Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

by Cody W Urban

  He raised his goblet of wine and took a swig as many men laughed, cheered each other, and sipped their wine after. Vasilis then cleared his throat. “Verily, the request has been bestowed upon me to treat you all to an utterance of the objectives within the Lycian regime. For the grandeur of Rome, entirely,” he added with a nod to the delegates. “I judge a novel prospect stands upon our borders. A splendid future is at our doorstep, where man shall achieve triumph upon Mother Nature. A terrain where we shall be the gods.” Indeed every eye was now fully focused on him and every ear attended his every word. Seldom did Vasilis make public appearances save the meetings of the Lycian League, and even then he would push his agenda, veto anything against his objectives, and keep rather silent. This was a rare opportunity to absorb the voice of Vasilis, lord of the land, and uncover what he envisioned. Yes, everyone was listening to him diligently. Even Nicholas.

  Generations ago, the League built the amphitheater into a hillside leaving the highest ledge around the hall only ten feet from the ground. There, a large plank had been left propped up to the high protrusion by a hired worker who used it to dress the streamers and festive decorations around the rim. It was that plank Nicholas used to trot Sleipnir up onto a ledge where he unleashed a surprise attack upon a guarding archer who too was so engrossed in Vasilis’ speech that he didn’t notice the sound of hooves trotting behind him. Nicholas gagged and bound the archer and then listened to Vasilis’ oration.

  “Regrettably, there exists a number of rogue dreamers who would stand against this destiny, who cling to decaying traditions and obsolete habits,” said Vasilis. “They fordo themselves in the pit of their ignorance. Though they sap the progressive chariot wheels, they will eventually burn as we transcend the Iron Age to an Age of Fire. They shall perish and burn in the flames; the conflagration we shall build to manufacture a glorious new age!”

  Nicholas had heard enough when he mounted Sleipnir. Vasilis came to a crescendo and added, “A glorious new epoch of human dominion over this world!”

  The guests erupted into a mighty ovation before Vasilis as he basked with smugness in the incoming laud. He looked around at those whom he had seduced through his speech, those whom he would gladly crush in his own schemes for true supremacy, until his eyes gazed up and saw a shadowy figure: the silhouette of Nicholas upon Sleipnir, perched on the rooftop rim that surrounded the court. In his silent wonder and gaping jaw, he drew a hush in the audience.

  “Who goes there? Show yourself!” Vasilis shouted and the assembly turned and followed his stare up toward the shadow. Nicholas trotted forward, illuminated by the torchlights, and upon sight of the dark red robe everyone gasped in shock.

  “You? The gift-giver?” Vasilis said in astonishment. “You were in prison many leagues from here!”

  “That was not I, Vasilis son of hubris!” Nicholas replied in a confident and indignant tone. Oh how he relished the moment to speak openly his wrath against this foe. Though a handful of other archers now pointed their arrows at him and awaited a simple signal from their master, he was not in the least afraid.

  Vasilis was not used to such insolence and any who came that close to defying him were usually never heard from again, so it was his initial reaction to wave at his archers. Just as he did and was a second from issuing the command to execute the intruder, Nicholas shouted out, “I address the audience. Know ye not of his foul deeds? The dark monsters that roam the land, stealing the younglings? He is in league with them!”

  “Archers! I tire of the mockery issued by this tomato-toned troublemaker!” Vasilis announced, sizzling with umbrage. Before he finished the command, Nicholas continued.

  “Coward. Would you refuse to hear me out to conceal your regimes? Why kill me unless you fear all would know the deeds wrought by your hands? That you have welcomed the Krampus to wreak anguish upon your people!”

  “Preposterous! There is no such thing as—“ Before he could finish, Nicholas hurled the head of a Krampus down upon the floor. It bounced and toppled over until it stopped inches from Vasilis’ feet. Everyone gasped, frozen in fear. Most present had been immune to the workings of the Krampus and thoroughly ignorant of the people’s plight against them. News was never allowed to spread about the missing children save by route of the bells, and only a small portion of the Lycian populace were components of that network. Others present, amazed at the sight of the dark fiendish beast’s head, were either coerced to silence by fear or money to turn a blind eye and deaf ear from any slight gossip of their presence.

