by Chrys Cymri
‘We can only hope that the Nation didn’t find a new one,’ I said. ‘Although they did seem rather fixated on lefties like Clyde.’
The snail shark was already a good thirty yards ahead of us. I scrambled to catch up. ‘Tad,’ Jago said, his tone thoughtful, ‘the way Uncle Clyde talked to Tamar. Is that how Christians act?’
‘That’s how Christians should act,’ Morey answered. ‘I’m very proud of my godson.’
‘The question is,’ I said to my Associate, keeping my voice low, ‘is that how a Christian priest acts?’
Morey stiffened. ‘Now, Black, really. Bishop Aeron wouldn’t even confirm a snail shark. Are you seriously suggesting that the Church should consider ordaining one?’
‘You watch,’ I said. ‘You listen. See what you think.’
The sun warmed my face. I patted my jacket, and was relieved to find a folded baseball cap. Another pocket held a small tube of sunscreen. Maybe I was finally learning how to prepare for my trips to Lloegyr.
Clyde continued at a quick pace, leading the way across the uneven ground of grass and rocks. The gorse was in full bloom, long branches embracing boulders with streams of yellow flowers. Morey and Jago flew overhead, falling and rising as my Associate gave his son tips on flying technique. I slid my hands into my pockets and suppressed the impulse to whistle. As days off went, this was shaping up to be a good one.
We took a break after an hour. I chewed on my granola bar and watched Jago go into a long dive. Morey sat next to me on the broad stone. ‘He’s coming on well,’ the gryphon said. ‘That’s the sort of angle he needs to use, if he’s to take down larger prey.’
‘Certainly,’ I agreed. ‘I mean, carrots can be quite tricky. And as for cabbage, you never know when it might put on an extra burst of speed.’
‘My son is not going to become a vegetarian.’ Morey’s tail whipped against my back. ‘He’s just trying to rile me.’
I shook my head. ‘I think Jago only ever says what he means, and he means what he says.’
‘I’ll be the laughing stock of the clan. A vegetarian gryphon.’
‘He’s not likely to ever live with your clan,’ I said. ‘How would they know?’
‘The rats will tell them.’ Morey sighed. ‘Rats find out everything. And they love to spread gossip.’
‘Twitter on wings.’
‘Exactly. Telepathic Twitter on wings.’
I reached out to stroke his raised fur. ‘Children grow up to make their own decisions. All we can do is accept them.’
‘It’s not always easy.’ He tilted his head to look up at me. ‘What should I do?’
I smiled. ‘Love him. Be proud of him. No matter what, he’ll always be your son.’
‘Time?’ Clyde called out.
‘Yes, I'm ready to move on.’ I rose to my feet, and a moment later had gryphons on either shoulder. ‘And when is it my turn to be carried by someone?’
‘It’s not far now,’ Jago said excitedly. ‘The stone circle is just up the hill.’
I groaned. ‘Those unwelcome words. “Up”, and “hill”.’
We wove our way around rocky outcroppings. My calf muscles were beginning to ache as the monument came into view. The stones looked as well polished as ever, but the tufts of grass lapping around their feet made me suspect that no snail shark had been to visit for some time.
Clyde zoomed past the two main stones. I would have liked a pause to catch my breath, but the snail was charging ahead. With a muttered curse which brought an enquiring noise from Jago, and a rebuke from Morey, I stretched my legs to catch up with Clyde.
As I had feared, he had decided that we’d use the entrance behind the central slab to access the cave system. Clyde slid down the ramp, and the two gryphons flew after him. Which left only me to scrabble for handholds as my boots fought for purchase on the slimy wood.
The floor was as muddy as I remembered. I sighed as my feet sank in deep. My companions waited with varying levels of patience as I fought to retain my shoes with each heavy step.
‘Flying is so much easier,’ Jago said cheerfully when I finally reached them.
‘Jago,’ Morey hissed, pointing his beak at Clyde.
The small gryphon’s crest fell flat against his head. He hopped over to the snail shark. ‘Sorry, Uncle.’
Clyde bent his tentacles to touch Jago’s beak. ‘Okay.’
