Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

  “And you think this be my destiny?”

  “What do I know of destiny? Though we all see it and call ye The Peacemaker. I perceive it deep down that peace is what you shall bring folks wherever ye roam. Yet, until that day comes, I am inclined to think ye must face these demons first.”

  “Thank you, Lord Hákon.”

  “Though if I have due cause to believe our raid is alerted, I shall hold back no longer and ye shall find yourself on your own. After departing alone under cover of night, ye have one hour before we strike.”

  2

  Silent night, holy night,

  Shepherds quake at the sight.

  Nicholas climbed the cliff side, battling the wind, thrusting upward with all his might. Below he could hear waves crashing against the rocks where he knew several Norse ships sailed a bit further south toward a civilian wharf where they would launch their attack. Nicholas didn’t have long before Hákon would strike, and this climb was tedious and tiresome. The cliff was just on the eastern side of the Roman fortress that loomed up above Nicholas and he hoped it was the angle least watched by guards.

  His hand clutched a stone that gave way and he, before he could grab something sturdy, felt sure he was about to fall back and plummet to his doom. His heart immediately seized as his muscles stiffened, when unexpectedly his coat was snatched by an unseen hand and his boots found their traction again. His thoughts raced at first, either he was saved by some Roman scout only to be shackled or a guardian angel was sent to spare his life. After looking around he found neither—it was Pete clinging to the rocks beside him.

  “I have you!” Pete called out. Nicholas grabbed hold of the rocky cliff and caught his breath.

  “Pete? Never have I been as glad to see you,” Nicholas gasped, gathering breath and poise. “What are you here for?”

  “I owe you my life, a bond I will not dishonorably release,” Pete explained. “I followed up the mountainside in hopes to help you. And help you, I did!”

  “Thank you, but I must tell you to go back. It will be far too dangerous where I am bound.” Nicholas then spied the choppy seas below and could not find any sight of their knarr. “Never you mind, Pete. The Dashing Dancer is already far away. Come with me, but stay close and silent.” As he scaled further up, he figured his last statement was redundant; Pete was always close as clothing and silent as snow.

  When they came to a little precipice, they could see the moonlight gleam off Roman helms above where guards kept their vigil. By Providence, as Nicholas figured, after examining their surroundings they found a sewage drain close by. “Pete, my lad, I hope ye have a poor sense of smell,” Nicholas said as they went in through the slimy culvert.

  After traipsing through muck, they came under a metal grate just beneath some passing guards. “Come along,” said one. “The General wishes to have words with you.”

  Creeping in the malodorous shadows, they followed below the two soldiers until a bend in the pipe-way allowed them to track the Roman no further. They headed down until they reached another grate and climbed up and into a stable. They found the stableman fast asleep and Nicholas and Pete took buckets of water from a trough and washed the grime from their boots figuring the stench would certainly put an end to their stealth. Nicholas crept along dark corridors with Pete close behind, peering around corners for any oncoming guards. They hid in the gloominess as a soldier walked by and before they could continue, another passed. They were unnoticed, but found progress was far too slow and hampered by the large number of guards.

  He scanned around, noticing out of the corner of his eye Pete watching him, waiting for his instruction. Next, he saw a tilted wagon. He propped an end up with a bale of hay to make sure as he climbed it the wagon wouldn’t tilt to the other side. Then he directed Pete to climb the wagon up onto the top of the stable and once he was up, Nicholas followed. From there he was able to scale the rooftops of the inner court until he made his way to a citadel decorated with Roman standards and banners. They ran along the edge of a rooftop and dropped down onto a balcony planning to sneak inside, but there Nicholas caught sight of another balcony on a further citadel. It was there, in the instant his eyes focused, he perceived what he beheld: the one man he searched for standing under the light of burning oil-lamps.

  Instantly he crouched down and pulled Pete beside him. “What is the matter?” Pete asked in surprised bewilderment.

  Nicholas breathed a sigh, wiped his brow, sweating under his heavy hood, and said, “By Providence, he stands just yonder. Behold ever quietly without being noticed.”

