by Chrys Cymri
His innocent joy made me want to crawl under my seat. ‘We can always ask him.’
‘Do you have any idea how to send him a message?’
Could I crawl under the seat and not emerge for at least a week? ‘I might be able to find a way.’
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To my horror, the entire household came together to watch the first webisode of The Confessions of a Manic Preacher. James slumped into one of the armchairs in the living room, a glass of orange juice in his hand. The two gryphons sat close together in another chair. I flicked through to the correct streaming service and then joined Peter on the sofa. Clyde sat on the coffee table, his own portion of Prosecco bubbling away in a dish.
The opening credits scrolled across the screen. ‘Three years ago, I discovered the secret world of Albion,’ the impossibly thin actor said, her face superimposed over images of green fields, castles, and a flying dragon. ‘The fantastic citizens of this world live alongside us, but only very few people can see them. I can, and this is my story.’
I took refuge in alcohol as the episode unfolded. There were elements I recognised from my blog, such as giving last rites to a dragon dying on the road side and my bishop’s visit to discuss the baptism of vampires.
Then we came to the attempt to capture a snail shark. ‘He’s twice the size I am,’ Morey grumped as the on-screen gryphon leapt over the plastic cat box.
‘But only half as handsome,’ Taryn assured him.
The sudden appearance of unicorns, rampaging through an English village, took us all by surprise. ‘This,’ my actor counterpart said to the police inspector at her side, ‘is going to take some explaining.’
‘Particularly that bit,’ I complained as dragons suddenly flew in, scattering the unicorns. ‘None of that was in my blog.’
‘Special effects aren’t bad, though,’ James commented. ‘Those dragons in the graveyard looked real.’
‘Because they were real,’ I grumbled. ‘They came to watch the filming.’
‘Oh, that explains why they looked so much better than the CGI ones.’
‘Only people with the Sight will be able to see them,’ Peter said. ‘So the majority of the public won’t notice the difference.’
The camera pulled back, and the reason for the unicorn stampede became clear. A dozen snail sharks, each the size of a large dog, were sliming down the road. One caught a stray cat and flung it to one side. The dragons snarled from above. The unicorns halted their run, turned around, and flung themselves at the snails.
Clyde spluttered, spraying liquid across table and carpet as silver horns skewered brown shells. One unicorn went down, and two snail sharks leapt onto her light skin. The camera panned away as the snails opened their jaws and plunged towards her neck.
‘No!’ Clyde protested. ‘Unicorns! No!’
‘It’s not real,’ I told him. ‘Just make believe. Just TV, like Doctor Who.’
Now his tentacles trembled in earnest. ‘Not real? Doctor Who? Not real?’
‘You,’ Morey told me, ‘are a bad influence on that snail.’
‘Don’t worry, Clyde,’ Peter said. ‘Santa Claus is real. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
‘Yeah, sure, that old lie.’ James rose from his seat. ‘Had enough of it when I was a kid.’
The door closed behind him, removing the hope I’d felt when he’d joined us. ‘It’s all right,’ I reassured the snail. ‘His mood has nothing to do with you.’
But Clyde’s eyespots were fixed on the TV screen. Snail sharks spread across the road, bodies writhing, their shells cracked open. Clyde whimpered. ‘Why?’
A unicorn rose on screen, whinnying, silver hooves splashed with red. ‘See, look, it’s not real,’ I said quickly. ‘Snails have blue blood, not red. It’s all make believe.’
The music reached a crescendo, and the closing credits rolled over the image. ‘Why?’ Clyde asked again.
Morey rose to his feet. ‘Snail circulatory fluid is haemolymph, rather than blood. A copper-containing protein helps to carry the oxygen through your body, and that gives the haemolymph a pale blue colour.’
‘I don’t think that’s what Clyde is asking,’ Peter said slowly. ‘What did you want to know, Clyde? Why the unicorns fought the snail sharks?’
Colours pulsed through the snail’s body, a quick succession of red, orange, and yellow. ‘Unicorns bad!’
‘Sometimes,’ I allowed, reminded of how little I trusted the species. ‘But not on this programme. They were protecting the village from the snail sharks.’
