The Little Demon Who Couldn't

LITTLE Murmur's feet frisked like a spring lamb as he stepped out onto the pavement. 'Delightful, so very delightful!' he chuckled to himself, rubbing his baby-clawed hands together gleefully at the thought of the miser he had pranked moments before.

  The demon travelled boldly down the street, right down its very middle. The gas lamps he passed under without a care. No shadow followed him, and no longer did he cower and creep. Human fear is like a meal of chicken soup and thickly buttered bread to a demon. It feeds and sustains him as physical food feeds and sustains humans, for demons do not eat physical food. Instead, they feed on human fear and evil. A well-fed demon is an invisible demon.

  'Skipper-skipper-hop,' went the little demon's tiny hooves on the pavement, 'skipper-skipper-hop-hop-hop'. He chortled mockingly at the streetlights as he passed shadowless beneath them.

  But the lamps seemed above such things. They just stood tall, straight and silent, their serene, shining tops smiling a golden smile amid a rainbow halo of shimmering mist.

  When the little demon turned the corner, he found himself in a street lined with a cluster of quaint little shops. Their windows glowed with golden lamplight and their eves sheltered many warmly wrapped folk from the light drizzle that had begun to fall. Some of the people bustled about busily doing their shopping, while others loitered or gazed wide-eyed at the enticing displays filling the shop windows. A pretty young lady of sixteen stood staring into the brightly lit window of Lovelace & Sons, a little haberdasher's store.

  Now, even the smallest, laziest demon has a fine nose for human weakness, and the fair-faced young lady caught little Murmur's nose right away. There was something about the way she dithered uncertainly, and there was something about the way her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the pair of lady's boots taking pride of place in the window display.

  The little demon made his way over. Confident in his invisibility to human eyes, he passed boldly through the throng. If any of the people felt something brush against them, they dismissed it as a twitch of their own nerves, and if any fancied they heard a faint 'clip-clop, clip-clop,' they dismissed it as the sound of a loose screw in their own heads.

  The only human to give Murmur worry was a little boy who looked up with wide, startled eyes when a ghostly satin cloak swooshed over his head. The child's frightened eyes followed Murmur as the demon passed away. But the little demon's unease was soon relieved.

  'Stop gawping at thin air like a half-wit, Timmy!' screeched the child's mother, pulling him after her. The open-mouthed little boy was swallowed by the crowd.

  Murmur sidled up to the young lady.

  'How well those boots will look on my fine little feet,' she was thinking to herself. 'Their rosy red will go so delightfully well with my rosy cheeks, and just think: all the other girls will be so very envious when I wear them! And Harry Siddle?' She drew in closer to the shop window, so close that her warm breath misted the cool glass. 'Harry Siddle will look at me for once, rather than making eyes at that Lucy Love-Hart?'

  She put her woolly mitten-encased little hands on the window, and an even more dreamy look came into her eyes. 'Yes, Harry will come up to me and doff that smart cap he wears over his dark curls, and say "Oh Miss Katie, those boots really are topping. Would you care to accompany me to the tearooms at the wintergardens on Saturday?" And I shall reply, "Oh Harry, (she cocked her head to one side) I really am not sure if my friends can spare me on Saturday. They will be ever so grieved if I do not come to the park with them." And he shall say "But Miss Katie, I do insist that you come, for you are the very fairest belle hereabouts, and I will be seen at the tearooms with no other." "Very well, as you will be so wretched if I do not come, I shall come to the tearooms with you," I will say gracefully, giving a little nod?'

  Murmur chortled and chuckled to himself, for he had heard every one of her thoughts. Demons can hear all human thoughts-unless the human was Saint Kriztofer. The little demon's chortle turned into a choke at this thought. He quickly stuffed the thought down. No demon enjoyed thinking about Saint Kriztofer. 'If you don't do what I say, Saint Kriztofer will come and take you away' was a threat used by big demons when little ones were uncooperative.

