Graham Roos

The Little Red Devil

    The Reverend Caroline Nunn had never expected it to be easy. Country folk might never take to a woman vicar. But there was also something else. Indeed, she could smell it. Not in some intuitive way, she could actually smell something. something rather like the smell of burnt roses in compost. Just as the organ struck up the last hymn and she was processing down the nave, she thought she could hear a saucy, high pitched giggle. And accompanying this was the distinct smell of crushed berries. Not one of the congregation seemed to notice and she wondered if it might not be due to some decay in the fabric of the church. She looked around the little church of St. Herne and for a moment she thought she saw a flash of something crimson, streaking in the corner of her eye.

    Oh well, maybe it was her imagination, she thought to herself. She had never been entirely comfortable since she moved to the little village of Hernwick and was not entirely sure that the locals welcomed a woman vicar. She tried not to look out for signs of coolness among her parishioners, but there was no doubt that feelings were mixed.
    “Oh pull yourself together Caroline.” She said to herself. “You’re just being paranoid.”

    The actual congregation had dwindled over the years and those who still came were mainly elderly parishioners. There was no heating and the last incumbent had let the building slowly slip into disrepair at a pace sympathetic with his own disintegration. The damp and fust had been disguised with whitewash and mildew had left the interior with unwelcoming patches.

    Many of the men training for the priesthood at her seminary would have blessed their good fortune at being given a cosy country parish but not the reverend Nunn. She yearned for the inner city, to grapple with what she perceived to be the real demons - poverty and neglect. Indeed, she had pleaded to be given a difficult inner city parish somewhere among the high rise concrete keeps and turrets of the council’s castles, but for some strange reason, she had ended up in the sleepy little village of Hernwick with its quaint mediaeval cottages and old superstitions and customs. Perhaps if it had been summer, all might not seem so gloomy. But autumn was giving way to the threat of winter and she had still made no headway.

    Her first communion had been well attended all right, by the young as well as the old. But that, she felt, was the novelty of a woman priest - all eyes upon her as if she were an alien among them. But as she looked out on the sea of faces from her pulpit, she saw many stony expressions, questioning her, withholding judgement until she proved herself. Now, she had been here for almost three months and the attitude had barely shifted. She was on trial before the people of Hernwick and the Almighty himself. And there was no point in questioning His decision, she must accept and see what it was she must learn.

    She had more than half expected it, but not this, this other indefinable agency in play as obvious as the air and just as impalpable. the last of the congregation had gone and she sniffed the air again. It was more pungent this time and seemed to be coming from near the font. Perhaps it was connected with the droppings she had noticed. It seemed to be from sort of large rabbit. Large and dark like rotting berries.

    The previous incumbent had been the last surviving member of the ancient family who had been Lords of the manor since Doomsday and before, stretching back into the remote mists of antiquity. He had died on the job as it were at the venerable age of 86. When she looked at the list of priests in the vestry they almost all had the same surname - Hernlaw. And those that didn’t were probably scions of the family, she thought. Catholic or Anglican there had been no break, just a continuation of Hernlaws as if Elizabeth and Henry and the whole tudor crisis had never happened.

    After the congregation had left, she went back to the vestry to change. And there it was again, the strange smell. Crushed fruit with an undernote of plums. Well it was a very old church, one of the few remaining examples of Saxon architecture with parts of the nave dating right back to the seventh century as some noted historians had suggested. And that was the other thing, she must start a fabric fund soon and appeal to the council for money, maybe English Heritage might help out, for the building itself needed urgent repairs She had first noticed the droppings not long after she had moved in. Turgid, perfectly formed droppings, the size of grapes now appeared in the vestry and even, she had once discovered to her horror during communion, on the altar itself.

    She sighed, and walked the few yards from the church to the vicarage, which had once formed part of the old Hernwick Manor. It would soon be time for Sunday lunch which would, she knew be spent on her own as invitations were increasingly rare. She slumped into a tattered old armchair and taking off a shoe, massaged her tired feet, then took out her tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. No, this was definitely not what she had expected.

