The Legends of Saint Nicholas: The Emergent Son (Book 1)

Chapter One

He was only ten and his little hand slid into his father’s calloused, leathery paw. Nicholas could feel his soft flesh immediately warmed by his father’s touch. Theophones squeezed his little fingers and smiled as Nicholas looked up at him nervously.

Fear not, Theophones stated. All will be well.

Nicholas glanced behind him and could see their footprints in the snow-covered, dirt lane. His father’s gigantic boots had made very clear indentations in the crunchy ice. Nicholas’ small, slender, leather bound feet had barely left marks next to Theophones’ tracks, but they were there.

His Elven uncle, Moel, drove a red sleigh at a slow pace behind them — the reindeer pulling it appeared to be trotting in place at different points. Nicholas smiled at him and the Elf merely nodded his reply. Nicholas could see beyond the sleigh, that his tracks and his father’s tracks were gone, crushed under the sleigh’s rails.

Just on the edge of the city, they stopped outside a small house with a waist high fence that leaned to one side. A group of twenty people stood outside the house, huddled in small groups, stamping their feet, rubbing their arms, swaying from side to side to stay warm. From the hushed atmosphere, Nicholas gathered that the boy was dead.

Theophones gently pushed open the gate and they stepped inside. Moel brought the sleigh to a halt outside the fence and stepped down to unload it.

Nicholas timidly followed his father, never letting go of his hand, trying to avoid the gaze of the strangers that turned to stare at the Elf-human entering the house of their sick relative. The front door flew open and a young father burst out and wrapped his arms around Theophones. He pulled back and Nicholas could see the man’s face was puffy from crying. The end of his nose was red, and dark, inky black circles encrusted his eyes.

Thomas, Theophones said in an understanding, loving tone.

Thank you, was all the father could say without bursting into tears.

Thomas ushered them into the house where Nicholas and Theophones were overtaken by the crush of relatives. Nicholas turned back to see the front door shut and the sunlight vanish.

The darkness grew and he found himself in the Dark Wood, forbidden territory. His father was gone. The house was gone. The people were gone. Overhead the sky was grey and the clouds were black. An object in the distance caught his attention. It was his father’s coat. Theophones’ red velvet coat with white trim and golden buttons hung on the branch of a snow laden tree and swayed with the breeze.

Nicholas wove his way through deep snow banks and thick stands of trees, their branches groaning under the weight of the powder. A haunting melody, sung in an ancient language, floated along the wind, adding to Nicholas’ fear.

The ten year old boy shivered and rubbed his arms. He stopped at the red coat and took it down. Sliding it on, he found it was too big--but it would keep him warm nonetheless. His eyes widened as the shadows grew all around him. He made a futile attempt to whistle and calm his nerves. But no sound would come out. His lips were too cold.

As he tried to stay warm, preceded by groans, dark, shadowy figures lurched forward from behind dead trees.

All his senses fired. The boy spun and one of the figures snatched him off his feet! The figure jerked him forward. Nicholas opened his eyes and he was inches from a man whose face was empty of life, his eyes white as the snow, his skin oozing black goo.

Nichooolaaaas! the man moaned, goo dripping from his mouth.

Nicholas looked down and puddles of black ooze leaked out of the man’s pants and spread all around them.

Nicholas struggled, fought, kicked, punched, did anything he could to get free. He dropped to the snow only to run into a woman with ooze dripping down her chin from an abnormally wide mouth.

Ni. Coo. Laas, she stuttered.

He turned to run, but couldn’t escape: he was surrounded. The once human creatures ringed him. He searched for a way past them, but found none. A small girl broke away from the group and rushed him. Nicholas gasped when he realized he knew her. It was Esma! She reached out to grab his face when he woke from the haunting scene, gasping, sweating, heart-pounding.

As he sat up he was violently thrown off a narrow bunk he lay on into six inches of water. The icy salt-water forced its way into his nose and he thrashed about to get his face out of it. He coughed and sputtered and tried to gain his bearings. He was disoriented and looked down at his hands and remembered he was no longer ten. He was twenty three and behind him he could hear an animal snorting and splashing about.

The bang of wood on wood shook him from his daze. He was standing in a small cabin, the hold of a merchant ship. His body finally registered the tumult the ship was in. Shouting and stomping rattled the ceiling. He knew that trouble was brewing top side. The ship’s Captain was giving out orders, trying to gain control of whatever was going on.

He glanced toward the rear of the cabin, and saw Rudolf, his reindeer, high-stepping it, tossing his head from side to side, not enjoying the frigid water around his legs and the violent rocking of the boat.

This will pass, Nicholas assured him. It had little affect on Rudolf’s mood.

