THE KING, THE PAGE, AND THE HERMIT:
A CHRISTMAS STORY
DEDICATION
To my godson, Dimitri: may you always find inspiration in the words and great deeds of holy men.
In memory of the great Czech king, Wenceslaus (Vácslav), and his faithful page.
From a wicked mother, good fruit was born:
St. Vácslav, who pleased God.
His wicked mother gave him only a body,
But his grandmother – light and faith and hope.
The glorious grandmother, pious Ludmilla,
Nurtured Vácslav’s soul.
As a white lily, Vácslav grew,
And adorned himself with innocence.
As the king reigned, the people rejoiced,
And with their king they honored God.
-St. Nikolai Velimirovich
CHAPTER ONE
“He who gives to the poor will lack nothing” (Proverbs 28:27)
The Duke of Bohemia peered out of the large window from his bedchamber in Prague castle. He gazed at the sky, rich with the colours of a setting sun. Below, the white snow lay sparkling as it reflected the fading light. Every now and again a gusty wind swept the snow up into a spiral, dancing.
“Even the earth rejoices in Your birth, O Lord,” Duke Vácslav whispered.
“Sire, could I offer you a cup of hot wine?” his page asked, interrupting the Duke’s thoughts.
“No, thank you, my good page,” Vácslav nodded to his servant. Turning back to the window he leaned forward and strained to see a moving figure, hindered by the high snow. As the man drew closer to the castle, Vácslav’s interest in his identity increased. Was he looking up at him, as if beaconing? He saw the man bend down and pick up some scraps of wood. No, I suppose not. He was probably just looking at the castle, he answered his own thought. And yet, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that the old man had been beckoning to him.
“Podevin, that man there, gathering wood, do you know him?”
The page hurried to his master’s side and leaned in to get a better view. “Why yes, Sire. If my eyes don’t deceive me, I believe that is the old hermit from Blaník mountain,” he said. “Yes, there is the sack of kindling he carries,” he pointed.
“Where does he live?” the Duke asked.
“In a small hut, I would say a mile or so hence, just at the foot of the mountain, quite close to St. Agnes’s healing spring, in fact,” Podevin said with quickening speech as he ran his fingers along his belt with satisfaction.
Vácslav smiled to himself as he noted Podevin’s enthusiam. He had often noticed how pleased his page would become when he could be of assistance.
“Well then, why don’t we go pay him a visit, bring him some kindling for his fire, and wish him a happy Christmas?” Vácslav happily exclaimed, clasping his strong hand on Podevin’s shoulder with a broad smile.
“But Sire, it’s awfully cold out tonight. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have one of your men in arms go in your stead?”
“No, no, my boy. After all, the Lord King our God became Man Himself, He didn’t send someone else in His stead, so neither shall I,” the Duke said, patting the page’s back.
“Say, go fetch some wine and bread. It’s best if we bear some gifts with us for the old hermit, and not just some dry wood,” Vácslav instructed.
“May it be blessed, Sire,” Podevin said, bowing to his master and exiting the room.
Vácslav, finding himself alone, walked over to the illumined corner of his bedchamber. He stood before a painted image in front of which burned a small, red-glass oil lamp. He examined the gold fringe on the Mother of God’s garment, the small hands of the Saviour held in her arms.
He who holds all creation in His hand, today is born of a virgin. He whose essence none can touch, today is bound in swaddling clothes as a child. He who in the beginning established the heavens, today is laid in a manger.
“I worship Your birth, O Christ, my King!” the Duke finally said aloud. Crossing himself, he lowered his head as he bowed his knee.
Hearing footsteps echoing through the corridor he quickly stood up, not wanting anyone to see his moment of reverence.
“Here we are Sire, ready for our visit,” the page said, gesturing toward the large wicker basket he held, clearly weighed down by generosity.
“Well done, my boy. Let us be off then,” Vácslav briskly walked toward the door.
They walked down the long passageway together. The Duke watched as Podevin looked up at the towering ceiling with awe as if he hadn’t walked that corridor a hundred times over. Stopping in the vestibule they exchanged their flat leather shoes for boots and put on their fur-lined cloaks.
