History, Politics And Current Affairs

A Christmas Tale Part 1

Matthew Cavendish was not amused. He sat back on his makeshift bed and tried to block out the noise coming in from the rest of the house so he could concentrate on his book. Treasure Island was one of his favourites but even Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins couldn’t raise his spirits today. The mattress was very uncomfortable, he decided. It was far too crowded at the moment for his tastes now that Uncle Henry and Aunt Lucy and all their children and Grandmamma and Grandpapa had arrived. Loud, crowded and completely unjust. He’d been forced to give up his room to stupid little Margaret and Charlotte. His room! It was bad enough that he had to share it with the goblin. It was definitely unfair.

“They’d better not touch any of my things, or they’d pay for it.” he muttered darkly, looking out the window of the attic down onto the frosted garden. It was too cold to go outside, according to Mother, but it wasn’t even snowing. He’d gone up here so he didn’t get roped into all the cleaning and decorating that was going on down there. That was definitely girl’s work and he didn’t want any part of such…such juvenile behaviour. He’d heard Mother call Alice that several months ago, had looked it up in the dictionary and made a decision to include it in his vocabulary at every opportunity. That would show them who was grown up.

Christmas hadn’t been the same since William had been born, Edward had gone away to join the Army and that stupid little goblin Phillip had got old enough to move into his room. He missed the fun that they used to have back when Ed was home, all the adventures they’d have down in the woods, the races through the countryside and the wars they’d have with the Baileys and the Dalbens. Alice and Angela still treated him like dirt, so there wasn’t much change there, but they were girls and didn’t count. Falling in the middle meant that he missed on everything, at least from his point of view. Being a middle child was utter rot in his view.

The final straw had been Father saying he was too young to get a sword for his birthday. Peter Bailey from next door had got one last year and it would be unfair for Matthew not to have one, being the oldest boy still at home. Father had explained that Peter was two years older than him and that he wasn’t ready yet to have his own sword yet, but that simply wasn’t true! All things considered, this was shaping up to be the worst Christmas in all of his ten years. A tremendous crash of saucepans and an eruption of squealing and exasperated shouting from downstairs interrupted his reflections on the deep injustices of his young life.

“Matthew! Come down and help out your sisters!”

He put down the book on his pillow with a sigh. How was he ever going to become a great and powerful adventurer if his parents kept interrupting his valuable research? I bet Tarzan never had to do silly chores at Christmas. He looked into the mirror on the wall. Most definitely heroic looking, he thought as he straightened himself up to his full height of 4’9”, which was the second tallest in his class, actually. Matthew raised one eyebrow and swept his wavy blond hair back over his forehead as he flexed the huge biceps that everyone else pretended not to notice.

“Matthew! I’m not going to tell you again!” His mother’s voice was now insistent and he was wise enough not to try her patience when she was cross.

“Coming Mother!” He jumped down from the top bunk of the attic bed, raced out the attic door, half ran and half tumbled down the stairs, banged Phillip on the head for good measure as he went past him in the passageway and jumped triumphantly through the kitchen door, striking a heroic pose with outstretched arms. Alice and Angela looked around at him from their positions on the floor next to the sink where they were engaged in picking up the pots and pans that had tumbled out of the cupboard and rolled their eyes at him. His mother was over at the bench next to the Aga with her back turned to him.

“Aha! Here I am to save the day!” he proclaimed in a boyish treble that slightly took away from some of the majestic impact he was looking for. Hmm…He’d have to work on breaking his voice somehow to sound more like a hero. Maybe he could borrow Father's hammer.

His frazzled mother looked up from her baking at him and sighed inwardly. That boy was the bane of her life sometimes with his…different…ways.

“Here you are to help out your sisters, actually. Get those back in the cupboards, dry those dishes and go outside to get some more wood for the fire. You can’t simply expect to sit back and have everything served to you on a plate, Matthew.”

“Why not? Why can’t we have servants like everyone else?” An edge of pertness began to creep into his voice.

“Matthew David Cavendish,” she began, instantly quieting him. He knew that when his full name was used, it was usually time to pack it in “You know perfectly well that Mrs. Turner and Violet have Christmas off so they can spend time with their own families. Stop being such a silly little boy and get on with what you have to do. Now.”

The mark of any great hero is knowing when he has been defeated, thought Matthew as he trudged over to the cupboard below the sink and helped pick up the scattered pots and pans. We may have lost this battle, but not the war. Yes, that was it. Like Sir Winston Churchill. Maybe he should start talking like him. I wonder if Father will let me start smoking cigars if I say it is for the good of the Empire?
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The cold breeze whipped around Matthew’s head as he trudged through the garden towards the woodpile behind the shed. He had thankfully finished with all his tasks in the kitchen, but now he had to be outside in this weather. Too cold to play and not cold enough for snow. Just awful. More than awful, it was boring. He looked around the garden. Many of the trees had lost their leaves, the flowers were gone and the rich green of the hedges had faded to a dull colour. The bushes and larger trees down at the back still looked as if they had some life in them, but even the fairies at the bottom of the garden had flown south for the winter a few weeks earlier. A brief flash of light caught his eye, but it was only Mr. Trumble, the garden gnome, closing the curtains of his little hollow tree home.