Nicholas quickly slipped his dark brown leather boots on, after dumping water out of them. He laced them and put on his Elven cloak — crushed green velvet, golden thread, buttoned with gold-inlaid buttons, bearing his family crest: reindeer antlers with a great holly wreath above them. For a moment he stood and allowed the dream to linger on the fringes of his imagination. Thirteen years had passed, but the visions were as real as the day he had lived the events.

The phantoms finally faded and he fought his way up the stairs to the deck of the ship. He was greeted by a torrential rain, billowing clouds, towering waves crashing on their starboard side, a crew of experienced sailors scrambling for their lives, and the Captain wrestling with the out of control wheel. He stayed at the top of the stairs and watched — he was not a sailor, but a high-paying guest onboard.

The groan and creaking of the mast threw the crew into a great panic. Men scattered and in a swift instant, one of the yard arms snapped in half and dropped like a stone in a lake, crushing one of the hardworking sailors. The man crumpled underneath the beam. Nicholas sprung from the stairs and was at the man’s side. He pushed the yard arm off of him and rolled the sailor over.

The sailor’s beard was white as a sheet, twisted and crusted with sea salt. His eyes were screwed shut as he attempted to fight the pain shooting down his legs. Nicholas pulled a silver vial from the inside of his cloak and lifted the man’s head up slightly. He used one hand to open the man’s mouth and the other to pour the liquid out.

Give it a moment, and you will feel much better! Nicholas yelled above the sounds cascading down on them.

The sailor felt nothing at first, but then it was as if he had drunk fire and his whole body jerked. In an instant, the pain was gone.

Brace yourselves! shouted someone from above him.

Nicholas glanced over his shoulder and only had time to throw himself on top of the sailor before a wall of water slammed down. The whole world went quiet while Nicholas and crew were submerged in freezing salt water. The sound came rushing back as the water spread out and flowed off the battered deck.

Spitting and sputtering, Nicholas and his patient struggled to their feet. Nicholas took the sailor to his room, ordered him to rest, and bounded deck side to see where he could help. He fought and battled the rocking boat, the pounding surf, the blinding rain to get from one injured sailor to the next, helping them as best he could with the Elven medicine he had on hand.

He watched crew members fight to keep the sails up, to keep from being snared by the lines, to keep their feet under them. The storm grew in ferocity. The sailors matched that with desperation and cursing. Nicholas checked his cloak, felt the object in the breast pocket of his shirt, and knew that was the only way they would survive.

With wave after wave slamming him around, Nicholas inched his way to the bow of the boat. Reaching the front of the ship, he pulled the object from his pocket. He was always reluctant to use Elven magic, especially the ring, his mother’s ring, but there was no other choice. He grabbed a free line, wrapped the rope around his arm, and climbed on the railing. He held aloft the glowing red ruby ring, shut his eyes, and chanted to himself an Elven phrase.

The Captain looked on in wonder as the ruby glowed bright red and shafts of light cut through the raging storm overhead. The light grew brighter and brighter until all was white and all that looked on were momentarily blinded. From one blink to the next, the rain stopped, the clouds disappeared, the waters calmed and leveled out. To their port side, the city of Patara rose on the horizon, glowing bright against the dark night sky.

Out of breath, shaking, spent, but grateful for life, Nicholas climbed down and faced the great port city that he had once called home. It seemed like no time had passed since he was ten, making his way down the hillside behind the city. He closed his eyes and was there again.

-N-

A veil of grey snow clouds hung over Patara. Nestled on a steep-sloping hillside, the city boasted a robust port, consistently filled with merchant ships, military vessels, and the occasional pleasure boat; their sails puffed and billowed in the wind; their flags shifting about at the will of the ever changing current.

Advancing down the hill above the city, the young Nicholas darted from roof top to roof top. He moved with ghost-like speed, agile and daring, leaping and running despite the frost and ice that coated the thatched roofs he traversed — all laden with deep green wreaths and robust collections of holly. The lights of the town flickered and danced, poking holes in the grey atmosphere, attempting to help the rising sun break through. Nicholas looked up to see the clouds building slowly, full and pregnant with snow, signaling that another storm was fast approaching. He decided he had to hurry if he was to beat the coming flurry.

He smiled as his pace quickened: on the wind, whistling past his ears, was music. The strange, foreign Elven tongue sang a haunting melody, soothing and uplifting, otherworldly even. It seemed to skate along the stone walls that surrounded the city. The melody greeted the guards that marched along the wall and that occupied the eight towers that stood above the eight gates of Patara. It warmed them when the chilled, frosty air stung their eyes, ears, and noses. The song brought to mind fireplaces, wreathed trees, presents, spiced drinks, and cakes. It was magic encased in notes and created a calming mood, soothing hearts and minds.

A quartet of Elven singers gave voice to the song. People passed by, along the main road, their arms full of goods and necessities and things they didn’t need but bought anyway, and would stop and close their eyes for a chorus, allowing the magic to sink in. Then, with a sigh, they would move on home.

