A short story based on John Masefield's 'The Box of Delights'. It is a fairy-tale set at Christmas. Cole Hawlins and a curate meet a peculiar Bishop, Old Christmas himself, and try to thwart a magician from finding out the secret to alchemy.
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THE BOX OF DELIGHTS -
The plight before Christmas
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"Save us from error,"
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Prior George (1) had been born in Rood-stone (or Rudstone), later becoming the prior of Bollerton in 1460. He was known for his vision of Hell (of which the only surviving text is a much later edition). George was also famous, or infamous, for alchemy: that middle-ground between serious science and magic. A dangerous tightrope to walk for a cleric indeed; had he been from a later age he'd have run into serious trouble.
The prior was said to have discovered the secret of transmuting base metals into gold. Being appalled at the implications he destroyed the results of his research ('lest every fellow become as a King,' to use his own words). His likeness can still be seen today in the west window of Bollerton Priory. His alchemical work remains lost.
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"…and protect now thy servants,"
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Mr Bradford Wakes was a very tall, amazingly thin man, as upright as a broom handle and as sepulchral as Highgate cemetery. His chalky hands and slender fingers, like knitting needles, always waved as if in some unseen breeze. His dark eyes seemed intent on winkling out every secret sin that one might prefer to conceal. The long nose apparently detected something malodorous at all times. When he spoke it was a wonder that dust rather than air was expelled. He made the curate, a man of considerable imagination, very uneasy. "Ah, Mr Wakes," the reverend gentleman began.
The stonemason turned. The curate had the uncomfortable impression that Wake's torso had made a complete revolution without anything moving below. "Mr Wainscot; what can I do for you?"
Wainscot's constant surprise at Wake's 'cut-glass' English was, he knew, mere snobbery on his part. Even so, it always took him a moment to get over. "Um… I just wanted to remind you about 'Messy Church' at four pm." In conversation, Wakes had revealed himself to be university educated. On being asked where, he'd replied 'Belial' and laughed. The curate wasn't sure if he'd been wholly joking or at least making a play on words (2).
"I know; I'll be gone as arranged," the mason acknowledged.
"Excellent; Alan will be here from three but please ring him if you're called away early." The mason nodded and revolved again. Being apparently dismissed, the curate made the appropriate noises and left.
The priory at Priors Bollerton is more properly called the 'Parish church of St John the Evangelist'. It hasn't been a functioning priory since the reformation. King Henry's men did a thorough job in destroying two thirds of it in the name of religious progress (3). The nave, with its damaged walls and broken roof, was brought back into use, if not properly repaired for one hundred and fifty years. The Victorians, in the full bloom of empire, had decided to add a spire and second tower. Both town and country were booming at that time and civic works were all the rage. A recent succession of fairly 'high church' rectors has kept Priory services traditional and picturesque. When I say 'high', they were verged on Anglo-Catholic in matters of worship but had a socially progressive outlook. There was no danger of any of them 'swimming the Tiber' (4) as they say.
Mr Wainscot left the Priory by the west gate and saw a little old man, in an overly long coat, walking by. "Good morning," the curate called out.
The chap stopped and looked at the clergyman with his bright eyes. "Good morrow to you, Master Wainscot."
Simon couldn't help but smile, for Mr Hawlins was always so curiously old-fashioned. "A bright day!" British weather is so convenient. One can always talk about it, rather than about anything else. Cole Hawlins, however, would not oblige.
"You have Mr Wakes in there, I suppose?"
"Certainly; he is doing a fine job".
"You let him have the run o' the place then?"
"Well, of course. He has an awful lot to do," said Wainscot, surprised.
"Watch him, Master Curate, just watch him," Hawlins warned.
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"…be they great or e'er so small,"
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It was 9.20 on a hazy Saturday morning. A small band of the faithful had departed into a mist eager to wrap its damp tendrils about them. Wainscot, putting out the candles in the chapel, heard the west, wicket door open and shut. Going out to investigate he saw old Mr Hawlins.
"Good morning to you," Wainscot called out.
"It's a morning for revealing what is hidden, or isn't it?"
Taking this as an inexplicable reference to the sea-mist, the curate nodded. "Indeed it is."