His body stilled. ‘Snails bad?’
I leaned over to give his shell a rub. ‘Some are, Clyde. But not you.’
‘Clyde good,’ he agreed slowly. ‘Unicorns bad.’
‘Only some unicorns.’
The snail burped. ‘Beer?’
I sighed. ‘Not after Prosecco. You’re having tea. Anybody else want something?’
‘Your turn to look after the eggs,’ Taryn told her husband.
The sound of my phone ringing cut through Morey’s response. A glance at my wristwatch confirmed that it was too early in the evening to ignore the call. I walked down the hall to my study, picking up the handset on the fourth ring. ‘Penny White, St Wulfram’s vicarage.’
‘Sorry, Penny, but I need you in on this.’ Rosie’s voice sounded grim. ‘I’ve just had a call from Holly. The church has been vandalised.’
Chapter Nine
Peter had insisted that there was no point trying to establish the extent of the damage in the dark. After a call to a rather shaken Holly had confirmed that the roof seemed to be intact and the silverware was still in the safe, I had a couple of drinks and went to bed. The sun was just peering over the horizon as I drove the short distance from my vicarage to St Wulfram’s.
Three more cars arrived as I walked down the path to the ancient church. I waited by the north door, trying to control my emotions as I studied the deep gouges in the dark wood. The lock was gone. I took several deep breaths, trying to brace myself for whatever I found inside.
Gravel crunched as Peter, Rosie, and Holly joined me. Peter placed a hand on my shoulder, and gave me a supportive smile. Some warmth returned to my legs. I pushed the door open.
A young policewoman rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t--’ Then her eyes came to my dog collar. ‘Are you the vicar?’
‘Yes.’ I walked down the steps into the church and held out my hand. ‘Penny White. I’m with Rosie, the other vicar, Holly, the churchwarden, and this is Inspector Peter Jarvis.’
‘Have you been here all night?’ Rosie asked.
‘No, only since 2am.’ The young woman stifled a yawn. ‘I took over from Henry.’
‘I’m impressed,’ I said. ‘Miss…?’
‘Lesley Raines.’
‘I didn’t think police officers would church sit.’
‘We don’t normally,’ Lesley said. ‘Someone pulled some strings.’
Holly sniffed. ‘I should hope so. This building is precious. And just see what’s happened to it!’
And now I had no choice but to look. And despair. It was as if a dozen chainsaws had been set loose inside the church. Most of the pews were missing their backs, the wood reduced to little more than kindling. The pulpit was scarred, heads missing from the angels which had once decorated the sides. The choir stalls had fared little better, and the altar frontal had been slashed numerous times. Stuffing had been torn out of kneelers and carpeted the floor in piles of white.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ Rosie asked, shaking her head. ‘It’s just--inhuman.’ Her eyes came to me, and I saw the question she didn’t dare ask in front of Holly or Lesley. And I could only stare at the destruction and wonder, Raven?
Rather annoyingly, a painting I’d never liked, a rather ghastly image of Jesus patting small children on their heads, had been left untouched. ‘Never mind Meadowell,’ I told Peter, ‘maybe we need CCTV for this church.’
‘Or at l
east many sets of eyes.’ He was wriggling his eyebrows at me, and for a moment I couldn't work out what he meant. Then I gave him a quick nod as I suddenly understood.
‘I think I’d like some time alone in the church.’ My voice trembled more than I thought it would. ‘Just to come to terms with this, and to pray.’
‘Could I stay?’ Rosie asked. ‘To pray with you?’
I nodded. For a moment, it looked as though Holly would protest. But Peter touched her arm and started asking about her long and faithful service to the church. Churchwarden and police officer followed him back outside.
‘I want to talk to the vampires,’ I explained to Rosie. ‘They might’ve seen something.’
‘Good idea.’
We marched up to the altar. I looked up at the decorated beams in the ceiling above. Only a few bats hung there, their black wings clamped tight around their grey bodies. ‘Brenin Gafr,’ I called out. ‘May I speak with you?’
