Bishop's Fruit, Or The Last Temptation of Santa
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Rome?”
“Does not our Father take care of the sparrow? He also will feed and clothe the beggars, as he will the orphans and the slaves.”
“Of course he will. He’ll watch them be mocked, scorned, beaten, whipped and defiled unless you do something about it.”
A flush rose in our Bishop’s cheeks.
“Damn you and your blasphemy!”
He turned and marched toward home. He might still claim a few hours sleep in an almost warm bed before Christmas Mass. He glanced to see if he was followed, but the street was empty.
“Did you know at this very moment we are the only two in all of Myra awake?”
The Bishop stopped short; his staff failed him and he put out his hands, scraping back the skin of his palms on the uneven street. How had the boy gotten in front of him?
“Does it make you mad that no one else loses sleep to make this world a better place? Does it make you mad that none of your merchants could spare a mina for Alexandros’ daughters? Or your fishermen even a sardine for the hungry sleeping in the street?”
Our Bishop pushed himself to his feet and nursed his palms.
“It is not my concern,” he said. “I can only account for my own actions.”
“Do you not preach what you practice? Does no one of Myra have ears? Have you such little influence on the good men of this town?”
Our Bishop lowered his head and stepped around the child.
“No one listens to exhortations,” the boy said. “They must be given a model—a symbol—of virtue.”
“We have a symbol. He is Christ the Lord, who died upon the cross of suffering to atone for our sins. And if we hope to be great in his kingdom we should be like him, not seeking vain glory in this life.”
“And look how well your flock follows him. They hoard wealth for themselves. They keep food from the hungry, clothes from the cold, and patience from the slow. Your Christ is not symbol enough. But if you, this moment, say that you forsake your God for me, I will rouse all the good men in this city and in your name, we’ll throw open all of Myra’s cupboards and shake out all of her purses and give and share until all have had enough and all are truly brothers.”
“If? If I forsake God? If I bow down? God can do all that you propose and more without such a contingency.”
“But he won’t.”
Our Bishop paused to eye the child whose chin was streaked with dust and pulp.
“I’m going home,” our Bishop said.
“Aren’t you forgetting your beggar?”
“I’ll see to him in the morning.”
“Suit yourself.”
The child tossed something to our Bishop who before catching knew it was the golden orange.
“Call me if you change your mind. Dawn breaks in nigh two hours.”
Before our Bishop could throw the talisman back, the child was gone. Stuck with the weight of his future in his palm, what troubled the cleric was that he could not bring himself to discard it. In the fruit’s transfixing mirror appeared a scale to weigh good deeds and bad. The vision tipped against him. I suppose he wondered if the good which might be done in his name would be counted for him. But that’s only a guess. Nobody knows for sure.
They found his body in the morning facedown in the street. The thinnest dusting of snow shimmered over him.
“What was he doing out here?” the crowd said. “He should have been home in bed.”
Someone pried the golden fruit from his fingers and compared it to the withered ones in his satchel.
“A miracle!”
Alexandros the glass blower bounded up.
“He saved my daughters from lives of despair!”
“He’s a saint for sure!”
“Our very own saint!”
“But what was he doing in the middle of the street?”
“I’ll bet he was going to give it to a beggar.”
“You can’t feed gold to a beggar.”
“It wasn’t gold until he died. Everyone knows that. The moment he died, the orange turned to gold because his soul was so pure.”
“No, no. The orange was already gold. He was headed to buy clothes for all the orphans with it.”
“At night? Where was he going to buy clothes in the middle of the night?”
“I know,” said a voice which sounded very much like a child’s. “He was headed to the harbor to redeem the slave girls bound for Rome.”
The idea romanced the crowd and spread in whispers. No one knew who spoke it first as everyone claimed to hear it third- or fourth-hand, but all swore to its truth.
“Yes,” the crowd said. “That sounds just like him.”
Someone sent a boy off to have the gold appraised in the hopes of carrying out their Bishop’s final good deed. But before the boy returned, another whisper spread: “What about our Bishop’s honor? He deserves to be remembered with dignity.”
And so by the time high tide swept a certain ship out to sea, the crowd was headed to the basilica to draw up plans for a statue of the Saint using a single golden orange as funding. Of course, they had to avert their eyes from the naked children who ran up and down the streets to keep warm. And arriving at the basilica, they had to step over a certain dead beggar in the doorway.
You can journey to Myra today and see the statue for yourself, but I doubt you’ll recognize him. Our Bishop gained a bit of weight in his remembering. He wears a red, fur-lined suit and reminds all the boys and girls to be good and nice or they won’t get toys. So, you’d better watch out.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Schnake lives and writes in Lincoln, Nebraska. Although stories had a bad habit of interrupting his life and possessing his pen, he didn’t write in earnest until a bout of seizures in his early twenties caused him to reexamine his priorities. Now he devotes as much time as he is able to his writing and hopes soon to make it a full-time occupation.
He believes that stories should surprise and move. Language should be precise and clean and images should evoke and provoke. He believes that happy endings are not always the best endings, and that sometimes a great story dissatisfies.
When not writing (or drinking coffee) Mr. Schnake enjoys stargazing and watching the Food Network.
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