An Unholy Communion

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  Felicity wasn’t sure whether she was gesturing to the ascended Christ or to her fellow ordinands as she flung her arm upward. “Blessed day to be hallowed forever;/Day when our risen Lord/Rose in the heavens to reign.” At the end of the song the jubilant singers leant over the parapet shouting and ringing their bells until Felicity wanted to shout at them to be careful—a warning that she herself needed to heed, as her vigorous waving almost caused her to lose her footing on the steep hillside covered with wet grass.

  See, the Conqueror mounts in triumph; see the King in royal state,

  Riding on the clouds, His chariot, to His heavenly palace gate.

  Hark! the choirs of angel voices joyful alleluias sing,

  And the portals high are lifted to receive their heavenly King.

  The next hymn was as much shouted as sung, but the words were almost drowned out by the crashing of bells in a determined attempt to rouse any of their fellow students who might have been so foolish as to think they could sleep in that morning. The sunrise exuberance continued with a shouted versicle from the tower: “The Lord is gone up on high, Alleluia.”

  And Felicity cupped her hands around her mouth to shout the response: “And has led captivity captive, Alleluia.”

  The tower-top choir began, “Hail the day that sees Him rise … Christ, awhile to mortals given, Alleluia!/Reascends His native heaven, Alle—”

  The final Alleluia never registered in Felicity’s ears. It was extinguished by a much nearer shriek. Her own.

  The piercing scream tore a second time from her throat as she watched in horrifying slow motion a cassock-clad figure from the back of the choir catapult across the parapet and arc over the side of the tower.

  The singing must have continued, as no one on the tower appeared to have seen the terrifying spectacle. But Felicity heard no music, only the shuddering thud as the body hit the earth. Then, appallingly, rolled down the steep hill to come to rest at her feet.

  Too shocked to run, Felicity stood frozen, staring with unbelieving eyes. This wasn’t real. It was her morning’s dream replaying in her subconscious. She squeezed her eyes shut so hard they hurt. The ghastly specter would be gone when she opened them.

  But it wasn’t. This was no dream. Somehow the earlier chimera had translated itself into flesh and blood—a slow trickle of blood oozing from blue lips and trickling into a matted black beard.

  Felicity pulled her mesmerized gaze away from the staring black eyes and followed the line of the out-flung arm to the hand that was almost touching her foot. She jerked her foot away and moaned when she realized she had kicked the white hand. It opened to release a folded scrap of paper.

  Felicity bent to pick it up with fingers so stiff they could hardly grasp the paper. Shaking, she unfolded it and glanced at the strange emblem drawn there. Then shrieked again and flung it from her as the paper burst into flame.

  Chapter 2

  Thursday, continued

  “Are you talking about literal fire? Just pouf, like a stage magician?” Detective Inspector Nosterfield made no attempt to keep the skeptical tone out of his voice. “Sure you didn’t flick it with a lighter?”

  “I don’t even own a lighter. I wish I did. I wish I had some explanation.” Felicity looked around as if one might appear.

  “You use a lot of candles up ’ere,” Nosterfield suggested.

  “There were no candles!” Felicity sounded desperate.

  Antony knew she had had enough of Nosterfield’s badgering. “Inspector, I don’t know anything about stage magic, but even I have heard of flash paper.”

  “You can be assured we’ll test the ashes. I expect we’ll find nitric acid. But that still doesn’t explain—”

  Antony stepped forward, determined to shift Nosterfield’s focus from Felicity. “I thought you wanted to know more about the victim.”

  The stocky inspector in his crumpled suit turned to the priest still clad in the white alb and stole he had donned in preparation for the mass that was to have followed the singing from the tower. “Knew him, did you, Father?”

  “Shall we, er—” Antony indicated the chairs in the classroom Father Clement, principal of the college, had offered to the police to use as an incident room.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, sit down.” Nosterfield sounded as if he were struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice. Antony thought he probably didn’t want to sit in case he needed to charge out of the room and back up the hill to the spot his uniformed officers were marking off with yellow crime scene tape. “Sergeant Silsden,” he summoned a young officer from the other side of the room. The sergeant pulled a notebook from his pocket and they all sat rather uncomfortably in student desks, except Nosterfield who leaned against the heavy lectern. The pale lavender walls in the north-facing room increased the chill of the atmosphere.

