by Chrys Cymri
‘I’ll rocket to the top of your estimation? Or will I end up torpedoing myself?’
The rats chuckled. Three called out, ‘Food for our guests!’
The not-weres snapped to attention. They scurried from the room. Less than a minute later, I was handed a tray of biscuits and cheese. Bowls were placed in front of Morey and Clyde. Both of them stiffened in dismay. Clyde had been offered a mouse, her legs taped together so she could only flop in terror against the smooth sides of her container. Morey faced a blackbird whose wings and legs were strapped against her back and chest. I was surprised at her silence, until I realised that her beak had been sealed shut.
‘I can’t eat this,’ Morey whispered to me urgently. The brown and black colouring Clyde’s body echoed the gryphon’s disgust.
‘We have to,’ I murmured to both of them. ‘Remember what Taryn said. Eat whatever is offered to us.’
Both predators made quick kills. My own appetite had been ruined by the suffering I’d seen on either side of me, but I forced myself to down some cream crackers and several bites of a very sharp cheddar. The dry food left me thirsty. I smiled at the rats. ‘May I have some water, please?’
A not-were loped away. He brought back a glass, which I accepted gratefully. After a few swallows, I placed in the tray. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps you could now tell us if you know where we might find the HMS Themis?’
‘Water,’ said four rats sorrowfully. ‘Not the uisge beatha. I am a bad host. You must sample a dram from my own distillery.’
I was handed a tumbler filled with an amber liquid. Even at arm’s length, I could smell the enticing mixture of peat, oak, and malt.
‘No alcohol,’ Morey hissed.
‘It can’t do any harm to have a good sniff,’ I protested. The aroma was even more beguiling at close range. Surely one small sip couldn't hurt? I wasn’t planning to get plastered on the stuff. I raised the glass to my lips.
The barest trickle crossed my tongue before the tumbler was knocked from my hand. Clyde’s leap carried him over to Morey’s perch, and the gryphon drew back as the snail landed heavily beside him. ‘Turkish Delight!’ Clyde told me fiercely, his body pulsating in reds and browns. I’d never seen him so angry before.
I opened my mouth to explain myself to Clyde, to apologise to the rat king, and to perhaps even ask for more whisky. But I froze as an icy presence spread along my skull, making my skin twitch and my eyes water. Small fingers seemed to be digging into my mind, sifting through memories, opinions, and emotions.
‘Is that you?’ I asked the rat king through gritted teeth. ‘In my mind?’
‘Heart not as broken as it should be,’ one rat said. Another chanted, ‘Nice shiny knife, nice shiny knife.’ Two more dashed off, ‘Hartnell, Troughton, Pertwee, Baker, Davison, Baker, McCoy, McGann, Hurt, Eccleston, Tennant, Smith, Capaldi, Whittaker.’
‘John Hurt doesn’t count,’ I protested. ‘He was the War Doctor, not the Doctor.’ Then my eyes widened. ‘Whittaker? Who’s that?’
‘Gigondas and Talisker,’ three rats added. ‘Detention centres and vampires.’ Now six spoke in unison. ‘The child, the man, and the dragon. The child, the man, and the dragon. The child, or the man, and the dragon. The child, and the man, or the dragon.’
I rubbed my forehead. ‘It’s not that simple. Just because there won’t be a child doesn’t mean there won’t be a man, or that there will be a dragon.’
The rats rose in unison to their hind legs. ‘No Peter.’
‘No Peter.’ I picked up the glass of water and drank it dry. ‘But that was his choice. He decided he’d rather have the chance to have children than to stay with me.’ To my horror, a sob escaped my control.
Clyde made a strangled noise. A moment later he was in my lap, pressing his body against my chest. Morey leapt onto my shoulder, wrapping his tail around my neck and rubbing my cheek with his soft head. ‘I can fully understand the desire for children,’ Morey told the rat king. ‘But I chose to marry Seren although I knew we could never have them. Peter is a fool, but don’t assume anyone else who loves Penny is on his level.’
‘Really, Trahaearneifion?’ eight rats asked together. ‘Is that why you married Seren? Out of love?’
‘Of course,’ the gryphon said. ‘We loved each other.’