  Little Murmur resumed his wicked chortling. If it was rather forced, one can hardly blame him.

  The young lady sighed. 'Oh, those boots are so very fine ?'

  Murmur's chuckles grew louder.

  'But I came here to buy Johnny the wooden hobbyhorse he so wanted,' thought the girl, frowning to herself. 'I have been saving my pocket money for months so I could buy it for his birthday.'

  The little demon's fiendish chortling stopped with an abrupt splutter. He sidled in a little closer to the girl. 'But he is used to not getting very much for his birthday,' he whispered in her ear. 'It is more important for a young lady to have a generous purse. She blooms but briefly, and if no one notices the rose, it blooms in vain.'

  Young Katie was not startled by these demon whispers. Humans took such murmurings in their ears to be their own self speaking, for the voice was heard by none but the one in whose ear the demon breathed its poison words. All humans except Saint Kriztofer, that is. Saint Kriztofer was never fooled by demon voices. He never mistook them for his own voice.

  The girl's frown deepened, and her hands pushed harder against the window of the shop. 'Yes,' she replied in thought, 'if neither Harry nor any other boy notices me, I shall fade and wither and drop to the ground, there to rot into nothingness. My beauty shall have been for nothing.'

  'It will not have been for nothing,' came a soft, sweet whisper. 'It will not have been in vain, for the angels will have seen it and rejoiced.'

  With a clutter and a screech, the little demon turned to see who had spoken. Standing at the girl's opposite shoulder was a little angel. He was dressed in a robe of flowing white finer than even the most precious earthly silk, and the little golden halo hovering just above his pale blond curls glowed with shimmering light. The round, pink angelic face radiated a soft light of its own, and his large eyes were a clear lilac not seen in any human eyes.

  Little Murmur yelped with fright and horror. A bit of smoke even came from his pointy little ears. 'An angel, argh!' he gibbered to himself, fidgeting with the end of his tail. 'Horrible, horrible, oh horrible! I hate them, I hate them! Pure, white, sweet, saintly; hate them, hate them?'

  But the little angel took no notice of Murmur. He unfurled his white-feathered wings, rose lightly into the air and leaned in towards the girl's ear.

  'Selfishness and vanity make beauty wither faster than ever Father Time does,' whispered the little angel, and his breath was a stream of shimmering golden light that sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow.

  Murmur stuffed his baby-clawed fingers into his mouth to still his chattering teeth and gibbering tongue. He reminded himself that he was evil, he reminded himself that he had scared the miser's dog and willed the miser's coin off the table and through the crack in the worn old floorboards.

  'Yes, evil we are, very eeevil?' he muttered savagely, slowly inching back up to the girl. 'It is only a little, tiny baby angel. Yes indeed, still wet behind its saintly little round ears?' And he moved in quickly before the thought that he himself was only a little, tiny baby demon could suggest itself.

  'What old maid's nonsense,' whispered the little demon. 'No one really cares about beauty of the soul. No boy has ever come up to a girl and said 'you have a very beautiful soul, miss. Would you like to step out with me?' Men care only for a pretty face and shapely form.'

  'Yes, quite right,' thought the girl. 'I do not want to end my days as a lonely old maid, pitied and pitiful.'

  'But you will never be alone while you have your little brother,' whispered the little angel. 'Johnny is a good boy. He loves his sister no matter what she wears on her feet.'

  'Yes, true,' thought the girl.

  'But Harry Siddle does care what a girl wears on her feet,' whispered the little demon. 'He will never step out with a girl dress
ed in such poor, worn boots as you are.'

  'Think how happy Johnny will be when he opens his present and finds the wooden hobbyhorse he has wanted ever since he walked past here last summer and saw it,' whispered the little angel. 'Surely his beaming face will be a better thing than the shallow attentions of Harry Siddle and the petty envy of Lucy Love-Hart.'

  'But I want the boots!' replied bewildered Katie.

