{"id":5472,"date":"2018-12-27T18:26:04","date_gmt":"2018-12-27T18:26:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=5472"},"modified":"2018-12-27T18:26:04","modified_gmt":"2018-12-27T18:26:04","slug":"the-wreck-of-the-natividad","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/the-wreck-of-the-natividad\/","title":{"rendered":"THE WRECK OF THE NATIVIDAD"},"content":{"rendered":"

Season\u2019s greetings, dear listener, for once again we present your annual story of St Botolph-in-the-Wolds<\/strong> at Christmas. As usual, it is a tale of horror – and humble village folk – which will bring a tear to your eye, but not your wallet, for though it has been crafted especially for your rapid dismissal, it is absolutely free.<\/p>\n

We will, of course, be taking retinal scans as you read it, so don\u2019t think you\u2019re entirely off the hook\u2026<\/p>\n

\n
\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Much to their surprise, the inhabitants of that benighted East Yorkshire village, St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, have made it through to yet another Christmas. Most of them, anyway. Despite plague, marauding monstrosities, feral Girl Guides, religious feuds and their own naturally contentious nature, the villagers have endured, and it is time to celebrate\u2026<\/em><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

THE WRECK OF THE NATIVIDAD<\/h1>\n

A chilling event of spectral outrage<\/h3>\n

by J Linseed Grant<\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

As a seasonal icy rain lashed St Botolph\u2019s, the streets thronged with busy folk. Outside the village store, Sandra, her cousin Mary, and Mary\u2019s fearless lurcher, Bottles, stood under the tattered shop awning and watched the merry throng.<\/p>\n

Huzzah!<\/strong> cried the children as they hurtled cheerily through the narrow lanes, trying to pick the pockets of the older villagers as they went \u2013 and tread on as many bunions as possible.<\/p>\n

Huzzah!<\/strong> cried the more aged residents, lashing out with their canes and hoping to cripple at least one passing urchin to add to their score.<\/p>\n

Huzzah!<\/strong> cried the Girl Guides, who believed in ill will to all men \u2013 and women. Liberally fuelled by lemonade and Brasso, they were trying to take down both babes and pensioners with equal enthusiasm.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe authorities tried to have the entire village sectioned last month,\u201d said Sandra, wringing out one of her long blonde plaits. \u201cBut they couldn\u2019t get the police or the doctors to come near enough. Even the Army medics refused to turn out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot surprised.\u201d Mary coughed into his handkerchief, and examined the result. A number of rare diseases were endemic to St Botolph\u2019s, and it was always worth checking. \u201cAt least there\u2019s no panto this year.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sandra stared at the sad sight of her cousin, whose usually neat outfit of silk blouse, pleated skirt and ribbed tights was in some disarray. Mrs Gribble, ninety three years old and sprightly, had tried to mug them outside the Mold Street charity shop. It was fortunate that Sandra had her Remington with her \u2013 a warning shot had driven the old lady back into the shop.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are still going to the church\u2019s Nativity Play, aren\u2019t we?\u201d asked Sandra. \u201cI have to take some of Mother\u2019s sheep down for the procession.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cS\u2019ppose so. But you know it\u2019ll be a disaster, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bottles looked up, catching the tone in his master\u2019s voice, and leapt into action with his usual bold response to any sort of danger.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll have to change your tights again, Mary,\u201d said Sandra. \u201cThat\u2019ll stain.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The little church of St Botolph, proud centre of St.Botolph-in-the-Wolds, is described in Edith Hollinghurts\u2019s monumental, twenty five volume work \u2018The Least Pleasant Parish Churches of England\u2019 (1936) as:<\/p>\n

\u201cA warped and completely appalling excrescence, combining the worst features of seven architectural periods at once. The entire edifice, an offence to the Anglican community, should be burned down at once, and I will pay for the petrol.\u201d<\/p>\n

Its unique bell tower never seemed to be at the same angle twice, and most of the gargoyles had abandoned their posts centuries ago, too frightened to stay. The extensive crypt was known for its collection of unassigned femurs; the font was either Anglo-Saxon or IKEA, and the benefice of St Botolph\u2019s was traditionally given to those clergy who were too insensitive to notice what was happening around them.<\/p>\n

