5: Jingle Bells

Later that evening, when they were all gathered together in the library after dinner, Glorfindel asked Finrod to tell them about what had happened. He was reluctant at first but with a little encouragement from Amroth and Nimrodel, he described how he had been admiring the cut-out snowflakes and their different patterns and then found himself standing in the Fens of Serech during the Dagor Bragollach.

“It was all wrong. Barahir lay dead at my feet and I was badly wounded here.” He pointed at his left shoulder. “But I had not suffered any wounding there at the time. Indeed, I had suffered no serious wounds then.” He paused and gave Glorfindel a considering look. “Suzanne said you told them to pray for me.”

Glorfindel nodded, ignoring the surprised looks on the faces of the others. “Mortals no more like feeling useless than we do, but often in many situations there is little they can do except pray for a good outcome. When one of them asked me if they could do anything to help, I told them to pray, knowing that they would not think it an odd request, for they were brought up in a culture that believes in the power of prayer.”

“Suzanne said she prayed to the Lord — and I must assume she meant Eru — to send St. Nicholas to help me find my way back.”

“Yes. Let’s talk about that,” Vorondur interjected. “Why do you suppose you found yourself where you were yet not as it actually had been?”

Before Finrod could answer, Glorfindel gave Vorondur an amused look. “Should the rest of us depart while you treat the patient?”

“I am not a patient!” Finrod exclaimed.

Vorondur just shook his head, chuckling. “No. This is not a counseling session, otherwise I would throw you all out. I know little about the Reborn, other than what you’ve deigned to tell me, Loren, but it seems to me that Finrod’s experience doesn’t follow the usual pattern of a flashback. For one thing, he knew he was having one almost from the beginning. He wasn’t so lost in the memory that he did not know that it simply was a memory and not reality. So, why did he have it and why St. Nicholas, if that is who it really was?”

“You doubt that?” Vardamir asked, his expression one of clinical interest.

Vorondur shrugged. “Why a Mortal saint? Why would he not create the image of one of the Valar or a Maia of his acquaintance?”

“You’re assuming that that is what happened,” Elrohir said. When Vorondur and Vardamir turned to him he blushed somewhat, as if he feared being reprimanded for his presumption in speaking to his elders.

“Why don’t you explain,” Vorondur said gently.

Elrohir glanced at his twin, who nodded encouragingly, before answering. “You are assuming that Finrod created the image of St. Nicholas just as he created the landscape in which he found himself. That may be true of the landscape, but perhaps not so of St. Nicholas. Loren was correct that many of the Mortals of this society are great believers in the power of prayer. I’ve lived among them long enough to know that that power is there. If St. Nicholas appeared to Finrod, I have no doubt that that is who it was, nor have I any doubt as to who sent him.”

“Still….” Vardamir started to say, clearly unconvinced by the younger ellon’s arguments, but Vorondur shook his head.

“No. Roy has the right of it. The psychic landscape was Finrod’s creation, borne, I suspect, from his anxieties over recent events, but St. Nicholas coming to him, that is what makes this so strange. We all would have expected at least a Maia to appear, not some Mortal saint from a belief system that is not ours. And certainly Finrod would be the last to imagine that, for he has neither the cultural background nor the knowledge that lies behind it.”

“So you’re saying that this St. Nicholas actually appeared to Finrod, that it wasn’t some aspect of his own psyche projecting outward?” Ercassë asked her husband.

“Who can truly say?” Vorondur replied.

At which point Finrod stood up. “I think I will retire. Please let me know what you have all decided about my mental well-being when you’ve come to a consensus.” And before anyone could respond to that, he stalked out of the room and up the hallway to the foyer, but rather than take the stairs, he grabbed his cloak and stepped outside into the frigid night. He half expected at least Glorfindel to come running after him, but no one did, and on one level he was grateful for that small favor, yet, on another level, he felt perversely angered that no one had come running to apologize.

He took a few deep, cleansing breaths as he stepped off the porch and made his way to the street, deciding he needed to walk off his anger and frustration and, yes, his embarrassment. He had sat there listening to them speaking of him as if he were not there, or worse, as if he were indeed a patient while the healers all discussed his symptoms and a course of treatment before him. He had no idea if this St. Nicholas had actually come to him or if he’d simply dreamed him up out of desperation as a means of bringing himself out of his fugue. After all, what did it matter? The end result was the same, was it not?

