BY JOHN DREWRY
The vampire, the werewolf and the witch were the primary facilitators of an annual December conference of monsters, devils and demons. The aim of their organisation had always been very clear – to inflict fear, pain and death upon humankind. But they faced an eternal conundrum – did they really exist? Each year they addressed this perennial problem. “Through many ages they have believed we exist”, said the witch, “yet in other times they have scoffed at our existence. They never have been sure. They laugh and yet are frightened by the tales of wolves and witches, vampires, ghosts”.
“I feel alive and yet I am not sure either”, said the werewolf, “great evil is in my heart, a desire to rip and tear, destroy all good things, make the world an ugly place. And I can see the world as clear as – daylight, ugh!” He spat a stinking, yellow fluid from his corrupted mouth, and continued: “But they do not see me or know that I exist, except in their imaginations. And perhaps that’s all I am, a figment of the mind, perhaps I don’t exist at all”.
“They’ve drawn you many times, my friend”, replied the witch, “and painted pictures, written stories, told dark tales around their firesides. All in their minds, you say, you may be right, but ask yourself where did we come from in the first place, what made them think of us, what makes a man want to become a wolf, why does a witch cast spells and cackle, wear a pointed hat? Their stories are the same across the world in all but minor detail. Something, someone put them there, sowed a legend in their hearts. But whether we have been or yet to come I do not know”.
The werewolf gave an anguished, demonic cry and pointed downwards with his hairy claw: “Look downwards, sister, see the world, it’s Christmastime, oh vile and vile, oh hateful day the 25th, their saving grace, vile things, a time when they atone for sins, bad thoughts, bad deeds, a time of gladness and belief, of songs and gifts, goodwill and resolution. Ugh, how loathsome to my eyes”. More copious, yellow muck exuded.
But the witch had a new enthusiasm in her voice. “Look closer, friend, it’s not so bad, goodwill and gladness have departed much from their hearts. And belief, that magic word that means so much, how much is gone, they don’t believe, weak fools, have they forgotten that belief in goodness is their guardian? They celebrate but they do not believe, oh happy time, the time for us, I’m sure. Perhaps we do exist, for Christmastime in legend also is the time of goblins, witches, wolves and vampires. Together they’ve existed, side by side, the good, the evil, stories just for children”. She gave a cackling scream of triumph that would have frozen the stoutest heart, then continued in a frenzied state of excitement: “They don’t believe, goodness itself has become a fairytale”.
It was late afternoon, and dusk would soon be approaching. The vampire’s coffin was in attendance, but the lid was still on. “Wake him up”, insisted some of the other delegates, “we need his presence”. But there was trepidation about doing this. The vampire’s temper was legendary. After some prevarication, the werewolf intervened and tore the coffin lid off with a menacing roar. There was a ghastly silence and then the body of the vampire sat up slowly, gazing menacingly around with his red eyes. “Filth and suffering, who woke me?”, he hissed, “you know better than to draw me prematurely from my grave. You will endure eternal pain for this”.
“Prince of Darkness”, said the witch cravenly, “look downwards at the world you hate, Christmas is dying, they don’t believe, they celebrate but don’t believe. They laugh at legends or ignore them. Their gladness and their goodness are a fake. Christmas is a word and nothing more”.
It would be wrong to say that a smile appeared on the vampire’s face, that being quite impossible. Instead, his suppressed joy manifested as a terrifying snarl. “Long have I known that this would happen. Long have I slept in hope of this time. Oh fools, the vampire has become as much a joke as Christmas. Both are maligned, neither believed”’
“Merry Christmas, my lord”, said the witch in mock jubilation, and then wished she hadn’t when the vampire leapt from his coffin and chewed off her face. Looking up at the others from his impromptu meal, he spoke with his mouth full: “No more will those words be uttered, for I will remove Christmas from the earth. How easy it will be. Those with no belief need just a gentle push”.
