The Believers' Guild, Stave I, entitled "Two for One"

The Believers' Guild

By

Michael Nickels

December  2011

Stave I

"Two for One"

            It was 10:30, another Christmas Eve had arrived and was drawing to a close. Beth asked Griffin and I to take out the trash and empty the recycle bin from the kitchen pantry.

            It had been snowing since 3:00 o'clock that afternoon and there was at least three inches blanketing the ground. It was a consistent, but gentle snow.  I'll never understand the hatred some people have for winter.

            "I told you I prayed for a white Christmas, Dad," Griffin reminded me.

            "God must have heard you, buddy," I said as I opened the side door on our garage. It was a preferable path to our alley way than messing with the gate latch on our wooden privacy fence.

            Griffin was walking about 3 to 5 yards ahead of me, but I was lost in thought about Christmas and the fact that school would not resume until January 9th. A teacher is never more in touch with their inner child than when they're on Christmas break. I despise the politically correct euphemism "Winter break."              A reprieve from the daily grind of grading, rude kids, and time demands was both welcome and needed. I think that even on my best day of teaching I will long for the quiet and solitude of a writer's life.

            "Dad!" Griffin called out and shattered my seasonal reverie. "There's a man out here." Griff's voice sounded surprised, but unafraid. Still, I hurried to his side.

            Standing before us was a bulky man wearing a heavy Carhartt  coat that was a very deep hunter's green. His dark brown work pants were tucked into a pair of sturdy high-laced hiking boots topped off with red wool socks folded over his boot tops where you should be able to see the bow of his shoe strings.  He was rotund, but there was a powerful thickness in his upper body and solid legs. I'm around 5'10" and I guessed him to be at least a head taller than myself.

            His most striking feature was his long silky white hair and beard. There was great age in his face, but nothing about him seemed feeble. He reminded me of  Odin, king of  the Norse gods and the father of Thor. Before I could speak Griffin broke the silence.

            "Dad, it's Santa Claus," he gasped. He had given voice to our shared thought. I was just about to rebuff Griff and ask the stranger if he needed some help, but before I could speak the large man began to laugh.

            "Ha-ha-ah-hoah-ha-ha," he laughed and he seemed to put his entire being into the act. It was a deep honest laugh that radiated warmth and wisdom.

            "Oh, Griffin," he began, "I knew you were a true believer. There's something about the eyes."

            He stepped closer and placed his hand on Griffin's shoulder. Griff wore a close-mouthed smile and stared up at the man.

            "How do you know my son's name?" I asked as I stepped in and squared up to the man.

            He laughed again, looked down, and shook his head slightly. When he looked up he turned his arctic blue eyes toward me.

            "Michael," he said to me, "it's time to give in to what you know is true, what you have always known to be true, and speak my name."

            The man then put his bare hand on my shoulder. It was an indefinable moment, but I literally felt his goodness. My eyes began to glisten, my lower lip quivered, and my voice failed me.

            "Dad!" Griffin blurted with emotional urgency. "You know who this is," Griffin accused. "Call him Santa Claus!"

            After letting out a long sigh, I stared at Griffin. He had a pleading look on his face and my need to ease his anxiety gave me the strength to speak.

            "That's just one of his names, Griffin. He has many."

            "Tell him about my names," the old man said softly.

           

            "In America," I continued, "we call him Santa Claus. It's a name that came from the Dutch settlers who called him Sinterklaas. In other parts of Europe he is called Kris Kringle."

            "Does he have more names?" Griffin asked.

            "Yes, he does," I added. "The French call him Pere Noel and the British call him Father Christmas. There are other names all around the world."

            He did not remove his hand from our shoulders and it was as if a goodness continued to radiate from him and I felt even more peaceful.

            "And what name do you call me, Michael?" the old man pressed.

            "We are a Catholic house," I said and I took Griffin's hand in mine. Then, I knelt down before Santa Claus. Griffin followed suit.

            "You are Saint Nicholas," I finally said. "You are the Bishop of Myra and you attended the first Council of Nicaea. It was there you fought and argued with Arius of Egypt."

            "Yes," Santa said with a nod. "Tell us more; teach Griffin more."

            "Santa Claus would never fight someone," Griffin asserted.

            "Your father speaks truly, Griffin," Santa confessed, "but you must understand that nearly 1800 years ago I was not as you see me today. The fight is perhaps a story for another time, but what I fought for matters now."

            "Yes, Santa, you  literally fought to define the Trinity as we now know it and the sovereignty of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Servant King."          

            "You and Griffin have served our Holy King well,"  Santa said and added, "and you must remember that your faith is a journey. We are all travelers on this path and it is seldom a smooth and level one."

            "As an eternal traveler, you would know," I said. "As you are also the patron saint of sailors, travelers, ships and the protector of children."  

            Santa let loose with another powerful laugh and then he spoke to us in a voice that was both commanding and loving.

            "Arise, Griffin Alexander. Arise, Michael Patrick. Stand and join our ancient guild."

            "Uh, Santa," Griffin began and he raised his hand as if he were in school, "what's a guild?"

            Again, his joyous laugh filled our ears. Griffin and I stood up as St. Nicholas placed his hands on each of our hearts. His aura of goodness seemed to warm the wintery air around us. He bowed his head and softly, almost silently, muttered some Latin words. He then raised his head and smiled.

            "The two of you are now members of the Believers' Guild. You have earned this because all of your lives you refused to let me go. Neither of you have ever argued or spoken against my existence. Hundreds of times you have held me in your hearts while you silently and inwardly scoffed at those who doubted. You had inner knowledge that others could not quite grasp  and while you respected their right to disbelieve, you also joyously and righteously  let the mysterious magic of your inner faith warm your hearts. You were right to believe in me. I'm finally here to tell you that."

