Late one Christmas Eve, the Reverend Solomon Black was at his desk composing another letter to the Bishop, once more asking that he be removed from the parish of St Mary?s-by-the-Way and provided with a parish better suited to his genteel ways and higher education. His missive had reached a critical point were the concepts of begging and reasonable argument threatened to collide and so, wishing to couch his words carefully and present a favourable impression, he had broken from his work and stepped over to the window to consider how best to press his case. It was then, in the light of the full moon, he saw them. Seven snowmen, each the height of a small child, huddled together in the corner of the churchyard reserved for paupers. Moments later, eyes blazing, he wrenched open his study door and burst into the vicarage hallway like a galleon in a storm.
?Mrs Bailey,? he bellowed. ?Bring me the shovel. I have urgent need of it this very instant.?
Mrs Bailey, wiped her floured hands on her apron and grabbed the required implement from beside the back door, where it was kept for the purpose of clearing snow from the path to the coal bunker, and took it to her employer who snatched it rudely from her hands.
?Seven of them, Mrs Bailey, as usual,? he snarled. ?One for each of those copper headed Flanagan boys. Damn them, Mrs Bailey, damn them all.?
Mrs Bailey shook her head. ?Really sir, you oughtn?t speak ill of the dead like that, you being a gentleman of the cloth and all. Besides, it was dreadful what happened to them boys. Anyway sir, they?re most likely the work of the village folk up to their pranks. Why work yourself up like this. They?re only snowmen after all. What harm can they do??
The Reverend?s face, already red, turned crimson.
?Pranks be damned, Mrs Bailey. They are a damnable desecration I say, and as long as I?m the shepherd of this godless flock, they shall have no place in my churchyard.?
A short while later, shovel in hand, he was crunching through the snow towards the church. The cold reached under his thin threadbare coat and very quickly a damp chill felt its way through his worn out boots, reminding him that a bigger parish would perhaps provide a bigger stipend. His tenure at St Mary?s had been nothing but vexation piled upon vexation. For that he blamed the late Alice Flanagan and her seven damned brats.
?Their burial in consecrated ground would be an offence to God,? he had told the Bishop before the funeral. ?Must I remind Your Grace that she took her own life as well as those of her cursed offspring. Godless sins sir. Godless I say.?
The bishop disagreed.
?If anything Solomon, the sin is ours. Alice Flanagan was a troubled woman with no husband and seven mouths to feed. She smothered her children with a pillow one by one as they slept, rather than spend another day watching them being slowly taken by disease and hunger. This parish stood by and did nothing.?
So Alice and her children were buried in a common grave in the paupers? corner of the graveyard where nobody visited and only weeds grew. There was no headstone and no one was ever seen to visit them or place flowers. Yet every Christmas Eve, seven snowmen would mysteriously appear around the grave. Each with a head adorned with torn strips of orange rags to represent flaming red hair, for which the children had been famous, and stones wrapped in green foil for their once bright emerald eyes. And every year an enraged Reverend Black would smash them down with the shovel from the rectory.
The lynch-gate squeaked loudly as he pushed his way through into the churchyard. ?Damn that worthless Sexton,? he muttered. ?How many times must he be told to fix something??
Something tugged at the hem of his coat. He spun round, shovel raised, ready to brain any would be footpad. There was no one there, though he fancied he heard a child?s brief laughter from somewhere in the shadows.
?Show yourself you cowardly little wretch,? he called. When no one revealed themselves, he lowered the shovel but remained alert. The uneasy notion that he was being watched had descended upon him and he could not shake it off. As he peered into the gloom, the full moon crept behind a drifting cloud and the world was plunged into darkness. He regretted not bringing a lantern. The hairs on the back of his neck where rising and the safe haven of the vicarage seemed a thousand leagues away. It occurred to him that Mrs Bailey would be setting out his supper by now: a slice or two of roast mutton and some cheese. A pot of fine ale too, he fancied. His stomach rumbled.
Damn this foolish imagination he told himself and continued his advance through the churchyard until he reached the Flanagans? unmarked resting place, where he wasted no time in setting about his business.
?The devil take you all,? he growled, planting his feet firmly and prepared to strike the first snowman with his shovel, but before he could bring its heavy blade crashing down a single snowball flew out of the night and exploded in the middle of his chest. Once again, he heard the sound of a child laughing. He brandished his shovel angrily at the night and called out.
?Be off with you, whoever you are, or you?ll feel my anger. Be off, I say. Be off.?
In response, a deluge of snowballs ensued accompanied by the sound of more children laughing. In a wild rage, he advanced into the darkness to where he supposed his assailants might be but as he stepped forward the snowballs began to feel less soft. Something hard struck him on the forehead. The missiles were no longer made of watery snow. They were now made of ice and as hard as rocks.
?Desist this instant,? he protested, only to be answered by a hail of ice lumps striking him on the head and torso. His mouth began to fill with warm, salty blood and his body began to sway as dizziness took hold. The world was spinning and the sound of children laughing grew louder. The shovel fell from his hands and his legs buckled.
He was on his back, still conscious enough to look up and see seven snowmen dancing around him like little Indians. As they danced, the snow that formed them melted away to reveal a child beneath: seven white faced boys with flaming red hair and eyes as green as emeralds. There too, was Alice Flanagan, kneeling over him, jaundiced eyes glaring from hollowed sockets, hair matted in damp earth, and her black lips parted in a wild jagged toothed grin as she leant slowly forward to press an old soiled pillow hard against his face. The very last thing the Reverend Solomon Black felt was seven pairs of tiny hands holding him down and his heart beating wildly in his chest.
Then there was nothing.
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