And yet…

He slowed his pace and looked up at the stars glittering coldly and serenely above him, basking in their song. He could not get the image of the Woman Suzanne out of his mind, a Mortal bound to a wheelchair, living in that place without kith nor kin to care for her, perhaps even knowing that she would never leave Brookwood alive. She had been so serene, her smile so gentle and full of love. She had prayed for him, a stranger, an Elf, not even one of her own people, prayed to her Lord to send someone to help him, though she could not know what type of help was required, only that he needed it. He recalled the total sense of despair he had felt standing amidst the carnage of battle, unable or perhaps unwilling to understand what was happening to him, and the plea for help he had uttered to the stranger who had come to him.

“Out of the depths I cry to thee, O Lord; O Lord, hear my voice. Let thine ears be attentive to my cry for mercy.”

Finrod gasped as he turned around at the voice, one that sounded familiar, and found himself standing before St. Nicholas still carrying the staff with the lantern, but he was not alone. Standing placidly by his right side was a whitetail doe and sitting on his left shoulder was a snowy owl gazing at Finrod with wise scrutiny. The saint smiled.

“You were in despair, were you not, Child of the Eldar?” he asked. “You were lost in a landscape of death, experiencing an alternate history of what might have happened but did not. And this was a projection of your fear over your beloved son and all that could have gone wrong in rescuing him and the others. It almost went wrong anyway, did it not, with you being shot? That was, as I think they say these days, not in the plan.”

“Who are you?” Finrod asked. “Are you real?”

“Are you?” the saint shot back, then shrugged, giving him a chagrined look. “Well, let’s not get into an existential argument. I am as real as you wish me to be, Findaráto of the Eldar.” And he reached out and touched Finrod’s arm. “You see. For now, at this time, I am real. As to who I am, I will leave that for you to decide. Am I in truth St. Nicholas, a Mortal dead for nearly seventeen hundred years, or someone else who is, shall we say, borrowing the saint’s image for purposes of my own?”

“And if the latter, then you must be a Maia or perhaps one of the Valar,” Finrod stated.

“Indeed?” the saint retorted, clearly unconvinced. “Well, perhaps, or perhaps not. Eru, as you call Him, is not limited by your imagination, or lack thereof, as to whom He sends to another, including, I may add, Himself.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow at that revelation and felt a shiver of something near to awe at the implications of the saint’s words. Before he could comment, Nicholas continued.

“Accept that I am indeed Nicholas of Myra, once a bishop of that city or not. It is of no consequence. However, you cannot deny that your plea was answered as were the prayers of those good people at the senior center. And your despair is groundless. Your son lives, as do you, and that is what is important. Now, your friends are frantically looking for you. I suggest you go back and reassure them that you are well and not angry at them, or at least not too angry.” He gave Finrod a sly look and the Elven prince could not help smiling.

“Good, good,” Nicholas said approvingly and then raised his right hand in benediction. “The blessings of the One be with you.” Then he gave Finrod a warm smile and turned to walk across the empty street, the owl suddenly flying off as the saint and the deer faded away before they reached the other side, leaving Finrod alone once again.

He sighed a bit then gathered his cloak more firmly around him and pulled up the hood as snow began drifting from the sky. He looked about, realizing that in his anger he had walked further than he had intended. Indeed, he did not recognize the neighborhood at all, but he was facing the direction from which he’d come and set off, figuring he would eventually come upon familiar territory.

As it happened, he needn’t have worried, for he came to the next block and saw three Elves heading his way, one of them his son. He raised a hand in greeting and Findalaurë ran to him, practically throwing himself into Finrod’s arms. “Atto! Are you all right? We were so worried about you.”

“I am fine,” Finrod said, giving his son a brief hug. “I am sorry I ran off. I needed some time to cool down.”

“And we’re sorry as well,” Vorondur said as he and Ercassë reached them. “It was thoughtless of us to speak about you as we did.” He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone, speed-dialing a number. A few seconds later, he was speaking into it. “He’s with us. We’re heading back.” Then he closed down the phone, shoving it back into his pocket. “Are you ready to return?” he asked.

Finrod nodded, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Yes. Let us go home.”

They walked in silence, for which Finrod was grateful, and they reached the gates at about the same time as several others all came from different directions and Finrod was touched by the obvious concern and worry that his friends felt. Nielluin, Helyanwë and Elrohir went to the kitchen and made some coffee, tea and hot chocolate while the others trooped into the library. No one spoke until they were all gathered in the library again. Finrod sipped on some hot chocolate and waited, deciding not to speak first. He was unsurprised when Vorondur spoke, rather than Glorfindel.

“First of all, on behalf of all of us, I wish to apologize for our inexcusable rudeness.”

“Apology accepted,” Finrod said, “and I apologize for my behavior as well. I am sorry I worried you with my running off. I have decided that it matters not who came to my aid, or even if I created the image from my own mind. What matters is that I am alive, Finda is safe and so is everyone else. What happened, happened, and it is time to move on.” He drained his mug of cocoa and put it down on a side table as he stood. “And now, if you will excuse me, I truly will retire. This has been a rather emotional day for me.”