  “Hwyl. He’s Hwyl Pendry.” Antony gave Felicity a concerned glance. She looked so pale—her face was almost as white as her T-shirt and her blonde hair fell in tangled tendrils down her back. It gave her a heart-wrenchingly childlike look. Far younger than her twenty-six years. He didn’t want to upset her further.

  Felicity’s shrieks had brought Antony running from the church at such a speed he had reached her side before any of the students made it down from the tower. He had taken her trembling body in his arms and held her tightly, murmuring calming phrases to her until at last she was quiet. By then the hillside around them was covered with the black-robed figures of ordinands, priests and monks from the college and Community of the Transfiguration. He longed to hold her again, but Nosterfield cleared his throat meaningfully.

  “He was an ordinand here several years ago,” said Antony.

  “Knew him well, did you?”

  Antony shook his head. “I only had him in one class.”

  “And that was?”

  Antony hesitated. He knew the response his answer would elicit. “Er—Spiritual Warfare.”

  Nosterfield’s head jerked up. “Oh, yes? Still teaching witch hunts, are you?”

  Antony didn’t reply. This was hardly the time or place for a discourse on the power of evil. One would expect a detective to be all too well acquainted with that reality. But perhaps that was what had made Nosterfield cynical.

  “So you hadn’t seen ’im for a few years? Are you certain it was ’im? People change.”

  Antony closed his eyes and shook his head to ward off the shattering images. He was back again on that hillside, holding Felicity as they both gazed at the broken body that had seemingly plummeted from the sky to land at her feet in a horrible reversal of the Ascension story. He saw again the black hair, the thick beard and the single silver stud in the earlobe. Yes, he was changed. Terribly changed by style, by time and by death, and yet Antony was certain.

  He gave himself a little shake and answered Nosterfield’s question. “He came back once for Deacon’s Weekend. Most of our students do. But I hadn’t seen him since. We didn’t keep in touch, but I’d heard that he had married.”

  “You don’t know where he lived?”

  “I think he went back to Wales, but I don’t know where. It’ll be in Crockford’s. There’s a copy in the library.” Antony pointed out the window to the next building.

  “Crockford’s?”

  “Clerical directory. It’s very complete. It will tell you how to get in touch with him. Er, I mean his wife or bishop or whoever.”

  “In the library, you say?” Nosterfield gestured for Silsden to dispatch himself and acquire the volume. He pushed away from the lectern and took a step toward Felicity. “Well, well, Miss ’oward. You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you?” He stood in front of her, legs apart and arms akimbo.

  “I… I don’t know—I was just there to sing in Ascension Morn—”

  “Inspector, is this necessary? Miss Howard has received a severe shock—” Antony attempted to quell the aggressive inspector.

  “Oh, really? I’d think she’d be getting used to it by now.”

&
nbsp; “Inspector, this is hardly a matter for levity.”

  “You’re quite right, Father. But still, I’m not sure I’d want to be one of Miss ’oward’s friends.”

  Antony started to reply, but Felicity put a hand on his arm and sat up straighter. “It’s all right, Antony. I can answer his questions.”

  Nosterfield returned to leaning against the lectern. “Tell me about this paper you pulled out of the dead man’s ’and.” As Felicity opened her mouth to answer, the detective held up his hand. “And I suggest you think carefully. You realize I could ’ave you up for destroying evidence.”

  “I didn’t destroy it—” she began, then looked at her hand as unbelieving as if the paper were still burning there. “And I didn’t pull it out of his hand. He dropped it and I picked it up. It was a reflex.”

  Nosterfield waited for her to continue. “It was folded. I unfolded it. The paper was light. Like tissue paper, only stiffer. I only had a moment to look at it, but it had a strange marking on it. Heavy black lines. A triangle with horns. Or maybe snakes, I don’t know…” She started to trace the pattern in the air with her finger, but Nosterfield held out a notepad and pen to her.

