All posts by greydogtales

John Linwood Grant writes occult detective and dark fantasy stories, in between running his beloved lurchers and baking far too many kinds of bread. Apart from that, he enjoys growing unusual fruit and reading rejection slips. He is six foot tall, ageing at an alarming rate, and has his own beard.

Sheep, Dates, and Ghost Stories at Christmas

In which we prod a forthcoming festival, and bring you Jerome K Jerome’s dissection of Christmas Eve ghosts. Yes, it is, for many in the West, that time of year again – the run-up to Christmas. And the traditional time for ghost stories…

It’s an odd combination. Whilst large swathes of the global population sensibly increase their output of plastic elves and angels for export (or ignore the whole shebang), other minds are filled with images of snow, fir trees, nativity scenes and seasonal sundries. All very strange, given that it’s usually raining, and the birth of Christ probably occurred around September/October.

If you didn’t know, much of the evidence suggests an autumn birth. The Bible has shepherds and sheep wandering around, even though open grazing dropped off by the end of October, and the Quran records Mary/Maryam, overcome by the pains of childbirth, as being provided with a stream of water from which she could drink, and a palm tree which she could shake so ripe dates would fall (dates are ripe for picking in late August and September).

As for spirits and lost souls, Allhallowtide is long past, and the Bible doesn’t approve of ghosts anyway, so there’s really no good Christian/Abrahamic reason for supernatural tales to be in vogue at this time of year. Which leaves the obvious source of this tradition as simply ‘what you did when it was cold, wet and dark outside’. A Northern European habit of cramming your family and your animals into the hut, getting tired of Uncle Sven’s jokes about root vegetables, and launching into ghost stories to change the subject.

UNCLE SVEN: And then there was this turnip, yah? It–

YOU: But wait! What is the lonesome cry outside, that moaning on the wind. Might it be the spirit of–

MOTHER: I locked your father in the shed. He’s been making eyes at the goat again.

Nevertheless, we don’t dislike a bit of tradition. Rather than list a load of supernatural Christmas tales today, though, we’d rather share the observations of that wonderful writer Jerome K Jerome on the ghosts of Christmas, taken from his wry and satirical book Told After Supper (The Leadenhall Press, 1891). Every reader and writer of supernatural stories should know this piece…


TOLD AFTER SUPPER

Introductory

 

courtesy jerome k jerome society

 

It was Christmas Eve.

I begin this way because it is the proper, orthodox, respectable way to begin, and I have been brought up in a proper, orthodox, respectable way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox, respectable thing; and the habit clings to me.

Of course, as a mere matter of information it is quite unnecessary to mention the date at all. The experienced reader knows it was Christmas Eve, without my telling him. It always is Christmas Eve, in a ghost story.

Christmas Eve is the ghosts’ great gala night. On Christmas Eve they hold their annual fete. On Christmas Eve everybody in Ghostland who IS anybody—or rather, speaking of ghosts, one should say, I suppose, every nobody who IS any nobody—comes out to show himself or herself, to see and to be seen, to promenade about and display their winding-sheets and grave-clothes to each other, to criticise one another’s style, and sneer at one another’s complexion.

“Christmas Eve parade,” as I expect they themselves term it, is a function, doubtless, eagerly prepared for and looked forward to throughout Ghostland, especially the swagger set, such as the murdered Barons, the crime-stained Countesses, and the Earls who came over with the Conqueror, and assassinated their relatives, and died raving mad.

Hollow moans and fiendish grins are, one may be sure, energetically practised up. Blood-curdling shrieks and marrow-freezing gestures are probably rehearsed for weeks beforehand. Rusty chains and gory daggers are over-hauled, and put into good working order; and sheets and shrouds, laid carefully by from the previous year’s show, are taken down and shaken out, and mended, and aired.

Oh, it is a stirring night in Ghostland, the night of December the twenty-fourth!

