Stargazy Pie

With rumblings of war rolling along the coastline, the knock startled Cecil. His grip tightened on the pewter plates as a sense of foreboding took hold. Opening the door revealed a handsome stranger, with refined features as if carved from marble. He had jet black hair and eyes that glinted like cold steel. 

“Good evening, and happy Christmas” said the stranger in a rich baritone. “My apologies for the intrusion, but it seems my carriage has lost a wheel just up the road. Might I trouble you for some shelter from the cold while my man fetches assistance?” 

Cecil hesitated, he had been expecting his brother-in-law. He was struck dumb. Before he could collect his wits, his wife appeared behind him. 

“Meryasek?” She asked. Seeing the stranger standing in the door, she apologized. “Sorry, I thought you were me brother.”

“His carriage threw a wheel.” Cecil said.

“Of course, please come in,” Sharon said, nudging her husband aside and opening the door wider.

The stranger rubbed down his arms as if to shift rain from his finely tailored long coat. 

Though wary, Cecil relented under his wife’s insistence. As the stranger stepped inside, removing his leather gloves, Cecil couldn’t shake the feeling of darkness lurking beneath the polished, genteel surface. He led the man toward the sitting room as Sharon fetched some tea, hoping his instinct was wrong.

The man shrugged off his jacket, folded it neatly and put his Homburg on top. 

“I’m Cecil, by the way,” he added politely. “And you are?”

“Moloch, Abraham Moloch,” said the stranger with a thin smile as he took a seat by the fire. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“What brings you to this part of the coast?” Cecil asked.

Sharon returned with a tea tray, casting a reproachful look at Cecil for not taking the stranger’s bag, or hanging his hat. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable Mr. Moloch,” she said warmly, handing him a cup.

Just then, their two children peeked into the room, eyes widening at the unfamiliar guest. They had heard rumors of German soldiers landing along the coast and were wary.

“The tall one is Felix, the runt is Jasper,” Sharon said. She busied herself pouring tea.

Checking his sack coat Mr Moloch’s face soured. “I seem to be out of cinder toffees, bad luck. Perhaps next time.” He then opened his bag and pulled out a few colourful Christmas crackers. The children’s caution vanished at the sight. “For your little ones,” Mr. Moloch said with a genteel nod, handing the crackers to Sharon. She gave them to the delighted children. 

The stranger made a show of patting his pockets. “My apologies, I seem to have left my coin purse on my carriage.” He turned to Cecil. “Please, take this as a token for your hospitality,” he said, offering a large golden ring set with a glittering red gemstone.

Cecil politely declined. “That won’t be necessary, really. We’re happy to help.”

Mr. Moloch insisted, but Cecil refused once more. Finally, Mr. Moloch returned the ring to his pocket, a flicker of irritation passing over his features before the charming smile reappeared.

In her lilting accent, Sharon offered to share their dinner. “There’s plenty of stargazy pie and stewed greens to go around, ‘tis no trouble!”

Mr. Moloch accepted graciously. “You are too kind. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m on my way to London, to view a portrait. Please let me contribute, it’s not a bother.”

Moloch’s voice rumbled like distant artillery; Cecil imagined the windows rattling. 

“Oh nonsense, travelers are welcome. It wouldn’t be Christian of us to turf you out.” Sharon said, then turned sharply to the children. “And don’t you dare be popping them crackers till supper!”

She instructed Cecil to fetch an extra place setting and yelled to the kitchen for one of the children to bring the stool so Mr Moloch had a place to sit. Leaving to finish the cooking preparations, she tossed a meaningful glance at her husband.

With Sharon gone, Mr. Moloch again offered Cecil the ring. “Please, I must insist. Consider it thanks for your hospitality.”

This time, with no one else present, Cecil accepted it, sliding the ring onto his finger. The red gem glinted in the firelight.

Mr. Moloch smiled, leaning back with a smirk.