  'Get the hobbyhorse for his next birthday,' murmured Murmur. 'He does not wish for much and is happy with the little he gets. You, on the other hand, are a young lady of refined taste. The joy you will get from the boots will be greater than the joy he will get from the toy.'

  'Yes, that is a good idea,' thought the girl.

  'You will need new school books next year,' whispered the little angel. 'Your allowance will not stretch to the toy-'

  'Think only of how fine you will look in the boots!' hissed the little demon.

  'Yes, and Johnny need not go without,' thought the girl. 'I could get him that little toy soldier there-'

  'Yes, he will be just as happy with that?' murmured Murmur.

  'You know he does not like toy soldiers,' whispered the angel. 'He wants to deliver the fast post on his galloping steed when he grows up, not hurt people.'

  'Oh, what shall I do!' thought the girl, resting her aching head on the cool glass.

  'All little boys want to be soldiers when they grow up!' hissed Murmur. 'Buy the boots! Buy the boots and you will be happy!'

  'No, think of how happy Johnny will be as he gallops along the lanes on his hobbyhorse pretending to be a post rider!' whispered the little angel.

  'Oh woe!' sighed the girl.

  'Yes, buy the boots and be happy!' hissed Murmur.

  'No, please think of Johnny!' cried the little angel.

  'The boots, the boots!' hissed the little demon.

  'Think of Johnny!' begged the little angel.

  'The boots!' hissed the little demon

  The girl suddenly stood up straight. A new look of decision glimmered in her eyes. Both the little demon and the little angel stepped back.

  'I will buy the boots and get the toy soldier for Johnny,' the girl thought firmly.

  'Yes,' murmured Murmur, 'yes. You will be so happy, so fine, when you wear your new boots.'

  'Alas,' sighed the little angel, hanging his angelic head. 'Alas?' And he shed a tear as the girl entered Lovelace and Sons.

  'Tapper-tapper-clop-clip-clop,' went the little demon's cloven hooves as he danced a victory jig on the cobbles, 'tapper-tapper-clop-clip-clop.' And he swirled his cape about himself and chattered like a mad monkey with glee, singing 'Angel bright, angel bright, where is your might? Did it take fright? Did it take fright? Did it fall from a great hight-hight-hight?'

  The little angel just looked out on this rudeness with sad, solemn eyes.

  When the little demon had grown tired of taunting and capering, the little angel floated silently up to him. The soft radiance shining from the angel made Murmur's beady little eyes water and sting, and the scent of violets surrounding the angel made him gag. He felt sick, and the gentle breeze created by the wafting of the little angel's wings made it worse.

  'Argh, you stink!' said Murmur, holding his only-slightly-hooked nose. 'Get away from me!' Truth be told, he was beginning to feel afraid.

  'The angels will triumph over you yet, Murmur,' said the little angel, and his voice was like the call of the cuckoo echoing from deep within the forest, or the blackbird's song drifting across the snow-covered fields on a winter's morning.

  'Hah!' said Murmur, with more confidence than he felt. 'Hah! You angels are such weaklings; good is just another name for weak!'

  But the little angel just smiled, and his smile was like the first golden rays of the morning sun.

  The little demon yelped and put his baby-clawed hand over his eyes to shield them from the painful light.

  The little angel laughed, and his laugh was like the distant ringing of church bells on a snowy, starlit night. 'Your soul will be ours one day.' And with that, he fluttered up into the air and was gone.

  Murmur was determined not to believe this, so he chortled loudly to show his contempt and swaggered off down the street. He had not gone far when he was overtaken by a light, hurrying footstep-swaggering, after all, is not a very fast way of travelling. The little demon looked, and saw that it was the girl who had dithered before the window of Lovelace and Sons.

  She had two brown paper packages tucked under her arm. One was large and oblong, the other small, long and round. As she hurried down the street, young Katie kept her head down and her eyes fixed on the slick cobbles before her feet. But every now and then she cast a darting look above herself. It almost seemed as though she was expecting a thunderbolt to flash forth from the heavens and strike her down.

