by Chrys Cymri
‘A dragon. Six days ago.’
‘I understand the Sight wears off in ten days or so.’
‘“The Sight”?’ I repeated. ‘Isn’t that a Scottish term?’
‘If a term is useful, use it.’ Gregory’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. ‘Does Bishop Nigel know about the dragon?’
‘He came to see me a few days ago.’ I scrubbed at my forehead. ‘Why do you know about all this?’
‘I’m in the Deliverance Ministry team.’ He shrugged. ‘Most times we’re called out to visit a house or a person, it’s nothing much. A little local disturbance, a troubled teenager, and either a blessing or counselling is what’s needed. A couple of times, it’s been something more.’ His grim tone warned me not to ask any questions. ‘And, then again, occasionally it’s because a creature from our sister world has crossed over. And unless you’ve touched one recently, you can’t see them. So you can understand why we’re called in. If we’re satisfied it’s not a poltergeist, we contact the Vicar General.’
‘Bishop Nigel has asked me to apply for the post.’
‘Has he indeed?’ Gregory studied me for a moment. Then he rose to his feet. ‘In the meantime, can you help me trap this snail?’
‘What?’
‘It’s already eaten one of my neighbour’s cats.’ He grimaced. ‘I have an old cat box and a slice of beef. I thought we could put the box outside, throw in the meat, and you could drop the door when the snail’s inside. I’d rig up a rope so we’d be a safe distance away. What do you think?’
‘Have you seen the size of its teeth?’
‘I told you, I can’t see it,’ he said patiently. ‘I’d do it myself, but I wouldn’t know when it’s gone inside the box. Will you help me?’
I found myself agreeing. At least the rain had finally stopped. Gregory placed the plastic travel box near where I had seen the snail, and showed me how a twitch at the rope would drop the door into place. He placed the beef inside, and we both withdrew to stand near the kitchen door.
‘Father Gregory?’ a voice called over the fence. ‘Are you there?’
‘Maddie?’ Gregory glanced down at me. ‘I’m a bit busy right now.’
‘Nonsense, you couldn’t possibly be gardening after all this rain. I need to talk to you about the bring and share lunch on Sunday.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered to me. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He went through the garden gate to meet his visitor.
And suddenly I was alone in the garden. I crouched by the house, staring at the sodden bushes. The rain was beginning again, only a few spots thus far, but I’d already decided that I was not going snail baiting in a downpour. Gregory would have to find some other way of ridding himself of this pest.
‘This won’t work, you know.’
The voice was high-pitched, male, and had a Welsh lilt. I felt my heart sinking as I scanned the area. Was the snail taunting me? ‘Why not?’
‘Snail sharks won’t touch carrion. Fresh meat, that’s what they’ll eat.’
‘And you know this because?’
A movement in a tree drew my gaze. Two red-brown eyes blinked back at me. Dull yellow skin separated the eyes from steel-blue feathers. A sharp yellow beak and clawed feet told me that this was a predator bird, although I’d never seen a falcon this small. He was only about a foot long.
Then two ears swept forward. Cat’s ears, although trimmed with feathers. The creature stood. Four legs. He had four legs. The forelegs were covered with purple-grey feathers, and the fur the same colour continued along the sleek back to the feline hindlegs. A furred tail emerged past short tail feathers and curled towards the purple-black wings.
I blurted out, ‘You’re a gryphon.’
‘Oh, she’s a sharp one, she is.’
‘But I thought gryphons were larger.’
‘All this ego in a large package? Duw a’n gwaredo. Doors wouldn’t be big enough to get my head through.’ He swooped across the garden and landed on the wheelie bin resting nearby. ‘Know anything about snail hunting?’
‘This is my first time.’
‘Live bait. That’s what you need.’ He cocked his head, and I straightened under his scrutiny. ‘You want this snail?’
‘I’m doing a favour for a friend.’
‘Good enough. I’ll fetch the snail into the box for you. But only if you’re standing beside the box.’ The gryphon pointed his ears at the rope. ‘Snail in, me out, door down. I don’t want a rope breaking at the wrong moment.’