With nothing else to do and his fetching of the firewood quite forgotten, Matthew decided to go and pay the old fellow a visit. He was a strange, cranky old fellow, but he seemed to get along with Matthew when he wasn’t chiding the boys to stay out of the undergrowth or to mind his mushrooms. As he walked through the lengthening grass into the bushes which hid Mr. Trumble’s jolly red door, a lone tiny snowflake fell down slowly from the dark grey sky in front of him. Matthew put out his hand to try and catch it, but it slipped through his fingertips somehow and disappeared. Strange. He shook his head and ignored it as he walked on, his breath now coming out in a visible cloud of frost. Finally, he stood before the tiny painted door that was lodged firmly in the trunk of the old ash tree that rose up near the garden fence.

Leaning down slightly, he knocked on the little door. He heard a sudden burst of grumbling and crashing from inside and a few seconds later, it opened to reveal the small, rotund figure of Mr. Trumble against the bright light of his fireplace, peering up above his head to where a grownup human would usually be. His brown wizened face was set in its usual scowl and his bushy white beard and eyebrows gave him a slightly ferocious appearance that was only just offset by his twinkling purple eyes, nice little red cap, tattered blue cardigan and carefully polished brown boots, as well as the minor matter of his three foot height.

“Who the dickens is it calling – ah! Matthew.” His crinkled dour expression softened slightly to see the young boy, who was the only one of the children who still came to see him. “Come inside, I’ve just made some cocoa.”

Not needing any further invitation when offered his favourite beverage, Matthew stooped slightly and entered the little tree house. It was a crowded room dominated by the handcrafted stone fireplace that crackled cheerily with green and red flames. Two overstuffed plush armchairs and a little table covered with a dainty checked cloth sat before it and the rest of the room was stuffed with book shelves, crockery shelves, turnip shelves and Mr. Trumble’s tiny bed wedged in the back corner. He sat himself down in the visitor’s chair that seemed to have shrunk over the years of his visits and gratefully accepted the steaming hot mug of cocoa that Mr. Trumble extended to him. The first big sip of the rich, sweet drink made him feel substantially better. He looked at the battered china mug and had to stifle a smile at the sight of the rather bad watercolour painting of a lady gnome being chased by a cat around a ring of daisies.

“Now, what brings you down to old Trumble’s, Matthew?” rumbled the gnome as he sunk down in his chair.

“It’s too crowded up there and it is so unfair! I lost my room and I had to dry all the dishes after the girls messed things up and Father won’t get me a sword and stupid Phillip is no fun and Ed is still away and I had to go outside to get firewood and no one wants me to be a hero and I’m not allowed to go outside to play!” The long litany on injustice poured out of him as he felt suddenly hot and angry.

Mr. Trumble nodded, his shaggy eyebrows drawing close together. “Seems like the whole world is against you, eh?”

“Yes, it is!” muttered Matthew sulkily.

“It’s going to be a cold night. Likely it will snow.” He turned and looked into the flickering flames of the fire. Matthew watched him silently, sipping from his mug of cocoa, before deciding that he may as well be polite to the nice old gnome.

“What are you doing for Christmas, Mr. Trumble?”

“Same as I have these past thirty years, Master Matthew. Keeping myself to myself, I’d say. The squirrels upstairs and the hedgehogs next door are fast asleep, the fairies caught the last swallow to the Nile a few weeks ago and Old Man Badger down by the stream is busy with his books this time o’ year. No, I’ll just be here, listening to the winds and enjoying my Christmas turnip. Shame I could get no chestnuts this week. I has always been partial to roast chestnuts of a Yuletide.”

“That’s nice, Mr. Trumble.” he replied, a tad unsure of anything else to offer.

“That it be, Master Matthew, that it be. Hrmph. In regards to your little problem of the season, I’d say that I’ve seen this sort of thing before. I reckon I know just the thing for it.”

“Do you?” Matthew leaned forward eagerly. The old gnome’s remedies didn’t taste nice, but the whole family swore by them.”

“Reckon, I do, my lad, reckon I do. Seems to me like you’re in need of some spiritus nativitatis.”

“That sounds…foreign...”

“It isn’t originally from round here, that I’ll grant you. But we’ve grown the ingredients in these parts for many a year, although some seasons there has been less than others.”

“Well Mr. Trumble, I’d be awfully obliged if I could have some, please.”

“I’d be very glad to oblige you, Master Matthew. There’s only one slight problem. I don’t have any spare here.”

“Oh.”

“I’d say you should try Master Astorius. He’s bound to have something in that tower of his.”

Matthew blanched every so slightly at the mention of Astorius, the village wizard. He lived up in his rickety old tower in the village square of Ashford and only occasionally went outside. Strange noises and flashes of light were said to emanate from the tower at nighttime. He had never actually seen or heard them himself, but Michael Sutherland swore he had crept in there at night and found an old finger bone of a witch. Matthew had traded five marbles and a piece of fools gold for it last month, but he was starting to suspect that there was a sneaky reason it looked a lot like a chicken bone. All of the village boys had been sternly warned not to bother the wizard on pain of being turned into toads.

“Are you sure there is nowhere else?”

