The Lower Strangling Chronicles
The time of year had come once more for Lower Strangling’s popular and much-loved village fete.
Every July, various local businesses- except Londinium-based technology company Banana, which had a stall at the fete because one of their designers, Dave Peterson, lived in the village- and entertainers gathered on the village green to greet thousands upon thousands of visitors.
The main attraction this year was a Punch and Judy show, which went ahead despite a lengthy debate at the most recent Parish Council meeting about the ethics of staging a puppet show that makes light of domestic violence in 2026.
Nevertheless, the various children and adults sitting on haybales in front of a small red and white striped tent laughed their heads off as the grotesque Mr Punch hit several people, including his wife and child, over the head with a baseball bat.
Simon Abernathy, Lower Strangling parish priest and the chairman of the Parish Council, grimaced at Mr Punch’s misdemeanours.
“Perhaps I should have invited the Glevumshire Cathedral Choir to perform a few hymns instead,” he said, recoiling each time the hook-nosed psycho gave the people and animals around him a battering. “Professor Stewart’s connection to Thelema should have warned me against it.”
“It’s not all bad,” Dave said, shrugging and sipping on his Throckmorton Ale. “At least Mr Punch is giving the Devil his just desserts, which almost makes up for him thrashing his family.”
Simon narrowed his eyes. “Yes. I’m surprised Professor Stewart has kept that part in, considering his religious leanings.”
The play ended, and the audience burst into rapturous applause as local puppeteer Professor Stewart emerged from the tent and bowed with his puppets.
“Elle seems to have enjoyed it,” John, the publican of Lower Strangling’s pub, the Hangman’s Noose, said, observing Dave’s daughter almost falling off her haybale with delight. “Which is interesting, considering she’s a staunch feminist.”
“Yeah, but she likes to enjoy herself too,” Dave said, sipping some more of his beer. “Same with my wife.”
Sitting next to Eleanor, her mother, a columnist for the Cerberus newspaper, giggled uncontrollably as she hugged her daughter.
The applause died down, and it was time for Professor Stewart, so called because that was the stage name he chose for himself, rather than because he gained a PhD and rose through the ranks of a prestigious university, to pick a member of the audience to grant a wish.
“Now then, who would like their wish to come true?” the puppeteer said, running his finger along the rows of people shooting their hands in the air.
Simon frowned as he watched the scene. “There’s something about Professor Stewart that’s ringing alarm bells in my ears. A large red flag, and the kids like to say these days.”
“Go and have a drink, Si,” John said, gesturing towards the drinks stalls. “You’re worrying too much.”
“Yeah, stop judging people on their religious beliefs,” Dave said. “You hate it when people do that to us, after all.”
Simon simpered at the large bottle of gin glistening in the Sunday afternoon sun.
He closed his eyes and took deep breaths.
“You’ll forgive me for giving in to the temptation of just a small glass of gin and tonic, won’t you?” Simon said, gazing up at the sky above him.
He bid Dave and John goodbye and jogged over to the drinks stall, rubbing his hands.
“That should loosen him up a bit,” John said.
“Yeah, hopefully,” Dave said, gawping at the vicar.
Professor Stewart’s spindly finger finally landed on a member of the audience, Eleanor Peterson.
“I think I will go with you!” The puppeteer said, jabbing a bony phalanx in the air.
Sarah cheered and squeezed her daughter’s shoulders.
“What will be your wish, young lady?” Professor Stewart said, leaning uncomfortably close to Eleanor.
“Um,” Eleanor said, leaning back and gazing at the sky.
“I’ll give you an hour to decide,” the puppeteer said, bounding back towards the tent. “Come back here when you have an idea.”
Eleanor gazed at her feet as Professor Stewart disappeared underneath his diminutive tarpaulin canopy.
“Ooh, Eleanor, how exciting!” Sarah said, rubbing Eleanor’s back.
Eleanor gazed into her mother’s eyes. “What should I wish for? Something that will benefit me or humanity?”
Sarah and Eleanor rose from their hay bale and wandered towards the market stalls.
“How about you mull it over whilst we have a hot dog,†Sarah said, placing an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders.
Eleanor nodded her head, and gazed at the grass beneath her feet as she queued for a hot dog.
Safely underneath his minuscule tent, Professor Stewart retrieved his briefcase and opened it, bringing out a dusty tome.
He blew the dust off it, revealing the book to be a grimoire.
It was the most evil folio in the world, which someone should have destroyed centuries ago, but instead, Professor Stewart bought it in an Occult shop and has kept it ever since.
The puppeteer flicked through the pages to find the spell he needed to grant Eleanor’s wish, whatever it was.
At last, a bony finger landed on the spell he was searching for; a spell that would allow him to make one wish come true using only a jet black candle.
A crooked smile wrapped around the bottom of his chin, which Simon managed to swiftly swipe off by intruding on the tent.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Simon said, scanning the tent for anything untoward.
Professor Stewart jumped and shot around.