            "Yes," I said as tears streamed down my face.

            "Uh, excuse me," Griffin said, "but I still don't know what the heck a guild is? Can someone give me a little help here?"

            Saint Nicholas and I both laughed. Griffin began to look a little frustrated.

            "I  hope you're laughing next to me and not at me," Griffin grumbled.

            "Of course that is what we are doing, Griffin," St. Nicholas assured him.

            "It's like a club, Griffin. You know, like when you were in Boy Scouts," I added, "but I have a feeling it's not as well known."

            "That is true," Nicholas told us. "There have been many members. Some of them famous, some of them you know, and there are those that you will come to know in the future."

            "How may we serve you now?" I asked.

            "You may serve in the same way that you have for years," St. Nicholas told us. "Continue to believe and know that you will eventually be contacted by other members of the Guild. For now though, go back into your home, enjoy Christmas day. Live well, laugh often, and love one another."

            He then opened his arms and wrapped them around us. The three of us embraced for what seemed like a long time. Oddly, Griffin and I noticed a musky odor about his jacket. As we parted the old man must have heard us sniff.

            "You smell reindeer," he said with a soft chuckle.

            "Good-bye, Santa," Griffin said.

            It seemed to me that the occasion called for some formality.

            "Farewell, St. Nicholas," I said.

            "Please, call me Nicholas," he said. "You will learn that while the Believers' Guild involves me, it is not totally about me. Good night my sons."

            He turned and walked down the alley. As he passed through a darkened section we lost sight of him. He did not come out the other side.

            Griffin and I went back into our house. As we entered the kitchen, Beth was coming down our back staircase.

            "Have you guys been outside all this time? Aren't you cold?" she asked.

            "No," I said. "We were just enjoying the white Christmas that Griffin had prayed for."

            "Okay," she drawled. "Carson's already asleep and I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

            "I am, " Griffin said.

            "I'm going to have a drink and look at the tree for a while," I said.

            I kissed Beth good night, opened the fridge and poured myself a cup of Custard Nog. I then sat on the couch and let the lights and music of the season wash over me.

PROLOGUE - Gary's Art

PROLOGUE- Gary's Art

          Writing had always satisfied him. Nick Monroe loved everything about it. The stillness, the solitary silence, the way that his thoughts and words filled a blank page, and the inventive joy that came with creating a story. It eased his spirit. Everyone should be able to do one thing that causes people to say, "You're good at that."

          "Attach and send," he said to himself. Then he smiled.

          He took a long sip of coffee and looked out the window of his apartment. Holiday music came from his radio. Annually, he listened to it from the Friday after Thanksgiving until the evening of December 25th. The early morning snow continued to fall on Boston's Chinatown.  It was the third Saturday in December.

          "Gotta love a Christmas snow," Nick whispered quietly.

          He let his thoughts turn to Charles Dickens, It's a Wonderful Life, and Miracle on 34th Street. His study of the seasonal weather was interrupted by a soft voice. He turned to see his pretty wife standing in the doorway of his writing den. She was holding her own mug of coffee, snugly wrapped in her favorite robe.

          "Is there any thing better than Christmas time?" she asked her husband.

          "Fall is nice," he said, "with the autumn colors and the start of a football season."

          "Don't forget the green of spring," she countered. "New flowers blooming and all that stuff."

          "And the Red Sox take the field," he added.

          "There's also summer," Nick said. "You know, the long days and warm evenings that seem to go on and on."

          "I haven't forgotten," she said.

          "Me neither," Nick said. Waves of recollection ebbed between them.

          "I'm so proud of you, Nick," she said. "My husband, the new columnist for The Boston Globe."

          "Raaaahhh!" Nick joked and waved his hands in the air. "'The crowd goes wild."

          This made his wife laugh and that was another one of his favorite things.

          "And my wife," he replied, "the prettiest art gallery manager in all of 'Bean Town', Massachusetts. Nobody can spot beauty like you can."

          She walked over to his desk. Nick rose to his feet and they hugged each other tightly. He kissed the top of her head.

          She picked up the picture frame from off of his desk and studied it.

          "I spotted you, didn't I?" she said as she gave him another squeeze.

          Together, they gazed at the picture of Nick, his three best friends, his younger brother, and a blonde haired blue-eyed boy with an amazing smile. Carson, Nick's little brother, and a grinning Gary were sandwiched between four high school football players dressed in red and white uniforms. From left to right there was a tall handsome quarterback sporting a #12 jersey, Nick was # 85,  a dark haired square-jawed powerful fullback/strong safety  wore #42, and a very speedy younger player  with sharp features was clad in his #22 jersey. The word CRUSADERS was emblazoned across the chest of each young man.

          "Man, will you look at Gary and Kit?" Nick said.

          "Oh, speaking of the boys, your mom called last night. Their plane is supposed to land at 8:30 tonight. I went ahead and made reservations at Turner's for a late dinner."

          "Best 'chowdah' in town," Nick said in an attempt to disguise his persistent Hoosier drawl with a proper Bostonian accent.

          "They aren't really boys any more," he said reflectively.

          "In my mind's eye," she began, "they'll always be boys."

          "You're right," Nick concurred. "I guess I wouldn't call Carson 'Kit' if I thought of him any other way."

          Nick wore a pensive expression. He began to let his mind time-trip back to a cool spring day when he was in the 11th grade.

          "Tell me again, Nick," she said, "about that first time you met Gary. Do you remember the day?"

          "As if it happened an hour ago," he said to her

          "The guys and I were stuck in the 'Dungeon' on a cool spring day…" Nick began.