The Vengeance of Snails (Penny White Book 4)

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ I told my brother, unlocking the back door so he and Clyde could go in. ‘Just give me a moment.’

  Then I returned to the dragon. ‘You’re wrong, you know. Humans can understand about flying.’ The screen of the iPhone was bright in the dark garden, and I squinted to read out the words on the screen. ‘This is a poem called High Flight by John Gilliespie Magee, Jr. He flew a fighter plane in World War II.

  “Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

  And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

  Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

  You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung

  High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

  I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

  My eager craft through footless halls of air… .

  Up, up the long, delirious burning blue

  I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

  Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —

  And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

  The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

  Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.”’

  Raven had tilted his head as I recited, the ear closest to me curving towards my face. There was a moment of silence. Then he said, ‘Yes. That human understands. Peter does not. Do you?’

  ‘There will be no wing clipping in my household. I promise.’

  ‘Good.’ And then grass and mud was thrown up against my legs as Raven launched himself into the night.

  James was slouched at the kitchen table when I let myself in, Clyde sitting near his hand. ‘Anything you’d like for tea?’ I asked as I removed my coat.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘That’s what I’m supposed to eat. Healthy diet and all that.’

  ‘Beer?’ Clyde asked hopefully.

  I retrieved the medical instructions. ‘Says here you’re allowed alcohol. In moderation. Would you like to split a bottle with Clyde?’

  The snail’s body brightened from yellow to green. ‘Sure,’ James muttered. ‘And then I guess I’d better have something low fat and organic.’

  ‘One vegetarian spaghetti coming right up.’ My voice sounded unnaturally loud, and I took a deep breath to calm myself. ‘Do you want to go upstairs and see the eggs? I’m sure Morey and Taryn won’t mind.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  So we ate in silence. The only sound in the kitchen was that of a snail shark slurping at his bowl of Old Speckled Hen. James toyed with his pasta, ate around half of what I’d put on his plate, then shoved it to one side and left the room without a word.

  ‘No, Clyde,’ I said tiredly as the snail tried to slide over to James’ untouched glass. Although the day cried out for a good dash of whisky, I drank down the beer instead. And then I cleaned up the plates, my own portion only half eaten. I dug out a second bottle of beer and headed for the living room. Only the Seventh Doctor and Ace could get me out of this mood.

  Chapter Three

  Morey was curled around the eggs when I brought him a morning cup of coffee. The sound of his humming took the edge off my headache. ‘Bad night?’ he asked as I took a seat on the end of the bed and sipped from my own mug.

  ‘Bad afternoon and then night,’ I said. ‘James. I don’t know what to do about him.’

  ‘There might be nothing you can do, other than to give him time.’ Morey cocked his head over the purple egg. ‘This one thinks he can contribute to the conversation.’

  ‘Surely they’re still, well, like embryos?’

  ‘Embryos with attitudes. Particularly this one.’

  I chuckled. ‘You don’t fool me, Morey. You’re chuffed to bits at being a father.’

  ‘I loved Seren.’ He fussed with the blankets, pulling them closer to the clutch. ‘But we would never have had children. I accepted that. Now, with Taryn…’ His eyes glittered as he looked up at me, and I wondered if gryphons were able to cry. ‘I can’t wait to meet our chicks.’

  Now my own eyes blurred with tears. ‘I’m looking forward to it, too.’

  ‘Taryn will be back in a couple of hours,’ Morey said. ‘I can be with you when you meet Bishop Nigel.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. Maybe you could look in on James instead.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He stretched out his head, and I held out my hand so he could rub soft feathers against my fingers. ‘Your bishop has always struck me as a fair man. I’m certain he’ll understand about Caer-grawnt.’

  ‘Even though it was me who botched it up?’

  ‘You spoke prophetically.’ His beak rapped my thumb. ‘And unwisely, but no priest is perfect.’

  ‘Thanks, Morey.’ I rose to my feet. ‘It’s pretty warm outside. I’ll leave the window open so Taryn doesn’t have to come through the kitchen.’

