by Chrys Cymri
‘An archdeacon vampire with a soul,’ I said weakly. ‘That’s going to be hard to believe.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Because lots of people doubt that archdeacons have souls.’
The Bishop laughed. ‘You once told me a joke about a blind rabbit and archdeacons.’
I winced. ‘Sorry.’
‘It was irreverent. That’s one of the things I was told to look for.’ He pushed the bottle and his empty glass away, and picked up the mug of cold coffee. ‘And for someone who has seen at least one of Lloegyr’s more unusual citizens.’
‘The dragon?’ I asked, suddenly shocked into remembering the events of just a few days ago. ‘Did I really see a dragon on the A43?’
‘You did. And I’ve been told you did a good job.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m here to talk about a diocesan role. If you’re interested, there is an application form to complete and you’d be interviewed by senior staff from both dioceses.’
‘What sort of role?’
‘Lloegyr, well all of Daear, their word for Earth, seems to exist in a parallel world, or plane, or dimension.’ I suddenly realised how unwelcome all of this knowledge had been to the Bishop, and in that moment I stopped expecting someone to jump out with a hidden camera. He was absolutely serious, the entire conversation was truthfully meant. ‘My first degree was in chemistry, not physics, so I can’t pretend to understand. But some of their people, and ours, can travel between the two worlds. Some do so with full consent from our respective governments. Others do so illegally, or accidentally. So we need people on both sides who can deal with the fallout from unwelcome visitors. Each English diocese has a Vicar General of Incursions. We need a new one, and I’d like you to apply.’
‘Who was the previous one?’
‘Canon Michael Tedbury.’
‘The one who died of a heart attack,’ I said, rustling up the appropriate tone of sympathy.
‘Not a heart attack.’ The Bishop sighed. ‘He made the mistake of looking at a basilisk. The role isn’t without its dangers.’
‘So. Let me recap.’ The room was spinning gently, and I didn’t think it was only due to the whisky. ‘There is a parallel world of dragons and unicorns and bears, oh my, and they’re Christians--’
‘Some of them are. Lloegyr is as multi-cultural as England. They also have Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, and a thriving community of Zoroastrians living in their equivalent of Manchester.’
‘But the Christians,’ I continued, struck by a sudden thought, ‘do they have, well, Jesus as human? Or as a dragon on a cross?’ Then I felt myself flush. ‘Sorry, being heretical is something I usually do deliberately.’
‘They portray Jesus as human,’ the Bishop responded evenly. ‘Centuries ago the Celtic Church sent missionaries, human missionaries, to Lloegyr. At my first meeting with her, Bishop Aeron quoted 2 Corinthians 5: 19. “To wit, that God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto himself.” She pointed out that the Greek word is “cosmos”, the universe, which surely includes other dimensions as well as our own.’
‘They have the King James Bible?’
‘And the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, which they prefer.’ The Bishop grinned. ‘Sometimes, when I receive yet another missive from The Prayer Book Society, I want to recommend that they all emigrate to Lloegyr. They might be happier there.’
I bit my lower lip. I actually quite enjoy the 8:00 am Communion I offer once a month, even if only six people would turn up for a BCP service. ‘Why me?’
‘You meet many of the requirements. I’ll have my secretary send you the role description and application form, and you’ll see that for yourself.’ The Bishop stood, and I also rose to my feet. ‘Oh, do you remember any of your Welsh?’
I dug deep into my lessons at college. ‘Gallaf siarad ychydig o Gymraeg. Why?’
‘Welsh is the national language of Cymru and Lloegyr.’ He grinned. ‘In their world, the Welsh conquered the English.’ Then he was serious again. ‘Do you think you might be interested?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. Once the Bishop was gone, I was going to pour myself a large helping of whisky.
‘It’s just that I can arrange for the first part of your interview to take place this Sunday. You’d have to preach on whether the Bible teaches us that unicorns are real. The text would be Job 39, but the King James Version, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
A taxi was already waiting in the drive. The Bishop gave me one last wave, then climbed unsteadily into the passenger seat. I went back to the kitchen, splashed Talisker into my glass, and pulled over the Bible. Time to read Job 39.
