There is a tale of days of long
ago that is very seldom told – not because it is so antiquated, but because elements
of it are tragic. It has therefore has been swept under the rug so to speak – hidden
from audiences all these many years. And yet, it is a tale that needs be told.
And so, breaking from the hustle and bustle of a busy season, I pause to share
it with you.
Throughout history social orders
have divided groups by class or culture. Societal norms do not allow for
transcendence through class boundaries. Such was the case in this tale.
Kristopher Kringle was born to
Elizabeth and Kristoph Kringle. They were peasants and worked each day of their
lives just to provide scanty clothing for their children and put
a meager spread of food on the table. On the last day of his existence,
Kristoph Kringle was found in the woods, slumped over his axe which had been
sunk deep into the trunk of a deadfall tree.
This left young Kristopher in the
care of his mother. She had once been young and beautiful, but years of manual
labor had worn the curves from her body, the roses from her cheeks and the
fullness from her lips. Without her beloved husband to provide for the family,
she could put but little food on the table, so many evenings Kristopher went to
bed famished, having sacrificed what he might have eaten so that one of his
younger siblings could have a portion more.
At the age of 15, Kristopher
left home and procured work as a messenger for Lord Shropton. The pay was poor,
but if he didn’t light a fire in his quarters and ate coarse bread, country
cheese and an occasional cabbage or turnip for his sustenance, the income was
enough for him to survive and to send a small amount back to his mother to provide
for his family.
It was through his service as
messenger that he first met Mary. Mary Kristmas was born to be a duchess. The
first time Kristopher saw her she was seated in the garden, painting a picture
of the vineyards. Though she faced away from him, the setting sun splashed
orange highlights across her brunette locks.
So compelling was the image that Kristopher paused, entranced by the
shimmer in her full hair. Had not his horse nudged him, he might have stayed
rooted to that same spot on the gravel drive until he was caught and punished
for looking upon one so far above his station. On that fateful day, he
delivered Lord Shropton’s message and left – but his heart stayed on.
Months passed after the chance
encounter. As fate would have it, one day while Mary was out riding, a terrible
storm hit the countryside. Icy winds picked up and torrential rains blew like a
volley of bullets into anything within their path. The storm burst so suddenly
that Mary and her lady riding companion scarcely had time to turn around before
they were hit full force. At the first clap of thunder, the young, skittish
horse Mary was riding bolted, pulling the slippery reins from Mary’s grasp.
The terrified pony plunged wildly into
the relentless weather with Mary clinging to the saddle. Her cries for help were lost in the howls of
the wind and the horse ran too fast for her to safely dismount. She felt
helpless, doomed to perish in the untamable storm.
Time and time again she reached unsuccessfully
for the wet reins. At last she managed to grab one side of the reins and pulled
on it with all her might. The horse balked at the bit, reared up, and fell to
its side, crushing Mary’s leg beneath its weight before scrambling up and
disappearing into the darkness.
Stunned, Mary lay on the sodden
forest floor. Eventually she attempted to stand, but her leg was twisted uselessly
at an odd angle. Fighting back waves of nausea and dizziness, she dragged
herself to the side of the roadway beneath the sparse shelter of an evergreen.
Surely someone would come for her when her horse returned home without her.
The storm raged
on. Soaked and in shock, Mary began to shiver convulsively. She fought to stay
conscious. For what seemed like hours, she sat beneath the failing shelter of the
large tree, propped against its trunk.
I will die here, thought Mary. There
will be those that mourn my passing; my mother, my father, but who else? I’ve
done very little for this world, certainly nothing heroic, and once I am gone I
will soon be forgotten.
The thought discouraged her, but
only for a moment. She could not die, cowering beneath the needled branches;
she was born to be nobility and should live to fulfill some greater purpose.