  I collected a second cup of coffee and went into my study. Clyde had outgrown his terrarium, so I’d replaced it with a dog bed. The snail shark emerged from his shell as I placed a bowl of tea on the floor. ‘Just as you like it. Strong, milky, two sugars.’

  A blue and pink pulse of colour through his body expressed pleasure and thanks. I pulled up the Church of England website, clicked through to Morning Prayer, and started on my daily duty to God. Clyde joined me by the time I reached the appointed Psalm. As it was Psalm 23, we sang ‘The Lord’s my Shepherd’ together, his confident tenor voice buttressing my less skilled mezzo-soprano.

  ‘It’s a shame I can’t let the congregation know about you,’ I told Clyde when we’d finished. ‘You’d do a great job with the Exsultet.’

  ‘Exsultet?’ Clyde repeated.

  ‘It’s an ancient hymn, sung at the first Eucharist of Easter.’ His tentacles drew back at my sigh. ‘I’d better speak to Rosie. Now that I’m back, I can do it again this year.’

  The morning slid by in a haze of emails and caffeine. I paused at one point to take some breakfast up to James, who accepted the bowl of cereal and mug of coffee without any real enthusiasm. The years seemed to roll back as I paused in the doorway. He was once again the four-year-old who had hidden away in his room, refusing to emerge for a full week after I’d told him that our parents had been killed in a car accident. I had been eighteen at the time, in deep grief myself, and wondered how I could cope with raising my brother on my own. Now, nineteen years later, I felt the same sense of helplessness.

  I forced myself to have some lunch. Bishop Nigel, who had probably been born on his exact due date, rang the doorbell at 2pm precisely. I put on a smile I didn’t feel, expressed words of welcome which sounded false even in my ears, and took him through to the kitchen.

  Making us both a cup of tea took up a few minutes. But the moment finally came when I had to take a seat at the kitchen table and look into the Bishop’s brown eyes. ‘So, Penny,’ he said quietly, ‘what is Caer-grawnt like?’

  ‘It reminds me of Saltaire.’ My gaze moved to his grey hair, down to his purple shirt, and then to my mug. ‘It’s like a model town. Houses, schools, and factories all built by Lord Willis, the unicorn who seems to own nearly everything there.’

  ‘A unicorn who uses his name?’

  I nodded. ‘I know, I found it strange, too. He’s also the patron of the parish church, St George’s.’ My throat dried, and I took a deep gulp of warm tea.

  ‘Are they a mixed congregation?’

  ‘Very much so. Dragons, unicorns, gryphons, a number of weres. The churchwardens are a harpy and an elf. Dwarves and vampires.’

  ‘You like it there?’

  ‘Yes.’ I found myself smiling. ‘Even the PCC meeting was different. They argued over seating arrangements. The dragons don’t think it’s fair that they always have to sit at the back.’

  ‘Parochial Church Councils, always a mixed blessing. Penny.’ His soft voice made me lift my gaze from my thumbs. ‘Why are you back in Nort
hampton?’

  My hands tightened on the mug. ‘He uses child labour. Lord Willis. He has young dragons chained up under his mansion to provide heating, and the children of many species working in his textile factory. I wasn’t planning to deliver a sermon on it. But when I stood in the pulpit, I couldn’t help myself. It’s just wrong. Slavery is wrong.’

  Bishop Nigel smiled. ‘The prophetic voice. Seldom heard in the Church of England. I dare say it’s equally as rare in Eglwys Loegyr.’

  ‘No wonder,’ I said bitterly. ‘It gets vicars fired.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who fired you?’

  ‘The churchwardens.’

  ‘Do they have that right?’

  ‘Don’t they?’ I floundered. ‘They said they couldn’t work with me anymore. And they wanted me to leave.’

  ‘And they did so without reference to their bishop?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.

  ‘I can tell you that they didn’t speak to her.’ The Bishop leaned back in his chair. ‘Bishop Aeron only heard about it after you’d left.’

  And, struggling for anything more insightful to say, I merely offered, ‘Oh.’

