[Veritas]

Another busy morning at the MindFreak Production Office: ringing phones, clacking computer keybords, secretaries and assistants murmuring in respectfully low voices, rustling paper--the usual office-type atmosphere. Criss sat at his desk in his own office, going over the production schedules, iteneraries, insurance forms, rehersal schedules, equipment invoices, bills and other personal and professional correspondence both written and electronic. So many demands, so little time; there was no way he could fulfill them all.

There was a request from the Partnership for a Drug-Free America for a PSA to warn kids from drugs. There was one from Fox Network with a proposal for a new reality show which Criss found so ludicrous he tossed it in the wastebasket without so much as a reply. Then he read a letter from some publisher asking if he was interested in writing a children's book.

Criss put the letter aside. A children's book? No way, I got too much on my plate as it is to take time to write a children's book. Besides, what would I write about? Mom's the one with all the stories. I like kids, but I just don't have the time. He went on working, forgetting all about the letter. There was a tap on the door. "Come in," Criss said absently, not looking up.

"Christopher?"

Criss's head finally rose above paper level. "Oh, hi, Mom," he said.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you while you are working," his mother, Dimitra, said apologetically.

"No, no, it's okay," Criss assured her. "What do you need?"

"Oh, nothing," Dimitra replied lightly. "Just that I'll be shopping for most of the day and won't be back until this afternoon."

"Oh, okay." Criss returned to his paperwork.

"My goodness," Dimitra laughed. "You're drowning in paper here!"

"Really? You think?" Criss retorted.

Dimitra gave her son a sharp tap on the head. "Don't get snippy with me," she admonished.

"I'm not snippy," Criss argued. "I'm just too busy, that's all."

"Too busy to give your mother a kiss goodbye?"

Criss rose and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. "'Bye, Mom," he said quickly.

The desk phone rang. Criss picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

A pause. Criss winced as he listened to whatever the speaker on the other end was telling him. "Oh, Geez!" he groaned. "Okay, I'll be there in a sec. 'Bye." He hung up in disgust. Dimitra looked at him quizzically. "Bad news?" she asked.

"Water pipe burst in the warehouse," Criss told her. "I gotta go inspect the damage." He gave his mother another peck on the cheek and a hug. "Love you," he said.

Dimitra embraced her son warmly. "I love you, too, Christopher," she said.

"I love you more," Criss returned, then he walked out of the office to deal with the warehouse crisis. Dimitra remained behind, shaking her head in concern. Few people realized just how hard her famous son worked to produce his show; hours and hours of planning, rehearsing, and taping went into making one forty-five minute episode. She glanced at the desk covered with papers, proof positive of the business consuming Criss's life.

One letter with a colorful letterhead caught her eye: GoldBooks, Inc. She picked it up, slipped on her reading glasses and read it:

Dear Criss,

We are very much interested if you would consider writing a children's book. You have such a way with kids, and with your talents you could create an excellent one! We have an entire staff of illustrators to help you out; all you have to do it write the story, and we'll do the rest! Anything with a magical theme would be welcome.

Please contact us at 579-555-9876, or email us at goldbook.com. We look forward to hearing from you!

Sincerely,

Marcia Crece,
Publisher.

Christopher writing a children's book? Dimitra smiled at that. It would be a nice change of pace for him, she thought, but with his schedule it would be impossible. He was much too busy with his shows to take time to write anything, let alone children's stories.

Children's stories. Dimitra recalled all the stories she told her sons when they were growing up, the fables and folk tales she herself had heard when she was a little girl growing up in Greece. Her family had little in material possessions, but her own mother had a veritable treasure trove of tales to tell. Maybe Christopher could write about those, pass them on to other children as her mother had passed them on to her and she to her sons?

Or better yet, write them herself?

Dimitra read the letter again. Christopher had no time to write stories, but with her sons grown and working for MindFreak Productions, the Monster Music store in New York, and living their own lives, time hung so heavily on her hands. Perhaps she could take GoldBooks on their offer instead? Well, why not? she thought. Why not, indeed?

She called the number on the letter. "Hello, is this Marcia Crece?" she asked. "No? I'll wait." A few minutes pause. "Hello, is this Ms. Crece? This is Dimitra Sarantakos. Criss Angel's mother." A pause. "Yes, I am very glad to speak to you, too. Now, Christopher received a letter from you asking if he would write a children's book. Unfortunatly, he has no time, but if you wish, I can write one for you." Another pause. "Yes, I know many stories from Greece, ones I told my own sons when they were little." Dimitra smiled as Ms. Crece expressed her enthusiasm. "Very well, I will send you what I can. Yes. Good-bye." She hung up the phone. Forget shopping, she thought. She had work to do.

