Nicholas was as much a hermit as I believe any man could be.
A monthly excursion into our town on the hill was the only contact he ever seemed to have. Ol' man Nick, as we children would call him, would come in by way of the main path from the woods, the northern woods.
Nicholas was a plump man, for so would anyone that shopped solely at Julie's Jams down by the pub. He had an ever-constant grin open his brilliant face, gentle and greeting at the same time. Curled locks of shimmering white hair that encompassed his head and fell from his rosy cheeks topped off his well-rounded head. But one thing held Nicholas as a man of gossip - his adornment of crimson robes he wore.
Now, I must tell you of these robes, for it makes all the difference in Nicholas' and our lives. We children could always see Ol' man Nick coming to town, for, at any time of year it be, one could see a flowing red seemingly float down the dirt or snow covered path from the woods. (Even that time Jackie had a lump on his eye, Nick was spotted not more than seven yards from the forest's edge.) But, the robes, the robes were always the same dashing crimson-a deep blood red. Sometimes, they would be interwoven with a golden lace, and other times every hem would correspondingly have the fur of a white bear circling it. I believe that Nicholas' robes started our town's rumors.
But other than tailoring, which we assumed Nick did in creating such elegant robes, Nicholas was a tinker. He would have shoes left on his step and returned to the owner's the following day. As well, the ever-burning lanterns that followed the paths in the town were of Nicholas' creation. But mostly, he made toys. A new one would be found following the birth of a child and at each of our birthdays (although we children were told to never expect them), and each gift was always one of a kind. Yet again, these workings on led to harmful tales of Nick.
One day, Ol' man Nick was just a widower that sought to leave behind the rest of humanity, but his glossy grin put to the discrediting of such a fable. Within a week though, the man that came from the forest outside our town was a deprived man of ill thoughts and ways. It could only be understood a heathen would wear such clothes and fashion such toys. (When this farcical telling came out, Billy, when he was still limping a bit, began a small group of children to chant childish remarks at Nick.) But this distorted tale of a man no one had spoken more than three words to, ever, evolved at all at once. From a wife-less man to madman to - sorcerer, this yarn took feet into malice.
This version of Nicholas' life finally took. The things he bought at Julie's Jellies (thyme, rosemary, and other spices) were but ingredients for his devilish brews. His robes were that of an allied apprentice to the dark one himself. The toys, the toys were but harmful charms sent to us children to gain more minions of Hell. And who would not believe such fantastical stories when none of it was refuted in the pub or church (neither place Nick would ever step into)? This built case was already sealed for our town on the hill. A convicted wizard had been branded and must be shown example.
The lay of the pub and the lay of the church, our cornerstone of social keeping, went to the town hall to discuss Nicholas' crimes and punishment. (While Suzy brought out cookies and milk with her good arm,) her father and the town's fathers came to their conclusion that to burn Ol' man Nick would be divine and of God's will. That night the snow came with a fury unknown.
This collective tribe from our town on the hill ventured into the forest with our minister leading, a Bible and torch in either hand. I saw it all from afar. After a trip to the lowlands and my aunt's, I brought news of yet another successful birth. I can still remember being foot-deep in snow as our blacksmith threw his torch first into Nick's house. Others did as well, but the first ignited the small wooden hold into a raging fire.
From my view, obscured by a solemn fir, the tree looked to be itself alit with a veracious shine. But from the side, I learned what no one would know for a year. Nicholas did not burn with his home. I caught a glimmer of him in a flowing robe walk from the fire, smiling more than ever and laughing with a "Ho, ho, ho", and get into an awe-inspiring sleigh. But soon, it faded with the gaining blizzard, and I thrust myself home.
After a year, the Nicholas had already endeavored a legend status to our town on the hill. So much had happened. (Davey from the street over died from a brutal animal beating, which garnered the most attention.) Even, the size of the town could be seen to actually grow some.
But with the approaching winter, the thoughts could be seen to surface. Soon, chimneys were overly filled with searing intensity for fear Ol' man Nick would come sneaking down one. The gracious gifts Nicholas made were turn to cinder ash. And even the lanterns suffered to be torn down. But on the night, the anniversary, nothing could be prepared any more. A snow that could take one's sight came, and with it, a drowning sleep grabbed each of us.
In the morn', each step in our town on the hill held a bow for the number of children within. Gleaming paper wrapped the perfect squares, and inside beautifully crafted toys were stuffed. While we had slept a grounded slumber, Nicholas had returned, we were certain. The one toy I saw, a train, was of masterful craft and painstaking beauty, but it too succumbed a pitch fire behind the church.
Another year passed and so did the thoughts of Nick coming once more. Yet a tradition seemed to begin a start as the closer "that night" came that our town on the hill grew anxious. Again, the fireplaces were stuffed with more logs than we children could carry, our new lanterns were snuffed, and a common fear struck. I thought this odd; for once again, much had occurred in the passing year which should have taken away Ol' man Nick's presence.
(Jamie had her leg split in three places, and a month later she had the same happen to the other. Tommy just seemed to collect bruises all over his body; it got to the point that a game was made to find any fresh ones. Hillary got it the worse as her back was broken; our doctor said she could never play again. Even, Lucy gained a large scar that ran horizontal across her broken nose.)
So the night came. And with that came a storm of white. Then, the clutching sleep took. A wailing wind was all one could hear through the pressing blizzard. But we children could hear a jingle of bells so faint. Then, the morrow came.
I can only gather our parents ran for the pub or church with a might. Not one child to found within any home; it must have been a clenching fright. But I am sure it was clear to our town on the hill, Nicholas had come once again.
Sometimes, I do think of this story and my parents and the men of the pub and church, and I do wonder what it would be to have grown up. But I think I like living in the seclusion of the snow with all my friends that themselves will never age. I know it is a gracious gift. There are toys, snow, animals...
And then there is always Nicholas.
Michael E. Wiggam