Chapter 26

 

“Was that the time you supposedly flew?” I asked.

He nodded. “Seems some hunter witnessed it, and the rumors spread from there after I’d gone into the village. I made the rest of the deliveries that night, and every Christmas Eve thereafter for a generation. It took a while for the effort to have its intended effect. But Brother Daniel was right. We won the hearts of that generation, and by the time they had children of their own, there was no going back. The idols were put away, broken and forgotten for the useless hunks of wood and stone that they always were. And the land became Christian—quite apart from the swords of the crusaders. It wasn’t long before it became necessary to move again.”

“Why?”

“We were found out, and as Grigory had feared, we became the targets of those who preferred idleness to work. In a way, it’s not at all unlike what happened to our Lord after He divided the loaves and fishes. He travelled with His disciples to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, and large crowds chased Him down around the sea so they could get another free lunch. They were prepared to make Him king by force—a view quite contrary to His actual mission.

“Like Him, I also found it necessary to escape to somewhere more private, into lands where I was not known, so that the true pursuits of our monastic life would not be obscured by the nature of our ministry to the poor. I took some of my brothers north with me into Finland, where we settled in the Lapland Province, on a fell known as Korvatunturi, or Ear Fell, because of its shape. All I knew was that it was largely uninhabited, and it gave me a secure place to build a solid monastery, where we could continue our traditions. I had, as you may recall, been charged to go to the far north, and this was as far north as I’d thought to go.

“We stayed there a long time. Kept goats for their milk and meat. Ironically, somehow I became conflated with the goats. I think it was the beard. Joulupukki, they called me. Outside, the world changed. Protestantism further split the Western Church, and the holy lands—including the country of my birth and youth—were finally given up as lost to the Mohammedans.” He stopped a moment and shook his head.

“Times were difficult, as they always had been, but I had friends now—people in distant countries, in fact—who knew my secret. Always before, you see, I had kept them close beside me, and so our ministry was limited by what I and those immediately with me could accomplish together.”

“Why did that change?” I asked.

“Necessity, I suppose. And peace. There existed now a network of small brotherhoods that extended all the way from Korvatunturi to the Black Sea, with men who’d taken oaths never to reveal the truth about who I was. And, of course, they did anyway.”

I laughed, and he joined me with a chuckle of his own. “It did not matter. Most people, upon hearing the stories, dismissed them as so much legend. Those who did know helped us with the ministry, and for a while they even dressed the part. After a while I called a halt to the practice, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“It had become distracting to the purpose of our ministry. Always we meant to draw people to Christ. But soon I found that we had inadvertently begun drawing people to ourselves—to the myth we had created: Father Christmas—or Papa Noel, depending on language—and, of course, Sinterklaas.”

“Santa.”

“Yes. The myth endured nevertheless. It took on a life of its own. In England the Royalists—those who opposed the Puritans—used Father Christmas in their polemics against the excesses of that order.

“In time, I once more found it necessary to relocate—largely for the same reasons. This time, however, I was aided by the invention of the compass, which led me here.”

“Magnetic north.”

“Yes. And effectively, I can go no further. The pole itself is in the Arctic Ocean. Magnetic north has since moved on. It’s somewhere in Canada now, I believe. And that will change one day, too.”

“What will you do if you have to move again?” I asked.

But he fell silent, then, his attention drawn by the ragged breath of Oleg from the bed. I put my pen down and rubbed my eyes. It was getting late. Already this interview had gone on for hours longer than I’d anticipated, though with the story he’d shared, it could easily have taken several weeks, if not longer. I didn’t begrudge him the details he’d skipped over. Centuries, if he was to be believed. It’d be hard enough to encapsulate a life story into a single tale, let alone the generations he said he’d lived.

I looked up, watching him kneeling at the bedside, his hands clasped in prayer. I felt my heart skip a beat. Had Oleg died? He’d seemed so lively just moments—well, hours—ago. The Abbot appeared to be in prayer. I cleared my throat, uncertain how to ask.

“He hasn’t passed, if that’s what concerns you,” Nicholas said. “At least, not yet anyway.”

I blinked. “Well, that’s good.”

“It is neither good, nor bad. It is simply delay.”

“That’s not good?”

