by Chrys Cymri
I watched the Dean and Glynda stalk away. My throat was burning. I looked up at the crack in the east window, my hands itching for a rock.
Clyde made a mournful sound. ‘Evil?’
‘Never. Not you.’ I collected him into my arms. His wings had become a mottled mixture of white, red, and green. ‘You let Glynda go. You’re a good snail.’
I couldn’t face returning to the cathedral green, not with a blood-stained snail shark resting against my chest. And I desperately wanted a friend. Peter was a world away. But there was someone else who would come to me. I pulled out my pocketknife, and extended the blade halfway.
As I waited, I found a small fountain and did my best to clean Clyde. The snail waited patiently as I cupped water into my palm and poured liquid over his feathers. Black and red trickled back into the basin. When I’d done as much as I could, Clyde extended his wings to let them dry in the sun.
A large shadow fell across us. I felt something ease in my chest as Raven landed nearby. ‘Greetings, glorious Penny. And to the bold warrior known as Clyde.’
This spontaneous affirmation of the snail shark brought tears to my eyes. I turned my head and pulled out a handkerchief to blow my nose. Raven stepped closer. ‘Penny? What’s wrong?’
‘Bad unicorn,’ Clyde announced.
‘Again?’
‘Not like the Archdruid,’ I quickly reassured the dragon. ‘The Dean of this cathedral. She refused to give Clyde a blessing.’
‘Christian,’ the snail told Raven. ‘Baptised.’
Raven snorted. ‘Now you understand why I’ve never had much time for Christians. Present company excepted.’
‘Thanks,’ I said drily.
Clyde’s tentacles waved at Raven. ‘Christian?’
‘Not at all.’ The dragon lowered his head to the snail. ‘I’ve not been baptised. Can’t say I’ve ever felt the need.’
‘Would you mind giving us a lift back to my house in Northampton?’ I asked. ‘We will need to fly past the tacsi dragon, so she knows she isn’t needed.’
‘Ah, the joy of feeling your legs against my neck. I am yours at any time, marvellous Penny.’
The purr in his voice made my face tingle. I touched my fingers to my engagement ring, took a deep breath, and mounted the waiting dragon.
<><><><><><>
It wasn’t until Raven had deposited us in my back garden and winged away that I realised my mistake. I’d left my car at Ashtrew. Deciding that the problem could wait until after lunch, I let Clyde out of his case and marched into the house.
A small pile of dirty dishes near the dishwasher showed that James had eaten at least twice in my absence. I took a sniff of the glasses, and caught only the sweet scent of orange juice. My brother seemed to be following the advice to minimise his alcohol intake, and I could only admire his tenacity.
A cheese sandwich and a bottle of beer seemed a poor way to celebrate Easter. In previous years, I’d had invitations from members of the congregation to have lunch with them. Perhaps Rosie was enjoying roast lamb with someone instead. A gulp of ale eased the bitter taste in my throat.
My mobile suddenly vibrated, and the Doctor Who theme sang out. I pulled the iPhone from my pocket, mood suddenly improved. ‘Hi, Peter.’
‘He is risen!’
‘He is risen indeed,’ I replied. ‘Had a good morning?’
‘I went with Mum and Dad to their church. Sorry I didn’t call earlier, but we’ve only just finished lunch. How was Llanbedr Cathedral?’
‘Lovely service,’ I said, not untruthfully.
‘Do they serve roast lamb in Lloegyr?’
‘I came back. I’ve had lunch here.’
‘At home?’ Peter’s voice softened. ‘With James?’
‘Haven’t seen him.’
‘I hadn’t realised you’d be having Easter Sunday on your own,’ Peter said. ‘Why don’t you drive up and join us? Mum and Dad would love to see you.’
I thought longingly of my car, parked several miles away. ‘That’s okay. I’ll go and see how the gryphons are doing.’
‘What’re you doing tomorrow?’
‘Picking up my car from Ashtrew,’ I finally admitted. ‘I forgot I’d parked there, and so Raven brought me back to the vicarage.’
Peter chuckled. ‘How about I come by in the morning and we go out for the day? Say 10am? We can collect your car later on.’
