The Marriage of Gryphons (Penny White Book 3)

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘And that too is complicated.’

  I sighed. ‘There must be some commonly agreed laws. Or there wouldn’t be any point to having police or a court system.’

  ‘Agreed codes of conduct, mostly. The police and court systems also have some commonly agreed rules which can be enforced against any species.’

  ‘So what do I have to do to bring in rules against child labour?’

  Morey clicked his beak. ‘You’re assuming child labour is some sort of problem.’

  ‘Children shouldn’t be trapped in factories!’

  ‘What, rather than helping their families by hunting, or planting vegetables, or digging new tunnels? Children have to work if the family is going to eat.’

  ‘Lord Willis quoted something about that at me,’ I grumbled. ‘People who won’t work shouldn’t get to eat.’

  ‘“Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.” 2 Thessalonians 3: 10.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Black, you’re an outsider here. You’re human. You’ve lived in a small town in Lloegyr for all of two weeks. It’s a bit early for you to be starting a crusade.’

  As much as it rankled, I could recognise the sense in his words. I finished my tea, shrugged back into my jacket, and went out into the back garden for some fresh air.

  The ranks of lemmings had been thinned by Clyde’s appetite. I calculated around fifty of the small rodents were huddled together near the fence. Most of the grass had gone, devoured by their own needs and their unwillingness to leave the snail’s presence.

  Clyde was seated on a small rock, gleaming in the mid day sun. I paused. His shell was darkening, changing from grey-brown to purple-black. I found myself suppressing a shudder. Clyde was beginning to look more and more like his mother.

  The moment he saw me, Clyde’s tentacles rose and his body pulsed with green and blue. I reached down to rub his shell, running my fingers along the left hand spiral. ‘And how did these lemmings come to you, Clyde?’

  ‘Thin place.’

  ‘I know you can find thin places.’ I paced around the edges of the garden, my hand tapping at the dark wooden fence, touching the shed which huddled at the back, and rapping the rabbit hutch. ‘But I don’t think there’s one here. And even if there were, land anchored thin places only led to the equivalent place on Earth. It’s the air ones which cut through to somewhere else. Can lemmings find their way through air crossings, like search dragons?’

  ‘Flew,’ the snail said. Then he sang, ‘“Angels from the realms of glory, wing your flight o’er all the earth.”’

  ‘But it’s the lemmings who come and worship you,’ I said drily. ‘Just don’t let it go to your head.’

  Clyde slid from his rock and came to my feet. I used both hands to pick him up, and brought his eyespots level with mine. For a moment we regarded each other. Then he reminded me, ‘Love you.’

  ‘Oh, Clyde.’ I ignored the mud clinging to his body and cuddled him against my chest. ‘I love you too. Even if you leave half-eaten lemmings in my garden. Are you ready to come inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I placed Clyde on newspapers at a safe distance from the fireplace. Morey had gone out. I made tea for myself and the snail, and then I brought my laptop into the lounge and started to work on Sunday’s sermon.

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  ‘May I speak, and may you hear, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,’ I told the congregation from the pulpit.

  ‘Amen,’ they responded, and those who could took a seat.

  I looked down at the pages of my sermon. ‘In today’s Gospel reading, we heard Jesus tell the story of the three lost things, namely the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost son.’

  My eyes slid down to the pews below me. James had made one of his rare trips to church. His arms were crossed to make sure I realised the sacrifice he’d made for my sake. Clyde was seated next to him.

  ‘These are one story, as is clear from the Gospel of Luke,’ I continued. ‘The Pharisees have challenged Jesus because he “welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Luke then tells us, “Jesus told them this parable”, which means that all three are meant to be understood together.’

  I knew all about lost sons. For a while, my own brother had been lost to me. He’d gone off to make a life for himself in New Zealand, and it had taken a rescue from a dragon longhouse for him to explain why he hadn’t come back for Alan’s funeral. Now he was a young man who freed snail sharks and battled dinosaurs.