He straightened and returned to his seat. “You tell me. We spend a good deal of our lives waiting. Nothing more. How many hours have you spent waiting in traffic? Waiting at an airport? A doctor’s office? A single moment can encapsulate a lifetime. The fate of nations has often hinged upon a moment’s hesitation or thoughtlessly plunging into action.”

“You speak like time is precious.”

“Isn’t it?”

After what he’d told me about his vision in the sleigh, I could see his point. “I suppose so. For me, that makes sense. Even for Oleg. Our time is short compared to yours.”

“Have you never noticed how time speeds up the older you get? A young couple falls in love and marries. They bring children into the world. They blink, and those children are gone, swept off to college, career, or marriage and children of their own. Before that couple yet realizes it, they are grandparents, and they have no idea how they got so old. Especially so quickly.”

I nodded.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Now magnify that a thousandfold, and you will have some idea just how precious time is to me.”

I shifted in my seat, eager to change the subject. As much death as I had seen, I had no desire to keep revisiting the subject. I’d once been interviewing a soldier when a stray bullet knocked him out. At the time, I’d thought he’d just been killed in front of me. While I felt relief the man had survived, I couldn’t shake the horror of it, and had to come home. Spent a week inside a bottle till Marshall talked me out of it.

“So I take it the point of these last stories was to convince me not to go the whole ‘Santa’ angle? Telling people this place is ‘Santa’s workshop,’” I made quotes with my fingers, “would practically guarantee you’d get inundated, right? I’m sure the U.S. Mail alone would bury you, if they got ahold of your address and forwarded every child’s letter along.”

He interlaced his fingers and propped his chin on them. “Santa belongs to the world. Nicholas of Myra belongs to Christ.”

I tapped my pen against my forehead. “And yet… everything. Everything in the Santa myth has a root in your history.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “The red suit was a bishop’s robe. ‘He sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake.’ That’s from your heightened sensitivity. The north pole. We’re here. Or at least we were, till it moved on to Canada. The sleigh. Drawn by reindeer. The gifts. Given to children. Made by elves!” I stopped, thought a moment, and laughed out loud. “That’s brother Don’s apron, isn’t it? ‘I’m an elf.’ That’s what it said. The elves are really just your brother monks.”

“They’ve been called that for centuries, and still find it very amusing,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

“As I told you: many of the traditions associated with that legend have their origins in benign facts. It’s just been blown out of proportion.”

“I want to respect your wishes. And his,” I tipped my pen toward Oleg, “How do I tell this story? What angle do I come from?”

He opened his mouth, but we were interrupted by a sudden gasp from the bed. Nicholas dashed to his side and took his hand. Oleg opened his eyes wide, and then a ragged breath escaped from his mouth, and his body sank down into the bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

“Oleg,” Nicholas murmured. “Greet Johanna and my son. Tell them I think of them often, even still.” With that, he reached up his hand and closed the man’s eyes.

I wiped a tear from my eyes. I hadn’t really known Oleg at all, but I still felt sad at his passing. “I’m sorry, Nicholas.”

“Don’t be. I shall miss him dearly, but he won’t miss me. Time does not pass in eternity. One day he’ll turn around, and I shall be there with him, and it will seem like we’ve never been apart.” He sighed. “I look forward to that day.”

“Do you think it ever will come for you?”

He rose and ushered me toward the door. “Everything comes to an end eventually. This world and all that is in it shall one day burn with fire, and we will all appear before the judgment seat of God. Even I. Even,” he opened the door and we stepped into the hall, “even if I should walk this earth for another thousand years.”

“Such a long time.”

“I’ve been around for seventeen centuries, Brett. I’ve learned patience.”

“In your vision, your wife said you could come home at any time.”

“So I could.”

“So why stay?”

He clasped his hands behind his back as we walked. “Saint Paul once faced this question. In his letter to the church at Philippi, he talked about the desire to go and be with the Lord, and yet the urgency of his ministry among believers compelled him to stay, for it was more necessary for their sakes. I suppose that’s why I stay. For them,” he gestured down the hall, “my followers. My ministry.”

“Surely it could go on without you.”