    She was forty five and although she had played her fair share of sport in her youth, there seemed to be no time for exercise and there was no denying it she was putting on weight. With no husband to share the vicarage things had become very lonely in Hernwick. All her friends lived in London or were dotted around the country in Liverpool or Manchester whereas the nearest large town to Hernwick was forty miles away. She looked in the mirror and saw a greying middle aged woman reflected back at her. Who would want her now, she paused. Courting a vicar, had just about all the attractions of courting a single mother and besides she was married to God.
    Just as she was about to resign herself to a solitary microwave lunch there was a knock on the kitchen door. It startled her as hardly anyone had ever come round the back before.
    “Just a minute!” She ran her hands through her hair. “Come in.”
    “Oh hello vicar, have I come at a bad time, if you’re busy I’ll...” It was Tom the organist.
    “No, no, Tom come in.” He grinned an awkward smile and stepped into the warm and spacious kitchen.
    “I’ve brought you a little present.” He said, handing her a pheasant. “It’s just that John, you know -the farmer from Maiden Farm - dropped a few off for me after church and since the freezer’s already full I thought you might like it?”
    “Oh Tom, that’s the most welcome present I’ve had yet. Come, come in and sit down by the Aga.”

    She looked at him. He had seemed very shy from the start, from their first meeting. An athletic looking fifty, he seemed like the type on whom churches could be built, her own St. Peter. All his life had been lived in the village, except for a brief spell at cambridge where he had read history and he had an antiquarian’s knowledge of local history, even, it was rumoured, into the remote past. Of course she’d heard the rumours. It is difficult to keep any kind of secret in the country, even from foreign vicars. It was said that he was the last surviving member of the Hernlaw family, though illegitimate. In a way, she thought, they were both outcasts.
    “I know what,” She said. “Let’s crack open a bottle!”
    “There’s no need to ...”
    “rubbish! Of course Revd Arbuckle had a housekeeper. Sadly we cannot afford such luxuries today and what would the village think of two spinsters living together anyway...”
    “she died soon after him you know. Devoted of course, even into death..”
    “red?”
    “rather...of course it used to be sherry.”
    “Yuch!” I hate sherry - so insipid. Now this is a rather nice beaujolais I picked up in Provence...”
    “You...er...I hope you don’t think me rude....you never wanted to marry?”
    “Never met the right chap. The ones who were interested were rather insipid like the sherry, thick specs and a gentle heart.... but not the christian soldier of my dreams. And besides I do think God is quite enough. He really is...”
    “He?”
    “Oh don’t worry we won’t be having ‘our parent who is in heaven’. though I would like to reintroduce the lady chapel. Cigarette?”
    “Indeed no!” He looked shocked.
    “roll my own when I need to concentrate. Now tell me Tom - I’ve always been interested in the history of the place...”
    “Oh, of course.”
    “tell me over lunch - I’ll top you up.”

    It was as she had expected. This particular part of Devon had been suprisingly resistant to the missionary zeal of the early church and had maintained a circle of sacred stones until the early middle ages. as a friend of hers had commented when she had been given the post. ‘ah Devon, the land of black cats and herbalism and probably broomsticks!’ And though she had noticed something of a feline abundance she had never actually encountered any witchcraft.

    The vicarage was all that remained of a small abbey that had later grown in Hernwick when a series of fertility miracles had brought a branch of cistercians into the area. Indeed the vicarage was what remained of the old gatehouse and there was little left that told of the abbey and its desecration by Henry except for some monumental stonework incorporated in the fabric of the grander houses.

    St. Herne had early supplanted other saints and from time immemorial there had been a mumming procession centered round a painted goat’s skull that processed through the village on the equinox in which the women took a prominent part. They were nearing the equinox now and it occurred to her that there were more women than men in the village and due to the lack of other hamlets in the area she had put it down to a genetic quirk due to the lack of fresh genetic input. Perhaps this was why some members of the local bigwiggery were determined to build a nightclub in the vicinity on the site of the old manor. Something she was determined to oppose.