The Reverend Denholm Whitehead was such a man. He was Anglican in the way that cardboard is a foodstuff \u2013 it neither offends nor provides anything of value \u2013 and left most things to his energetic wife. Thus it was that while he sat at home and watched the Christmas Day racing at Wetwang, Mrs Whitehead strode around the church organising anyone who didn\u2019t move fast enough to escape her.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot there, Marjorie, dear,\u201d she admonished an old woman who was stuffing plastic lilies into the carved mouth of St Carapace, an early Christian martyr to haemorrhoids. Tall and grey-haired, Mrs Whitehead had views on everything, from transubstantiation (too many vowels) to the cooking of sprouts (at a rolling boil for three hours).<\/p>\n

The nave of the church would host this year\u2019s Nativity Play. There was to be a short performance that evening \u2013 as short as possible \u2013 from the children of St Botolph\u2019s Mixed Infants School, followed by a procession of local animals to adore the newly- born Messiah, and a hasty exit to the Flayed Bull for mulled gin and aspirin. Most church events resulted in elevated consumption of aspirin, except for those inter-faith sessions led by the local imam, whose astonishing displays of Muslim origami always put people at ease.<\/p>\n

Much of the touching tableau was already in place in front of the altar. Something vaguely resembling a manger had been erected from old planks by the Women\u2019s Institute, and a large artificial palm tree (kindly stolen from a York nightclub by the Girl Guides) nodded over the scene, evoking a fine sense of the Middle East. That was if you ignored the cigarette ends, the smell of badly-mixed cocktails, and the pair of pink lace panties lodged firmly in the upper fronds. Which Mrs Whitehead did.<\/p>\n

Feeling obligated, she walked over to where a small, dirty figure in a frayed potato sack loitered by the crib – a damaged crate marked \u2018Luncheon Meat – Condemned\u2019.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, little boy, and what–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI is a girl.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh. Well, little girl, what a lovely crib.\u201d She peered inside the crib, where lay a large off-white turnip with a false beard stuck to it. \u201cThe Baby Jesus\u2026 appears to be a turnip.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt am. Dolly\u2019s head fell off.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut why is it wearing a beard?\u201d<\/p>\n

The girl gave her a look of utter scorn. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t know it were Jesus if it didn\u2019t have no beard, would you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Beaten by such logic, the vicar\u2019s wife retreated. She was sure, however, that the evening would go splendidly…<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

At the farm, the sheep had at last been brushed and put the right way up. Sandra\u2019s mother had recently given refuge to a small herd of Ousewater Blackfloods, an ancient Yorkshire breed with varying numbers of legs and a tendency towards amphibious outings, which meant they had to be dried in front of the kitchen range on an almost daily basis.<\/p>\n

\u201cYan, Tan, Tether, Mether, Pip…\u201d intoned Sandra as the animals stumbled out into the yard.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the traditional Yorkshire way of counting sheep, isn\u2019t it? I read about it at college.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it?\u201d Sandra looked puzzled. \u201cMother told me it was their names. Look, Mether\u2019s the large one with the squinty eye, the one trying to hide in the horse-trough.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Mary hauled the sheep out and gave it a kick up the backside to send it on its way. He glanced towards the barn where Sandra\u2019s pony lived. \u201cSpeaking of horse-troughs, where is Mr Bubbles?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe went out onto the moors to stand on things,\u201d said Sandra, putting Tether back onto his feet again. \u201cSaid he might drop in later.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome-bye, come-bye, away!\u201d yelled the two chums as they urged the sheep down the lane towards the church. It would have helped to have sheepdogs – Bottles was no use, as he had hidden amongst the sheep at the first mention of Mr Bubbles. Anything to do with that slightly psychotic pony involved a level of clear and present danger that Bottles preferred to avoid.<\/p>\n