  Little Murmur chortled loudly to himself. 'Her soul is going to be ours, yes, ours! Mwa-ha-ha!'

  The girl started with such violence that the packages almost fell from her hold. Her frightened eyes darted hither and thither about the cold, damp, dusk-enshrouded street.

  Then she broke into a run.

  The little demon's chuckles grew louder, and he skipped with fiendish glee. 'Evil we are, eeevil!'

  Poor Katie desperately covered one of her fur earmuffs with her free hand and ran as fast as her legs would carry her. She did not look behind herself even once.

  When her rapidly fleeing footsteps had at last faded into the winter darkness, little Murmur rubbed his baby-clawed hands together. 'What shall we do next, eh? What eeevil mischief shall we cause those silly humans next??'

  But Murmur did not have to ponder this vexing problem for long. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of franticly galloping hooves coming clattering along the street. The little demon had only just turned to look when a young demon sprinted into view. His black cape was flying out behind him, his goat-legs were going so fast they were a blur, and his beady red eyes were wild with terror.

  'What's up, Agrat?' called Murmur, recognising one of Beball and Behemoth's classmates.

  But Agrat did not stop, reply or even look. He just sprinted by in a blur of flailing legs and flapping black satin.

  The little demon was slightly puzzled by this strange behaviour, but only slightly. It was not unusual for the demons in the higher classes to ignore baby demons in the lower classes. It did not occur to Murmur that perhaps he ought to be running too.

  So little Murmur swaggered on. But he had not gone far when once again a pair of franticly clattering hooves came sprinting down the street. This time, it was a slightly younger demon. His torn cape was hanging off him by a thread, and his beady little red eyes were fixed in a stare of mad panic. As this demon ran, he darted from side to side like a fleeing rabbit.

  'Hey, Sabnock, what's the hurry?' called Murmur.

  But Sabnock was so panicked that he did not even know where he was. He certainly did not notice some saint-faced runt standing gawping on the pavement.

  Little Murmur became slightly worried. 'Sabnock, what's up there?' he called again.

  At that precise moment, Sabnock collided with a tall, round, iron post-box. The frenetic clattering stopped with an abrupt splat. The fleeing demon bounced off the post-box and landed in a sprawl several metres away. But in a split second Sabnockwas back up on his little hooves and flying down the street. He vanished around the corner before Murmur even had a chance to close his gaping mouth.

  The little demon was really quite worried now. He stopped swaggering and started walking faster. He cast many a nervous backward glance behind himself as he went along. When the sound of fleeing demon hooves reached his only-slightly-pointed ears yet again, Murmur started fidgeting with his tail and almost broke into a trot.

  The young demon that came sprinting down the street this time was Paimonia, the prefect of Hell's Gate School for Demons. But in spite of this, he looked only slightly less panicked than Agrat and Sabnock had been. His cape fle
w out behind him too, and his beady eyes were wide with terror.

  'Why are you running, Paimonia?' cried Murmur.

  'Run!' shouted Paimonia, neither turning his head nor slowing the flailing of his goat-legs. 'Run! It's Saint Kriztofer; run for your evil!'

  'Saint Kriztofer?' shrieked Murmur.

  Then the little demon bolted down the street as fast as his little goat-legs could carry him. He only narrowly avoided splattering himself onto the same post-box that had been Sabnock's undoing, and the dull echo of his speeding cloven hooves leapt about the damp, dark street in duet with Paimonia's heavier clatter. But after only a few moments, Murmur's high, light clatter was the only one filling the street as the older demon turned the corner and vanished into the night. Now all alone with the threat of the impending presence of the dreaded Saint Kriztofer, little Murmur began darting from side to side like a fleeing rabbit.

  'Where to hide, where to hide?' he gibbered breathlessly to himself.