“Get out of here,” the puppeteer said, rising about as far as he could go before he reached the top of the tent. “Only I am allowed in here.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” Simon said, smiling as warmly as he could. “Unfortunately, we’ve had a lot more entrants to the vegetable competition than we were expecting, so we’re going to start the judging now and cancel your performances for the rest of the day.”
Professor Stewart took a few steps back, tripping over his briefcase.
He stared at Simon with wide eyes as he got back on his feet. “You can’t do that. You have me booked for the whole day.”
Simon smiled warmly at the man before him. “I know, and I will ensure you still receive the fee we’ve agreed on, but as the organiser of this fete, I’m afraid I can cancel events at short notice.”
The puppeteer’s eyes twitched as he locked eyes with Simon’s dog collar.
“This is about my religious beliefs, isn’t it?” Professor Stewart said, sneering at Simon. “You’re discriminating against my faith.”
Simon laughed and bowed his head. “This has nothing at all to do with your personal theology. It is simply a reaction to unforeseen circumstances.”
Professor Stewart scowled at the vicar. “Fine, I’ll pack up right away. But allow me to grant that young woman’s wish before I go.”
Simon flashed a small grin. “Very well, since you’ve made a promise, I will allow you to keep it. But then you’ll have to leave.”
The vicar turned on his heels and glided out of the tent.
Professor Stewart poked his head out of the tent. “A lot of kids will be disappointed; I hope you know that.”
“Don’t blame me,” Simon said, glancing at the tent as he sauntered on towards the food kiosk. “Blame the various people who have entered their produce into the competition.”
Professor Stewart scowled and began to pack his puppets away.
The only things he left out were his grimoire and the implements he needed to make Eleanor’s wish a reality.
“You don’t honestly believe that guy is going to make your wish come true, do you, Elle?” Dave said, munching on a sumptuous hot dog. “I thought you were more intelligent than that.”
Eleanor gazed up at the clouds, squinting in the bright sunlight. “I don’t know; there’s something about him that makes me think he’s capable of things beyond our imagination.”
Will, Eleanor’s brother, gazed at his sister with a wrinkled brow, biting his lip.
“Didn’t Simon say he was a Satanist?” Will said, tapping his feet on the ground. “What if it’s a trick, and he’s going to use black magic to curse Eleanor?”
“Yeah,” Dave said, nodding. “You didn’t think of that now did you, Elle?”
Sarah rubbed her daughter’s back.
“He’s not a Satanist,” Sarah said, frowning at the men in her family. “He’s a devout follower of an esoteric religion; some of its followers also happen to follow Satanism.”
“So he could be a Satanist,” Will said, sipping on his Throckmorton Ale. “Either way, I don’t trust him.”
“Yeah, best not to risk it,” Dave said. “Whatever wish you have, you can always pray about it.”
Eleanor frowned at her dad. “God tends to have a delayed response time.”
“Only if the prayer doesn’t need answering urgently,” Dave said, chomping on his sausage. “You may get it answered now if he thinks it’s worth it.”
Eleanor laid her head in her arms and groaned.
As Sarah tried to console her, Simon marched over to the group, beaming from ear to ear.
“Excellent news, everyone,” Simon said. “I have managed to banish the puppeteer from our fete to make way for something more palatable.”
“Didn’t see you as a namby pamby, Rev,” Liam Davies, Dave’s colleague from Banana, said as he leaned over his stall selling expensive electronic devices. “Everyone knows Punch and Judy’s just a bit of fun, innit?”
Simon turned round to face Liam and gritted his teeth. “Now that I’ve refreshed my memory of the play, having not watched a Punch and Judy show in many years, I have realised that the Parish Council may have had a point.”
“Don’t give in to the woke mobsters in the Parish Council, vicar,” Liam said, swatting the air. “They wanna suck the joy out of life, don’t they? So we’ve gotta fight back against them, you get me?”
Simon crossed his arms and turned away from Liam. “I highly doubt it is the place of visitors from Londinium to have an opinion on local Glevumshire matters.”
“Whatever, Rev,” Liam said, shaking his head as he sorted some boxes beneath his table. “Just thought I’d give you my two cents.”
Robert Sherman, Lower Strangling’s resident brewer, leaned close to the vicar.
“I hope this is unrelated to his connections with Thelema,” Robert said, glaring at the vicar. “Because it is illegal to discriminate against someone due to their religious beliefs under section 10 of the Equality Act of 2010.”
Simon patted Robert’s back. “I am fully aware of what the law decrees. You have nothing to fear; Professor Stewart’s sudden dismissal is all above board.”
Eleanor perked her head up and gazed at Simon. “Is Professor Stewart still going to grant my wish?”
“Yes, of course he will,” Simon said. “He will leave only after he has completed all his expected duties here.”
“Well, you better come up with a wish, Elle,” Dave said, finishing the dregs of his beer. “The clock’s ticking.”
Eleanor checked her watch; the hour was almost up.
She smiled at her mum. “I know what I want to ask for.”
“Great,” Sarah said. “Let’s get it granted, shall we?”
Eleanor leapt from the picnic table and skipped over to the Punch and Judy tent.
Sarah strode after her.