I rubbed at my eyes, pushing back the tears. ‘Where next, Clyde?’
The snail shark led us along a passageway. Glow-worms brightened the walls, casting their blue-white light over the rough stone. Puddles loosened the mud from my boots. We went down, then up again, and emerged into what had been Clyde’s private chamber.
The dank smell of rotting vegetation made me sneeze. The fresh moss and herbs which had once covered the floor were now a congealed mess. I glanced to my left, and was relieved to see that the cages were broken and empty. As were the pens. Both birds and lemmings, I hoped, had found their way outside.
Something stirred on the raised platform. A massive snail shark, the size of a large dog, stared down at us. The jaws opened to reveal teeth as long as my hand. He turned, and I saw the crescent wing symbol painted on his shell. The General.
Jago flew up to my left shoulder. Morey strode forward to stand beside Clyde. And I slid my hand into my trouser pocket, feeling for the reassuring weight of the knife which I always carried.
Colours swirled through Clyde’s body, then that of the larger snail. ‘Jago?’ I whispered.
‘It’s not easy to understand the General,’ Jago said. ‘He’s not happy with Uncle Clyde, though.’
‘He’s not happy?’ I spluttered. ‘He’s the one who tore Clyde’s wing off.’
‘He’s not happy because the Nation is gone.’ Jago cocked his head. ‘There’s still no new left-spiralled snail, so there’s no one to take over. Soldiers have left, the breeding pens are shut down, and he’s hungry.’ The gryphon pressed himself hard against my neck. ‘Are snail sharks ever vegetarian?’
‘Just you stay up there, lad,’ Morey said, his back arched and his wings loose. ‘Next thing I’m going to teach you is how to talon snail tentacles.’
‘No fight,’ Clyde said firmly. Then he pulsed a series of bright colours at the General.
I prodded Jago with one finger. ‘It’s a bit confusing,’ the gryphon complained. ‘Uncle Clyde’s telling some sort of story. About two children, and a father, and one of them going away and coming back? And the one who stayed being very angry?’
‘Luke 15: 11-32,’ Morey said. ‘The story of the prodigal son. I take it Clyde is comparing the General to the older son, who refuses to celebrate restoration?’
‘Sort of. I think he’s telling the General that he’s welcome to become part of a new group.’
‘The older son was invited to join the party,’ I said. ‘If the General can swallow his pride, he can be part of the Community.’
The snail shark drew back. Orange swirled around his body, then red and brown. I recognised the signs of a snail shark in a rage, and I forced myself to move forward to stand alongside Morey and Clyde. My Associate glanced up at me, and I muttered, ‘“One for all, and all for one.”’
‘Un pour tous, tous pour un,’ Morey agreed. ‘Excellent book, The Three Musketeers. Well worth a read, particularly in the original French.’
‘I watched the TV version.’ At Morey’s look, I explained lamely, ‘Well, Peter Capaldi was in it. Just before he left for Doctor Who.’
‘Uncle Clyde’s still talking,’ Jago broke in. ‘He’s telling the General that there’s so much more than being down here. There’s a wonderful world outside, and the General could be part of it. Oh, now he’s talking about God. That’s those really nice colours, Auntie Penny.’
The General reared up and opened his jaws. The sharp sound of teeth clashing against teeth echoed unpleasantly through the chamber. Clyde leaned forward, and his shell lifted away from his body. The white scars, all that remaine
d of his beautiful wings, shone against his grey body.
The much larger snail lowered his tentacles, eyespots fixed on the reminder of what Clyde had once been. Then, with a long wail which made my chest ache, the General turned and sped from the chamber.
Clyde started to go after him. Morey blocked his way. ‘Mark 10: 22, Clyde. Jesus let the rich young ruler walk away. Sometimes we can’t help another person. We have to let them follow their own path.’
‘Yes,’ the snail said sadly.
We left through a passageway set behind the platform. As we plunged deeper into the cave system, the air became warmer and the smell reminded me of village halls. Musty and in need of a thorough clean. The glow-worms were steadily diminishing in number, and I patted my pockets in vain for a light. In the end I pulled out my iPhone and hoped the battery would see me through. The lack of any signs of life was eerie. Had all of the Nation’s snail sharks deserted their home?
