by Chrys Cymri
‘What is going on here?’
I dropped the hood from my head and strode out of hiding. The tall man was standing in the back doorway of the cottage, rain smearing his spectacles. ‘Hello again, sir.’
‘You.’ He glared at me. ‘You’re that lass with the shovel.’
‘Not today.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Before you go,’ he rasped, ‘you can tell me why there’s a horse in my back garden.’
I glanced back at the unicorn. The man had been unable to see either a snail shark or a dragon last time we’d met. Did the lack of horn mean that, since she now looked like a horse, humans without the Sight could notice her? ‘Just moving her now, sir.’
The man grunted. He wiped his glasses with a cloth handkerchief. Then he peered at me. ‘Come back some time for a cuppa and a Chelsea bun. Then you can tell me why a vicar keeps upsetting my chickens.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I promised.
The door shut again. The police came out of hiding. With the loss of her horn, the last spark had gone out of the unicorn. Peter disappeared for a moment and returned with a blanket, which he wrapped around the horn before pulling it free from the fence. The other officers and I managed to herd the mare back down the passage and out of the gate.
A rather familiar Land Rover and trailer were parked just down the road. We coaxed the unicorn inside. Peter shut the door, and then turned to me. ‘Do you mind taking her to your home? It’s getting a bit late to return her to Lloegyr.’
‘Certainly.’ My lawn could use another trim. Then I thought of the last unicorn to have wandered over my back garden, and I fought back grief. I had to drive home first. ‘What are you going to do with the horn?’
Peter glanced down at the bundle in his arms. ‘You’d better take it. With her. I don’t know, just in case...’
The horn was light in my arms, a contrast to the weight in my chest. ‘In case she wants it back? I don’t think she can heal herself. She’s now a hornless unicorn. Forever.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Oh, no,’ said Morey, horrified. ‘No, no, no.’
All three of them were staring out of the kitchen window at the mare in the back garden. She was standing listlessly, her head low, but the lack of horn was very obvious. James had a hand pressed to his mouth. Morey’s feathers were flat with distress and his back was arched. Clyde had made a single mournful sound before sliding away into his shell, only his eyespots fixed on the unicorn.
‘Here’s her horn.’ I lowered my towel-wrapped burden onto the table. ‘She snapped it off soon after we found her.’
‘Do you know why?’ Morey asked. ‘Did she say anything?’
I bit my lip for a moment. ‘Yes. Her foal is dead.’
‘The one we had here?’ James demanded. At my nod, he turned his face away, but not before I saw the tears glimmering in his eyes.
A strange wailing sound made me look down at the windowsill. Clyde had emerged from his shell and was standing erect on his foot. His body was stretched thin and tall, and I could only assume that he was expressing grief in the language of his people. The fact that the sound resembled that of a dying Zygon was, I hoped, merely coincidental.
Only Morey seemed to be able to rein in his emotions. ‘What killed her?’
‘She’d been told that allowing her foal to nurse would poison her,’ I said. ‘The Archdruid had said that the land was poisoned against her. She nursed her anyway, the filly died, and she now blames herself.’
‘Why would a member of the herd go against what the Archdruid said? Unicorns usually listen to her.’
‘That’s probably my fault,’ I admitted. ‘I told her not to listen to superstition. But I can’t see how or why she wouldn’t be able to feed her own child. How can land turn against someone? It makes no sense.’
‘So, you told her to ignore the Archdruid,’ Morey said. ‘I thought better of you than that.’
‘She was upset,’ I said defensively. ‘She wanted to be with her child. So I told her it would be all right.’
James knuckled his eyes and then turned back to me. ‘That’s so you, Pen, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You tell people what you think they want to hear. Doesn’t matter if it’s the truth or not. You lie!’
‘I think that’s a bit unfair.’ I was fighting for composure. James hadn’t shouted at me like that since he’d been a teenager. ‘I don’t lie, James.’
