Chapter 27
“It used to be on the southern coast of Turkey.”
“Used to be?”
“Seventeen centuries ago.”
“Wha—?”
“The man you sent me to interview told me his life story. And he has been alive for seventeen hundred years. Yeah,” I pointed at his slack jaw, “that look? Right there? That’s where I’m at.”
Marshall stared at me, then leaned back in his chair. He glanced out his window at the city below, as if trying to ensure he was still on planet earth. “So he’s crazy.”
“No.”
“But he thinks he’s been alive for seventeen hundred years.”
“He says he’s immortal. He was killed in prison by the Romans and raised to life again by Jesus. And he’s been walking around ever since.”
He started laughing, shaking his head. “Wow. I guess they don’t always work out, do they?”
“No.”
“Yeah, there’s no way we could print that. Owners are gonna be disappointed.”
“I suppose.”
He rose and sauntered over to the cappuccino machine, offering me a cup. I nodded. “For what it’s worth,” I said, “he didn’t want his story told anyway.”
“Really? Not going for his fifteen minutes, huh?” He measured out the espresso.
“He’s already got it.”
“How’s that?”
“Nicholas of Myra is known the world over. Recognized by both the Orthodox and Catholic communions as a saint. Even the Protestants call him such.”
He straightened with the milk still in hand. “Saint Nicholas?”
I nodded.
He finished the cappuccinos and brought mine over to me. “As in Santa Claus?”
“He really hates that term.”
He chuckled as he took his seat. “I’ll bet.”
“The thing is, he had an actual explanation for just about every part of the legend. The sleigh, reindeer, red suit, elves. You name it.” Briefly, I filled him in on what I’d learned.
When I finished he’d folded his hands together and propped his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his fingers. “Wow.”
“You know, if it weren’t for the whole undead thing, I’d find every explanation he gave entirely plausible.”
“You almost sound like you believe him.”
“He was probably the most gentle, devout, and sincere person I’ve ever met. I think the only thing that troubled him was that we would publish his story, and then there’d be nowhere left for him to go. Tourists and the curious would overrun their monastery and effectively shut down their ministry.”
“Right. ‘Cause of course everyone would believe what we wrote.” He took his pen from his ear and tapped it on his desk. “You know what? Screw it. Write the article. We’ll title it, ‘I’m not Santa Claus: An Exclusive Interview With Saint Nicholas’ and we won’t give away the location or the name of the monastery. Just that it was, at one time, magnetic north. That should be general enough. The rest of it? We tell his tale. His way.”
“You think people will actually believe it?”
He shrugged. “So what? It’s Christmas. It’s a fresh take. It’ll get people thinking about the… spiritual aspects of the holiday. People love bashing commercialism anyway. Especially while shopping. And it’s bound to sell a few pape’s. Thing is, people won’t believe believe it, but they’ll want to believe it. And that’s downright magical.”
I nodded slowly. “I think I could do that.”
“Then what are you sitting around for? Go! Write!”
***
I wrote up the story as Marshall instructed, and he was right. I’m Not Santa: An Exclusive Interview with Saint Nicholas sold so many copies of the newspaper that week that we went into extra editions. On the web it became our most linked to and downloaded article. We had pingbacks from all over the world. Marshall was so excited he even pitched hiring back some employees to the new owners.
I was back on top, and I should have felt fantastic.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I felt lower than the bums on the street that I kept giving money to, like I’d betrayed a trust that was given to me, told a secret that was never meant to be shared.
All manner of justifications played through my mind, everything from I’m a reporter and this is my job to it was Oleg’s last wish and I’m honoring his memory.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d sold out a friend.
And so that’s how I found myself on Christmas Eve sitting in a bar on the lower east side, nursing a gin and tonic. I’d just put down my glass when two half-drunk ladies—a blonde and her brunette friend—turned to me on their stools. The blonde asked, “Hey, aren’t you that reporter who made up that story ‘bout Santa Claus?”
I grimaced. “If you read the article, you’ll recall it was titled, I’m Not Santa Claus.”
“Right,” she nodded.
The brunette came to her rescue. “I just wanted to say that was a really neat story.”
