An Unholy Communion

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  The picture was of hands, held upward as if in prayer, filled with light radiating outward over the amethyst background. Felicity turned the card over. Healing Hands. One Free, Lymphatic Drainage massage, it said, and gave the address of Anne’s shop. “Marissa is absolutely magic. Come by tomorrow. You’ll feel worlds better,” Anne assured her.

  “Yes, I know she’s good. And thank you. I will.” Felicity slipped the card in her pocket, then blew her nose again.

  The nave filled rapidly with worshipers, and soon the organ atop the pulpitum was pealing out the chords of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the threefold ascription to each person of the Holy Trinity. Felicity stood with the singing congregation as the white and gold-robed clergy and red-robed choristers processed up the aisle behind the crucifer. In spite of her months of training, Felicity, busy wiping her watery eyes, might have failed to acknowledge the passing cross had her seatmate not bowed so low.

  In spite of their earlier alarms for the service, it proceeded without a hitch through scripture readings and prayers. “Almighty and everlasting God, who has given us thy servants grace by the confession of a true faith to acknowledge the glory of the eternal Trinity, and in the power of the Divine Majesty to worship the Unity: keep us steadfast in this faith, and evermore defend us in all adversities; who livest and reignest, one God, world without end.”

  “Amen.” Felicity was thankful for Anne Morgan beside her, who kept her on track with the responses as she found her mind wandering.

  Felicity made no attempt to focus on the sermon, but the calm, confident air of the dean as he delivered it reassured her. If Antony had succeeded in warning Dean Williams of possible peril, it had not flustered him. She also found it reassuring that Rhys Morgan and other sidesmen, as well as robed vergers, stood along the walls of the side aisles as if posted there for vigilance. So perhaps Antony’s warning had been taken seriously.

  At the conclusion of the sermon, Felicity stood with the others to recite the familiar words of the Nicene Creed, then realized that this was Trinity, the one Sunday in the year when the Athanasian Creed with its powerful Trinitarian affirmations was recited. “We worship one God in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity, Neither confounding the Persons, nor dividing the Substance…”

  Felicity fumbled to find her place in her worship folder. “… The Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory equal, the Majesty co-eternal…” Anne’s firm voice beside her helped her pick up the unfamiliar rhythm. “… The Father eternal, the Son eternal, and the Holy Ghost eternal.

  “So likewise the Father is Lord, the Son Lord, and the Holy Ghost Lord. And yet not three Lords, but one Lord…” And then the clergy, which had been sitting in front of the pulpitum for the service of the Word, processed through the choir to the high altar for Holy Eucharist. Felicity smiled, knowing how this would please Antony, who didn’t hold with the popular practice of celebrating Eucharist at a nave altar in replacement of the high altar.

  After the consecration, which Felicity could hear but not see, the communicants moved forward, up the sloping aisle, up the steps to the pulpitum, through the choir with the choristers singing on either side of them, “I bind unto myself today/ The strong Name of the Trinity,/By invocation of the same/ The Three in One and One in Three…” And on through “St Patrick’s Breastplate” as Felicity, following Anne, continued her ascending journey to kneel at the altar rail and receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

  “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise,” the clergy and choir recessed at the end of the service, leaving Felicity relieved that nothing untoward had happened, and yet a bit deflated. They had been wrong. She had been wrong. It made such perfect sense. But had she imagined the whole thing? Had she completely misunderstood or mistranslated what she thought she heard that night outside the cave? She had to admit a certain amount of it had been guesswork. But still…

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Anne Morgan touched her arm.

  Felicity jumped. “Oh, yes. Thank you. No, really, I’m fine.” She stifled a sneeze and wiped her nose with a hanky. “I was just thinking.”

  “You’ll be much better after that massage tomorrow,” Anne assured her. “Are you coming to coffee now? In St Mary’s Hall?”

  “Oh, um, I’m not sure. I need to find Father Antony.”

  “Of course. Well, I’ll see you in there if you do.”

