by Chrys Cymri
The usual chaos broke out as the doors opened and parents pushed their way in, desperate to leave their children behind for a morning. I took in registration forms and inhalers, and answered the same questions over and over again about when we would finish, could they come a bit later, and were nuts going to be served? Morey showed admirable restraint and managed to stay with me for five minutes before he became bored and flew off.
The children were rounded up and escorted to the main hall. The music band kicked off with some loud number which made me wince. Something about God being compared to a submarine, at least according to the actions of the presenters on the stage. Morey was seated on the piano, and from the twist in his ears I could tell that he shared my opinion.
But I called up my best smile and made my way to the side of the stage. Next up was the drama. Every year I argued for gender blind casting. Every year I failed. So yet again, the Roman Catholic priest was playing Jesus. I had been given the part of Mary Magdalene, along with strict orders to keep away from the traditional understanding of her original occupation. We were in front of pre-teen children, after all, and we didn’t need them to go home asking their parents, ‘What’s a prostitute?’
Simon, the Catholic priest, might be nearly twice the age of Jesus, but he had a genuine gentleness and warmth to him that often left me feeling ashamed. Though I did wonder if not having the hassle of a spouse or children meant that he was less stressed.
So we disciples literally sat at his feet as our Jesus told several of his parables. Pictures of fields, coins, and sheep were flashed onto the screen hanging above the stage, since children couldn’t be trusted to pay attention unless they could also see an image. Another argument I had lost. I obviously had a greater trust in the imagination of children than my fellow ministers.
The drama ended, we had another loud song about God being our ‘mate’, and then the children were split into groups and taken off to smaller rooms. I wasn’t a group leader this year, so I was able to return to the desk and finish filing the registration forms into alphabetical order.
I stepped outside for fresh air and to try, once again, to speak to James. No answer, so I left yet another message on his iPhone. ‘Hi, James, it’s your sister. It’s been four days since you went to Nenehampton, and I’m just wondering how you are. I hope whatever meetings you’ve having are going well. Give me a call when you’re back in England?’
I put my iPhone away. Yes, it was silly to worry about him more now that he was only sixty miles away instead of eleven thousand. But although we hadn’t spoken that regularly in the months since Alan’s death, James had usually responded within a day or so when I’d left a message. This silence was not like him.
Of course, it could be that he was still in Lloegyr, and so out of contact. But that worried me even more.
Again I put on my largest smile and visited each of the groups. Children seemed happily engaged at throwing glitter at one another and attempting to stick bits of paper to hair. The group leaders were coping good-naturedly, and I managed not to be dragged into any particular challenge.
The last group contained the youngsters with more challenging issues. Simon was working with the four boys who, to be honest, were mostly in their own worlds. But the great calm which hovered around his shoulders had affected the children. Three were engaged in their own projects and looked quite happy.
The fourth was sitting at one side of the room, staring into space. Or, at least that’s what I thought. Until I looked closer and saw that he was actually looking at Morey. And, from the tilt of the boy’s head, listening to him as well.
‘So, Edward, that’s what Jesus meant,’ the gryphon was explaining quietly. ‘The shepherd loves all his sheep. He doesn’t want to lose even a single one. So Jesus will search anywhere and everywhere to find his lost sheep. And when he’s found him, he will carry that sheep home himself. Jesus looks for each of us, because we’ve all lost our way. All he asks is that we let him find us.’
The boy stretched out a hand. I held my breath. But Morey fluffed his neck feathers and allowed the chubby fingers to pat his head. ‘Chicken,’ said Edward happily.
‘It always comes down to that, doesn’t it?’ Morey asked resignedly.
‘Penny?’ Simon had noticed that I was still in the room.
‘You seem to have everything under control,’ I said, reminding myself that the priest could neither see nor hear Morey.
‘They’re good lads.’ Simon grinned at the one building a tower out of Lego.