Ghosts never come out on Christmas night itself, you may have noticed. Christmas Eve, we suspect, has been too much for them; they are not used to excitement. For about a week after Christmas Eve, the gentlemen ghosts, no doubt, feel as if they were all head, and go about making solemn resolutions to themselves that they will stop in next Christmas Eve; while lady spectres are contradictory and snappish, and liable to burst into tears and leave the room hurriedly on being spoken to, for no perceptible cause whatever.

Ghosts with no position to maintain—mere middle-class ghosts— occasionally, I believe, do a little haunting on off-nights: on All-hallows Eve, and at Midsummer; and some will even run up for a mere local event—to celebrate, for instance, the anniversary of the hanging of somebody’s grandfather, or to prophesy a misfortune.

He does love prophesying a misfortune, does the average British ghost. Send him out to prognosticate trouble to somebody, and he is happy. Let him force his way into a peaceful home, and turn the whole house upside down by foretelling a funeral, or predicting a bankruptcy, or hinting at a coming disgrace, or some other terrible disaster, about which nobody in their senses would want to know sooner than they could possibly help, and the prior knowledge of which can serve no useful purpose whatsoever, and he feels that he is combining duty with pleasure. He would never forgive himself if anybody in his family had a trouble and he had not been there for a couple of months beforehand, doing silly tricks on the lawn, or balancing himself on somebody’s bed-rail.

parody jerome k jerome
proper parody from jerome k jerome

Then there are, besides, the very young, or very conscientious ghosts with a lost will or an undiscovered number weighing heavy on their minds, who will haunt steadily all the year round; and also the fussy ghost, who is indignant at having been buried in the dust-bin or in the village pond, and who never gives the parish a single night’s quiet until somebody has paid for a first-class funeral for him.

But these are the exceptions. As I have said, the average orthodox ghost does his one turn a year, on Christmas Eve, and is satisfied.

Why on Christmas Eve, of all nights in the year, I never could myself understand. It is invariably one of the most dismal of nights to be out in—cold, muddy, and wet. And besides, at Christmas time, everybody has quite enough to put up with in the way of a houseful of living relations, without wanting the ghosts of any dead ones mooning about the place, I am sure.

There must be something ghostly in the air of Christmas—something about the close, muggy atmosphere that draws up the ghosts, like the dampness of the summer rains brings out the frogs and snails.

And not only do the ghosts themselves always walk on Christmas Eve, but live people always sit and talk about them on Christmas Eve. Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories. Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell authentic anecdotes about spectres. It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murders, and blood.

There is a good deal of similarity about our ghostly experiences; but this of course is not our fault but the fault of ghosts, who never will try any new performances, but always will keep steadily to old, safe business. The consequence is that, when you have been at one Christmas Eve party, and heard six people relate their adventures with spirits, you do not require to hear any more ghost stories. To listen to any further ghost stories after that would be like sitting out two farcical comedies, or taking in two comic journals; the repetition would become wearisome.

There is always the young man who was, one year, spending the Christmas at a country house, and, on Christmas Eve, they put him to sleep in the west wing. Then in the middle of the night, the room door quietly opens and somebody—generally a lady in her night-dress—walks slowly in, and comes and sits on the bed. The young man thinks it must be one of the visitors, or some relative of the family, though he does not remember having previously seen her, who, unable to go to sleep, and feeling lonesome, all by herself, has come into his room for a chat. He has no idea it is a ghost: he is so unsuspicious. She does not speak, however; and, when he looks again, she is gone!

The young man relates the circumstance at the breakfast-table next morning, and asks each of the ladies present if it were she who was his visitor. But they all assure him that it was not, and the host, who has grown deadly pale, begs him to say no more about the matter, which strikes the young man as a singularly strange request.

After breakfast the host takes the young man into a corner, and explains to him that what he saw was the ghost of a lady who had been murdered in that very bed, or who had murdered somebody else there—it does not really matter which: you can be a ghost by murdering somebody else or by being murdered yourself, whichever you prefer. The murdered ghost is, perhaps, the more popular; but, on the other hand, you can frighten people better if you are the murdered one, because then you can show your wounds and do groans.

a peculiar portrait of jerome

Then there is the sceptical guest—it is always ‘the guest’ who gets let in for this sort of thing, by-the-bye. A ghost never thinks much of his own family: it is ‘the guest’ he likes to haunt who after listening to the host’s ghost story, on Christmas Eve, laughs at it, and says that he does not believe there are such things as ghosts at all; and that he will sleep in the haunted chamber that very night, if they will let him.