“Quite sure, my boy. If you run along quickly now, you might just be able to catch him as he has his afternoon breakfast. Tell him I sent you to get some.” Mr. Trumble’s eyes seemed to twinkle a bit more than usual and the edges of a smile seemed to appeared beneath the undergrowth of his beard.

“Righto! Thank you very much for the cocoa and the help, Mr. Trumble.”

“You’re most welcome as always, Master Matthew.”

He watched as the boy quickly gulped down the rest of his drink and then clambered to the door. As he opened it and disappeared into the cold afternoon, a pot of sparkling dust was disturbed atop the doorframe and a few sprinkles caught the unsuspecting Matthew on the back.

Mr. Trumble went to close the door, sat down again next the fire and smiled.

A Christmas Tale Part 2

Matthew ran down the narrow lane, taking care not to slip on the increasingly frosty grass beneath his feet. He had squeezed through the loose plank on the back fence behind the trees into the nameless laneway that ran behind their house and that would lead him right into the middle of Ashford, with only a few minor obstacles. The first was coming up ahead on the left, a steep and slippery bank that lead down to the stream. He half-tumbled and half-hurdled down the slope, dodging wicked looking branches and hidden tree roots. Reaching the bottom, he came upon the second, a fallen log that lay across the stream. It was wide enough in good conditions, but the frosty conditions made it a challenge to most. Matthew took it at a running leap, arms outstretched in his best imitation of Robin Hood chasing after that nasty rotter Guy of Gisborne. He almost slipped as he landed halfway, but quickly regained his balance and left what he had named the Bridge of Ultimate Danger behind him as he bolted across the cricket oval in front of him. A matter of minutes later, he found himself in the village square, which, unsurprisingly for late afternoon on a cold Christmas Eve, was abandoned.

He stood silently underneath the old equestrian statue of King Richard the Lionheart. On his left was the Lion and Unicorn, which looked like it still had a fair crowd, no doubt including Father and Uncle Henry, who had to ‘just pop out to collect something’ after lunch. He would have to be wary as a Royal Ninja, as the shortest route to the tower was out of the question. Nodding grimly at the statue, Matthew slipped away in a low crouch next to the mossy churchyard wall and hurried past the Post Office, the police station (Careful!), the schoolhouse (Boo!) Mrs. Darrow’s sweet shop (Yay!) and the Women’s Institute. He crept to the edge of the wall and looked out at his last major obstacle – the railway station. Mr. Cribbins the station porter would still be there this time of day and there could be a few passengers, even in this weather. Unperturbed, Matthew decided on an even more stealthy approach and, lying down on his belly, commando crawled past the low station window in a masterful display of the art of surreptitiousness that would have been a little bit more useful if Mr. Cribbins had not been fast asleep in his warm office. Eat your heart out, Tonto.

Finally, he was at the cast iron door of the wizard’s tower. A neatly written parchment sign was carefully posted next to it on the dark coppery wall. No callers. No salesmen. No visitors. Trespassers will be transmogrified. Have a lovely day. Matthew paused and considered the matter carefully, not altogether wanting to become a toad or stoat indefinitely, even if it was the worst Christmas ever. He decided that his was not a social inquiry, but a matter of magical business, so he should be safe. He reached forward and grasped the heavy brass doorknocker that was in the shape of a gruesome gargoyle’s head.

“Oooh, I wish you lot wouldn’t do that!” came a squeaking voice as the loathsome visage on the knocker opened its red squinty eyes.

“I’m sorry, but whatever do you mean, ‘do that’?”

“Take hold of me with cold hands. It is bad enough getting pawed by strangers at the best of times, so the least you can do is warm up your jolly mitts first, pal!”

“Oh dear, I didn’t think of that. Can I still use you?”

“Now you’ve gone and woken me up in this weather, why not? No-one listens to me in the first place…” The door-knockers voice trailed off into an inaudible litany of grumbling. With an apologetic smile, Matthew rapped it sharply on the door thrice, emitting a deep boom that echoed around him. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door and a least a dozen bolts being drawn back. It opened with a eerie creak to reveal a dark, twisting corridor. Standing in it was a three foot tall Persian cat with its extremely fluffy grey fur concealed beneath a red velvet smoking jacket and matching fez. It looked him up and down with the unconcealed scorn that only a cat could muster.

“Begone, callow intruder! Master Astorius is not taking any callers this decade. Hop it at once, ere I unleash the wrath of the Undaunted Zlaan of Set on your hairless human hide.” huffed the haughty feline at Matthew as it moved to slam the door in his face.

“Wait!”

“This had better be phenomenally good.”

“Trumble the garden gnome sent me! He said that Master Astorius would be able to help me with a potion.”

“The gnome, eh? That changes things slightly.” The cat beckoned Matthew inside and slammed the door behind them. They stood in a small bare stone antechamber. “Did the gnome send any catnip with you?”

“Um, no.”

“Pity. Well, you might as well come in and see the Master then, for what good it would do. I should warn you, foolish human boy, that he isn’t good with visitors at this time of year. Or any time of year. If I were you, I’d run away screaming as fast as I could. And then fix up that hair. Don’t you humans ever wash yourselves?”

