Kris Kringle

“The king wants to speak with you,” Felix told Kris, who was sitting outside against a tree, carving a piece of wood.

It had been over four weeks since Kris had escaped the castle and arrived in the elves’ village. The elves had welcomed him as their own, and he enjoyed their simple lifestyle of eating, sleeping, playing, and creating. Kris knew he could not return to Silverbell, at least not immediately. He was certain that the prince had put a price on his head, and because he was uncertain where else he could go and still enjoy safety, he accepted the elves’ offer to stay with them for the time being. He looked much different now than he had when Felix first found him in the forest that night a month ago. His tan face had become a shade lighter now that he was no longer in the daily sun of Mr. Elpert’s ranch, but rather underneath the constant shade of the forest’s evergreen trees. His thick brown beard, which he had never grown out before, was now forming around and under his chin and cheeks. He was now living the life of a woodsman, and he looked the part.

Kris immediately responded to Felix’s call. King Wenceslas had been lying in that same bed since before Kris arrived. His injuries were very bad, and though the elves’ medicine and magic helped to keep him alive, they were unable to fully heal his wounds and allow him to leave his bed. Out of a sense of respect and duty as a citizen of Silverbell, Kris spent most of his time at the bedside of the king. The two talked about many things, even sharing both laughs and tears on occassion. Kris spoke of his life as an orphaned child, his love of dairies and desserts, and his lifelong desire to have a large family. The king told him of his life in the castle, the important decisions he would make on a regular basis, and his love of animals and gardening. Kris eventually shared with him everything about what had occurred in Silverbell—his chance meeting with the princess in the marketplace, the organization of the Shepherds, his dangerous venture inside the castle. He related almost every detail except two: The note about Percy’s Parchment and Eva’s fear that the beast who had attacked the royal caravan was in fact Prince Renier. The latter he could never bring himself to share. How could he possibly tell a dying father that his own son had willingly sent him to his grave? But Percy’s Parchment he had wanted to bring up several times, and yet always refrained from doing so. He did not know why he was so hesitant to ask. Perhaps he feared that if he knew the location and purpose of the Parchment, he would be unable to resist the urge to go tell Jack and the others?

Kris entered the king’s makeshift house that the elves had built for him. The king looked just as he did the night Kris first saw him—weak, tired, and very still. His red royal robe had not been removed from him for fear that moving his body too much would hasten his death.

“Kris, I cannot hold on any longer,” King Wenceslas admitted with a strained voice. He and Kris had formed a strong bond over the past month. They were the only humans in that forest after all, and their daily chats had become something Kris knew he would always cherish…and miss dearly. Kris had been told early on that King Wenceslas would not make a full recovery. “Your foot we could heal with our magic,” Grinkers informed him when he had wrapped a special potion-soaked leaf around Kris’ injured foot, “Torn skin and broken bones obey our commands to be healed. But your king is different. His wounds are the kind that invite death. And when death has been invited, there is nothing I, nor anyone, can do to stop it. We have delayed it, and will continue to do so for as long as we can, but death will eventually accept the invitation it has been extended, despite our efforts or wishes against it.”

Kris knelt by the bedside of the king and grasped his hand.

“You can still fight this, Your Majesty,” Kris assured him, “Perhaps we can find a way to transport you back to the castle—“

“No,” the king objected with a weak shake of the head, “I was holding on for something, but I do not need to hold on any longer. I cannot hold on any longer.”

King Wenceslas relaxed the hand in Kris’ grasp, revealing a beautiful silver medallion, upon which was engraved a glowing star.

“This is the king’s medallion, the symbol of the highest position of leadership in Silverbell,” the king explained, his voice beginning to wheeze, “The star and the robe are emblems that belong to the king, and the king alone.”

Wenceslas looked up at the roof and let out a sad sigh. “How I wish my own son was worthy to receive it,” he lamented, “How I wish pride and vanity had not polluted his heart and mind. But I cannot choose another’s path for him, and I cannot alter the destiny of another.”

He turned his head to look at Kris. “But I can give a gift,” the king said slowly, placing the star-engraved medallion into Kris’ hand, “And hope it will be received.”

Kris shook his head in protest. “I cannot accept this, Your Highness,” he responded humbly, almost fearfully.

“You can,” the king corrected him, “You must. You are the only hope for Silverbell now. Renier will follow the law which states that the son of the king takes power upon the death of his father. They will have given up the search for me by now and proclaimed me dead. If the funeral has not been held yet, it will be soon. You must take that medallion. Take my robe. And take your position as Silverbell’s new king.”

Kris chuckled, not out of humor but out of sheer shock and wonder at what the king had just said.

“I am a farm boy, Your Majesty,” Kris reminded him, “While my loyalty to the kingdom and my desire for her freedom cannot be questioned or diminished, I am not equipped to handle such…power.”

The king smiled. “But you have possessed such power all your life. Before I left for this trip that would become my last, I told my son something my father taught me. It is that power comes to you not by birth into royalty, but by birth itself. A child could be born in a humble stable, my father said, and still be considered a king by men because of his power to do good. Our true power, Kris, is determined by what we do, not by our professions or possessions.”

The king groaned painfully, his body stretching out and then stiffening.

“Tell Eva,” he said with a deep, sad moan, “Tell my Eva I love her so…”

Kris—his eyes wet with tears—tightened his grip on the hand of the man he had come to love and respect.

“I will tell her,” he promised.

The king’s body was now perfectly still.

A few moments later, Grinkers entered the house quietly, observing the king’s lifeless body and the mournful Kris at his side.

“I had dreamed of this man in a different setting and with a different name,” Grinkers observed aloud, speaking in a reverent tone, “I had hoped perhaps that dream represented some kind of prophecy or vision of the future—an indication that he would live after all.”

Grinkers paused to look at the ground. “I am sorry for your loss, Kris Kringle. So far as I could tell, he was a very good man indeed.”

Kris nodded his head, though his gaze was still fixed on King Wenceslas.

“He named me king, Grinkers,” Kris informed him.

“A fine choice,” Grinkers responded casually.

Kris snorted. “You do not understand the governments of men. I am the last person who should be given such an honor and responsibility.” He looked at the medallion in his hand and shook his head. “A king should be a man of wisdom, strength, and vision.”

“I see all those things in you, Kris Kringle.”

Kris closed his eyes, as if upset that Grinkers was not empathizing with his plight.

“I wish I did,” Kris said sadly.

He looked again at the king, kneeling there in respect for another moment, and then stood up slowly.

“I never asked him about Percy’s Parchment,” Kris said aloud to himself with an air of regret.

“The knowledge of Percy’s Parchment dies with the king,” Grinkers stated, still standing in the doorway.

Kris’ eyes grew wide with intense interest as he turned around quickly to look at Grinkers. The old elf was taken aback at the reaction his simple statement had created.

“Where did you hear that?” Kris demanded.