  Pete looked up slowly and peered out and after a brief moment he told Nicholas, “I see him.”

  Having imagined many possibilities of finding Flavius, this was actually one of them, and his hands pulled an arrow from his quiver without thinking. As he readied his bow, his hands began to shake. The magnitude of the deed at hand overwhelmed his mind.

  “Sir, ye tremble?” Pete noted having never seen his hero in such a distraught state before. Nicholas felt beleaguered. He had imagined it over and over and now that the opportunity had arrived, he did not feel ready. Once he respected the man he was about to kill. Once he had admired him. And in one fell stroke, this man stole Nicholas’s life and future from him. He vowed he would never take a life save for Flavius and Vasilis, and now face to face with the opportunity, he wasn’t sure that was even justified in the complex moral systems of his mind. It wasn’t in his upbringing, not in his character, and it wasn’t something he felt he could do. “Be still this silent night,” Pete whispered. “The moon shines bright to light your target, do not miss your chance. Nicholas, ye can do it!”

  Nicholas nodded, rose to his knees, bringing the arrowhead just above the rim of the balcony and pulled back on the cord. He still quaked uncontrollably as he aimed at Flavius who leaned on the ledge beside candles fluttering in the breeze, looking burdened. Nicholas wavered. He was allowing his body to make the decision for him, and it was holding still, awaiting the order of his brain. A gust blew his hood from his head. He donned a gaze of determination, but his fear gushed up from within. At that moment he pondered that by ridding the world of this criminal he was rescuing any other who might fall stabbed from behind by his hand. He was about to do it, about to release the arrow, the cord would snap forward, the arrow would shoot through the air, and would strike the foe dead. All it took now to achieve his vengeance would be to release that cord, and he was ready to do it. But just then, a young messenger boy popped out from behind a curtain and called to Flavius.

  “Raiders, m’lord!” he shouted, and Nicholas froze. “Scouts have sighted pirates on nigh!”

  “They have come. Sound the horn!” And with that Flavius departed through the curtain and Nicholas missed the chance. He wanted to launch that cursed arrow up at the night sky hoping to send all his frustrations along with it. But he sulked and crumbled down beside Pete, ignoring his gaze for the moment, as the alarm horn blared in the distance. Shortly after, a great commotion could be heard as soldiers hopped into action to make war with the invading forces. A great disturbance shattered the soundless night, a swell of commotion and violence, and during it all, Nicholas felt like a sack of potatoes and wanted to simply brood over what he did not do.

  3

  Glories stream from heaven afar,

  Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!

  It wasn’t hard for Nicholas and Pete to meander their way out of the fortress amid the clamor. The crew of The Prancing Comet placed a few catapults on the beach and lobbed boulders upon the Roman towers while others attacked from multiple points in planned strikes. As the Romans engaged them, they paid little mind to the fellow in the red cloak and the young African boy at his side who neither gave pretence of friend or foe, and their hands were filled with foes.

  As they proceeded, Nicholas couldn’t shake the feeling that Kenalfon was watching from the heavens above rejoicing that Nicholas stayed his hand from killing Flavius. Although Nicholas felt de
jected by his failure, the notion haunted him that, somehow, he had passed a test. That by letting Flavius go it was no longer time for waiting, it was time to move on with his life. It was a peculiar sensation and he disregarded it as best he could and just trudged along.

  Just on the outskirts of the stronghold, where another barrack stood, they found Hákon and a gathering of his crew where they planned their ambush on the sleeping soldiers just as they were to rush from their slumber to join the battle. The Northerners were now trying to get in through the locked door as Nicholas, with a glum expression, marched right up to Hákon.

  “Hail, Nicholas,” he said with his standard glee. “Does the Empire have one less general?”

  Nicholas dropped his head and shook it. In the distance high above there was a catastrophic explosion as one of the catapulted boulders struck a wooden structure and knocked torches about setting it ablaze. Nicholas didn’t seem to notice the tremendous outbursts; his troubled thoughts becoming palpable to Hákon. Nicholas was on the verge of explaining when Snorre crashed out through a window and landed prostrate, heaving and grunting.