“Of course I do! I had a bath this morning, thank you very much. And I’m not a ‘foolish human boy’, thank you very much. My name is Matthew Cavendish.”

“Thank you. I shall promptly forget that you even mentioned it, as you are below my exalted station. Follow me, foolish human boy.”

The cat turned and headed off up the shadowed passageway, not bothering to check if Matthew was following. He scampered along next to the deceptively fast familiar as they would their way past elaborately locked doors, dusty old paintings of agricultural machinery and rotting velvet curtains that seemed to move and moan even though there was no breeze. It would have almost been scary, but Matthew was of course too old to be scared by such things or so he assured himself. They climbed a flight of stairs that seemed to go on forever until they finally reached an ominous black stone doorway that was blocked off with feathery beaded curtains.

“Wait here while I announce you.” The cat batted aside the curtain with a swipe of its paw and managed to restrain itself from playing with the fascinating object with a wistful shake of its head and crinkling of whiskers.

“A human boy, Master.”

“What?! I didn’t order any! That idiot butcher has messed up for the final time. I’ll blast him to billyo with a lightning bolt, I will! Him and his thrice-damned van! Where did I put that wand?” Matthew shivered as he heard the high pitched manic voice of what he presumed was Master Astorius.

“No, Master. Unusually, you are mistaken. This is a live and rather unkempt human child. Trumble sent him on the matter of a potion.”

“Trumble you say? Well, bring him in, bring him in! I don’t pay you to just tell me things, Captain Wustymunkles.”

“You don’t pay me at all, Master.”

Captain Wustymunkles pranced back out in profound dignity and ushered Matthew into the brilliantly lit room beyond the feathered curtain, before returning to determinedly catch and destroy the elusive bird on a string once and for all. It was a truly bizarre place – some odd sort of laboratory, he thought. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves full of leather-bound tomes and every square inch of the floor was covered with suits of armour, skeletons of half a dozen creatures that Matthew couldn’t even identify and several benches crowded with bubbling beakers, teetering test tubes and all manner of alchemical paraphernalia. Behind it all stood a paradoxically neat desk and seated behind that was a hulking giant of a man dressed in black silken robes and wearing a delicate golden circlet around his head. He was easily seven foot tall and his flowing black beard reached halfway down his chest, clashing with the white streak that extended up from his pronounced widow’s peak. This was the much feared wizard Master Astorius and he looked very annoyed.

“Approach, boy!” Astorius’s voice did not seem to match his gigantic form and Matthew almost laughed at the absolute strangeness of it all.

“Please sir, my name is Matthew Cavendish.”

“Cavendish, eh? Your father runs the bookshop, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmph. Good chap. Now, why did Trumble send you to disturb my vitally important research? Answer me at once!” Astorius leaned forward over the desk, obscuring most of what he had been occupied with prior to Matthew’s arrival.

“Is that a puzzle, sir? It is a big one!”

Astorius say back down glumly. “It is. A two thousand piece map of Africa. My friend the Cornish Ogre sent it to me. And now I’ve gone and lost three pieces. I think the paintings ate them.”

Matthew nodded in sympathy. Some grown-ups wouldn’t understand about not being able to properly complete a puzzle when there were pieces missing, but it seemed as if the wizard had a firm grasp of the important things in life.

“Anyway, my familiar mentioned that my friend the gnome needed a potion.”

“Well, not exactly, sir. It is for me.”

“I see.”

“Yes. It was called…Spiritus Nativigators.” Matthew’s excellent memory once again sprang to the rescue.

“Spiritus Nativigators? This isn’t Portugal!” The wizard’s huge brows furrowed in thought and then his visage suddenly brightened. “Ah! Did he mean, by any chance, Spiritus Nativitatis?”

“Yes, sir. That’s the one!”

“I’m afraid that I don’t have anything up here in my laboratory.”

“Oh.”

“Never fear, my boy. You can check down in my storeroom on the way out. Go down the stairs and take the thirty-sixth door on your left. There should be some there.” A small smile played across Astorius’s hitherto dour countenance.

“Thank you, Master Wizard.” As Matthew turned to go, he spied an old picture in a battered frame on the desk. It showed a less frazzled Astorius next to a rather ravishing looking robed woman and four young children. The wizard saw what Matthew was looking at and frowned sadly.

“Is that your family?”

“Yes. Mrs. Astorius and our children live in Tahiti at the moment.”

“You must miss them this time of year.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Well, I hope that you get a card or a telegram from them. Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye, Matthew Cavendish.”

He left the room, with Captain Wustymunkles having obviously become bored with his game with the curtain, descended the stairs and counted off the doors as he went along the impossibly long corridor. Reaching the thirty-sixth door, he opened it to see a vast storeroom filled with boxes, more boxes, boxes with boxes in them and tables with boxes on top of them. It looked to be over a mile long and was lit by flickering lanterns on the walls.