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‘This is the Gospel of the Lord,’ I told my congregation.
‘Praise to you, O Christ,’ they responded.
I turned from the lectern, bowed to the altar, and lifted up the hem of my cassock alb as I climbed up into the pulpit. Then I stepped onto the small box the PCC secretary had made to give me some extra height. I patted down my green chasuble and glanced out across the small church. Twenty five faces looked up at me. All of them were people I knew well, the congregation of St Wulfram’s, people I’d looked after for the last five years. Disappointment rested heavily in my stomach. So much for the first part of the interview. I looked down at my sermon, shrugged internally, and began.
‘I’m not going to preach about Doctor Who today, although we did have that wonderful line in our first hymn, “sovereign Lord of time and space”.’ The congregation chuckled, and I relaxed. These were the people God had called me to serve. That’s what really mattered. ‘You might have wondered why Sally had to bravely read out so much of Job, a book from the Old Testament, although I’m certain a lot of you appreciated hearing the good old King James Version today. Well, I’m going to talk about unicorns. The Bible, in the original Hebrew, seems to mention unicorns. What does that mean for our understanding of the Bible? What did unicorns symbolise back then, in church tradition more recently, and what might it mean for us today?’
I ran through the references, raised issues of translation, and the concerns of biblical literalists. ‘Those who believe that the Bible has to be factually accurate, the Word of God without any error, don’t like finding unicorns scampering through the pages of the Bible. Since unicorns are mythical creatures, does this undermine confidence in the Bible? You all know that I don’t see the Bible that way. I accept evolutionary theory, for example, not a literal six day creation. But what if even literalists didn’t have to worry? What if unicorns weren’t mythical after all?’
I scanned their faces. A number looked interested. One woman had shut her eyes, and was possibly taking a nap. Others, I suspected, were wondering about their Sunday roast and whether they could get any gardening done that afternoon. I bit down on the temptation to throw in a sudden joke, and instead kept to my script, explaining how the mediaeval church had seen the unicorn as a symbol for Christ. The word ‘virgins’ brought a momentary flurry of attention, and I tried and failed not to smile.
‘What about today?’ I asked, reaching my conclusion. ‘We live in a society in which some people argue that believing in God is a silly fantasy. As silly and immature, perhaps, as believing in dragons, or unicorns, or the Fair Folk. But sometimes we can relate better to God as something other than a father, or even as a man. For those who’ve had abusive or absent fathers, God can seem threatening or remote. For those who have been hurt by men, Jesus as a man can be difficult to relate to. So I see nothing wrong with us imagining Jesus as, say, Aslan, the Lion from C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia novels. Or even as a unicorn. The horn of the unicorn carries the gift of healing, and Christ longs to heal each one of us with his love. Let that gift of healing touch you where you need it most. Amen.’
The Creed followed, the prayers, the Peace, and I moved to the altar during the next hymn to celebrate Communion. The words I’ve spoken, Sunday by Sunday for over twelve years, carried me past my concerns about dragons
and sermons, and the continued lack of children at the service. Once again I felt privileged to be placing the wafers into the hands of those who knelt at the altar rail. For over eight hundred years people from the village of Beckeridge had come to this church, and I felt lifted by the centuries of faithful worship.
The last hymn was sung. I blessed and dismissed the congregation, and went to the vestry to change. The small oak box which held Alan’s ashes stared at me from the window, and I changed in a hurry. I had become tired of having my husband’s ashes in the house, so now he could only accuse me of neglect every Sunday rather than every day.
I exited to the smell of coffee wafting from the back corner. Real coffee, not instant. A previous vicar had insisted on it. He had hoped it would bring in new worshippers from the housing estates which now linked Beckeridge with Northampton. No such luck. The congregation still only consisted of villagers.