Her first stop was to the hotel sundry shop, where she picked up a spiral bound notebook and a package of BIC pens. Writing by hand would mean risking writer's cramp at her age, but if it meant getting her stories in print, it would be worth it. She took her supplies to her suite, settled down at the desk, and opened the notebook to begin writing. Suddenly, she was struck with a major case of writer's block. She had plenty of tales to write, but what story should she write first?

Dimitra sifted through her treasure trove of memories in her mind and bingo! One popped up, ready to write down. Of course, it was an old Aesop's fable, but she had to begin somewhere. She picked up her pen and began to write:

The Little Boy Who Cried "Wolf"

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was given care of the sheep for the people of the village where he lived. He was given strict instructions to watch over them carefully, as there were wolves about. If he spotted a wolf, he was not to fight it off himself, but to call for help, and the people would come and drive the wolf away.

So the little boy herded the sheep to the pasture every day, sitting under a tree, watching the sheep eat the grass, and then he would herd them home at sunset. He was getting bored with all this with nothing to do, so he decided to have a little fun.

The people were about their business when they heard the little boy shout "Wolf! Wolf!" They dropped everything and rushed to the pasture. But there was no wolf. The little boy laughed to himself for his prank.

The next day, he did it again. And again the people ran, but saw no wolf. The little boy did it again the next day as well. The people were getting angry at this. So they resolved not to run when he called out again. Sure enough, he did call out "Wolf! Wolf!" But the people ignored him. The little boy shouted out louder, more desperatly. They still ignored him. Finally there was silence.

At sunset, however, no sheep or boy returned. They found out that a real wolf had attacked the sheep and the little boy was nowhere to be found. While they were saddened by their loss, they agreed that a liar cannot be believed, even when he tells the truth.



Dimitra smiled as she finished the tale. This was going to be fun! She turned a page in her notebook and began another:

The Tale of the Good Bee.

A long time ago, the Turtle, the Spider, the Wasp and the Bee were all brothers. The Mother they all shared was very sick, and on her deathbed she called for them to come to her side. She was sure that they would all come, for she had been the best mother the world had ever known.

When the Turtle heard of his Mother's illness, he said, "I'm too busy right now. I am washing my clothes. My Mother can wait." Upon hearing this, the Mother became very angry and threw a curse upon the Turtle: "May you and your descendants wear your washing boards upon your back!" And that is why the Turtle came to have the shell it wears on its back.

When the Spider heard of his Mother's illness, he said, "I'm too busy right now. I am weaving a great weave. My Mother can wait." When the Mother heard of this, she became very angry and threw a curse upon the Spider: "May you and all your descendants weave and weave, yet never create a weave that will last!" And that is why the Spider creates beautiful webs, but they cannot last for long.

When the Wasp heard of his Mother's illness, he said, "I'm too busy right now. I am creating something out of mud. My Mother can wait." When the Mother heard of this, she became very angry and threw a curse upon the Wasp: "May all you create turn into poison!" And that is why the Wasp cannot create anything that appears of value.

When the Bee heard of his Mother's illness, he said, "Oh! My poor dear Mother! I must rush to her side at once! She has been so good to me!" The Bee at the time had been baking bread, and still had flour on his hands when he went to his Mother. The Mother, upon seeing her only good child, praised the Bee: "May you and all your descendants create the sweetest food that all may eat from you!" And that is why the Bee was blessed to create honey, so that all may eat from his blessed hands.


Dimitra was on a roll, now, and her hand felt no sign of strain. What should she write next? she wondered. The next tale that popped into her head was a Christmas tale. It was way too early for Christmas, of course, but there was no harm in including it:

The Three Masses.

Long ago, there was a priest who served in a nobleman's household. He said Mass for the family and courtiers, and served the spiritual needs of the people. But he was a little too fond of food and drink, and tended to overindulge, so he became very fat. Still, he was a good man in all respects.

One Christmas Eve, he was preparing for the Christmas service. His servant kept going on and on about the great feast being prepared which would take place after the service. There would be roast duck and goose, roast beef and mutton, fresh fruits and sweets, cakes and pastries, and the finest wines. As the priest had fasted in preparation for the service, he grew hungrier and hungrier. By the time he was ready to perform the Mass, he was famished!