“How am I supposed to find a single potion in here?” exclaimed Matthew in despair. Some dust from all the boxes seemed to get into his eyes and he had to blink away some pesky moisture. Heroes don’t quit. He set his lips purposefully and started to head down the middle of the room, looking at the spidery labels on each box. Aardvarks. Potted Wyverns. Warthogs. Blackbirds (for speed). Blackbirds (for pies). Blackbirds (for social occasions). Skyhawks. Mohawks (2). Kittyhawks. Tomahawks. Tomcats. Tomtoms. Zod. Mods. Rods (Thor?). Wands. Relics. Potions. Phantoms. Swordfish. Crusaders. Pools (Radiance). Pools (football). Secre-

Wait, Potions? Potions?! Excelsior!

Matthew couldn’t help himself from doing a little dance as he congratulated himself for spotting what he was after so early. He carefully pried open the lid, barely able to contain his excitement, and pulled back the gray canvas within to reveal…

Three empty bottles.

Not. Jolly. Happy.

He shook his head angrily. Just like a silly wizard to be forgetful. Science is so much better than magic. Not even that comforting fib to himself could shake his disappointment, though. Disappointment that gave way to anger, as he swept the Potions box onto the floor and sent the empty bottles clattering across the grimy cobblestone floor. On it’s way down, it knocked the box labeled Secre- off the edge of the table and it tumbled down, keen not to be left out of the fun. As it hit the ground, it opened up, revealing that this box most certainly did have something inside. It looked like a mirror, but no mirror Matthew had ever seen had waves breaking across it like an angry sea. Also unlike any mirror he had encountered, this one sucked him inside it.

He tumbled head over heels down a long, windy well that seemed to be made of water and let loose with a loud and long scream for his mother, unconcerned if anyone could hear him acting like a baby for once. The water gave way to what seemed to be a fluffy white ball of cotton wool that regrettably did nothing to arrest his fall. Had Matthew paused in his screaming and appreciated his surroundings, he may well have noticed that the cotton wool was in fact a cloud, but his attentions were perhaps naturally focused on his journey, which is an unfortunately common occurrence in life. As it was, the cloud or cotton wool, depending of course on one’s perspective, gave way to open sky, which wasn't really much of an improvement.

He heard a screaming boom as a silver fighter jet flashed past him. The pilot of the Lightning did not notice Matthew as he went about his patrol, which wasn't as rude as it seems when we consider the aircraft was travelling well over the speed of sound. However, the physics of flight is no excuse for poor manners. The occupants of a passenger airship en route to Dublin certainly noticed the boy who fell past their window as they tucked into their potted venison and sweetbreads and several raised the matter with the waiter, who indicated that as he did not believe the young man had a ticket nor was a probable shareholder, it was regrettably beyond the purview of Imperial Airways to intervene in the matter.

Matthew paused in his screaming to regard the approaching ground below him. If he hadn’t been falling to what looked like his demise, he might have almost have appreciated the view. It was thus that he didn’t notice the long claw that reached out, plucked him from the air and deposited him aboard the bamboo deck of a strange flying contraption. He stood gasping for a moment, trying to come to terms with his shock deliverance. Before him stood a very tall, very thin man in a rainbow coloured duffle coat, elbow length leather gloves, a long white flying scarf and golden flying goggles.

“Who are you?” the rescued lad coughed.

“Why, I’m Professor Glimpuddle, Aloysius Onslomagus Glimpuddle. Welcome to the Shalimar!"

“What’s the Shalimar?” asked Matthew, taking care to pronounce the italics properly.

“The Shalimar is my life’s work. It is the world’s fastest steam powered flying machine! Would you like a mince pie?”

Matthew looked at his watch. 4 o’clock. Almost time for tea.

“Yes, please.”

A Christmas Tale Part 3

Professor Glimpuddle showed Matthew into the Shalimar’s bridge, which appeared to also doubled as his cabin and was apparently made out of some form of transluscent green crystal that throbbed with a inner glow in a manner than was vaguely comforting, and offered him a small flowerpot of tea and a scrumptious mince pie. He gratefully gobbled it down and looked about the strange room. Upon careful examination, he noticed that the walls seemed to grow out of the floor like some sort of plant and that what he had first assumed to be carpet was actually grass. The large window was half covered with cellophane and a weird control panel festooned with all sorts of knobs, levers and buttons lay beneath it. A loud clanging alarm went off and the Professor fussed about the controls like a demented organist until it faded away to an occasional plaintive honk, sounding to all the world like a depressed goose.

“Thank you for saving me, Professor. I’m Matthew Cavendish.”

“Not at all, my dear boy. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” The Professor shook Matthew by the hand, forgetting to remove his flying goggles and looking very much like an enthusiastic but highly disturbed insect. “Truth be told, it was the Shalimar itself that saved you, not me. I installed a set of brass arms in case I ever had to make an emergency landing on the canopy of a forest and they’ve developed quite the mind of their own. The ship is alive, you see.”

“Alive?” Matthew could scarcely believe the concept. He’d heard of sentient cars, eccentric motorcycles and talking aeroplanes, but a whole living ship was very rare in this day and age.

“Yes. I grew it at my laboratory in the jungles of Madagascar using some cuttings from a certain beanstalk I ‘borrowed’ from the British Museum.”

“I say, Professor, that’s a bit of a rum thing to do! You can’t just go borrowing things without giving them back. It’s just not cricket!”