Wincing and moving cautiously so
as not to injure herself further, Mary reached for an overhead branch that had
died long ago. It was sturdy and required her full body weight to snap it from
the trunk. It gouged into her armpit as she attempted to stand, but she knew it
was her best chance at survival. Warily she leaned forward. The makeshift
crutch held. Dragging her useless leg beside her, she hobbled forward.
She had gone no more than fifteen
paces beyond the tree when she heard it: the thundering sound of hooves beating
against the ground. Had her horse returned? Perhaps it had calmed enough so she
could coax herself onto it to be carried home. The sound grew closer and Mary
braced herself for what might be her only chance of survival. Within seconds her
mount would round the bend, hopefully see her and stop – for she was in no
condition to capture it.
As predicted, the horse rounded
the bend and stopped, but this was not her horse and this steed already carried
a rider, a messenger boy. The saddle groaned as the young man eased himself to
the ground. “Are you hurt my lady?” he shouted over the din of the storm.
“Yes,” she gasped. “I was thrown
from my horse and I believe the fall has injured my leg.”
The man’s face cringed as he
looked toward her mutilated leg. “May I offer you a ride home?”
It was improper, he a commoner and
she without an escort, but what choice did she have? Surely her parents would
be grateful he had preserved her life and not be vexed about the impropriety of
her sprawled across his lap. Perhaps
they would even reward the young man for such chivalrous behavior.
She inched toward his mount before
realizing she couldn’t climb into the saddle with her mangled leg. He seemed to
understand and - refusing to meet her eyes – scooped her up and gently lifted
into the saddle. Instead of climbing up beside her, he took hold of the reins
and began walking. Clearly the boy had a sense of decency.
Mary had little way of gauging how
far she was from her home. She had been miles before the cloudburst and then
the horse had carried her farther in the wrong direction. The raging storm blocked all familiar landmarks.
“Do you know how far we must go?”
The young man didn’t look back as
he replied. “Several miles, less than fifteen.”
Less than fifteen? With him
walking, it would likely be hours before they reached the house. She shivered
involuntarily, which seemed to set her chills in motion. If he were truly a
gentleman, he would offer her his cloak, but he wouldn’t know that; how could
he? She pulled her arms closer to her body and attempted to draw her legs in
tighter.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m chilled,” she answered.
The man stopped the horse, took
off his cloak, and settled it over her shoulders. Already drenched from the
rain, it did only a little to ease her suffering.
“Thank you,” Mary said.
The man nodded, still refusing to
meet her eyes. Onward they trudged but the storm worsened and Mary could not
tell how far they had traveled. Night stole away the dim light not already drowned
out in the passing storm.
Surely my parents will have sent someone to look for me by now,
thought Mary. There is but one road to my
home and I’m certain to have been missed.
Mary’s fingers clutched the edges
of the cloak, drawing it closer around her. She could no longer feel her
extremities and likely could not have loosened her grip had she tried. Was it
cruel to persuade the young man to allow her to ride on, galloping home? He was
sturdy and had quite obviously seen much worse in his day. Surely a walk in the
storm could do little more damage.
“We’ll stop here,” the youth said
suddenly.
Mary looked up, too shocked to
respond. “We’ll do no such thing. I have to get home. Even now I imagine my
parents are terrified that I have become lost to them. They’ll be sick with
worry.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
Mary clenched her teeth, but didn’t
respond.
“There is a small hut not far from
this spot. We’ll go in it, build a fire, have some supper, and dry out. When
the weather has cleared, we’ll continue onward. I am cold and hungry and I imagine you are as
well.”
“It isn’t proper,” Mary answered.
“Very well,” answered Kristopher,
“you may stay here and await the search parties. I, however, will be going to
the hut to feed myself and my horse. When I return if you are still here, I
will continue to lead you home. If you’ve gone, I’ll deliver my message to your
father and then be on my way.”
“I demand that you take me home.
Know your place servant.”