The nobleman, his family, the courtiers, and other guests all assembled in the chapel for the service. They tried to keep their thoughts on holy things, but their thoughts kept turning to the feast waiting for them after Mass.

Now, it was a custom of the time for the priest to say three Masses in succession on Christmas Eve. The priest, sacristan, and altar boys ascended to the altar. The chimes rang, signalling the first Mass to begin.

The priest celebrated the first Mass without incident, save for a fumbled word or two. He did his best to overcome the hunger pangs to complete the first Mass in a satisfactory manner. As soon as it ended, the chimes rang for the second Mass to begin.

The priest was growing hungrier by the minute. In his haste, he began skipping passages of Scripture and rushed through the Eucharist. The congrgation was a bit surprised to see their priest racing through the Mass like this, but as they were as anxious to get to the feast as much as he did, no one minded.

The second Mass was finished. The chimes rang again for the third and final Mass. Impatient, the priest splashed through the third Mass, cutting short the litany, cutting out the Scripture altogether, and devouring the Eucharist. The people had a hard time keeping up with him, not knowing when to sit, stand or kneel. The chimes jangled like sleigh bells throughout the service. But they wanted to get it over with so they could get to the feast.

Fianlly, the priest said, "The Mass is ended! Go in peace!" At last! It was over! Everybody ran into the dining hall, where the most magnificent feast awaited them. They ate and drank until they were filled to bursting! The priest himself ate so much that he died from overeating.

His soul ascended to Heaven, where he stood before God in judgement. And God was very angry with the priest.

"You cheated Me out of three Masses!" the Lord shouted at him. "Therefore, neither you nor those who sinned with you shall enter Heaven until you have said three thousand Masses!"

Years went by. The nobleman's castle crumbled to ruins. Yet, it is said that every Christmas Eve, you can still hear the priest saying Mass in the ruins of the chapel to his ghostly congregation. And you can be sure, he is taking pains to say them perfectly.


That was a wonderful story, Dimitra thought. I should include the one about St. Nicholas as well:

The Icon's Warm Bread

Once upon a time there were a brother and sister whose parents had died, leaving them alone in the world, save for an uncle who lived not far away whom they scarcely knew. So they were sent to live with him by the townsfolk.

The uncle was a very wealthy man, owning many cattle and had a large house filled with many fine possessions, but he was a mean and stingy man, who resented having to care for his niece and nephew. They were too young to work, too young to be of use for anything, except for begging. Every day the mean uncle sent the poor children out to beg on the streets, in all weather, and ordered them not to return home until they had made some money.

One day during the Christmas season, a man appeared and gave the children one large silver coin each. The children shouted their thanks and then said happily, "Surely Uncle will praise us!" But some older boys saw what had happened, and when the children started home, they pounced upon the poor defensless little ones and took all they had, including the silver coins.

The children ran home crying and told their uncle what had happened. The uncle was furious! "Get out!" he shouted. "Disappear you worthless little thieves! I never want to see you again!"

The terrified children ran out into the night, and they became lost as well as hungry. Finally, they happened upon the church. Seeing the windows were lit, they went in. The exhausted children began to cry with relief at being what they thought was a safe place. The first thing they noticed was an icon of St. Nicholas. Through their tears and the flickering light of the candles, it seemed to them that the Saint's lips were moving. They were surprised to hear a deep, kindly voice saying, "Children, are you hungry?"

"Yes! Very hungry!" the astonished children replied.

"Here, then, take this." In the unsteady light, the children couldn't be sure, but they thought the arms of the Icon move, and three warm pieces of bread suddenly appeared in the children's hands!

The Icon of St. Nicholas continued to speak. "I know you were chased out of your home. So be it! You have nothing more to fear from that miser of an uncle. Go now to the little house down the road. Give the old woman who lives there one of these pieces of bread and tell her I sent you. She will take you in."

The children thanked St. Nicholas and did as he instructed them. Sure enough, what the Saint had said came to pass. Her house was not as grand as the uncle's, but the old woman's heart was larger, and the children knew they had a home at last.

The next day, they returned to the church to thank St. Nicholas for his help. Again, the Saint gave them three pieces of bread. "Come back as often as you are hungry," he said.

So every day they went to the church, received three pieces of bread from the Saint, and shared the third with the old woman, and she in turn cared for the children.

Then, one day, the stingy uncle died in an accident. The children inherited his entire estate, and brought the old woman to live with them in their new home. They continued to give thanks to St. Nicholas whenever they passed the church, but now they did not need to receive bread from them, because they had plenty to eat at home.