I had no desire to be that close to a carnivorous snail. But I found myself unwilling to show fear under the gryphon’s fierce gaze. ‘Okay. I’ll be ready to drop the door.’
‘Good girl.’
I felt my feminist hackles rise. ‘Do you want to pat me on the head as well?’
‘No, but you should scratch mine.’ He stretched forwards. ‘I’m not having you lose sight of me when the snail’s at my tail.’
I stretched out a finger and gingerly touched the flat forehead. The feathers were soft against my skin. The ears bent back as I ran my nail along to the folded wings.
‘That should do.’ The gryphon shook off my hand. ‘Places, ladies, gentlemen, and any undecided genders.’
I made my way across the grass. By the time I reached the cat box my trainers were already soaked through. I untied the rope, removed the stick propping the door open, and hooked my fingers into the plastic top.
The gryphon flew down to the grass. He strode over to the edge of the bushes. ‘Oi, snail, come and get it! Fresh gryphon, ready and waiting. I mean, look at these lovely legs. And this meat on the breast.’ The feathers fluffed. ‘And these haunches, let me say, in wonderful condition. Young gryphon, nothing like it. You’ll never want to eat blackbird again.’
The bushes shuddered. Two tentacles emerged, eye spots fixed on the gryphon. The gryphon’s tail lashed from side to side, reminding me of a cat stalking a bird. More snail emerged, and the long jaws cracked open. ‘Cyw iâr?’ a thick voice asked hopefully.
‘Cyw iâr?’ the gryphon repeated indignantly. ‘Chicken? Gryphon tastes nothing like chicken, I’ll have you know.’
‘Cyw iâr.’ Then the snail sped into the open. I had a blurred impression of purple-black fur as the gryphon half ran, half flew past me. Then he was in the box, clinging to the air holes in the roof.
But the snail swerved. I found myself staring down into the large mouth, the teeth which vibrated as the snail sped across the uneven ground. The snail shark probably couldn't kill me, but I was certain it could easily remove one of my hands. And I’m quite attached to my hands.
An idea swept into my mind. There was no time to ponder, only act. I reached into the box and grabbed the gryphon, tearing his claws loose from the plastic. He squawked as I pulled him out and threw him into the air. Then, as the snail was about to reach my feet, I up ended the box and slammed the door opening over the snail’s body.
The snail crashed into the side, and I threw my weight onto the container. Part of the snail’s foot was trapped by the door edge, and he shouted long and loudly. I didn’t need to reach back to my Welsh lessons to realise that he was swearing and that in some way my mother was involved.
The gryphon, perched in a nearby bush, responded in Welsh, his tone equally robust. The snail eased off into indistinct grumbling. ‘If you lift up the end from his tail,’ the gryphon told me, ‘he’ll crawl inside. He promises.’
‘And why would he agree to do that?’
‘Because otherwise I’m going to eat whatever I can reach, that I will.’
‘You’d do that?’ I asked, appalled. ‘But it can talk.’
‘Do you eat pig?’
The thought of a bacon sandwich was enough to make my stomach growl. ‘Yes.’
‘The pigs in Lloegyr can talk.’
‘Not the pigs in England.’
‘How would you know?’
The snail’s low voice cut through our argument. I tipped the box, releasing the
tail. And the snail crawled deeper inside. I dropped the door, fastened it securely, and took several deep breaths. My heart was pounding and I could feel sweat prickling along my forehead.
‘Penny, I’m so sorry, that took longer--’ Gregory halted as I straightened. ‘You’ve caught it? I’ll get onto the Bishop’s chaplain. She’ll know who can return this chap to Lloegyr. Well done.’
‘I had some help.’ I looked back at the bushes, but the gryphon was gone. And I’d never even asked for his name, I realised. Who was he? I had the strong suspicion that his appearance had not been a coincidence. I was willing to bet a plate of escargot that we’d meet again.
