The Manna of Saint Nicholas

Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.

TRANSMIT - initiate the Venetian signal - RECEIVE - initiate the Mozart cadence - I FEED AND TRAIN MY CHIRPING PETS - initiate the Masonic cipher - THE VENGEANCE OF HELL BOILS IN MY HEART - sound Myra's alarm - THE EARTH A HEAVENLY KINGDOM, AND MORTALS LIKE THE GODS - beware the sailors of Bari - WITNESS - The Manna of Saint Nicholas.

They buried Santa Clause in Myra. His holy cadaver leaked magical fluids. The monks fought so bravely, but the Bari pirates escaped with half. Two pieces of Saint Nick. Separated. Make a wish! Purple sails flapping away on the horizon.

We were there when those from Myra came to Venice. Later, they would become a council. They had their half of the holy cadaver moved there. Their petitions to the Phoenicians, for the other half, went rebuffed. Heads or tails?

In Venice and in Bari, they harvested the magic water, the Manna. A healing draught, they called it. In Bari, they turned it into a poison. We were there, sweetling. We saw Santa's body dragged through the lines of history, secret and known. Tug-of-war on saintly remains. They all fought for the Manna.

We were there when the Phoenicians used their Manna to negotiate the fall of the Knights Templar. We heard Jacques de Molay's prayers. We whispered soothing words into his ear as the fires rose.

We were there when Giulia Tofana sold her secret poison in Rome. Aqua Tofana, though some called it Manna. She wore a purple mantle in her soul.

We were there when Mozart whispered, "I've been poisoned." Some whispered Masonic plots. The secret societies scratched their heads. The murder was more simple than that. There are those one should not scorn. Hell hath no fury.

We were there when Mozart designed the secret passages beneath Venice. We were there when he wrote the key to open the door. The Magic Flute! We liked Mozart. He could hear us.

We were there in 1943 when the city of Bari was bombed by German ships. Mustard gas! Screams! That is what the histories said, anyway. We know the Illuminati crept in, but failed to steal Santa's half. Something borrowed. Something blue.

Tis the season. Wassail! Wassail! Raise a steaming glass and toast the dead saint. Santa's corpse is out there, in two pieces. Cadaverous halves playing havoc on the history of this tiny planet.