They now faced the ocean and for the first time, Nicholas took notice of their large ship a little way out at sea. “Truly you are powerful, even worthy of contest with the gods. Hákon Eriksson, I am,” he said, extending a friendly hand.

  Nicholas returned the greeting with an honorable clasping of forearms. He nodded and then caught sight of the young boy he had risked his neck to rescue and hopped off his reindeer and faced him, ready to meet him under open circumstances.

  “Never has anyone done so much for me,” the lad said and then gave a proprietary and grateful bow. “I am now indebted to you for life, Master.”

  Master? Nicholas didn’t expect this and paused, repulsed by the odious notion. “Your name, lad?”

  “They call me Zwarte Piet—Black Pete. Peter is my name, sir, at your service.” The youth refused to look Nicholas in the eye the whole time.

  This was Pete: His parents were enslaved when they were his age and lived in Roman provinces until a traveling merchant purchased them. Shrewdly, he noticed the girl was pregnant and figured this would pay off and he would end up with an extra slave. After Rupert was born, the slave woman became pregnant again, though her husband passed away from a plague before Pete was born, and so Pete never saw his father. The merchant also became gravely ill from the plague and so donated his slaves to his brother-in-law who was a sailor. The sailor found little profit from a pregnant slave and a five-year-old and sold them to a Norseman farmer who changed Rupert to Ruprecht according to his native tongue.

  Ruprecht’s mother passed away during the birth of her second child, and so Pete was born an orphan. Her last wish was for her oldest son to look after the little one, and asked that his name be Peter. When tough times befell the Norse farmer, he traded the young boys to Galfor, Hákon’s brother, husband of Ranveig. Galfor called the oldest boy Knecht Ruprecht, meaning “Farmhand Rupert,” and Peter, whom had been called Pete, Zwarte Piet, meaning “Black Pete.” It wasn’t long after Galfor was killed and Knecht Ruprecht escaped in the middle of the night, telling his younger brother he would one day rescue him, abandoning seven-year-old Pete.

  He was an orphan all his life; abandoned, unloved, and knew nothing other than thralldom, which is slavery. Though he had managed a bond with Ranveig, for in her darkest hours, he was always there, silent, like an angel watching over her, her heart became far too calloused and thirsty for vengeance. She never could be a mother to the boy she had little use of as an adolescent slave. So he was employed on Hákon’s vessel where he worked, ate, slept, and never had opportunity to develop social skills. He never knew love and never even knew how to dream of the illusive ideal of hope. Now a man who actually cared gave this silent lad his first taste of kindness, and it was a major turning point in his life. The day he met Nicholas was the day he learned the meaning of hope.

  “Well, Pete, look at me-“ Nicholas ordered, though through kindness he wanted to make himself clear through firmness. “Pete, no thanks are necessary. I hereby declare you free.”

  Pete glanced at him, beholden to Nicholas’s warm loving smile, one he had never seen shined upon him. Then, as he was wont, he looked back downward. “Sir, how kind you are to your servant. Now, without question, I belong to you.”

  “No man should belong to another as property,” Nicholas said sternly, indignant toward the idea rather than to the oppressed child. “Not ever is it right.”

  Pete looked back up at Nicholas, surprised at the smile growing on his face. This was the greatest favor he had found in anyone’s eyes, and after a lifetime of servitude, it was all he knew to belong to someone. “Then with this freedom you offer me, gracious Master, I freely choose to be your servant to repay you.”

  Nicholas was coming to understand this was a losing battle for the time being, and patted the youngster’s shoulder with a smile. He wasn’t about to condone his decision, but was going to acquiesce until the time was right to unlearn the servitude in his character.

  “Ugh. All the warm emotions put a foul stench in my nostrils,” Snorre grunted, having come up beside Hákon who was returning his warm furry cloak over his body.

  “Aye,” Hákon grunted in reply. “Let us shove off. There is a good wind and we may yet reach Quentavic by nightfall.”

  The crew gave “Aye’s” in reply and packed up their gear then headed toward their dinghy swaying on the shore. Nicholas came to the concept that these people had something to do with Tomte’s dream and instructions. “Men of the north,” he called to them. “I bid you one request. Is there room for me and my companions to join you?”

  “Ye would join my crew, under my command, to pay for your travel?” Hákon asked.

  “Aye. Whatever need be, gentle sir.”

  Hákon bellowed his laugh and replied, “So be it, Peacemaker. You can entertain me with tales of your days with the Elves.”

  After that, Nicholas turned to his two companions, Sleipnir and Juno, and offered them a last opportunity to return to their lives however they saw fit. Juno simply sat and panted waiting on her master’s directions and Sleipnir stepped forward and looked back at Nicholas as if to say, “What are you waiting for? Let’s shove off!” Nicholas could only smile in reply, patted both his pets, and walked along after the others. Thus, Nicholas began a new adventure in his life among the Nordic folks as an expeditionary.

  3

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen,

  Let nothing you dismay.