"Would you sit with me, your reverence, and let me show you something?"
The heavy pews are Victorian although their solidity gives an impression of far greater permanence. The two men sat facing the old bronze lectern, the choir stalls and, at the far end, the altar in the sanctuary. A propped wooden board declared the total raised thus far for restoration works. Hawlins produced a small box from a voluminous pocket. "This is a most precious thing," he declared solemnly.
The curate looked at it doubtfully. It certainly gave the impression of age and considerable use. "Indeed?" he said politely.
"All the wonders of the world are contained herein," Hawlins pronounced. "If you would know more about Mr Bradford Wakes and what he seeks…"
"Does he seek something?"
"I think he does, Master Wainscot. Let me show you, that we might be sure." Old Cole opened the box and there was a blaze of light like a thousand candles; the curate gasped. "Let us see those who know the secrets of this place."
From the choir stalls there appeared a small, strange procession. It emerged from the wood itself rather than from some hole or place of concealment. The first church-mouse was clad in a mitre and bore a tiny crozier (5). He led the procession. Immediately behind him was a second mouse carrying a small prayer book. Two choristers clad in white, with Elizabethan ruffs, followed. Bringing up the rear were two mice in brown habits playing miniature psalteries.
"Good Lord!" Simon exclaimed.
"He is, he is," agreed Hawlins softly, "now watch."
The group assembled in front of the bronze lectern (presumably having no fear of that great eagle also coming to life). The mouse with the book stepped forward to read an Advent collect:-
"Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armour of light," it began in its piping voice. Note that these mice were great traditionalists preferring the Book of Common Prayer to the more modern Common Worship. Cranmer's deathless prose was very much to their taste.
Soon the collect came to its end, "…through him who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Ghost, now and ever, Amen."
"Amen," agreed the curate.
The episcopal mouse stepped forward and looked at the two men. "What would you know of us?" he squeaked.
"What is it that Bradford Wakes desires most?"
"He looks for the Rudstone. His heart is as dark as the Jackdaw's wing; there is no light within it", the Bishop declared. "Be at the north door at dawn, tomorrow."
"So, he is a magician then?" Hawlins asked. "I feared as much".
"Of the darkest kind," said the mouse.
"Thank you, my Lord," the old man replied.
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"Save us from the wiles of the dark"
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Fools say that one may meet the devil by walking, widdershins (6), seven times about a church. What nonsense that is; the devil is more easily found in moments of weakness or thoughtlessness. The curate had the most horrible feeling that he'd encountered the devil merely by standing at the north door in the fragile light of dawn. "Reverend Wainscot, you are about early," said Wakes in a croaking, desiccated voice.
The curate's throat was equally dry. "Hm…" he began, "you too."
"I needed to look at those grotesques," said the mason, gesturing overhead. His gaze soon returned to Simon, as if measuring him for some secret - but definitely unpleasant - purpose.
The curate had a rising sense of panic. To be in such a place with a suspected sorcerer was outside of his experience and gave him the creeping horrors. "Well, you must get on," he tried to say lightly. His gaze swept the cemetery and he was relieved to see the hunched figure of Hawlins approaching.
Wakes obviously read his thoughts for he glanced sharply behind him. "A popular place this; and so early. Well, I really must press on, you're right. I've seen all that I need to see."
"Aye, he's up to no good," muttered Cole Hawlins. They stood and watched the mason in retreat.
"I was never more glad to see anyone," the curate admitted.
"It's hard for any one man to stand against the dark," the old chap said, comforting him. When the stonemason was entirely out of sight, Hawlins slipped his box from the copious pocket of his voluminous overcoat. "Let us find out what the clerical mouse wanted us to see". Once again there was a bright flash of light from the box, which died away after a few seconds. The two men stood waiting, expectantly. After a moment a figure rounded the corner of the church. What a strange figure he was too!
The man was tall and lean; clearly old, his face was like ancient walnut. One might almost count the rings of his great age on his skin. He wore a green mantle of enormous antiquity, trimmed with shabby rabbit fur. The woollen cap that sat atop his head was Tudor in style, as was his hose. A wide leather belt hung about his waist, from which dangled an elaborate, heavy gold buckle: twin to that dug up at Sutton Hoo (7). A bent, rusty scabbard hung from the belt, devoid of any weapon. What need had he of a sword? His leather cavalry boots were elderly, as if plucked from the battlefield of Waterloo. In one hand he carried a stick and the other clung on to a sack, draped over his shoulder. "In come I, Old Christmas" he announced.