The two of them bobbed their heads, looking for a moment like they had springs for necks.
“Well, thank you.” I tipped my glass to them.
“It was like, really deep, you know?” the blonde continued. “Spiritual without being…?” She turned to her friend.
“Religious.”
“Sure,” I replied.
“I’m a deeply spiritual person myself,” the brunette offered.
I threw back the rest of my drink and stood. “I should go.” I gave them a wink. “Don’t wanna wind up on Santa’s naughty list. It was nice talking to you.”
Sure, I probably could’ve gone home with them both—or at least to a private room somewhere. But it was bad enough I’d shared Nicholas’s secret for the sake of a story. Using it to get laid by a pair of half-drunk cougars just seemed a bit too low to fall.
As I exited the bar into the frozen night air, I felt a presence leave behind me. I barely had time to turn my head when a familiar voice said, “For the record, I don’t keep a naughty list.”
I spun, and the man in the overcoat beside me startled me. The face was unfamiliar, but the eyes gave him away. He’d shaved, I realized.
“Abbot Nicholas?”
“Nick is fine, Brett.”
“What are you doing here?” I could barely suppress a grin.
“Looking for you, believe it or not.”
I wanted to know why, but instead I asked, “How did you find me?”
He said, “I searched the skies for the darkest cloud in the city, and it was centered over you.” When I didn’t answer, he clapped my shoulder and started walking with me. “I spoke to your editor, hoping to reach you. He told me where to find you. Interesting fellow. Kept staring at me.”
“Well. He knows the whole story,” I answered, “not just the stuff we put in the article.” He nodded, but I furrowed my brow. “Wait a second, what are you doing here? You didn’t fly all this way just to see me, did you?”
“Not precisely. I came to see the owners of the Uptown Free Press.”
“The owners?”
“Yes. Personal friends of mine.”
I grimaced. Should’ve known. “That’s a conflict of interest.”
“It is, which is why it was vital that neither you nor Marshall knew of the connection.”
“Still—!”
“Brett,” he faced me, “we’re not discussing an exposé on mayoral scandals or political machinations. It was a human-interest story for Christmas. Nothing more. And it did what it was intended to do.”
“What was that?”
“Save your paper, of course. Eventually, they hope to bring back the jobs they had to phase out in the restructuring. And, naturally, there is the desire to reform the city that is their driving ambition.”
I snorted.
“Don’t scoff,” he reprimanded. “Your recent article is proof that the city is receptive to positive stories.”
“Yeah, but it’s also Christmas. People expect sappy things this time of year.”
“Sappy.”
I stopped and stuttered, “I-I didn’t mean—”
“Sappy. Is that what you think of my life?”
“No.”
“But that’s what you think of positive stories. Stories of triumph. Heroism. Hope. This is sappy.”
I fidgeted. Something about Nicholas always made me uncomfortable. “I suppose not.”
“Brett, if you have learned anything from my story, I would hope it is this, that true goodness is not easy nor simplistic, nor is it weak in the face of evil.” He turned and we started walking again. “This is not my first trip to the city. I have been here many times—not as far back as its founding, of course, but still when it was young. I visited Thomas Nast after he drew those ridiculous depictions of me. He took almost as much convincing as you. My point is that I have observed both the influence of this city grow, as well as its concomitant cynicism. For many years I’ve yearned to find a way to reach down and touch its heart.”
“Might as well caress a stone,” I snorted.
“Hmm. Are you familiar with Ezekiel?”
I wracked my brain a moment, wondering if he was asking about a monk whose name I’d simply forgotten. Then I guessed he must’ve meant the Old Testament prophet. “Guy who saw the UFO?”
“Wheels.”
“Right.”
“I take it ‘No.’ There’s a passage in Ezekiel where the Lord speaks through His prophet to His people. And He says, ‘I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; and I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’ That is my prayer for this city. It is also my prayer for you.”
I felt that same nervous flutter again. “For me?”
“Of course. How could I not be praying for you? Do you think I don’t know what my story has done to you?”
“Done to me? What do you mean?”