“My lord, do we exist?”, asked the werewolf, with a worried look on his face. The vampire turned to him ferociously, his red eyes staring widely: “This as you know too well is the nub of the matter. Did they create us in their minds? Or did we once exist? Or are we yet to appear when the time is right?” One of the demons chipped in: “One thing we know, my lord, Christmas, the true spirit of Christmas, did once exist upon the earth”. “You are wrong”, came the curt reply, “never the true spirit. A better shadow of it than is now, but the Christmas spirit in its true glory has also yet to appear. We must be first, for I suspect there is a battle looming. We must win while there’s a chance. Destroy the spirit now while at its weakest, play on their uncertainty, remove the symbols, make them vile, Christmas carols, Christmas trees, presents, laughter, bells and joy, all to be removed, destroyed, eliminated from their minds. That is our task, and now’s the time. Our target must be the children. Always the children. That is how it is done. Only then is the world changed forever, and all old-world memories disappear. Soon we will show that we exist”.
This isn’t a very nice story. You see, the true Christmas spirit had very much faded from the world, and because of that the forces of darkness spotted their chance to destroy Christmas altogether. Because, of course, they hated Christmas. They didn’t like people giving presents to each other, and singing carols, and Christmas trees, and decorations, and Christmas puddings and mince pies. They wanted everyone to be unhappy and hate each other. And most of all, they hated Father Christmas, and so all the bad forces mustered together for a final attack on someone who represented the very spirit of Christmas. Strange, is it not, that the world could turn so topsy turvy as to hate and want to destroy all that is good? But as the vampire had observed, people with no belief need just a gentle push. So, from symbolising the spirit of Christmas as a figure of fairytale fun, Father Christmas became the subject of derision, an idiot with bad breath in a red costume and black boots and, from there, as a sinister danger to children, both physically and mentally. By the time he was brought to trial, children cowered in fear of him, and parents wanted him dead.
He was manhandled roughly into court in handcuffs, like a dangerous criminal. “Ho, ho, ho”, he bellowed as he beamed around the court with a face of goodwill to everyone. The unsmiling clerk of the court addressed him: “Prisoner, is your name Father Christmas?” There were boos and murmurs from the public gallery. “Silence”, commanded the judge, beating his gavel with serious determination, “or I will clear the court. This is a capital trial. I will tolerate no ribaldry. Prisoner, answer the question, is your name Father Christmas?” There was a huge smile. “Oh yes”, came the jovial response, “I am Father Christmas, boys and girls, ho, ho, ho”. A barely suppressed ripple of rage ran through the court, with angry mutterings of “boys and girls, boys and girls, male and female, how dare he, what about the rest of us?” A threatening gavel quelled the noise. The clerk continued: “Father Christmas, you are charged that on the 25th day of December each year particularly, and indeed for many days before that day, you do bring presents to children throughout the world, gladness and good tidings into the hearts of people, and that you do spend all of your time creating happiness and fellowship. How do you plead?” There was a hush as Father Christmas pretended to weigh this up carefully, stroked his false beard ponderously, then burst out laughing and said “Oh guilty, yes guilty, ho, ho, ho”. “The chutzpah of the old devil”, onlookers gasped, “no shame, no shame!”
