The Cult of Unicorns (Penny White Book 2)

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘Really?’ He ducked his head. ‘Please, miss, may I try some? After all, whisky is proof that God exists and loves us.’

  ‘Actually, whisky doesn’t prove that God exists. Whisky only proves that, if he does, he’s Scottish.’

  Peter groaned. ‘I now have this image in my head of God looking like Peter Capaldi. Mind you, he has the eyebrows for it.’

  I’d wandered over to the barrel, and was bending down to study the rough wood. ‘Surely only the First Doctor could play God?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d also go for Colin Baker.’

  ‘Really?’ I straightened. ‘Isn’t his Doctor rather too arrogant?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘I was thinking of his Big Finish version. Passionate and compassionate.’

  ‘But is Big Finish canon?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think Night of the Doctor proved that.’

  ‘Perhaps for the Eighth Doctor,’ I conceded. ‘I think you’ll have to lift the barrel so I can draw some out.’

  ‘Where there’s whisky, there’s a way.’

  I collected two glasses. Peter grunted slightly as he grappled with the rough wood. I rotated the tap, and managed to draw off two portions without flooding the floor with the precious substance. ‘You’ll want to dilute it,’ I warned, bringing over a beaker of filtered water.

  Peter took a sniff of his portion, added water, and took a sip. I grinned as his eyes widened. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘No,’ I teased, ‘just very good whisky.’

  He flushed slightly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to blaspheme.’

  I shrugged. ‘We’ll just say it was an ejaculatory prayer.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Peter murmured around another sip. ‘I’d hope in those circumstances that I’d be shouting out your name.’

  The room suddenly seemed very hot. Peter was now a bright red, his jaw working as he realised what he’d said. I stared at him. The wall clock ticked loudly in the silence.

  Then, and I don’t know who started first, but we were both laughing. Side splitting, whisky spilling laughter. I sank down into a chair, gasping for breath, and Peter leaned against the back door. Clyde chirped an enquiry from the study. I managed to gasp out some reassuring words.

  Peter wiped tears from his eyes. ‘And I like to think of myself as the perfect gentleman.’ He put the whisky glass onto the kitchen counter. ‘No more of that, I think. Could I put in a request for coffee?’

  ‘Certainly.’ I busied myself with the coffee machine. ‘Shall I finally show you The Curse of Fenric?’

  ‘Yes, I guess it’s about time.’

  So he with his coffee, and me with my whisky, retired to the living room to watch Ace come to terms with her hatred of her mother. Partway through Peter slipped an arm around my shoulders, but otherwise hands and lips stayed away from mine. When I watched him walk up the road, making his way to the hotel, part of me wished he weren’t such a perfect gentleman.

  Chapter Nine

  The headache Thursday morning was bearable and less than I deserved. I swallowed a couple of ibuprofen with my coffee and felt I’d been let off lightly.

  James was hunched over his breakfast bowl, shoulders registering his annoyance. ‘Northampton is so lame,’ he complained as I took my seat. ‘Birmingham. That’s where the action is.’

  I decided not to point out that looking for ‘action’ had lost him a pint of blood to an aggrieved vampire. ‘Tell you what, after we’ve bought the furniture, I’ll treat you to lunch.’

  ‘IKEA hotdogs. Thanks.’

  ‘No, I’ll find us a nice pub.’

  He stirred his spoon through soggy cereal. ‘It’s been weeks, now. I’ve never gone this long without getting some.’

  I tried to remember what it felt like to be twenty-two years old. Problem was, at his age, I had already been married for two years. How to be reassuring without being too encouraging? ‘You’ll find the right person.’

  ‘I don’t care if she’s right, I just want someone.’ James glared at me. ‘You’ve got Peter, Taryn’s chasing after Morey, and then there’s me. Just me and Clyde, left out of all the action.’

  The snail shark paused in his slide across the floor to the cat flap. He waved his tentacles, and made a self-satisfied squeak.

  James growled. ‘If you tell me that even the snail has a love life--’

  ‘I'm certain he misunderstood,’ I said hurriedly. But there was almost a swagger to Clyde’s exit. Then I cleared my throat. Headache or not, there was something I needed to discuss with my brother. ‘James, I’ve had a letter this morning. You need to know about it.’