  His mind was completely filled with panic. There was no room for anything else, such as logical thought. So he fled down the street in a blind terror. When he reached the crossroad, first his hooves skidded left, then they skidded right.

  Then he looked back. This was a mistake. Down the very centre of the street strode a tall figure clad in a billowing pale grey cape. In his hand he carried a lantern, and above his head hovered a golden halo. The light shining forth from the lantern pierced through the murky winter darkness, casting a shimmering aura of glowing purple and gold about its bearer.

  Little Murmur shrieked with terror, and the dusky trees above shivered as this demon scream rent the misty air. Then, with a sudden screech of cloven hoof on cobble, the little demon darted forwards.

  'The churchyard,' he gibbered to himself, 'the old churchyard!'

  Through the soothingly black park he sped, zigzagging his way amongst the silent trees. Now and then a drooping, soggy branch slapped against his face. And every time one did, the little demon let out a squeak of fright.

  'The trees are after you, Murmur after you!' he gibbered to himself. 'Saint Kriztofer loves them, and they loves him!'

  The trees suddenly creaked a loud, booming creak. Some might have said it was only the wind passing through the treetops, but Murmur knew better.

  'The trees laugh at you, Murmur, laugh at you!' he gibbered, running faster than ever.

  When he sped into the last and thickest thicket of trees before the old churchyard, the branches, ghostly in the dark shadow of the night, seemed to loom out like arms to bar the little demon's way. He gibbered with terror and franticly tried to thrust the wet, clutching branches aside. The trees took from him his satin cape and his white lace ruff, and tore a good many holes in his little red and black doublet. But at last he emerged from the terrible hall of the trees.

  All was silent in the old churchyard. The scattered bricks were silent. The drunkenly leaning gravestones were silent. The old, rotting trees were silent. And silent were the dead beneath their coverlets of turf. The ruined remains of the old abbey's proud arch reared into the black sky, a haunting relic of a building that once had soared heavenwards bearing the devotions of the faithful to their god. Now, the decrepit abbey's only congregation were mice seeking shelter from the winter, swallows seeking shelter for their nests, and a lazy, fearful little demon seeking shelter from the burden of being evil all the time and from terrifying Saint Kriztofer.

  Little Murmur carefully picked his way through the overgrown graveyard. He had hurt his hoof once already that night, and he did not want to hurt it a second time by treading on a sharp stone. There were many of these lying concealed amongst the long brown grass and tatty weeds. No human foot had trodden in this graveyard for many a long year. The graves stood sadly in the murky darkness, their inscriptions erased by moss and their tombstones smothered by lank vegetation. Like sentries that have grown weary, the stones leaned heavily or lay sleeping among the grass.

  Only one gravestone still kept watch. A marble angel stood resting his noble head on a cross of stone. Although the angel rested his eyes on the letters inscribed upon the cross, little Murmur took care to give him a very wide berth. Demons hate and fear angels above all things-and that is saying a lot, for demons hate many, many things.

  All of the other crosses that once had stood over graves now were toppled and broken, and their power broken with it. Little Murmur stepped carelessly amongst these shattered ruins, but out of the corners of his beady little eyes, he watched the stone angel warily. As though protected by some secret, hidden force, the cross it leaned on still stood tall and proud, and Murmur was afraid of it.

  He was still afraid of Saint Kriztofer too. When he reached the tallest, grandest tomb in the shadowy churchyard, he leapt up onto its top. Carefully he scanned the darkness with his gleaming little red eyes, and carefully he listened to the sounds of the night with his only-slightly-pointed ears. Demons have much sharper sight and hearing than humans, so when nothing but the faint sighing of the wind and the rustle of scurrying mice reached them, he was satisfied that Saint Kriztofer had not followed.

  'Ahh?' he sighed. 'Ahhh yes, Murmur, now you can rest away from those awful humans?' And he began tapping out a little dance on the tomb top. 'Tapper-tapper-tapperty-tap' went his little hooves on the hard stone. 'Tapper-tapper-tapperty-tap.'