Everybody urges him not to be reckless, but he persists in his foolhardiness, and goes up to the Yellow Chamber (or whatever colour the haunted room may be) with a light heart and a candle, and wishes them all good-night, and shuts the door.

Next morning he has got snow-white hair.

He does not tell anybody what he has seen: it is too awful.

There is also the plucky guest, who sees a ghost, and knows it is a ghost, and watches it, as it comes into the room and disappears through the wainscot, after which, as the ghost does not seem to be coming back, and there is nothing, consequently, to be gained by stopping awake, he goes to sleep.

He does not mention having seen the ghost to anybody, for fear of frightening them—some people are so nervous about ghosts,—but determines to wait for the next night, and see if the apparition appears again.

It does appear again, and, this time, he gets out of bed, dresses himself and does his hair, and follows it; and then discovers a secret passage leading from the bedroom down into the beer-cellar,- -a passage which, no doubt, was not unfrequently made use of in the bad old days of yore.

After him comes the young man who woke up with a strange sensation in the middle of the night, and found his rich bachelor uncle standing by his bedside. The rich uncle smiled a weird sort of smile and vanished. The young man immediately got up and looked at his watch. It had stopped at half-past four, he having forgotten to wind it.

He made inquiries the next day, and found that, strangely enough, his rich uncle, whose only nephew he was, had married a widow with eleven children at exactly a quarter to twelve, only two days ago,

The young man does not attempt to explain the circumstance. All he does is to vouch for the truth of his narrative.

And, to mention another case, there is the gentleman who is returning home late at night, from a Freemasons’ dinner, and who, noticing a light issuing from a ruined abbey, creeps up, and looks through the keyhole. He sees the ghost of a ‘grey sister’ kissing the ghost of a brown monk, and is so inexpressibly shocked and frightened that he faints on the spot, and is discovered there the next morning, lying in a heap against the door, still speechless, and with his faithful latch-key clasped tightly in his hand.

All these things happen on Christmas Eve, they are all told of on Christmas Eve. For ghost stories to be told on any other evening than the evening of the twenty-fourth of December would be impossible in English society as at present regulated. Therefore, in introducing the sad but authentic ghost stories that follow hereafter, I feel that it is unnecessary to inform the student of Anglo-Saxon literature that the date on which they were told and on which the incidents took place was—Christmas Eve.

Nevertheless, I do so.



Pick up the book if you don’t already have a copy. It’s also freely available from places like Project Gutenberg. You can find out more about his writings here:

http://greydogtales.com/blog/jerome-k-jerome-ghosts-dystopias/



Exciting Other News

Despite the loss of our previous publisher to a heart attack earlier in the year, the occult detective madness continues, with the bumper relaunch issue of Occult Detective Magazine (formerly Occult Detective Quarterly) out now! Don’t miss this 200 page special, packed with brand new fiction, articles, reviews and art – click one of the links below:

odm #6 on amazon uk

odm #6 on amazon us

 

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THE UNNAMED COUNTRY & THE GENRE IN THE BOTTLE

”The critics slap labels on you and then expect you to talk inside their terms.”

Doris Lessing

What is ‘genre’? Today, a new collection, or mosaic novel, along with the nature of  ‘real’ versus ‘imaginary’ writing. We welcome back one of our occasional guests, Paul StJohn Mackintosh, who brings praise for Jeffrey Thomas’s The Unnamed Country, and then segues into M John Harrison and the question of writing as art.

Continue reading THE UNNAMED COUNTRY & THE GENRE IN THE BOTTLE

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The Science of Deduction and Stranger Logics

In which we look at the pocket watch of Dr Watson’s late brother, Holme’s secret worries, the nature of the Science of Deduction, and the realm of the almost impossible – including the occult.

