The Raven’s Knot

‘Chapel did you say?’ came a nasal, unenthusiastic voice. ‘Can’t seem to find you anywhere.’

The boy turned and looked across the desk at the school secretary, a large, middle-aged woman with bleached hair, wearing a turquoise blouse that was one size too small for her ample figure.

‘Chapman,’ he said with mild annoyance, exaggerating his lip movements in case the chunky earrings she wore had made her hard of hearing.

The woman dabbed at the computer with her podgy fingers and without looking up at him said, ‘You’re in Mr Battersby’s form. Room 11a, down the corridor on the right.’

‘Thank you,’ Neil muttered, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

‘They won’t be there now though,’ the secretary added. ‘There’s an assembly this morning. They’ll have gone to the drama centre, across the playground on the left. You’d best get a move on – you’re late.’

Neil didn’t bother to answer that one. He hurried from the main doors and into the rain again. Over a bleak tarmac square he ran to where a low building stood, and hastened inside.

Fortunately, the assembly had not yet begun and Neil slipped in amongst the children still finding their seats.

The drama centre was a modestly sized theatre where school plays, concerts and assemblies were held. It consisted of a stage, complete with curtains and lighting equipment, and tiered rows of seats to accommodate the audience.

Today the atmosphere was rowdy and irreverent. The stale smell of damp clothes and wet hair hung heavily in the air as the congregated pupils settled noisily into their places. The watchful teachers patrolled up and down, keeping their expert eyes upon the troublesome ones. Several of these had pushed their way to the back of the highest row but were already being summoned down again to be divided and placed elsewhere under easy scrutiny.

Neil’s eyes roved about the large room. At the back of the stage there was a backdrop left over from the last school production, depicting the interior of an old country house complete with French windows, and he guessed that it had been a murder mystery.

In front of the scenery was a row of chairs which faced the pupils and already some of the teachers had taken their places upon them. There were two female teachers and three male, but against that painted setting they looked less like members of staff and more like a collection of suspects.

Mentally performing his own detective work, Neil wondered which of them was Mr Battersby. Of the three men sitting there, one was fat and balding, another tall and slightly hunched, but the last one Neil dismissed right away for he was obviously some kind of vicar, dressed in long black vestments.

Suddenly, the level of chatter died down as a small, stern looking woman with short dark hair strode into the room. One of the male teachers who had not yet joined his colleagues raised his hand as though he was directing traffic and at once the children in the theatre stood.

Neil did the same. This was the headteacher, Mrs Stride.

‘Good morning,’ she said, briskly rubbing her hands together.

The children mumbled their replies.

‘I said, “good morning”,’ she repeated, a little more forcefully.

This time the response was louder and Mrs Stride appeared satisfied. Nodding her head, she told them to be seated and the room echoed with the shuffling of over three hundred pairs of feet and the usual chorus of pretended coughs before she could begin.

Only half listening, Neil watched the head pace up and down the stage, but his attention was quickly drawn away from her and directed at the person sitting beside him.

Here was a slight, nervous looking boy with untidy hair and large round spectacles, whose threadbare blazer was covered in badges. With one watchful eye upon the teachers, the boy lifted his bag with his foot, unzipped it and drew out a science fiction magazine which he laid upon his lap and proceeded to read, ignoring everything else around him.

Lowering his eyes, Neil peered at the colourful pages and read the bold type announcing ‘real life’ abductions by strange visitors from outer space.

‘Now,’ Mrs Stride’s voice cut into his musings and Neil returned his gaze to the front of the stage. ‘You all know Reverend Galloway. He came to see you quite a few times last term to talk about the youth club, before it burned down. Well, I haven’t a clue what he’s going to tell us this morning but I’m sure it will be most interesting. He’s even gone all out and put his cassock on for us. Reverend Galloway.’

The head stood aside as the man in the vestments rose from his seat and a distinct groan issued about the theatre.

‘Not the God Squad again,’ complained a dejected voice close by, and Neil looked at the boy at his side who had glanced up from his magazine to contribute this mournful and damning plea.

Neil studied the vicar more closely. Apparently he was a familiar and unpopular guest at these assemblies.

The Reverend Peter Galloway was a boisterous young man with a haystack of floppy auburn hair and a sparse, wispy beard to match. Suddenly, he broke into an enormous, welcoming grin and his large, green eyes bulged forward as if they were about to pop clean out of his head. Then he held open his arms in a great sweeping gesture which embraced the whole audience.

‘I hope you all enjoyed Christmas,’ he said benignly.

The children eyed him warily as though he were trying to sell them something and an agitated murmur rippled throughout the tiered seats.

Peter Galloway looked at the sea of blank faces. The pupils’ expressions were those of bored disinterest but that did not deter him, in fact it spurred him on. For the past seven months, ever since he had left college, he had ministered to the spiritual needs of this difficult area and never once suffered any loss of confidence, whatever the reaction to his exuberant ministries. His soul brimmed with the joy of his unshakable beliefs and he never missed an opportunity to try and share this with others.

In this short time, however, the Reverend had become increasingly aware that the Church was failing to capture the hearts and minds of the younger members of the community, and was grieved to learn of the trouble they got themselves into. If they could only channel all that youthful, restless energy into celebrating the life that God had given to them, as he did, they could enjoy a faith as strong as his own.

This mission to welcome the youngsters into the fold had become a crusade with him. He was passionate about it and tried many different ways to show them that the Church could be fun. There had been concerts of Christian pop music, youth groups, debating societies, sporting events and even sponsored fasts in aid of the Third World. Yet none had been a resounding success, in spite of his finest efforts. The teenagers he saw hanging around in gangs and loitering at street corners never came along to any of them, but it only served to make him even more determined.

Today he had resolved to take a more direct approach with the children and he returned their apathetic stares with a knowing glare of his own.

‘Let 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.