  Her fingers were so stiff she dropped the pen. Antony picked it up and held her hand in both of his before giving it back to her. “Felicity, this can wait. Let me get you some tea.”

  She gave him a wavering smile then lifted her chin. Ah, this was his courageous Felicity. Her hand was still shaking, but she drew the pattern.

  “Right.” Nosterfield retrieved his notebook. “And what does this mean?”

  “I haven’t any idea.” She shook her head.

  “Father?” He looked at Antony with his eyebrows raised.

  Antony cleared his throat. “The triangle is a symbol of the Holy Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. But I have no idea what this rendering could mean.” Nosterfield continued to hold the drawing out for consideration, so Antony tried again. “The center appears to be a foreshortened triangle. As if it were coming forward. The dark object sitting on it could be a stringless lyre or bulls’ horns with knobs on them, or a two-headed snake?” He shook his head. “Sorry, just wild guesses, I’m afraid.”

  Silsden returned with a thick mulberry-colored hardback book and handed it to his superior. Nosterfield found the listing for Hwyl Pendry and held it out to Antony. “Perhaps you’d care to interpret for us, Father?”

  Antony took the volume. “Yes, name, date of deaconing, date of priesting, address, phone number. I think that’s all quite straightforward.” He started to return the book.

  Nosterfield thumped his finger on the listing. “So ’e was priest in charge of St David’s in Whitchurch. Straightforward enough, I suppose. But what does this mean?”

  Antony looked where the inspector’s finger was pointing. “Ah, deliverance minister. Well, that means he is the priest in the dioceses that is called on for situations dealing with the, er—unusual. That is, extrasensory.” How to make Nosterfield understand without sensationalizing it? “Paranormal,” he finished.

  Nosterfield blinked. “I thought that was all you people ever dealt with.”

  “Shall we say instances from the other side of the coin, Detective Inspector?”

  “Right. So this ’wyl friend of yours,” with Nosterfield’s heavy northern accent the name came out as Owl, “is a ghostbuster, and ’e dies in inexplicable circumstances clutching a piece of paper with a strange mark on it which just ’appens to burst into flame when Miss ’oward ’ere picks it up.” He was silent long enough for his sarcasm to sink in. “Sergeant Silsden, I think someone is ’aving us on.”

  “I realize how it looks, Inspector,” Antony protested, “but that is what happened. I’m sure you’ll agree with me, though, that most instances of the seeming occult have perfectly rational explanations.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that, Father. I wasn’t intending to organize a séance.”

  “I would hardly be recommending that. I should point out, though, that there are instances—”

  “Yes, I’m sure there are, Father. But we’ll leave that to your lot.” The detective inspector gave Antony a long, level look before snapping his notebook shut. “You’ll remain available for the investigation.” His gaze shifted to include both Felicity and Antony.

  Felicity started to nod, but Antony cut her off. “I’ll be happy to leave my contact information with you, of course. But I’m afraid I have plans. That is—something has come up.” He spoke more directly to Felicity than to Nosterfield.

  “What?” Felicity looked at Antony in wide-eyed surprise.

  “And what plans are these?” Nosterfield’s question was leveled at Antony, but Antony turned directly to Felicity to answer.

  “I hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet, Felicity. Father Stephen rang last night. The Youth Walk pilgrimage in Wales our ecumenical council is sponsoring…”

  “Yes, you were advising on the church history.”

  “That’s right. But Stephen broke his leg—ironically, hillwalking to get in shape for the walk. He asked if I could lead it.”

  She sat blinking at him as Nosterfield cut in, “Another pilgrimage?” His brow furrowed. “Do a lot of that, don’t you?”

  “It is an important aspect of our tradition, yes. And the young people are very keen. This is an interfaith walk. If we can break down the barriers among the youth, it gives great hope for the church of the future.”

  Nosterfield shook his head. “You’d think people in a monastery would stay put. So you’ll be where?”

  “Caerleon,” Nosterfield scribbled in his notebook as Antony recited, “then from Llantarnam to Penrhys.”

  “And what’s that when it’s at ’ome?”