Let’s start with the obvious. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective of 221b Baker Street, London, never knowingly encountered the occult, nor did he undertake any case in which he anticipated the solution to involve occult, psychic or other paranormal phenomena. He faced no genuine ghosts; he laid no malevolent spirits, and he had no encounters with demonic forces.

science of deduction

With that in mind, today we probe the question of Sherlock Holmes and the uncanny, the supernatural, or whatever you care to call it. And before anyone groans, we neither question the canon nor do we belittle less canonical interpretations. The original stories can stand proud, yet there is no doubt that variations on the theme interest a number of readers – and writers. So do bear with us…

As stated above, Conan Doyle made it clear in his stories that Holmes’s cases did not involve the psychic or supernatural. This might seem odd in some ways, given Conan Doyle’s personal belief in psychic matters, and the fact that spiritualism, mysticism and theosophy were common currency in late Victorian society. However, in the process the author did:

  • ensure that the stories could be read by the widest possible audience;
  • give himself a clear distance from the character he had created;
  • replace one ‘magic’ with another – the preternatural deductive abilities of Holmes.

We tease with the word ‘magic’, because Holmes’s deductions are, at times, more accurate than should be possible. That Holmes should be correct so many times borders on the preternatural – and in some cases his approach is not deductive reasoning but inductive reasoning which ignores less probable options. For the purposes of the fictional narrative, he makes observations from which he comes to conclusions that are only likely to be valid – such as when he examines the watch of Watson’s late brother:

“Look at the thousands of scratches all round the hole—marks where the key has slipped. What sober man’s key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a drunkard’s watch without them.”

The Sign of Four

In stating confidently that Watson’s brother had an alcohol problem, he does not consider the possibility that the man was extremely  short-sighted, or that the brother or the father who owned the watch beforehand had a palsy which meant he could not easily get a key into a small hole. Such inductive reasoning, which occurs a number of times, means that Holmes need not be correct, but for him to be incorrect would not suit Conan Doyle’s purpose.

On a grander scale this leads to what has been called the Holmesian fallacy – a logical fallacy arising from the inability to absolutely rule out all other possible explanations. Which is relevant to the other meat of today’s piece….

The Ghost Elephant in the Room

Holmes’s stance on the world of the “supernaturalists” was a very particular one which is sometimes misinterpreted. Conan Doyle’s approach was rather clever in one sense – he used brief references to remove his consulting detective from the argument. Holmes did not say, as is often believed, that there was no such thing as the supernatural. He was occasionally dismissive of such things, yes, but there was a common theme to his few statements on the subject:

“If Dr. Mortimer’s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one.”

The Hound of the Baskervilles

And again, in another story of the original canon, ‘The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot’:

“It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried Mortimer Tregennis. “It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?”

“I fear,” said Holmes, “that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this.

In essence, Holmes (when he was not just being sarcastic) was expressing the view that if such phenomena existed, then his logic, his ratiocination, were of neither value nor use. Psychic gifts and wandering wraiths were beyond the Science of Deduction. Conan Doyle has this echoed in another comment of Dr Mortimer’s:

“There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless.”

In Holmes you have a man who prides himself on his gift of reasoning; if he were to be presented with situations where that gift could be of no use, where would that leave him? Such situations would challenge his very identity. Bluntly, it is not in the interests of the detective’s mental health even to acknowledge the occult.

“This Agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.”

Sussex Vampire

“The world is big enough for us” – that is, there are more than enough conundrums and problems in everyday existence without delving into spiritual or mystic matters and potentially discovering more cans of worms – or a whole field of endeavour where he is of no use.

There is, however, a step that can be taken once Holmes’s statements have been processed. In using the phrase “forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature” and “beyond Humanity”, he raises interesting alternatives, even as he refuses to consider the matter as part of his own practice – or even existence.

The alternatives are that the paranormal might have its own rules, its own principles, ones to which men such as Holmes are not privy, or that it might operate without rules, where effect precedes cause, where there is no rational set of sequences or motives, and evidence is mutable or utterly unreliable. A terrifying thought to Holmes, who lived by earth-bound logic.