  ‘In the first part of the parable,’ I continued, ‘Jesus draws upon imagery well known from the Old Testament. The Good Shepherd will always go after the one last sheep, searching until he can bring her safely home.’

  The sheep who was lost in the wilderness, at risk from thieves, and wolves, and lions. Helpless until someone came to carry her safely home. The images of the children I’d seen in the factory went through my mind.

  ‘And the second image is of God as a woman, who loses something precious in her own house. Of course God would search for us, more precious than a silver coin in her sight.’

  The pufflings chained under a mansion, forced to live near the stench of their own midden. Who was going to value them? Not the Lord whose house they kept warm with their flames.

  ‘And then perhaps one of the best known stories from Luke, the prodigal son.’ I stared down at my carefully typed notes. ‘The younger son had everything he could have wanted, didn’t he? A place to live, a secure job, the love of a father. But he wanted more, and he demanded more. So he asked for his inheritance before his father was dead. An insult, really, because by asking he was basically telling his father, “I wish you were dead.”’

  Dead. The young dragons who had escaped their families would be dead if they hadn’t found their way to Caer-grawnt. But was that any excuse for keeping them in bare courtyards with only a small shed for shelter?

  ‘Then, as young people often do when they suddenly gain new wealth, the son goes off and spends it all too quickly.’

  The love of money is the root of all evil. Should someone live in luxury whilst his workers worked long hours and suffered as a result? I found myself recalling the sores under the harnesses of the unicorns and dragons.

  ‘The son doesn’t realise how far he was from the father,’ I continued. ‘He was far from his father, even when he lived in his father’s house. He had to go away, to a far country, where he lost everything, before he realised what he’d had at home.’

  A young unicorn foal, only a few months old and too young for Sunday school, pulled loose from his dam and charged up the aisle of the church. Mouths expanded into grins and ears flicked in amusement as the colt tested his hooves on the tiles near the choir.

  I stared at his perfect horn, and something choked within me. ‘We don't realise what we have,’ I said, ‘until we realise what others lack. And when we realise what they lack, it’s our Christian duty to give it to them.’

  Two hundred eyes merely watched me, waiting for a return to the biblical story. I took my sermon and dropped the papers to my feet. ‘The son suffered because the citizen who hired him wouldn’t even give him enough to eat. An utter lack of compassion for someone who was lost, and alone, and too young to know better.’

  Morey rose up on the curate’s seat, balancing on his hind feet as he met my eyes. His ears were laid back in warning. I gave him a grim smile.

  ‘The son had to return to his father to learn the lesson that love is more important than money, and that the weakest are to be protected and honoured.’ I was well aware that I was misrepresenting the parable, but I didn’t care. ‘What are we supposed to do when we see the innocent, the helpless, the exploited among us? Should we act like that citizen, and ignore them? Let them suffer in the midst of their labours?’

  I gazed around at the congregation. ‘Children are to be valued. Jesus told us that. “Let the children come to me,” he told his disciples. And he also told them, “Whoev
er welcomes this little child welcomes me.” Jesus had harsh words to say about those who caused children harm. “It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck.” We’ve been warned about the consequences of not protecting children.’

  A few members of the congregation shifted in their seats. Cadfan’s face was neutral, but Aislin’s face was drawn downwards in a frown. ‘You here today value your children,’ I continued. ‘They’re in Sunday school this morning. Monday to Friday, you send them to the Caer-grawnt primary school. But what about the other children of this town? Where are they this morning? Where are they every day? Well, I know, because I’ve seen it. They’re living under houses or in back courtyards to provide heat for factories and the mansions of the rich. They’re running up and down factory floors, losing fingers and bits of horn to keep spinning machines working. These children are suffering. Why? To benefit the rich. So that the wealthy in this community can have a good life, a life built upon the backs of the vulnerable.’