“Bloody hell,” Dave said, watching the women in his life wander off. “It’s like she’s ten years old again.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “I have a bad feeling about it, though, like it’s some trap.”
He leaned back and silently watched the puppeteer make his sister’s wish come true.
“Ah, young lady,” Professor Stewart said, grinning at Eleanor and rubbing his hands with glee. “What is your wish?”
Eleanor smiled at her mum. “That our Onions will place well in the vegetable competition.”
The audience that had gathered to see the spectacle ‘aww’ed.
Professor Stewart cackled. “Your wish is my command. It should be fairly simple to do.”
He placed his jet-black candle on a tabletop and etched Eleanor’s wish onto it with a pin.
Simon observed it with gritted teeth. “Excellent, we are witnessing a Satanist practising black magic before our very eyes, in a churchyard!”
“Whatever happened to respecting people of other faiths?” John said, glaring at Simon.
“Indeed,” Paul Stiller, Lower Strangling’s affable Wine Merchant, said whilst swirling his Merlot. “Religious co-operation has always been one of your passion projects.”
“Not when the religion revolves around worshipping the very enemy of ours!” Simon said. “His faith is the complete antithesis of ours!”
“Keep your voice down,” John said. “We should at least pretend to be supportive.”
Professor Stewart scribbled Eleanor’s prayer onto a sheet of paper, folded it, and placed it under the candle.
“The fact that someone has to put this much effort into what is effectively a prayer request exposes one of the many flaws in the Satanic religion and proves that our God is the more powerful of the two!” Simon said.
“What did I say?” John said, crossing his arms.
Simon drew inward and stared at his feet.
“By flame so bright, I send this plea; let it return fulfilled to me,” Professor Stewart said, lighting the candle.
Eleanor bounced as she observed the flame and smiled at her mum.
Simon cringed. “He’s praying to Satan,” he said under his breath. “A man is praying to Satan on sacred ground, and here we all are gawping at it.”
In a huff, he turned on his hells and stormed off.
“No, that’s just about as much as I can take,” he said.
John couldn’t help but emit a small snigger at the sight of his vicar having a hissy fit.
The Punch and Judy man lit the candle, and Eleanor bent down and stared deeping into the dancing light.
A few minutes passed, but the fire so transfixed Eleanor that she lost all track of time.
Only Professor Stewart snuffing out the candle brought her back into reality.
“Right, your Onions should fare very well in the vegetable competition,” he said, smiling and nodding his head. “I can assure you.”
Eleanor and Sarah grinned at each other.
With Eleanor’s wish granted, the crowds began to dissipate as Professor Stewart packed up and got ready to go home.
Every so often, he glanced at the crowd and cackled to himself.
“I don’t see why Simon had to make him leave,” Eleanor said. “He seems like a nice man.”
Sarah placed a hand on Eleanor’s back. “It just goes to show that you shouldn’t judge anyone harshly, even if they follow a seemingly unsavoury religion.”
A blood-curdling scream filled the village fete, catching everyone by surprise.
“The vegetables!” Jo Whitely, Lower Strangling’s horticultural polymath, said as she ran towards Simon, flailing her arms in the air. “The vegetables have gone mouldy!”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “How on earth did that happen? I thought they were in the best possible condition when I last checked on them.”
“I don’t know,” Jo said, shaking all over. “They’ve all turned to mush just now, and have disease and maggots wriggling all over them.”
“Ah,” Simon said, frowning at his shoes.
He turned round to the crowds and clapped his hands.
“Everyone, your attention please!” He said, clasping his hands.
The crowds turned to face him, and he sighed.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, I’m afraid we’ve had to cancel the vegetable competition,” Simon said, lowering his head.
The crowds gasped and broke into unintelligible babbling.
“First Punch and Judy, and now this,” Liam Davies said, as Dave leant on the Banana stall. “I didn’t know that Priest of yours was an undercover member of the Fun Police.”
“Yeah,” Dave said, sighing. “Some village fete this turned out to be.”
Eleanor gazed up at her mum. “But we were supposed to win the competition, Professor Stewart promised.”
Sarah brought her into a tight embrace. “I know, darling, I know. But sometimes things don’t go our way.”
She kissed Eleanor on the head, as thunder cackled overhead, and a dark shadow fell on Lower Strangling.
“Oh, what is it now!” Simon said, scowling at the grey clouds closing in overhead.
With a flash of lightning and a torrential downpour, everyone on the ground was soaked.
“It would have been nice if God had waited for the fête to be over before unleashing a biblical storm,” Dave said, frowning at the rainwater refilling his glass.
“Right, everyone, into the pub, quickly, now!” Simon said, running towards the Hangman’s Noose.
A lightning bolt lit one of the stalls on fire, making the crowd squeeze into the warm pub once John had opened the door having faffed around with the keys for a few moments.
Somewhere outside the village, Professor Stewart zoomed down a country lane in his black Bentley.
His wild eyes stared at the rain drops falling on the windscreen before being wiped off by the wiper blades.
He broke into an uncontrollable fit of megalomaniac laughter.
Needless to say, he had the last laugh.
The Robinsonverse 