As the intrusion of the paranormal must have its effect upon the normal to be observed at all, a genuine occult mystery therefore suggests that two different approaches might be needed at once – the ‘logic’ of the normal, and the ‘logic’ of the paranormal. Any truly successful occult detective must surely have to marry both of these in order to succeed. They must be at least a half-Holmes.

The Science of Deduction

Logic has been described as reasoning conducted or assessed according to strict principles of validity, and that process of reasoning in which a conclusion follows necessarily from the premises presented, so that the conclusion cannot be false if the premises are true. The Science of Deduction is seen as the process of observation, hypothesis, prediction, experimentation and conclusion.

From this, we can see that both Sherlock Holmes and a skilled occult detective can apply the science of deduction to cases.

CASE A: Let us suppose that Holmes observes a mist-like human figure arise within an ancient manor house’s oak-lined dining room. He hypothesizes that this is due either to natural causes such as gas released from underground pockets, or a man-made phenomenon, utilising lanterns and mirrors. He draws on his initial observations and knowledge of the sciences to predict that evidence will be found of one of these, and experiments by altering the conditions, observing under different circumstances, or taking samples, etc. He gathers further background evidence, adds in his knowledge of human behaviour, and concludes that a brother and sister have sought to fool their dying uncle into making a new will.

CASE B: Now let us suppose that an occult detective comes across a similar initial situation. She hypothesizes much as does Holmes. She predicts and experiments, but finds neither original hypothesis holds up. Therefore she forms another hypothesis, that this is an ab-natural phenomenon with a quite different source. She draws on her initial observations, and on knowledge of the ab-natural, to predict that a particular type of presence has taken up residence there. She then experiments with wards and remedies against specific entities, takes samples and so forth. She gathers further background evidence, adds in her knowledge of human behaviour, and concludes that there is a genuine non-corporeal entity which seeks vengeance on the brother and sister for their involvement in a murder.

The difference is not in the process of reasoning, but in the underlying premise. If Holmes starts from the premise that the supernatural or ab-natural cannot and does not exist – that it is ‘impossible’ – he must pursue the mundane route, however complicated or potentially fruitless. The occult detective, on the other hand starts with the premise that the supernatural may exist,  and therefore has two routes open to her.

In theory, Holmes could choose to do the same, but in canonical terms, he would lack any orderly body of knowledge about these improbable possibilities. He would have no card index, Burke’s Peerage, Bradshaw or network of contacts and informants which might offer useful clues as to which lines to pursue. Therefore, even if he could embrace a “supernaturalist” philosophy, he would need to amass an entirely new body of knowledge.

The Detectives in the Shadows

We can see various interpretations of the ‘occult Holmes’ option in three fictional characters who were contemporaneous with the Great Detective’s adventures – Thomas Carnacki, Dr John Silence, and Flaxman Low. Readers in the Edwardian era could have easily picked up stories by Conan Doyle and by the creators of each of these occult detectives.

We often describe Thomas Carnacki, created by William Hope Hodgson, as the first true occult detective, and also as the only one who is likely to have appealed to the canonical Holmes. Carnacki was no psychic, and would therefore not be ‘tainted’ in Holmes’s eyes by pretensions of mystic gifts. There were ab-natural phenomena and presences, in Carnacki’s view, but many supposed manifestations were perfectly natural in origin, and were explainable as based on either ignorance or deceit. He utilised scientific method in order to exclude these deceits before he accepted the possibility of a genuine supernatural event. In practice, Carnacki tended towards the tools of the mundane detective – cameras, hairs used as motion sensors, scientific apparatus etc. – rather than taking Holmes’s more intellectual approach.