The bats shuddered. High pitched squeaking followed. I stood my ground. Rosie asked, ‘What are they saying?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ I raised my voice again, and this time addressed them in Welsh. ‘If your magister isn’t here, then anyone in the colony will do.’
More discussion in the rafters. Finally one bat was pushed off her grip, and fluttered down to the floor. She transformed into a young girl, nude of course, although her long dark hair gave some cover to her thin body. She spoke in hesitant English. ‘Magister gone.’
‘Gone out?’
‘Gone gone.’
‘Are you all right?’ Rosie asked. ‘You look quite upset, my dear.’
The vampire bit her lower lip. ‘Was horrible. All crashing and cutting. Horrible.’
‘Who did this?’ I asked. ‘Can you tell me?’
She shook her head. ‘Come back, come back if we tell. Others flew away. We stayed.’
Rosie took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Someone threatened you?’ The vampire’s wide eyes gave us the answer. ‘Tell us. We’ll find a way to protect you.’
The woman trembled. ‘No protection. Can find thin places. No safety.’ Then she was a bat again, flying back to join what remained of her colony.
‘What can find thin places?’ Rosie asked me.
Search dragons, I thought. But aloud I said, ‘Some creatures have the knack.’ I glanced back at the doors. Were they wide enough for a determined dragon to force his way into the church?
‘I’ll contact the school,’ Rosie said as we made our way outside. ‘The head might let us hold Sunday services in their hall.’
I was biting my lower lip. ‘I should stay. There’s the insurance company to deal with, and faculties for the repairs, and the villagers are going to be very upset--’
‘And you have a churchwarden and a treasurer to deal with these things,’ Rosie told me firmly. ‘I’ll be here. You need to go back to Caer-grawnt. There’s plenty of us here to handle this. Who else in Lloegyr is going to challenge them on how they treat their children?’
Peter and Lesley had gone down to the end of the graveyard. They walked back up as they saw us. ‘The officer will have to go soon,’ Peter said apologetically. ‘Can people from the village arrange a watch?’
‘Certainly,’ Rosie answered before I could speak. ‘I’ll post something on the village Facebook page. Lesley, maybe you could offer me some advice? What should we do if the vandals return?’
Peter touched my arm, and we hung back as the two women continued up the path. ‘First the marquee at Meadowell, now the church. I can’t help but feel that the two attacks are related.’
‘Your spidey sense is tingling?’
‘Something like that.’ Peter sighed. ‘I miss Taryn. She’s very good at spotting clues I miss.’
My own shoulder suddenly felt bare. ‘They won’t be on egg leave forever. We’ll have them back soon enough.’
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Being between parishes left long gaps in my diary. On a particularly dreary Thursday, I took Clyde on the long drive to the Doctor Who Experience in Cardiff. By the end of the afternoon, my back was aching from carrying him around in a specially rigged camera bag. But the rainbow which pulsed through his body when the Twelfth Doctor addressed us in the TARDIS made it all worthwhile. Clyde barked at the Daleks, growled as we made our way through the graveyard full of Weeping Angels, and when the aliens had been defeated, he sang out, ‘“Hail him who saves you by his grace, and crown him Lord of all!”’ Some of the children were young enough to see him, but fortunately they seemed far more interested in the adventure than an excited snail shark.
The highlight was the trip to the TARDIS set. Much to my surprise, the woman acting as guide allowed me and Clyde to have a few minutes alone inside the gleaming room. ‘Always great to see fans from Lloegyr,’ she whispered to me, and gave Clyde a wink. So the snail was able to crawl around the floor. The guide even took a photo of us standing by the console, Clyde posing near the take-off handle.
The next day, Rosie came to visit James, and they spent some time together in the living room. Afterwards, he started to come to the kitchen for his meals, although he always headed back up to his room afterwards. But it was a start.
I went to Nenehampton Cathedral for Palm Sunday. A real donkey led us into the building, and the animal behaved for the reading of the Palm Procession. I did wince at the newspaper article the next day, which pictured the Dean next to the donkey and asked, ‘Isn’t this hilari-ass?’