‘Oh, yes, you do.’ He uncurled a fist and started counting off on his fingers. ‘You lied to the organist about using BCP. You haven’t told Peter about Raven. What about telling that producer about all those families coming to church?’
‘What families?’ Morey asked.
‘Exactly,’ James snapped. ‘That’s what I mean. How can I trust anything she says?’
‘I’ve never lied to you,’ I insisted, holding on tight to a patience developed over years of dealing with both toddlers and PCCs.
‘And why should I believe you? Am I special?’
‘Of course you are,’ I said evenly. ‘You’re my brother.’
A strangled noise came from his throat. Then James pushed past me and left the kitchen. I winced as he slammed the door behind him.
I reached out for a chair and leaned against it. ‘“Rule one: The Doctor lies,”’ I muttered to myself. Although normally I would have welcomed the chance to quote River Song, at the moment the words did nothing to cheer me up.
‘He’s young,’ Morey said into the heavy silence. ‘And you’ve spoiled him.’
‘Not now, Morey,’ I said wearily.
‘Not now,’ Clyde echoed. He slid from the windowsill, along the floor, and up the chair to bump my hand with his head. ‘Sad female.’
‘Yes, the unicorn is.’
But his eyespots were fixed on me. ‘Sad female.’
I reached over to give his shell a rub. ‘You’re a good friend, Clyde.’
‘What are you planning to do with her?’ Morey asked. ‘The herd won’t have her back again.’
‘They won’t?’ That wasn’t something I’d considered. ‘Why not?’
‘A unicorn without a horn is no better than a horse. In their opinion.’
‘A horse,’ I echoed. The light was fading, but I could see that my neighbour was peering over the fence. And his gaze was on the unicorn.
I retrieved my jacket and went into the back garden. The mare was still an unmoving picture of equine misery. ‘Hello, Albert,’ I greeted him. ‘Horrible weather we’ve been having.’
A frown was pulling down his heavy lips. ‘Now, see here, Reverend, I’m all for you doing something about this here garden of yours. But I think horses aren’t allowed.’
So, he too could see the mare. Perhaps the herd was right, a unicorn without a horn was nothing more than a horse. Speech, however, was not linked to bearing a horn. What would happen if the mare spoke? Would Albert hear her? Or would she disappear in a puff of logic?
‘She’s not staying long,’ I assured him. ‘She was found running loose, and we’ve brought her here for the night. Something will be sorted out tomorrow.’
‘Well, keep her away from those plants over there.’ Albert pointed at the greenery covering what had once been a flower bed. ‘It’s ragwort. Poisonous to horses. And you’d better get it seen to, at any rate.’
The mare had shuddered at the word ‘poisonous,’ and I found myself shivering in more than just sympathy. The temperature was beginning to drop as the night drew in. ‘Thanks,’ I told Albert. And when he had disappeared, I backed my car out of the garage, then coaxed the unicorn through the kitchen and utility room to the empty space. Her hooves clacked against the concrete, and I wished I’d thought of buying some bedding. I cleaned out a bucket, filled it with water, and turned off the light as I returned to the house.
The kitchen was deserted. Clyde was in the study, Morey was gone, and as James’ BMW was on the drive, I ass
umed he was in his room. I hesitated for a moment. I should talk to James, ask Morey for advice about the unicorn, and put Clyde into his tank. But none of these options appealed. So I went instead to the alcohol cabinet and poured myself a large drink. Then I went to the study, put on an episode of The Sarah Jane Adventures, and watched it with Clyde.
<><><><><><>
The funeral director’s black stretch Mercedes pulled into the cemetery’s parking area, and I turned my car into the next space. The skies were, mercifully, a crisp bright blue. I might have thanked God, except at this precise moment I was pissed off with him.
Alice, the funeral arranger for today’s service, opened a passenger door, and a teenager slid out. He held the tiny white coffin tight against his chest. His girlfriend emerged from the other side, her reddened eyes a contrast to her pale face. Both of them, I’d worked out at our planning meeting, were eighteen years old. So very young to have gone through the agony of a stillbirth.