Years went by, and the old woman became frail and weak, but by now the children had grown up and were able to take care of her. So, during this time of giving, remember those who are in need, especially the children. May God and St. Nicholas bless you all in the coming year.


Dimitra hesitated. Perhaps she should have kept that story for last? Well, the publisher could decide that, she figured. She would have to have it typed up for publication, anyway. The problem was, she wasn't a very good typist, and besides, she didn't own a typewriter. Maybe someone on Christopher's staff could do it for her? She felt confident that she could persuade her famous son to get somebody to help her.

She began to feel a little lightheaded. Her watch read twelve-thirty, well past lunchtime for her. Dimitra set down her pen, rose from her chair, picked up her purse and headed downstairs for a bite to eat. The stories could wait until after lunch. Meantime, she could think up more stories to write. I'll probably need a bigger notebook, she thought with a smile.




Within a week, Dimitra had written a full book's worth of stories, all on lined notebook paper. Her finished manuscript lay on the table in the production meeting room, ready for review. Dave Baram, Criss's manager, looked on with interest.

"Since when did you decide to become an author, Mom?" Costa asked.

"Since I found that letter on Christopher's desk from GoldBooks a week ago," she replied. "Since he didn't have time to write one, I decided to do it. And I had a lot of fun doing it as well; I remembered having the three of you all around me while I told you these stories, and the words just...flowed." She swept her hand for emphasis.

Criss flipped through the manuscript. "Oh, wow!" he exlclaimed. "Mom, you were really on a roll here! Oh, my God! Here's the story of the hippocampus!"

"What the hell is a hippocampus?" Dave asked.

"It's like a mer-horse," Criss explained. "You know, half-horse, half-fish."

"You mean a seahorse?"

"No, a mer-horse. Anyway, here's the story..."

The Fisherman's Widow

Long ago, an old fisherman's widow lived by the sea. She was very poor, with no children of her own to help her. Her fellow villagers, themselves embittered by poverty, spared her very little food.

One day, while fishing on the beach, she noticed a few young maidens taunting and cruelly abusing a wounded hippocampus which had washed up on the shore. One of the heartless maidens threw a stone at the poor creature. Outraged at such cruelty, the old woman went to the creature's aid, dressing his wound and giving him some fresh water, all the while comforting him, laying his beautiful white head on her lap.

The hippocampus raised his head and spoke to the old woman:

"You have saved my life," he said. "In return, I shall grant you three wishes."

"Anything I want?" asked the widow.

"Anything you desire," replied the hippocampus. "I give you my word."

"Then I want you to make this village a prosperous place."

And so it was granted. The shabby hovels turned into neat little cottages with vegetable gardens all around them, the fishermen's boats were as good as new, sparkling in the sun, and the ragged clothes the maidens on the beach wore turned into beautiful embroidered dresses.

"My second wish, hippocampus," said the widow, "is to make everyone here in the village kind and good; no one should be turned away from their doors."

This wish, too, was granted. With tears in their eyes, the maidens who had so cruelly abused the hippocampus now rushed to his aid. The old woman saw her neighbors' doors and windows thrown open, and the villagers hugging each other in the streets.

"Don't you want anything for yourself?" the hippocampus asked.

"Yes," said the widow. "I want death."

"But why? Look how you changed these girls, and your entire village, with your kind wishes. Surely life will be good now for you here."

"No, not for me," said the widow. "My life is over, hippocampus. "I have suffered too long, and am very old. Others will benefit, but for me, I have nothing left."

"I cannot give you death," said the hippocampus.

"But you gave your word, hippocampus--anything I want."

"Very well," the hippocampus sighed. "Then you must follow me to my home, down in the Land Beneath the Sea. My Prince will grant you death."

Despite the tearful pleas of the maidens on the beach, the old woman followed the hippocampus to the edge of the water. The setting sun threw an orange streak of light on the sea like a golden road into the horizon. The hippocampus and the old woman stepped onto the streak of light, the sea opened, revealing broad stone stairs leading deep down. The maidens watched with horror as the old woman and the hippocampus descended deep down into the sea.

Down, down, down the stone steps they went. The old woman found that she could breathe as comfortably as she could on land. The hippocampus led her down to the Land Beneath the Sea, known to us as Atlantis. The old woman had never seen such beauty! The sunlight filtering through the water turned the bottom of the sea into an aquamarine paradise. Sea anemonies fluttered like flowers in the breeze in the underwater gardens, and colorful fishes swam all around them. Mermaids and mermen passed by, riding white hippocampi like people ride horses above.