    “and what happened to the last lord of the manor?”
    “Well rev’d Arbuckle was the last man in charge here so to speak.....the last lord was a bit of a rake, they mostly were it seems...” He shook his head sadly. “he went to live with a mistress and a menagerie in Plymouth and disappeared. It was rumoured he went ot America but we have never been sure. No record of his death.... By then revd arbuckle was priest and the lordly duties fell to him.”
    “that’s strange, my family come from Plymouth - well, my grandfather actually, though he was something of a shadowy figure - rumoured to be a bigamist apparently.... must be something to do with ports! Which reminds me I have an excellent vintage Graham’s - fancy a drop?”

Meanwhile as The Reverend Nunn and her organist warmed themselves with food and wine, another entity was enjoying itself. It was dark and cold and the wind moaned about the church. An early winter moon partially illuminated the interior and In the gloom of the sacristy a small, squat red and pot bellied figure was uncorking a bottle of communion wine.
    “Ooh heee heee schplurf....prrrf frrt.” and the saucy creature farted glugging from the open bottle, giggling and leering to itself in a manner quite inconsistent with the sanctity of the place. It pursed its lips as it flicked through the church diary and pulling a grotesque face let off a series of staccato fruitsome farts.
    “Yipeee!”
It leapt onto the table and squelched its fat bottom firmly down whilst its thick, fat and prehensile tongue grabbed a bottle of best vino Sacra and upended it into its mouth. After glugging down its contents in one long, glazed eyed swig, it cast the bottle into the corner and belched, then sniggered and gave out a camp, high pitched giggle of delight and leaped onto the top of the cupboard and opened the biscuit tin and began shoving the morning digestives as fast as it could into its soft round saucy mouth, licking the crumbs off its furry chest with a fat muscular tongue.
    “long time yumm yum hee hee!” and the sturdy little bundle of appetites pursed its round little bottom over a chair and produced a soft, neat turd and belched again as if in benediction as its eyes turned to the cassocks and holy vestments.
    “Ooh!” It sighed with a certain satisfaction.

The reverend Nunn had not slept well. For one thing she had overindulged herself a little after evensong. the second bottle of red that she had opened after lunch she had polished off in the evening and had retired with not a little indigestion. She was never one to be mean with herself as she surmised that those mean with themselves were invariably mean with others but now she noticed she had put on some weight since her arrival in Hernwick. That night she dreamed of temptations. She dreamed she was back on the late night TV chat show that had brought her to the attentions of the church hierarchy. She had seemed the reasoned voice of compromise in the anglican communion managing to achieve the impossible and embrace both the evangelical and catholic wings of the Anglican communion. The audience rose to their feet in ovation and she awoke with a start ashamed of her enjoyment in her pride. She closed her eyes and began to pray.
“Lord, I do not know what you want me to do here, but it is your will I serve and not my own advancement. But my God, my Love please show me and I will do it. You know everything and you know I did not want to come here where I feel alone. But I know you have a purpose. Please forgive my vanity and stubbornness and let your love shine through. Amen.” And having appeased both herself and her deity she drifted off to an easier sleep.

The little red imp was feeling sick now. And tired. She hadn’t found him yet again. Ever more slowly and laboriously, he chewed the biscuits from the coffee morning and the communion wafers until they were a dry but sticky mass. He belched again and lifting up the head choir boy’s ruff, which he was wearing as a tutu, he extruded a plum-like turd onto the Psalter and wearily disappeared into a dull red fizz.

    The Equinox came round and with it the feast of St. Herne. This feast she so reviled and wanted banned from the sacred precincts of the church. There was precious little information on St. Herne. The church had originally been dedicated to St. George and St Herne but at the time of the Reformation St. Herne had been banished and had been known only as St. George but gradually Herne had crept back in. According to Tom Herne was just a christian reworking of Herne the Hunter, the old celtic God Cernunnos - the horned one - a cousin of Pan or Bacchus. But whoever he was she was certainly not going to have a goat skull on the altar. Not this year not ever whether they liked it or not. If they insisted on their pagan superstition it could go to the Herne Arms - the pub which stayed open past midnight on such occasions.