Staying away from both St Wulfram’s and St George’s during Holy Week was difficult. Bishop Nigel asked me to assist him at the cathedral’s Maundy Thursday service, which meant that I spent quite some time on my knees, assisting him as he washed feet. I returned for the Good Friday service, praying at the Stations of the Cross erected inside the cathedral. I knew full well that, unless I entered into the sadness of the crucifixion, I would feel little joy when celebrating the Resurrection on Easter Sunday. But I found myself distanced by worries over James, fretting over what welcome I would have in St George’s on Saturday, and wondering why God couldn’t just discover the convenience of email. I have so many questions, I told him, and all you offer me is your Son dying on a cross. Then I swallowed hard, wondering if I’d committed some sort of heresy.
Early Saturday evening, Morey, Clyde, and I crossed over into Lloegyr through the thin place in Ashtrew church. A tacsi dragon waited for us on the other side, and I climbed into the saddle for the flight to Caer-grawnt. ‘Peter is right,’ I grumbled to Clyde as the yellow dragon carried us through the fading light. ‘It’s not going to be easy for him visit when I’m back in the parish.’
‘Visit?’ Clyde asked.
‘Yes. Peter will stay in England when we return to Caer-grawnt. There aren’t any thin places near the village, so we don’t know how we’re going to meet up.’
The snail was travelling in the space between my stomach and the front of the saddle. For a moment his body remained grey. Then a thought brightened his skin with blues and purples. ‘New. Thin place.’
‘Northampton and Caer-grawnt aren’t that close to each other,’ I explained. ‘He’d still have to travel over land, whether on this side or on Earth.’
‘Air?’
‘The right short cut would be great.’ The dragon turned, and the wind whipped through my hair. ‘But no one knows how air thin places are formed.’
‘New,’ Clyde repeated confidently.
Morey pulled alongside us, his wings pounding to match the dragon’s speed. ‘Room for three?’
‘Of course.’ The gryphon’s landing was less than elegant, and his head thumped hard against my chest.
Gas lamps, bright in the near darkness, showed that we were nearing Caer-grawnt. The tacsi dragon’s head swung from side to side. Then she started a slow downwards spiral. I squinted, hoping her eyesight was better than mine. Even with the full moon, the ground below us was a mixture of dim lights and hulking buildings.
Claws ground against sto
ne as the dragon landed. I remained in the saddle for a moment, trying to orientate myself. The church was nearby, windows bright spots of light against the dark stone walls. We’d landed on the road which ran alongside the building.
‘Thank you for the flight,’ I said to the dragon. ‘Would you be able to take me to Llanbedr Cathedral tomorrow morning? I’ll be at the rectory.’
The dragon grunted. ‘Yes. Lord Willis has paid, see. What time? Flight takes an hour.’
‘8.30am, please.’
The dragon lowered herself to the ground, and I slid off her neck. Morey settled onto my shoulder, and Clyde crawled into his carry case. Burdened by two creatures, I staggered slightly as I made my way to the church door.
Several torches, the oil-soaked rags spitting from the top of the poles, added light to the entrance. On the right, a brazier had been set up, kindling resting against the metal spokes. A small dragon, no larger than a German shepherd, sat nearby. I found myself grinning. ‘Olafur? Chi sydd?’
‘Ie, Dad Penny,’ he replied.
‘Rydych yn mynychu’r eglwys yn rheolaidd?’ Morey asked the question I’d not dared, namely whether the dragon were a regular church goer.
The dragon puffed out his black chest. ‘Bob Nadolig a Phasg.’
‘Christmas and Easter,’ Morey muttered into my ear as we went into the church, ‘does not make you a regular churchgoer.’
‘It does for much of the British public,’ I said, pausing inside the building to allow my eyes to adjust to the brightness. ‘Isn’t it traditional for the church to be in darkness at the start of the service?’
‘They’ll turn the gas lights down soon enough, I should think.’
I managed to reach the vestry and dig out my robes before either churchwarden noted my presence. This meant that, when Aislin came to speak to me, I knew I looked the part of parish priest. My white cassock alb was already twirling around my ankles, and I lowered the golden stole around my neck as the harpy spoke. ‘So. You have come.’
Morey bristled on the nearby sideboard. ‘This is the church to which God has called her.’