My trainers squelched as I stepped back into the house. I bent down to remove them. When I straightened, Gregory thrust a glass of brandy into my hand. ‘I don't know about you,’ he said, sipping from a second glass, ‘but I need this. I accidentally touched the beast. Penny, I’m so sorry, I hadn’t quite realised how many teeth it has. I would never have asked you to help if I’d known.’
‘No harm done.’ Except to my nerves. The glass was shaking slightly in my hand.
‘Penny.’ His tone made me meet his dark eyes. ‘How is it with you and God these days? Really?’
‘That’s very direct of you,’ I complained, stalling for time.
‘If you take on this role, if you start dealing with Lloegyr…’ He looked past me, back out to the garden. ‘I’ve not always found it easy to be on the Deliverance Team. I’ve seen things, felt things, which have challenged my faith. You need to be spiritually strong to become involved in worlds so different than our own. Do you still do the Examen every evening?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Not any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘I know God’s with me,’ I said slowly. ‘But as for the next step, gratitude…’ The special quality of my spiritual director’s silence filled the kitchen, giving me the strength to continue. ‘I was finding it hard to find anything to be grateful for. I’m living alone now, and it’s such a big, empty house. Maybe I should get a cat.’
Gregory ignored my attempt at levity. ‘It’s not been that long since Alan died, has it?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Like I said, not long. I was once told you grieve a month for every year you knew someone.’
‘We were married for fifteen years. So I should have finished three months ago.’
‘Give yourself a bit more time,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve sold the boat?’
‘Six months ago.’ I downed the last of the brandy. ‘I couldn't sail her again. I know this sounds strange, but somehow I hated The Fancy Free. Like the boat was to blame for the accident.’
‘Didn’t it happen in a storm?’
‘No.’ I shivered. ‘I’m told it was a beautiful day. But Alan went for a swim, and didn’t make it back to the boat. Or to shore. Heart attack in the water. But you know all this.’
‘No, I don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘We only started together nine months ago, remember?’
‘It was a lovely funeral. Bishop Nigel did a good job.’
‘You have a younger brother, James, don’t you? Were you two able to comfort each other?’
‘Not really.’ I forced a shrug. ‘He went over to New Zealand the moment he finished at university, about two years ago. He didn’t come back for the funeral.’
‘That must have been hard for you.’
‘People handle grief in different ways.’ I was pleased that I’d managed to keep my voice steady. ‘And there’s such an age gap between us. He’s fourteen years behind me. I mean, I’d like to hear from him more often, but that’s just little brothers for you, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Gregory gave me a smile. ‘Let me pray for you and give you my blessing before you go.’
‘You think I might need it?’
His tone didn't match my attempt at levity. ‘Yes.’
A rumble from his iPhone cut off my reply. Gregory took the call, frowned, glanced at me, then made noises of agreement. ‘Sally asked if you can take the snail shark back to your vicarage,’ he said apologetically. ‘Someone will be waiting for you there.’
I gulped. My car is only a small hatchback. Even if I put the snail into the boot, he could still knock down a rear seat and then crawl over to me. ‘How strong is that box?’
‘I’ll wire the door shut.’
I had a sudden idea. ‘Do you have any more of that brandy?’
‘Yes, but you’re driving.’
‘It’s not for me,’ I explained. ‘It’s for the snail.’
The snail flowed to the slats in the door as I waved the glass past the openings. ‘Brandy. Want some?’ I tipped the brown liquid towards the mouth slit. The jaws opened, and once again I was staring at the terrifying teeth. But the snail gulped eagerly as I poured the brandy down his throat.
The snail was hiccupping quietly as we carried the box out to my car. I hesitated for a moment, then placed the carrier on the back seat. I buckled it in, and muttered quick prayers under my breath to both Saint Christopher and Saint Francis as I drove away from Gregory’s house.
Half way through the journey, just outside Milton Keynes, the hiccupping stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then a gruff voice started singing. In Welsh. My ears rang with what sounded like a football chant. I wondered if this were a sample of what my life would be like if I became Vicar General. Dear God, I found myself praying, is this really what you want me to do? I’d like some sort of sign, just for a change.