“So it could. And the myth will endure no matter what I do, nor what steps should be taken to correct it. Yet I find joy in what we do. Especially now. We are secure, here, in our anonymity. The world will not believe any longer that I actually exist. The myth has accomplished that much, at least. I like giving, Brett. True, I face loss as I always have, but for the first time in my long history, we actually have an opportunity to serve the whole world. It is my view from the top, and it is spectacular.”

We’d reached the foyer where Brother Don had first welcomed me inside, and there Nicholas offered me his hand. “Thank you,” he said, “for listening to my story. It is late, you are welcome to stay, of course.”

I opened my mouth to accept his offer, then thought better of it. “No, that’s all right. I have a hotel room back in Hammerfast. Marshall will want an update, as well.”

“And what will you tell him?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

 

***

The journey back to “civilization” took less time than it had to find the monastery. I had a room waiting at a Thon hotel in town. The modern lines and accoutrements felt oddly foreign when I checked in. The room with its oversized bed, the table, dresser, and the chairs all seemed wrong, even though they looked just like every other motel or hotel room I’d stayed in all over the world.

I set my bag on the bed and my notes on the desk, then withdrew my laptop computer and fired it up. After connecting to the WiFi, I opened my Skype account.

And did nothing.

I sat there and stared at the screen. My finger hovered above the button that would connect the call. I should call. Marshall would be waiting. Expecting to hear from me.

But what would he hear? What could I possibly tell him about this wild-goose chase of a story he’d sent me on?

As a journalist, I have a duty to the truth.

But what was the truth?

Undecided, I closed the lid to the laptop, turned down the lights, the bed, and slipped beneath the covers.

As tired as I was, it was a long time before I fell asleep.

 

***

The next morning I fared no better, and all the long flight home, the laptop stayed closed in front of me. Normally, I’d have had most of the story written by now, ready to bring to Marshall for the few finishing touches a good editor could provide.

But I was utterly at a loss.

When the plane descended into LaGuardia, I felt a twisting in my gut. It was the same feeling I got when I had to fly into war zones, but without the glib anticipation of a waiting story. It felt like New York and my home no longer belonged to me.

I wondered if I’d ever belong anywhere again.

What is the truth? What do I believe?

That’s when I realized, for the first time in my self-assured, self-aggrandizing life, I had no answers. How could I, when I had just spent the previous day recording the life story of a man who’d spent the past seventeen centuries doing nothing more than giving of himself in service to others? Which was more impossible to believe, that a man could endure that long on earth, or that anyone could be so selfless?

New York was decorated for Christmas, and a dank chill brooded over the city. I’d just come from a region far colder, but somehow it didn’t affect me the way the city did. In Norway, the cold came with the smell of spices, of cinnamon and mint and pine. Here it was exhaust fumes and sewer vents. Crowds passed by me on the streets. None of us met each other’s eyes in classic New York fashion. I passed by a homeless person on the street, and then stopped, my heart thudding in my chest.

What would Nicholas do?

I took the money out of my wallet and tucked it into my pocket, and then took off my coat and handed it to him. “Here,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Uh, thanks, Buddy,” the bum replied. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

I shoved my hands in the front pockets of my jeans and trudged the rest of the way to the office. The kindness had warmed me, but only a little bit.

What do I believe? What is the truth?

The questions continued to swirl in my mind even as I waited outside of Marshall’s office. When he finally opened the door and called me inside, I had no answers.

“Well?”

I collapsed into the seat before his desk and threw up my hands. “I don’t know what to write.”

He’d sat on the edge of the desk, and now stared at me over his glasses. He raised an eyebrow, and then scratched his forehead. “You wanna tell me what that’s supposed to mean?”

“Means I don’t know how to tell this story.”

“You’re a reporter, ain’tcha? You report the facts.”

“Well, I don’t know what they are.”

“Then what the hell you been doing up there? You telling me I spend all that money on international flights and a hotel room, and my star reporter comes back with bupkiss?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then what?”

“I got too much, that’s what.”

“Too much.” Miles had an annoying habit of repeating me back to myself. He took his seat and rested his elbows on the desk. “So, we talking about a series of articles?”

“The Abbot at the monastery—he’s not who you think he is.”

“So who is he?”

“He is Nicholas of Myra.”

“Myra? Where’s that at?”

And now things got dicey.