  'Dead old mayor, dead old mayor,' he sang, 'look at you now, look at you now! When you were living, everyone bowed, but now that you're dead, demons dance on your grave!'

  Although the ditty did not rhyme at all, Murmur still thought himself very witty. When he had grown tired of this, he skipped down from the mayor's tomb and wondered over to the churchyard's far corner.

  A clutch of squat, shadowy trees huddled in this corner. Their heavy evergreen branches let no sunlight fall to the ground beneath them, their chokingly thick showers of dead needles suffocated any seed unlucky enough to alight there, and their dry, dead twigs reached malevolently for the hair and clothing of anyone foolish enough to pass beneath them, stretching forth groping twiggy fingers towards their eyes. Everyone but Murmur, that is. For some reason, he could loiter unscratched in their dank shades.

  Humming a rude ditty to himself, the little demon picked up one of the many brittle twigs scattered about. With it, he poked about in the leaf mould and whipped the nettles that, alone of all plants, had conquered a patch of earth at the sullen trees' feet.

  Murmur was very familiar with the old churchyard. It was his favourite spot, after all. It was where he loitered when he ought to have been out spreading evil and harassing humans. No one came here, not even demons. But that did not mean that there was no one in the old churchyard.

  With his little stick, Murmur lifted a rotting log lying in the wet grass a little further on from the trees. He chortled gleefully at the sight of the black beetles scurrying unhappily about, suddenly without a home. When all but one especially confused beetle had left in search of new shelter, the little demon grew bored and turned away. He wandered through the dark graveyard swinging his little stick absent-mindedly from side to side at the tall weeds. After only a short while, he grew bored with this too. So he sat down on the old mayor's tomb and stared up at the sky. The fog had cleared, revealing a roof of distantly twinkling stars above.

  Although he would not admit it to anyone, including himself, stargazing was one of Murmur's favourite things to do. Many a lazy night he had whiled away lying flat on his back on the pleasantly cold stone of the lid of the mayor's tomb. He knew the position and name of every star and all the figures of the zodiac, and delighted in following their nightly course. But most of all he liked to count shooting stars. One night he had counted thirty.

  A twinkling star shot across the night sky. Murmur chortled with delight. Then he stopped himself. Demons were not supposed to delight in anything except evil, suffering and destruction.

  'But I wish to be more evil every time I see a shooting star,' Murmur justified himself. 'A
thing wished on a shooting star is bound to come true.'

  Deep down, all he really wished for was to be left in peace to loiter and laze. But this wish was not proper for a demon, so he did not wish it. With a little sigh, Murmur sat up and looked about the dark churchyard.

  A sudden crack echoed across the cold darkness. The little demon jumped clean off his rear. Then he looked fearfully about the shadowy graveyard.

  'Ah, it's you, Jack Frost!' he called, and his voice was still slightly squeaky from fright.

  'Yes, it is I,' responded a high, thin voice from somewhere, Murmur did not know where.

  'Come to nip the night watchman's fingers and whiten the gardens, have you?'

  'Yes, and to breathe silver across the millpond,' came the high, crackly voice, this time from up in the trees on the opposite side of the churchyard.

  'It is cold tonight; you shall have to work hard,' the little demon called in the direction of the trees.

  'Yes, harder than you are.'

  The little demon jumped up with a yelp. 'Get away, you young rascal!' he shouted at Jack Frost, who stood grinning on the tomb lid Murmur had been cooling only moments before. 'It's devilishly rude breathing your icy air into folks' ears!'

  Jack Frost shook out his mop of white, ice crystal-flicked hair and laughed a hollow, ringing laugh. 'Devilishly, eh?' The jaunty youth reached out a long, lean arm and snubbed the little demon's nose with fingers that looked and felt like icicles. 'If you are a devil, and 'devilishly' means in the manner of a devil, I ought to be going around squashing beetles to be deserving of the insult!'