Morey flew to my shoulder as I left. I waited until we were well away from other ears before speaking to him. ‘Autistic children can see you?’
‘Define “autistic”.’
‘It’s to do with brain development. Autistic people seem to live in their own world. Like those boys in there. They have problems with communication and social interaction.’
‘It’s not so much in their own world,’ Morey mused, ‘as in a different world. When do they grow out of it?’
‘They don’t. That’s the pity.’
‘Why pity? They see what others don’t.’
‘But it’s hard for them to fit into normal society.’
‘Or maybe normal society finds it hard to fit in with them?’
One of the kitchen helpers was approaching. I assured her that it would be okay to take coffees to the group leaders, and carried around a tray of hot drinks myself.
Everyone went back to the main hall for more loud songs, and one leader offered prayers which were deeply anodyne. I made a mental note to find her later and have a quiet word. Children, in my experience, had a profound spirituality of their own and did not need to be patronised.
Finally, collection time was upon us. Passwords were requested and given. I handed out children and flyers for the next day’s activities. Soon both children and parents were tittering as they scanned the information. ‘It says “willies”!’ one girl was shouting excitedly. ‘Pack your “willies”!’
‘Stupid autocorrect,’ I muttered. ‘Wellies. Bring your wellies because we’re going on a walk tomorrow.’
Then I moved from one end of the age range to the other. After a quick sandwich, I drove to the village to visit one of the oldest members of the congregation. Mary insisted on making the cup of tea, pushing her walker around the kitchen to move between fridge, kettle, and tea pot. We sat at the small table while I listened to her worries about her hips, her cat, her son, and the famine in Africa. In that order. Morey had gone to sleep around my neck and I could feel him snoring through my hair.
‘But there’s something I did want to ask you about, Vicar,’ she said.
I smiled, wondering if there might finally be some use of my three years’ worth of theological education. A question about the difference between the ontological and the economic Trinity? An exploration of the various resurrection accounts? Whether Paul actually wrote the Pastoral letters? ‘Go ahead.’
‘What is “twerking”?’
‘“Twerking”,’ I repeated, wondering if I’d heard her right.
‘Yes. I heard the word on the news. What does it mean?’
‘Don’t give her an illustrated example,’ Morey warned in my ear.
As if. ‘It’s a dance move.’
‘Like the Charleston?’
‘A rude dance move,’ I elaborated unwillingly.
‘My my my, Vicar, you’ve gone all red,’ Mary said, laughing. ‘Is it really that rude? I did have seven children, you know. Can your gadget show me what it looks like?’
I pulled out my iPhone and showed her several photos. ‘There are videos.’
‘No, I should think I’ve seen enough.’ She laughed again. ‘Young people. They never change. Always trying to shock their elders.’ Then she leaned forward. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Vicar?’
‘Goes with the dog collar.’
‘I wasn’t a virgin when I married.’ Her smile was sweet, and took years off her wrinkled face. ‘Oh, the wedd
ing day was all arranged, but Frank was in the army. He was to be shipped off three days afterwards, and I wanted to have as much of him as I could. In case he didn’t come back.’
‘And you ended up having seventy years together.’
‘Mostly happy. Not always.’ Her thin hand came to rest on mine. ‘You didn’t have that many, did you?’
‘Fifteen years.’ I felt tears pricking the back of my eyes. ‘Our marriage wasn’t perfect, we had our arguments, but I do miss him.’
‘Arguments showed that you talked to each other. So it’s the arguments that you miss.’
‘The wisdom of elders,’ Morey said, and I knew he was thinking of Seren.
We sat awhile in silence. An old woman, a thirty-six year old priest, and a young gryphon. But grief, as it often does, made companions of us all.
Chapter Twelve
The Doctor Who theme reverberated in my pocket. I retrieved my iPhone. ‘Hi Peter.’
‘Penny. I--do I hear kids shouting?’
‘Certainly do.’ I stepped away from the other adults. ‘They’re jumping up and down in a pond.’