‘That would be great.’
‘Raven’s a good thing,’ Peter continued. ‘I’m glad you’ve got someone like that to look after you when I can’t.’
There were so many levels of wrong in his statement that I could only respond, ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Love you.’
‘You too. And give my love to your parents.’
I loaded the dishwasher and went upstairs. There was no sound coming from James’ room, so I decided not to wake him. I knocked on the gryphons’ door, and Taryn answered, ‘Come in.’
Both gryphons were lying near the eggs. ‘He is risen,’ Morey told me.
‘He is risen indeed.’ I came closer. ‘Is it my imagination, or do the shells look, well, thinner?’
‘They should hatch any day now,’ Taryn said.
‘And then the real work starts.’ The throb of joy in Morey’s voice belied his words.
‘Is there anything you need?’
‘New blankets afterwards, please.’ Taryn rose, stretching grey falcon wings over her yellow cheetah body. ‘Hatching can be a bit messy.’
‘Everyone is welcome to watch,’ Morey added. ‘James, Clyde, Peter if he can get over in time.’
‘What about your grŵp rhyfelwyr, Taryn?’ I asked. ‘Will they be coming too?’
‘They’re all full sized gryphons,’ she explained, ‘and would never fit into this room. I’ll take the pack to see my clan when the eyasses are hunting for themselves.’
Fair enough, although it did seem like a shame. I headed back downstairs. The overgrown garden called to me, and I looked through the kitchen window at the long grass and thick bushes. Then I poured myself more beer and went into the living room. It’d been a long time since I’d watched the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
<><><><><><>
As per the British tradition, the Bank Holiday Monday started with a heavy downpour. I dumped my umbrella behind the passenger seat and slid into Peter’s Volvo. ‘Rain. Typical.’
He grinned. ‘We had sun yesterday. Don’t be greedy.’ And he gave me a kiss which drove gloomy thoughts far from my mind.
A quick conversation settled on Canons Ashby for our destination. ‘And by the time we’ve visited the house,’ I said, ‘it might have dried a little.’
Peter lifted one hand from the steering wheel to point upwards. ‘Can’t you have a word with him upstairs?’
‘Sorry. I’m in sales, not management.’
He had the courtesy to laugh. ‘Lunch at the tea-room afterwards? And I know it’s our day off, but Earls Barton Man said we could collect some CCTV footage from him today. We could drop by before I take you to Ashtrew.’
‘Sounds great.’
A few miles passed in silence. Then Peter said, his voice grave, ‘Penny, we’ve been together long enough that I think I can say this.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
Peter tapped at the CD player. ‘I’ve been listening to the Sixth Doctor’s audio adventures. And I think Big Finish can’t possibly have the real Doctor. He doesn’t use the subjunctive. Ever.’
‘Hmm.’ I too pitched my voice low. ‘I don’t think any of the Doctors do.’
‘Oh, I can understand it from the others.’ Peter sighed deeply. ‘But Sixie is so particular about language, and he loves to throw in his multisyllabic words. Of all the Doctors, surely he would use “were” when appropriate.’
‘Could it be the TARDIS translation? Maybe she gets it wrong.’
The frown on his face eased. ‘Yes, maybe that’s it. So, you think he’s the real Docto
r? We’re not going to find out, years down the road, that we’ve been listening to an imposter all this time?’
‘If I were to find that out,’ I said calmly, ‘then I’d have to re-evaluate his stories. And if he were not the real Doctor, then it would be interesting to see how Old Sixie coped when he dealt with the imposter.’
‘It could be a real plot point. His companion decides which is the real Doctor by testing his grammar.’
‘“If I were a rich man”,’ I started, and Peter joined in at the second verse.
<><><><><><>
After we’d traipsed around the manor house at Canons Ashby, and enjoyed a light lunch in the tea-room, the rain eased enough for us to wander around the gardens. Peter then drove us to Earls Barton. I resolutely stayed in the car while he collected the hard drive from Earls Barton Man. ‘Coward,’ he teased me as we drove away.
‘You haven’t ended up in his back garden as often as I have.’