  'Get your icicles off my nose!' yelped Murmur, backing away from Jack Frost's impishly grinning, sharp-nosed face.

  Jack Frost tossed his white mane again, unleashing a coldly glittering shower of ice crystals that floated on the breathlessly still air. 'Or what? You'll come and melt me down to a puddle with a red-hot pitchfork?' The icy-white youth threw back his head and laughed.

  Silently and with his tail twitching, the little demon glared back at the tall, lean figure of ice. He had nothing else to say. Because the truth was that he had been thinking it was about time he did something a bit evil to end the night on a high note. Something evil like lifting a rotting log up and squashing the beetles living under it.

  With his wild hair already thick with a fresh new dusting of silver ice crystals, Jack Frost sprung down from the old mayor's tomb. Little Murmur winced in readiness for another pinch to his only-slightly-hooked nose. But the frosty nip did not come. Jack Frost was already leaping about the churchyard scattering glittering ice and breathing silver-white frost over the leaning stones.

  Little Murmur sat back down with a 'harrumph,' his tail twitching and flicking with annoyance. Pretending to be above petty bickering, he turned his only-slightly-hooked nose up and drummed his baby-clawed fingers on the stone.

  Laughing gleefully, Jack Frost leapt down from the topmost branches of the sullenly huddled evergreens and alighted beside the stone angel leaning against the crucifix headstone. With one long breath, the icy-silver youth covered both angel and cross in a mantle of pure, glistening white frost. Then he tossed back his ice-glimmering head and laughed his bright, piercing laugh one last time before leaping off into the trees of the neighbouring park.

  The little demon's tail twitched and jumped like a poked snake. That boy really ought to be put in his place. It was demons, not elemental sprites, who ruled the darkness.

  'Yes, I'll get him,' muttered Murmur. 'I'll get the horrid rascal,' he hissed to himself, and the drumming of his little claws grew louder.

  But mere drumming did not suffice in the aftermath of such impish impudence. Murmur seized the dead twig resting nearby and leapt up. Muttering black curses against frost sprites beneath his steaming breath, the little demon jumped up onto a fallen column. From there he sprang across to a stone-lidded tomb.

  But the icy breath of Jack Frost had rendered it treacherously slick, and the moment Murmur's little cloven hooves touched down he began to skid. Before he was even halfway through a vile curse on the frosty rascal, the little demon was lying face down in a patch of frost-encrusted stinging nettles.

  'Wretched golden, sweet-faced, saintly little-little,' muttered the little demon savagely, getting to his hooves. 'Little-little ratty imp-thing!'

  Then he gave up trying to curse Jack Frost. He simply couldn't think of any curses that seemed bad enough.

  As he hopped gingerly from bare patch to bare patch among the stinging nettles, the little demon wished he had not spent the 'curses' class dozing in the back row.

  'Yes, should've listened,' he muttered, readying himself for a big leap over the last patch of nettles barring his way. 'Should've listened?'

  He cleared the clump with only one more sting to his tail. But when face, hands and tail have already received a dozen stings, one more is too many more. The little demon's tail began whipping and twitching. With the stick he had remained clutching throughout this ordeal, Murmur started whipping the weeds and plants growing in this corner of the churchyard.

  Although this was a rich-earthed corner, only a few plants were bold enough to brave the winter cold, and what ones were brave enough fell easily before little Murmur's twirling stick. When he had wrought his little trail of destruction all the way up to the feet of the tall oak tree standing sentry-like at the churchyard's boundary, the little demon grew tired of his annoyance. After all, petty evil is a rather boring business.

  After breaking his stick by smacking the trunk of the kingly oak, Murmur wondered back over to the old mayor's tombstone and sat back down. He scanned about for saints and elemental spirits and then went back to stargazing.

  The stars glittered and sparkled in the cold clearness above. It was a good night for seeing shooting stars, so little Murmur looked hard with his beady red eyes. A sudden trail of shining white light streaked across the sky. Mortal eyes would not have seen it, but demon eyes are sharper.