"Ah, aged father," Hawlins greeted him, doffing his own rather battered hat.
"In come I; if thou art ready, or not". From the newcomer came a strange mixture of scents. There was cinnamon and cloves, oranges and cider apples, hops and nutmeg.
"It's a pleasure to…er…meet you," said the curate with lame politeness.
"Master priest," said the stranger, with a nod of acknowledgement. "I'm known as Old Christmas, a fine name for any man. I am but man though; thou dost understand? "
Hawlins nodded solemnly, "I think so, sirrah."
"I stand for old Christmas but I am not Christmas. That light blazes in the darkness; illuminating some and scorching others. I am but a candle. Still, man may see even by a single candle."
"We need to see," Hawlins said.
"Thou wouldst have a gift off me?"
"We would," Cole admitted. "We need to stop Bradford Wakes acquiring the Rudstone. How do we go about it?"
"Gaudete, masters, gaudete!" (by which he meant, rejoice). On that night, thou shalt find what you seek, in the window. Send the stone away, in time, to where it will be safe, by the box". It seemed as if the odd fellow began to fade a little. He turned his back and started to sing. "When I was a bachelor, I led a merry life, but now I am a married man and troubled with a wife… (8)." Before their eyes he disappeared into nothingness.
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"…and bring us out into the light,"
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Bradford Wakes had positioned a block on which to mount a new bust of St John. He'd been irritated by the curate's almost constant presence. Wherever Wakes wanted to poke and pry, there would be Mr Wainscot. The mason wondered what the clergyman might know, if anything. There was that old fellow too; he had a strange air about him. Wakes had tried to look into his mind but could only see a stout wall of bricks. Surely such a man couldn't be familiar with 'the art'? 'Reading' Wainscot had been equally problematic. There was such a jumble of images flying through his troubled mind that it was almost impossible to sift through them. "Where is it?" Wakes muttered, casting hooded glances about him. His gaze kept returning to the window depicting George of Rood-Stone but he could find no clue there. He'd made several attempts to magically reveal 'that which is hidden' but to no avail.
"Oh, Mr Wakes- the new block - very good - nice size - excellent stuff - looking forward to seeing it – should be good," the curate approached, babbling.
The mason positively glared at the man. He tried to probe his outer mind but it was like catching a steady stream of water between one's hands. Word followed word, followed by thought, followed by subject change. Impossible! "Are you quite well? You seem nervous."
"Very well – busy – lots to do – check you're alright – busy season – not seen Alan at all – should be here – must do that printing – give me a shout if you need me".
Wakes wouldn't often admit to such a normal human passion as irritation but he wanted to scream.
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"…to rejoice on your day,"
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Gaudete Sunday, being the third Sunday in Advent, was traditionally a day of celebration during that penitential period. The Rector, already in the midst of a hectic pre-Christmas schedule, was only too pleased to let Mr Wainscot take Evensong. He'd had three school assemblies and two school carol services to conduct already that week. Cole Hawlins sat with two dozen parishioners and sang his heart out during the hymns. He watched the choir file out and kept his place as everyone else shrugged their coats on. It took some time to clear the building, the curate having to walk the two churchwardens to the door to be rid of them.
"I know it's ungrateful, but I thought they'd never go!" exclaimed the curate.
"Not to fret," said Hawlins.
"What do we do now?"
"Why, the box of course, Master Wainscot," the old fellow chuckled. He extracted the device, "Let's see what it will do". The two men watched with baited breath. Suddenly there was a horrible screeching noise, like two pieces of glass rubbing against each other. The dimly lit window western window began to stir as if it were alive. That awful sound, worse than fingernails scraped down a blackboard, lingered on the air as a figure leapt down from the glass onto the stone floor. By rights it ought to have shattered. Instead, it stood there, swaying. It was shaped like a man yet Prior George was still flat and coloured, being made only of stained glass.