  “Snorre?” Ranveig gasped and readied herself to charge.

  “Argh! An ill-tempered soldier dwells therein,” Snorre grunted as he tried to stand up.

  Ranveig, Baldrick, and others began to march toward the window when a voice, familiar to Nicholas, shouted out from the darkness within, “Bring forth your attack, I fear ye not! For by the setting of the sun, all that matters is how ye have fought for right!”

  This was a phrase he hadn’t heard in more than half a decade, and it brought back a flood of memories. The only person he ever heard utter that saying, who had a matching voice from his past, was none other than Lysander. “Wait!”

  “Have at, ye!” Ranveig shouted and just when she charged Nicholas was in her way.

  “Wait! Please, halt your charge!” he protested. Then Nicholas peered into the shadows and asked, “Lysander? Is that Lysander in there?”

  At first there was only silence in reply and then soft footsteps approached them timidly. “Er-uh-aye?”

  This thrilled Nicholas more than the firework show in Mid Alfheim to hear the voice of his old chum. “Come out, Lysander and greet an old friend!”

  “I shant fall for your devilry!” cried the veiled voice.

  “Come forth and no harm shall come to you. Ye have my word, Lysander.”

  “How comes ye to know my name?” he asked as his gray figure formed in the shadows while he cautiously approached.

  “It is known to a ghost of your past, an old Quartermaster.” Then Lysander revealed himself and looked with wonder into the eyes of the red-suited, bearded man who looked at him lovingly. Lysander was dressed in wool, had a stubbly chin, and looked like he had aged more than six years and it melted his heart instantly at sight of Nicholas.

  “Nicholas?” he asked softly. Nicholas could only laugh in reply. “Nicholas, it is you!” The sight of each man to the other brought both men an unexpectedly deep enjoyment. As Nicholas had felt a heavy defeat by not finishing the task he set out for, Lysander had been wrestling depression for the past six years. It was an ailment he suffered the affliction of since Nicholas’s presumed death and it was instantly remedied the moment the two hugged, confirming to him that this was not some ethereal specter formed from his memories.

  Lysander pulled back from the embrace and looked Nicholas over. Too manly to cry, but he was as close to it as he had ever allowed himself to be. “What a vision you are for this disheartened fool. You are hardly recognizable with that beard!”

  A great tumult of soldiers rung out and the clamoring of armor and jangling of chains overpowered their warm reunion when Tryggr, with the running warriors, hobbled in panic toward Hákon. Many of the warriors took off into the night, out of sight, back to their respective ships. “Captain, m’lord,” Tryggr gasped out, heavily out of breath. “Their forces out match our own fifty to one! A chest of gold we seized, armor and wine to boot, and now we must make a retreat!”

  Hákon looked at his wounded fighter and then toward the many others, most shouldering the burdens of the incapacitated, and felt grieved to recoil so quickly. However, he trusted Tryggr, his companion, and replied, “Aye! Make haste, you lot! To the knarr!”

  The horde of invaders fled swiftly toward the wharf with the Roman army pressed upon their heels. Nicholas grabbed Lysander by the arm and lured him through the trees down the slope, and for a while Lysander complied until his mind caught up with him. “Wait a moment, Nicholas!”

  “There is no time, my friend. We will be overrun!”

  Then, as Lysander stammered for words, Nicholas considered the Roman garments Lysander wore and realized the conflict in which he had placed his friend. “You work with the barbarians now—that much is clear,” Lysander noted. “For you to dwell among boors is explicable, yet I am no deserter, there is no honor in it for me!”

  “Honor? You dare accuse me of dishonor?” Just outside the brush where Nicholas and Lysander hid, a band of Norse fighters stood their ground to make time for the slower moving wounded ones and fought against a small squad of soldiers. It bought Nicholas a minute more with Lysander and he was sure to use it. “I was betrayed, Lysander! If not by a miracle, I would be a corpse floating down the Danube! You must know that an Empire that enslaves mankind, oppresses its citizens, and has leaders rise to power through murder has no honor in it. I depart this moment, and you have a choice.”