  Now there was more unease. I pressed on. ‘Those children should be in school. They should have the time to learn, and to play. Children are your future, they deserve protection as much as that lost sheep, that lost son. They are as valuable to all of us as that lost coin.’

  I paused for a moment. A name came to mind. ‘In my own country, there used to be slavery and child labour. A man called William Wilberforce, because of his Christian convictions, worked tirelessly to end the slave trade. Later on, Factory Acts and Education Acts meant a vast improvement in child welfare.’

  Perhaps I could be the William Wilberforce of Lloegyr? This could be the start of a revolution in this country as well. But I couldn’t do it alone. Surely those listening to me, here today, would understand the necessity of change? For a moment I saw visions of myself addressing their version of Parliament. Bishop Aeron would agree that three months wasn’t long enough, she would even insist that I must stay in Lloegyr to carry on this important work. ‘Most of you are parents, and even grandparents. Think of the children you love and care for. Shouldn’t all children have the same opportunities? As Jesus will say to us, at the time of our judgement, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers and sisters, you did for me.” In his name, let us decide to free these little ones from work which destroys them, body and soul. As the people of God in this place, let us lead the way. Amen.’

  Very few echoed ‘Amen’s rose from the congregation. I made my way down from the pulpit. James was nodding vigorously, his arm curled protectively around Clyde. Morey avoided my eyes. Both of the churchwardens were stony-faced.

  I presided over Communion. A number of church members stayed in their seats. Those who did come up to the altar avoided my eyes. I gritted my teeth as I continued up and down the altar rail. Perhaps previous rectors in Saint George’s had never dared to speak prophetically. But what was a church for, if not to stand against injustice?

  Very few stayed behind for coffee, so the doors were closed and locked in record time. ‘Good for you,’ James told me, carrying Clyde as we walked back to the rectory. Morey had flown on ahead of us. ‘I can’t believe they do that to children here. It’s got to be stopped. They’ve got to see that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Aislin and Cadfan had left promptly at the end of the service, giving me no opportunity to speak to them. ‘I hope so.’

  On Tuesday afternoon, a noise at the door made me look up from the button I was sewing back onto my cassock. ‘Who is it, Morey?’

  ‘A rat and two churchwardens,’ the gryphon replied from his position on the windowsill. ‘I suggest the first is for me, and the other two are for you.’

  I grimaced. ‘You wouldn’t be interested in a trade?’

  ‘You made your bed,’ Morey reminded me. He’d spent much of Monday simply avoiding me. ‘I did try to warn you.’

  ‘They could be coming to give me their full support.’

  ‘And snails might fly.’

  The door flap rattled as the rat pushed her way through. ‘Kitchen,’ Morey told her. ‘The rector needs this room to meet with her churchwardens.’

  ‘What if I want to offer them a cup of tea?’

  ‘They won’t be here long enough for that.’

  Morey’s words gave me little comfort as I opened the door. ‘Aislin, Cadfan. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  I stood back, but neither of them made any move to enter the house. Cadfan spoke first. ‘Father Penny, both of us have had a number of representations from members of this parish.’

  ‘I’ve never received so many rats in one day,’ Aislin added. ‘Both at home and in the office.’

  ‘Expressing support for my sermon?’ I asked, in a triumph of hope over experience.

  ‘Lord Willis has given so much to this community,’ Cadfan said. ‘He’s paid for many of our public buildings, including our church. Without his beneficence, the school would shut, the baths would have to charge higher rates, and the library could never afford new books.’

  ‘Without his support, we can’t keep Saint George’s open.’ Aislin glared at me. ‘You know he’s our patron.’

  ‘Our patron and our benefactor,’ Cadfan agreed. ‘And so we were stunned that you would try to undermine him in the eyes of our church members.’

  ‘He who pays the piper,’ I asked, ‘calls the tune?’

  ‘We would expect a rector to show due respect to the patron,’ Cadfan said firmly. ‘As the bishop’s representatives in this parish, and having taken the views of the congregation, we have decided that we can no longer work with you as rector.’