  “Yes. Thank you. It was lovely to worship with you. Thank you for sitting with me.” Felicity meant it. She felt that, distracted as she was, she might not have made it through the service without Anne’s assured prompts.

  Antony slid into the pew beside her. “I’m so sorry,” she began. “I feel such a fool. But I was so certain. I hope I didn’t make you look foolish in front of the dean.”

  “Not at all. No worries. He appreciated the caution. You noticed the guards he posted?”

  Felicity nodded.

  “And he thanked me for the scrynne, although he hasn’t heard the story yet of exactly how I found it.” Antony grimaced, undoubtedly dreading having to confess his snooping.

  It was the mention of their adventure in the Bishop’s Palace and Chloe’s joining them at that moment that made her recall what Chloe had heard there yesterday. People planning a service in the ruined chapel. Had they been watching the wrong place? Had another group taken advantage of the fact that everyone else would be in the cathedral to hold a black mass or something— with the instrument of power? With a blood sacrifice?

  Felicity jumped up and remembered where she was, just in time to temper her voice. “We’ve been looking in the wrong place; I’m sure of it. Come on, maybe we aren’t too late.”

  She all but ran around the cathedral to the gatehouse of the Bishop’s Palace. But it was boarded tight. “Open 1:00,” the sign said. “Yes, of course, they wouldn’t hold a black mass during visitors’ hours.” She thought for a moment, then called, “Come on, this way.” Chloe had mentioned scaling the unrestored garden wall behind the palace; Felicity could get over it easily.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Michael, Ryan and Lydia had caught up with Antony and Chloe, who had followed her out of the cathedral. Good. She had back-up.

  It was a lengthy sprint through the trees around to the crumbled bit of the wall, but Felicity felt fueled by the assurance that she was on the right track at last, and had very little time to make up for her mistake. What if they were too late and the desecration had already occurred?

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Lydia demanded when she caught up, panting for breath.

  “We were in the wrong place. It wasn’t the cathedral. Chloe heard them talking. I misunderstood.” Felicity grasped the stones on either side of the breech in the wall and pulled herself upward. It was a maneuver she would normally have had no trouble accomplishing, but her cold and sleepless night had weakened her. Her fingers slipped and she felt herself sliding back, until Antony caught her and she was through the wall with a single boost.

  She heard Antony instructing the others: Michael to come with him, Ryan, Lydia and Chloe to watch the exits. Go for help if need be. Antony and Michael were by her side in a moment. Her impulse was to rush across the courtyard and up the outside stairs leading to the Great Chapel, but that was far too exposed. Anyone glancing out one of the broken window arches would see them approaching. Instead she ducked into the darkness of the undercroft and made her way as if through a tunnel. At the end, she and the others emerged next to the stairs.

  Crouching to avoid observation, Felicity started for the steps, then turned back. “I’ll go up this way. You two cover the other doors in case they run.”

  “Um, Felicity,” Michael said. “In case who runs?”

  She looked around. She didn’t see anyone else. She listened, straining over the pounding of her own heart. She heard nothing but the birds in the woods beyond the walls. Well, she would check for herself. Straightening her spine she ascended the stairs to the Great Cha
pel where Bishop Gower had held Holy Communion services for his honored guests. The room was deserted.

  She heard Michael stifle a guffaw as he went back down the stairs, but Antony came to her. She examined the floor under the east window, looking for—what? Scratches of a pentagram? Feathers from a black rooster? Blood from…? There was nothing. She walked to the piscina and ran her hand over the smooth purple sandstone, even examining the drain hole. All was dry. No vessels, holy or otherwise, had been washed here.

  She dropped her head into her hands. Antony put his arms around her. “Am I going crazy?” She whispered. Maybe the strain of the past weeks had been too much.

  She leaned into Antony, feeling so safe, so secure. They stood there for some time. The sun was warm on her head. The gentlest of breezes murmured through the open windows. She felt her body relax.

