Nicholas- the Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus Read online

  N I C H O L A S

  The Fantastic Origin of Santa Claus

  Cody W Urban

  Copyright © 2011 Cody W Urban

  KINDLE ISBN: 9781614345664

  PRINT ISBN: 9781614344865

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Published in the United States by Booklocker.com, Inc., 2011

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are fictitious stories of historical figures.

  www.NicholastheNovel.com

  Edited by Heather Urban, First Edition

  Foreword

  Do you believe in destiny? I do. Not in the fatalistic sense that one is unable to control the events of his or her life, but that every one of us has a purpose or calling. I think of it as a “prime destiny.” With the idea of ‘free will’ added to the equation, these two forces culminate into our ultimate destiny. We may choose to live toward our “prime destiny,” or not. I believe that deep inside, each of us have at least an inkling what that future identity may be, but sadly we are often held back by fear. Fear not only restrains many of us from doing great things and meeting great people, but also from being a great person ourselves.

  All my life I have been interested in extraordinary people, characters both fictional and non-fictional, the men and women known for their great identities who lived out the potential of their “prime destiny.” Actually what intrigued me most about them are the ‘foreshadowing elements’ that led these fascinating folks into their destiny.

  As a storyteller, I enjoy watching that foreshadowing as it takes place in movies and books. When Chancellor Palpatine tells nine-year-old Anakin Skywalker that he will watch his career with great interest in Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, he unmistakably foreshadows their relationship in the future as the unforgettable characters of The Emperor and Darth Vader. When the crew of the Black Pearl float past the lost souls in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End and Tia Dalma says to Will Turner, “a touch of destiny,” she foreshadows the fact that Will Turner will later be the Captain of the Flying Dutchman with the charge of ferrying those lost souls to the next world. These are a few examples of foreshadowing from popular works but the list is endless.

  The idea of foreshadowing permeates creative fiction but the concept was borrowed from what actually happens in the lives of famous people … and even you and me. Meaning if an individual chooses to react differently to the circumstances of their life, they might not have attained their “Prime Destiny.” I find it intriguing to examine a character, especially an immortalized legend, and question, “what foreshadowing events, circumstances, and relationships led this person to step into the shoes of their identity?”

  We all have heard of Santa Claus; we’ve seen him in advertisements, movies, television, books and music. I’d wager that ninety-nine out of one-hundred American people have heard the classic jingle, “up on a house top click click click, down through the chimney came Old Saint Nick.” And that’s where my journey began. “Who is Saint Nick?” I believe that legends and fables, songs and poems, and literature don’t annually laud and mention someone so repeatedly, to the point of annoyance for some, unless there was something real about him. While I was sure that American commercialism had twisted and tainted the genuine saint over time, I theorized that behind the tinsel curtain lay important truths. Starting simply with a Wikipedia search for “Santa Claus,” I ventured down a pathway of discovery to ascertain the real man under the scarlet mantle—perhaps a man worth believing in—a Santa who didn’t merely give toys to good little girls and boys out of yearly expectancy. I discovered something exceedingly evocative—a hero.

  I believe that real heroes are not those who seek glory, but seek good. Few people exemplify this better than the man who, during a time of turmoil and persecution, surreptitiously went disguised at night, shrouded in darkness, to right wrongs, do great deeds, fight evil, and protect the innocent. You may recall that the foreshadowing events that lead Bruce Wayne to rise up as the Dark Knight and strike terror into the heart of evil occurred when wicked men made him an orphan. Interestingly, history shows similar events happened to Santa Claus in the late third century, which is one reason I consider Saint Nicholas the “Batman of 300 A.D.”