We drove along Ashtrew’s single street. As we approached the church, I saw that rainfall had cleared some of the dirt from my car. But as Peter parked his car alongside mine, I saw that more than water had touched the dark sides. Although the rain had started again, we both climbed out of the Volvo to have a look.
‘More vandalism,’ Peter said worriedly. He held an umbrella over my head as I ran my hands across the scratches. Some of the gouges went deep, denting the metal of the car door. ‘Penny, this is getting serious. I’m beginning to think that someone is stalking you.’
‘But why?’ I asked.
‘Have you upset anyone in Lloegyr?’
Only an entire parish and at least one unicorn. ‘Not enough to do this.’
He laid his free hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you okay to drive home?’
‘Of course.’ I smiled up at him. ‘Let’s go back to my place and have a look at the footage. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
Twenty minutes later, safe and dry in the vicarage, we hooked the hard drive to my Macbook and ran the footage. ‘We need Morey for this,’ I grumbled. ‘He can read digital files more quickly than us.’
‘No need.’ Peter pulled out his notebook. ‘EBM says more wings were left last evening. Just fast forward the video.’
‘So, he’s EBM now?’
‘Only to his friends.’
I pressed on the trackpad and skipped to the relevant time stamp. We sat back, mugs in hand, and watched. The sun had been setting, so the tall fence cast a long shadow across the well-tended grass. A slight breeze made the bushes shudder in the background.
Or was it the breeze? I found myself leaning forward as something emerged from the shrubbery. A snail shark. The size reminded me that Clyde still had a long way to go. The one in the video was the height of a Border collie, with a dark brown shell and a grey body. A bird wing, fresh blood still clinging to the blue feathers, was grasped in the jaws. The snail lowered the wing onto the dead portion of grass.
Another snail slid out, and then another. These were smaller than the first one, but each carried the same grisly object between sharp teeth. They too placed the bird wings on the ground.
The bushes shook. At least a dozen snail sharks pulled free. Most were around Clyde’s size, and their offerings proportionally smaller. Feathers of blue and grey mingled with green and brown. Once all of the snails had deposited the wings, they formed a circle. One by one, they reared back and opened wide their jaws.
‘I wish the footage had sound,’ I said to Peter. ‘I bet they’re singing.’
‘Never thought we’d want audio.’ He tapped at the hard drive. ‘I’d love to know if they’re using Welsh. If they use words at all.’
‘I can’t think Clyde’s the only one who does.’ I shifted back in my seat. ‘He had a real upset yesterday.’
‘Why? What happened?’
The memory made my hands tighten around my mug. ‘He went up to altar at communion. And the Dean refused to give him a blessing. He flew out of the cathedral and I had to hurry after him. Then he attacked a squirrel, Glynda, the Bishop’s doorkeeper, and I had to talk him into letting go of her leg.’
‘He didn't let go immediately? When you told him that he’d picked on someone off limits?’
‘Not immediately,’ I admitted. ‘But he was very angry.’
Peter ran a hand through his hair. ‘Penny, I know you’re fond of Clyde--’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘--but it’s that sort of behaviour which worries me. He’s still a snail shark. Remember, I’ve seen what they can do to human babies.’
‘He was angry,’ I repeated.
‘I get angry with people,’ Peter said. ‘And I don’t end up punching them. Or sinking my teeth into their leg. Okay, Clyde is more civil than those I’ve rounded up. But he still has the same instincts.’
‘Are you telling me not to trust him?’
‘No, just to be careful.’
Morey swooped into the kitchen. He hovered over the table, his rapid wing beats blasting the hair from my face. ‘It’s happening. The eggs are hatching!’
Tea splashed as I dumped my mug on the table. Peter was already out the door, his tea still in his hand. Morey flew past him. ‘Clyde! James!’ I shouted. ‘It’s time! The eggs are hatching!’
Brown stains marked Peter’s progress up the stairs. I decided to worry about it later. Clyde burst from the living room, and one of his wings brushed my cheek as he hurtled to the bedroom. Even James was ahead of me, his dressing gown flapping around his legs as he strode along the landing. I hurried, hating the fact that I was going to be last to arrive.
