Kris
Authors: J. J. Ruscella,Joseph Kenny
Behind Every Myth Lies the Reality
KRIS
The Legend Begins
Part of the
Santa is real
series based on the original story by J.J. Ruscella
The Legend Begins
J.J. Ruscella
with
Joseph Kenny
KrisâThe Legend Begins
by J.J. Ruscella with Joseph Kenny
Published by HigherLife Development Services, Inc.
400 Fontana Circle
Building 1 â Suite 105
Oviedo, Florida 32765
(407) 563-4806
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwiseâwithout prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Copyright © 2010 by J.J. Ruscella
All rights reserved
ISBN 13: 978-1-935245-41-4
ISBN 10: 1-935245-41-4
Cover Design: r2c DesignâRachel Lopez
First Edition
10 11 12 13 â 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
To the man who fills our heads with dancing sugar
plums and dreams of wondrous toys. And to all
those who assist with his deliveries each year
.
The Prologue
There are some among you who may say, and may believe, the story I am about to tell is but a myth. A fanciful legend. A tall tale full of wishful imaginings. That no soul so steeped in pain or so lost and inconscquential as a snowflake on a mountain drift could ever have chanced to rekindle hope in a life that seemed so endlessly beyond control
.
Yet I am here to comfort you. To tell you this tale with great earnestness and confidence. And to assure you it is true. For this is more than a story of pain and suffering, of helplessness and fear, of confusion and endless wanderings, of
separation and loss. This is a story of hope. A story of transformation. A story of great passion and forgiveness. Of mystery and magic. Of beauty and wonder. And of the Majesty of the world
.
Yes, my children, you can believe me when I tell you this story is true, for it is a story long known and long told. It is a story from my heart. And I know that it is true. For it is my story. I am Kris and this is my gift to you
.
Delivering
F
lickering flames of orange and red reflected in the
eyes of my brothers and sisters as we looked on the burning remnants of our childhood home. I snapped the reins, and Gerda responded intently. Through the snow we slipped, gliding furiously over the trails and across the crests of hills. When at last we stopped to look back and measure our distance, black clouds of smoke rose in pillars to the skies. The mountains of Norway were all I had ever known, but our once sacred, now savaged, mountain enclave faded into distant smoky memories of all we had lost and left behind.
Aged Gerda, her strength not what it once was, tired quickly. As we went ahead, we slowed to a more measured pace, giving us time to think and focus on the moment, if not the future. Which way should I go? Which way to safety?
Inside the sleigh, Garin, my weary brother of nine, waited. He denied the world his sadness as he played with a toy wooden bear, the only familiar element he was allowed to carry on our desperate journey.
The snowy-blond twins, Tamas and Talia, were only seven. They sat in awkward silence and clutched each other's hands. I hoped their bond would not be broken somewhere along our path. If nothing else, they might have each other as a reminder that they had once belonged to a family.
My freckled sister of five, Kendra, held our sleeping younger sister of three, Jess, in her arms. Kendra stroked Jess's curly red hair. They seemed to glow with a gentle radiance in the illumination of my torch.
Shivering next to my mother was my beautiful, violet-eyed two-year-old brother, Owen, who began to cry.
My mother smoothed her palm down Owen's cheek. “Hush.”
We paused momentarily atop the ridge that was the boundary to our mountain home. Near the end of the trail stood an ancient, sprawling tree that was burdened and twisted like the weakened body of a dying elder, a tree I had climbed countless times but no more. From the tops of those branches I had look out across the lowlands and dreamed of a different life. One I was now destined to discover.
The children huddled around my once beautiful mother, now as twisted and as tormented as the tree looked to me. They seemed to be waiting for something, some clue, some comfort, and so I began a song that was familiar to themâa favorite we sang each winter as Christmas was approaching.
Crystal snowflakes, crystal night
,
keep my brothers in your sight
.
Watch my sisters, safe and dear
,
through this Yule and through this year
.
Falling snowflakes from above
,
each unique and filled with love!
Keep them safe until I call
my Christmas wish as snowflakes fall
.
