Kris Kringle

“Ah yes, welcome to Silverbell, good saint,” one of the guards greeted him warmly, “King Ren—I mean Prince Renier—was hoping the South Kingdom could send a religious representative to help in the funeral. He asked that any visitors be brought to the castle upon arrival. If you’ll allow me, I shall escort you there.”

Kris kept his head lowered so that his hood concealed his identity as much as possible. The beard he now wore on his face did bring a considerable change to his appearance, but Kris feared that if he became too comfortable with his new persona, he would be discovered and arrested.

“I know the prince is a very busy man,” Kris said in the new voice he had created for Saint Nicholas, “If he truly wishes to see me, I of course could not decline such a meeting. But I would truthfully be content with remaining in the background this trip. I simply wish to pay my respects to King Wenceslas’ memory.”

“Lord Renier insists that any visitors for the funeral be greeted by him,” the guard repeated, “Please follow me, Saint Nicholas.”

Kris did as directed, continuing to keep his head low as the guard led him through the marketplace toward the castle. For weeks Kris had been plotting in the forest how and when he would make his return to Silverbell. Of all the potential plans he had considered, he had never pictured himself being peacefully escorted by one of the royal guards to see Lord Renier directly. Indeed, if Kris had been told that such a scene would accompany his return, he would have assumed it was because he was caught and was being sent to the castle for execution. But here he was, returning to the royal grounds that he had frantically escaped over a month ago. His heart now felt much as it did on that morning he had snuck inside the castle’s kitchen.

The guard brought Kris over the drawbridge, and Kris could not help glancing over the edge into the moat that had once nearly brought him to death’s door. They continued walking through the castle, past the inner courtyard, and into a magnificently lit room, with high ceilings, stained glass windows, and a large golden throne against the far wall. A red carpet with a thick white border on either side led the way directly to the king’s throne. It was upon that throne that Kris now saw Prince Renier seated, discussing something with his adviser Monty.

“Your Highness,” the royal guard escort said respectfully, bowing down momentarily on the ground before the throne, “I present to you Saint Nicholas, who comes here from the South Kingdom for your father’s memorial ceremony.”

Lord Reneir smiled as he looked at Kris. “Welcome to Silverbell, Saint Nicholas,” he said warmly, “I am so pleased you have taken the time to be here. I was hoping the South Kingdom could send a priest to honor my father. As you surely know, my father was well-loved, not just by his own people, but by many others in faraway lands. As such, I have many visitors who are likewise here for the funeral that are being hosted and housed in the castle. I regretfully say that I therefore have no room here for you to stay in. However, I thought perhaps you could stay with Saint Martin, our own priest here in Silverbell. He lives in the upper floor of the church in the marketplace, and I am sure he would provide a space for you to stay for the night.”

Kris graciously bowed himself before the prince. “No apology necessary, Your Highness. Indeed, staying in a church would make me feel more at home than staying in a king’s castle.”

Renier chuckled. “Yes, I thought it might be a more familiar setting for you. But certainly reach out to any of my men if you require something, and I will see to it that it is provided for you.”

“You are very kind, Your Majesty.”

A servant approached Renier and whispered in his ear.

“Well, good saint, you must excuse me as I have some business to attend to. The ceremony will be held in the church tomorrow morning. I hope you will enjoy your stay in Silverbell.”

“It is an honor, Your Grace,” Kris said, again bowing down as Renier stood up from his throne and walked past Kris and the guard on his way out of the throne room.

The guard then escorted Kris to the church, where he was introduced to Saint Martin. His room—which contained only a desk and humble bed—was shown him by the priest, and the two exchanged brief pleasantries, Kris trying to create answers for the questions Saint Martin was asking of him.

“Please let me know if you need anything,” Saint Martin had said before leaving Kris alone in his room. For the first time since he had stolen the robe from the real Saint Nicholas, Kris removed the cloak, set down his bag which contained the king’s robe, and let out a sigh of relief. His disguise had worked! Or at least, it had so far. He did not know what role—if any—he would be asked to perform in the funeral tomorrow. If he indeed was asked to participate in any way, he would not know the correct wording to say or the correct action to carry out. That thought frightened him, but he tried not to think about it now. He was tired, exhausted physically and mentally from the long walk in the forest and his interaction with Prince Renier. The fact that the guard had corrected himself when saying “King Renier” gave Kris some hope that Renier’s coronation had not yet occurred. “It will likely take place very soon after the funeral,” Kris thought to himself as he began to drop off into sleep upon his bed in the upper room of the church.

