Just a quick offering.  I've had the idea for a while, but a
recent discussion on FORKNI-L prompted me to actually write it.
Comments to FORKNI-L or emailed to the address below.
 
 
                         Miracles
 
                   by Robin Carroll-Mann
 
 
    The gift was easy to find; the card was not.  She searched
through what seemed like half of the stores in Toronto, and
everywhere her query was met with amusement or blank stares.
Finally, she found it in the back of a small, dusty shop.
 
    "We don't get much call for these anymore," the proprietor
said apologetically.  "A pity, really -- it's a beautiful custom,
but nowadays, only some of the elderly still observe it."
 
    "Well, my friend is... quite old," Natalie replied solemnly.
She suppressed a sudden desire to giggle, wondering how the woman
would react if she knew just *how* old Nat's friend really was.
 
    Nodding, the woman rummaged through a file drawer.  "Here it
is!"  She showed the card to Natalie.  "Is this the right one?"
 
    Natalie peered closely at it.  "Yes, that's it.  Perfect!
Thank you very much."  She paid the woman, tucked the card into
her purse to protect it from the light snow that was falling from
a pearl-grey sky, and hurried back to work.
 
 
***********************************************
 
 
    Nick looked, bewildered, at the brightly-wrapped package
that Natalie had thrust into his hands.  "Uhhhh... Nat?  It's a
little early for Christmas, and my birthday isn't until next
month, remember?"
 
    Natalie shot him a wry look.  The Toronto P.D. -- and the
rest of the mortal world -- believed that January 1st was Nick's
birthday.  She alone knew that the date was a false one, just
another part of the fictitious persona that was "Nicholas
Knight," a 36-year-old human born in Chicago.  Though she had
never asked him, Natalie suspected that Nick did not even
remember the real date of his birth.  "Why don't you read the
card?"
 
    Nick lifted the envelope flap and pulled the card free.  He
stared.  "`Wishing You Joy on Your Name Day'" it said, in
gracefully calligraphed letters.  He opened the card.  Inside, a
white-bearded man in a bishop's miter gazed at him serenely from
a small rectangle of glossy cardboard.
 
    In a low, shaky voice, Nick read the text beneath the
picture, "`Nicholas of Myra.  Bishop and Saint.  Feast Day,
December 6th.  Patron saint of children, of sailors, and
of... captives.  His miracles include...'"  He fell silent.
 
    Natalie fiddled with the buckle of her wristwatch.  This
whole venture had been something of a gamble.  Several months
ago, she had begun reading books on the Middle Ages, in order to
have a better understanding of the culture that had first shaped
Nick's personality.   One of the books had reminded her of a
long-forgotten fact: that medieval Christians had celebrated, not
the day of their birth, but the feast day of the saint for whom
they were named.
 
    "I got the right one, didn't I?" she asked anxiously.  There
was more than one Nicholas on the calendar of saints, but none
more popular than the 4th century bishop whose compassion and
generosity had inspired the modern legends of Santa Claus.
 
    "Yeah... you got the right one," Nick said quietly.  He
shook his head as if to clear it.  "Nat... I don't know what to
say.  It's been almost eight hundred years since I last got a
name day gift.  Thank you..."
 
    "Maybe you should open it," she suggested.
 
    The package was cylindrical, tapering to a point.  Nick
ripped open the top part of the wrapping and peered inside.
"Dirt?" he said incredulously, "You gave me dirt?"
 
    Natalie glanced heavenward.  "Take a closer look."
 
    When the rest of the paper had been carefully removed, Nick
saw that he was holding a blue-and-white ceramic flowerpot.  Half
a dozen bulb tips protruded from the soil that filled the pot.  A
small plastic sign promised that they were (or would become)
crocuses.  "Nat, thanks.  It was very kind of you..."
 
    A long silence followed.  Natalie took the card from Nick's
hand and read the rest of the text, "`His miracles include the
restoration of three murdered boys whose bodies had been chopped
up and pickled in salt.  He is also credited with saving a poor
man's daughters from a life of prostitution by giving them three
bags of gold.'"  She smiled at him.  "Always trying to help other
people... reminds me of someone else I know."
 
    Nick grimaced slightly.  "You shouldn't compare me to a
saint, Nat.  I'm not-- you don't know..."  He waved his hand in a
dismissive gesture.  "Since when does a scientist believe in
miracles, anyway?"
 
    Natalie tapped one slender finger on the rim of the
flowerpot.  "Scientists know more about miracles than you think,"
she said softly.  "But sometimes you have to be patient and wait
for them to happen in their own time."  Then, in her best don't-
argue-with-the-doctor voice, she ordered, "Put this where it can
get some light, okay?  Living things need light, Nick."
 
    "Okay," Nick agreed.  "I've got a desk lamp at home that it
can go under."  He gave her a quick hug.  "Thanks again, Nat."
 
**********************************************
    When the crocuses bloomed, two weeks later, they were a
brilliant yellow, blazing on his desktop like six tiny but
perfect suns.
 

Robin Carroll-Mann
rcmann@delphi.com
Nat Pack