The Little Demon Who Couldn't

A faint pink glow on the eastern sky heralded the dawn as the little demon trotted along wearily. He picked his way between the fallen stones littering the churchyard, dusting himself down as he went.

  The white dust that had covered the conjurer's boulders now covered Murmur. In all his three hundred years he had never done such a hard night's work. His hands were bruised and bleeding, and for once he was glad not to have long talons.

  Gribon had broken every one of his talons moving the rocks, and made well sure the fact did not go unnoticed by Murmur. The little demon's only-slightly-pointy ears almost ached from the stream of complaints, howls, hisses and shrieks Gribon had seen fit to unleash upon his partner in conjuring. If the fair one had steamed and smoked anymore, little Murmur would have been in danger of conceding with the angels in that hardship ought to be borne with fortitude and acceptance, and without blaming everyone but oneself. And having Gribon land right on top of him when they finally arrived back had been the last straw. Being forced to look at him was bad enough. Murmur almost felt dirty from having come into unwelcome contact so often with Gribon.

  The little demon had never been gladder to see the tumbledown wall ahead of him. Very soon he would be safely home. He let out a sigh of relief.

  'Horrid humans,' he muttered to himself. 'Nasssty creatures?so ungrateful, they are?'

  Then suddenly he stopped. A strange noise had sounded from somewhere, he did not know where. Holding his breath, he listened. And there it was again. A cry, faint and muffled.

  Parting the hazel and leafless dogroses growing beside the path, he pushed through and made for the place the cry seemed to have sounded from. A faint light glowed through the thicket, and a sweet scent hung in the still, cold dawn air.

  As Murmur came nearer to the light, the smell grew stronger. It was a scent akin to that of wild roses, but the demon knew it could not come from any flower. Held in winter's cold grip, all of the flowers now dwelt within the earth as mere promises of life and beauty to come.

  Passing between a final thicket, the little demon now could see the glow emerging from the ground. The old well. He knew the place better than he would have liked. One summer night last decade he had inadvertently stumbled upon it, and thanks to a concealing shawl of morning glory, had almost plunged down it.

  The reek of roses was now so strong that the little demon almost retched. Demons detest the scent of flowers, for it fills them with revulsion. Putting his baby-clawed fingers over his barely-hooked nose, he cautiously sidled closer. The glowing light made Murmur's beady little eyes water and sting, but although he winced, he kept advancing slowly.

  When he got near enough, he peered fearfully down the brightly shining well. An angel looked back at Murmur. His eyes were radiant orbs of brilliant sapphire blue, with depths that seemed as though they reached far back into infinity and touched the very first ray of light at the dawn of Creation. And with his onwards gaze, it seemed as though he saw through Time itself, right to the end of earthly days. The face the angel turned upwards was as the bright rising harvest moon that rests above golden cornfields, and the translucent pink flush glowing upon it the first light of dawn. The angel's countenance possessed a beauty beyond any human face, and greater even than any ever created by the painter or sculptor's hand.

  It was a face little Murmur recognised. He was the angel who had fallen through the mist. Rather than being folded as they ought to have been, his wings were hanging and painfully twisted.

  'Oh Murmur, help me!' cried the angel, in a voice that was pure, heavenly music.

  Staring down with eyes that were wide with fear and surprise, the little demon shuffled to the well's edge. 'Why should I?' he growled, trying his best to look callous.

  'I have fallen and my wings are broken,' replied the angel. 'Help me, please!'

  Murmur sniffed loudly, and tried not to look afraid. 'Serves you right for tangling with a demon. When will you angels and saints learn; it is us demons who rule the darkness!'

  'Just bring me a tear from the eye of the fair Sophia, and I may be healed!' cried the angel.

  The demon sniffed again. He knew he should not be talking thus with an angel, but he was a curious imp. 'Who's the fair Sophia?' he asked, forgetting altogether to sound rough and cutting.

  'She is a wise and virtuous maiden whose soul is stainless and heart brimming with love. There is no pain she can witness without feeling as keenly as if it were being inflicted upon her own person.'

  'Never heard of her,' said Murmur, as though that meant she was of no importance.

  'There is many a thing in Heaven, Hell and Earth you have not heard of, Murmur.'

  The little demon's hooves clattered and slithered as belated surprise struck him. 'How do you know my name?' he screeched.

  'Oh Murmur, we angels know many, many things.'

  'I don't like you; I'm not talking with you anymore!' squeaked the demon. 'I'm going away!'

  And with that, he turned on his heels and galloped for home as fast as his hairy little goat-legs would carry him.