(For more on the enduring appeal of Carnacki the Ghost Finder, see here: carnacki-the second great detective)

Dr John Silence, on the other hand, created by Algernon Blackwood, was a man of psychology and mysticism, employing spiritual insights and gifts to probe unusual situations. His was a world of ascetic pursuits and moral clarity, with a touch of Holmes’s distance from the ‘common man’ and more of the intellectual standing. He favoured the mental struggle with dark forces, rather than carting around a load of paraphernalia. Silence’s mind at least would have caught Holmes’s attention, but Holmes may well have dismissed Silence’s psychic abilities.

flaxman low

And then there was Flaxman Low, created by E & H Heron – the joker in the pack. If Holmes might occasionally have approved of Low’s penchant for direct action rather than psychic flim-flam, he would have put his head in his hands at the distinct lack of logic in either Low’s cases or his actions. Low comes to conclusions before gathering sufficient evidence, and blasts away at whatever foes he perceives. If Holmes says, as he does in ‘The Sussex Vampire’,

“What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It’s pure lunacy.”

then Flaxman Low surely replies:  “Worry not, Holmes. I’ve already shot the walking corpses and am about to set fire to them.”

For devotees of the canon, Low would, we suspect, be the least appealing of the trio.

(We look deeper into the bizarre world of Flaxman Low here: flaxman low triumphant)

In a forthcoming anthology Sherlock Holmes and the Occult Detectives (edited by old greydog and coming from Belanger Books in 2020), we hope to demonstrate the many ways in which Holmes’s logic and the occult investigators’ willingness to embrace another set of rules entirely might work alongside each other. In the process, we hope to portray how Holmes and Watson might choose to adjust to – or reject – the presence of “forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature”.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world,” said he. “In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task.”

The Hounds of the Baskervilles



For musings on other matters related to 221b, we also recommend an extensive and fascinating recent post by noted Sherlockian writer and editor David Marcum, in which he covers the role of numbers, and the range of untold cases mentioned in the canon (amongst other things):

a seventeen step program


And for those who openly embrace the occult detective concept, Occult Detective Magazine #6 should be out before the end of the year.

art by roland nikrandt
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THE CHILD AND THE WASP KING

Today, dear listener, something for everyone. We are proud to bring you more fascinating folklore of the Christmas Wasp or Wasp King, thanks once more to the industry of Professor Ernst Stellmacher, author of Insekten-Archäologie für Frauen (1873). Professor Stellmacher collected the story below somewhere in Bavaria in the 1860s, and suggested that it echoed a much earlier tale, ‘The Little Tailor and the Dragonfly’ (Mały krawiec i ważka), which was well known in 17th century Poland.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Professor Stellmacher could suggest no specific moral to this traditional tale, which has fared better than most concerning the Christmas Wasp. The practice of wasp-mumming has sadly faded in most counties (the Yorkshire Wolds may be an exception), and the last recorded mummers’ performance, involving ten men dressed in black and yellow with buckets on their heads, and one man with a gigantic sting made out of whalebone, occurred in Whitby in 1922. In the 1970s, the British group Fairport Convention did produce a seventeen minute folk ballad based on this story. Unfortunately it was dreadful.

wasp king

Our version has been edited for modern comprehension, as some of the expressions were in an obscure 19th century Bavarian dialect…


THE CHILD AND THE WASP KING

There was once, long ago and suitably far away, an old couple who had five children. Poorer than poor, this family lived in a sad hovel far from the wealth and laughter of the Queen’s castle. Their one cow gave only semi-skimmed milk, and to make their bread they were forced to collected the grain that spilled from the wagons of passing ottermongers. They were pitied by their neighbours, who would sometimes creep to their doorstep at night, and leave small gifts such as empty paper bags, or notes saying ‘Go away,’ and ‘We won’t miss you.’

After some time the ill-favoured old couple became weary of such a miserable existence, and so they sold four of their children to the local glue factory – which slightly improved matters for a short while. The one child who remained was clever, kind, and fair of face, with curls of golden hair, and was either a boy or a girl, but the parents had lost interest in which. Day after day this child played innocently in the sunshine, eating unwary bees, whilst their father threw stones at idle house-elves and their mother employed her wondrous talent for spinning gold into straw – a talent not unconnected to their continuous dire poverty.

Thus it was that when the Queen’s beautiful daughter, Princess Kevin, came riding along the very road by which the hovel stood, the old man and the old woman rushed out to abase themselves, beg, and generally be a nuisance. The young Princess looked down from her gaily-caparisoned horse, pushing some of the caparisons to one side so she could examine the two snivelling elders.