As they neared the village, they met with other columns of animals. Farmer Turvey was there with the more dissident of his cows, which had now abandoned their theories of a dictatorship of the proletariat, and begun to espouse anarcho-syndicalism; Mrs Pettifer, reputedly the oldest person in the village, had a box of convalescent tortoises, whilst Ignatius Pottle had brought his eleven children, a brood of dubious provenance. Sundry geese, rabbits and goats made up the numbers as the crowd entered the churchyard.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh dear,\u201d said Sandra, seeing Miss Hildagram, the local coven leader, cycling up the street. \u201cI see she\u2019s brought it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019 was Miss Hildagram\u2019s pet badger, Fluffy, perched in the bicycle basket. Everyone agreed that Fluffy probably was a badger \u2013 or had been once – but it was certainly not a pet by anyone\u2019s standards except Miss Hildagram\u2019s. It could be better described as thirty five pounds of striped, clawed irritation, bound to its loving owner by an accidental spell-casting. The pink ribbon around Fluffy\u2019s neck did not disguise the badger\u2019s general dislike of its situation.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s a good boy, yes um is, isn\u2019t um?\u201d doted the aged witch, her affection rewarded by a throaty scream of annoyance from inside the basket.<\/p>\n

With the various beasts penned or parked outside the church, awaiting the procession proper, Sandra, Mary and Bottles joined the throng of villagers heading into the building.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis place makes my sinuses hurt,\u201d said Mary.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the dust. Probably.\u201d Sandra drew in the unique churchy smell of mouldy hymn books, pigeon droppings and wood polish, along with a miasma of dubious sanctity created by centuries of people sitting there every week and wondering if they\u2019d left the iron on. \u201cDon\u2019t do that, Bottles.\u201d<\/p>\n

The lurcher lowered his back leg, edging away from a stone column that had been particularly tempting, and settled in the pew next to Mary. Already the main lights were being dimmed, leaving the forty or fifty people present unable to find where they\u2019d put their mints or crossword puzzles.<\/p>\n

It was a good turnout, and there were many looks of appreciation as the church organist, high on cold remedies, began a random medley of \u2018Zadok the Priest\u2019 and \u2018Don\u2019t Fear the Reaper\u2019, throwing in the odd passage from \u2018Oklahoma!\u2019 now and then.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t hear that very often,\u201d said Sandra. \u201cWhen does the–\u201d<\/p>\n

The main lights dimmed suddenly, leaving only a single spotlight focussed on the nave.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is not far now, my dear,\u201d said a jam-covered mixed infant, revealed in the circle of light. Just identifiable as Blessed Smothers, the son of the local cess-pit cleaner, he was arrayed in a magnificent selection of tea towels depicting British defeats at sea. Wobbling behind him on a tandem sat Emily Pethwick in an old sheet, a red velour cushion tied around her waist.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn\u2019 my bum hurts,\u201d said the Virgin Mary.<\/p>\n

The congregation watched with moderate interest as the two children cycled up the nave, followed by the glare of the spotlight, to where a plywood door had been hung between two pillars. Joseph and the Virgin Mary dismounted, letting the tandem crash to the floor. Through the cunning artifice of amateur carpenters, the door opened, to reveal a portly infant wearing a false moustache. His overall appearance \u2013 disconcertingly – was of a very young Hercules Poirot, blinking in the harsh light.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes? Are you robbers?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d said Joseph. \u201cMy wife is with child.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe aren\u2019t with anyone \u2018cept you,\u201d said the Innkeeper, poking his nose as he regarded the Virgin Mary.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a baby, you thicko. It\u2019s inside her.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Innkeeper stepped back. \u201cUrgh! She\u2019s etten a baby?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet on with it,\u201d hissed Mrs Whitehead from the shadows. The three players hesitated, then recovered.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is with child,\u201d repeated Joseph, \u201cAnd needs somewhere to do the thing what women does. Is there room at your inn?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCourse there is. Loads of room.\u201d The Innkeeper, also known as Our Brian, was the only son of the landlord at the Flayed Bull, and a keen advocate of the publican\u2019s trade. \u201cWhat sort of inn would this be if there wasn\u2019t no room? We got a nice double, wiv a toilet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cManger!\u201d came the hiss from the wings.<\/p>\n

The Innkeeper frowned. \u201cEr\u2026 but the toilet is broke. We can do you the manger, what is next door. Straw extra.\u201d He shuffled out from the doorway and pushed the two towards the crib and the palm tree. \u201cBreakfast is sausages.\u201d<\/p>\n

The small girl in the potato sack came forward to stand by the crib. \u201cI is a shepherd. I is here to adore somethink. Is your wife fat, or is she making babies?\u201d<\/p>\n