Very few people had been invited to the graveside funeral. The parents of the teenagers, a couple of friends, and one of the lad’s teachers. I led the way along the gravel paths to the area set aside for children. The family had wanted the baby to be cremated, which had meant an awkward and painful discussion as to why young children were usually buried. A new born simply didn’t have enough bones to leave ash behind.
The cemetery was well maintained by the local council. Grass short, paths clear of weeds. And a varied collection of votive offerings were allowed on children’s graves. Teddy bears, balloons, dolls, pinwheels, and a riot of flowers. I carefully picked my way across a short stretch of green to the small hole dug into the hard ground.
The family and friends gathered around. ‘We receive the body of baby Chloë with confidence in God,’ I said with a strength which I did not feel. At the moment, I was simmering in anger at a divine being who allowed children to die in the womb. But it was at times like these that I had to have the courage to trust, particularly on behalf of those who were in greater darkness than my own. ‘God is the father and mother of us all, the giver of life, who raised our Lord Jesus Christ from the dead. As we know Jesus said, in the Gospel of John, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.’”
I asked the mourners to look around, to look at the trees, the leaves, the grass. On their behalf I prayed to God, whom I addressed as ‘Father’ when really all I wanted to call him ‘that git in the sky.’ Surely, I told God inwardly, what harm could it have caused for this baby to have lived? If you’re so all powerful, why do you let things like this happen?
One of the grandmothers stepped forward to read out a poem written by her daughter. The heartfelt, grammatically incorrect sentences made my fingernails curl into my palm to stop me from crying. Now was not the time.
I spoke again when the reading had finished. ‘Chloë means “green shoot” in Greek. So we could ask, why she cut off so short into her life? Why, on a winter’s day which will end dark and early, did she not come into this world alive and kicking, to grow up amongst us?’
Some of the friends seemed to be listening. The father stood beside the grave, the coffin still in his hands. The mother was held tightly by her own mother. ‘God is in every part of creation,’ I continued. ‘When he made the universe he gave everything free will. It’s like cars on a road. Ideally they should get to where they set out, but sometimes accidents happen because their drivers take wrong turn. So too with our cells. Sometimes they take a wrong turn and a life ends. We would say, prematurely, before her time. But God is outside time. Age doesn’t matter to him. All life, no matter how long or short in human terms, is of equal worth. All this is a sacred mystery. We cannot get our minds around it, but one day we will.’
And, I told God, I hope you have jolly good answers for me. For all of us.
‘I think Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin can explain better than I can.’ That brought up the teacher’s head. ‘Christopher Robin knows he’s going away, and he tries to explain to Pooh. “Suddenly Christopher Robin called out, ‘Pooh!’ ‘Yes?’ said Pooh helpfully. ‘Pooh, when I’m –you know –when I’m not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?’ ‘Just me?’ ‘Yes Pooh.’ ‘Will you be here too?’ ‘Yes, Pooh, I will be really. I promise I will be, Pooh.’ ‘That’s good,’ said Pooh. ‘Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.’ Pooh thought for a little while. ‘How old will I be then?’ ‘Ninety-nine.’ Pooh nodded. ‘I promise.’ Then with his eyes set on the world, Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh’s paw. ‘Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won’t you?’ ‘Understand what?’ ‘O, nothing.’ He laughed and jumped to his feet. ‘Come on!’ ‘Where?’ said Pooh. ‘Anywhere,’ said Christopher Robin. So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.”’
My throat was tight, and I paused to take a few deep breaths. ‘We don’t understand why tragedies happen. We can only be like Christopher Robin and have a childish view. Saint Paul puts it like this. “For now we see as through a mirror dimly, but then we shall see face to face. Now I know only in part, then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love.” And in that love we entrust Chloë to that even greater, eternal love of God.’