“Oh, I quite agree, Matthew. Rest assured that I posted something much more valuable to them in return for what I needed. I gave them a stone of pure azoth.”

Matthew had no idea what that was, but it sounded impressive. Professor Glimpuddle beamed appreciatively. “Once I had the beanstalk, draconite and a few triffid clippings from the elves, I was able to grow my own ship in the short space of twenty five years. Now I can go anywhere in the world in a few hours.”

“That must be smashing. What do you do when you get there?”

“Ah, now that is the brilliant part, Matthew! I am able to observe anything with my ostroscope and conduct my experiments without bothering my beloved lemurs back home or letting anyone steal my inventions.”

“What’s an ostroscope? Is it like a microscope?”

“Why, yes, my clever lad, it is quite like a microscope. It allows you to see things that you couldn’t ordinarily see. It can go through walls, the ground and even through mountainsides. Sort of.”

Matthew was a smart lad who read plenty of spy comics, so was able to realize the implications of the device straight away. “Sort of? You’ve just invented the most useful camera in the world!”

“It depends on the mood of the ostroscope, you see. It doesn’t really feel like looking at fortress walls, bank vaults or underground bunkers and only shows what it thinks is interesting. The Prime Minister made me promise that I wouldn’t look at anything I shouldn’t and he was extremely serious. He had the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Minister of Magic with him and said they would be very, very cross.”

“Oh, that’s alright then.” He was relieved that he wouldn’t be doing anything against the interests of the Empire. He had no intention of being drummed out of the Scouts and sent to Coventry by everyone at school.

“It is a simple enough device, but quite a lovely one.. I simply distilled liquid hope through my atomic centrifuge and combined it with a wobble of ostriches. I’m just about to test it out for the first time in a few weeks. Would you like to have a look?”

“I’d love to, Professor Glimpuddle, but what I really need is some spiritus nativitatis. That’s how I ended up here on the Shalimar.” Matthew proceeded to explain his rather busy day to the Professor, who nodded sagely and sympathetically as it all poured out.

“I can’t say I have any of that on board, Matthew, but if you take a look through the ostroscope, you just might see some.”

And so the Professor and the boy hurried down a leafy ladder into the ship’s hold, where the fabled device awaited. It looked as if three metal statues of ostriches had been welded together in a rough circle and a giant golden lens wedged between them.

“Have a look now, Matthew. We should be going over London.”

Matthew looked down into the ostroscope. He heard a whirring of gears and a strange whizzing sound as the cityscape below him gave way to the inside of a little upstairs room in the East End. No carpet covered the bare boards of the floor and the fire was small and barely warmed the room. In one corner was a small pine branch dressed up with a few strands of tinsel and some faded baubles. Sitting around a large wooden table were two boys and two girls dressed in lovingly repaired old clothes and their mother and father. The parents were thin and had drawn, tired faces, but smiled nonetheless as they ate their Christmas Eve tea with their children.

“Aren’t we lucky to have to have this ham for tea, Mum?” asked the father. He had a much-used crutch propped up against the back of his chair

“Can I please have another piece?” squeaked a small boy of no more than six winters.

“No, Jimmy, we need to save the rest for tomorrow. You know things have been rough since your father had his accident and lost his job.”

“That’s alright Mum. I’m just glad we’re all here together again.” Jimmy replied with wide eyes and the other children joined in with a chorus of agreement.

“Will Father Christmas be coming this year, Mummy?” asked the smallest girl.

“We’ll see, Beryl love. We’ll see.”

The vision suddenly flickered, then disappeared and Matthew could saw fields stretching out before him right out to the southern coast.

“What happened?”

“We must have gone out of range. The Shalimar will be picking up speed again after slowing down to catch you. There go the White Cliffs of Dover…and there goes Paris.”

They sped on through the sky over Europe, which looked just like the time Matthew had bought his train set outside and tried to bomb it with his paper Valiant from the tree house. He could just see houses, farms, rivers, lakes, forests, mountains and the vast grey cities. They went over France and then Germany before slowing down over Austria-Hungary.

“Looks like the ostroscope has picked up something else again! Quick, Matthew, look before we lose it!”

He looked into the contraption once again and saw the inside of a tiny cottage in the middle of a dark forest that was covered in a thick blanket of snow. A little old lady sat in her rocking chair in front of the fire, knitting in silence. There was a small plate with a piece of bread and some cheese on it in front of her. An old broken wireless stood soundlessly on the mantelpiece. A small black kitten was curled up very close to the fire and Matthew could see its little ribs through its fur. The shelves around the room were filled with lovingly painted china, small carvings of animals and empty jars. Matthew crooked his neck and peered into the pantry and saw that it was bare. He felt a strange feeling in his chest, as if his heart was suddenly very heavy.

Then the picture flickered again and they moved on. The Shalimar sped over the skies of Romania and over the deep blue waters of the Black Sea, which Matthew regarded as extremely poor form, and onwards over the mountains and deserts of the Middle East. He could see a few railways crossing the land below and when he peered, he could spot caravans of camels and people trudging along through the sands in the gathering evening as they had done this night nearly twenty centuries ago. They rocketed out over the beautiful blue waters of the Persian Gulf and then flashed over the southern reaches of India, the steam engines of the Professor’s flying machine now straining away at their maximum pace.