Emily Pethwick, never one to avoid a challenge, ran forward and punched the small girl in the stomach. \u201cAn\u2019 I is not fat, Jennie Bullfish! An\u2019 it is a BABY, what will be the Messy-thing. An\u2019 it will make loads of people fight for, like, ages an\u2019 ages, even though it is nice. An\u2019 it gives them sandwiches with fishes in. An\u2019 so they are stupid!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d The small girl gave the Virgin Mary a vindictive look. \u201cYou is late. There is Three Kings what have been waiting ages.\u201d<\/p>\n

Three more mixed infants, clad in Christmas wrapping paper and Sellotape, came out from behind the altar. Each wore a turban fashioned by the imam, who had gracefully accepted his role as period advisor, despite the fact that he had been born in Bradford and knew little of hat fashions in early Palestine. It showed.<\/p>\n

The tallest King came to the crib, one pudgy hand to his head as he tried to stop his turban unravelling. \u201cWe brings you gifts, what we wrapped ourselves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAn\u2019 I has not had the Messy-thing yet,\u201d said the Virgin Mary.<\/p>\n

\u201cTough,\u201d said the King. \u201cWe are very busy at this time of year, \u2018cos it is Christmas. If you don\u2019t want our pressies–\u201d<\/p>\n

A hasty struggle ensued, in which a carton of cheap cigarette lighters, a plastic dinosaur and a Terry\u2019s chocolate orange found their way to the foot of the crib.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn\u2019 now I must go to the hospittle for tummy ache,\u201d announced the Virgin Mary loudly.<\/p>\n

The spotlight clunked off, leaving the church in almost complete darkness. The gathered folk of St Botolph\u2019s applauded, mostly in the hope that this would speed up the affair.<\/p>\n

Sandra nudged her cousin. \u201cYou see, it\u2019s all going jolly well. And nobody\u2019s been hurt at all.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGive it time,\u201d said Mary. \u201cI expect that–\u201d<\/p>\n

He was interrupted by an almost blinding light from around the altar, but it was only the vicar\u2019s wife turning all the fittings on at once from the pulpit. Mrs Whitehead beamed down on the congregation.<\/p>\n

\u201cBehold, our lovely Christmas scene!\u201d<\/p>\n

And there it was \u2013 the Nativity.<\/p>\n

As Joseph, the Virgin Mary and the Innkeeper jostled and poked each other, the Three Kings gave muted adoration of the \u2018new-born\u2019, trying to ignore the fact that the Baby Jesus was still a large turnip in a beard. The palm tree swayed above all, and the wise shepherd, aka Jennie Bullfish, ushered various other vaguely shepherd-like mixed infants into the spotlight.<\/p>\n

Despite the organiser\u2019s best efforts, there had been the usual parental indifference to making new `costumes. One child had a horse\u2019s skull strapped over his face; another was dressed as a dalek, and several wore other variants on outfits from various village pantomimes. It wasn\u2019t quite Bethlehem, let\u2019s put it that way. The vicar\u2019s wife had reflected more than once that keeping the older children, such as most of the Girl Guides, out of the affair had its downside. Although a law unto themselves, the Guides were at least highly organised.<\/p>\n

\u201cI is an Angle of the Lord!\u201d announced a waif-like girl in white robes, a gold-painted frisbee taped to her head. \u201cI denunciated this, I did too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou stinks of vinegar, Clemency May Pottle,\u201d said the Innkeeper, throwing a stained tea-towel over the waif. \u201c\u2019Cos you is a fish-face!\u201d<\/p>\n

Violence was avoided by Mrs Whitehead\u2019s yelled instructions, upon which the infants burst into a spirited rendition of \u2018Away in a Manger\u2019, bolstered every so often by the organist waking up and leaning on an organ key. The congregation duly joined in, and up the central aisle came the animals, prodded along by the churchwardens and members of the Women\u2019s Institute.<\/p>\n

The Ousewater Blackfloods were surprisingly well-behaved as they neared the manger to do some adoring – excepting for Mether, who tried to make a run for the font. Sandra leapt up and steered the sheep back into the flock, returning to her seat again as the rest of the Pottle children, a Marxist-Leninist cow and a fluster of goats entered the church. Geese honked and released their droppings liberally, while a selection of pet rabbits demonstrated their intelligence and simply ran straight back out of the open doors.<\/p>\n