The Prosecution, represented by a large, repulsive barrister with a double-chinned, permanent sneer on his face, rose slowly and pompously, thumbs in waistcoat, exploiting the dramatic pause to allow onlookers to take full account of his imperial presence, and final spoke in his carefully-cultured, stentorian voice, capable of freezing the blood of the most hardened felon: “Ladies, gentlemen and respected people of all sexes (he was addressing the gallery and the cameras, as there were no juries any more), you have heard the accused plead guilty to a list of charges that would make the most ardent of criminals feel remorse. And yet he feels none. Regard him with fear and loathing, ladies, gentlemen and respected people of all sexes, for the criminal who feels no remorse whatever is the most dangerous of all. In fact, I would say undoubtedly that he is actually proud of his misdeeds. He laughed, ladies, gentlemen and respected people of all sexes, as the charges were read. He laughed as he pleaded guilty. And he is laughing now. Apparently oblivious to the serious nature of his many crimes, here is someone who finds it amusing to give presents to defenceless children; who, in his own perverted way, actually derives pleasure from insidiously spreading gladness and good tidings indiscriminately wherever he goes. And devotes all his waking hours to the creation of happiness and fellowship. CRIMES THAT ARE CONTRARY TO THE VERY STRUCTURE OF OUR SOCIETY. CRIMES THAT ARE CONSCIOUSLY DESIGNED TO UNDERMINE AND DESTROY THE VERY STRUCTURE OF OUR SOCIETY. CRIMES THAT ARE PUNISHABLE BY DEATH. And quite rightly. Our lawmakers were not fools. The law is not an ass, ladies, gentlemen and respected people of all sexes. Laws are written for our protection. Punishments, and degrees of punishment, are decided in terms of the degree of harm to us of the crime committed. Crimes like this can spread like wildfire if they are not nipped in the bud. And so the law is very clear. Destroy such a criminal before he destroys us. I therefore ask, nay demand, that the full rigour of the law be applied. Death can be the only verdict”.
Heads and eyes swivelled round to the Defence. How on earth would he ever respond to that in any meaningful way? He shuffled a few papers while the court waited in silence, looking slightly nervous, one of those creatures who finds it difficult to look anybody straight in the eye. “Ladies, gentlemen and respected people of all sexes”, he began with rather less confidence than his adversary, “as counsel for the Defence I don’t deny that my client is guilty, indeed he has admitted his guilt in full. But I ask you to look closely at him and not to take him too seriously. Look at him. Have you ever seen anyone so ridiculously dressed? I mean, just look. What an idiot. And as for that ludicrous beard. Clearly a false beard, you can even see the elastic. He’s just a senile old man. Just simple. All he does is say ho, ho, ho. He’s never serious. Now consider how he behaves. He’s always walking about with a sack on his back. A sack, ladies, gentlemen and respected people of all sexes. And here’s the real nonsense. He doesn’t go in and out through the front door like any normal person. No, not him. Wait for it. He comes down the chimney. He hasn’t got an ounce of sense. Be lenient on him. He’s just harmless. By all means send him to prison, get him out of the way. Give him a cell with a little fireplace and a little chimney all of his own, and he can climb up and down it to his heart’s content. And give presents to himself all day long”. There was a stunned silence while everyone took all this in, and suddenly the dam burst and derisory laughter, pointing and catcalling ensued. “Last warning”, yelled the Judge, and they saw that he meant it. The serious bit was now to come. He fixed his cold, lifeless eyes on Father Christmas and uttered his peroration in measured tones.
“I congratulate the Defence attorney on a most convincing and eloquent speech. I think, however, that he misses a fundamental point. Too many times in the past people have been fooled into thinking that the farcical, the funny and the ridiculous are harmless. There comes a point in time when, quite suddenly, they’re not funny anymore. When the things that you found so funny have become reality. And then it’s too late. Consider the dangers if we take the Defence’s advice of committing Father Christmas to prison. Although restricted, he would still carry on in the same way. Would that be fair on our wonderful jailers, who do such glorious work for our society; who selflessly devote their lives to punishing and torturing the miscreants who have wished us harm? How long would it be before the corruption of gladness, good tidings, happiness and fellowship began to seep through the bars and infect our jailers? How long before one of them was deceived into accepting a present, especially one without strings?” He chortled humourlessly at his own pun, and continued: “Because no one is perfect. Sooner or later the finest, strongest characters in the world succumb to a steady flow of propaganda. No, the risks are too high. And so there can only be one sentence of this Court. Father Christmas, do you wish to say anything before the sentence of this Court is passed?” Spectators’ bottom