“Sleep well,” Vorondur said, “and Finrod, if you ever want to talk about it….”

“Thank you. I will keep it in mind. Good night.”

He left to a chorus of good-nights and made his way to his room. After readying himself for bed he climbed between the covers and lay there thinking of all that had happened that day and the conversation he had had with St. Nicholas, or whoever he was. As tired as he felt, though, it was some time before he slipped onto the Path of Dreams.

****

When he woke the next morning he found an envelope in the stocking that was still hanging from the door knob. Taped to it was a large piece of candy that was somewhat dome-shape and wrapped in bright silver foil. There was a tag that read “kisses”. He removed the candy and opened the envelope where he found a sheet of paper on which was written a single line of Classical Sindarin:

“There is no LAW in the universe that says Eru can only act as we decide. I believe St. Nicholas was sent to help you and I am grateful.”

The word ‘law’ had been written in red ink rather than black and written much larger than the other tengwar. Somehow he realized that this was more than an anonymous apology but the first clue sent from his Secret Santa and he was reminded that he, too, needed to devise clues for Cennanion. He smiled as he slipped the piece of paper back into the envelope and stuck it back into the stocking, taking the piece of candy and setting it on his night table, deciding he might indulge in it later. Then he made his way downstairs where he was greeted by others gathered in the kitchen or the dining room breaking their own fast. He took a couple of freshly baked cinnamon rolls and some juice and sat in the breakfast nook along with Glorfindel, Vorondur and Daeron.

“How are you feeling?” Vorondur asked.

“I am feeling well,” Finrod answered then turned to Glorfindel. “I need to go into town today. There is some shopping I need to do.”

“I think Laurendil and Manwen were planning to go into town as well,” Glorfindel said.

Laurendil came into the kitchen from the dining room, apparently having heard his name being mentioned. “We’re scheduled for a stint at St. Luke’s, Aranya,” he said. “Barahir will drop us off before heading for the college.”

“Then, I will walk,” Finrod said. “The distance is not far.”

“Alone?” Glorfindel asked with a frown.

Finrod raised an eyebrow. “Yes, ammë, alone.”

Daeron, Vorondur and Laurendil all snickered as Glorfindel glowered. “Do you think it wise after what happened yesterday?” he asked.

“Well, if it happens again, which I doubt, I know who to pray to for help,” Finrod shot back and Glorfindel’s scowl deepened. Vorondur stepped in at that point.

“I have to stop at the real estate agent’s office to sign some papers now that the seller has agreed to our offer. Why don’t I drop you off and you can find your own way home?”

“I just don’t like the idea of you being alone,” Glorfindel said. “There are people out there who are not friendly to us and I prefer none of us wander about by ourselves.”

“I will not be alone,” Finrod said, “or rather, I will appear to be but I will be watched and guarded, of that I am sure.”

Now they all gave each other considering looks and some silent communication passed between them as Finrod sat there calmly biting into a cinnamon roll.

“Are you planning to set yourself up as bait?” Daeron finally asked him.

Finrod laughed. “No, being bait is Glorfindel’s specialty. I truly just wish to do some shopping on my own. It is, after all, Christmas.”

“Ah… well, that makes sense,” Vorondur said with a nod. “Then, if you wish, you can ride in with me and I’ll drop you off.”

Before answering, Finrod looked at Glorfindel. “Is that all right with you, gwador nîn?”

Glorfindel sighed. “As if you need my permission,” he muttered.

“Well, apparently I do,” Finrod retorted somewhat sharply and then relented at the chagrined look on his gwador’s face. “I promise I will be careful.”

“I will hold you to that,” Glorfindel said in all seriousness. “Well, Darren and I need to get going ourselves. We’ll see you all later.” With that, he and the loremaster rose and made their way out of the kitchen.

Vorondur gave Finrod a nod. “I will not be leaving for another hour.”

“That is fine,” Finrod said.

****

Vorondur dropped him off at the Safeway and he made his way across the street and into the main square. Being a weekday, it was not crowded with shoppers and he was grateful. This was the first time he had come here on his own and he had to admit to feeling a little nervous as he walked across the square.

“You were once king of Nargothrond,” he muttered to himself. “Get a grip, as the Mortals say.” He came to the Gold Nugget Emporium and Café, mentally going down the list of things he hoped to find as he opened the door and went inside, nodding to the clerk behind the front counter, wishing her a good morning. He wandered up and down narrow aisles looking at all the items crammed onto the shelves, amazed at the variety. There was one section of shelves filled with figurines and, glancing over them, he found one that would suit his purpose: a woman holding up a torch. Then he found a section filled with different kinds of sweets and chose a chocolate Santa and a candy cane. There was also a wall of ornaments. He remembered Glorfindel explaining to him what they were for and chose one that was of a harp.