The widow and the hippocampus entered a magnificent palace made of pearls, coral and beautiful shells. Inside, the Prince of Atlantis sat on a huge golden throne, surrounded by his court. The hippocampus bowed to the Prince.

"This kindly woman rescued me and treated my wounds, Highness," he said. "In return, I granted her three wishes. The first was to make her village prosperous, the second to make her neighbors kind and good, but the third wish I could not grant, for she wished for death for herself. So, I bought her here."

The Prince listened attentivly, then smiled. "A wonderful story, hippocampus," he said. "But where is the old woman of whom you spoke?"

"Why, Your Highness," said the old woman, astonished. "I am the old woman."

The courtiers laughed. The Prince laughed too, and handed her a jewelled mirror. She looked at her reflection and saw not an old widow woman but a beautiful maiden, the face of her youth when she was the village beauty and life was full of promise and joy.

"No one grows old in Atlantis," the Prince told her. "And no one dies unless they wish it. Look around you, then decide if you still want death."

"I would rather live, Your Highness," the old woman said, "since you gave me a new life. But what will become of me? I do not want to go back to my village--my life there is finished."

"It is a custom of the Royal House of Atlantis for a member to choose a spouse from the World Above the Sea," the Prince told her. "For a hundred years I have searched for a special woman to be my bride, and even if I search for another hundred years, I could not find one as selfless, wise and beautiful as you. Will you be my wife and Princess of Atlantis?"

The newly transformed fisherman's widow gladly consented. She married the Prince and lived in Atlantis as Princess. And in the old village where she had once lived, they have erected a statue in her honor which can be seen to this day, if you go far enough up the coast of this little Greek island where it all happened so long ago.



"That's quite a yarn," Dave said, laughing. "And your mom told you that when you were a kid?"

"That, and many others," Criss replied, smiling. He tossed the manuscript to him. "Here, read it for yourself," he said.

Dave picked up the manuscript. "Thanks, I think I will."





Dave sat in his favorite easy chair in his home in Las Vegas, reading the stories Dimitra had written. They were good tales, he thought, but they'd have to be typed out on a word processor if they were going to be published. Maybe he'd get one of his assistants to do it--that's what he was paying them for, after all.

He flipped a page and came across the next story:

The Old Lady and Her Wheat

Once upon a time there lived a very old lady in a very small hut at the edge of a great forest, with her duck, her goat, and her cat. She was a very poor old lady with very little to eat for herself, let alone for her animals.

One day she returned to her hut after a day gathering wood for the fire when she saw a bag of grain sitting by the door. She did not know who left this strange but wonderful gift for her, but she was thankful all the same, and called her animals to show them what she found.

"Hello, my animal friends," she said, "I have found this sack of grain by the door. I am very old, so can you please help me sow it so that it may grow?"

"Quack, quack," said the duck. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Baa, baa," said the goat. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Meow, meow," said the cat. "I'm too busy to help you."

So the old lady had to sow the wheat by herself. In a few days, the wheat began to sprout, and by summer the crop had reached full height. The old lady called her animal friends again.

"Hello, my animal friends," she said. "The wheat I have planted has grown and is ready to harvest. I am very old, so can you help me gather the wheat?"

"Quack, quack," said the duck. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Baa, baa," said the goat. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Meow, meow," said the cat. "I'm too busy to help you."

So the old lady had to harvest the wheat herself. When she was done gathering the wheat, she called her animal friends to help thresh the grain.

"Hello, my animal friends," she said. "The wheat is gathered and is ready for the threshing. I am very old, so can you help me thresh the wheat?"

"Quack, quack," said the duck. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Baa, baa," said the goat. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Meow, meow," said the cat. "I'm too busy to help you."

So the old lady had to thresh the grain herself. The wheat was separated from the chaff and stored into sacks, ready to be taken to the miller to be ground into flour. When the last of the wheat was stored into the sack, she called her animal friends to help her carry the wheat to the miller.

"Hello, my animal friends," she said. "The grain is threshed and is ready to be taken to the miller. I am very old, so can you help me carry it to the mill?"

"Quack, quack," said the duck. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Baa, baa," said the goat. "I'm too busy to help you."

"Meow, meow," said the cat. "I'm too busy to help you."

So the old lady had to take all the grain to the miller herself. The miller ground the wheat into fine flour. The old lady took the flour home with her and made several loaves of bread. When the bread was done baking she called her animal friends once again.

