by Chrys Cymri
Chapter Six
Meetings with my spiritual director always seemed to happen at the most inconvenient times. In other words, just when I had something I definitely did not want to talk about. I managed to dodge Gregory’s polite question as to whether I’d had an easy journey from Lloegyr, we exchanged some chit chat about different worship styles, and I even managed to make him laugh by explaining how the MICE system operated in St George’s.
‘So,’ Gregory asked, his blue eyes peering at me over the top of his mug, ‘how are things between you and God?’
There was only one way to head off that conversation. And, with great reluctance, I told him, ‘I’ve come home. From Caer-grawnt.’
‘What happened?’
I gave a brief summary of what I’d seen on my tour of Lord Willis’s factories. Gregory’s face paled lighter than his grey hair as I told him about the pufflings chained in place under the mansion. ‘I preached against it. And so the churchwardens threw me out.’
‘Which, technically, they can’t do.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You knew that, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.’
‘Why not?’ Gregory asked, his tone mild. ‘You’ve stuck out hard times in St Wulfram’s. I remember the financial struggle after lead was stolen from the roof. Nor has your churchwarden there made your life easy. You know full well that parish life can be like asymmetrical warfare.’
I wondered whether I’d be having this same conversation on Wednesday. ‘I’ve never had two churchwardens tell me I wasn’t welcome anymore.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the archdeacon? She was the one who installed you, wasn’t she? Or to the bishop, who licensed you to the parish?’
A vase of flowers sat on Gregory’s desk. A small black and red ladybird was crawling down a leaf. ‘I didn’t want to bother them.’
‘This is the sort of bother that they should hear about.’ His chair creaked, and I found that he was leaning forward. ‘Penny, have you ever failed at anything?’
‘Not before this.’
‘But you haven’t failed at this,’ he pointed out. ‘The churchwardens acted beyond their authority, and part of you must have known that. You could’ve reached out to the archdeacon or the bishop for support, but you didn’t, did you? Why not?’
I bit my lip for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’
We sat for a moment in silence. The ladybird had flown down to Gregory’s desk, and the insect was exploring his computer keyboard. ‘Are you still in a “nods only” relationship with God?’
‘I seem to be stuck there,’ I admitted. ‘I try to pray, but there seems to be so much else going on.’
‘When did you last go on a retreat?’
‘At least two years ago.’ I found myself smiling. ‘That’s what I could do, go on a retreat.’
‘That’s an excellent idea. Give yourself some time alone with God.’
My smile broadened. ‘There’s a monastery in Lloegyr, St Thomas’s. I could ask the abbot about having my retreat there.’
‘Is he a human abbot?’
‘Well, no.’ I cleared my throat. ‘They’re all dragons.’
‘Then definitely not,’ Gregory declared. ‘You need to go to a human retreat house. God only knows what you’d be like after a retreat surrounded by dragons.’
I slumped back into my chair. But I had to admit that he was right. ‘Anything I should focus on? I mean, any particular book or a Bible verse?’
‘I’ll pray over that and let you know.’ His eyes flicked down to my left hand. ‘Speaking of dragons, what happened with the one who flew you to Skellig Michael? I’m assuming the engagement ring is from Peter.’
‘It is. And you’re on the wedding invite list. I’ve done the Facebook messages. We’ll be posting the others soon.’ I found myself twisting the band around my finger. ‘Raven and I are just friends, that’s all. Peter was a rock when we were facing the challenges from Morey’s clan.’
We talked for awhile about what I’d experienced in the peryton forest, and the make up of the Caer-grawnt congregation. Gregory finished by saying a brief prayer, and we shared the Grace. I rose from my chair and collected the ladybird, which by now had reached the pen pot. ‘Can you let me out?’
Gregory peered at the insect resting in my palm. ‘That’s a Harlequin ladybird. See? Red spots against a black shell. It’s an invasive species and preys on our native ladybirds. Some would argue that it should be squashed rather than saved.’
I stared at him. ‘Would you squash it?’
‘I’m not certain I could,’ he admitted.