I collected my mug and wandered from conversation to conversation. Information about a member currently in hospital. A request to talk to a daughter about baptising a new addition to the family. A grump about the flower rota. The churchwarden providing a quick update about the repairs to the churchyard wall. I nodded, tapped notes into my iPhone, and made various promises.
One of the older members of the congregation was seated in a comfortable chair in the children’s area. The woman gave me a smile, and I drifted over. ‘And how are you, Margaret?’
‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, mustn’t grumble,’ Margaret replied. Her wrinkled hands gripped her walking stick as she rose to her feet. ‘Just wanted to say, good sermon, Vicar.’
I smiled at the phrase. ‘Glad you liked it.’
‘Yes. I’ll tell Bishop Nigel that I did.’ And Margaret gave me a wink.
I froze. Margaret? Who had lived in Beckeridge all her life? Who had been baptised, confirmed, and married in St Wulfram’s, and would one day have her funeral here? Margaret?
‘Good sermon,’ the woman said again. And I noticed, for the first time, that the silver top of her stick was in the shape of a slumbering dragon. ‘About time we had a woman as Vicar General. I’ll be praying for you.’
I watched Margaret shuffle out of the church. And a shiver went down my back as I wondered whether coming to serve at vicar in Beckeridge had been a coincidence. For just how long had the diocese been keeping an eye on me?
Chapter Two
The email pinged innocently into my inbox. ‘Vicar position’ read the subject line. The contents below informed me that the documents would be delivered in hard copy by special messenger, and I would have to sign for them. The Bishop regretted the need for me to complete the application form by hand, but surely I could understand the need for discretion in these matters.
Five minutes later the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and rubbed my eyes. The small man standing on the doorstep seemed to shimmer in the morning light. One moment he was a postman, wearing the bright red fleece of the Royal Mail. Then, like a badly superimposed image, his lines blurred into fur and ears, large pupils looking up at me behind a thin red muzzle. Like a fox standing on his hindlegs, I thought weakly. A fox in a uniform.
‘Penelope White?’ he asked in a high voice. ‘I have a package for you. Sorry, but I need to see ID.’
I went into my office and collected my passport. The postman-fox turned it over in his paws, fingers tracing the details and my photograph. I signed the screen of his tablet, and he turned to go.
‘Wait.’ He glanced back at my request. ‘You’re not, I mean—are you really working for the post office?’
‘Weres are always entrusted with the most important packages,’ he told me solemnly. ‘Our union insists on it.’
‘Weres?’
Teeth flashed in a toothy grin, human and canine. ‘Weres. Wolves, foxes, bears, a few cats.’
Then he was gone, striding or scampering, I couldn’t work out which. My head ached. I shut the door, went to the kitchen for a couple of ibuprofen, then went to my desk to open the padded envelope.
The covering letter from Bishop Nigel was encouraging but non-committal. I was asked to apply, but there would be a full interview and discernment process. Next was the job specification. ‘Vicar General of Incursions, Nenehampton Diocese.’ The ‘personal attributes’ were intriguing. The usual list for a priest, such as ‘deep spirituality’ and ‘good communication skills’ were supplemented with ‘an ability to accept different cultures and body shapes’ and ‘due to the nature of the Vicar General’s duties, this role would not suit someone who has a fear of heights, wings, or snakes.’ There was a further warning that ‘The demands of living with an Associate make this role unsuitable for a priest who has children under sixteen years of age.’
An Associate? I wondered. What on earth did that mean? My mind wandered into daydreams about turning the spare bedroom into a den for a dragon, or perhaps having a unicorn to keep the back garden in trim. I had to force myself to return to the paperwork in hand.
The application form started off in the standard format. My personal details, dates of deaconing and priesting, my qualifications and previous career history. Then it became interesting. Instead of asking me to write about my theological influences or worship style, I was asked to provide three hundred word pen portraits on dragons, unicorns, gryphons, were-creatures, vampires, glacial erratics, and one other ‘of your choosing.’ This was followed by a list of books, TV series, and films, and I was asked to tick which I’d read or seen. I was amused that some of my favourite books, such as the Riddle Master Trilogy and The Dark is Rising Sequence were included, but none of the Harry Potter series. TV shows included Wizards and Warriors, Doctor Who, and seemingly anything created by Joss Whedon, but I was disappointed that Sapphire and Steel had not made the list. I was pleased that the three Star Wars ‘prequel’ films had been ignored.