“We should be plenty warm, don’t you think Podevin?” Duke Vácslav asked cheerfully.
“I should hope so, Sire,” Podevin responded, betraying what the Duke took to be a look of doubt.
“Well then, may an angel of peace accompany us, directing our way before the Lord,” the Duke proclaimed, and taking a lit lantern from off the wall he set out into the cold night.
“Amen, so be it,” the young page said, a response he, by now, was accustomed to sharing. Holding the basket in one hand while clutching his cloak with the other he followed behind his master.
CHAPTER TWO
“He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do” (John 14:12)
With each slogging step through the snow Podevin –ten-years the Duke’s junior– fell further and further behind. They were out of the city now and the wind, no longer hindered by shops and houses, seemed to blow from all angles. He could hardly keep from tipping over at times. His cheeks stung as if whipped by lashes; his lungs burned as he struggled to take breath.
The walk to St. Agnes’s spring was nothing short of a stroll in fine weather. Why, the page had often gone there with his father as a child. But tonight the snow made the walk much longer, and the cold, battering wind much less pleasant.
Vácslav, turning back to Podevin and seeing the distance between them, called out: “You poor boy, let me help you.” Making his way back to the page, the Duke put out his leathery gloved hand, “Come now, Podevin, give over the basket.”
“No, Sire, please, it’s disgraceful and inappropriate for you to carry it,” the page said with winded speech, pulling the basket closer to himself in protest.
“Now, now, don’t think that way. Why, how is it that you expect me, a ruler, to treat the ruled as less important than myself? And especially on this the very day we celebrate the divine condescension of the King of all?!”
Podevin relinquished his grasp on the basket. He often noted the peculiar manner in which his master spoke. Over time, however, he ceased thinking it strange. In fact, he even found it endearing. His master’s unique candour allowed him, a simple servant, to feel more at ease in his presence.
“I’m sorry I’m slowing you down, Sire. But, the wind blows hard against us and I find the snow too high to walk through at such a brisk pace,” Podevin said, struggling to be heard over the howling wind.
“Of course, I understand. Why don’t you step in my footprints as I walk ahead; I think you’ll find it easier to continue that way,” Vácslav suggested.
To Podevin’s surprise, not only was walking made easier by stepping in the Duke’s footprints, but he began to notice indescribable warmth emitting from each one. Steam was even beginning to rise from each, like a spraying hot spring.
How can this be? the page thought. How can the snow, just by being imprinted by the Duke’s stride, give off warmth?
But knowing his master well he abstained from asking such burning questions. He knew from experience it always made the Duke uncomfortable when someone pointed out the benefits and comforts that came from his words, his ways, his very gaze.
“Where to?” Vácslav asked, gesturing toward the wall of forest that rose up before them. “Do you remember where the hermit’s hut is from here?”
“Yes, Master, it’s there, through the trees and to our right. We’re not at all far now.”
They continued trudging along through the snow, now significantly deeper, though noticeably contributing to the Duke’s joy.
“How I love this blessed white!” he exclaimed with a chuckle.
“There, Sire, draw your light over there. I believe that is the old hermit’s hut.”
“So it must be,” the Duke said.
Drawing closer Podevin was surprised to see the door of the hut open before they were even a stone’s throw away.
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” the old man called out, opening wide the door of his small hut. The outline of his thick grey beard and scruffy hair were illumined by the light coming from behind him.
“Greetings, my good man,” the Duke said in his deep and cheerful voice. “Christ is born!” he called out, still in the thick of the forest.
“Glorify Him!” the old man responded, smiling and bowing low, greeting the ruler of his homeland.
“You were expecting us?” the page asked, surprised by the way the hermit conducted himself.
“All who arrive are invited – not even one passes by who is not,” the old hermit answered, his sparkling eyes reflecting the light from Vácslav’s lantern.
“Come in, come in! May my humble abode be as comforting to you as your majestic castle,” the hermit said bowing and gesturing for them to enter the wooden hut.
matushka constantina