‘Clyde, where are we going?’ I finally thought to ask.
‘Breeding pens.’
I stumbled. But it was too late to turn around. I gritted my teeth, kept my phone aimed towards his shell, and resigned myself to our descent into hell.
The next chamber was empty of snails. Or, at least, live ones. Glow-worms swarmed over the ceiling, casting light over the shell of Clyde’s mother. The broken pieces rested on a flat-topped stone. Nearby was the blue handled shovel. I found myself shivering. ‘This place hasn’t been touched since the Spirit Ceremony.’
Clyde looked at up Jago and moved his tentacles. ‘Uncle Clyde wants you to bring the shovel.’
‘Really?’ I shoved my trembling hands into my trouser pockets. ‘What on earth for?’
‘We might need it in the breeding pens.’
‘I’m not using it against snail sharks. Never again.’
‘He says you won’t have to.’
I gritted my teeth. Although the slime had dried, the circle created by snails during the Ceremony was still evident. The whole experience was one I’d rather forget. But I forced myself forward, pushing against memories to retrieve the shovel. It was what Clyde wanted, and I owed him at least that much. I tucked the handle under my left arm.
We retraced our steps, and continued the downwards journey. A short while later, the passageway widened out into a huge cavern. ‘Golau,’ Clyde called out, and glow-worms lit up in response. I stopped just inside, amazed at the row upon row of terraces that had been carved into the walls. Mould covered the shelves. A few rounded mounds told me that snail eggs had once rested there. Now, like Clyde’s chamber, a lack of care and attention had allowed rot to set in.
Clyde halted in the centre of the floor. And snails moved from the edges of the cave to meet him. The large ones, bodies nearly white, crawled slowly across the hard rock. Younger snails reached Clyde first, their slime much fresher than that of their weary elders. But they, too, looked unwell. I tried to estimate the number, and decided that the total couldn’t be over sixty. Cornelius had once said that the escargatoires held three hundred pups. I tried not to think about what might have happened to the rest of the them.
‘He’s saying sorry for the way they were treated by the Nation,’ Jago interpreted without prompting. ‘And that they can leave the caves and join the Community. They don’t have to be captives here any more.’
Morey took his usual place on my right shoulder. “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.” Quoted by our Lord from Isaiah 61.’
Jago peered around my chin. ‘How do you do that, Tad? Remember all those bits from the Bible?’
Morey began to fluff his chest and I braced myself to hear him utter something profound, possibly in Latin. But he visibly brought himself back under control. ‘I’ve studied the scriptures for decades. Although it comes naturally to me now, it’s only the result of long and hard work. What’s more important than the quote is knowing how it applies to your life.’
‘Does what you’ve said apply to Uncle Clyde?’
Morey pulled back to look me in the eye. ‘I’m wondering about that myself. Penny has already mentioned one possibility.’
Clyde turned and waved his tentacles in my direction. ‘Hands?’
So I was useful at last. I dropped my iPhone into a pocket and walked over to the collection of snails. The breeder snails pushed forward the most obviously ill pups, and I knelt down to pick them up one by one. ‘I’m no expert,’ I told Clyde, ‘but I think all they need is fresh air and food. Let’s get the pups outside.’
‘Outside,’ Clyde agreed. ‘Shovel. Shells.’
Now that was a good justification for carrying a shovel. I held out the blade and allowed as many pups as I thought safe to crawl onto the metal. Some of the smallest weren’t even as long as my thumb. Clyde and the larger snails held still as pups crawled onto their shells. Then, moving slowly with our precious burdens, we headed back up through the cave system.
With the shovel blade cradled close to my chest, I didn’t have a hand free to light the passage with my phone. I picked my way carefully, fearful of tripping up and losing any of the snails. It was good that an object that had been the cause of death and sorrow could now be used in the cause of hope and freedom.
The number of glow-worms increased as we returned to the upper levels of the complex. But I didn’t breathe easy until we’d passed Clyde’s cavern and reached the exit to the moors. The sight of natural light had never been more welcome.