lips were trembling as the response was awaited. It didn’t look as though Father Christmas was going to reply at all. And when he finally did, it came as a bit of a surprise: “It takes only one tiny person in the world to believe in me, and I cannot be destroyed”, he said softly and kindly. The Judge responded authoritatively but with a quiver of indignation in his voice: “This court has the power to decide your fate, and no-one else”, he said, believing that would be the end of the exchange. But it wasn’t: “You would have no power at all if it weren’t for my old dad”, came the strangely ethereal reply. There was one of those moments in time which seemed to last an eternity, peppered with the low murmurings of a crowd who didn’t really know how to cope with the unexpected. “Your father, do you mean? enquired the Judge with furrowed brow. “Yes, Grandfather Christmas”, replied the jolly fellow. Various people turned to each other, silently mouthing ‘Grandfather Christmas?’ with some perplexity. The Judge had had enough. “He is just a legend, and we don’t believe in him”, he said dismissively. He motioned to the clerk, who stepped behind him and ceremoniously placed a black cap upon his eminent head. The Judge pronounced his sentence in that carefully rehearsed, tremulous, ‘God-fearing’ voice used in the past by priests in the echo chambers of vast cathedrals: “Father Christmas, the sentence of this Court is that you cease to exist, that you are removed physically and spiritually from the minds of men, that you are destroyed immediately. You will be taken from here to a place of execution, where your head will be removed from your body and placed on a spike in Parliament Square. Do you have anything else to say before sentence is carried out?” Father Christmas looked benignly once more around the court, beamed from ear to ear, held his arms out as though embracing the whole world, and shouted “Merry Christmas!” “Take him down”, shouted back the Judge, to the cheers of the Court.
And so, Father Christmas was beheaded and his head put on a spike in Parliament Square. The Judge instructed that a simple plaque be pinned below his head with the words SANTA CLAUS. The crowd objected furiously to those words, complaining that SANTA meant SAINT, and that would make a martyr of him. They wanted something like THIS IS THE HEAD OF A TRAITOR. But the Judge was adamant that it would be SANTA CLAUS: “Quod scripsi, scripsi”, he quoted, “What I have written, I have written”.
The monsters were jubilant. “Congratulations, my lord, Christmas has been destroyed”, said the werewolf with craven admiration. But the vampire was neither amused nor satisfied: “It is not enough”, he said coldly. “But we, with the help of humankind, have removed all vestiges of Christmas”, said a demon excitedly, “the legend has gone from their minds, and with it, Father Christmas, our greatest of enemies”. “Perhaps not our greatest”, said the vampire with a hiss, “he mentioned Grandfather Christmas. He is a very distant legend even in my far-seeing mind, and it is probable he does not exist. But we cannot risk belief in anything. No chance that the smallest seed can be planted in their minds and grow”. “Then we must destroy all humans”, the werewolf jumped in, flexing his claws as he spoke, always ready with the same solution for everything, to rip and to tear. But the vampire was at his throat, incisors snapping: “No, fool. If humans don’t exist, then neither do we. The source of our power is misery and suffering to be inflicted upon the human race. We must reduce our human friends to a race of animals. Remove the power of speech, ability to write and understand. Increase their hatred of each other, punish and destroy them, but always leave a few”. The monsters were hysterical with joy, with shouts of “wonderful”, “wise lord” and other frenzied expletives. They gazed at their hero, but the werewolf had a question: “Who will control and rule them if none can understand or speak?” The vampire’s eyes flashed like fire as he writhed with pleasure at the thought of what was to come: “We will appoint certain overlords to them, the very worst and cruellest of them, who will retain a little speech and understanding. Enough to understand our orders and carry them out with relish and proper forcefulness. And we will sow treachery in the hearts of our overlords, treachery to each other, so that each is frightened of the other, each will watch the other for the slightest sign of disobedience, each will destroy the other from time to time. I think the Prosecutor and the Judge will make good overlords. The Defence we’ll make an example of, he made the gallery laugh, amused them, though working for our ends. Let them now experience their reward for inviting us into their souls in the first place, and know for sure and certain who it is that rules them. Now will we be all-powerful, now and evermore”. The screams of demonic pleasure echoed across the spiritual universe, while down on earth the sun was darkened and everything was suddenly on fire. The big switch had been thrown, and every material reality that humankind had grown to rely upon turned out to be an illusion – it simply wasn’t there anymore. They were ignorant and helpless. Through the flames, the whips descended and eldritch