  What events would drive a man to take a stand against the oppression of his day, disguise himself at night to selflessly and courageously work such good deeds without attracting any credit to himself? What seemingly innocuous details of his life were ‘foreshadowing events’ that culminated in forming the immortal legend? Why does Santa in our day come packaged in a red suit along with Christmas trees, bells, reindeer, elves, toys and coal? Why was Saint Nick the patron saint of children, archers, and sailors? These questions drew me to research the Roman Empire, the Vikings and the land of Lycia. Hidden among the beginning origins of many of today’s Christmas traditions, I discovered the origins of Santa Claus, the daring valiant warrior who became Saint Nicholas of Myra. Now it is your turn to find, and perhaps believe once again in the man who hid his identity under a red cloak with white trim—the real Santa Claus.

  Chapter One

  Do You Hear What I Hear?

  Said the night wind to the little lamb,

  “Do you hear what I hear?”

  Cold, steel-blue shafts of light broke through the dappled pine needles to shine down on the gleaming hilt of a polished Roman sword. The foil stood upright in the earth, and tied to the hilt, listlessly swaying in the gentle breeze, blew a red ribbon. The year was what would later be reckoned as 292 Anno Domini, though that calendar was yet to exist. Anno Domini, Latin for “Year of Our Lord,” had no meaning for the Roman Empire during the terrible reign of the Emperor Diocletian. However, those whom he oppressed kept a count—it was roughly three centuries since the birth of Christ.

  The sword stood in stiff frozen dirt near the Danube River, where the northernmost limit of the Empire lay. The “Barbarians,”—as the arrogant Romans called them—were quite adept at holding their territory right along that pivotal river.

  A leather-gloved hand split through the cold air to clutch the hilt, drew the blade from the frosty earth, and swung it up into a clash with another blade. Nicholas, a twenty year-old soldier, fought rigorously against the stronger more experienced legionnaire, Lysander. Visible puffs of steam rose in the frigid air from their mouths and their brows dripped with sweat. Nicholas thought the sweat might turn to beads of ice before they hit the dirt. However, his typically introverted thinking caused what happened next: in the midst of their brawl, Nicholas tripped over a small root protruding from the frosty soil.

  As Nicholas fell into the sward, the icy organic mat of grass, roots, and leaves, the hilt of his sword flew just out of his fingers' reach, and Lysander’s blade came sweeping down toward his throat. It didn’t strike him, of course—they were friends. “Slain,” Lysander grunted and stepped back to gather his composure and wipe clean his sweaty brow. “One ought to heed previous tutoring, Nicholas. Watch your feet, they are meant to befriend you rather than betray you.”

  Nicholas stared up at the champion with eyes nearly revealing his heart’s envy. At once he reprimanded himself, he knew better than to commit such a deadly sin as envy—so he labeled it admiration instead.

  This is Nicholas: Born in the small town of Patara in the land of Lycia; once governed by Greece and now a melting pot of cultures during Roman r
eign, Nicholas grew up under his two wealthy parents. Nicholas’s father was Epiphaneos and his mother, Nonna. Both were devout Christians. During his early years, he lived a carefree life until an accident robbed him of his brothers and the tyranny of the religiously intolerant Empire stole his parents. It wasn’t long afterward when the traumatized wealthy orphan found himself in the custody of his uncle, the Bishop of Patara, for whom he had been named after. Uncle Nicholas raised the lad to be a clergyman, and structured his life under fastidiously pious guidelines expected of a priest in training.

  After years of learning scriptures, myriad languages, and serving those in need, he met a young girl who stole his heart, Nysa. She could be described as a fair maiden lost in a dark cruel world. Nicholas only wanted for her to be protected and for he to be her protector. She was like a drug to him, intoxicating in a way that effectively dissolved any possibility of a vow of chastity. Somehow he remained chaste. However, he broke ties with his Uncle and the church to start a new life. In addition to that motivation something nagged at him from within to break free of Lycia and to discover the larger world. His naïve goal was to earn an income, return a conquering hero who would sweep Nysa off her feet, and marry her to live happily until his final breath.