For the first time, his eyes met
hers. “I am a servant to Lord Shropton. My place is in his service. I was given
the task of delivering a message to your father. You have kept me from that
task. My place would be to leave you and continue on as I was intended to do.
Is that what you wish?”
Put that way, Mary could hardly
protest and so, looking away, she answered, “Very well. We’ll rest.”
With no comment, Kristopher led
her off the path and down into a shallow ravine. It took little time after
reaching the hut for him to light a blazing fire. In the dimly-lit interior she saw as chair, a
small table and a platform probably used as a bed.
“It might take me some time to
find food,” Kristopher said, tossing her an abrasive wool blanket he’d carried
in his saddlebag. “Hang your things by the fire and I will be back as quickly
as I can.”
“Where do you mean to get food?”
“I am an expert huntsman.”
Rage filled Mary. “This is my
father’s land, you thief. How dare you hunt on his grounds!”
A smile played at the corner of
Kristopher’s mouth. “And I am using his game to feed his only daughter.”
His response silenced her
immediately. She waited until the sound of his footsteps were no longer
distinguishable over the rain, and then stripped off her clothing and hung it
from the mantle over the fire. Listening for his return, she took time to
examine her leg. It was surely broken, probably in two places. Large bruises
had formed on both her upper thigh and the middle of her calf. Wincing, Mary
eased herself on the platform and tried to get comfortable on the hard surface.
There was no way of telling how
long the young man had been gone, for when Mary awoke, he was already there,
slowly turning a game hen on a spit.
“You’re back,” she remarked,
stupidly.
He nodded almost imperceptibly. “I
believe your clothing has dried and the sky has cleared. Though I saw no signs
of your father’s men looking for you, I’m certain they are worried. I’ll step
out so you can dress and then we’ll be on our way. We can eat supper as we go.”
Mary watched as the young man
secured the meat over the glowing embers and then exited the shelter. She
pulled herself to a sitting position and made to swing her legs over the side
of the bed. Sharp pains caused her to cry out.
“Are you well, my lady?”
Tears forced their way out of the
corner of her eyes. Gasping she answered, “Will you fetch me my clothing?”
Silence was her only response for
several seconds. At last, she heard the door scrape against the floor as it was
pushed inward. Gathering her underclothing and her gown, Kristopher set the
items gingerly on the platform beside Mary and then, pausing only to turn the hen,
again went outdoors.
The process was long and painful,
but at last Mary had dressed herself except for her stockings and shoes. Her
broken limb was too inflamed for her to force her foot into the shoe and the
other foot she could not reach on account of the first. “I’m ready,” she called
out.
Kristopher entered once again. He
carefully folded the blanket and then offered an arm to support Mary’s walk to
the horse.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Kristopher hesitated, as if making
a decision. Draping the blanket over one arm, he eased himself down on one
knee. Gingerly, Kristopher lifted Mary in his arms and carried her out of
doors. He was still damp, she noted, and had obviously not taken time to dry
out. Loading her once again back onto the horse, Mary grimaced.
“Your feet are bare,” Kristopher
noted.
She nodded.
“I worry you shall become chilled
again.”
Mary looked away. Without waiting
for invitation, Kristopher grabbed her shoes and stockings. With surprising
dexterity, Kristopher eased her stockings over each of her feet, doubling them
over several times until they rested loosely against her calf. Gently he
secured the boot on her non-injured limb before draping the blanket across her
shoulders.
Returning again to the shelter, he
came back with the roasted hen. This he tore in two and gave half to Mary. All
her training flashed before her eyes. It was uncivilized to be eating without
linens and utensils and fine goblets for sipping cider, but her ravenous hunger
won out and with little hesitation she devoured her meat.
“Have you a name,” Mary finally
asked?
“Kristopher,” responded the young
man. “Kristopher Kringle.”
“Well Kristopher, I expect you
shall be handsomely rewarded upon my return.”
Kristopher shrugged.
“Do you not care for money?”
“Money is necessary, but it isn’t
why I helped you.”