  “Er, from near Newport to the Rhondda. And then on to St David’s by bus. It’s part of a reconstruction of a pilgrim route called the Cistercian Way that circles Wales. It was extremely popular in the Middle Ag—”

  Nosterfield cut him off with an impatient gesture. “I’m sure it was. And this ’ere ’wyl just ’appens to be from Wales. You aren’t thinking of meddling again are you?”

  “No!” The exclamation came from Antony and Felicity with equal vehemence.

  Antony could tell by the look on Felicity’s face that she, just as he, was recalling their harrowing experiences retracing their beloved Father Dominic’s pilgrimage route searching for clues to his brutal murder, and then, more recently, Felicity’s journey of discernment which was interrupted by their discovery of their friend’s body in a shallow grave. But this was nothing like that. In a sense, lightning had struck three times in the same place, but this sudden death of a slight acquaintance could have nothing to do with them.

  Nosterfield shook his head. “You’ll get a soaking, but go on then. Leave your details with Sergeant Silsden.”

  Nosterfield gave Antony his card. “Ring if you think of anything you’ve forgotten to mention.” Antony gave his mobile number to the sergeant and promised to get a copy of their itinerary for him. Then he and Felicity departed, leaving the police to interview the others who had been so jubilantly singing in the morn just a short time ago.

  As if by mutual consent, Felicity and Antony turned their steps toward the church. They walked in silence, so close their arms brushed. The heavy wooden door grated on the stone floor, then shut behind them leaving only the remembered echo of a clang. The comfort of lingering incense, soft light filtering through leaded glass, and the sweetness of air filled seven times a day with whispered prayers cocooned them. They took sheltered seats in the choir and sat long, clinging to one another’s hands.

  At last Felicity broke the silence with a long intake of breath. “So. You’re going to Wales?”

  “I’m sorry, Felicity. That was a terrible way to break it to you.”

  “I thought we were going to have some peaceful time together. Plan our wedding…” She took her hands from his and her voice took on an edge of anger. “But of course, if this youth walk
thing is more important to you—”

  “Felicity, nothing is more important to me than you are. I intended to ask you right after mass.”

  “Ask me? You were going to ask? How thoughtful.”

  Antony looked at her. The words sounded sarcastic, but her voice was level. He waited for her next words.

  “So go ahead, then. Nosterfield is right, though, you will get soaked.” She rose to her feet as if the matter was decided.

  Antony grabbed her hand and tugged her back to her seat. “No, Felicity. You don’t understand.” He ran his fingers backward through his hair, then stopped, remembering that he was trying to break that habit. “I was hoping it would be ‘we.’”

  She frowned as if she were translating his words. “You what? You want me to spend my break slogging across Wales with a gang of noisy, spotty teenagers?”

  “It could be fun, Felicity. If we did it together. Relaxing, even. We’ll be walking through some beautiful country—”

  “On trails like the one Father Stephen broke his leg on?”

  Antony ignored that and pressed on. “We’ll stay in lovely old churches, visit ancient holy sites, and the second part will be entirely relaxing—ten whole days on retreat at St Non’s. St David’s is one of the most charming cathedral cities in Britain, and—”

  “Wait!”

  Felicity looked down and shivered. Antony could tell she was reliving the horror of having a dead body drop at her feet. “Peace and quiet. You promise?”

  “Absolutely. Nothing could be more peaceful.”

  Her smile was brave, if wobbly. “I’m just not sure an isolated hillside in Wales will be far enough away from here.”

  Chapter 3

  Saturday

  Caerleon

  Felicity stepped off the train at Newport with her head buzzing. Antony handed her backpack and borrowed bedroll down, and jumped off behind her. The schedule had allowed only a day and a half for her to get her gear together and, more importantly, to get her mind adjusted to this whole new adventure she was setting out on. How could the world have changed so suddenly? Every one of the forty days she and Antony had been engaged had been like living inside a golden bubble as the Yorkshire countryside filled with greening trees, May flowers and tottering lambs. A bubble filled with Easter songs and friends’ congratulations, and shining visions of the future in a world of peace and love. Then a body had fallen from the sky and the bubble burst.