  So he abandoned all ties to his prospective destiny as a priest and blindly joined the very force that had killed his parents—the Roman Army. He figured that to try fighting them would be an inevitable defeat so he would forge for himself a new destiny. However, his adolescent rebellion left him in a quandary; he had no training as a fighter. After recruitment, he made his way into the office of Quartermaster and was made responsible for ensuring that his brothers-in-arms were adequately equipped. It just so happened that the war had decimated his company so severely that in the upcoming battle his commanders would surely call upon him to take up his sword for the cause of expanding Roman rule. He would have to fight and help his company cross the Danube River. Unfortunately, he still did not possess the caliber of courage needed by a legionnaire.

  Lysander reached out his hand and helped Nicholas to his feet. As Nicholas stood and straightened his gear, he said in jest, “Be proud, Lysander. For it wasn’t a soldier you bested, but a simple Quartermaster.”

  Lysander stretched and stepped back. “Aye,” he began to say as he stooped down to pick up Nicholas’s sword, “too many of our ranks have fallen. All will be required to finally expand the territory.” He paused and looked at Nicholas’s shining sword, taking note of the ribbon fixed to the hilt and then parroted without emotion the legionnaire’s dictum, “In the name of Rome, the northern barbarians must fall.”

  Lysander tossed the sword back to Nicholas who caught it in mid air and said, “Therefore,” as he cracked his neck and took a stance ready for another skirmish. “Let us have at it again!”

  Taking Lysander by surprise, the two began to duel once again, and Lysander the valiant veteran held his ground with ease. Although tired and cold, Nicholas struggled to mask his weakness. Lysander did what he could to train and strengthen his friend, to ready him for the heat of the coming battle.

  This is Lysander: A fun-loving Greek from Myra, which was a bustling harbor city in southern Lycia. The fact that he and Nicholas both came from Lycia prompted the two polar opposites to become devoted friends. While only three years older than Nicholas, Lysander had been through too many ambitious battles to number. He was born to prosperous parents devoted to the “grand old Empire” who instilled in him the need for honor and the requirement to serve and fight for the glory of Rome. He believed it would was the best way to bring honor to his name and to his family. So, he had worked his body to become a muscular killing force, adept at many arts of modern warfare. He could have modeled for a chiseled statue of Greek physical perfection, and he knew it. He enjoyed the envy of the crowds, especially women, wherever he went. Fame and fortune were his rewards for his devotion to the glory of Rome. In short, he was everything Nicholas hoped to be.

  Despite all that, deep down, Lysander longed for something more … something meaningful out of life. Though the legion and his kin told him that he had achieved honor and continued to elevate his status, his heart whispered that his definition of honor was erroneous. People like Nicholas helped him catch glimpses of that missing element of his heart.

  Not only Nicholas, but also the exquisitely unique Deborah, a woman he had rescued from a thief in Myra. She had the ability not to fall for his seductive charms unlike other women he had met, and it drove him mad. Getting to know her afterward, he discovered that she was one of those Christians—the outcasts who always seemed posed at the brink of rebellion against the Sovereignty. But did he judge her? No. Typically he would look down his nose at such strangers. However, with Deborah, there was something he could never condemn, even if he wanted.

  So, now he fought for her. To prove to her that Rome was a glorious society that, through force of war, would bring peace and prosperity, and unity among all the nations under the great banner of Rome. He would valiantly fight for the glory of the nation, to change her mind, win her heart and hopefully find the elusive secret meaning of the word “honor.”

  Lysander admirably fought Nicholas with the intention to harden him and increase his skills with a blade. Although Nicholas slowly improved, had he been an opponent on the battlefield, he was nothing more than a knave Lysander would simply dispatch in seconds while charging toward a greater foe more worthy of his efforts and skill.

  With needle sharp focus on his goal, Lysander chose to demonstrate to Nicholas how pathetic his skills were and how badly he needed to shape up. He demonstrated this by dodging a strike, pinning his opponent’s sword down with his own, stepping on Nicholas’s toes, and elbowing him across the cheek. Needless to say, Nicholas was stunned, faltered and stumbled back to almost fall again. A blow like that in the chilling air felt like a knife stroke in itself. The two sighed and heaved, Nicholas ashamed and trying not to show his exhaustion.