  And then they both jumped. It was a voice. And yet it was unvoiced. Standing apart from Antony, Felicity craned her neck, examining the shadows in all the crannies of the arcaded parapet, expecting a ghostly face to appear in any of the arched openings. It was unnaturally quiet. Not even the twitter of birds reached them. And then she heard it again. Not a voice. Not a roar like they had heard at the coal mine exhibit. It was more of a vibration. The vibration of high tension wires that could sound like singing. But there were no wires anywhere around. The sound swirled around them—a high tension shriek with the whisper of voices over it. Felicity wanted to clap her hands to her ears, but she knew that wouldn’t keep it out.

  By common consent they walked the length of the chapel to the northwest corner where the belfry rose, capped by its spirelet. Antony put his head through the opening and looked up. He withdrew, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

  And then, just when Felicity thought she would scream to blot out the sound, it quit. Felicity’s knees buckled and she sank to the floor with relief, as one might do if a strong wind they had been leaning into suddenly ceased.

  “We were right,” she said. “They were here, but we couldn’t see them. They were laughing. Mocking us.”

  Then she realized how hysterical that sounded. She had no idea who “they” were. She forced herself to take a deep breath. “No. There has to be a rational explanation. It must have been some kind of an echo.”

  “It sounded electronic to me,” Antony said. “You sit here. I’ll check around, just in case.”

  Felicity was more than happy to wait. But when Antony returned from a careful search of the parapet, adjoining chambers and even the undercroft, he had found no evidence to support any assertion of the rational.

  Chapter 26

  Monday

  St David’s

  Candles flickered on the altar of the tiny, womb-like St Non’s chapel as Antony sat with his prayer book open on his knees, his mind awhirl. Only three days remained of their pilgrimage/retreat. He couldn’t remember a time when he had ever spent so much effort on an endeavor and accomplished so little. Actually the account was all to the negative: there had been little spiritual refreshment, much encounter with apparent evil; the renewal he had promised Felicity had turned to exhaustion, her cold worse this morning; he had no answers for Dilys, so the appalling verdict of suicide would stand.

  But to accept that would be to let evil win. His whole life was built on the premise that the power of good was stronger than the power of evil. That the good would ultimately win. He could not, would not abandon that foundation. But faith was all he had. Blind faith. No plan of action.

  He closed his prayer book and knelt on the cold stones before the altar. A votive candle flickered before the gleaming brass cross. An aureole of white light radiated from the arched window. He was engulfed by the numinous. All he could see was light. He was surrounded by light. Hidden in light.

  He breathed the light into his soul. Opened himself to the light.

  Feeling stunned, all but blinded like St Paul on the road to Damascus, he stumbled from the chapel.

  “Father Antony.”

  Antony put up his hand to shade his eyes, straining to identify the female Welsh voice carrying a note of authority.

  “Constable Gwen Owen,” the speaker supplied. “We’re hoping you can help us. Dyfed-Powys police are clamoring for action. They’re getting leaned on by Abergavenny. That missing lad’s father has turned up and is raising the roof. Apparently your lot are the last ones to have seen him.”

  Antony registered that at least she didn’t say last to see him alive. “But I don’t understand. He isn’t missing any more. He turned up. Lydia got a call from the school. No, the parents of a friend of Adam’s…” Antony felt chilled as the realization washed over him. Whoever had kidnapped the boy must have rung Lydia claiming to be friends. She hadn’t actually spoken to Adam, had she? “Well, I don’t remember exactly what she said. Lydia can tell you.” Antony turned toward the retreat house.

  “We’d like that very much, only Miss Bowen isn’t in her room.”

  “Someone will know where she is.” Antony led the way to the dining room, where several of their group were lingering over breakfast.

  No one, however, had seen Lydia that morning, and they were aghast to hear that Adam was not, after all, back at his school.

  Felicity, red-eyed and red-nosed, spoke up from the end of the table. “I knew it! That was Adam we saw in the cave. The Orbis Astri have him. I knew it all along. Do you think they have Lydia, too? Chloe, show them your pictures.”

  Sister Nora efficiently turned her computer over to Chloe and the police officer. Antony and Felicity peered over their shoulders. Antony felt Felicity shiver beside him as the familiar images of the strange ritual filled the screen.