Up rose the heavenly sound of more than fifty adults and infants mangling Christmas carols, mingled with the bleats of goats and sheep, the angry complaints of Fluffy, still in its basket, and the keening cry of Bottles, who felt that he\u2019d been rather forgotten in this story.<\/p>\n

In the bell tower, the vicar\u2019s team lifted up wooden mallets and announced the birth of the Baby Jesus by hitting the church bells as hard as they could. Once upon a time the team had been proper bell-ringers, but Old Taunt, Jack-the-Grand, Saint Cecilia and most of the other bells had crashed through the joists many years ago, and though intact, lay in a metallic jumble on the tower floor.<\/p>\n

Each massive chunk of bronze gave a dull boom as the mallets hit home \u2013 Old Taunt was balanced on scavenged train rails, and retained some of his sonorous nature. The bell-tower shook to his call, originally reserved as a solo performance for the more interesting funerals.<\/p>\n

BOOM.<\/strong><\/p>\n

A cloud of pigeon-droppings and woodworm dust flew into the body of the church, inducing violent coughing, but the congregation responded with typical Yorkshire stubbornness by singing louder.<\/p>\n

BOOM.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hands clapped to their ears, Sandra and Mary edged towards the doors.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t take much more of this!\u201d yelled Mary. \u201cLet\u2019s go outside.\u201d<\/p>\n

His cousin nodded. \u201cHalf past nine, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n

BOOM.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Old Taunt shifted on his rails and sounded again, shaking the church spire, and the Ousewater Blackfloods took alarmed baaing to a new level. The organist, shaken out of her medical stupor by the sheer noise, began to play the Wedding March with all the stops out. Encouraged by the vicar\u2019s wife pointing at the hymn board on the wall, the congregation burst into \u2018Hark the Herald Angels Sing\u2019, increasing the racket another notch. Many miles away in York and Scarborough, amateur seismologists watched quivering needles with interest.<\/p>\n

BOOM.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The cousins had barely reached the main entrance when they sensed a change in the atmosphere \u2013 a thin, cold sort of sensation. Lost in their fervour to out-sing various neighbours, everyone else seemed oblivious to the dense grey mist which was rising through cracks in the church floor.<\/p>\n

It rose like smoke at first, tendrils interweaving and shifting in the draughty church, but soon began to take on a more worrying identity of its own \u2013 a bank of rolling grey which lapped around the edges of the congregation. Faces were forming inside it, cadaverous faces which reminded Sandra and Mary of the long-dead. Shrivelled eyes turned under ruined brows; rotting lips opened to reveal jagged teeth\u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cUh-oh.\u201d Mary reached into his handbag to see if he had remembered the collection of silver bullets, cold iron, and religious artefacts that he habitually carried when he visited St Botolph\u2019s. \u201cCripes \u2013 I brought the other bag. I knew it!\u201d<\/p>\n

Sandra made frantic signals to Mrs Whitehead, who only leaned forward in the pulpit and smiled back, not noticing the new presences at her successful Nativity Play. Down in the main aisles, people were now less certain. The singing faltered. Old Taunt had fallen silent for a moment, and hungrier voices could be heard above the bleating of the sheep and goats. The voices of the grave.<\/p>\n

<What’s this? What’s this? There’s something very wrong. What’s this? There are idiots singing songs…><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Mary was trying to make the sign of the cross with two different shades of lipstick. \u201cBlimey, isn\u2019t that a line from a film, the one about scary pumpkins, with–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShh!\u201d said Sandra. \u201cThere might be lawyers reading.\u201d<\/p>\n

Cavernous eye sockets gleamed in the pallid mist, which rolled around the parishioners and mixed infants with palpable malevolence.<\/p>\n

<We slept,> <\/i><\/span>hissed the voices. <For decades, for centuries, we slept in the cool Beneath. And now this! You drag us from our quiet deaths; you send your shrieking nonsense into our very bones.><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAwfully sorry,\u201d said Sandra. \u201cSlight mistake, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dead faces turned to her, features swirling, changing and reforming \u2013 the mist grew thicker, bringing the smell of rotting coffins and the charnel house. Or what Sandra imagined a charnel house would smell of, whatever one of them was.<\/p>\n

<Mistakes.><\/i><\/span> A grey face hovered in the mist before the teenager. <We know of those. And we know of regrets and lost hopes, of punishment and torment.><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