  “This one I slaughtered en route to this gala. You cannot deny their existence; none of you can. Behold one of your creatures, Vasilis!” Elation brewed within Nicholas at the realization of his long awaited dreams to challenge his betrayer. He had pricked him many times by robbing him of his goods, seizing taxes he’d acquired, rescuing the enslaved children, and killing Krampus minions. But now it was time to depose him fully.

  “Only your folly does this prove!” Vasilis replied crossly.

  “The citizens of Lycia are awakening to your wickedness,” Nicholas declared. He then glanced at Orestes and saw how his eyes were locked upon him. “Your crimes shall come to the light. I would have you abdicate your rule!”

  The audience murmured in amazement. Vasilis looked back at the magistrates and saw their annoyed expressions and accusing stares at him and he grew furious. “No power have you here, you egregious rider! I am the one in command of archers who hold your existence at but fingertips gripping an arrow! And on my command...”

  Nicholas narrowed his eyes. With his skills he knew he could draw both an arrow and his bow and drive one through Vasilis’ heart before any of the other archers could release their bowstrings. But he knew he couldn’t slay Flavius and he couldn’t slay Vasilis. He would kill no one unless at utmost end of need. He was a peacemaker, as his Norse friends dubbed him, and he would bring peace in as peaceful a manner as possible. He would obey the yearnings and groaning of that repressed innermost voice, but he would not pacify his mission entirely. He would stand firm in opposition and would rise to the challenge. He knew of the one weakness and addiction Vasilis bore and before Vasilis ordered his execution Nicholas declared loudly, “A wager then!”

  Vasilis dropped his hand, ceasing his near order for the archers, and looked intrigued. “In what form, gift-giver?”

  Nicholas had toyed with this long shot of an idea and now the divine tributary of destiny had brought him no other choice but to try it. “Precisely that! You prey upon the children, and I give to them. Should I give a gift to each child in all of Myra in one day’s time, you shall step down!”

  Vasilis paused in thought. He looked around at all the eyes resting upon him and dared not threaten his posterity by backing from a challenge. He glanced over toward Orestes, an influential and strong-willed member of the League and saw him nod with narrowed eyes at him. “And should you fail?” Vasilis asked.

  “All that I am and have is yours,” Nicholas replied earnestly.

  “As much as I love a decent gamble,” Vasilis said, stalling for time to think, “I am still rather inclined to simply have you shot down now. To put an end to your impertinence and make an example of you to any fool who would dare harbor the notion of insurgence.”

  At that moment, when Vasilis raised his hand once more for the archers, Orestes stood tall and spoke powerfully. “I, likewise, enjoy a thrilling wager as well as a good race. Methinks Lord Vasilis ought humor this body, enter this contest, and behold the best man winning!”

  Just when Vasilis turned to give a threatening stare at Orestes, the other magistrate stood promptly and added, “Hear, hear! No Governor of Rome shows fear in the face of stakes, however high.”

  Vasilis attempted to secrete his annoyance as he tugged at his collar and his skin flushed. He complied with a heavy shrug. Then, glaring wrathfully at the rider, he said, “Intriguing. Though an alteration I have, not only the city of Myra, rather all the land of Lycia. From Dirmil
in the north to Apollonia in the south. From Fethiye in the west to Antalya in the east.”

  Nicholas's eyes widened in shock. Before he could argue, the magistrate, undoubtedly hopped up on wine, responded with, “Verily, ‘tis an excellent proposition. Many children granted gifts, and you will have a so-called revolutionary in your hand, Vasilis.”

  Vasilis grinned, starting to warm to the prospects all the more, and then continued amending, “And not a day, you have one night. Sunset to sunrise.” The drunken mass didn’t seem to heed much attention to this alteration of the terms, but Vasilis knew his Krampus traveled at night and would surely kill the rider as he went on his errand. He’d prefer feign the daring hero before their eyes now and kill the rider in an underhanded feat during their absence. “What night do you choose?” he asked.

  Nicholas pondered as quickly as his brain allowed until he thought of the perfect night. “The night of December twenty-fourth to the morning of December twenty-fifth,” he said.