"Hello, my animal friends," she said. "I have returned from the miller and have made bread with the flour he made from my wheat. Would you like to eat the bread I made?"

"Quack, quack," said the duck. "I would like to eat!"

"Baa, baa," said the goat. "I would like to eat!"

"Meow, meow," said the cat. "I would like to eat!"

The old lady looked at her animal friends and said, "I will eat this bread all by myself, as I have done all the sowing, reaping, threshing and carrying to the mill. You did not help me when you could have, so you do not deserve to share in the reward. Those who do not work when they have the ability to do so does not deserve to eat!"

So the old lady ate the bread she made all by herself as her animal friends looked on in hunger. And that day the animals learned that when someone asks for help you should give it to them, as many times you may be helping yourself.




Dave smiled as he finished the story. Something clicked in his brain, remembering the same tale he had heard as a child, about the Little Red Hen, who did all the work while everyone else sat on their lazy asses, refusing to help with all the work but offering to "help" eat the bread, but the Little Red Hen gave it to her chicks instead. The coincidence amazed him. He wondered just how many stories in Dimitra's book paralleled ones he heard growing up. One thing was for certain, he thought, it was definatly worth publishing. All it needed was to by typed up. He put the manuscript aside for the time being. Plenty of time to read it later.



Next morning, Dave bought the manuscript back to the production office. He found JD at his desk, going over merchandise invoices for the outlet store. Dave set the manuscript on the desk. "Great stories," he said. "Once they're typed up, you can send it to the publisher."

JD took the manuscript without a word. Dave left for his own office. The morning routine went on uneventfully until Joaquin Ayela wandered in. "Hey, JD," he said. "You seen Criss around?"

JD shook his head. "Check his office," he directed him.

"I did, and he's not there," Joaquin told him.

"He'll be here soon," JD said. "In the meantime, make yourself comfortable."

Joaquin sat down in one of the office chairs. Looking around, he spied the manuscript. He picked it up and flipped through the pages. "You writing a book?" he asked JD.

"No, not me," JD answered. "Mom is. That's her manuscript."

Joaquin looked at the title page. Stories From A Greek Childhood, it read. Well, it beat reading old magazines. "Mind if I read it?" he asked.

"Be my guest," said JD.

Joaquin settled back in his chair with the manuscript. He opened it at random and found what he thought at first was a Christmas story:

St. Nicholas and the Thief

Once upon a time, there was a thief who robbed a rich man's house. He had been spotted by the guards, and now he was running for his life with the stolen loot. He ran into the woods to hide, but his pursuers were close at his heels.

The thief ran and ran until he came to the edge of a ravine. He stumbled into the deep ravine and found himself trapped. In desperation, he knelt down and prayed to St. Nicholas, patron saint of Greece, Russia, children, sailors and thieves.

"Holy St. Nicholas," the thief prayed. "Protect me and hide me from my pursuers, and I will light a fine beeswax candle before your icon in the church!"

Suddenly, the figure of an old man stood before him. Though the thief did not know it, the old man was actually St. Nicholas himself.

"I will hide you from those who pursue you," said St. Nicholas. "Hide inside that carrion over there, and do not come out until I tell you to."

The thief looked at the carrion where the saint told him to hide--the rotting remains of a dead horse that had stumbled into the ravine and had died. Thinking it would be far better to endure the stench of the carrion than the wrath of the guards, the thief did as he was told, holding his nose all the while.

The guards arrived at the ravine. St. Nicholas was there to greet them. "We are searching for a thief who robbed our master's house," they said. "Have you seen him?"

"He is not here," said the saint. "God grant that you find him."

The guards rode away. The saint bade the thief to come out from his smelly hiding place, which the thief was all too happy to do, for the smell of the rotting carcass was unbearable.

"I thank you, old man," the thief said. "I couldn't bear the stench of that carrion any longer!"

"What did you promise St. Nicholas if he granted you protection?" the old man asked the thief.

"Why, I promised him I would light a fine beeswax candle before his icon in the church," the thief replied.

"As you were offended by the stench of that carrion," the saint said sternly, "so would St. Nicholas be offended by the stench of your candle, for you have asked him to bless your evil deed. Go, return the things you have stolen, and tell all that God does not bless evil deeds."



"Hey, Joaquin!"

It was Criss. Joaquin set down the manuscript and rose to greet him. "Where have you been?" he asked. "I've been looking all over for you."

"We had a little accident in the warehouse yesterday," Criss explained. "Burst water pipe."

"I hope nothing was damaged," Joaquin said.