  I shoved the elegant parchment across the table. He paled, then flushed, as he read the swirling handwriting which requested his presence at the law court in Llanbedr on Tuesday. ‘Matriarch Bodil’s trial,’ he said quietly. ‘So, the bitch has been charged with Miranda’s murder.’

  Not the time, I decided, to offer the correct term for a female dragon. ‘Your testimony is going to be the last the judges hear. It says we can stay to hear the verdict.’

  His jaw tensed. ‘Do they have the death penalty in Lloegyr?’

  ‘I think that--’

  A high-pitched scream cut me off. Clyde. And then a stream of words from Morey, which my Welsh tutor had not seen fit to teach me. The chair crashed against the floor as I sprung to my feet. James was ahead of me, unlocking the back door and flinging it open.

  Morey was a furious flicker of purple-grey, darting at a sparrowhawk rising into the air. The bird’s flapping was laboured, and then I saw why. Clyde’s shell was clutched in the bright yellow talons. The snail’s teeth were bared but he was too far away from the striped chest to cause any harm to the hawk.

  ‘Drop him!’ I shouted, waving my arms as I ran across the grass. ‘Drop him now!’

  Fierce yellow eyes glared at me, and the brown wings extended further. But while she was distracted, Morey was able to dash in and nip at the bird’s tail. She squawked as she was thrown off balance. And then she dropped Clyde, and I was too far away to do anything but watch him fall heavily to the ground.

  Morey landed at his side. ‘Are you okay, kid?’

  I ran over and crouched across from the gryphon. ‘Clyde?’

  The snail had landed on the right side of his shell. A tentacle waved weakly at us. ‘Big bird. Big bad bird.’

  ‘Careful,’ Morey snapped at me as I reached out to pick Clyde up.

  ‘Of course I am,’ I retorted. But as my fingers dug between grass and shell, I felt jagged edges against my skin. I swallowed against a sudden burning in my throat as I lifted Clyde from the ground.

  ‘That doesn’t look good,’ James said as we looked at the broken areas. ‘Clyde, does it hurt?’

  Clyde whimpered. The sound cut through me. ‘Whisky?’ the snail asked weakly.

  ‘Morey?’ I demanded as I cradled Clyde against my chest.

  ‘It was only the once,’ the gryphon said quickly. ‘And I cleaned him up afterwards.’

  ‘A vet,’ James said urgently. ‘We’ve got to get him to a vet. I’ll drive.’

  I nodded. ‘There’s one a couple of miles away.’

  We wrapped Clyde into a towel. I pulled on shoes and James collected car keys. Morey flew to my shoulder as I walked to the front door. I paused. ‘You can’t come with us.’

  Morey’s ears drew back. ‘You expect me to wait here?’

  ‘Once the vet touches Clyde, she’ll be able to see you. As long as Clyde keeps his mouth shut, I can pass him off as just a large snail. But you?’

  Morey grumbled, but he jumped down to the hall table. ‘Take care, kid,’ he told Clyde gruffly.

  I slid into the car’s passenger seat and ignored James’ erratic driving. As we entered the vet’s car park, I thanked God that it was my day off. I would have been up much earlier on a work day, and probably would have arrived before the surgery’s opening hours.

  The receptionist put down her mug of coffee as we entered. I patiently
gave her my personal details, and Clyde’s name. She automatically appended ‘White’ as the snail’s surname, and I found myself once again wondering if he had family in Lloegyr. If he died, whom would I inform?

  Please, God, I prayed fervently. Please don’t let him die.

  We were called in almost immediately, walking past less urgent cases of annual injections. The woman in the small examining room was blonde, plump, middle aged and reassuring. ‘I’m Wendy,’ she said, giving us a smile. ‘And this is Clyde? What is he, an African Land Snail?’

  ‘This is Clyde.’ In a move I’d been planning in the car, I grabbed her hand and guided her fingers to touch his shell. The vet was a bit startled, but she kept her hand on Clyde as I unwrapped the towel. ‘He fell.’

  ‘Not quite like other snails I’ve seen.’ Wendy crouched down for a better look. ‘He’s more like an overgrown garden snail than an African Land Snail. Or could he be a Powelliphanta? That’s a type of carnivorous snail from New Zealand.’

  ‘He’s certainly carnivorous,’ I agreed. ‘But I don’t really know where he came from.’ Which was partially true.