  “Ah, The night before Sol Invictus! Splendid!” declared the magistrate. Nicholas knew this was the celebrated longest night of the year. When Emperor Elagabalus adopted the Persian god Mithras about a century before, he instituted the unconquered sun god into the Roman theological realm. The winter solstice was chosen to celebrate him because that night was the longest night and from that night on, days would lengthen, proving the unconquerable powers of the unconquered sun. It was a night many Roman peoples already gave gifts in celebration and it was the night Christians had often celebrated the birth of their Savior whom they called the unconquered Son of God. It would be a night of reckoning; the day Nicholas would achieve his dreams.

  “Another addition I add; to ensure validity of your quest, one piece of coal shall be placed at each home for each child. Leave one of your detestable trinkets and retrieve the coal. They will be counted, the gifts documented, to authenticate your accomplishment.”

  Nicholas listened to the amendments of his gamble silently, perceiving the cunning gambit played by Vasilis to place a Krampus-luring item at each destination he would reach. Everywhere he would venture they would be waiting for him, and every child would be in open danger. For the first time in Vasilis’ schemes had he himself found a way to place coal in every child’s home where before he would rely on his loathsome servants. Vasilis fought hard to contain a grin as he felt his enemy stupidly now opened a door of fate to manifest his scheme.

  “Very well?” asked the magistrate. “Do we have an accord?”

  “If you wish it, my liege,” replied Vasilis. “What say you, Rider? Dare you step up to this test?”

  Nicholas thought a moment with sweat beads of anxiety dripping under his red hood and then mustered up the courage to reply proudly, “Aye!” Nicholas then reared back on Sleipnir, looking mighty and threatening before the assembly, and then rode off in the night to prepare for the contest.

  7

  O you beneath life’s crushing load,

  Whose forms are bending low.

  Though his church wasn’t very far from the amphitheater, the ride back felt terribly long. Nicholas ached with anxious tension and foreseeable trepidation. His expectations were not met as he wished for now that the task at hand was impossibly daunting. But he had a chance; a moment where he could break through a cranny in Vasilis’ armor. He was not going to let this slip through his fingers without doing all he could to ensure a proper end. What gripped him in nervousness were the pressure, the responsibility, and the unfeasibility of the task before him. The whole thing was ridiculous, really. Giving gifts to every child in the land in one night and doing it as a means toward the downfall of a tyrant was nonetheless ludicrous, but it was his only hope.

  Truly he thought of how when his Savior died on a cross, the method of execution for murderers and thieves, to save the world, it was an act of absurdity. Yet as asinine as it seemed, it changed the world over and the faith was spreading and creating peace whence it flowed. If such a bizarre act could ransom the souls of mankind, then giving a gift to every child of a nation in one night was justifiably a similar method to implement harmony on earth and to inspire good will toward men. The problem was how intimidating the undertaking was, and this filled Nicholas’s gut with butterflies and his mind with a burning apprehensiveness. How could one man accomplish such a feat?

  The long ride home finally came to an end and all he wanted to do was fall asleep in his cot and hope that answers would come his way through the night, or at least with day break. But sight of the front door of his church broken down and deep crevices in the dirt past his doorstep kicked his heart into a panic. In an instant he hopped from Sleipnir and ran through the broken doorway to find an eerie trail of blood along the stone floor leading past the shattered rear pew. He followed it slowly, despite figuring whatever vandal had wreaked this upon his church had most likely gone, he wasn’t too sure he wouldn’t find a sinister fiend still lurking about waiting for another victim.

  With his hand upon his hilt he walked further in, following the trail of blood, finding more broken chairs and pews, looking at signs of a terrible struggle. After grabbing a lit oil lamp he ventured down the hall toward his back room and there found Bedros sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, holding his bleeding forehead.

  “Bedros!” Nicholas said, flinging back his hood and then kneeling beside his priest. “Bedros, are you all right?”

  Bedros opened his eyes in a painful delirium but came to his senses upon sight of Nicholas. “Bishop,” he whispered with wandering eyes. “I believed you were slain. When you did not return after they came in the night, I was sore afraid. They came, the sable beasts, they came and wrecked our church. They-”

  “Where is Matthias?” Nicholas asked, holding Bedros’s head in his hands to force his gaze to focus on him.