Cecil studied the ring on his hand. It looked expensive. How would he explain this extravagant gift to Sharon? She had refused it just minutes ago. Perhaps he could trade it in the village without her ever knowing—he quickly took it off and put it in his pocket.

The family sat down to dinner, with the older boy pushing the stool into Jasper’s spot. The smell of fresh bread and fish followed Sharon.

Jasper’s knees poked up too high, so he stretched his legs out to the sides.

“Don’t be rockin Jasp, we’ve got company.” Sharon put her hand on Japer’s leg to hold him still. Jasper moved the wiggles up to his shoulders in defiance. 

“We’ve got plenty o’ food, I’m afraid we’ve mashed together our ‘olidays on account o’ me brother comin’ ‘ome from the war. ‘E should be along any time now.”

Cecil whistled. “Don’t mind my wife, she’s Cornish, and a wee bit potty.”

Sharon playfully smacked Cecil’s shoulder. 

“You familiar with the story of Tom Bawcock? It’s Meryasek’s favorite ‘oliday, so we didn’t want ’im to miss out. Would ya like me to recount the tale?”

Cecil feigned disinterest, having heard it many times before. “It’s just a fish tale.”

“I’d love to hear it.” Mr Moloch’s eyes opened wide. “Dinner and a show, you are too kind.”

Clearing her throat, Sharon launched into song:

A merry plaas you may believe Woz Mousehol pon Tom Bawcock’s Eve. To be theer then oo wudn wish To sup o seven soorts o fish!

Cecil interjected, “Could you at least sing in plain English, dear?”

“I woz!” Sharon replied indignantly, then laughed at her flustered husband. The children joined in teasing Cecil as she continued:

When murgy broth had cleared the path Comed lances for a fry. And then us had a bit o’ scad And starry gazey pie.

Mr. Moloch applauded enthusiastically, rising to his feet. “Marvelous! You have a true gift, my dear. Thank you for sharing such a delightful folk tale.”

Sharon beamed, giving a slight curtsy before urging everyone to tuck into the feast before them.

The children reached for the Christmas crackers, Mr. Moloch raised a hand.

“Please, allow me to share a tradition from my home—are you familiar with Snap-dragon?”

Cecil perked up, recalling playing it as a boy, burning his mouth in the process. He nodded with a grin.

From his bag, Mr. Moloch produced a tin of dried fruits and almonds and a bottle of brandy. Using the lid of the tin as a dish he tapped out a few pieces of fruit and doused them with the brandy. He lit the fruit with a match, they ignited in blue fire. Plucking a piece of dried apple up, he popped it into his mouth, then blew out a small blue flame. The children watched, enthralled.

When Felix reached out, Mr. Moloch pulled the tin away. “There is a rule to this game—a way to show what you are most thankful for.” He turned to Cecil meaningfully.

“In this dance with fire and shadow, reveal the ember burning deepest within. Speak not of fleeting joy but lay bare the pulsating rhythm that makes you feel alive. For in the flicker of this flame, you offer the essence binding you to existence, the marrow of your being. Choose wisely, for what you express in this dance may echo beyond the crackling fire.”

Cecil tensed, unsettled by the speech. He started to object, but Sharon and the children insisted on playing. Reluctantly, Cecil nodded, hoping it was merely an odd tradition and nothing more.

Jasper went first, popping a flaming fig into his mouth and blowing out a wisp of blue flame. “My fossil collection!” he declared proudly.

Felix blew a slightly larger plume. “My brother Jasper!” 

Jasper took a moment to decide if that was an insult, and chose to accept it as so with a broad, crooked smile.

Sharon selected a piece of dried plum, popped it in her mouth and blew a modest burst of blue. “My singing voice, of course!” She put her hand to her mouth. “Blooming hot.”

Cecil blew a flame and said, “Maintaining our Thankful Village—with all returned so far from the war.”

Mr. Moloch inhaled deeply, then exhaled an enormous writhing blue jet. “Nothing,” he uttered in his deep bass.