All the locals had been busying themselves for days, preparing for the feast. Reverend Nunn looked out from the window of the vicarage that overlooked the village green and there they all still were; building a great effigy of a goat’s head from bracken and twigs, this effigy they adorned with fruit, which was to burn on the night of the equinox. It seemed they would have their celebration whether she wanted it or not. Tomorrow was the feast and she looked out again at the joyful crowds. There was young Mary Scoggins cavorting with Peter Fanshaw, a bottle of cider already lubricating the distance between them. They seemed entranced in each other and yet she had seen them both with other friends enacting the same ritual. It isn’t Christian, she said aloud to her self.

The noise and clamour disturbed her further until, about three O’ clock that afternoon when the procession began from the village green where the locals had gathered outside the pub. The mummers were dressed in evergreen with sparkling milk bottle tops and bits of tinsel and one had an elaborate head-dress - the crowning glory of which was an ancient looking goat’s head. Caroline Nunn was by no means a prude but everyone was getting drunk and she resented the fact they expected a church service to solemnify this pagan rite.

    Winter had provided a crisp, clear, sunny day by the time the vicar arrived on the green. All eyes were upon her especially the youth, who had disliked her opposition to their scheme for a nightclub and now seemed to be mocking her. Paranoia crept in and she felt her step become more measure and deliberate. Faces turned towards her increasing her self consciousness as she mounted the makeshift wooden podium. A sarcastic cheer went up.
    “Good afternoon everyone,” she began. “Erm... I’d like to wish you a happy Herne day. I see how much effort you’ve gone to and I’d like to....”
    “show us yer tits!” Someone shouted from the back.
    “ah I see spirits are high this year.” she was determined not to be fazed by this. “Yes, so as I was saying. I’d like to wish you all a very happy Herne day. And I hope to see you all in church...” a huge cry went up. “Tomorrow...” A few boos came from the same direction. She put up her hand. “Now I’m sorry everyone but I cannot bless the goat’s head in the church tonight. I really do wish you an enjoyable day but on my conscience I cannot agree to a rite that I find essentially contrary to the church.” The crowd was silent. “So good luck everyone and god bless you all.”

    As she was returning to the rectory her arm was caught by John, one of the local farmers. He was the true last descendent of the Lords of Hernwick through his mother’s side -his actual claim to the title diluted through lateral marriages and only a few acres of his ancient patrimony.
    “Vicar. This is Here’s day not a funeral.~”
    “There’s more to life than parties,” she continued on her way “I have a duty...”
    “What about our duty to celebrate the life we have been given?”
    “Well I’m so glad that world famine and genocide don’t seem to trouble you John.” she added spitefully then hated herself.
    “What makes you think we don’t care? Has it occurred to you caring might include celebration and thanksgiving?” He hadn’t even taken his arm from hers as she was walking and talking. It was warm and made her feel uncomfortable. “Look Vicar.. Caroline - why don’t you come and have a drink in the pub?”
    “Oh,” she sighed. “On another occasion I’d love to but this is a time for reflection and I don’t really think it would be appropriate.” She slipped from his grasp, with no struggle she thought, and hurried back to the rectory.

    Sitting in her study she looked out the window. John was very handsome there was no denying it. He was in his early forties, rugged with a muscular build. she sighed. this was not the first time he had teased her but each time he did she crept within herself a little more. Here she was - a forty year old virgin taking a view on on things she knew, in reality, nothing about. She looked out the window again. The villagers were enjoying themselves now she had gone. Oh yes, she had spoiled the day with her prudishness all right. she began to quietly sob and from between her hands she peered onto the green. And she was sure she could see young Amy Prufrock and tim Bearsby dancing half naked now the band had begun. Everything seemed to remind her of her old maidishness. Even the older women were dancing now with abandon. The music grew more insistent.
    “I can’t stand this!” she said aloud and drew the curtains and got down on her knees.
    “Oh why god didn’t you let me stay in the city? I could have ministered to them in the way I know? Why can’t these people see the pain of life Why must I suffer their flippancy and glibness. Oh Lord.... Oh Lord... You brought me here my love and I don’t know why... I don’t know why....” She wailed and gave herself up to her emotion.