shrieks rent the air. The Prosecutor, bereft of his wig and tailored suit, almost as though his skin had been sloughed to reveal the sadistic snake of his true self, ran rampage among the hordes like a flailing dervish: “Ah, you swine, you filth, you animals, down on your knees and worship us, we are your lords. Down I say, you scum”. The Judge and the Clerk had similarly undergone this serpentine metamorphosis, slashing away and screaming: “Ha, ha, ha. No more can you speak or understand. Now we will show you who the boss is. Down, swine, eat the dirt, behave like the animals you’ve become”. The Judge, with a rictus grin, pronounced: “Nine out of ten of them we must put to death, so that the witnessing survivors live in sure and certain fear of their masters”. He turned to the Defence attorney, who’d assumed he was part of the privileged exempt: “And you, my friend, are first”. The ex-barrister blanched in utter terror, his voice an hysterical, choking scream: “Me? Not me. I’m one of you. Hear me, I still have the power of speech”. The Prosecutor turned on him: “Ha, ha, ha. Not for much longer. Stand up for the prisoner, would you, old what-was-his-name, I can’t remember. Never mind, whoever he was, have your way and he’d still be alive”. By now a quivering wreck, the creature whined: “But it was faked, you know it was. I acted as instructed. I was just following orders”. “Treachery!” yelled the Prosecutor, “accuse our masters of issuing deceitful orders, would you? That does it. Burn him now and burn him good. And sort out most of these pigs for burning, too”.
And so, under a dark but starless sky, the burning proceeded for what seemed an interminable time, as most were thrown into the flames. The world descended into a shrieking chaos, until only ashes were left of its old existence, and a savagery never seen or imagined before ruled over what remained. What were once people, killed and cannibalised each other like rabid animals. Time ceased to exist, and children born into this Hell were mostly snatched for food, with the odd survivor accepting as normal the world around them, because they knew no better. Language disappeared, reduced to grunts and growls.
The overlords had become animals too, only slightly raised above the chaos by their demonic masters to perform their job as oppressors and controllers, with power over life and death. But there was little pleasure in being an overlord, because each was fearful of the others, ready to betray each other at any time for an extra privilege or two. The monsters had them exactly where they wanted them. And it was an everyday occurrence for an overlord to be ratted on and sentenced to death. Their punishment was the one joy, if you could call it joy, that the savages had. The condemned were locked up, tortured and starved for a couple of months, after which they were chained up in the open in front of the savages, who would eat their scraps in front of them, dancing round them and taunting them with their morsels. It was a dangerous game, because the condemned was chained to a post and head secured with a halter round the neck, but arms deliberately left free, so if you got too close you could be flattened, grabbed, torn apart, strangled.
One night (always night, because there was no day), there was such a prisoner, a brute of a man, particularly hated by the savages for his cruelty, so they were looking forward to the game. They danced around him, taunting him with scraps of food, he wildly swinging and bellowing like a bull, the eyes of a killer almost popping out of their sockets in frustrated rage, the teeth grinding and the mouth salivating. They tired of it eventually and settled down in sullen silence to chew on their bones.
Emerging through the gloom came a tiny boy. How had he survived? Nobody knew. Or cared. Suffice to say that in Nature some seemingly innocuous things manage to overcome the odds, rather like weeds do. This tiny boy was walking very slowly and deliberately towards the chained prisoner and, as he got nearer, so it captured the attention of the others, who stopped chewing and just stared. He was walking towards his certain death, but nobody cared to stop him. He stood at the prisoner’s feet and looked up at the great giant, whose head had slumped forward in a stupor. Slowly he raised his head and saw this little creature looking up at him. He roared with a mixture of incredulity and murderous rage. The boy didn’t budge. Instead, he very slowly raised his bone to him as an offering. A taunt! Two huge, gnarled hands wrapped themselves round the boy’s throat and the onlookers waited for the inevitable. Still the little boy didn’t flinch, still he held the bone aloft to be taken. Still snarling, the ogre slowly released his grip, his eyes searching the boy’s for any sign of a trick, but the boy remained steadfast, silently staring back into his very soul. A gnarled hand gingerly took the bone and, still unsure of what was happening, the prisoner lifted it to his mouth and started to chew, still eyeing the boy suspiciously (was it poisoned, perhaps?). The boy smiled. The ogre started to smile, then corrected himself to a scowl, then smiled again. The dreadful darkness seemed to lift a little, or was it that a strange, little light had appeared amongst them?