A vaporous hand, more a claw, lashed out and clutched Mrs Peaslee, the Chair of the Women\u2019s Institute. Although it only managed to lift her a few inches, when she fell back into her pew she was shaking, and had crystals of ice in her eyebrows and her perm. Other limbs formed in the mist, reaching into the congregation \u2013 each touch of a phantom finger or talon brought with it the cold of the grave. People cried out, but when the back row scrambled out of their pews and staggered towards the church doors, pale hands slammed the doors shut.<\/p>\n

<We shall tell you about the Beneath, and the peace of Death. We shall teach you how to be quiet. Very quiet…\u201d><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, knickers,\u201d said Mary, clutching Bottles to him. \u201cSandra, we\u2019re in trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n

But then, at that very moment (as storytellers like to say), the great oak doors of the church boomed with a powerful impact. An impact from\u2026 outside! The cousins looked at each other. Could it be?<\/p>\n

Despite the thick, grasping mist around the doors, the hinges rattled. Then they groaned, bent… and both doors burst open. Outlined against a feeble moon stood a vision of Horse. This was Ur-Horse, the primal essence made flesh, as if everything equine which had ever existed had been distilled into one black, muscular form…<\/p>\n

\u201cMr Bubbles!\u201d Sandra and Mary cried out in unison.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d The pony looked around the church. \u201cMessy in here. Why the fog?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not fog, boy\u201d said Sandra, pressing herself gratefully against the pony\u2019s warm shoulder. \u201cI\u2019m awfully afraid that we\u2019ve woken the spirits of the angry dead, and now they want revenge for being disturbed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFair enough.\u201d He twitched his ears. \u201cThought there was a racket. Anyway, seen my turnip?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mary slid as close as she dared to the slightly psychotic pony. \u201cEr, did you not come to rescue us?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really.\u201d Mr Bubbles looked irritated. \u201cSome kid nicked my best turnip. Big white one, sort of purple bit near the top. I was saving it.\u201d A swirling face, the colour of wet linen, passed near him, and he bit out, but his huge teeth met nothing. \u201cCan\u2019t do much, anyway. Not to these things. So, about that turnip–\u201d<\/p>\n

The youngsters\u2019 hearts sank \u2013 or at least moved marginally further down in their chests, trying to find a way out. If their indomitable beast couldn\u2019t affect these spectres, then what was going to happen to them?<\/p>\n

\u201cThere must be something you can do, boy?\u201d pleaded Sandra.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoubt it.\u201d The pony trod experimentally on a misty claw which was trying to catch hold of Sandra\u2019s left leg. His iron-shod hoof had no effect, so he grabbed her coat collar in his teeth and put her down on the other side of him. \u201cSee? I should leg it if I were you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe can\u2019t leave the rest of them behind.\u201d She pointed to where villagers and animals filled the nave, surrounded by the chill grey mist and a sea of clutching talons. The crib had fallen over, and the goats were eating a selection of Hymns Ancient and Modern. Miss Hildegram appeared to be attempting a spell of some sort, but as an irate badger was chewing on her ankle, her concentration was not at its best.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is all about belief,\u201d shouted the coven leader, trying to kick Fluffy away without hurting it (no one had ever determined Fluffy\u2019s gender, though a few had lost fingers trying). \u201cYou must show them your faith, whatever it is!\u201d<\/p>\n

Heeding her wise words, two or three villagers held up lottery tickets, waving them at the gaseous spectres. To Sandra\u2019s surprise, this seemed to be effective, at least for a moment or two.<\/p>\n

As for the mixed infants, they seemed oblivious to the threat. The Virgin Mary and Jennie Bullfish were locked in a fairly epic fist-fight, egged on by the Innkeeper and the Three Kings, whilst Joseph was kicking the artificial palm tree and trying to catch falling cigarette ends. Phrases such as \u2018Think of the children,\u2019 would clearly be lost on Mr Bubbles. But\u2026 the crib!<\/p>\n

\u201cI know where your turnip is,\u201d she said, tugging on his mane. Mr Bubbles, who had turned to leave, twisted his head round. \u201cAnd if you help save this lot, I\u2019ll tell you,\u201d she added.<\/p>\n