‘I definitely won’t.’ My fingers had curled protectively around the ladybug. ‘Everything deserves a chance at life. Especially the unwanted ones.’
The ladybird was released onto one of Gregory’s rosebushes. And then, wrapped in the warm glow of having saved a small life, I walked to my car to start the drive home.
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Clyde settled into the front passenger seat. I fussed for a moment with the seat belt, wondering how I could sensibly fasten it around his shell. Then I gave up, prayed to St Christopher for a safe journey, and started us down the road to Earls Barton.
Countryside slid past as I drove down the A45. Northamptonshire, I had realised some time ago, was pleasant even though undramatic. The rolling fields were soothing, and I found myself humming ‘All Creatures of our God and King.’ Clyde picked up the tune, and added his own tenor undertone.
I managed to find parking on the village square. Clyde slid into his carry case, and I exited the car. The sky was grey, and the streets damp with recent rain. Peter was standing near Jeyes, his long waterproof coat a dark contrast to the red bricks of the store front. His smile, as he saw me approach, made my heart beat faster. Acutely aware that I was dressed in my clerical shirt, I only allowed our hands to touch as I came to his side.
Peter smiled at my caution. ‘Father Penny, thank you for joining me.’
‘Don’t you start,’ I grumbled. ‘One day I’ll find out why people in Lloegyr call even female priests “Father”.’
‘Would you rather be called “Mother”?’
I managed to suppress a shudder. ‘Just “Reverend” will do.’
‘Walk this way, Reverend Penny. The first property’s not far.’
We strode down the slight hill. Peter placed himself on the curb side of the pavement, acting the gentleman in a way which both amused and irritated me. We weren’t in Victorian times, after all, and there was little danger of a horse-drawn carriage throwing mud up against my trousers.
‘Taryn dropped by yesterday,’ Peter said as we strolled past a mixture of red brick and sandstone buildings. A slight chill in the wind made me zip up my coat. ‘She’s happy with the way the eggs are maturing, even if the house isn’t always as quiet as she’d like.’
‘Clyde had a bit of a tantrum on Sunday,’ I admitted. ‘He wanted to watch his favourite David Tennant episode, The Girl in the Fireplace.’
‘How can he prefer that over Blink?’
‘He’s not scared of the Weeping Angels.’
‘How can anyone not be scared of the Weeping Angels?’
‘Clyde has eyespots. No need to blink.’
We passed the small library, and shortly afterwards turned right. Bungalows alternated with large brick houses. ‘It’s down this way,’ Peter said, as we made another turning. He pulled out his iPhone and glanced at the screen. ‘We’re looking for a cottage on Shurville Close.’
My mouth dried. ‘Shurville Close?’
‘You recognise it?’
‘Don’t you?’ And then we arrived at the cottage. ‘It’s where Earls Barton Man lives.’
The ‘Eggs for Sale’ sign had been taken down from the sandstone wall. The small house looked as if it were staring at us, the windows peering like two small suspicious eyes under the shaggy weight of the thatched roof. ‘Now I remember,’ Peter said slowly. ‘This is where C
lyde’s mother attacked Raven.’
‘And where the unicorn mare lost her horn, and where Tyra accidentally flew through the fence.’
‘Why am I reminded of the Bowl of Petunias?’ Peter ran a hand through his short brown and grey hair. ‘But this is the address of the man who’s asked for a police visit. His name is--’
The front door squeaked open. A tall man stood in the doorway. ‘It’s you again,’ he growled, removing his spectacles to give them a wipe. ‘What’s brought you here this time?’
‘You asked for us, sir,’ Peter said politely. ‘You said there’s been some disturbances in your back garden?’
‘Some. Disturbances.’ The man repeated the words as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You could say that. About time you lot turned up to have a look.’
‘That’s what we’re here to do,’ I said quickly. ‘Could we come through?’
‘Go to the gate. I’ll unlock it for you.’
The door was shut in our faces. Peter shrugged. We made our way to the wooden gate. The man undid the lock and slid back a bolt, muttering under his breath all the while. Then we were allowed in, squeezing between him and the brick wall of the neighbouring house.