  ‘Of course, you’re welcome to return to your role here,’ Bishop Nigel said. ‘I value all that you bring to this parish, and as Vicar General for Incursions. But we’d agreed on a three-month sabbatical to Caer-grawnt. Would you like to go back?’

  ‘How can I? They don’t want me.’

  ‘Who is this “they”?’

  ‘The churchwardens,’ I said slowly. ‘But they also said the congregation agreed with them.’

  Bishop shook his head. ‘That’s not the case. A good number of rats were sent to Bishop Aeron. It appears that many church members disagree with the churchwardens. It’s led to quite a split in the congregation.’

  I looked away. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause that much trouble.’

  ‘No, you’ve never been one to cause trouble, have you?’ There was a gentleness in his tone which made me bite my lower lip. ‘Penny, the choice is yours. I meant what I said, I value your ministry in this parish and this diocese. But it sounds like there’s some good work to be done in Caer-grawnt. Bishop Aeron has asked whether you’d be willing to meet with her and the churchwardens. I think she wants you back.’

  ‘Even though the churchwardens don't want me?’

  ‘How about you meet with them and see what they have to say?’ Bishop Nigel pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket. ‘Bishop Aeron would like to have that meeting next Wednesday, at her residence. Could you let my chaplain know by Saturday?’

  I released the mug and spread my hands out on the table. ‘Okay. Yes, I’ll let you know by then.’

  His eyes drifted down. ‘Is there something else you’d like to tell me about?’

  The diamond sparkled as my fingers twitched. ‘Sorry, I meant to let you know, there’s just been so much going on--’ I took a deep breath. ‘Am I supposed to ask your permission to get married?’

  ‘Not these days. Do I know him?’

  ‘Peter Jarvis. He’s a police inspector.’

  ‘He was here when I came to the vicarage to pray with James?’

  I nodded. ‘That would have been him.’

  ‘We didn’t have much time to talk,’ the Bishop said. ‘The upcoming hunt dominated our conversation. I’d like to know Peter better. How about you two come to the palace for lunch?’

  The invite was politely worded, but I felt the command behind the offer. ‘Yes, when I speak to Sally we’ll arrange the date.’

  ‘Good. I’ll look forward to--’

  Mugs rattled as Clyde landed heavily on the table. Slime streamed behind him as he slid to a stop by Bishop Nigel’s hand. ‘Want Jesus!’ the snail said crossly.

  To his credit, Bishop Nigel’s only outward reaction was to raise an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.’

  ‘That’s Clyde,’ I said hurriedly. ‘You’ve seen him before.’

  ‘Yes, although he was tearing apart a pigeon at the time. I trust my thumbs are safe from his jaws?’

  Clyde’s eyespots swivelled to study the man’s fingers, and I took a deep breath. If my bishop were to lose digits to a snail shark, I could end up as vicar on some tough, inner city housing estate. ‘He seems to prefer blackbirds. And lemmings. Right, Clyde?’

  ‘Thumbs,’ the snail said thoughtfully.

  Bishop Nigel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I like mine exactly where they are, young snail. Now, why have you interrupted my meeting with Penny?’

  Red and orange hues shimmered through Clyde’s body. ‘Want Jesus.’

  ‘He wants to take communion,’ I said, studying my bishop’s face closely. ‘He’s been baptised. I’ve promised to arrange for him to be confirmed, but Morey’s not certain Bishop Aeron will agree.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Bishop Nigel studied the snail. ‘Clyde, at your baptism, your godparents made promises on your behalf. Confirmation is when you take those promises and make them your own. As much as I approve of your desire to share in the Lord’s Supper, there’s much more to being confirmed than that. All Christians are called to walk in the way of Jesus. Is this what you want?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Bishop, Clyde’s vocabulary is a bit limited--’

  Bishop Nigel looked over at me, and I shut my mouth. He returned his attention to the snail shark. ‘Clyde, why do you want to be a follower of Jesus?’

  The snail’s tentacles waved, and then his jaws cracked open to sing. ‘“When I survey the wondrous cross, on which the Prince of glory died, my richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.”’