  ‘When did the accident happen?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago.’ I realised that I was on the verge of tears. ‘You can help him?’

  ‘I can certainly patch up the shell.’ Clyde had emerged, and his eyespots followed her examination of the damaged area. ‘I need to clean this out, replace the broken bits, and then I can use micropore tape and epoxy resin to hold them in place. But I’d like to take an X-ray to see how deep the injuries go.’

  ‘No X-ray,’ I said, albeit reluctantly.

  Her eyebrows raised. ‘I’d really recommend it.’

  ‘No, sorry.’ I wish I could come up with a plausible excuse. How could I tell her that the X-ray images would only be visible to her, and then only for the next week or so before the Sight wore off?

  Wendy took a deep breath, then visibly decided not to argue further. James and I drew back as she treated Clyde. The snail pup seemed to realise that he had to keep quiet as she worked, not saying a word as she carefully rebuilt his shell and glued the pieces in place.

  Finally, the vet found a box, placed the towel and Clyde inside, and handed it to me. ‘It’s really important that he eats. Try mashed sweet potato, often that’s a favourite for snails. Or earthworms, if he prefers flesh.’

  ‘Sweet potato, earthworms,’ I repeated, wishing Clyde’s diet were that easy. ‘Thanks, Wendy.’

  ‘Oh, and I should let you know that he’s a bit rare.’

  I forced myself to swallow a half dozen denials. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s a lefty. His spiral isn’t on the usual side.’ She carefully touched Clyde’s shell. ‘Most snails have the whorl on the right. It does mean he can only mate with another lefty, since a righty would have the genitals in the wrong place. Poor guy might never find romance.’

  If only there were some way to cover a snail’s ears. Did a snail even have ears? Clyde looked grey enough already. This news seemed to make his head sink all the lower. ‘Well, thanks again.’

  ‘Sure. Let me know how he gets on.’

  And with that she ushered us out of the room. I pulled out my credit card to pay at the reception desk. Then we were out into the grey December day.

  Morey charged through the hall as we entered the house. James jumped as the gryphon chose his shoulder as a landing spot, and then his hands were fighting the tail which curled against his face as Morey leaned down to look into the box. ‘Clyde? How is he?’

  ‘The vet patched up his shell,’ I said, carrying Clyde into the study. ‘But there could be internal injuries.’

  I placed the snail shark into his tank, and he withdrew into his shell.

  ‘He looks pale,’ James said. ‘Should we offer him something to eat?’

  ‘He doesn’t look well,’ I agreed, sniffling back tears. James suddenly laid a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up at him. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You’ve done what you could,’ he assured me.

  ‘Actually, there is something else.’ I felt the idea my bishop had given me become a firm decision. ‘I’m going to baptise him.’ I reached out to the glass of water on my desk.

  ‘Not so fast,’ Morey said. ‘What about godparents?’ He hopped from James’ shoulder to the top of the tank. ‘You’re planning to treat this as an infant baptism, yes? Clyde can’t make the promises for himself. So he will need godparents to make them on his behalf.’

  ‘That’s easy.’ I pointed at him and my brother. ‘You two can be his godparents.’

  ‘James is not a Christian.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ James protested. ‘I’m a regular. I go at least once a year.’

  ‘Attending weddings does not make you a disciple of Christ,’ Morey retorted.

  I shrugged. ‘Then I’ll be the other godparent.’

  ‘No, not if you’re going to be the officiating minister.’ Morey met my glare with unruffled calm. ‘It’s in canon law. The priest carrying out the baptism cannot be a godparent.’

  ‘I’m certain that’s not true,’ I said, my mind scrambling to recall what little I knew of the Church’s rules.

  ‘Perhaps not in England. But Clyde is a citizen of Lloegyr, and I demand that he be baptised in accordance with the rites of Eglwys Loegyr. He might go back to his own country to live, and I don’t want his baptism to be called into doubt.’

  ‘Where,’ James demanded, ‘do you expect Pen to find a priest willing to baptize a snail? Is she supposed to go to Lloegyr?’

  ‘No need.’ I picked the phone up from my desk and dialled a number I knew well. ‘Hi Rosie. No, actually, not doing that well. Can you come over? And bring your white stole? Great. See you in ten minutes.’