Despite herself, Mary smiled
smugly. She had often been praised for her poise and beauty and though she
wasn’t at her finest, clearly he must have seen it. It gave her power and she
used it to her advantage. “Then why did you help me?” she teased.
His response silenced her. “You
were in need of help. I should hope had the roles been reversed, you would have
done the same.”
For much of the long journey home,
Mary contemplated his response. Would she have helped him had he been in need?
He was common. He was poor. He was barely human. Her honesty with herself
sickened her.
Had she died on the roadside, her
parents would have made a show of losing her, but what loss was she really to
humanity? At last she spoke. “Reward or no reward, you must come see me again.”
It is here we escape the
storyline. You see there is much to tell, but it can all be summarized in a few
short sentences. Kristopher did come to see Mary again, as often as occasion
would permit. As one might expect, the two fell deeply in love though such a
relationship was doomed from its conception. Though fairytales attempt to tell
us otherwise, logic tells us a relationship between nobility and a commoner could
not flourish. Their mutual devastation was all-consuming the night she told him
her parents had promised her as wife to a king.
“I can’t go through with it,” Mary
said.
“What choice do you have? A king
is king and his word is law.”
“Kristopher, I love you. I wake
each morning and spend the day thinking of you. At night I dream of you. There
is no part of me that doesn’t belong to you.”
Concealed in the darkness of the
grounds, Kristopher lost his inhibitions. “Mary, my love. . . what can I do?”
“Go to my parents, beg for my
hand.”
Even in the opaqueness of night,
Mary saw the tears as they slipped down his cheeks. “You know I cannot. You are
well above my station and by admitting any feelings for you, I would
immediately be executed.”
“Then take me away,” she
whispered. “Take me away from this life and let me be yours.”
“And where would we go? How would
we live? My family depends on me for sustenance. No one will hire me when it is
discovered what I have done.”
“Then let us go away, beyond the
inhabitants of the world, to a place where money has no meaning.”
“And my family?”
“You forget,” replied Mary, “I am
a duchess and my house has untold wealth. Were I to take only my inheritance,
it would be enough for you, me, our children, your family, and a whole
household of orphans besides.”
“I cannot ask you to do that – to
steal and forsake your family – forsake
your life.”
“I shan’t steal. I will take no
more than my dowry.”
“It is deception.”
“My parents intend for me to wed,
and so I shall.”
“It is a lie.”
Mary looked away from him. “I do
not want to be the woman I am destined to become in this environment; selfish,
greedy and so caught up in meaningless things like the way I hold my hands or
the perfection of my needlepoint. I want a family with children that I see - not
just when I send for them on occasion - but each morning at breakfast. None of
that is possible here.”
“So I am your escape plan?”
“You are my world Kristopher. We
have the same dreams and goals. We can’t be together and we can’t have those
dreams here.”
Pulling her too him, he kissed her
fiercely. “Oh Mary, I wish it were to be so.”
Gently she kissed him back,
“You’re wish is granted,” she whispered.
I must again interrupt because
those who are bound to happy endings often intercede at this point and retell
the tale ending with Mary and Kristopher departing for the South Pole, using
her family’s fortune to start a toy shop, and having hundreds of little children
that never really grew up due to the polarity of the South Pole. Yes it is true
that one night, shortly before Mary’s intended wedding date, Kristopher came
for her. Mary was ready with her portion of her inheritance, much of which she
gave to Kristopher’s siblings and some of which she used to give his mother a
proper burial in a churchyard. But Mary Kristmas did not go on to become Mrs.
Clause, nor did their children spend their lives as toy-making elves.
It might have happened that way
had not something deep inside Mary broken the day her parents promised her in
marriage to a man she did not love, offering their only daughter as though she
were some sort of trophy or premium. Or perhaps her betrothal date is when
something had indeed snapped, but the damage had begun on the day of the fateful
storm that led her to Kristopher. That day she had returned home only to
discover she had not even been missed, her parents assuming she had been in the
care of the servants. It was with no regret and little remorse that a
steel-hearted Mary left her home.