The chant changed into the Welsh version of ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer.’ The rich baritone voice would have graced any church choir, assuming they could accept a carnivorous snail as a member. As the notes rose and fell, I wondered whether God were giving me a message, or just having a good laugh at my expense. In my experience, it’s often difficult to distinguish between the two.
Chapter Three
I realised I was distracted when the driver in the car behind me pipped his horn. I quickly pulled myself back into the slow lane. Now was not the time to lose focus. The A14 was yet again undergoing roadworks, and drivers around me were losing patience and gaining speed.
Summer had decided to visit England today, and I was sweating under my suit jacket. The air conditioning in my eleven year old car had stopped working a year ago, and I’d not seen any need to get it fixed. Now I was in danger at arriving less than fragrant to the interview.
Don’t think about it, I told myself firmly, and found myself instead thinking about the morning’s telephone conversation with a policeman. He’d wanted any details I could provide ‘about the car collision on the 14th of July on the A43.’ A few awkward sentences followed, and then he advised me that he was part of ‘the Lloegyr liaison team’ and he was aware that ‘the deceased was a dragon.’
There was little, of course, that I could tell him. The officer already knew Dominic’s name, and confirmed that death occurred due to collision with an automobile. ‘Very sad,’ he said with a sigh. ‘A bit of a scandal, really.’
‘Oh, why?’ I prodded, knowing that a vicar was often entrusted with more information than a member of the general public.
‘Well, he died naked.’
‘He was a dragon.’
‘And a monk. He wasn’t wearing his cowl. You didn’t see it nearby, did you? Dark grey? We’ve combed the woods, but we couldn't find it. Or his crucifix.’
‘I can’t say I was really looking.’
The policeman had chuckled. ‘Your first time?’
‘Definitely. You’re going to tell me that you get used to it.’
‘No, you never really get used to it, but it does make life more interesting.’
As I drove into the car park of the Nenehampton Diocese offices, I had the feeling that life was definitely about to become far more interesting. I slid from the car, and tugged my jacket into place. Alan had always said that the gesture made him think of a knight readying his armour before going into battle.
The Archdeacon of Northampton was waiting for me at the door. ‘Hey, kid. How’s tricks?’
From anyone else, the playful manner would have seem forced. I smiled at Ian. He’s one of the most genuine people I’ve had ever met. I once told him that he was like a golden retriever. He knew the rules but decided he’d rather have fun. I allowed him to give me a quick hug, then I stepped back to look up at him. ‘Well, I’m here.’
‘Good start. The other archdeacon’s upstairs. Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’ I signed the visitors’ book and followed him up to the second floor. The letter rested in my jacket pocket, but I didn’t need to look at it to remember the schedule. 11:00 am, meet the Archdeacons of Northampton and Hammtun. Noon, lunch with representatives from both dioceses. 1:00 pm, written assessment. 3.30 pm, interview. It was going to be a long day.
The Archdeacon of Hammtun rose as I walked into the small meeting room. I was disappointed at how ordinary he looked. A few inches taller than me, hair greying around the temples, rimless glasses perched on a sharp nose. The grey eyes behind the lenses were equally sharp, and I straightened under his quick appraisal. Then he came forward and gave me a bow. ‘Reverend Penelope White, croeso, greetings and salutations. My name is Rhisiart Cadwalader. Please call me Rhis.’
His voice held the same Welsh lilt I was beginning to identify with denizens of Lloegyr. ‘And I’m Penny.’
He waved me to a seat. ‘This is not a formal part of the interview, Penny. Ian and I are here to give you an opportunity to ask us questions.’
‘Especially any you’d rather not ask at the interview.’ Ian plunked a mug in front of me, then threw himself into a chair next to Rhis. The much smaller man moved his own chair to avoid the arm threatening to spill into his personal space. ‘So, kiddo, ask away.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything.’
I licked my lips, and glanced at Rhis. ‘Are you a vampire?’