  “Gone to fetch medicine and bandages,” Bedros said, still lost from his concussion.

  “I shall fetch you herbs,” Nicholas said and just when he rose and looked toward his dark vacant room his gut sank like a stone in his bowels with a dreadful perception. “Bedros, where is Pete?”

  “The shady demons came and that was all they wanted. They wanted-“ Bedros tried to say.

  “Pete?” Nicholas shouted as he began to move about the church calling out for him. “Pete! Pete!” His world came crashing down upon him, his legs buckled, and just as he ran outside he fell to his knees and shouted toward the black heavens, “Pete! Where are you?”

  This was Nicholas now: Occupied with a goal of vengeance, thoroughly engaged in his quest, he now found himself bereft from deprivation of all whom he held dear. He began to doubt whether he belonged in this world or whether his existence in itself was either a mistake or the product for torment by some sadistic higher power. He fought against his destiny and lost Nysa, lost his place among the Elves, lost his life among the Romans, and was left for dead. He tried to sit back and flow down the stream of destiny, and he lost Lysander and now Pete as well.

  He never realized how much he neglected Pete until now. He was a handsome, young boy in desperate need of a loving, nurturing father-figure and he had chosen Nicholas. And in all his endeavors he disregarded Pete as one of his primary responsibilities. Nay, to be his guardian was a responsibility; to be his friend and mentor was a privilege. Pete was likely an element of Nicholas’s destiny and old habits were hard to break as he feared the trapping commitment of actually being his father, actually taking him under his wing, and actually loving him like a parent. He ignored him whenever the lad called him “father” for that very reason.

  Now, all he felt was that he would give anything, do anything, lose anything to have him back. To have Lysander back. To have Nysa, Kenalfon, his uncle, his parents, and anyone whom he loved and cared for in his company safe and sound. He would do all that he physically could to bring Vasilis to ruin, whether it killed him or not. He would rather have all his loved ones safe and secure, even the entire world, if he could ensure it by the
sacrifice of his life. And when he realized this personal truth, he knew it was time to get to work.

  Sitting in the light of a nearly spent candle, Nicholas slaved hard at crafting toys. They weren’t the most elegant playthings, but they were of some estimable quality. He had conceived the idea when his gift-giving enterprise had begun that a toy was in some way a better gift than coins or a loaf of bread, though he still gave those as well to those in need. Toys, simple items like a top, a yo-yo, a doll, or a carved horse, fox, rabbit, or other creature would give a child a sense of companionship even with inanimate objects. Play would psychologically develop a child’s social skills and communal understanding. It would instill a sense of hope, and maybe even love. But truly it gave them joy, and the smile of one child was like a virus. The laughter of one child could null the whimpers of several heartaches—and could spread and multiply joyfulness. It truly made the world a better place.

  But he had far too much work ahead of him to ponder juvenile jubilation. Even the forethought of the surmounting heap of toil before him was a daunting tower that reached the stars. He sewed a doll and the needle pricked his finger. “Argh! Forget it!” he growled and chucked the doll aside. It hit the wall and fell onto sleeping Juno, disturbing her. Juno hopped up and made a complaining noise at him in her roo-ing sort of way. Though he knew it wasn’t a growl of wrath, he needed some cathartic conversation desperately and released his anxiety upon her as if she had told him off. “What!?! Telling me I was a fool? This I know! How could one man accomplish this task? How one can do this is unattainable!” Nicholas stood and kicked his chair away in a huff. “How one man could lose his son?” he asked the ceiling, looking beyond it toward the heavens. It had been a day since he initiated the wager and found Pete had been abducted. Nicholas's eyes welled with tears once more, as they had been doing off and on since he returned to the church. He had to keep renewing his vow to do everything in his power and then he noticed a cross hanging on his wall. Yes, he was a bishop of the church, he taught religious ideals and preached to inspire the masses with hope, but he seldom spoke directly to God, and still hadn’t been able to pray. Since Flavius ran his blade through Nicholas about seven years before, Nicholas had only been able to utter the briefest most silent prayer one time and received the company of Juno and Sleipnir as his answer.