He snorted. \u201cStill can\u2019t do much.\u201d He lashed out again, but the mist merely parted and reformed into an annoyed face.<\/p>\n

<You will not find us, horse-monster,><\/i> <\/span>said the face, and then its expression changed to a weak smile. <Oops. Ignore me.><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does it mean, \u2018find us\u2019?\u201d Mary put Bottles down behind him. The shivering lurcher was getting very damp, and Mary didn\u2019t want to think about that too much. \u201cSandra, there\u2019s something to find!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGhosts, spectres, dead people, crypt, revenants\u2026\u201d Sandra employed every trick in the book. In the cheaper books, anyway. She narrowed her eyes, furrowed her brow, chewed at the insides of her cheeks, racked her brains and tried a few more classic moves, all at the same time. And whilst it gave her a bit of a headache, she had a spark of inspiration.<\/p>\n

\u201cBodies,\u201d she said. \u201cOr bones, anyway. They must have mortal remains somewhere. Maybe that\u2019s their weakness.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mary grinned. \u201cGosh, you might have something there. Where\u2019s the entrance to the crypt? Bottles, go find them, boy. Good dog, find the bones. Big bones for my best boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bottles was not the wisest of dogs, nor was he the most stupid. He considered the possibility that there really were nice bones – or that he might be catapulted into more terrifying danger than even his capacious bladder could express. Still, he was quite fond of Mary…<\/p>\n

\u201cWoof,\u201d he replied, and shot off down the side of the church, ducking under the foul mist and keeping away from the general melee in the nave. The lurcher could smell bones, though the scent he caught didn\u2019t seem very fresh. Maybe there were better ones down there as well. There was a lot of dust in the air.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d urged Sandra, and Mr Bubbles trotted reluctantly after them, snapping now and then at a protruding face. Bottles was panting in front of a door near the vestry, a thick, studded door with an iron ring riveted to it.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s probably–\u201d<\/p>\n

The pony\u2019s hooves shattered the door, and some of the surrounding masonry.<\/p>\n

\u201c–locked,\u201d finished Mary, feeling a bit unnecessary.<\/p>\n

Astonished at himself, the lurcher led the way down a flight of broad steps and into the dim space below. Arched ceilings gathered the gloom about them, and the pony\u2019s iron horseshoes raised sparks from the stone-flagged floor. Sandra pulled a torch from her back-pack, and in its clear beam, they saw the carved tombs, and the niches stacked with the coffins of former generations. The posher members of said generations, that is.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo turnip.\u201d Mr Bubbles looked around, his eyes betraying a spark of red in their black depths.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere will be.\u201d Sandra stroked his long neck. \u201cDo what I ask, darling Mr Bubbles, and you\u2019ll have your turnip back, I promise.\u201d<\/p>\n

The red faded. In Sandra he trusted. Anyone else who called him \u2018darling\u2019 would have had their face kicked in. She whispered something else in his ear, and pushing the torch into her cousin\u2019s hand, she ran back up the steps.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, you lot! Ghost-pests!\u201d The mists swirled, and narrow faces formed in it, looking in her direction. \u201cYeah, that\u2019s right, you. You need to jolly well listen to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

<Ice for the maiden, ice and dust to clog her little throat…><\/i><\/span> whispered the nearest face.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight, then.\u201d Sandra thrust two fingers into her mouth and let out a sharp whistle. There was a thump and crunch down in the crypt. The eyes of the next face along opened wide, and it folded, dissipating into the general mist with a faint cry of <<\/i>Oh, bugger!<\/i>><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

A pneumatic hiss of snarls and imprecations came from the mist, which crept towards her. She whistled again. Another crunch from below, and a grasping hand fell apart, inches from her arm. The spectral cloud hesitated.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know where you live,\u201d said Sandra. \u201cMy pony is ready to crush every single casket and tomb down there; your bones will be broken open and thrown to the dogs to gnaw. Well, a dog, anyway. Same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bottles gave a Yip! from the crypt, one which managed to convey both threat and the urgent need to relieve himself. He didn\u2019t think much of the bones he\u2019d found so far, but he was a Good Dog.<\/p>\n

<You cannot destroy us all in the time we need to–><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

A crunching, rending sound beneath them announced that Mr Bubbles was taking out his annoyance on one of the larger family tombs. Three faces disappeared at once this time.<\/p>\n