  I hung up, and turned to James. He was staring at Clyde. ‘You don’t have to stay. I know you had other plans for today.’

  James gave me a startled look. ‘Of course I’m staying. Clyde, well, he’s family, isn’t he?’

  For a moment I nearly hugged him. But I was able to stop myself just in time. ‘Can you answer the door when Rosie gets here? I need to set everything up for the baptism.’

  I wheeled the tank through to the kitchen. Morey nodded in approval as I prepared a basin of water. Then I went upstairs and brought the chrism oil down from the storage room. I returned to the study to collect the Common Worship book and opened it to the page for ‘Holy Baptism apart from a Celebration of Holy Communion.’

  The doorbell rang. A moment later, James was ushering Rosie into the kitchen. Her purple cardigan was a splash of brightness against her dark trousers and black clerical shirt. ‘Penny. What do you need from me?’

  ‘I suggest you sit down.’ Rosie obeyed. Morey flew over to the kitchen table and cocked his head, waiting for my signal. I took a deep breath. ‘It has to do with the other part of my job.’

  ‘The rumour in the deanery,’ Rosie said, ‘is that it’s something to do with the deliverance ministry. Father Owen has actually asked if I was involved. Do I need to be involved?’

  ‘It’s something quite different. As you’re about to see.’

  At my nod, Morey strode forward and rubbed his tail across Rosie’s hand. I saw her eyes widen as he suddenly became visible to her. ‘Well, you’re a beauty,’ she said to him. ‘And not much larger than my tortoiseshell, Magnificat.’

  ‘Father,’ Morey said gravely, ‘I am not her pet. In fact, I consider our relationship to be the obverse.’

  ‘Definitely not a pet,’ Rosie agreed. ‘You must have a name?’

  ‘Trahaearneifion. Which is why I have taken on the name of Moriarty for English speakers.’

  ‘Morey for short,’ I said, studying Rosie closely. ‘He’s a gryphon.’

  Rosie clucked her tongue. ‘I can see that, Penny. And Welsh speaking, from the accent.’

  ‘The language of heaven,’ Morey said solemnly.

  ‘But I’ve asked you here for Cl
yde,’ I continued.

  She rose and joined me at the tank as I removed the lid. ‘That’s a rather large snail.’

  ‘He’s a snail shark, and he’s been injured.’ I paused to steady my voice. ‘I want you to baptise him.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Rosie said, allowing me to drop all of my quickly prepared arguments. ‘Believer’s baptism, or is he to have godparents?’

  ‘Penny and I are standing as godparents,’ Morey said.

  Rosie studied him. ‘And what, may I ask, are your qualifications to be a godparent? I trust you’ve been baptised?’

  ‘I am an Elder in Eglwys Loegyr,’ he responded gravely. ‘It’s the highest order of layperson.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosie placed her stole over her neck.

  ‘And what about me?’ James asked.

  Morey’s eyes glinted. ‘You can hold the book.’

  ‘Wow, thanks,’ James grumbled. ‘Left out of the real action.’

  Rosie patted his arm. ‘I’ve never been asked to be a godparent either.’ She turned to me. ‘Ready to begin?’

  Morey took his place on my shoulder as we affirmed our faith, made our promises, and named Clyde. The snail stirred slightly as Rosie splashed him with water three times, baptising him in the name of ‘the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’ A tentacle emerged to watch as she smeared holy oil across his shell, making a large cross. She told him solemnly, ‘Never be ashamed to profess the faith of Christ crucified.’

  ‘Amen,’ Clyde said weakly. ‘Whisky?’

  Rosie chuckled. ‘He’s definitely a member of this household.’

  ‘You get well,’ I began, ‘and I promise--’ A quick shake of Morey’s head warned me. ‘I promise that I’ll pour you a large beer.’

  ‘A beer drinking snail,’ Rosie mused as she cleaned the oil off her fingers. ‘Let us pray. Father God, we thank you for all those who come into our lives. So today we pray for Clyde, who by baptism has now joined your heavenly family. Protect and heal him, restore him to those who know and care for him. In Jesus name we pray, amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ we all echoed.

  Rosie removed her stole and returned to her chair. ‘I think I could use a cup of tea, Penny. And then you can explain to me why I’m speaking to gryphons and baptising snails.’