He half-smiled. “I have turned your world upside down. That is why instead of celebrating this Christmas Eve and rejoicing in the most successful article of your career you are here at a bar taking a drink and trying to dull the pain in your heart. The thing is you do believe me. You know my story is true and you believe it. And that terrifies you, because if my story is true, as you know it is, then so is the story of the One Who inspires and drives me—and to Him you must give an account. You must believe in Christ. That He is the Son of God. That He lived a sinless life, died in your place, was buried, and in three days rose again from the dead—and that one day He is coming to judge the living and the dead. You must believe on Him, because the eternal destiny of your soul hangs in the balance.”
I stared at him, then, feeling as if the city and the skies above held their breath, waiting for me to say something. The questions I’d been asking myself earlier that week came flooding back with a vengeance. What do I believe? What is the truth?
And then it hit me. It was not a question of evidence, as if it had ever been. The evidence was all around. Staring me in the face. And he was right. It wasn’t Nicholas that I had to give an answer to. It was God.
And I had a choice to make.
The End
###
If you enjoyed Nicholas, leave a review. It just takes a few seconds, and I’m really interested in your honest feedback. Thanks!
Want More?
If you’d like to stay current with new releases, special features, updates, promotions, and exclusive content, let me know by tapping or clicking below. I promise never to share your email address with anyone and you can unsubscribe at any time (‘Cause I hate spam just as much as you do!)
If you want more by Michael J. Scott, check out these other novels and series, available in print and online at Amazon.com
Jefferson’s Road:
(These are political
thrillers about the downfall of
America and the beginnings of a second Civil War.)
A More Perfect Union – coming soon
We the People – coming soon
Janelle Becker Books:
(These are psychothrillers
about a Special Agent with the FBI’s
Behavioral Analysis Unit who specializes in religious-based
crimes.)
Puzzle – coming soon
Jonathan Munro Adventures:
(This is a Christian
Action Adventure series with
a focus on archaeology and ancient languages.)
The Music of the Spheres – coming soon
New World Order:
(A Young Adult Dystopian
series about escaping
an oppressive bureaucratic system of death.)
Anarchy – coming soon
The Dragon’s Eye Cycle:
(A “Sword and Sorcery”
fantasy series about an ex-Sheriff who relies
on forensics to investigate murders rather than relying on
magick.)
The Blood-Eaters’ Coven – coming soon
Spilled Milk
(An anti-hero thriller
about father-turned- domestic
terrorist who battles government corruption. Badly.)
A Glass Half-Full – coming soon
(A tale about alien abductions and government cover-up.)
(An origin story of Saint Nicholas, combining history with legend.)
The Wizard of the Sky Pirates – coming soon
(A teen story about—yup, you guessed it—wizards and sky pirates.)
The Issachar Initiative
(A series about a
secretive agency that assists the government
in addressing world events that have apocalyptic
overtones.)
Rock of Ages – coming soon
Connect with Michael J. Scott online at:
Twitter: @AuthorMichaelJS
***
Author’s Note
Concerning Cloud Factories
Every parent who tells their children about Santa Claus must, at some point or another, confront the fact that their previously trusting and adorable children have turned into hard-nosed skeptics. In my case, this occurred just prior to the teen years, which in our family happened approximately seven years ago, which is also when the seeds of this novel were sown.
Prior to this time, I delighted in the way my children believed almost anything I told them. As a story-teller, I took particular glee in weaving strands of fact together, pointing to the most nebulous threads in evidence as proof that whatever tale I happened to be crafting in the moment was true. Among my favorite stories were the “cloud-factories.” We encountered these frequently while driving along the highway, when my curious kids would point to some factory or industrial complex puffing out billowing plumes of white vapor and demand to know what that particular factory made. Thinking quickly, I answered, “Clouds.”
“Clouds?” they wondered.
“Yes clouds. Those are cloud factories. See the clouds they’re making? That’s what they do.”
“But Da-ad! Doesn’t God make the clouds?” my oldest queried. Ah, the Divine trump card, and played so quickly, too!
“Of course He does,” I answered. “But these factories are built so man could help God. It’s not that He needs our help, but He wants us to join Him in what He does. That’s why we have cloud-factories.”
Oh. Cloud-factories. That explained everything.