  ‘And why did Jesus die for us?’

  Clyde’s eyespots were fixed on the face above him. ‘“O wisest love! that flesh and blood, which did in Adam fail, should strive afresh against the foe, should strive, and should prevail.”’

  ‘That’s one theory of the atonement,’ Bishop Nigel agreed, ‘that Jesus fought and won against the devil. Theologians have argued over the centuries over what Christ’s death accomplished. What does his sacrifice say to you?’

  ‘“Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin? The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.”’

  ‘You certainly know your hymns.’ The Bishop reached out and, with obvious trepidation, rubbed a finger along Clyde’s shell. ‘When Jesus opened his arms wide on the cross, he brought peace between us and God, and peace between us and all people. As Isaiah wrote, “the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.”’

  ‘Peace,’ Clyde repeated. ‘Peace good.’

  ‘Peace certainly is good. Holy Week and Easter are only a couple of weeks away. This is a good time to reflect on our Lord, and talk to mature Christians about his life, death, and resurrection.’ Bishop Nigel’s eyes came to me. ‘Who are his godparents?’

  ‘Me, and Morey.’

  The Bishop smiled. ‘Focus on talking to Penny, Clyde. Morey will only confuse you with passages from the Summa Theologica. Now I need to speak to Penny alone. Would you mind?’

  Blue and green pulsed through Clyde’s body. He slid from the table and, with some difficulty, managed to squeeze through the cat flap in the kitchen door.

  ‘He’s very keen,’ Bishop Nigel said. ‘Why not let him take communion before confirmation?’

  I winced. ‘Morey’s against it, and so he’s convinced Clyde that confirmation has to happen first.’

  ‘Yes, your Associate is very traditional. Where was Clyde baptised?’

  I tore my eyes away from the back garden. Several pigeons had erupted in fright, flying in panic towards the nearby trees. But Clyde was in full pursuit, his own wings carrying him after the birds. ‘In this kitchen.’

  ‘So in this diocese,’ the Bishop mused. ‘But he’s a citizen of Lloegyr. I think we should let Bishop Aeron confirm him.’

  ‘What about making the promises?’ I asked. ‘He
finds it hard to speak.’

  ‘Oh, I should think he’s speaking to us all of the time. We just don’t understand him.’ Bishop Nigel shrugged. ‘I’ve confirmed many people who don’t communicate easily. It’s not a problem to me, so long as you and Morey feel that he is ready to make such a commitment.’

  ‘And I’m not certain Bishop Aeron will agree to confirm him,’ I continued. ‘Morey says there’s some debate as to whether snail sharks have souls.’

  The Bishop stroked his chin. ‘Speak to Bishop Aeron. If she refuses, then I’ll arrange to confirm him.’

  I looked away, blinking back tears. ‘Thank you.’

  His hand was suddenly warm on my own. ‘He’s very important to you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Clyde is family.’ A commotion from the garden made me add, ‘Even if he does slaughter birds and small mammals with distressing regularity.’

  <><><><><><>

  There was plenty of time, after Bishop Nigel left, for me to fret over what to wear for this all-important meeting with Peter’s parents. Should I dress casually, showing them that I would be a good, practical wife for their son? Perhaps wear a clerical shirt, since they were both faithful churchgoers? Or perhaps put on one of the skirts I so rarely wore, just to prove that I could occasionally look more feminine?

  In the end, I decided on a nice jumper, smart trousers, and an open necked shirt. I managed not to spill any soup on my clothes as I brought a bowl and a sandwich up to James’ room. ‘Eventually,’ I told him as I lowered the tray onto his lap, ‘you’ll have to get out of that bed and take meals in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, soon.’ He leaned back against the pillows. ‘When I’m a bit stronger.’

  I sighed. ‘You’d be okay going down stairs.’

  ‘I know.’

  For a moment, I thought he might say something more. But the only sound was of his spoon hitting the sides of the bowl. ‘I’m off to Peter’s parents in a moment. Tonight’s the night. I hope they’ll be happy to have me as a daughter-in-law.’