  The Norse knarr, which was their word for ships of their design, crashed through the waves. Inscribed on the side of the hull were the words The Dashing Dancer, which Hákon’s uncle had so adequately named her. Wind filled its sails and the Dancer moved steadily onward as the crew manned the ropes and oars while Hákon guided the rudder. Nicholas was reasonably accustomed to seafaring, though never as one of the crew, and he thoroughly enjoyed the open ocean, being able to see as far as the horizon permitted.

  He had learned previously that looking at the horizon helped against sea-sickness, for looking about made the body aware of its movement, while looking at the deck made it think it was still despite the rocking. And the ship did a great deal of rocking, for the design made for a very shallow keel and so the boat not only bobbed from the waves, it did a great deal of rolling about too. He tried as best he could to acclimate to the motion, and keeping his pets calm was an even harder task.

  “Peacemaker!” Snorre growled cantankerously, “Get ye your sea-legs, now! There is work to be done!” Nicholas needed to do what he could to redevelop his sea-legs quickly before his supervisor threw him overboard, and basking in the open fres
h air and watching the rolling waves not only refreshed his nausea, but made him nostalgic.

  Before his Roman career, his greatest expedition had been traveling from Lycia, south through the Mediterranean, to Alexandria, Egypt. His uncle had enrolled him into one of the earliest seminaries, and arguably the most prominent of the day, called the Catechetical School founded by Origen Adamantius. There, Nicholas was introduced into some of the many conflicts, discrepancies, and theological dilemmas an infant religion was bound to struggle with. Origen was instantly a hero to Nicholas, having been a priest whose parents were martyred by Roman religious repression and still found a way to maintain a passionate faith. Through no financial backing, he gained an education and found a magnanimous seminary. He too, like many pious people who went public with their spirituality, was killed by the Romans, only it took him a few years to succumb to fatal wounds inflicted through torture. Nicholas was fully engrossed by Origen’s teachings until he found out one discrepancy among believers: how to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. He had grown up honoring it with his parents in secret and then attending underground mass gatherings to celebrate the nativity, nevertheless Origen found it an insult to the immortal Christ to commemorate his birth like any other mortal man. It wasn’t long after that Nicholas ran across other theories Origen populated that seemed more like a hybrid of Plato’s and Aristotle’s philosophies combined with Christian theology. Nicholas began to lament doctrinal debates and it was there that a seed of doubt in his organized religion began to sprout. He clung to the religion that the Apostle Paul called perfect, “to look after orphans and widows in their distress,” and felt it was none other than his mission to help those in need and love his fellow man.

  How long ago those days seemed to him as the wind blew his hair back, and he gazed upon the open whale-road north of the land of Frisia among a strange folk going wherever the current of fate drew him. The blessed realm of earthbound angels was now behind him, but his passion for the Yule and the Nativity was now deeply engrained in him, and he felt lured to yield his will unto whatever higher power would guide him and to live as honestly and generously as he had been raised to. Rebelling against his innermost voice seemed to lead him only to trouble.

  Now that is not saying he was without trouble as an expeditionary. Though he seemed to make bonds with members of the crew, Hákon’s first mate Snorre certainly made it his mission to make Nicholas miserable. First, he resented the new passengers, particularly the one barking at the hard working crew. “Hoy, newcomer,” he snarled at Nicholas as he lashed down a rope to pull the canvass sail tight. “‘Tis far irregular to stow wolves aboard. Leash it abaft afore I toss ‘er overboard!”

  “Aye, sir,” he replied, annoyed at having his hands full with a chore and being ordered to tie down his pet. Nicholas grabbed Juno and pulled her away, though she didn’t much care for the manhandling. “Here, girl. Juno, come!” he ordered her as she put her tail to the deck and made it difficult to be dragged.

  After he tied her leash securely, she turned docile and licked his hand in a plea to be untied. “No, girl, that’s not going to work,” he told her with a smile having seen right through her sweet display to earn her freedom. He stepped away with her whimpering behind him and returning to where he left off and found Tryggr had finished the knot.

  “You do have a way with animals, Nicholas,” Tryggr said in a hushed manner. “Yet not a way with knots. Let not ‘Snorrible the Horrible’ see this or you may go a day hungry.”

  “I have sailed many a time, though never as a hand,” Nicholas explained.

  “Allow me to show you before Snorre or the Captain should mark it,” Tryggr said then untied the knot to demonstrate.

  “I am much obliged,” Nicholas replied warmly. Tryggr swiftly became a friend Nicholas could relate to—the others were just a bit too aggressive or brutal for his taste. He determined himself, somehow, to win Snorre’s fondness—without it he expected only an endlessly rough time at sea. Snorre typically portrayed the state a person exhibits when they are lifting something heavy, when adrenaline pumps, the voice growls, breathing shortens, skin enflames, and one feels easily irritated—and he was stuck in that mode all day, every day.

  When Nicholas swabbed the deck one day, Snorre would bark an order like, “Nicholas, go man the mooring line!” And to be fussy, when Nicholas would comply, Snorre would bark again, “Hoy, put away your bucket first!” Needless to say, Nicholas often felt defeated by this barbarian.

