Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot by Robin Jarvis

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