<All right, all right.> <\/i><\/span>The mist, smaller now and pulsating slightly, eased away from the villagers and their animals.<\/p>\n

Sandra put her hands on her hips, facing the core of the spectres with determination. \u201cGo back to sleep, and we won\u2019t do in any more of you. And we\u2019ll stop singing for a while. Agreed?\u201d<\/p>\n

The response was sullen but definite.<\/p>\n

<Agreed.><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

The mist slid away, insinuating itself between flagstones, disappearing wisp by wisp until there was no trace that it had ever been there apart from some very cold villagers and some confused animals.<\/p>\n

Satisfied, Sandra gave two short, sharp whistles, and her companions padded, clattered and staggered up from the crypt. Bottles was looking particularly pleased with himself, dragging a large leg bone along as he emerged.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it\u2026 er\u2026 wrong to eat people?\u201d asked Mary, glancing at his dog.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was<\/i> very useful.\u201d Sandra patted Bottles on the head. \u201cAnd, I suppose–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTurnip,\u201d said Mr Bubbles, his dark eyes fixed on her.<\/p>\n

She sighed, and pushed her way through the confused parishioners to get to the crib, where the Virgin Mary and Jennie Bullfish had made up their differences. They were playing with Mr Clemp\u2019s wooden leg, which had fallen off in the general chaos.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn\u2019 it does bend, in the middul, see?\u201d Emily demonstrated to Jennie.<\/p>\n

Sandra retrieved the leg, passing it back to its owner. \u201cI could do with that turnip, girls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt are the Baby Jesus,\u201d said the erstwhile shepherd. \u201cThat is why it do have a beard.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMine.\u201d Mr Bubbles loomed over the crib, and as usual, people edged away. When it came to getting close to the great black beast of the moors, you were either Sandra, or you were tomorrow\u2019s obituary notice.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn\u2019 it am the horsey!\u201d said Emily, who had been enamoured of Mr Bubbles since the night-jack and combine harvester incident a year or so before. \u201cHere, horsey.\u201d She held up the turnip, which Mr Bubbles took gently in his teeth, spitting out the false beard as he did so.<\/p>\n

They watched the pony as he trotted through the confused throng and exited the church. The Ousewater Blackfloods had held up remarkably well, thought Sandra, though Mether was predictably wedged in the font and would have to be hauled out.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre we dead?\u201d asked Mrs Gribble, who had a dessicated pigeon corpse tangled in her hair and a lot of pale dust on her face, giving her the appearance of a deranged geriatric geisha.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, we\u2019re just in St Botolph\u2019s,\u201d said Sandra. The old woman wandered off, looking content with that answer. Miss Hildegram was unconscious, but Fluffy was crouched on top of her body, and by all reports had driven away any misty, predatory talons. Love is a funny thing.<\/p>\n

Mary tapped his cousin on the shoulder, and pointed to the pulpit. The vicar\u2019s wife appeared to be paralysed in a posture of forced enthusiasm, a rictus of a smile upon her face. How much of the nightmare she had taken in, it was hard to tell.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you all right up there, Mrs Whitehead?\u201d called out Sandra.<\/p>\n

\u201cGladioli on Tuesdays, chrysanthemums on Fridays,\u201d said Mrs Whitehead. \u201cAnd I must tell Denholm that the churchyard grass needs cutting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s fine. It\u2019s just shock.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bottles urinated against the pulpit, and then dragged his bone out into the night, leaving Sandra and Mary to re-establish some vague sense of normality inside the church. Mary was in a particularly good mood.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo one\u2019s dead,\u201d he said with a grin. \u201cThat\u2019s probably a first for Christmas Day up here, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sandra shoved the torch back into her pack. \u201cYou should see what they do tomorrow, on the twenty sixth. ‘The Hunting of the Wren’ \u2013 using the school howitzer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I think we\u2019ve done OK, anway.\u201d Mary smoothed out his pleated skirt. \u201cWhat I say is, goodwill to all folk, and God bless us, every–\u201d<\/p>\n

Behind him, Fluffy the badger was violently \u2013 and noisily – sick into the empty crib.<\/p>\n

THE END<\/h1>\n
\n
\n

And <\/strong><\/em>greydog<\/strong> hopes to sneak back at least once more before the end of the calendrical year…<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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