  “I have feared that Flavius was your undoing,” Lysander spoke lowering his gaze. Nicholas grew all the more tense as the battle that took place outside of their concealing thicket was in the Roman favor and his comrades couldn’t hold them at bay for long, but he wanted to hear what Lysander had to say. “That knowledge has shackled my heart for years. Seeing you now, well, ‘tis like seeing the light of day after vacating a dark prison.”

  Nicholas stepped to move, perceiving peripherally that his allies were now finished with their skirmish and were fleeing the raining arrows and spears. Time was short and the two men looked each other in the eyes. To leave would break a bond and oath he had made, one not easily broken nor forgiven for breaking. It was a tremendous request Nicholas was making, and as they shared that moment, he was feeling that this would be the last they saw of each other for possibly another six years or even more.

  4

  Radiant beams from thy holy face,

  Bid the dawn of redeeming grace.

  The Norse invaders fled to their ships and took off into the cover of darkness, each going separate directions as had been predetermined, and kept no torches lit outside of the cabins. They knew the Roman Navy would pursue and Hákon was aware of some very concealing coves down near Frisia while other captains took to the Shetlands or elsewhere.

  In the cabin where the men bunked, the tired warriors rested and mended each other as a select few manned the sail and oars to speed them away to safety. Ranveig and Hákon worked at removing the arrow tip in Tryggr’s back as Tyrggr growled fighting the pain. Pete bandaged an injured man’s leg as Nicholas had taught him. While everyone either worked to mend the wounded or worked to row away from the Romans, Nicholas consoled Lysander for making the decision to join them and rid himself of the Roman Empire.

  “Peacemaker!” Hákon shouted, particularly not his usual jovial self, “Speak with your past friend later! We have warriors in need here! Come hither and aid us, anon!”

  Nicholas rushed into the cabin and first administered the needed herbs to his companions and then fed a cup of water to a wounded man and moved to another while Lysander followed him about. Interrogating eyes spied Lysander with intrigue, yet none said a word of their new passenger, for Nicholas had welcomed him, and while not much, it was enough to satiate their brewing curiosities.

  Lysander felt as though he should mourn over the broken oath in betraying the Empire, yet he experienced inexplicable happiness. “Nicholas, ‘tis great tidings to find ye alive,” he conf
essed, unable to contain his excitement in this new adventure. Long had he doubted the integrity of the powers-that-be ever since Nicholas’s mysterious death, but he was too worried about his honor and prestige to do anything about it. Now he became a rebel, and he was thrilled. Actually, he hoped to save face by expecting that the Romans might simply consider him killed during the raid. Now his dead friend was alive, and there was joy for the first time in years. “None save your Uncle held belief of your survival.”

  “And of my Uncle? How is he?” Nicholas asked while rubbing a green paste into a gash on a sailor’s arm.

  Nicholas’s inquiry unplugged that euphoria Lysander experienced in an instant. How could he have set himself up for this one? “Dear, Nicholas,” Lysander pushed the words out of his mouth and felt as though he had just sunk his teeth into moldy bread. “He has passed away.”

  Nicholas stood, shocked, and shut his eyes. It had been so long, his uncle was of a good age, and so this was a possibility that had popped into his mind from time to time, only Nicholas immediately put it away as inconceivable. Now he had to conceive it, and accept it. Tears filled his eyes, but he was able to control his emotion. This was terrible news, but he was strong—much stronger now at covering anguish.

  Fortunately for Nicholas, Lysander broke the silence with news that allowed Nicholas to focus his mind from grief. “Yet not without leaving a message for you,” Lysander said. “’Tell Nicholas,’ he said. ‘To go where his father took him and his brothers to learn how to pray and there his inheritance he shall find.’”

  This was peculiar to Nicholas and only annoyed him with sour memories. “My inheritance he gave away to the poor.”

  “Nay. He had hoped you would donate it when you came of age and thus kept it hidden!” Lysander explained.

  “You know this for sure?” Nicholas asked, turning and facing him sincerely.