  ‘The church will pay your removal costs back to England.’ A breeze lifted feathers along Aislin’s wings. ‘There aren’t any dragons available for several weeks, but we want you out before Friday.’

  ‘And we expect you to deliver a formal apology to Lord Willis.’ Cadfan shrugged. ‘By rat or in person, either will do.’

  My face had alternatively flushed and paled. Now, despite the weak feeling in my knees, I drew myself up to tell them, ‘No. No apology. You don’t want me here, fine, I’ll go. But I meant what I said, and I’m sticking by it.’

  Aislin lifted her chin. ‘Then we have nothing more to say to each other.’

  ‘Obviously not.’ And I closed the door.

  Somehow I found the strength to stumble to a settee. I studied my cassock, lying limp and black across a nearby armchair. Meeting with the churchwardens had left me feeling much the same.

  Morey flew into the room, landing on the cushion near to me. For a moment he studied me, his head cocked. ‘I take it your meeting didn’t go well.’

  ‘I’ve been fired.’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking--’

  ‘What’s the point of the church, if it’s not to stand up against exploitation?’

  ‘The church exists to love and to worship God.’

  ‘And to serve God, who is a God of justice,’ I said. ‘You know, justice like waters and righteousness like a stream?’

  ‘“But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.” Amos 5: 24.’ Morey flipped his wings onto his back. ‘But Saint Paul also wrote to the Corinthians, “I fed you with milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for solid food.” You have to take people with you, Penny. And if they’re not ready, they will bite back.’

  ‘They want me out by Friday.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I guess you could lead a service of Morning Prayer on Sunday.’

  ‘If you’re out, so am I,’ Morey said firmly.

  ‘But you didn't agree with my sermon.’

  ‘What has that to do with anything?’ His tail pounded the cushion in emphasis. ‘We’re partners, you and me. Where you go, I go.’

  I felt tears prick at my eyes. ‘Thank you, Morey.’ Then I cleared my throat. ‘What did the rat have to say?’

  ‘My matriarch wants to us join the clan on Thursday. I haven’t sent the rat back yet, because we might be
gone for several days.’ He rose to his feet. ‘But since that’s no longer an issue, shall I convey our agreement?’

  ‘We haven’t asked James or Peter yet.’

  ‘I should think their own roles here will become untenable, now that you’re persona non grata.’

  ‘Really?’ I groaned. ‘Will people really be that petty?’

  ‘Peter only came here because of you,’ Morey reminded me. ‘And James would be left without a place to stay. I don’t think they’ll shed too many tears about returning to England.’

  ‘I guess.’ I half-heartedly picked up my cassock. ‘James should be home soon. Would the rat be willing to deliver a message to Peter?’

  ‘I’m certain she will.’

  Morey extended his wings and flew back to the kitchen. I finished my sewing. It seemed that I’d be wearing my robes next in Saint Wulfram’s rather than Saint George’s. I issued a mental apology to Wilberforce and went upstairs to pack for our return to the gryphons.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Raven’s saddle creaked under me as he turned to dive through another thin place. I checked that Clyde’s carry sack was still safely tucked up against my stomach. Ignoring the rows of terraced houses sliding past beneath us, I looked back to make sure that Morey was still in place on the cantle. The gryphon gave me a quick nod.

  Another quick turn, and we were once again flying over part of Daear. I had to squint against the bright light. Evening sun cast golden light across rolling sand dunes. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the gryphons’ tents had been erected on a flatter area. Rather than a semi-circle, the camp had this time been set up in a large square. Woven carpets of red and brown spread out between the tents, and large oil lamps stood, as yet unlit, at the four corners.

  Raven landed us outside the square, his feet sinking deep into the soft sand. Arnborg, carrying Peter and James, dropped down nearby. I slid from Raven’s neck and struggled through the sand to Margh. He was carrying a number of cases, into which the three human members of the group had packed food, clothing, and bedding.