This mesmerising scene was intruded on by two overlords appearing in a rage. “Pigs”, screamed one, “Filthy light. Who? You? You? You?” But all eyes were focused on the prisoner, who now had a protective arm round the tiny boy. But instead of snarling at his jailers, he held out the bone to them. Like stalking predators, they crept towards him, but he, like the little boy had done, stood steadfast with the bone, and a smile suddenly lit his face. They recoiled at the appearance of this strange expression, literally they jumped. And still that bone remained suspended in air by the outstretched arm, waiting to be taken. One of the overlords inched his way towards it sideways like a crab, his eyes averted. But instead of snatching it, he took it gently, and as he did so, there was a little more light. He passed the bone to his comrade, who turned with it and offered it to one of the savages. The game was on, the bone was passed amongst them all.
And from that day things took a turn for the better. The darkness lifted from the face of the earth, and people saw each other once more for what they really were. It was all very different, though. Everyone, great and small, old and young, were like children. You see, they had no memory of what was before the darkness. That had been taken from them. They learned to speak again, but much had been lost. They knew nothing of the word Christmas at all. Neither did they remember Father Christmas. However, they remembered the day when things began to get better, and of course they used to celebrate it. Unfortunately, they didn’t have calendars any more, and they didn’t understand days and years. So, they used to celebrate all the time. Because they found that every time they did, they became happier and happier, so they wanted to do it again.
Now someone discovered, quite by accident one day, that if you mix lots of things together – like raisins and currants and flour and all sorts of ingredients like that, and leave it cooking for hours and hours and hours – you get a funny looking black pudding. Well, the first time it happened, everyone who saw it said UGH! But then they tasted it, and of course it was very, very good. They didn’t know what it was, but they called it a MERRY pudding, because all nice things were called either MERRY or HAPPY – including people.
The monsters had been observing all these developments with horror. What had gone wrong? “It took one little child”, said the vampire, “he warned us of that and we scoffed”. And they were enraged and confused at what had happened to the tiny boy who’d started it all. He had acquired the name of Nicholas, though nobody quite knew when that had happened or where came from, it just seemed that he had always been called Nicholas. And he’d grown into a very peculiar man, with a white beard. He was always giving everybody presents from a sack he carried on his back. And he had developed a most distinctive belly laugh.
They frequently had Merry Pudding Days, when the best bakers would compete for the merriest pudding, and on one such day they were all assembled ready to taste the winner’s entry. It was a very rowdy event, and the winning chef was trying to call order. He had a line of saucepans he was banging for attention, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention. Up and down the row of saucepans he banged, louder and louder and suddenly, whether by coincidence or some old, genetic memory coming to the surface, he played the opening notes of ‘Jingle Bells’. He stared at his saucepans, made a couple of extra failed attempts, and then got it – bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang-bang. Voices chimed in as he kept repeating the tune. They sang and sang the notes, getting more and more excited, jumping up and down with the rhythm. Suddenly, someone pointed at the sky. “Look!” In the heavens had appeared a bright light, moving fast across the sky. Everyone gazed in wonder at the celestial object as it wove its way back and forth and downwards in beautiful movements like a dance. As the object got nearer, it resembled some kind of chariot, in front of which were eight bright lights. The chariot came to rest among them. The eight bright lights were tiny, chattering children whose intensive, glowing presence conveyed a formidable mixture of innocence, deep wisdom and utter joy. It appeared they hadn’t been pulling the chariot, simply leading it.