My children exposed similar vulnerabilities when it came to getting them a treat from the local fast food joint—though this time my wife was the culprit. “Okay kids, now we’re going to get a special treat. We’re going to get some tap water!”
“Yay! Tap water!”
They bought that one for years.
I digress. About seven years ago, they began asking skeptical questions about Santa Claus. He couldn’t possibly be real, could he?
My heart fell. They were too young to be so skeptical! I wasn’t ready for them to stop believing. I needed their belief. That’s where the magic was. If they stopped believing, then all the wondrous enchantment of childhood would evaporate too soon, leaving the damp autumn of the teenage years as a warning that the harsh winter of the empty nest was just over the horizon.
“Of course Santa is real,” I answered. I knew something about Saint Nicholas, having written a Christmas sermon some years ago where I pointed out that the real Nicholas believed in the Christ Child given on Christmas Day, and would not want to stand as a substitute for Him.
“But how could he be real?”
Reluctantly, I began to share with them the origins of Nicholas of Myra, pointing out that he was a bishop who loved the Lord. And as they continued to press in about the details, I would reply “That’s what the legend says,” as a way to evade queries about elves or delivering toys to millions in a magical sleigh overnight.
“But how could he still be alive?”
And that’s when I brought up Christ’s words to Martha at the tomb of her brother Lazarus. Of course Nicholas was still alive. He believed in Christ, and all who believe in Jesus and give their lives to Him are alive with Him even now, as the Scriptures say.
And from there, it was a short jump in my fertile imagination to the story you have just now read.
Blending Fact and Fantasy
In developing Nicholas, I wanted to merge the story of the actual St. Nicholas with the legend of Santa Claus as we’ve come to know and love him here in the United States. Toward that end, I am indebted to the Saint Nicholas Center, at stnicholascenter.org. Most of the research I conducted for the origins of Nicholas was done through this site.
There is very little actual information available about the real Saint Nicholas. Much of what has come down to us conflates Nicholas of Myra with Nicholas of Zion, another saint who followed after the original by about three hundred years. But given that these combinations are historical, I determined to keep them as far as this story is concerned. The names of Nicholas’s parents come from this latter legend.
The legend of the man with three daughters is one of the oldest stories, and is said to be the origin of “stockings hung by the chimney with care.” I retained it toward that end, though the names are made up. Nicholas is also supposed to have gone to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage, where he received his calling. The legend of him raising a man back to life is also quite old and original to Nicholas of Myra.
During the time of Nicholas’ ministry as a bishop, it was not unheard of for bishops and priests to marry, though not common. I decided to make Johanna Nicholas’s wife to answer the question of “Mrs. Claus.” Such a marriage might have raised eyebrows back in the day, but there were no injunctions against it. I endeavored to express those concerns in the context of their brief romance.
The account of Nicholas in prison is real. He was imprisoned under Diocletian and Galerius, though he did not die as he did in my story. This was a plot device I employed to explain his longevity. When Nicholas came out he was hailed as a “Confessor” because he refused to recant his faith.
The story of Nicholas at the Council of Nicaea—especially the part where he boxes Arius’s ears—is also true, and one of my personal favorites.
The other legends in Nicholas’s life: calming a storm, providing grain during a famine, rescuing the three prisoners, the story of the three generals and many others are original to Nicholas as well, and I have endeavored to retain the names given to the other actors in these stories as well.
It is after he left and went north to the Black Sea in this tale that my own imagination took over—and quite honestly, this was a part of the biggest struggle I had, because there was so much I had to leave out. Truly, he was an amazing man, and someone I look forward to meeting in the resurrection. I hope you do, too.
Merry Christmas,
Michael J. Scott, 2015
About the Author
Michael J. Scott writes fiction that doesn't shy away from hard questions or dicey situations. He treats his characters like real people with real flaws who sometimes do wrong and stupid things—especially when they're trying to do the right thing.
His interests range from the erosion of the American family, socio-political unrest in the U.S. that threatens to break into civil war, UFO's, adventures in Biblical and Christian archaeology, dystopias, sword and sorcery fantasy, to getting inside the mind of a serial killer.
He lives with his family outside of Rochester, NY.