"Father George?" said the curate, uncertain. It's a very disturbing thing to address someone who is two dimensional and made entirely of glass. For a start, it's very hard to be sure that they're looking at you.
"I am he," was the answer in a creaky, cracking sort of voice.
"We have a boon to ask of you," Cole Hawlins explained.
"Rejoice, brothers, for this is a good day to crave a favour".
"Father, you are the guardian of the Rudstone are you not?" Hawlins questioned.
There was a pause and an unpleasant scrape as one piece of glass scratched against another. "I made it and I regret it."
"There is a dangerous man, Father," said Simon. "A sorcerer craves your magic stone."
"Would that I had never created it!" Prior George lamented.
"He has some power, Father, albeit limited," Hawlins pursued. "If he gets the Rudstone he may use it to amass great wealth and put it to evil purposes".
"He would not be the first to act in such a way!"
"He wouldn't, sadly," the curate agreed. "Prior, if you have the stone still, it must be put out of that man's way forever".
The figure swivelled on its glass edge making a scraping noise on the flagstones. "What would you have me do?"
"It can be banished, lost in the past. He hasn't the power to retrieve it," said Hawlins. "You see this box, my box of delights? It brought us together on this night. It can blast the stone so far back it won't be found."
The glass Prior turned once more, presumably to have sight of the box. "It can do that?"
"It can, Father," said the curate.
"Very well, my brother-in-Christ, take my burden," George said. His glass arm moved forward, disconcertingly, and there was a flash of light as a nugget of glass travelled through the air. Simon reached out his hand and caught it – now just a smooth, unremarkable brown pebble.
"Be sure it is safely disposed of," the Prior cautioned. "Fare thee well," he said and the glass figure rose and hurtled back towards the window.
"Fare well," Hawlins and Wainscot cried. A moment later the figure was back and still, inside the window. Hawlins opened the box, "time to send this stone back into the past," he declared. "Money in itself is not evil. Man's lust for money may do untold damage".
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"…safe from all evil."
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The stone had always been there, as far as Bear-Killer's-Son knew. It had, in fact, been carried effortlessly from the coast by ice. By our measurements it was (then) thirty feet tall and three feet thick. You may still see it in our time too, lacking the point at the top. Much later men would top the megalith to form a cross, or 'Roodstone', dedicated to Christ. That too is now gone.
Bear-Killer's-Son had wandered away from the feast. The grain drink (flavoured with Meadowsweet) made him queasy and his siblings had laughed at him. The incessant drumming made his head throb too and he needed quiet. He went to look at the great stone, all trussed and propped, ready to be manoeuvred into place next morning. The celebrations would go on into another night once the work was done. He peered into a deep trench that was dug ready for the monolith. As he turned away he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. There was a flash of light and an object seemed to fly down into the hole. There was plenty of moonlight to look by but he found nothing apart from pebbles. He concluded that it had merely been a moth.
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Postscipt
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"Reverend," the American gentleman called out, "Have you got a moment?" He'd been poking about the Priory for a good thirty minutes and appeared greatly enamoured of the great lectern.
"Yes sir, what may I do for you?" the Rector asked.
"This lectern, its old is it?"
"It's relatively old: 16th century. It dates from after the Reformation though. People used to believe that eagles could stare into the sun untroubled. It symbolizes Christians hearing the revelation of the Divine Word without flinching. The eagle also represents John the Evangelist".
The tourist was clearly excited. "You say its brass?"
The Rector nodded. "It certainly is".
The American gave it a rub with his handkerchief. "You see that shine, reverend? That ain't brass, that's gold! If this thing is solid gold it must be worth a fortune." He glanced over at the 'restoration fund' notice. "You can have the roof lined in silver never mind about lead!"
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THE END
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Notes:-
1 Modelled on George Ripley (c.1415-1490) An Augustinian Canon and alchemist
2 A pun on Baliol College, Oxford University (Belial being a personification of the Devil)
3 Dissolution of the Monastries 1536-1541
4 Meaning to convert to Roman Catholicism
5 The hat and staff traditionally used by a bishop
6 Anticlockwise
7 Sutton Hoo ship burial & treasure 6th-7th centuries AD, found 1938
8 An old English folk song "Give me my yellow hose"