  'I wish to be as evil as Behemoth and Beball!' squeaked a delighted Murmur. 'Yes, as evil as they-'

  But an angry little voice suddenly interrupted him. 'Look what you have done to my flowers!'

  The little demon snapped his small, beady eyes left and he snapped them right, but there was no one to be seen. Scolding himself for a fool, Murmur was just about to go back to his stargazing when the voice piped up again.

  'Have you got any idea how much trouble it takes me to get these flowers to bloom at midwinter?' cried the high, reedy little voice. 'These flowers take a great deal of petting and coaxing before they'll get up out of the earth, let me tell you!'

  Realising at last that the voice was coming from down low, Murmur finally turned his beady red eyes down. And there, standing before Murmur with his hands on his hips, was a little fellow not more than a half-foot high. He was dressed in a tunic and breeches of dark green leaves sewn together with the neatest little stitches, and a hat made of speckled pink flower petals. He wore an angry frown on his face, and in his tiny hand he clutched a ragged, bruised and broken flower hanging forlornly off a shredded stem by a mere thread.

  'Just look at the mess you made of my beautiful flowers!' demanded the little man, furiously shaking the poor broken flower at the demon.

  An angry fairy. The little demon let out a 'harrumph' of annoyance. It really was turning into a rather difficult night.

  'Well, what have you got to say for yourself, boy?' the little voice squeaked shrilly.

  'Us demons have got more important things to be doing than crawling around trying to avoid treading on every weed-flower,' little Murmur replied as carelessly as he could, and swung his cloven-hoofed feet back and forth in an effort to demonstrate just how cold-bloodedly callous he was.

  'Weed-flower?' shrieked the livid fairy, and whipped Murmur's foot with the broken flower. 'You dare to call my Christmas roses weed-flowers?'

  'Oi, watch yourself, pixie!' growled the little demon, fixing his best threatening gla
re on the fairy. 'We demons don't care if we break things beneath our hooves.'

  'You didn't tread on my Christmas roses, you hit them with your horrible great stick!'

  The little demon swung his cloven hooves harder. 'Breaking things is what we demons are all about, yes sir!'

  'But what about my poor, injured flowers? I worked all year to get them flowers up!' And the little fairy let out a sob.

  Seeing the poor fellow standing so despondently with his wilting, broken flower made Murmur feel a few pangs of guilt, even though he tried hard not to. 'Well, I warrant that there's nothing worse than wasting a great deal of energy for nothing. Ahem-' He looked around to see that no one else was about. 'Next time I'll give your flowers under the old oak tree a wide berth.'

  The little flower fairy's face lit up with relief. 'That is mighty good of you, young Murmur. If ever you are passing by on a Sunday, do please come in and see me at my home in the roots of the old oak for an acorn cup of nectar!'

  The little demon did not like the sound of drinking as vile a thing as nectar, and very much suspected he would not fit into the fairy-fellow's tree root home, but he nodded anyway. 'Oh thank you, friend.'

  'It is me who must thank you for your promise!' cried the little fairy, and then he spread his gauzy wings and was gone.

  The little demon stared down at his cloven hooves in silence for a good while after that. He had just done a kind thing. No one must ever know about it, least of all his father. How angry father would be if he ever found out. Little Murmur's hairy hocks began to knock together at the mere thought of it. If only he had gone home after that triumph outside Lovelace and Sons!

  'Always quit while you are ahead, Murmur, always,' muttered the little demon to himself, and he kicked his hooves against the tombstone. 'Curse the honey-faced Jack Frost!'

  Having Jack Frost to blame some of the disaster on gave the little demon some comfort, but the weight of this terrible failure still rested heavily on him. Seeing that a faint flush of light was brightening the eastern sky, Murmur decided to call it a night.

  With his head hanging and his little pitchfork dragged bumperty-bump behind him, the young demon despondently made his way homeward.