Having found what he was looking for, he went to the front to pay for his purchases. The clerk gave him a smile and wished him a Merry Christmas as he left. Outside, he took a deep breath, relieved and pleased that he had managed to make these small purchases on his own. It was a new experience for him and he found it to be liberating, being able to walk about the town on his own, doing the simple things, like shopping, that the Mortals took for granted. He had no doubt that he was indeed being guarded by unseen Maiar, but as long as they did not make themselves known to him, he did not care.

Deciding that he did not wish to return to the mansion just yet, he wandered about, looking at the shop windows and all the decorations. He did not pay much attention to his route and eventually found himself crossing the street to the Safeway where he saw part of the parking lot had been fenced off and iced over and there were a few people skating. He stood and watched in fascination as one young girl pirouetted, landing gracefully. There was a mother holding up her child as he wobbled across the ice and some couples skated hand-in-hand.

As he stood there watching the skaters, he began to notice a constant ringing and, looking about, saw a man wearing a red felt triangular cap, standing beside a huge black kettle and ringing a large golden bell. He saw people as they left the store tossing coins into the kettle. Walking over, he greeted the Man, noticing that there was a sign above the kettle that read ‘Salvation Army’ and wondering what type of army it might be and who were they hoping to save.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

The Man gave him a startled look, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would ask such a stupid question, but then his expression cleared. “Oh, yes, you’re one of them,” he said, all the while continuing to ring the bell. “Well, I’m soliciting money for the poor. People throw in any spare change they might have on them. Sometimes they may even throw in bills. The money goes to feeding the poor at Christmas.”

“And are there people who are so poor that they have no means of feeding themselves?” Finrod asked with a frown, remembering when he was a king and how he had made sure none of his people, however lowly their status, went without.

“People lose their jobs or whatever and suddenly they no longer have the means they once did. The Salvation Army and other such charity groups are there to help, providing free meals, especially at the holidays.” He nodded at a man coming out of the store who stopped to throw in some coins. “Merry Christmas and thank you,” he said as the shopper moved away, pushing a cart of groceries.

Finrod gave the bell-ringer a wry look. “He threw in only a few coins and yet it is obvious that he has more than enough to feed his family.”

The Man shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “He gave money to the poor. It doesn’t matter how much or how little, only that he reached out for a brief moment to the unfortunates of the world in this small way. That, in itself, is a minor miracle in an age where people tend to think only of themselves. And when others also give a coin here and a coin there, it does add up.”

Finrod nodded and reached into his pocket to pull out the money Glorfindel had given him so he could buy what he needed. “How much should I give?” he asked.

“What your heart bids you to give, my lord.”

Finrod turned to see Fionwë standing beside him, dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt and a long coat. The bell-ringer did not seem surprised to see him there, and then Finrod realized the Man could neither see nor hear the Maia, for he was busy thanking a couple of women for their contributions. He gave Fionwë a considering look.

“You’re guarding me, aren’t you?”

“Actually, I’m on watch for all of Wiseman,” the Maia answered, “and as you happen to reside here, then, technically speaking, I am. Now, do not feel you need to give all your money away. I doubt Glorfindel would appreciate it, if only because he has given you this money out of his own funds and they are not unlimited. It is enough that you are willing to do your part in seeing that others who, through no fault of their own, are forced to accept the charity of others in order to survive.”

Finrod nodded and, selecting two dollar bills, shoved them into the kettle. The Man smiled at him and thanked him, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Finrod did the same and then decided to head back home. Fionwë walked with him as he left the town center and made his way toward Edhellond. The Maia did not engage him in conversation but Finrod appreciated his presence. When they reached the gates of the mansion, Fionwë simply nodded and faded from view. Finrod went inside where he met Gilvegil coming down the stairs.

“Did you have a good time shopping?” the ellon asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I was about to put together some soup for anyone who wants lunch,” Gilvegil said. “I thought lentil soup would be good today.”

“Let me put my things away and I will come and help you,” Finrod offered.

“I’ll just get things started,” Gilvegil said as he headed for the kitchen and Finrod took the stairs.

****

Ammë: (Quenya) Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.

Gwador nîn: (Sindarin) My (sworn) brother.

Note: St. Nicholas (or whoever he may be) quotes the beginning of Psalm 130, one of the seven penitential psalms (NIV version cast in archaic English).