    The hours passed and she had stopped crying - sitting in the dark, silent, waiting for some sign or word from her God and nothing. She pulled herself together and opened the curtains. All that could be seen was a cosy glow from the houses and the remains of the bonfire - the villagers were nowhere in sight. Just as she was about to roll herself a cigarette she began to detect a faint smell It was nothing at first and then it grew stronger. There it was, the familiar aroma of rotting fruit attractive and repulsive at the same time. this time she decided to follow it and it seemed to lead out of the rectory in the direction of the church. She was going to deal with this particular demon once and for all, she thought. Then her purpose became clear. She had been sent here to drive out the unclean spirit that must have dwelt here from pagan antiquity. And robing herself in the full panoply of the church she made a short but earnest and fervent prayer before setting off in the direction of the unholy smell.

    It was a clear, crisp night illuminated by a bright full moon as she crossed the grass between the rectory and church. The moon seemed to be showing her the way, illuminating the village in what she felt was a most inappropriately benevolent way. As she stepped through the portico the smell became powerful and to her surprise the entire nave had ben lit with candles.. Assuming it was Tom, she called for him but no reply came. She struggled ineffectually with the electric lights and then it came - a red flash across the periphery of her vision accompanied by the strong odour of decaying roses. It lead to the altar.

    With determination she strode up the nave and at the altar she stopped and raised her voice.
    “Begone unclean and foul spirit!” Then a hassock came from nowhere and hit her behind her knees and her balance gave way and she began to fall.
    “Shouldn’t you be on your knees?” Came a slightly camp and lecherous voice
    “Oh my Lord,” she began again, “grant me the power to rid this place of this unclean and pagan thing.”
    “Oh please!” came the voice followed by a snort of derision and a saucy cackle. The reverend Nunn began to panic and recite the Lord’s Prayer.
    “Our Father who art in Heaven...” she began and just as she was reaching the lead us not into temptation part she felt a distinct warmth on her left calf. It was moving rhythmically and she could distinctly hear sniggering.
    “It’s humping my leg!” She wailed unable to look down on the creature who pleasured himself against her matronly leg. She rose up in horror trying to shake it off as one might a small dog who had one thing on its mind.. It merely grinned up at her and giggling slurped its great tongue up her thigh.
    “Oh m’God, oh m’God.” she moaned, her pulse racing, the adrenaline flowing as she looked at it and screamed then screamed again but it just gave her a knowing wink as she tried shooing it away. Insanity in her eyes and nameless terror in her mind she hobbled up and down the nave moaning and wailing as she tried to prise its muscly little limbs from her leg. Exhausted she began to feel its warmth and slumped, distraught by the font.
    “You are the devil! I never thought I would be tried like this.”
    “Devil? Oh no, I am not the devil. No, I am much much older. I was born with this earth.”
    “But you have horns!”
    “this is true, but” he looked embarrassed for a moment stroking the stubs of his horns. “They are not what they were. It is true my image lent form to your devil but that is because you took my extreme form from a fun hating puritanical point of view and made your devil look like me!”
    “But you’re so small.” She began to relax now he was talking theology.
    “No one bothers with me anymore, you have all but forgotten me though you still manage to blame me for your own wildness... but I knew you were coming. I have been waiting for you....Caroline...” He winked at her again and licked his lips.
    “Oh... uhh!” She began to become agitated again like a nervous budgerigar.
    “And you, whether you know it or not, have been waiting for me! I am,” he bowed low. “Cernunnos, the Horned One. I am a spirit of Nature. And I can be wild...” He moved closer to her and frightened her with a mad look. “And I can be gentle.” And he sat before her like a child. “Of course since you have all stopped believing in me I am,” He coughed “Somewhat diminished... but nevertheless. I am HE!”
    “That explains why you are so small.”
    “Small maybe, but still powerful. Oh,” He sighed “You used to like your wildness, you humans. It was necessary. Now you are all miserable and full of hate and envy for the thoughts that you enjoy and forbid yourself. Don’t you see - I am YOU!”
    “Well you would say that but denial makes you strong and gives you discipline.”
    “But to be truly disciplined you must know what true freedom is and that you do not know. I am as old as the stones and I know what the flowers, the weeds, the birds and the rocks tell me. Can’t you see why you were sent here?”
    “Hail Mary full of Grace...” began the reverend Nunn as she closed her eyes in anticipation of her unholy trial. The little red devil moved closer to her until she could hear him breathing - his breath warm and moist and of the earth.. “No! No!” she moaned.
    “I know something else,” He paused. “I know you do not want to be here, that you feel you belong somewhere else. But if you have never fully been yourself how can you serve God?” she shuddered trying to push him away,
    “....and lead me not into temptation... I resist you!” She screwed her pensive face into a barrier, right into herself.
    “Haven’t I told you that I am you and you are me?” and with that he twanged the elastic in her stout, plain knickers.
    “Oh no I am not!” she cried.
    “But you are!” he replied “Why else do you think you are here?” and he moved closer, his stout, compact little body glistening in the candle light.