How I loved my brothers and sisters. How I lamented every mean word and accidental bruise born of childish arguments. How I wanted us to be safe, to remain together. My mother would not allow me to care for them in her absence. Back in the village, I had argued with her, insisting I could find a home for us all and watch over them.
“I am thirteen!” I exclaimed. “I have had my coming of age.”
She only scoffed at me, mocking my earnest desires.
“You are just a boy. A crumb. Not yet a man,” she said, while struggling to catch a painful breath. “You cannot care for these children or protect them.”
She cut me cruelly with her words. Furious and frustrated, I struggled to fight back welling tears.
“You must leave them,” she continued harshly. “Tie them to the pillars at the crossroads. Leave them in the road for travelers to find. Together you are doomed to be discovered for what you are. There is little chance they will live, unless some stranger should discover them and take pity. They are in God's hands now.”
How could I leave my brothers and sisters tied helplessly along the roadside in the bitter cold? God would find them? God would give them
shelter? Who would give them shelter, except to place them in a shallow grave or leave them buried under mounds of snow and ice?
I hated her.
I realize now that I did not want to face her undeniable truth. I knew I would have to separate them as my mother commanded, and I hated her for what she asked me to do, even if she was right.
For who would take in so many desperate souls? Who would willingly provide us all with sustenance and shelter? Though none of us showed signs of the illness, who would endanger themselves with the plague God had brought upon my innocent village?
Each time I asked myself those awful questions, I knew with certainty I would have to unlink our fingers, if not our hearts, and find new families and new homes for them to start their lives again. While I hoped our love would never fade, I had to face the grim reality: they would not survive another day in this cold if I did not find them sanctuary.
We swept across the wasteland seeking salvation, some modest place of shelter from the perils of winter's hostile breath, until before us a windblown roadhouse appeared like a gift from heaven.
Who will be first? I thought to myself.
Then I saw my mother struggle to free herself from Owen's desperate grasp, and I knew she had already made the choice. I hid the sleigh among the trees and looked to my mother.
Gently, she stroked Owen's face and spoke to him almost teasingly. “As happy as I am to be getting an uninterrupted sleep, I will miss you at night, crawling in bed with me. When I see your smiling face, all is right with the world. No more night scares now. Sing them away, like your father would.”
Owen couldn't fully form words yet, but he had a language all his own that he spoke just to us. At night when our father would sing as my mother slowly rocked him, Owen would sing along in his little sleepy voice.
“You are the most wondrous thing,” she said to him. “I knew all too well these days would end. And though I am not ready, it is time you were off without me. I love you more than words can say.”
I took Owen's hand and cautioned the others to be silent as I started off toward the isolated roadhouse. Watery eyes revealed their understanding.
It was a long march across the snowy meadow. Owen did his best to keep up with me, nearly waist-deep in the snow, until I swept him up into my arms and carried him the rest of the way.
Gently I sat him on the stairs and began to make a small snowman, forming the mounds and molding the face. Slowly he joined in.
I left him playing on the steps, quietly backing away to rejoin the others. Owen gurgled and laughed the way children do.
Just then the roadhouse door swung open and slammed against the wall. Owen began to cry. The roadhouse man, a grizzled, ham-handed giant, filled the doorway. He gazed out past Owen shrieking on his steps. Then he saw me, skulking off into the distance, and yelled,
“Hold!”
I was driven by fear that he would pursue me. I did not hold. I ran faster than I had ever run before, spurred by my stumbling anguish. Don't catch me. Don't follow me. Don't look at me. Don't see me for what I am, for what I've done.
I had left my little brother behind in the hands of a strange giant, a man who could squash him in his mighty grasp. Sobbing, I ran, fearful
that I had made the greatest mistake of my young life in leaving him there alone. The distant cries of my brother proclaimed my betrayal.
Please forgive me. God forgive me. Let this be a home. God give him a home. Please, if you are up there, don't abandon him the way I have. Give him love.
But I had little faith in a world where love was scarce. Whatever hope I had was dashed when I looked into my mother's swollen eyes.
“Get on with it,” she commanded.