As they slowed down over Borneo, Matthew didn’t need to be warned this time, but was at the ostroscope as it revealed a small clearing in the hot, steaming jungle, which sweltered even in the nighttime. A dozen exhausted, filthy soldiers in jungle greens and giggle hats sat in the mud at the foot of a huge tree, drinking quietly from their canteens. Some of them were British and some of them were Gurkhas, but all of their SLRs never left their grasp and all of them never truly relaxed. They looked tired, incredibly tired, but they got up just the same and moved off without complaint. All of them looked young, younger that Matthew’s brother Edward, and yet all of them looked so much older in their eyes. They went out on their way, on Christmas Eve just like any other day, doing their duty.

The scene flickered and then they moved onwards through darkness out over the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean. Matthew could see whales and dolphins rearing from the waters below and a vast grey aircraft carrier and its escorts on the horizon, heading steadily northwards towards Hawaii. He knew inside that it was impossible for any normal aeroplane or flying ship to travel this fast, but also understood that the Shalimar was no normal vessel. They raced into the lightening skies and, for the first time in his life, Matthew saw two dawns in a day.

Onwards they went, over a strange island dotted with massive stone heads and they they streaked over the cold, dry coast of South America. He could see many strange lines and shapes on a dry plain below for a brief instant before they were gone. The flying machine turned and headed up the northern coast in the shadow of the Andes, coursing through the skies over the towns and villages below. In them, Matthew saw the poor, desperately trying to eke out a living from the unforgiving soil and he saw the rich sitting in their homes full of light and laughter. The Panama Canal flashed below them in the blink of an eye and they curved up over Central America and Mexico to the plains of Texas, which were lit by the bright early morning sun. The Shalimar went over the great cities of America and Canada and Matthew saw many marvelous things and wonders of the modern world, just as he saw the poor and the hungry and the lonely amid the riches and skyscrapers, for there is nothing more marvelous than the suffering of men and women and there is no great a mystery as misery. They flew onwards and outwards past the great statue of freedom and hope into the North Atlantic.

Matthew sat back, feeling quite thoughtful. “Professor, would you be able to drop me off at home? I must have missed Christmas.” For some reason, that didn’t seem as great a tragedy as he had thought before he had left home.

“I can do that, my boy, but never fear, I do have a way of getting you back to the afternoon of Christmas Eve.” The Professor ran back up to the control room, closely followed by Matthew. He fiddled with knobs, frantically pulled at levers and smashed buttons until there a strange triumphant electronic fanfare. “Done!”

“How?” he gasped in astonishment.

“The magic of the Shalimar is such that time passes differently up here. You will arrive back having only been gone for a few minutes.”

“That’s super!”

“It is indeed. It works differently for me. It seems like I left my treetop laboratory in the rainforest just this morning, but I have been gone these past ten years. It is an old, old faerie spell.”

Matthew suddenly felt very sad for the Professor. Ten years was a long time to be away from your family, even if it was an adopted family of ooking primates. However, before he could say anything, a steam whistle went off, signifying that they were over Ashford.

“Happy Christmas, Matthew.” smiled the Professor wistfully as he pulled a large yellow lever labeled Do Not Pull. It opened up the grassy floor beneath Matthew and he fell down through the air.

Not again.

His fall was short and it took him several seconds to regain his senses. He was lying in a pile of snow in the churchyard that was growing by the second as the snow fell ever heavier. Clambering to his feet, he quickly checked to see that all his limbs were intact and functioning before springing into a run back home.

As luck would have it, no one had noticed that he had been away as he slipped back into the kitchen. Looking at his watch, he saw that he had only been gone twenty minutes. Things were different at home as well. Gone was the last minute rush and stress, replaced by a warm, bright glow of family and festival. Looking into the living room, the Christmas tree was now up, glittering with ornaments and light. Cheery Christmas music filled the air and delicious fruity, spicy smells filled the kitchen. In the fireplace, the Yule log crackled and flamed and before it was standing…

“Ed! You’re home!” Matthew rushed in and jumped into his big brother’s arms in delight.

“Hello, Matt! How’s my little goblin going?”

Philip looked up from his Eagle across the other side of the room with a look of triumph.

“Good. Great, actually. It’s wonderful to see you. I didn’t think you were coming home this year! When did you get here!”

“Calm down, matey, one question at a time. Vanguard came back into Portsmouth a week early and I got a train home from London. Father and Uncle Henry picked me up from the station about quarter of an hour ago as a Christmas surprise. Were you outside playing?”

“Yeah, playing. That’s it.”

“Ah, Matthew. You never change.”

In this, however, Sub-Lieutenant Edward Cavendish RN was wrong. The family came together for their tea and then the children went out caroling, as was their tradition. Matthew went along quite happily and willingly and sang his heart out. Alice and Angela thought they smelled a rat, but couldn’t quite put their finger on it. That night, he hung out his stocking and crawled into his bed without giving Philip a thumping and then followed that up by giving his younger brother one of the shocks of his life.

“Happy Christmas, Philip.”