“Why, how sad it is to see such want and sadness in our fair kingdom!” she cried, her pretty eyes filling with tears. “Quickly, get these dotards off the road so I don’t have to look at them.”

Princess Kevin’s guards, who had grown up on the wrong side of the rutted tracks, obliged by beating the couple up and throwing them into a ditch. Satisfied, the little princess was about to ride on when she saw the golden-haired child playing before the hovel. A quick glance at their drowning parents gave no clues, so she had one of the guards scoop up the child.

“Bring that one back to our enormous and badly planned castle,” said Princess Kevin, “And I shall have them raised to be as a sister to me – or a brother. Whatever.”

And so it was that the child, whose name was Alefumble, was taken to the nicest rooms in the castle and dressed in whatever caparisons wouldn’t fit on the horses, including fine silks from the more agreeable parts of Araby and quite a lot of satin. Now that the child had a more varied and plentiful diet than just the weaker or less cautious local bees, they grew swiftly, becoming fairer with every day. In only a few years, Alefumble was almost as tall as Princess Kevin, who they loved dearly, and could hold their tongue no more.

One crisp winter morning, not long before the realm held numerous feasts to celebrate the wrong date for the birth of the Messiah, the youngster went up to the princess’s chamber. All around hung holly red with berries, wreaths of ivy, and badly-drawn pictures of a pregnant woman complaining about the lack of affordable housing in Bethlehem – all the sundries which spoke of Christmas soon to come. Alefumble knelt before Princess Kevin.

“I love you, dearly,” said Alefumble, in case anyone had missed that fact.

“You’re not bad yourself,” replied the princess. “Although I keep pointing out that my name’s Kevin. Now that we are vaguely a lot older, I’d probably marry you. And my mother the Queen would give you half the realm and so forth, but alas, all who seek my affection have to complete three tasks.”

Princess Kevin recited the great challenges which any suitor had to face, and Alefumble listened with much attention, nodding at key points and making bullet-point notes on a handy blackboard.

First, said the princess, the suitor had to venture far into the wastelands, accompanied by no more than a cheap donkey and a packed lunch. Once there, they had to slay a hundred wicked bandits from the Forest of Already Far Too Many Bandits. Then, returning with the ears, the bold hero had to plough the nearby sheer cliffs, doing so without using oxen (previous attempts at vertical ploughing had severely depleted the realm’s oxen holdings), and plant the bandits’ ears in the furrows they had made.

“And after that–”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with mysterious tunnels and dogs who have eyes the size of dinner-plates, does it,” interrupted Alefumble. “I was bitten by a dachshund once, and I still have a weak ankle…”

Princess Kevin laughed merrily, which she had learned in classes when younger. “Why no, dear Alefumble. How silly you are, beloved. You see, the ears of bandits will each grow into a mighty armoured skeleton, and then–”

“I get it,” said Alefumble, choking on chalk dust. “Your mother doesn’t fancy the cost of wedding banquets.”

“Actually, she’s allergic to prawn cocktail, but close enough.”

At this, Alefumble fled the castle – which took some time, given its size. They fled weeping through the snow, down to the frozen brook which ran by their old hovel, and there they threw themselves down. Next to the brook, that is. Otherwise they would have come a cropper, the ice being quite thin. Nor is it clear why they couldn’t have found somewhere warmer to throw themselves down, so you can probably ignore this detail entirely.

“Woe is me,” they cried. “My brothers and sisters are glue; my parents are dead – and if they’re not, I think I’ll leave it at that, anyway. How can I, a mere boy or girl, conquer a hundred fearsome bandits, plough sheer cliffs, and then the… the other thing?”

All at once there came a mighty buzzing to their ears, and Alefumble looked up through teary eyes. Maybe there was a late bee to munch, one which might comfort them? To their astonishment, they saw not a convenient flying snack, but a wasp of enormous proportions, its shimmering wings spread as wide as those of an unfeasibly large albatross. Or a pterodactyl, but those hadn’t been invented yet.

