The winter air was thick with the scent of incense and sea salt as Calanthe drew her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders. The dim light of flickering lanterns illuminated the ancient streets of Demre, where the whispers of centuries seemed to linger in every stone. Small clouds of her breath rose in the cold December night as she approached the excavation site—a place steeped in both history and mystery.
Calanthe was no ordinary archaeologist. Born of mixed Anatolian and Greek heritage, she carried herself with an elegance that belied her rugged work. Her cinnamon-brown skin gleamed faintly in the lantern light, her dark curls escaping from the confines of a braided leather cord tied around her head. She dressed practically but with a distinct flair: a fitted linen tunic of deep indigo tucked into wide leather belts, paired with sturdy boots that were already coated in dust. Around her neck hung a small, wrought-silver talisman of St Nicholas, inherited from her grandmother—a memento of faith and fortune.
The dig site was eerily quiet, save for the muffled voices of her team debating in the background. Towering above it all stood the Church of St Nicholas, its ancient arches framing fragmented mosaics of saints, angels, and forgotten martyrs. The sarcophagus lay right under the crumbled altar. It was a breathtaking find: limestone carved with intricate patterns of ivy and waves, chipped but resilient, as though even time couldn’t fully claim it.
Calanthe knelt by the sarcophagus, her gloved hands gently brushing away the last remnants of soil. Her heart raced. Something about this find felt... different. Not just historically significant, but deeply personal. As she gazed at the faint markings on the tomb, she recalled the stories her grandmother had told her as a child—of miracles, of secret gifts delivered in the dead of night, of a saint too humble to claim glory.
Whispers of the Past
"Dr. Amara, we’re ready to lift the lid," a voice called out, snapping her from her reverie. It was Tariq, her second-in-command, dark-eyed and perpetually skeptical. He gestured toward the pulley system they’d carefully rigged earlier in the evening.
"Proceed with caution," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with anticipation. She watched as the ropes tightened, the lid groaning softly as it slid upward. Beneath it lay a sight that stole the breath of everyone present: a skeletal form, draped in faint remnants of crimson and gold cloth, its bony hands folded over a fragment of what appeared to be a bishop’s staff. Around the neck of the skeleton hung a piece of jewelry—a golden cross adorned with tiny emeralds, sparkling faintly in the lantern light.
One of the assistants murmured a prayer. Tariq, ever the pragmatist, muttered under his breath, "It looks... too perfect. Could it really be him?"
"Maybe," Calanthe whispered. "But look at the cross. It matches the descriptions in 9th-century records." She glanced at Tariq, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. "We need to verify. Carefully."
A Crack in Time
As the team began cataloging the find, Calanthe noticed something odd—a faint indentation in the base of the sarcophagus, like an inset groove or door. Her fingers traced it almost instinctively, and to her surprise, it gave way ever so slightly. A hidden compartment!
"Tariq, bring a light," she said sharply, her voice cutting through the murmurs of awe around her. Together, they pried open the concealed panel, revealing a weathered scroll wrapped in waxed cloth. Its surface was marked with Greek and Latin inscriptions, along with symbols she didn’t immediately recognize. Her pulse quickened. This could be a record written by the followers of St Nicholas himself—a voice from the very age of miracles.
"What does it say?" Tariq asked, leaning in over her shoulder.
"I don’t know yet," she admitted, though the faint smile on her lips hinted at the excitement coursing through her. "But I know who can help us." She stood, clutching the scroll tightly. "We’ll need to send this to the museum’s deciphering team in Istanbul."
As the team continued their work, Calanthe felt a strange mix of triumph and unease. Every discovery was a gift, yes, but also a responsibility. Something about the scroll and the tomb felt almost... alive. As if they weren’t just uncovering history but reopening an ancient wound.
Nightfall’s Revelation
Later that evening, long after the rest of the team had turned in, Calanthe found herself revisiting the church. Lantern in hand, she wandered through its eerie silence, past relics that whispered of countless pilgrims who had come seeking blessings. She stood once more by the open sarcophagus, gazing at the fragile remains within.
"Who were you, really?" she murmured to the past, her voice barely louder than the rustling wind. "A saint? A myth? A man?"
The air seemed to shift then, a faint gust extinguishing her lantern. Darkness closed in like a shroud, but instead of panic, she felt a strange calm. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of bells—soft and melodic—echoed through the night. The scent of incense grew stronger, mingling with the salt of the nearby sea.
And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The bells, the scent, the presence—if it had even been real—vanished into nothingness, leaving Calanthe standing in the cold, her heart pounding with wonder and trepidation.
An Unfinished Tale
The next morning, the team’s findings were the talk of the archaeological world. News outlets swarmed the site, proclaiming the discovery of St Nicholas’s tomb as one of the greatest finds of the century. But Calanthe kept the memory of that eerie night to herself, unsure whether to call it an epiphany, a hallucination, or something else entirely.
Weeks later, the scroll was finally translated, revealing fragments of an ancient hymn and a cryptic passage about "the guardians of the meek" and "a light that never fades." Scholars debated its meaning, but Calanthe suspected the true answers would remain elusive—locked away in the folds of time and faith.
As for her, she continued her work, but with a renewed sense of purpose. For even amid the mists of history and the dust of ages, she had found something she hadn’t realized she was looking for: a connection to something greater, something eternal—a reminder that humanity’s greatest stories are never truly over.
Perhaps, she mused quietly one evening, St Nicholas had given her a small gift after all.
Genre: Historical Fiction (with a touch of Magical Realism)
The Source...check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Tomb of St Nicholas that inspired the story of 'Santa Claus' is discovered underneath a historic church in Turkey
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
Post Comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.