They pulled their Christmas crackers. With a festive popping a scattering of paper crowns and trinkets spread across the table.

But then Cecil noticed Jasper was gone. On the empty place where Jasper had sat, was a letter stating Meryasek had died in the trenches in Le Cateau. Somberly, they had set the extra place for the missing brother, the first casualty of war come to their village.

Cecil looked around, confused. Hadn’t someone been sitting across from him just a moment ago? He felt bad for his wife, she’d been so upset. It was nice, however, to have a house guest.

He also wondered why Felix was using the kitchen stool and not the chair set for his brother-in-law’s spirit. But glancing at Mr. Moloch’s smiling face, the questions slipped from Cecil’s mind.

Sharon offered to sing Tom Bawcock’s tale in her gravelly voice. Mr. Moloch was eager to hear it. She began:

“A merry plaas you may believe woz Mowsel pon Tom Bawcock’s Eve...”

Cecil quickly stopped her, feeling something was amiss. Her voice wasn’t her best trait. “It’s a Cornish tradition, about a fisherman during a time of famine, who bravely set out in a storm to feed the town where Sharon came up.” 

Mr. Moloch proposed a round of Snap-dragon, calling it a “beloved pagan tradition where you express gratitude”.

Wary but enticed, Cecil agreed to play, as did an enthusiastic Felix and Sharon.

Mr. Moloch turned to Cecil. “As the flames dance, whisper the heartbeat of your existence. Share not what you cherish, but the core defining your breath. What in your soul would you sacrifice to the hungry fire?”

Felix blew a blue jet. “My boxing gloves!” Sharon smiled proudly at her son’s first true passion.

She blew her flame. “My son Felix!” 

Felix beamed.

Cecil contemplated a moment before blowing his fiery breath. “The proud, strong Royal Navy keeping invaders at bay.”

As the crackers popped, Sharon let out a wail. “Felix was gone.” Sobbing, she explained her boy was killed in the German shelling of the coast. “He was so fond of ‘untin’ fossils after boxin’ in Whitby.” 

“My apologies for her, it’s been a trying time.” Cecil said. “She’d lost her voice from ceaseless weeping over the past fortnight.”

Mr. Moloch looked pained. “My sincerest regrets at your loss.” 

They sat in silence for a few moments so Sharon could collect herself. 

“Perhaps a round of Snap-dragon to lift spirits?” Mr Moloch suggested. “My family tradition is to share what we are most thankful for.”

He turned to Cecil. “You know the rules. Speak the fire within, the pulse of your sacrifice. What do you cherish most?”

Sharon blew a wisp of blue. “My lovely home.”

Cecil contemplated before breathing his flame. “My beautiful wife.”

Mr. Moloch rumbled “Nothing,” his jet dwarfing theirs.

The crackers popped like artillery fire as Cecil transitioned to sitting with Mr. Moloch in a seaside shack. Cecil drank heavily from the offered brandy, lamenting his wife, his children, his home, his brother. He stared at the letter telling of his brother-in-law’s death.

Cecil’s memories slipped away like vapor. He regretted not living the life he wanted, blaming the demon drink that stole his wife, kids, and chance to take his place in battle.

Mr. Moloch offered dried fruit and a game of Snap-dragon to lift his spirits. “Sacrifice the spark keeping your flame alive, fueling your dance in shadows,” he instructed.

Cecil blew a wisp of blue. “My health.”

Mr. Moloch rumbled, “Nothing.” Then he offered a Christmas cracker, the pop left a hint of black powder in the air.

***

In a bedroom, Mr. Moloch sat beside Cecil. They played again, Cecil sacrificing his only prized possession—the ring sitting heavy in his pocket. 

Mr. Moloch blew out a large flame and crunched into his almond. Then said “Nothing.”

Cecil stood to pull the cracker. Mr. Moloch assisted Cecil’s palsied hand.

A pop and a wisp of smoke.