  To his further dismay, Nicholas discovered soldiers had gathered around to watch Lysander, the champion, effortlessly dispatch another challenger. Miles and Cordus, two mounted soldiers, stopped their horses to watch the spectacle and couldn’t help but comment. “Waste not your time, Lysander,” said Miles. “You’d have better fortune teaching an ass to wield a blade than our quartermaster.”

  “You’re next then?” Lysander replied with a crooked smile.

  Seizing the opportunity for posterity, the plucky Nicholas added, “Quite right. When I’ve finished with Lysander, I’ll gladly best you as well, Miles.”

  “Best me? Not in this lifetime. I’d less easily slay a maimed doe!” Miles responded with a chuckle.

  “Prove it. Care to meet your blade to mine?” Nicholas asked seriously. Though it publicly gained him some credit, he hoped within that his masculine façade would not make Miles another opponent. Deep within he felt this was too trivial and he shouldn’t even care about it, however, he gave little mind to that innermost voice when so many strong males watched him.

  “No, thank you, my skills are set. I’ll save my strength for worthy opponents,” Miles guffawed.

  Cordus finally chimed in with a chortle, “He means to say he’s too cold to fight.” This broke the tension as he intended and soon all the shivering men were laughing.

  Miles, enjoying the amusement, still felt the need to punch him in the arm. “Oh, you’re just as frozen as the lot of us,” he said. “Assuredly, my parts are as shriveled as your grandmother’s bosom!”

  They all laughed again and the tension faded like a vapor in a strong wind. Soldiers need camaraderie. When enemies could be lurking nearby and the great precipice of the next battle dwells on the ever-nearing horizon, they need to joke, laugh, and tease to maintain that spark of their humanity. It was a delight to Nicholas, who had always felt like an observer all his life; to watch as people enjoyed the precious gift of life. Of course it was all the better when he was actually included in the jocularity.


  However, the tension returned like the next wave crashing against a shore as their commander, Flavius Constantine, galloped toward them shouting, “Hear, ye laughing children,” and pulled his horse to a trot circling them. If Lysander was the epitome of the Greek ideal of male perfection, Flavius was a model that artists could use when sculpting the gods. His firm jaw and dark piercing eyes were the countenance of royalty and leadership. While Nicholas admired his friend Lysander, Flavius stood on a pedestal even higher, almost but not quite, at the level worthy of worship. Though a man who understood propriety, Nicholas also grew up on stories of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego who refused to bow before Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon and he would never allow his admiration to reach the level of worship. His devotion to Flavius bordered on such a stature.

  “Quartermaster,” Flavius addressed Nicholas, “gear the men, everyone, post haste. Scouts have seen the barbarians not far off.”

  “Aye, sir!” Nicholas replied, standing tall and proud.

  “Men, we soon ride to war and the glorious expansion of Rome!” Flavius shouted as he rode off, quickly followed by his officers and elite guards.

  Miles and Cordus promptly departed but Lysander remained gazing at Nicholas, watching the gravity of Flavius’ words sink deep into his friend’s awareness. Now that his very life was at stake, Nicholas considered himself a fool for joining the legion and seeing only the end he desired without truly weighing the cost of the means to achieve it. The end of returning home to Nysa as a triumphant hero, handsomely rewarded for his service to the Empire was all he saw when sailing out of Myra only a few months ago.

  Now, he had witnessed a number of battles in which men whom he knew and had shared solidarity went into battle and never returned. He had seen bloodshed and savage bestial conflicts all over the ownership of a hunk of ground. He didn’t think much of politics and even less of warfare. Yet, somehow, like swimming too far from shore and suddenly becoming aware that a current has gripped you and carried you away from the coast, he found himself putting his life at risk in the name a political purpose in which he did not believe in.