‘But you already disliked your bishop,’ one rat commented slyly. ‘You said she was a “pompous snake who didn’t know how to keep upright in the sky.” You knew she wouldn’t approve of your marriage.’
‘Make marriage vows,’ three rats sang out. ‘Break ordination vows.’
I could feel Morey stiffening. ‘Don’t,’ I told him quickly. ‘Remember what Taryn warned you about. Don’t lose your temper.’
‘Leave the Church,’ the rats continued, ‘before she leaves you.’
‘And where was God during all this?’ the one rat asked. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘God was in my relationship with Seren,’ Morey said. ‘The Church wouldn’t have us, but we still made vows in the sight of God.’
The rat giggled. ‘In an empty church. Just you two. At midnight. No witnesses.’
‘We said them in front of the reserved sacrament.’ Morey arched his neck. ‘Christ himself was our witness. We didn’t need any other.’
I placed Clyde back on his table and stretched out my arm so Morey could climb to his. ‘Have you finished?’ I asked icily. ‘As much as we’ve enjoyed your hospitality, we do have a missing submarine on our minds.’
‘You have a search dragon working for you,’ Morey pointed out. ‘Perhaps he could take us to wherever the submarine is being held?’
‘The sea dinosaurs won’t talk to you,’ all of the rats chanted in unison. ‘Not to you, not to you.’
‘Fine,’ Morey said. ‘Then whom would they talk to?’
A long moment of silence. The rats shuffled, rotating clockwise, each set of dark eyes studying us in turn. I forced myself to sit still under their scrutiny. Clyde tucked himself into his shell, only his tentacles showing. Morey’s tail slapped against his table.
Finally, the rat king settled down again. ‘Pilot of Middle Ocean, Abella of the Deep Seas. She can speak the one you call Nessie. And she will approach her sisters.’
‘I'm currently dragonless, so I need another way to reach Abella,’ I said. ‘Would your search dragon take us to her?’
‘He can’t help you,’ one rat said. Another three added, ‘She has hidden herself from dragons.’
Morey ruffled his feathers. ‘I thought search dragons could find anything.’
‘They sometimes need additional input,’ I said, picking my words carefully. Taryn had sworn me to secrecy about the limits of search dragons’ abilities. ‘Raven needed some of my blood to help find James, when he was being held in a matriarch’s longhouse.’
‘Find Abella,’ seven rats intoned. ‘Free Abella. Ask her to speak Nessie. Then you might be taken to your submarine.’
I would have preferred a stronger word than ‘might’, but at least I now had something to work with. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Free Abella?’ Morey asked. ‘What do you mean? Is she being held captive?’
‘They’ve been told enough,’ one rat mused. ‘More than enough,’ another responded. ‘But Father Penny did mention us to the human minister.’
‘Sue Harkness?’ I asked sharply. ‘You’ve had dealings with her?’
‘Not yet.’ ‘Only enquiries.’ ‘Might be profitable dealings.’ ‘Very profitable.’ ‘But I owe Father Penny nothing.’
‘You wanted to meet me,’ I snapped. ‘And I came. We passed your tests. You could at least tell me where I can find Abella.’
‘Two passed,’ the rat king hissed. ‘You failed.’
‘A single sip of whisky is not, in my books, a massive failure.’ I tried to give them a winsome smile. ‘A whole bottle, now that would have been different.’
The three nearest rats rose on to their hind legs. ‘It’s n
ot the amount. It’s the temptation.’ Then another three rats replied, ‘It is the amount that is the temptation.’
‘I lead a complicated life,’ I said steadily. ‘But it’s not quite as tangled as yours.’
The rats broke out into laughter, pounding forepaws against their cushion and nudging each other. Then one spoke above the din. ‘Go to Abella’s shoal. Assist them in freeing Abella. Then you will have your help.’
The were-bear butler returned. The rats crouched as he lifted the cushion into his arms. I rose to my feet and gave the rat king a slight bow as the Consortium was taken from the room.
‘Is that all?’ Morey grumbled as he jumped up to my shoulder. ‘There’s much more I’d like to know.’
‘So would I.’ I reached over and collected Clyde. ‘But it looks like our audience is over. Time to go home and hear the bad news about my car.’