Inside the chariot lay slumped a very, very old man with a very, very long, white beard, dressed in a red tunic. He was in a doze, half asleep, muttering rather than singing ‘Jingle Bells’ to himself. The overwhelmed onlookers just gaped in silence. The ancient gentleman paused for a moment in his semi-conscious, solo rendering, and one eye opened. This tiny gesture made everyone jump. He sat up, looked around, and a big smile lit up his face. He laughed: “Ho, ho, ho”. Slowly he swung round with his legs and clambered gingerly from the chariot, bent double and supporting himself with a stick He looked around again with his big smile and said “Hello everyone, we meet at last. Well, don’t stand there gawping, don’t you know Grandfather Christmas when you see him?”. They didn’t. He pointed at Nicholas: “And here at last is my son”. His son? What on earth was he talking about? “Goodness me”, he went on, “how much you’ve forgotten, this is Father Christmas in all but his costume”. After what seemed an interminable silence, Nicholas cried “Daddy!” and ran towards Grandfather Christmas. An authoritative hand stopped him dead in his tracks. “Just a moment”, came the command, “first you must be dressed properly”. Grandfather Christmas turned back to his chariot, rifled through the huge pile of presents in the back, and pulled out a red costume and black boots. “Here, put these on, my boy”, he said, and Nicholas did so without question. There they stood together, father and son, in front of a still gawping crowd, and bellowed in unison “Ho, ho, ho”.
The monsters were apoplectic with rage. The vampire looked as though he was going to bite himself to death. “He exists”, he screamed, “Grandfather Christmas is real”. The werewolf was choking on his own vomit: “Where does that leave us”, he snarled, “are we real or are we not?”. “Trust me”, replied the vampire, “we are real, but we must go to battle to prove it. This is the decisive battle. We are great in numbers. We shall overwhelm them with our reality. Now shout our message to them – YES WE EXIST”. The whole clan of demons and devils combined together, shouting, snarling and spitting “YES WE EXIST, YES WE EXIST” over and over again. Quite suddenly their huge, vile faces appeared in the heavens, completely filling the skies and blocking out the sunlight. Those beneath quailed before this stuff of nightmares, the very end of days, and the faces got nearer and bigger, ready, it seemed, to devour all before them. “Help us”, the poor people below wailed, “for we are surely doomed”.
So consumed were they with their mortal fear that they hadn’t noticed a transformation in Grandfather Christmas. From a bent-double old man with a walking stick he had become very upright and tall, with fearsome, flashing eyes. His walking stick had transformed into a pulsating, golden staff that twinkled with stars. His eight cherubs were eight roaring fires. “I’m ready, daddy, tell me what to do”, said Father Christmas shouting above the cacophony. “Leave this one to me”, bellowed Grandfather Christmas, “this requires a magic branch from a special tree”. He brandished his golden staff at the heavens, and thundered:
“You, who do not exist,
save in the mind of humankind,
DEPART
You are commanded by all that is good and fair
To utterly and forever be removed,
You foul and lifeless creatures,
Never to return or evermore be thought upon.
Go now, as though you never were.
Hear me for this last time,
You are not, nor evermore shall be,
DEPART YE CURSED”
The loudness of the scream that followed was as though the universe itself was being ripped in half. It tore into the very souls of the people, who threw themselves to the ground in abject terror.
“Goodness, that was close daddy”, said Father Christmas. “These things always are, and always were”, replied his dad, “but they are changed forever now. All is grace and happiness. Christmas is returned, in its true glory”. The people had risen to their feet, those terrible faces were gone forever, and a new sun was shining, brighter than before. “Time for presents”, he continued, reaching into his chariot, “unlimited gifts for everyone from me. It was ever thus. But you forgot, that’s all. Ho, ho, ho”.
This prescient allegory was originally conceived as a Christmas play by John Drewry, and publicly performed as a theatre workshop production in 1978. It then gathered dust for nearly 50 years, until he breathed new life into it recently as a short story. You can also find it in his anthology, under the omnibus title ‘REASON IN MADNESS: 5 short stories about the unpredictable & irrepressible human spirit’, available from Amazon.