I led us in prayer, thanking God for the love in which Chloë had been conceived and asking that her parents might find their love for each other growing through their grief. However, the distance between the two teenagers made me wonder how strong their relationship had been even before the pregnancy. I blessed the ground, and at my nod, the father lowered the coffin into the cold earth.
One by one, the mourners lowered a single white rose into the grave. I gave them a final blessing, then strode away to leave them to comfort each other. I longed for a large drink to provide some warmth to my outer and inner chill. But it wasn’t even lunchtime, and I had to keep a sober head for the afternoon’s meeting.
Morey was perched on a nearby tree. He waited until I’d opened the passenger door of my car before swooping down to land on the seat. I removed my surplice and cassock, dumping the tangled collection of white and black into the back seat before tossing my white stole on top. I waited until I was also inside the car and all doors were shut before turning to the gryphon. ‘Why, Morey? Why do babies die?’
To my surprise, he didn’t reach out to the Bible or even his beloved Aquinas. ‘One evening, before the Day of Atonement, Rabbi Levi Yitzchok asked an illiterate tailor, “Since you couldn't read the prayers, what did you say to God?” The man replied, “I said to him, Dear God, you want me to repent of my sins, but my sins have been so small! I confess to this. There have been times when I failed to return to the customers the pieces of left-over cloth. When I could not help it, I even ate food that was not kosher. But really, is that so terrible? Now take yourself, God. Just examine your own sins. You have robbed mothers of their babes and have left helpless babes orphans. So you see that your sins are much more serious than mine. I’ll tell you what, God. Let’s make a deal. You forgive me and I’ll forgive you.”’
‘And what did the Rabbi say?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Rabbi Levi was furious,’ Morey said. ‘He shouted, “You let God off too easily!”’
I sighed. ‘I’m not certain that story would help those parents.’
Morey said softly, ‘I didn’t tell it to help them.’
Remembering his aversion to sudden hugs, I simply reached out a hand and gave him a head scratch. Then I glanced at the car’s clock. ‘There’s just enough time to go home and change. Then we’d better head off to Birmingham.’
The usual clothing dilemma hit me in my bedroom, and I didn’t have the luxury of time to fret for too long. The board members, I was certain, would
be in expensive, hand tailored suits. No doubt a mixture of high-priced cologne and perfume would fill the air. Their shoes would probably have cost more than I earned in a month. I gritted my teeth, reminded myself that they’d probably only stare at my dog collar anyway, and pulled on my best suit jacket.
Unlike our last visit to the Birmingham offices of Wiseman Agricultural, this time I had to make my own way. Nervous of how my ancient car would look parked alongside the sleek luxury motors of the corporate world, I’d actually spent some time giving her a wash. But the roads to the cemetery had added mud splashes along the front and sides. I could only hope that the visitor’s parking was well away from the reserved spaces of the company executives.
The drive was far less pleasant without expensive whisky to pass the time. I was too nervous to play a Big Finish CD, and Morey protested at any attempts to put on music. Traffic was relatively light, at least, and I was pulling into the car park with thirty minutes to spare.
I turned off the engine. Morey’s red-brown eyes glittered at me. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’
‘We don't have a choice,’ I reminded him.
‘Your bishop could have offered some advice.’
I shook my head. ‘I was the one who trusted Susie to keep her mouth shut. It’s up to me to sort this out.’
‘Not you,’ Morey said firmly. ‘Us.’
‘You’ve visited Susie?’
‘Two days ago.’ He sniffed. ‘She did wonder why I’d landed on her shoulder, but I took off again before she could ask any questions.’
‘As long as she can still see the unicorns when she checks her Powerpoint one last time.’
‘How do you know that she’ll use Powerpoint?’
‘She’s in big business. They feel naked if they don’t use Powerpoint.’
‘But I wasn’t able to visit Wiseman,’ Morey continued. ‘What if she tried to run it past him before the meeting?’
I sighed. ‘I can’t prepare for everything, Morey.’