Morey sniffed. ‘You can always buy another.’
‘Sure, like I have the money for that shiny red Golf of my dreams.’ I walked us over to the lift. ‘It’s going to be a Church car loan for some six-year-old banger. That’s the life of a priest.’
Chapter Fifteen
The news, when we arrived home, was indeed not good. ‘It’s the transmission,’ said the mechanic as I pressed the phone against my ear. ‘It’d be at least £500 to repair it, maybe more if we find more things wrong.’
I walked around my desk to stare through the window to the back garden. Around thirty snail sharks were sunning themselves on the patio. Morey sat on the nearby bench, Jago nearby, as he talked to Clyde. I could hear my brother’s voice in the distance. For a moment, I considered my ongoing financial commitments and the wisdom of pouring money into an ancient car. ‘Please don’t do any more work on it. Can you return the car to my house?’
‘Sorry, no. The breakdown company only covers the cost of us collecting the car.’
‘Okay.’ I sighed. ‘I’ll arrange for a scrap merchant to remove it.’
The man cleared his throat. ‘How much have you been quoted?’
Anticipating the worst, I had already obtained some on-line quotes. ‘Around £50.00.’
‘Look, we’ve done just over an hour’s work on the car. Let us have it for scrap, and we’ll not charge you for our labour.’
‘Done,’ I said resignedly. ‘Can I come over in the next week to clear out my stuff?’
‘Certainly. We’ll not be sending it off for at least a fortnight.’
And that was that. I hung up and sat down. My little car was gone. I wandered into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, and reached into the canister labelled ‘Bird seed’ to raid my secret chocolate supply.
The cat flap rattled as Clyde slid through. I poured him a bowl of tea and took both drinks to the kitchen table. He slurped at the brown liquid, one eyespot focusing on the brown bar in my hand. ‘I don’t think chocolate is good for snails,’ I told him. ‘It’s not actually that good for humans.’
‘Why eat?’
‘Emergency comfort food.’ I grimaced. ‘The Ford is dead. I’ll miss that car.’
Orange trickled down Clyde’s tentacles. ‘Why?’
‘You get attached to a car,’ I explained. ‘She’s been with me for over thirteen years. I took James to school in her, I’ve used her for countless meetings across several parishes, and she’s taken me all over England on holidays. It’s just a bit sad to lose all that shared history. And Alan gave it to me.’ My eyes were tearing. I pulled out a tissue and blew my nose. ‘Oh well, new start, new car. Or new used car, at any rate.’
Clyde moved across the table to bump against my hand. ‘New start?’
‘Without Peter.’
‘Miss Peter?’
‘I’m trying not to,’ I admitted.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s made his choice, and I have to accept it. And carry on.’ I shrugged. ‘Life carries on. Parish work doesn’t stand still. And once Sue Harkness has read my text, no doubt she’ll be wanting me to do more about that missing submarine.’
Clyde wriggled his tentacles. ‘Peter wrong.’
‘Wrong to leave me?’ I rubbed his shell. ‘That’s kind of you to say, but children isn’t something you can compromise about.’
‘Wrong for you.’
‘Maybe.’ I found myself smiling through my tears. What did a snail shark know about human relationships? ‘I hope he finds someone who’s right for him.’
‘Yes.’
‘And maybe I will as well.’ I lifted my mug, but it was empty. ‘Time for a fresh pot.’
‘Yes, please,’ Skylar said breezily as she stepped into the kitchen. ‘I’m parched.’
‘How did it go this morning?’ I asked as I busied myself at the kettle.
‘Oh, fine. The Mothers’ Union were very happy to hear about James.’ Skylar’s face was twisted in annoyance. ‘I told them I’d been happy to be single, but they didn’t listen.’
‘Next time they’ll be asking about babies.’
‘Not until I’m married,’ Skylar said promptly. ‘Are you around later on? Three o’clock? I did talks at school about baptism and receiving Communion in school services, and one lad wants to talk about baptism. Alfie’s mum was supposed to be at the meeting with me, but she can’t make it, and the school wants two adults in the room. Child protection and all that.’