"Nothing major, just had to dry some stuff out and (bleep) like that," Criss told him. "Kept you waiting long?"

"Oh, no, just got here myself." Joaquin held up the manuscript. "Read your mother's book--it's pretty good."

"Oh, yeah?" Criss took the manuscript. "Glad you like it. She's got a book deal with GoldBooks to write children's stories."

"So what made her decide to become an author?" Joaquin asked.

"Oh, I got this letter from GoldBooks asking if I wanted to write a book for kids, but I didn't have the time, so Mom decided to write it," Criss explained, smiling at the thought. "My mom the author," he said, laughing a little.

"So, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. I'm glad she's doing it. I'm proud that she's doing it. I hope it becomes a best seller for her sake."

"If it's your mother writing it," Joaquin said, "it may just be one. All of your fans will be begging for a copy, just like your own book."

Criss set the manuscript aside. "So, what's the deal? You said you were looking all over for me, and here I am. What's up?"

"We got the casino demonstration set up, and we need you there," Joaquin told him. "We gotta move."

Criss followed Joaquin to the casino. The manuscript lay on the desk, waiting for the next reader.


Dimitra entered the production office, searching for her manuscript. She needed to have it typed so that it would be ready for publishing, and the deadline was drawing near. She remembered giving it to Christopher for him to review, but that was yesterday. She hoped he didn't misplace it; it had taken her a week just to remember all those stories, let alone write them down.

She saw one of the assistants sitting at her desk, typing on her computer keyboard. "Excuse me," she said politely. "Have you seen Christopher?"

The assistant looked up. "Last I saw, he went with Joaquin to the casino for a demonstration," she replied.

Dimitra thanked her and left. The casino was crowded and noisy with the bleeps and bloops of the electronic slot machines and the chatter of gamblers and dealers alike. It seemed almost hopeless to find her famous son in this crowd. She turned to the blackjack tables. There he was, dealing the cards to four volunteers and wowing them with his illusions. Smiling with relief, she waited patiently until he finished his card tricks and the small group around him dispersed.

Criss turned to see his mother standing by the cameramen and smiled. "Hey, Mom," he greeted her casually as he walked over to give her a hug and a kiss.

Dimitra greeted him in kind. "I'm looking for my manuscript," she said. "Have you seen it anywhere?"

"Manuscript?" Criss suddenly remembered. "Oh, oh, oh, yeah! The manuscript! I left it on JD's desk in the office. Joaquin was reading it--he said he liked it."

"Ah, thank you." Dimitra gave Criss a peck on the cheek and returned to the office to fetch her manuscript. Criss returned to do some more taping of his show. As Dimitra made her way back to the office, she spotted the President of the Luxor Hotel himself, Felix Rappaport. Dimitra smiled as she walked up to him, not in the least intimidated; Felix was a family friend besides Criss's de facto employer, and was a wonderful person in his own right as far as Dimitra was concerned.

"Hello, Dimitra," Felix greeted her warmly. "How are you today?"

"Hello, Felix," she returned. "I'm fine, thank you."

"So, what brings you to the casino?" Felix asked. "Watching your son do card magic?"

"No, not really," Dimitra replied.

Felix feigned disappointment. "You're not? Awwww, come on."

Dimitra laughed. "Felix, if you had seen Christopher do as many card tricks as I have, you'd be bored silly! I've been watching him do card tricks since he was six years old!"

Now it was Felix's turn to laugh. He couldn't help but pity Dimitra for having Criss Angel for a son; the things she must have put up with when he was growing up--whew! "I merely came to find my manuscript," Dimitra said.

"Manuscript?" Felix echoed. "For what?"

"I'm writing a book of stories for GoldBooks," Dimitra explained. "They wanted Christopher to write one, but he was too busy, so I decided to write one instead."

Felix grew interested. "I'd like to see it, if you don't mind," he requested.

"It's in the office," Dimitra told him, motioning him to follow her.

They went into the production office, walked past the desks of assistants working at their computers and into the back where JD had his own desk. "Ah! There it is!" Dimitra exclaimed as she spotted the manuscript on the desk. She picked it up and showed it to Felix, who took the manuscript and flipped through the pages.

"You've been busy there, Dimitra," he commented. "But you'll have to type it up on a word processor if you want to get it published."

"I know, I know," Dimitra sighed heavily. "I'm not much of a typist, and I don't have a typewriter--or a word processor."

"Oh, I'm sure there's someone around who can help," Felix said hopefully. "In fact, there's a girl on my staff who's a whiz when it comes to typing up copy. Maybe she would be willing to do it."