    When the procession came past the church they saw it was alight with candles and the door was opened beckoning them in. Assuming that the vicar had relented after all they stopped. For a moment they were unsure of what was going on after all, she had been emphatic about the goat’s head but here was the church glowing with light and open. Then they could hear music, music which seemed more secular than sacred - it sounded like a theme tune from a James Bond film. then suddenly to their amazement Caroline Nunn appeared in the entrance. Her hair was tousled, her cassock crumpled and she had a bizarre smile on her face.
    “Hello! Hello!” She joyously shouted to the stunned crowd.
    “Are we going to have the service vicar?”
    “Indeed we are!” She exclaimed. “But in the pub I think - it really is the best place you know. I think we should have songs and wine and celebrate life!” The crowd was silent at this apparition. “Well what are you all gawping at. Come on everyone, to the Herne Arms.!” and with that she linked her arm through John’s who was standing in shock at the head of the procession, and marched him down to the pub.
    As they reached their destination, she paused a moment and looked back up to the church. There in the moonlight and candle gleam stood a magnificent individual. Over six foot tall with flowing red chestnut hair and beard. He was clothed in fur and from his head sprouted two magnificent antlers.
    “Thank you,” He whispered to her through the subtle way of the wind. “Herne is whole again.” And as the villagers entered the pub they were astounded to hear a huntsman’s horn blowing in the night. John looked at Caroline Nunn -
    “What has been going on.”
    “I thought you knew - Herne’s Day!”

    The vicar was preparing Sunday lunch. The service had gone particularly well. Everyone had paid attention and finally the young were in attendance. With her in the kitchen was John, peeling the potatoes when Tom ran in breathlessly.
    “They’re back! They’re back!” He shouted excitedly.
    “What?” She asked.
    “They’re back!” was all he could mutter between breaths.
    “Tom sit down and tell me - what is back?”
    “The deer!”
    “The deer are back?” cried John dropping the peeler on the flagstones.
    “Yes, just after church young Amy Prufrock saw them. A stag and two does..”
    “I don’t understand...” caroline puzzled.
    “Hernwick was always famous for its deer but in the last century they dwindled and we thought they had disappeared altogether.”

    At that moment the telephone went.
    “will you get that John?” The vicar asked as she tried to calm Tom down.
    “It’s the Bishop Caroline.”
    “Oh, I see.” He passed her the receiver. “Hello? Yes, hi. Fine thank you... there is? well that is a surprise. Hmmn I see.... well... to tell you the truth things are working out better than expected... my name go forward. Not for now... I have only just begun. Yes I know but circumstances have changed. Certainly I will sleep on it.... til tomorrow then.”
    “What was that all about?” asked John.
    “A London parish has become vacant. In a particularly deprived area. He offered it to me....”
    “You’re not going to take it are you?”
    “No, I shouldn’t think so. You see I find I am home at last.”

    At that moment they could hear the powerful blast of a huntsman’s horn and John tenderly squeezed the Reverend Caroline Nunn’s hand.