The Raven’s Knot. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ us not forget,’ he addressed them, ‘that Christmas is not merely a time for exchanging gifts. We must remember its tremendous significance. At that season the Saviour of Mankind was born.’

      At the back of the audience a girl began to giggle into her hand. Neil looked across at the teachers and found that they too appeared bored.

      ‘Can you imagine the wonder that the people felt at the time of the Nativity?’ the Reverend Galloway continued, jabbing his finger in the air. ‘It must have been absolutely incredible for them. Think of the shepherds who fell on their faces in terror when the angel appeared – revealed in glory.’

      At Neil’s side the bespectacled boy muttered in a loud whisper which everyone heard, ‘I’d be scared too if a man in a white dress revealed his glory.’

      The children burst into fits of laughter and although the teachers looked stern and accusing, several of them could not completely disguise the smirks which had crept on to their faces.

      Peter Galloway waited for the mirth to die down, but he gazed in the direction that the mocking voice had come from and nodded in energetic agreement.

      ‘But that’s precisely my point!’ he exclaimed to everyone’s surprise. ‘If we are to get anywhere, you have to dismiss the silly, archetypal image of an angel. That’s utter, utter rubbish and belongs only on the top of a Christmas tree. A messenger of God isn’t a person dressed up with wings and a halo, with a harp in their hand. That’s an invention by medieval artists who had no idea how to illustrate or express such an amazing, celestial being.’

      Lowering his voice slightly, the vicar leaned forward to speak to them in a hushed, conspiratorial voice.

      ‘Imagine,’ he began, drawing his hand from left to right as if pulling back an obscuring curtain. ‘Picture it in your mind, the stony landscape outside Bethlehem. Upon those barren, exposed hillsides it is dark and cold. To live there takes a certain type of stamina and courage, the people wouldn’t tolerate any sort of nonsense. These shepherds are used to the brutalities and hardships of Roman rule. Only something truly terrifying could possibly frighten them.

      ‘There they are, encamped about a small fire perhaps, when suddenly their hearts are stricken with a mortal and petrifying dread. The angel of the Lord! Now, we here today haven’t a clue what that really means, but it was a sight so awful that it put the fear of God into those men. What can it have looked like, this monstrous vision? Was it merely a fierce, bright light or did the angel have a more tangible, unhuman form? What is the real shape of a heavenly messenger? Whatever it is, it scares the hell out of ordinary people like you and me.’

      At Neil’s side, the boy with the magazine listened intently, before glancing down at the glossy pages where a painting of a grotesque, nightmarish alien roared up at him and he nodded appreciatively. ‘Yeah,’ he murmured.

      ‘All you have to do is think about it,’ the vicar went on, sensing with mounting excitement that his audience was paying attention.

      ‘These events really happened, they’re not legends or myths – they are historical facts. This man with the strange, radical ideas actually lived and, when he was only thirty-three, he was executed because he had dared to think them.’

      Taking a breath for dramatic effect, the vicar drew himself up and swept the wild mop of auburn hair from his eyes.

      ‘Do any of you know what it means to be crucified?’ he asked.

      The pupils nodded but the Reverend Galloway shook his head. ‘No, you don’t,’ he told them. ‘Oh yes, you’ve seen all the pictures and statues of Him, with His arms outstretched upon the cross, with nails in the palms of His hands and embedded in His feet. That isn’t right – that’s a twee prettification for old ladies to pray to and what we’d like to believe. The truth was far, far worse and bloodier than that.’

      ‘Cool,’ said Neil’s neighbour, letting the magazine fall to the floor whilst the teachers shifted uncomfortably upon their chairs and Mrs Stride uttered nervous little coughs.

      ‘No, the nails didn’t go through the hands. The bones aren’t strong enough there – they’d shatter and wouldn’t support the weight of the arms. Through the wrists the nails were hammered and, if you were lucky, it’d sever the arteries and you’d bleed to death. But if you weren’t, then the feet would be skewered to the cross, only they’d be pinned to it either side, with the nails driven through the heels.’

      For the first time in over a dozen visits, the vicar knew that the children were listening to him. Some of the more squeamish ones might have been appalled at the gruesome details, whilst others were morbidly fascinated, but all of them were enthralled.

      ‘When the hammering was over,’ Peter Galloway resumed, ‘the cross was hoisted upright and there you’d stay until you died. Most people probably perished from shock but others suffocated. Hanging there, with your head slumped on your chest, the only way to draw a proper breath would be to push yourself up by the nails impaling your heels. But to stop the prisoners doing this, the Roman guards went round to each one and savagely broke their legs.

      ‘That is what happened to the man born in Bethlehem – His legs were smashed and splintered, but still He lived. Although the agony and the suffering was excruciating, somehow He managed to cling to life. However, the following day was the Sabbath and no one was permitted to be on the cross during that time. Having survived all this torment and pain, our Lord was finally killed by a Roman spear thrust viciously into His side.’

      The headteacher had never known the theatre to be so full and yet so silent. Looking worriedly at the children, she hoped none of them was going to be sick and had already decided to have a word with the Reverend Galloway afterwards. If she ever allowed him to speak to the pupils again she would make certain she knew what he was going to say beforehand.

      Taking a step towards him, she hoped to lead the outrageous man from the stage and let the children return to their classes. But the Reverend was not done yet.

      ‘Yes,’ he cried, revelling in the unfamiliar but immensely gratifying experience of holding their undivided attention. ‘That man died on the cross. He was tortured for the sins of the world, but He rose from the tomb and because of His ultimate sacrifice, we can all find forgiveness and know true happiness.’

      Trembling with excitement, the Reverend ran to the edge of the stage where he had placed a tape recorder upon a table, but hesitated before pressing the play button.

      ‘This is what it’s like to feel that joy,’ he enthused. ‘To know that incredible elation of the soul. The Lord lives in me and in all of you if you’ll let Him. He is knocking upon the door of your heart right now, and don’t turn Him away. He is the light of the world, the Son of Man – “the Lord of the Dance”.’

      With that he punched the button down and the tune to that hymn began to blare from the speakers.

      In one practised movement, Peter ripped open his cassock to reveal a full length black leotard and at once he began to leap about the stage in time to the music.

      Waving his long arms in the air, he capered around in a wide circle, waggling his head from side to side and tapping his feet upon the floor as the hymn played on.

      For a whole minute both the children and the members of staff could only gape at the zealous young man as he endeavoured to illustrate the overwhelming joy that so consumed his spirit.

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