The ‘L’ shaped garden was how I remembered it. The smell of freshly mown grass hung in the air. To our right was the chicken house and run. A new wooden fence, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government, marked the left boundary. The bush under which I had found Clyde, back when he was the size of a hamster, was bright with white flowers.
‘I cleaned up the last lot,’ the man was telling Peter. ‘Couldn't stand to see them there.’
‘Cleaned what up, sir?’
‘Didn't they tell you?’ The man rested his hands on his jacket lapels. For a moment, he reminded me of the First Doctor. ‘The wings. Some miscreant keeps putting them in the garden.’
‘Bird wings?’ I asked.
He stared at me. ‘Don't be daft. What else has wings? Of course I'm talking about bird wings.’
I was so intent on projecting a calm, non-anxious presence that I was losing all feeling in my face. ‘Could you tell us a bit more about them?’
‘Left in a pile, they are.’ The spectacles were removed and wiped vigorously. ‘Torn from all sorts of birds. One was big enough to come from a sparrow hawk. And they took them from my chickens. My poor chickens. Upset the wife, that did. Don’t dare have any more now.’
Peter nodded. ‘I'm not surprised. Are the wings left just anywhere?’
‘Nope, always just here.’ The man marched over to a spot nearer the bushes. ‘You can see how it’s affected the grass.’
I leaned in close to Peter, whispering to keep my comment away both from the ears of the man and the snail in his carry case. ‘That’s the spot where Clyde’s mother died.’
‘You’re certain?’ he mouthed.
‘Yes.’ I glanced down at the blue bag at my hip, but there was no sound from the snail. ‘I don’t think I should release Clyde while Earls Barton Man is still here. He’ll wonder what we’re doing, since we know he doesn’t have the Sight.’
‘Agreed.’ Peter raised his voice. ‘Sir, would you mind going inside? We’d like to inspect the garden.’
‘Go right ahead,’ he said, and showed no signs of moving.
‘We have some delicate equipment,’ Peter continued. ‘It works better if we cut down the number of human bodies present.’
‘Hmph.’ The man nodded towards me. ‘And why did you bring her, anyway? What’s a vicar got to do with this?’
‘She’s my fiancée,’ Peter said steadily, ‘and we’re doing a sort of a work swap. She follows me around for a day, and then I’m going to follow her around. It’s part of our wedding preparations.’
‘Better you than me.’ But the man finally went to the house. ‘And you can get back my shovel. Has a long blade and a blue handle. Those hooligans stole it!’ Then he slammed the door hard behind him.
‘Blue handle?’ I repeated. ‘That shovel didn't belong to him. You lent it to me, and I accidentally left it behind.’
Peter grinned. ‘People can get attached to sudden windfalls. Anyway, we still need to be careful. He might try to watch out of a window.’
‘Understood.’ I placed the case on the ground, and knelt down, placing my body between it and the house. ‘Clyde, can you search out the thin places in this garden?’
The snail shark slid onto the grass. Peter pretended to be studying the hen house as Clyde criss-crossed the open space. I couldn’t help wincing as he trundled over the bare spot where his mother had died. He paused for a moment by the bushes, and I held my breath. But Clyde moved on, his tentacles waving as he made his way along the fence.
My knees were beginning to ache when he finally returned. ‘None,’ he announced.
‘There must be at least one,’ Peter said, his back still turned to us.
‘Yes, Clyde,’ I agreed. ‘There’s a thin place where the fence is.’
‘Isn’t it air based?’ Peter asked. ‘Maybe it doesn’t go all the way down.’
I stumbled to my feet, and picked up the snail. Goodness knows what Earls Barton Man thought I was doing, as I walked over to the fence. All he’d see was my two hands held out, palms upwards. ‘There, Clyde. Thin place.’
‘None,’ the snail insisted. ‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’ I stared at the fresh wood. ‘But Tyra only crashed through it a few weeks ago. How can it be gone?’