‘I guess it’s the right weather for it.’
I glanced at the grey sky. ‘They’re in wellies. Not swimsuits.’
‘Are you scraping mud off kids this afternoon? Or are you free?’
‘I’m free,’ I said promptly, not really caring if I were or not. If one more child shouted ‘Willies!’ at me, I was going to run screaming in the opposite direction. ‘Why?’
‘Have you ever heard of snail sharks?’
The day was warm, but I found myself shivering. ‘Yes. I’ve captured one. In a cat box.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Wow. Respect.’
‘Morey helped me,’ I added quickly. The gryphon was in a nearby tree after having endured a splashing from Edward. At the sound of his name he stopped preening and looked down at me. ‘Nasty creature. With a good singing voice.’
‘Well, we’re gathering people to walk through Earls Barton this afternoon. There’s been a lot of chatter on social media about missing cats, stolen dogs, and white vans.’
‘I thought those were always bogus.’
‘The cats and dogs do go missing, but it’s not because people are stealing them. It’s usually the sign of a snail shark infestation.’
I looked around the park, but the grassy section in which I was standing had nothing for me to sit on. ‘An infestation. More than one of them?’
‘Might be a half dozen.’
‘One was more than enough,’ I muttered. ‘What do I bring with me? Chain mail?’
‘Just bring your eyes. We need people with the Sight. My team will deal with the snail sharks as we find them.’
Morey swooped down to my arm as I ended the call. His claws dug into my skin, and I winced. I said to him, ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
‘You could always spend the afternoon cleaning glitter from church carpets.’
He was scratching at a piece of mud clinging to the side of his neck. I reached over and gently rubbed it free. ‘You’re not scared of snail sharks? The one we saw could have swallowed you whole.’
‘I was scared of them. Until I met my mother-in-law.’
I smiled. ‘That’s an old joke.’
Morey stared at me. ‘That was no joke. The first time we met, she bit me. I was limping for a week.’
‘She didn’t like you?’
‘It’s how were-foxes test potential son-in-laws. She bit me on several more occasions.’ He sighed. ‘But Seren was worth it.’
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Earls Barton, as I checked up on Wikipedia while eating a sandwich, has a population of just over five thousand and is known for its Anglo-Saxon heritage. I’d driven past signs pointing to the village many times, but never visited.
‘Why snail sharks?’ I asked Morey as the policeman on the road block accepted my ID and waved me through. ‘Don’t other dangerous things come through as well?’
‘Many of the thin places are too small to allow a larger predator through,’ Morey replied. ‘Snail sharks seem to have a special ability to sense the openings to this world, and they don’t seem to mind all that cold and darkness you have to push through.’
The streets of the town were empty. I drove past the typical Northamptonshire houses which alternated between red brick and brown stone. One of the disabled spaces outside Jeyes was free, and I swallowed guilt as I parked in it.
A cluster of police were crowded near the post office. I locked the car and walked towards them. ‘Morey, what’s the group noun for snails?’
‘A rout of snails.’
‘Well, that’s very comforting.’
‘For snail sharks, however, it’s a rabble of snail sharks.’
‘Not so very comforting.’
Peter detached himself from the other officers as we approached. ‘Good, I told the men on the road block to let you through.’
‘You’ve evacuated the whole village?’ I asked. ‘What story did you give?’
‘Suspected terrorist activity.’
‘Really? In Earls Barton?’
Peter shrugged. ‘I don’t like scaring people, but it’s the best way to clear an area. And to convince them to leave garden gates unlocked. I must admit, it would be easier if we had access to retcon.’
I grinned. ‘You’ll have to speak to Jack Harkness.’
‘Or Ashildr,’ Peter said, grinning back.
‘More Doctor Who,’ Morey muttered. ‘You can go off people.’
‘Then I’d better get down to business. Morey, would you mind flying over to Taryn? She’ll brief you on your role.’