  Constable Owen nodded. “Yes, we found wax on the rocks. Powdered lime on the hard earth of the floor—could have been used to make a design like that triangle diagram you described. Who knows?”

  “But nothing more?” Felicity asked. “No fingerprints? No DNA?”

  “You can’t get prints from rocks. And everyone was shrouded head to toe; they even wore gloves. As good as SOCO protective gear.”

  Chloe pulled up the best picture of the small figure that Felicity believed was Adam. “I don’t care what his sister says. I think that boy is the right size. It’s Adam, I’m sure of it. And he’s drugged. Chloe, show Constable Owen some of the pictures you took of Adam on the walk.”

  “Sure. I got some good shots of him that first day we met.” She opened a folder labeled Mynydd Meio and began turning through them. “Adam wasn’t on the mountain. I met him at the tea break—”

  “Wait! Turn back,” Constable Owen ordered.

  Chloe started back at the beginning of that folder with pictures none of the group had seen before. “Who’s that?” Owen asked.

  “That’s Joe. Joe Clempson. I took those shots just before I met these great people.”

  Gwen Owen shook her head. “I don’t think so. Of course, he looks different here,” she pointed to the screen, “Tanned, bleached blond, stubble… But it’s him, all right. Brian Wright-Stilson. Wanted for drug dealing.”

  Antony groaned and smacked his forehead. “Oh, Jared said he thought he recognized him from Cardiff. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “Where did you see him last?” The constable pulled out her mobile.

  “Aberdare. A week ago. Jared thought he saw him in the park after the choir rehearsal.”

  “Right. That might be worth following up. And I’ll need a detailed description of your missing woman.” Constable Owen turned to her phone.

  Antony turned to Felicity. “Let me walk you back to your room. You should be in bed.”

  “Nope, I’m going to get a massage. Free, even. The gift of Anne Morgan.” Felicity drew the card from her pocket and showed him. “Lymphatic drainage—whatever that is. Supposed to do wonders.”

  Antony considered. He didn’t like Felicity going there, but he had no concrete reason to dissuade her. “Then I’ll drive you into town. I need to see the dean anyway.”
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  A short time later, he pulled up in front of the lavender storefront with the row of crystals gleaming in the window. “Are you sure you’re all right on your own?”

  She gave him a saucy look. “What, you want to observe my massage, Father?”

  “Get on with you, baggage.” His answer was light-hearted, but he couldn’t help worrying. Something was going on and it was impossible to know who was involved or what their motive was. “Be careful,” he added as the door closed.

  The dean welcomed him into his office and was effusive in his thanks for the recovered scrynne. “We’ll have it tested carefully, of course, but at an initial observation our archivist thinks it likely it could date from Bishop Gower’s time.”

  “Any idea what it held?”

  “Mary Ware, the expert from Cardiff who is still here working on the floor plan you produced—what a treasure trove you are, Father—says it’s most likely too large to have held a relic; she expects it to have been a document, although further tests may reveal more. Now, if you could just find that document, Father, we would have to name a hall in your honor.”

  Antony all but blushed. “I think I’d better confess how I found this.” Haltingly, he told his tale.

  When he looked up, the dean’s face was split in an enormous grin. “Well, well. Our own Indiana Jones, I must say. But I’m curious as to why you didn’t go through more—ah, normal channels.”

  “We thought there might be some urgency.” And Antony laid out the entire tangled tale to Dean Williams.

  Now the dean wasn’t smiling. “This does sound serious. You’ve informed Bishop Harry, I assume.”

  Antony assured him he had, and promised to keep the dean informed if anything else should come to light.

  There was still some time before he needed to meet Felicity, so Antony strolled across the cathedral close and back up to the narrow, winding streets of the quaint city, noting the names as he went: The Pebbles was an obvious reference to the surfacing material of the road; Goat Street spoke of a wandering lost goat or of chevre milk and cheese for sale; Nun Street evoked images of habited women of long ago walking in a tidy procession.