  His days were typical; they rose at first light and went straight to work. He heard many of their cultural idioms such as, “Wake early if ye want another man’s life or land. No lamb for the lazy wolf,” and, “No battle is won in bed.” So they woke up at the sliver of dawn and spent the day doing whatever chores were asked of him. As for spare time, he could seldom find solitude from Pete, who tagged behind him always. The knarr had no jib sail so when unfavorable winds met them, he was asked to row with the throng of sailors.

  Life amongst them made him long for the cuisine in Mid Alfheim dearly. Meat was seldom served, though it took Nicholas a while to stomach it due to being unaccustomed to animal protein for so long, and even then it was never roasted unless there was a special occasion, which rarely came. Meat was boiled with few spices, if any, often in sausage form. They called them “cauldron snakes,” and this dish was even considered a novelty. They ate heavy bread made from barley flour with a thick bowl of gruel on a regular basis, unless they could catch some fish. Oh, how his diet in the blessed realm was far more appealing. He rationed what was left of his Elven delicacies, though after a month traveling with the seafaring traders, those treats were long gone.

  One night he brought to the Captain’s table, where Hákon sat with Snorre, a hefty cauldron snake and slopped it down before Snorre. “Eh,” Snorre grunted grabbing Nicholas’s arm. “And who cooked this?”

  “The thrall, I’d presume,” Hákon said.

  “You mean Pete? Aye, ‘twas him,” Nicholas replied. Next thing he knew the steaming sausage was shoved inches from his nose.

  “‘Ere. Eat a bite so I know it shan't poison me!” Snorre ordered. Nicholas ate, chewed, and nodded pleasantly. Snorre gave an accusing sneer and then began to pull away the meat. “Lucky for both our sakes,” he said gruffly. To return the nasty manners, Nicholas bit off a bigger chunk and gobbled it down. Snorre sighed and pushed Nicholas away—his point was made. Snorre wasn’t going to receive as much to eat as long as he didn’t trust Nicholas.

  After finishing trades, they traveled north and stayed a while in the town of Jarrow. Nicholas, with the crew, was given quarters in an unremarkable wooden longhouse and little was expected of him for the duration of their stay. Just to amuse his fancy, one night he followed Hákon and Snorre to a meeting they had in a back room of a mead-hall. There they discussed matters with other Norse ship-captains, and there was little Nicholas could make out. He could only comprehend topics about the Roman Empire blocking their trading, slowing their expansion, and of their kin fighting down south to hold back invasion. The meeting then quickly turned to nonsense as the mass consumption of mead brought only drunken stupor and slurred words.

  A few days after, they sailed north to a greater gathering of similar looking knars berthed at the Shetland Islands. There, again Nicholas was kept from attending their secret meeting and was expected to remain with the drunken crew. Nicholas sat as an outside observer watching the sailors dancing and singing and shortly after, fighting, in the fire-lit mead-hall. These halls were commonplace wherever they traveled, and the drunken debauchery went with them.

  The morning after, Nicholas was the most alert and clear-headed sailor, as he really didn’t partake of more than one stein ever. He joined the groggy crew in loading a great quantity of items wrapped in skins into the knarr. After setting down his third load, Nicholas’s curiosity got the better of him. After glancing back and seeing the only people nearby were nursing their aching heads, he peaked and examine
d what he had been hauling. Inside he found it was a plethora of staves, spears, axes, maces, and armor. The sight shocked him.

  Tryggr and Alkir, another sailor, set down their heavy load, and Tryggr noticed Nicholas inspecting the armaments. “What are you up to, mate?”

  “I once was a quartermaster, so I am taking stock of the weapons. What exactly is it you all do out here that you need such weaponry?” Nicholas asked.

  Tryggr and Alkir simply shrugged, “We explore new territories, undiscovered countries, and trade with what can be traded with,” Alkir replied.

  “We expand not only our economy, yet our border also,” Hákon said as he appeared proudly and looked Nicholas in the eye.

  “Then I must ask, how can you expand against iron with bronze? Rome is an ever-enlarging mass. One cannot simply undo their growth with so few. And what funds such expeditions?” Suddenly, for the first time he allowed it, his mind opened to scrutinize his companions’ credibility. “I continue to ask for little income have I seen through your trading route.”

  “That, Peacemaker, may be a task you are bound to dislike. Yet our enemy has left us one option,” Hákon said. “We will raid them. Little by little, through planned attacks, our people will wear them down and reclaim our borders.”

  “Raiding? This is what you turn to? Piracy?”

  “Aye, Nicholas,” Hákon replied, standing more erect, emphasizing his authority. “To reclaim that which is rightly ours.”

  Nicholas had only recently reasoned to live by the principles he was raised by, to listen to his innermost voice as best he could, and that voice was shouting an alarm and waving a flag. If Kenalfon were alive, he’d die just seeing his pupil fraternizing with pirates. “I will have no hand in pillaging.”