The final page didn’t ask me to state why I was interested in the position. ‘Please write, in this space only, how Genesis 1:27 can be applied to were-wolves.’ Easy, I thought, picking a pen. Of course a were-wolf is made in the image of God. So long as he, or she, has the capacity for change, love, ethical choices…
By mid afternoon I’d ignored a number of telephone calls and completed the form. No request for referees, which, I decided, made sense. Anyone I’d listed would think that the role specification was a joke.
I slipped the form back into the pre-addressed envelope. The top right corner, instead of boasting a stamp, bore a sticker with the instruction, ‘Press here for posting.’ I studied it for a moment, then touched my thumb to the smooth surface.
A moment later the doorbell rang. This time a postwoman was at the door, and her features shifted from human to bear. I quickly handed her the envelope. My headache was threatening to return. The woman gave me a receipt, and loped away.
I glanced at my wrist watch. Parish life had to continue. Time to listen to answerphone messages and get ready to make a funeral visit. I gathered up iPad, car keys, and my most sympathetic expression as I headed out.
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I dashed from my car to the door of St Mark’s rectory. The storm porch was inadequate protection from the amount of rain sluicing from the dark sky. I pressed the door bell, hoping that Gregory was hovering nearby.
A moment later my spiritual director had opened the door and pulled me inside. He greeted me with, ‘I hope you’re building an ark? I certainly am.’
I ran a hand through my shoulder length wet hair. A few dark strands came away. ‘I’m fresh out of manpower. Typical English summer, isn’t it?’
‘More like October than July,’ Gregory agreed. ‘Coffee? Tea? Earl Grey?’
‘Earl Grey, please.’
I followed him through to the kitchen. White y-fronts were drying on a rack near the radiator, and I politely looked away. ‘Busy?’ Gregory asked over the sounds of the kettle boiling.
‘Not this time of year.’ I wandered over to the kitchen window. The back garden glowered in the dim lig
ht, bushes huddling together for protection against the insistent rain. Garden birds clung with grim determination to the swinging bird feeders.
The bushes parted, and a snail crawled out onto the short grass. I blinked. A snail, certainly, but it was the size of a small dog. A blackbird hopped across the garden, shiny eyes intent on an insect. I took a deep intake of breath as the snail suddenly lunged forwards, mouth splitting open to reveal double rows of jagged teeth running lengthways down the soft belly. The blackbird protested loudly as the snail’s jaws closed around the black chest. Wings flapped helplessly as the creature bit down, hard. Then, with a few quick chews, the snail swallowed the entire body.
‘Penny? Are you all right?’
I realised that my hands were gripping the kitchen counter. The snail’s tentacles rose, and the eyespots seemed to meet my gaze. I turned away, convinced that the snail had actually winked at me. ‘Fine,’ I lied. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
We settled into his study. I relayed my usual concerns. The deanery team, the parish, attempts to start writing my blog again, distraction during prayer. Gregory nodded, made a few comments, smiled, reassured. He was into his third decade as a priest, and had developed unflappability along with his grey hair. Finally he asked, ‘But everything else is fine?’
‘Oh, yes, everything’s fine.’
He studied me for a moment. ‘What did you see in my garden?’
‘Rain, bushes, bird feeders--’
‘What did you see that I couldn’t?’
I felt my mouth dry. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m pretty certain a snail shark has set up a den under my rosebush. I’ve found the pellets. They cough up what they can’t digest, just like an owl does.’
‘A snail shark,’ I repeated tonelessly. The room was spinning gently, and I longed for a stiff drink.
‘About the size of a Yorkshire Terrier. You saw it, didn’t you?’ I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. ‘Which means you must have recently touched a citizen from Lloegyr. Am I right?’