The quartet wore clothes made of the finest materials, a kind wholly unknown in the modern day and age, material woven by magicians. This craftsmanship created awe and envy. The clothing was a deep green with golden buttons and golden thread. They wore thick pants and leather, handcrafted shoes. The collars of their dense coats were turned up to ward off the wind that gusted from time to time.

The Elves were held in high esteem by most and high suspicions by a few. They had helped rebuild the city after the ten-year war with the great Ogres of the East. But that was ancient history. Those that had seen the great battle were dying off. The younger generations knew only peace and prosperity, and the Elves were the source of both. They had brought medicine, food, and hope. They oversaw the construction of the stone and wood shops — butchers, chandlers, bakers, tailors, all with large frost colored glass windows, large wood doors, gold inlaid handles — that lined the main road. These fed into the city center, a circular venture, occupied by a gigantic fountain that provided a respite from the summer heat for children and adults. Yes, some were jealous of their skill, but those that remembered the times before their arrival had grown to depend on their charity, their medicine, and their craftsmanship.

Amongst the bustle and joy of the day, a Beggar, someone no one gave notice to, stumbled along the road. He stopped before the quartet and swayed uneasily from side to side in time with the melody. It seemed to sooth his hungered soul for the moment, but an uneasy thought, one that he could no longer control, gripped his mind and pushed him on down the road, into an alleyway. Darkness seemed to be the only solution to his anguish.

The Beggar didn’t bother with tears. No one would miss him. No one would remember his name. He slumped down, and, strangely, he noticed the cleanliness of the area around him. Had someone recently swept the dirt path between the butcher’s and the cobbler’s shop? He rubbed the worn leather lapel of his overcoat. His mud-caked black hair covered his eyes as he lowered his head and pulled the last meaningful earthly possession from his coat pocket: a silver bladed Elven knife, white ivory carved handle. It rested nicely in his hand.

He gazed at it for a long moment. It was a gift from the Elven general that had led the attack to drive back the Ogres. The Elven forces from the Great Northern Forest had arrived late into the conflict after Theophones had convinced his father-in-law, Alyan, and a group of Elven warriors and healers to save the city. And this forgotten man, this Beggar, had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Elven general during forty days of intense blood shed as they drove the demonic forces into the deep mountain pass. In a deeply emotional ceremony to commemorate the victory, the general had passed the knife on to the now hopeless soul. So much had gone wrong since then. Now he pressed the glorious blade to his wrist, and applied the necessary pressure to severe the artery lying under the thin, pale veil of skin.

Whomp! Nicholas landed with a thud in front of him. The Beggar relaxed the pressure and his full attention was on Nicholas as he stepped into the dim sunlight. His clothes made of the same green, crushed velvet, were flecked with the snow off the rooftops. Nicholas slid his hood off and revealed a head of black curly hair. Over his right shoulder was a leather satchel. Over his left shoulder was a coiled rope. The tops of Nicholas’ ears showed the shadow of the Elven point, but were not as distinct nor as noticeable. His grey-green eyes sparkled and glimmered with hope the Beggar had long since lost.

Hello, Nicholas said to him. That is a beautiful knife.

The Beggar looked down. The knife remained pressed to his exposed wrist.

It is from my people and the ancient land, Nicholas continued.

The boy kneeled in front of the man, removed the satchel from his shoulder, and reached out to him. May I see it?

Automatically, the Beggar extended the knife to him, handle first.

Nicholas inspected it, running his fingers over the etching in the ivory. This was a gift. It means something to you.

The Beggar nodded and this simple movement set off a coughing fit, rattling his lungs deeply and thoroughly. His body rocked and he collapsed to his side.

Once the cough ceased, Nicholas carefully helped him back up to a sitting position.

I’m Nicholas, he said and extended his hand.

The Beggar took his hand and shook it weakly. Nicholas released the man’s hand and turned it over. He delicately handed the knife back to the Beggar. Then, from his leather satchel, Nicholas pulled out a loaf of bread, golden brown, perfectly baked. The Beggar’s mouth watered instantly as he imagined the crunchy crust melting on his tongue. Nicholas handed him the much needed sustenance and a leather pouch of water.

The Beggar deftly used the knife to slice a large piece of the bread off. Nodding, unable to speak, the man conveyed his thanks. Nicholas smiled. His cheeks grew rosy red. A deep laugh bubbled up from his gut. He winked and dashed off down the alley, rounded the corner of the building, and into the crowded streets.

Nicholas’ mind was bent on the forest and his greater mission. He dodged shoppers and carts and horses that clogged the narrow roads of the eastern portion of Patara — an area where commercial and family neighborhoods merged. He soon reached the Eastern gate, marked by a gigantic wreath, dotted with green and red glass bulbs, etched with gold