I pulled out my iPhone and consulted my diary. ‘Yes, I’m free. You’ll have to drive, though. My Ford is definitely deceased.’
After another cup of tea, and a determined effort to reduce the number of emails on my computer, I pulled on a good pair of shoes and reported for duty by Skylar’s Volkswagen Beetle. My curate talked excitedly about the Year Five and Six children who had attended her RE lessons, and how a number of them wanted to receive communion. ‘Who knows, this could be the start of a new church,’ she said, waving a hand which I’d rather she’d kept on the steering wheel. ‘Maybe I could set up something after school? Which parents and carers could come to?’
‘Read up on Messy Church,’ I suggested, my hands gripping my car seat. Skylar had an interesting approach to bends in the road, making sudden lurches which frightened traffic coming from the opposite direction. ‘I’m certain the headteacher would be happy to let you use the school hall.’
‘What about the church?’
‘Cold most of the year, and full of pews. Also, no loos or kitchen facilities. Not really practical.’
‘Well, I think we could make it work.’ Skylar parked outside St Wulfram’s, and we walked the short distance to the primary school. The original building, erected nearly a hundred years before, was now dwarfed by modern extensions. The staff room was particularly interesting, namely a circular room of windows and steel which jutted to one side. It had won design awards and the roof was prone to leaks.
The school secretary showed us into a small room next to her own. Alfie was waiting for us, his wide face and brown eyes reminding me a little of James at that age. This boy’s hair was lighter and shaggier, and as he threw himself into a chair, I could see mud clinging to his shoes and trousers. ‘Your mum is going to love you,’ I teased him as Skylar I and took seats of our own. ‘Have you been playing football in your school uniform?’
Alfie nodded eagerly. ‘And I scored, too! I’m going to play for England when I'm older.’
‘Which position?’ Skylar asked.
‘Forward, of course.’ Alfie raised his arms high above him. ‘Score! Hat Trick!’
‘That’d be fantastic.’ Skylar leaned forward. ‘So, Alfie, Mrs Dixon tells me that you want to talk about taking Communion in the school services? That’s wonderful. It’s such a special thing, Communion, and only ten children come up for the bread and wine right now. You could be number eleven. But you’d have to be baptized first, and that’s a really big step. We’d need your mum and dad to give their okay to the baptism bit, so I’ll need to talk to them as well at some point. But in the meantime, do you have any questions?’
Alfie grinned. ‘You talk a lot, don’t you?’
‘Maybe too much,’ my curate admitted. ‘What about you?’
‘My mum says myself and my brothers, we’re all too loud. There’s seven of us.’
Seven boys. I suppressed a shudder. James had been enough on his own.
My iPhone buzzed. I pushed the chair back and pulled out the phone as Skylar asked Alfie what he understood about baptism. As I had thought, a text from Sue Harkness stretched across the screen. Thank you for your visit to the Consortium. We’ve had very few dealings with rat kings. Sounds fascinating. How can we make contact with the merpeople group which you mentioned? Does your friendly dragon have any ideas?
I pondered my response for a moment, wondering how much Sue might already know about search dragons. Or Raven’s current seclusion. He could probably find them, but they might be a long flight from shore. I’m not sure about his range. We might need a different approach.
The reply was quick. Would be grateful if you could make that a priority.
‘And it’s like washing clean in a bath, isn’t it?’ Alfie was saying to Skylar. ‘When you’ve been baptized, it’s like being clean all over.’
I stared at Sue’s response. What did she expect me to do, simply click my fingers and magically transport myself to wherever Abella’s shoal might be? How?
You know far more about Lloegyr than I do, Sue replied. Could the Church help? Or the Consortium?
The last suggestion chilled my stomach. I had no desire to owe the Consortium any favours. I’ll do what I can.
Please do. A pause, then Sue’s message continued, A body has washed up on shore. One of the submarine crew. Drowned. Petty Officer Samantha Jones.
I nearly used language unbecoming to a vicar. Fortunately, I remembered just in time that a nine-year-old boy was in the room. Understood. I’ll make enquiries.
Thank you.
As I slid the iPhone back into my pocket, I looked up to find Alfie glaring at me. ‘You were texting,’ he said. ‘While I was talking. That’s rude!’