***

Cecil reached for the flaming fruit, blew out a flame. “My home.” They pulled the cracker together...

***

Mr. Moloch offered his coat to Cecil, a destitute man on the roadside. He pulled a table and chairs from the back of his broken coach, then invited Cecil to share some stargazy pie while his carriage was repaired.

Cecil recognized the pie and table, memories of his wife and children flooded back. He despaired at their loss. The rancid pie at the end of Cecil’s ordeal seemed a mockery, stale remnants of a life freely sacrificed to an insatiable demon. Despite this, the food was more than welcome. Each bite revealed years of life, each crumb a precious scene. He ate at his memories as a starved man.

“Please, return all as it was! I refuse to play Snap-dragon any longer,” he pleaded.

Mr. Moloch just smiled. “One final cracker?” He shook the cracker enticingly.

Cecil cried, “My life! I’d trade my life for theirs.”

“Finally,” Mr. Moloch uttered, holding out the cracker. 

This time Cecil got the bigger half.

“Dreadful luck, Cecil.” He set the paper crown atop Cecil’s head. Strands of Cecil’s hair drifted onto Mr. Moloch’s sleeve.

Cecil sat numbly as Mr. Moloch brushed off the fallen hair, gingerly placing one in his front vest pocket. “You traded your life, family, and youth for a ring. Then, even the ring you returned. When will humans learn to give selflessly?”

“But what of my children’s souls?” Cecil asked, his voice frail but insistent.

“Their bodies, I can find a use—their souls are their own,” replied Moloch, tapping his finger to his lips. “You know, I never ask for children, yet I’m often offered them. Perhaps you know why humans so eagerly trade their future?”

Cecil had a coughing fit.

“I am not heartless, spiritually,” added Moloch. “I can offer you one last challenge, a gift if you answer a riddle. But you would not know the gift beforehand.”

Having nothing left, Cecil accepted the challenge.

“This one was from a Canaanite whom I knew, several lifetimes ago.” 

“In every heartbeat and every sigh, I’m the reason you laugh and the tears you cry. From the first cry of newborn breath to the quiet stillness at death’s edge. What am I?”

Moloch adjusted his hat and waved to his coach. “I am expected in London to collect a portrait of a young man, it seems its owner has withered away in a locked room. The damn fool.” He smiled. “Souls aren’t typically my business, but that fellow—“

“Please, let me think in silence.” 

Moloch shrugged. 

“Life,” Cecil said, sure of his answer. “Please, give me my family, my wife, Jasper… I beg you, I want peace. Please, I have given up everything.”

“Correct,” Moloch said. He handed Cecil a draught. “If you drink it, none of this would matter.” He waved his hands theatrically. Far out at sea a ship was on fire. The scent of gunpowder and death rolled over the seaside like a fog.

Cecil was caught by hope’s web. He imagined he’d wake with his family by his side. So he drank without hesitation. The blue liquid smelled of blueberries and spirits; the flavour was a simple, mildly floral sweetness, but empty, like drinking a hole. 

***

He was alone, holding an empty bottle. 

He began a long, quiet walk down a dark road.

A carriage passed within a beautiful voice rang out:

A merry plaas you may believe woz Mowsel pon Tom Bawcock’s Eve. To be theer then oo wudn wesh To sup o sibm soorts o fesh! Wen morgee brath ad cleard tha path. Comed lances for a fry, An then us had a bet o scad an starry gazee py. Nex cumd fermaads, braa thustee jaads As maad ar oozles dry, An ling an haak, enough to maak a raunen shark to sy! A aech wed clunk as ealth wer drunk En bumpers bremmen y, An wen up caam Tom Bawcock’s naam We praesed un to tha sky.

Two boys waved from the carriage window at the old man wearing a paper crown. 

Cecil smiled at them as they passed.

On 24 – 25 December, an unofficial truce was declared along the Western Front. Peace for a day. 

Perhaps Moloch was not entirely heartless... Cecil did ask for peace.