“Happy Christmas, Matthew.” he responded, happy that his big brother was back at long last.
………………………………………………………………………………………………

Matthew woke up. It was still pitch dark, but there was a dim light on downstairs. He slowly got up and slipped out of bed with infetisimal care in order not to wake up Philip and padded silently downstairs. He slipped through the kitchen into the living room. There before the Christmas tree, he saw the stooped figure that he had been expecting.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Matthew.” said Father Christmas as he turned around and fixed the solemn boy with a kindly gaze. “Did you find what you were looking for yesterday.”

“Yes, I did sir. I just didn’t know it at the time.”

Father Christmas nodded. He had received several reports on this boy throughout the year. Like many children, he had gone through that phase where he did not believe in him, but he had grown out of it. A fair few incidences of sibling rivalry and juvenile head swelling, but nothing truly egregious. The last few notes he had received before he set out tonight had well and truly taken care of that.

“What did you wish to get for Christmas, Matthew?”

“Well, sir, I had been holding out for a sword, but I’d like to change my mind if I may.”

“You may. Tell me what your wish is.”

Matthew told him, taking a minute or so to explain. Father Christmas considered the matter and then nodded. “I can take care of that.”

“There is one other thing I’d like, if I may. We might need to use your sleigh. Do we have time?”

“We have all the time in the world.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………
Father Christmas and Matthew stood next to the sleigh and reindeer on top of the brown, gentle hill. A small town stood below them, quite crowded at this time of year. Shepherds stood watching their flocks out in the fields and a bright star, brighter than any Matthew had ever seen before, shone in the sky above as a sign of triumph and love. A caravan of men dressed in rich robes entered through the gate of the town below them. Matthew was only dressed in his pyjamas, but the Judean night was not as cold as the one he had left in England. The twinkling star suddenly burst forth with an even brighter, brilliant light that seemed to shine out all over the whole world, despite the night. From the town below, far away, Matthew could hear the cry of a newborn child.

“Thank you. I think I’ve found what I was looking for. Can I go home now?”

“Of course.” smiled Father Christmas.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Matthew awoke the next morning and joined the rush of children down to open their presents. To his immense surprise and absolute happiness, his gifts included a finely crafted sword with a brass hilt and a sharkskin handle. He laughed then with a pure joy that he hadn’t felt for some time. He hadn’t been expecting this. His family thought it was for the sword, but they were mistaken. They all trooped off to church, where his enthusiastic singing was once again noted, and thence home again for the great feast of roast turkey, roast chicken, ham, spiced beef, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding, mince pies, trifle and cake. There were songs and laughter, crackers, hats and jokes. Edward was home and his cousins were there too. Later in the afternoon, the family gathered around the television and watched the Queen’s message in reverent silence before retreating to various easy chairs and sofa with cups of tea.

In a small upstairs room in the East End of London, Beryl, Jimmy, Laura, Christopher and their mother and father sat down to a great meal of roast turkey, roast beef, vegetables and an immense, flaming Christmas pudding. Underneath the wonderfully adorned tree, the remnants of a dozen boxes could be seen and toys were scattered across the room, whilst the crutch lay unneeded in the corner.

The tiny hut in the deep woods of the Carpathians was brightly lit and warm. A large supply of firewood lay piled high outside, enough for the rest of the winter. Inside, there was music and laughter from the wireless as the old lady and her kitten feasted on goose and drank their fill of spiced wine. The pantry was full of tins, jars, loaves of bread and several large hams. Sitting across the other side of the table was her grown son, smiling.

A barrack room in Sarawak was not the most salubrious of locations in the world, but for the men of C Company, 12th Battalion, Parachute Regiment and the Independent Gurkha Parachute Company, it was heaven on earth compared to the jungle. It wasn’t the first series of patrols that had been called off for unspecified reasons, but the extraction of forward sections by Rotodynes was decidedly uncommon. Whatever the reason, it was an opportunity to enjoy a brief moment of respite and to share a hearty Christmas dinner with their comrades.

Master Astorius the wizard had never laughed so long and so hard for many a long year. He had never thought he would live to see the day when Sandra and the boys would be knocking on his door on Christmas morning and had been delighting them with illusions and fireworks all afternoon. Captain Wustymunkles was curled up in the corner, having tired of his ball of wool and a quite magnificent shining light on the carpet that he could never quite catch, at least for the moment.

Professor Glimpuddle sipped his tea and looked out at the lemurs. It was good to be home.

“Philip?”

“Yes, Matthew?”

“Grab that bowl of roast chestnuts and follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Down the garden to visit an old friend.”

“It is a far, far better thing I do now –“

“Philip! What are you doing?!”

“Finishing off with the Dickens quote like you told me.”

“It isn’t that one!”

“…Please, sir, I want some more?”

“No, silly! Why is it cold in here all of a sudden?”

“Must be that fourth wall breaking down again. Ah, I think I got it now.”

“Well, hurry up, Phillip. We don’t have all Christmas.”

“A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, every one!”

This has always been my favorite work of yours, Simon. Thank you for reposting it.

Merry Christmas, and a happy new year to you.

Belushi TD

I quite like it as well, even if it is a bit inspired by Oscar Wilde's The Happy Prince at points.

A very Happy Christmas and a good New Year to you and yours.