Kristopher and Mary made one stop
on their way to the South Pole and that was in Australia, where they were at
last wedded. It was a small affair, but was the happiest days in both of their
lives.
Once at the South Pole, the two
found a hidden steam vent that sent tropical temperatures up through the
earth’s crust. So though surrounded by icebergs, frigid temperatures, and an
abundance of snow, their small little oasis was almost constantly warm and
sunny for half of the year. It was a good life; plenty of fish to eat, fresh
fruits and vegetables from the garden, and time to spend loving one another. But
decades passed, and though their love was still strong, Kristopher began to
feel selfish in his complete happiness.
It was then, after the two had
been married for more than twenty years, that Kristopher first approached Mary
about spreading the joy and prosperity they had enjoyed. Mary was reluctant at
first, terrified of returning to the world in which she had been so harshly objectified,
but at long last, she was persuaded, remembering how the first time she had
felt sincere love was that day long ago when Kristopher had rescued her from
the roadside. He hadn’t done it because she was nobility, but because she was in
need. It had changed the course of her life. Perhaps it would be healing if she
could do that for others.
So it was that Kristopher Kringle,
hoping to disguise his identity, took on the name of Santa Clause and began
delivering presents to those in the world that fortune had overlooked. Mary
joined him on this quest and with each passing year the two looked forward to
the winter season when their hard efforts made with love could be spread
throughout the world.
Unfortunately, there was one
obstacle between them. It began as playful banter, but year after year it grew
until it could easily be recognized as the wedge driving them apart. You see,
Mary had not forgotten her ill treatment by her parents and by others like them
and continued to feel that those type of individuals should be punished with
terrible creatures sent to haunt their dreams.
As a compromise, Kristopher begged
her to let them send coal to these individuals. The message would be clear;
that they had not acted in a way that upheld others and made the world a better
place because they were in it. Yet those individuals would still receive
something, a gift that could be burned to bring warmth and hopefully thaw out
their icy hearts. Mary contended that any gift was too great a gift.
Year after year, the rift between
them grew. Finally, one Christmas Eve as the sleigh of presents was being
packed, everything came to a head.
“Did you pack the sack of coal,
love?” Kristopher asked.
“Not this year,” answered Mary.
“Must we go over this year after
year?”
“No,” responded Mary, “this year
I’ve made my decision. I love to go with you to deliver small tokens of joy to
deserving and good-hearted individuals, but why should those ill-behaved
mongrels of the world be given anything? If you insist on giving them coal or
any token of our passing, I can no longer support this effort.”
Kristopher stopped strapping down
the overflowing bags of gifts. “Don’t do this Mary. Remember how you feel when
you do something for others. Don’t let this hatred fester and destroy you.”
“It doesn’t destroy me, it
completes me. I cannot bear your hopeless optimism, your eternal view through
rose- colored
glasses. You must see that not everyone deserves something.”
“Please, don’t do this.”
“I have no choice.”
Tears filled Kristopher’s eyes as
he stepped toward Mary and gathered her in his arms. “Mary we defied everything
to be together and we were given that chance. We have love. We have prosperity.
We need to share that with others.”
“I can’t on these terms,”
whispered Mary. Her voice strengthened. “I’m sorry, but I there are some people
I cannot forgive and some actions I cannot overlook.”
“Please.”
“I will be gone by the time you
return.”
“Mary.”
Stiffening, Mary disentangled herself
from her husband’s embrace. It broke her heart that it should end this way; she’d
enjoyed such bliss, such happiness, with a man she could no longer abide. “Just
go. You’ll be late.”