Taryn was lying on the left-hand edge of the bed, her head cocked to watch progress. Morey’s claws were gripping the headboard. Clyde had landed at the foot of the mattress. Peter and James stood near the window. So I took a spot near the wall.
The eggs rocked inside their circle of blankets. The sound of light tapping filled the otherwise silent room. I forced myself to breathe.
A crack appeared in the darkest egg. Then the egg next to it followed suit. The blue egg shuddered, and the tip of a purple beak appeared in a sudden hole. The fourth egg stopped moving, as if the occupant needed a moment to think.
Then, without warning, the light brown egg split in two. Determined legs, two cat, two falcon, pushed apart the two segments, and a peregrine-cheetah chick tumbled out.
‘Told you,’ Taryn told her husband. ‘I said that egg would be the first.’
‘I owe you a pint,’ Morey agreed affectionately.
The chick stumbled to her feet. Her feathers and fur were slightly damp, and she shook herself. Her short beak opened, and high-pitched cries of hunger filled the room. Taryn purred. The hatchling twisted her head, eyes blinking. Then she pushed past the other eggs. A moment later, she had found one of her mother’s teats, and the cries stopped while she nursed.
‘The beak,’ I murmured to Morey. ‘Is her beak okay?’
‘The beak on a hatchling is short and soft,’ Taryn said. ‘Otherwise it would be too painful to allow them to suckle.’
‘My New Zealand girlfriend told me she loved the feel of a beard,’ James said. At my glance, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I’m only passing on what she said.’
The crack on the darkest egg widened. A yellow beak emerged, pushing determinedly at the broken edges. The egg lying nearby was also breaking apart, and I found my attention torn between the two. Yellow beak hatched first, spilling onto the blankets with an indignant squawk. Although only as large as my hand, he was the exact image of his father. His incoherent grumblings as he stumbled over to his mother reminded me further of Morey, and I grinned at my Associate.
The third chick emerged a moment later. ‘She looks more like a hawk,’ Peter said to Taryn as the hatchling joined her siblings. ‘And a black panther?’
‘Takes after my grand-sire,’ Taryn said, pacing her words between purrs. ‘Her feathers will darken to match her fur.’
A sound like a stuttering trumpet
brought our attention back to the nest. Blue and purple pieces of egg shell had been scattered across the blankets, and in the midst stood a gryphon the length of my middle finger. He lifted his black beak, and again announced his entrance into the world.
The grey-feathered head turned. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Even in the dim light, mixed blues and greens iridesced through the grey. The wings lifted away from the compact body, short blue and black feathers fading into shimmering turquoise. The chick shook his head, and a long plume of purple and blue rose above the short grey ears.
‘My God,’ Peter said. ‘Look at him.’
‘Just this once,’ Morey said grandly, ‘I’ll overlook the blasphemy,’
Taryn chuckled. ‘I did say that griffwn glas are considered to be the most beautiful of all gryphons.’
‘He’ll be breaking hearts all over Lloegyr,’ James muttered.
As the gryphon turned, heading towards his mother, I saw that the hind legs were that of a grey fox. The tail was bushy, and ended in a black tip. I looked over at Morey, but the gryphon shook his head. So I held my questions back for later.
A soft mewling finally tore my eyes away from blue chick. The last egg had hatched, and I felt a stab of guilt that we’d all been too entranced with the griffwn glas to have watched. The final hatchling was lying in the midst of shell fragments. She tried to rise, but her brown legs folded back under her.
‘She was too large for her egg,’ Taryn said, sounding unperturbed. ‘It’s cut off the circulation to her legs.’
‘Then she needs some help,’ I said, stepping forward.
‘No, no help.’ Taryn stabbed her beak in my direction. ‘A hatchling has to make it to food on her own. It’s the first test of an eyas.’
‘And if she can’t make it?’ James asked.
‘If she can’t make the first feed,’ Morey said, ‘then she isn’t worthy of being a gryphon.’
‘You’d let her starve?’ I asked, appalled. The chick was once again trying to stand. ‘How can you?’
Morey wouldn’t meet my eyes. ‘It’s the gryphon way. Each of us has to be self sufficient. If you can’t hunt, you won’t live. No clan can afford the time to look after the weak.’