"Oh, I don't want to put her to all that trouble," Dimitra protested.

"Well, you can ask her all the same," Felix said. "Her name's Ginger Barton and she's in the upper office. She's really good at it--you should get hold of her."

Dimitra took her manuscript. "Well, all right," she said. "I will talk to her."




Ginger Barton proved to be as good as Felix's word. Once Dimitra told her about the stories she had written, Ginger agreed to type them up for her by tomorrow. It would be a welcome break from dictation, she had said, and the small fee Dimitra offered would come in handy as well. Besides, she loved stories as much as any of her kids; maybe she could score a free copy when it was published? Yes, Dimitra had agreed, and soon Ginger's talented fingers were flying across the keyboard, transforming Dimitra's pen-and-ink script into hard copy. It took her just three minutes to get the first story done, but she could not resist reading it over again, more for pleasure than for proofreading:

The Miracle Tree

Once upon a time, during the Ottoman occupation of Greece, there was a Turkish Governor who wanted to give a feast in his own honor. He ordered that his feast would be held in a spot that overlooked the plain of Sparta.

A more sumptuous feast was never held in those parts. As the Governor feasted, he noticed his servant, a Christian shepherd boy, gazing from this spot overlooking the beautiful plain of Sparta with its majestic mountains and sparkling rivers, and sighing with great longing.

"Why do you sigh so heavily?" the Governor asked the servant boy.

"These areas were once ours, and you have taken them by force," the boy replied bravely. "I have hope in God that what they say comes true, that after many years and ages they will be ours again."

The Governor was enraged at such a speech from his servant. He siezed a spit from a nearby fire and thrust it into the boy's face.

"Do you see this spit, little worm?" he sneered at the boy. "This spit that was used to roast the meats we ate?"

The boy nodded nervously, fearing he would be next to be skewered onto it. The Governor thrust the spit into the ground with such force that it stood upright, never to be removed by the hand of man again.

"The same chance that this spit has to become a tree and grow branches," the Governor said imperiously, "your people will have to become free and liberate this land from us! Now, get back to work!"

The shepherd boy slunk back to the firepits, the derisive laughter of the Governor and his guests burning his ears. But the next day, a miracle happened--the wooden spit the Governor had spitefully driven into the ground had sprouted branches and leaves! This miraculous tree gave the people of Greece confidence that the day would come when they would be free from Turkish rule.

The little spit-sapling grew into a huge tree that overlooked the plain of Sparta, the hopes and courage of the Greeks growing with it, until the day came that ended the four centuries of cruel Turkish tyrranny, and Greece was free at last. It also served as a fable to show that there is hope in all circumstances even in times when all seems hopeless.



Ginger set aside the story to start on the next one. Of all the memoranda, the business letters, the invoices, and the dictation she had ever typed on her keyboard, this was the most enjoyable.




Almost a year went by, then a package in the mail arrived for Dimitra, care of the Luxor Hotel. Curious, JD called his mother in New York.

"Hey, Mom," he said. "Did you order anything from..." He looked at the return address. "GoldBooks, Inc.?"

"Oh, that must by my book!" Dimitra exclaimed. "They said they'd send me a copy."

"Oh, okay," JD grunted. "Uh, you want me to forward it to you?"

"Oh, no, no," Dimitra said. "You keep it and give it to Dima. She'll love it."

"Well, okay, if you say so, Mom," JD agreed, doubting that his high-school aged daughter would go for a book of fairy tales. "Talk to you later. Love you, 'bye."

JD hung up and opened the box. Stories from a Greek Childhood, read the title on the cover, but what made him proud was the author's name printed boldly on the bottom: by Dimitra Sarantakos. So now his mom was an author, JD thought to himself, smiling. He opened the book to the back flap, showing a picture of Dimitra and a brief bio under it:

Dimitra Sarantakos emigrated to America with he family when she was thriteen. She heard these stories from her own grandmother and passed them down to her three sons, JD, Costa and Christopher, known to the world as Criss Angel, the illusionist. She currently resides in New York.

JD got on the phone. "Hello, Jennifer?" he said, "we need to order some books from GoldBooks. Yeah, Stories from a Greek Childhood by Dimitra Sarantakos. Yeah, that's right--Mom wrote it. We'll start with fifty and see where we go from there. Okay, a hundred then. And, yeah, knowing Criss, he's gonna plug the hell out of it! Hey, who knows? Mom may have to write a sequel!"