They had fought this fight before
and he fully expected her to stay. Disagreements are a naturally occurring part
of a relationship. Delivering the gifts gave him time to cool off, to blow off
steam. Certainly it would do the same for her. One can only imagine his
heartbreak and the months of depression that followed when he returned to a South
Pole that had fully iced over, chilled by the frosty disposition of the
mistress.
None alive today will remember the
tales of the years that Santa Clause didn’t come. He couldn’t come. Upon seeing
the South Pole and imagining it without Mary, he left, signed all the legal
paperwork for the divorce and spent several years in Australia, working as a
cowhand and trying to forget. It was there he met Karma Noel, one of the cooks
for the large ranch. She was kind. She was hard working. She was selfless. She
helped Kristopher regain hope for humankind. And so he married her and she
became the Mrs. Clause so often recounted in tales of Santa and the North Pole.
Working together, they relocated
to the North Pole, created an empire, and used Mary’s inheritance – constantly
growing through proper investments – to hire elves. Though he found peace,
hope, love and joy, Kristopher continued to wear the red fur-lined suit that
Mary made him as a reminder. A reminder that although there is a world full of
hatred, cruelty, disaster and violence, if the focus is placed only on those
negative entities – all the goodness, kindness, gentleness and humanity will be
overlooked until it ceases to exist.
Many who have been privy to this
little-known tale wonder what became of Mary. Do not mourn her. The night
Kristopher flew away, Mary was momentarily stunned, but her pride helped her
recover quickly. Loading her few belongings atop a magical flying candy cane,
and kicking the snow from her red ruby slippers, she took off into the night,
landing deep in the forest at the hut where she and Kristopher had spent an
evening decades before.
At first she was heartbroken that
a love so beautiful and so tender could have collapsed with such finality. Grieving
and lamenting the loss of her one true love, Mary switched out her fur lined
red cloak and minty-striped stockings for stockings striped in black and white
and mourning black crepe. From there, her life became what legends are made of.
Some cultures agree that she used the
candy cane to adorn her house, adding other sweets as time permitted so that
she could lure in little children to eat. Eventually she was baked in her own
oven by some intelligent orphans.
Others say she was cast in a major
film production and though her face was never to be seen, her legs with their
black and white striped stockings and sparkly red shoes became iconic.
In several countries it is said
her hut has been bewitched to travel about on the legs of a chicken and that it
travels through the forest in search of children to devour.
A few believe when her grieving
had passed, and with vengeance in her heart, Mary vowed to begin a celebration
of her own kind at her own time of year. It would be in the season when the
frost came and plant life was wiped out. It would be at the time of year when
hours of daylight were scarce. It would follow the rules she had set forth for
the universe. A treat would be given for those who had been good and kind and
for those who exploited the innocent and were a drain on society, there would
be nothing but monsters, ghouls, hauntings and tricks. And so Mary Kristmas,
having been made immortal through her time at the South Pole, traded her flying
candy cane for a broom, and has found contentment in spending October 31st
of each year passing out tricks or treats.
Yet I prefer the legend of the
Italians. The tradition follows a witch who was approached by the Wisemen and
asked to lead them to the Christ child. As she was busy sweeping her house at
the time, she dissented. Only later did she realize the gravity of her error
and then began searching all the houses of the world on the eve of January 6th
to find that special baby. Though He has long since passed, the messages of His
life have not. La Befana, as she is called, leaves a gift in the stocking of
the Italian Children and continues to look for the Christ child. I’m sure she
too sees that the prisons are full, families live in broken homes and life has
become unnaturally busy. Yet HOPE still survives; hope in healing from wrongs,
hope in forgiveness, hope for a little more compassion and understanding -- hope
made possible by a baby who came into this world centuries ago and whose birth
we celebrate this season.
Love this! Well worth the read. :) I guess your focus was more on Santa. I wanted to read more about her decent into becoming the witch. ;) Fascinating!
ReplyDeleteLoved this story!! I even read it to my hubby and he loved it!! Thank you for the story.
ReplyDelete