It was mid-afternoon when Kris had taken his nap, and so when he awoke a few hours later, he found that it was dark outside, and the rest of the kingdom was preparing to go to sleep. Kris looked out his window. He could not see very clearly, as the glass was clouded, but he knew he was looking out at the cemetery behind the church. It was here that the bodies of prominent citizens of Silverbell rested, including the Royal Family. All kings and queens of the past were buried in a special tomb in the center of the cemetery. A large stone that covered the opening in the ground that led to the tomb had been moved aside in preparation for tomorrow. Kris looked out the window at the opening. If what Grinkers had told him was true, Percy’s Parchment would be somewhere inside that tomb. Perhaps, if Saint Martin was asleep, he could sneak out there unnoticed and search inside. But as Kris considered the thought in his mind, he saw a figure approaching the tomb with a lit lantern in hand. The figure wore a dark robe, and Kris could not make out who it was through the clouded window pane. But if it was Lord Renier—if he had finally discovered what Kris had just discovered about the Parchment’s whereabouts and was now going to retrieve it, Kris had to find a way to stop or distract him. Kris grabbed his robe, placing its hood again over his head, and quickly but quietly made his way downstairs and out the back door that opened up upon the cemetery.

“Good evening,” Kris called out to the figure in his false voice. The person, who also wore a hood upon their head, had already taken a few steps down the stone stairs that led to the underground tomb. They turned to hear who had called out to them. And as the light from the lantern they held fell upon their face, Kris saw that it was indeed someone from the castle, but not Lord Renier.

It was Princess Eva. Her eyes reflected the sadness she felt inside, but her face still seemed to glow with the kind of perfect beauty Kris had pictured and dreamed of while in the forest. He thought of her every day and would think of her every moment if the dangers facing Silverbell were not also preoccupying his mind.

“Good evening, good saint,” the princess replied warmly, recognizing the robe he wore as being that of a priest, “I couldn’t sleep tonight and thought I might spend a moment with my ancestors before tomorrow’s funeral.”

“Ah yes, you are Princess Eva, are you not?” Kris asked innocently. She nodded. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Your Majesty. Your father was one of the best men I ever knew.”

The princess looked surprised. “I cannot say I recognize you, Saint,” she admitted, “Though I confess it is very dark and my father knew many people. What is your name?”

“Saint Nicholas.”

“And you knew my father well?”

“We spent many days together in the past, yes. He was a man of great wisdom. And he had a great love for all people, even those who others might think should have been below his care or attention. King Wenceslas believed that no man was above another, that each contained an ability to change the world.”

The princess smiled, a twinkle returning to her eyes as she listened to Kris’ words. “Yes he did,” she agreed, “I loved and admired him for that.”

“As did I,” Kris replied, “Might I escort you down those stairs? An underground tomb at night is not exactly the safest place for a princess to venture alone.”

The princess nodded her agreement. “Thank you, Saint Nicholas,” she said, “I am not frightened by this place, but I would appreciate your company.”

Kris walked her down the stairs into the pitch dark tomb, Eva’s single lantern providing the only illumination. The tomb was a large room with a low ceiling and stone walls. The caskets of the past leaders of Silverbell were lined up neatly and orderly along the walls. They were ornate and beautiful, far beyond the simple wooden coffins that the other deceased residents of Silverbell were buried in.

“This is my family,” Eva announced, motioning with her lantern to the surrounding perimeter made up of royal caskets, “Every now and then I find myself drawn to this underground sanctuary. I find it peaceful and inspiring to be in the presence of my ancestors. I know others—like my brother—view this tomb as creepy and dirty.”

“Not at all,” Kris stated, “It is right for you to want to be here….especially on the eve of such a somber day. Your father and your ancestors are closer to you than you think.”

Eva looked out at the caskets, tears beginning to well up in her eyes.

“Your father loves you so very much,” Kris added, “In fact, those were his dying words. He wanted you to know that.”

Eva turned around to look at Kris, his hood still blocking the top half of his face.

“What do you mean those were his dying words?” she asked, almost angrily, “His body was never found.”

Kris reached into his pocket and produced the silver medallion that King Wenceslas had given him.

Eva gasped as she looked at the familiar emblem in his hand.

“How did you get that?”

Kris slowly removed the hood from his face. “I found him, Eva,” he said, finally dropping the fake voice he had been using.

Eva stood for a moment in confusion, but when her eyes connected with Kris’, and her ears recognized his voice, the tears that had welled up in her eyes now fell uncontrollably down her cheeks.

“Kris!” she cried with joyful relief and wrapped her arms around him in the tightest and warmest of embraces that Kris had ever known.