“Fear not, child,” buzzed the airborne monstrosity. “For I am the Christmas Wasp. And when you were little, I saw how you always took care to eat bees, not any of my kin, and how, when you came across an injured wasp, you would splint up its antennae and suchlike. Which was pointless, and mostly a hindrance, but well intentioned, I suppose.”

“Oh, great Christmas Wasp, King of all your people, can you help me with my tasks, that I might win the princess’s hand in marriage.”

“Not bloody likely,” said the huge hymenopterous monarch, when the challenges had been explained to it. “Have you seen the size of those bandits?”

As Alefumble began to weep again, the face of the Christmas Wasp softened. Not that you could tell with all that chitin, to be honest.

“Listen, fair Alefumble, this is my season, and I am Lord of it. If you wish, I can pierce this Queen with my stinger, letting her die an agonising death as my potent venom first paralyses her and then liquefies her flesh, until after pain beyond comprehension she is left a husk, lifeless, upon the floor of her very own castle.”

“That seems reasonable,” said the young man or woman, cheering up. “After all, she’s quite annoying, and doesn’t even have a name in this story. If she was gone, Princess Kevin would be mine at last!”

“It’s possible,” said the Christmas Wasp. “But who knows? What am I, a fortune-teller?”

Alefumble rushed back to the castle, and after getting lost a few times, announced their plan to the Princess Kevin, who was shocked at such a dark and terrible suggestion. Also at the amount of snow which the youngster had deposited on the carpets.

“Dearest Alefumble, how could you come to me with such a dark and terrible suggestion?” she cried. “I haven’t checked mother’s will, or made sure there are no idiot half-brothers roaming around the realm who might question my inheritance – or want a cut of the loot.”

Chastened, the youngster made the exhausting journey back outside and down to their ancestral hovel, where the Christmas Wasp was idly stingering a random miserable peasant.

“Oh King of Wasps,” said the youngster, “I know nothing about solicitor’s fees or inheritance tax, and I fear that I shall never hold the princess in my arms. What should I do?”

“Ow!” said the peasant, putting as much expression into the exclamation as possible, given that they might have to be content with a walk-on part.

The Christmas Wasp rose into the air, its wings beating so fast that a veritable snowstorm arose around it.

“Look, in days gone by, I would have given you a spool of red thread, a magic hazelnut, and a sweet bird in a silver cage, that you might venture forth and make your fortune, returning to your princess many years hence and claiming her hand in marriage through your own endeavours.” The enormous insect hovered closer. “Today, as it happens, I’m in a bad mood, and you’re near to getting spiked in the eye, wasp-lover or not. Count yourself fortunate you aren’t being used to stick things in scrapbooks, like your brothers and sisters, or drowned in a ditch like your parents.”

Just then, two ragged figures shambled out from the remains of the hovel, awoken by the thrum and tumult of the Wasp King’s wings.

“Alefumble!” cried the old woman. “My only son – or daughter! Give thanks, for we are not dead, my child. Your father and I were sustained in that ditch by a kindly frog, who had once been a prince, and now we shall have our Christmas here, all three of us together again at last–”

“One last favour?” asked the youngster of the great insect.

After the Christmas Wasp had finished terminally skewering the old couple, Alefumble – wiser now, thanks to this unexpected twist – returned to the castle. There they decided to live in comfortable sin with Princess Kevin for the rest of their days, agreeing that marriage was an outmoded institution for free-thinking spirits such as themselves.

And as they kissed, outside the castle a troop of carolling waifs trudged across the landscape, singing of the joyous time to come, whilst many fattened geese dug cunning escape tunnels. All the realm rejoiced, even the Christmas Wasp.

“Now, where was I?” it said, its many-faceted eyes scanning the horizon.

“Oh, bugger,” said the miserable, half-stingered peasant, who had almost managed to crawl under a heap of discarded mistletoe…

THE END



More background to the legend of the Christmas Wasp can be found here: http://greydogtales.com/blog/folklore-origins-christmas-wasp/

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