I squelched my way through the mud and placed the shovel at the base of the rough ramp. The pups followed their elders up and out, the gryphons hovering protectively over the smallest ones. I gave the shovel one last glance, then put my hands on the bottom branches.
Clyde flowed part way down. ‘Bring shovel.’
‘Really? Why?’
But he was gone again. Muttering about the mysterious ways of snail sharks, I ran my coat through the handle, tied the sleeves back around my waist, and let the shovel trail behind me like some unwelcome albatross. That was the bird, wasn’t it, which had been hung around someone’s neck? Morey would know, but so would Google, which I could search once I was back in England. And Google wouldn’t make sarcastic comments about my lack of literary knowledge.
The snails had coated the wood with fresh slime. The sleeves of my grey fleece were damp and sticky by the time I reached the top of the opening. I pulled myself onto the grass and checked my wrist watch. 3pm. Not much time to make a return trip to the Community and pass back through the crossing to my back garden.
The snail pups had crawled onto the flat stone resting nearby. I took a seat on an unoccupied section. The shovel clanked against the rock, and I untied my jacket to let it fall to the ground.
A movement drew my attention to the standing stones. Tamar came towards us, followed by a half a dozen snails from the Community. She stopped at the foot of the rock, and her tentacles reached up to Clyde.
Jago landed on my left shoulder. ‘She says that they’ve come to help take people to their new home.’
Two of the large snails slid from the stone and pressed against Tamar. Blue and pink swirled across their bodies as their tentacles intertwined. ‘Know her,’ Clyde told me. ‘Pens.’
I nodded. Tamar had told us that she’d been part of the breeding programme, kept in the cavern against her will. Could some of the larger pups be her own children? There was probably no way to tell.
‘We’d better start heading back,’ I said. ‘It’s a long walk, and I’ve promised to be back home by late afternoon.’
‘Tamar will lead most of them to the Community,’ Jago said. ‘Some, the weaker ones, are going to come home with us. Uncle Clyde will make another crossing.’
Morey looked up from his place at my elbow. ‘Useful talent, that. Best we keep it secret.’
‘I know and I have,’ Jago said smu
gly.
I bent down to speak into Morey’s furry ears. ‘More snail sharks in my back garden,’ I said in a low voice. ‘How many more can we take in?’
‘They need help, Penny,’ he replied. ‘How can we ignore them? It’s our Christian duty. Remember what Jesus said to the sheep and the goats. “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”’
Snail pups slid onto the shells of Nation and Community alike. As the snail sharks trundled off into the distance, I lost sight of the differences between them. Around thirty were left on the slab, and I did feel a pang as I looked at their pale bodies.
‘Make crossing,’ Clyde said, coming to my side.
As I lifted him into the air, I pointed out, ‘We haven’t seen any lemmings.’
‘No wings, no Great Leader.’
I winced at the reminder. ‘Or Cornelius, come to think of it. I hope he’s okay.’
‘“The insects here are no bigger than a minnow in a fishing pond,”’ Morey intoned, ‘“and the winters are cold enough to freeze the wings off a bee.” I think that praying mantis will always land on his feet. All six of them.’
Clyde opened his jaws, and the air shimmered as I lowered him to several inches above the matted grass. I put him back onto the stone, and used the shovel to mark the thin place. ‘Morey, can you check no one is watching from the other side?’
The gryphon zipped through, flying just above the blue handle. A moment later he was back. ‘All clear.’
I picked up the snail pups and, one by one, fed them through into England. It was a bit disconcerting to see my arms disappear from sight, and feel the warmth of England’s sun on my palms. Finally only the two gryphons, Clyde, and I were left on the Lloegyr side of the crossing.
The sun was lowering in the sky. Rays picked out the images carved into the stones. I looked up at the winged snails and shuddered.
‘What’s wrong, Auntie Penny?’ Jago asked.
‘Those Eternal Leaders,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s because of them that so many snail sharks lived terrible lives, and died such terrible deaths. Just because they had special abilities, they thought they deserved power and worship. If there had been no Eternal Leaders, there would never have been a Nation. No Nation means there wouldn’t have been a Community. And no Community means the Noble Leader wouldn’t have come to our world. Clyde would have known his real mother.’