I took in a sharp breath as Morey launched himself from my arm. ‘I need some leather pads,’ I said as I rubbed the skin under the thin shirt.
‘It’s a real problem in summer,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Our group is over here.’
He took me past the police and we rounded the corner. I stopped short. A group of Lloegyr denizens were gathered in the side street. Several unicorns were sharpening horns on brick walls. Two dragons conversed in low tones near a shop window. A number of were-people shifted around, darting too quickly for me to be sure of numbers. What looked to be humans were, no doubt, vampires. And I was startled to see Miranda talking to a small gryphon perched on a bench.
‘Who are they?’ I asked Peter.
‘Members of St George’s church,’ he explained. ‘They have a good communications network, so it’s easy to call them out when we need help.’
‘And Miranda?’
‘We ask for anyone who has the Sight. She obviously wanted to come.’
‘All this,’ I asked, waving a hand around the evacuated village, the police, the church members, ‘to capture a rabble of snail sharks? I mean, I love dogs and cats as much as the next person--’
‘You don’t understand.’ His tone was bleak. ‘They’ll attack children. At least three babies were killed by snail sharks this year in the Midlands alone.’
‘Oh,’ I said weakly.
Conversations ceased as Peter and I drew near. ‘Thank you for responding to our messages,’ he said. ‘I know some of you have helped before, but for those of you who haven’t, let me explain what we’re asking of you. We need your help to find the snail sharks. Those of you who can fly, please form a search pattern over the village. If you spot one, hover in position. The rest of you are here to help us to do a sweep. We’re looking in gardens and parks, anywhere which is green and moist. But please do not try to engage with a snail shark yourselves. If you’re in the air, stay in your hover. Those of you on the ground will be given radios to contact me. I repeat, do not approach any snail shark yourselves. Remember that they’re attracted by movement, so just keep calm and back away slowly.’
The unicorns tossed their heads and looked unconvinced, but they accepted the radio collars. Peter gave instructions on where to begin and how to cover the village. Then, to those who were unfortunate n
ot to have been born with horns or claws, he handed out garden spades. ‘But only as a last resort,’ he warned us. ‘Remember, don’t engage. Just report.’
‘What about me?’ I asked as they moved away.
‘You’re my wild card.’ He laughed at my blank look. ‘I think you have good instincts, so I want you to follow your gut. Go wherever you think you might find a snail shark. Even if the patrol has already swept through.’
I clipped the radio to my belt and watched him stride away. Follow my instincts, indeed. The empty village was making my skin crawl. Too much like an Avengers episode. Any moment now, John Steed would come around the corner, bowler hat on his head, umbrella swinging in his hand, shouting for Emma Peel.
The thought cheered me up, as did the wonderful coincidence that the film Kinky Boots had been filmed in Earls Barton. It was almost enough for me to forgive the annoying lack of a possessive apostrophe. I slung the shovel over my left shoulder and decided to start with the green areas in the village centre.
Dragons and gryphons crossed by overhead. I saw no signs of snail shark around the well trimmed trees, and pondered my next move. If I were a snail shark, where would I be? Would I be out hunting? Or did they have enough intelligence to be aware that they were now themselves being hunted? Would I go into hiding?
A successful predator remains hidden anyway, I reminded myself. And will concentrate on places where there is plenty of prey. And what is the easiest prey to catch? Anything which would find it difficult to flee.
I turned down Shurville Close. In the distance a unicorn whinnied, and I heard a man shout. Otherwise the town was very quiet. I was able to listen closely for what I expected to find in such a country town. Chickens. Surely people in Earls Barton would keep backyard chickens. The snail shark I’d captured in Gregory’s garden had certainly expressed a strong preference for the meat.
It was the sign ‘Eggs for Sale’ which caught my attention. A moment later I heard the clucking of hens. I pushed open the wooden gate on the left of the cottage and walked alongside the brick wall.