Peter wandered over to me, picking up the case on the way. ‘Can we ask a search dragon for a second opinion? Like Raven? Do you have any way of contacting him?’
I thought of the knife in my trouser pocket and felt my cheeks flush. ‘There’s no need. Clyde is as good at finding thin places as any search dragon.’
The snail’s body pulsed blue and pink at the compliment. ‘Gone,’ he affirmed. ‘Sealed.’
‘Sealed?’ I glanced over at Peter. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Sealed. Gone.’ More colours swirled around Clyde’s body. ‘Gone.’
Peter sighed. ‘He just doesn’t have the words, does he?’
‘But he uses the words he does have very deliberately.’ I accepted the case from Peter, and let Clyde crawl back in. ‘Could it have anything to do with Tyra crashing through?’ I felt a chill go through my stomach. ‘Peter, she had scratches on her neck afterwards. You don't think--could dragon blood seal up a thin place?’
‘I pray to God it can’t.’ Peter’s blue-grey eyes met mine. ‘It’s bad enough that search dragons can cut travel distances by using air thin places. I lie asleep at night worrying who else might find out about that. But if dragon blood can seal crossing points--that’s something we definitely need to keep to ourselves.’
We turned as the back door creaked open. ‘You lot done yet?’ the man demanded.
‘Just finishing up, sir,’ Peter assured him. ‘We’ll be going now. You can lock the gate behind us.’
‘Sorry to disturb you again,’ I said.
He grunted. ‘Just find those cretins who’re tearing wings off birds.’
I gave the garden one last look. For a moment, I thought I saw the glint of a large snail shell under the bushes. But a glance at the face of Earls Barton Man made me realise how much we’d already outstayed our welcome.
As we made our way down the road, I asked Peter worriedly, ‘Is it safe for him to live there? With whatever’s going on?’
‘I’ll see if he’ll let me assign him some officers,’ Peter said. ‘And maybe we can put some CCTV cameras on the back wall. Let’s find out what is going on in that garden.’
‘I think…’ I halted, and lowered my voice. ‘I thought I saw a snail shark. Just as we were leaving.’
Peter glanced at the carry case, and whispered, ‘But wouldn’t Clyde have reacted if he noticed another snail shark?’
‘I don’t know. He was very young when I brought him home. He might not realise that’s what he is. Like zoo animals who imprint on humans.�
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Clyde zoomed around several more back gardens. We were offered cups of tea at one, and cake at another, which restored my faith in the inherent goodness of human beings. Peter made notes on an Ordnance Survey map as we went from property to property, logging the position of the thin spaces which the snail pointed out to us. We finished at the former site of the post office, and Clyde confirmed that three small thin places existed near the building.
My iPhone chimed as I was placing the snail shark back into his case. A moment later, Peter’s buzzed to let him know of a message. We both gave each other apologetic smiles and checked our phones. Gr8 news 4u, my text informed me. Wedding 2mro. Come c the setup. TTYL Sarah.
‘I hate text language,’ Peter said. ‘I thought it’d die off after smart phones came out.’
I nodded agreement. ‘Do you have the same message? From Sarah?’
‘About the wedding tomorrow? Yes, I have.’ He slid his phone back into a trouser pocket. ‘It wouldn't be too far out of our way to have a look. Do you have the time?’
‘Plenty of time.’
We headed off in our separate cars to Meadowell Farm. Clyde was humming to himself on the front seat, and I reduced my speed. Next time, I decided, I’d find some way to strap him in. A cardboard box, perhaps, or a modified child seat?
Then I realised what the snail was singing to himself. ‘“Angel voices, ever singing, round thy throne of light. Angel harps, for ever ringing, rest not day or night; Thousands only live to bless thee, and confess thee, Lord of might.”’
I lifted my eyes from the Northamptonshire countryside. And there, flying above us, were several lemmings. ‘The angels bless God, Clyde. Be careful with this fan club of yours. Don’t let lemming worship go to your head.’
Clyde boomed out, ‘“Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to thee,
how great thou art, how great thou art.”’
‘Precisely. God is great, not a flying snail shark.’
