Kris Kringle
Chapter Sixteen: The Road Home

Kris knelt down by Grinkers so that their eyes were level with each other’s.

“That phrase—where did you hear it?” Kris repeated.

“Percy was my father,” Grinkers explained, “Before we elves separated our kind from the humans many years ago, my father was very close to the king of Silverbell.” He paused to look at King Wenceslas’ body. “He was probably your king’s great grandfather. Anyway, the king was very interested in the kind of magic the elves possessed. He had asked my father to use his magic to create a special item for him that would allow him to better protect the kingdom. At that time, the neighboring kingdoms were in great conflict with one another. Invasions and betrayals defined their relationship. The king was looking for something that could help him know of attacks before they came.”

Kris was hanging on every word that Grinkers said, relieved to finally be enlightened on a subject that had been perplexing and alluding him for several weeks now.

“My father, Percy, granted the king’s request and created a magical piece of parchment. This sheet of paper—when a question was written upon it—would reveal the answer.”

“What kind of questions?” Kris asked.

“Any and all,” Grinkers replied, “The original purpose of it, as I mentioned, was to help the king protect the kingdom. So he used Percy’s Parchment to ask what his enemies were plotting, what weaknesses existed in his fortifications, where materials could be found for stronger armor and weapons, and so forth.”

“Well, that would certainly be a handy piece of paper to have!” Kris remarked.

“But a dangerous one,” Grinkers warned, “And both my father and the king recognized that. And so they both agreed that the knowledge that the Parchment provided should die with the king.”

“Meaning?…”

“Meaning Percy’s Parchment would be buried along with king’s body, out of the grasp of all future rulers who might wish to use it for unworthy and selfish purposes.”

The full realization of Grinkers’ words hit Kris like a block of stone. “Lord Renier,” he thought out loud, “He is the very kind of ruler you speak of it. He undoubtedly would use the Parchment to grow his own power and increase his own wealth. This is why he is searching for it.”

Grinkers shrugged. “I am not familiar with this Renier, but I would say this should not be a point of concern for you, Kris Kringle. The Parchment is no longer in the open. He will search for it in vain.”

Kris stood up and shook his head in protest. “No, we cannot take that chance,” Kris observed, “If he were to figure out the meaning of that phrase and locate the Parchment…” A chill suddenly ran down his spine that shook his body. “It would be devastating to the kingdom and would render the Shepherds powerless.”

He looked down at Grinkers and gave him a warm smile. “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, Grinkers. You have treated me and King Wenceslas as friends, even though we came to you as strangers from a different race. I would like to bury the king’s body in your woods, if that is permissible by you.”

Grinkers nodded his agreement.

“I must then immediately afterwards leave for Silverbell, though I am unsure of the safest way to do that. If I am discovered by any guards on patrol, I will certainly be imprisoned.”

“But you are now the king,” Grinkers reminded him.

Kris smiled. “Yes, but they don’t know that. No one but you knows that. And I think we should keep it that way for now. Renier will not willingly give up the throne that he believes naturally belongs to him. I must be very careful on how I proceed with all this. If I return as Kris Kringle the fugitive, I will be arrested and likely executed. If I return as Kris Kringle the king…”—he chuckled again in disbelief at his new title—“Renier will surely have me killed.”

Grinkers listened thoughtfully to his friend’s dilemma. “Seems to me that Kris Kringle cannot go back to Silverbell.”

“Grinkers, I cannot stay here any longer.”

“Nor am I suggesting you should,” the old elf corrected him, “I am instead stating the simple fact that Kris Kringle will not be peacefully received in his home kingdom. And therefore you must return to Silverbell as someone else.”

Kris rubbed his beard with his hand as he considered the proposal. “Someone else? Who do you have in mind?”

Grinkers walked over to the king’s body. “When I was much younger, I remember the funeral of one of the human kings. All nearby kingdoms sent their priests to honor and bless the ceremony and to ensure, I suppose, that the king’s farewell was done in accordance to divine law and custom.”

Grinkers motioned with his head to the south. “If that tradition holds true today—and I trust it does—then the kingdom to our south will be sending a priest to Silverbell to honor King Wenceslas. The priest would be taking the forest road not too far from our village. And when he does…”

“I take his place,” Kris concluded, “I go in his stead.”

“You go as him,” the elf confirmed, “It is the only way for you to get past the guards without suspicion.”

“I don’t like the idea of kidnapping and impersonating a clergyman,” Kris admitted with a frown.

Grinkers smiled. “You might find it easier than being a king.”

After burying King Wenceslas’ body near the elves’ village, Kris stayed near the side of the forest road, hidden in the brush. For two days, he waited for the promised priest to make his way down the dirt path. Kris had said all his goodbyes to Grinkers, Felix, and the other elves with whom he had grown close. He found it surprisingly hard to part ways with them and wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to see any of them again. The elves had removed Wenceslas’ red and white robe before his burial, using their creative skills and magical ability to repair the tears and remove the dirt and stains. The robe was folded neatly within an unassuming brown sack that Kris now carried with him. He kept the king’s star medallion secured in his pocket.

As the morning sun rose upon the horizon on the third day of his stakeout, Kris awoke from his sleep to hear someone approaching. He waited breathlessly for who was coming. Just as Grinkers had predicted and Kris had hoped, a priest dressed in a long, gray hooded robe was walking slowly down the road. Kris was relieved to see that no one was accompanying him.

As the priest walked past Kris’ position, Kris jumped out of the brush, greatly startling the poor traveler.

“Please sir, I have no money,” the priest begged, “I am simply on my way to Silverbell to pay respects at a royal funeral.”

“I know,” Kris said, trying to demonstrate he meant no harm by keeping a smile on his face, “I promise I am not here to hurt you. And I have no intention of taking your money… only your cloak.”

The priest hesitated but eventually removed his robe. “We are told in scripture to give to those that ask,” he observed aloud as he handed over the requested clothing.

“And to repay those to whom we owe a debt,” Kris responded, handing the priest the only two gold coins he had in his possession. “Now please, good saint, return to your kingdom. I cannot explain why, but it will ultimately be for your good and the good of many others.”

The priest stood there very confused, but knowing the large man before him could physically enforce the command he was giving, the clergyman turned slowly and began to make his way back down the road.

“I will let the people of Silverbell know you had planned to come pay your respects,” Kris called out to him, “What is your name?”

The priest looked back at Kris, further baffled by what this strange interaction had been all about.

“If you are telling the truth, brother,” he said, “Then please tell the royal family that Saint Nicholas sends his blessings and regrets he cannot be there.”

“Saint Nicholas,” Kris repeated to himself as the priest resumed his journey home. Kris donned the priest’s simple cloak and pulled the hood over his head so that it covered the top half of his face. He threw the sack he was carrying over his shoulder and began walking up the road toward Silverbell. After walking for some time, the clustering of trees began to thin so that Kris knew he was approaching the open field that lay on the outskirts of the kingdom. As he did so, he could see two royal guards standing by the forest road entrance. Kris took a deep breath as he approached them. He prayed his true identify would not be discovered.

“Good morning, brethren,” Kris greeted them, trying to mask his natural voice.

The guards looked questioningly at the approaching visitor.

“What is your business here?” one of them asked straightly.

“I come to pronounce blessings upon your king’s funeral on behalf of the South Kingdom,” Kris answered, “My name is Saint Nicholas.”

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