by Chrys Cymri
‘And that’s the challenge facing your nation,’ I continued. ‘Your races used to live in their own enclaves, separated by preferences in geography and culture. But now as your cities grow and new industries come upon you, the unicorns are leaving their forests, the dragons have moved from the steppes, gryphons have left their islands to live alongside weres and vampires and harpies. How will you react?’
I expanded on what I had seen thus far. My visits to Llanbedr, to the settlement of the search dragons, and the lands protected by the unicorn Archdruid, as well as the island on which a gryphon clan had pitched their tents. How my flights over Llanbedr had revealed a city in which the races still tried to live separately. ‘But here in Caer-grawnt I see something else, something different, something better. I see the races side by side in the same church, brought together by worship in the one God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Our faith brings us together, regardless of whether we are covered in skin, or fur, or feathers, or scales.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Morey trying to speak to me. Beak reading a gryphon was not my strong point. He turned his head, and pointed at a hind foot. Foot? Paw? Oh, paw. Paul.
‘I recall what Saint Paul wrote in Galatians,’ I continued. A quick dip of his head confirmed that Morey felt I was on the right track. ‘In Christ there is neither Greek nor gentile, male nor female. There is neither unicorn nor gryphon, were nor vampire, harpy nor elf. There is neither human nor dragon.’
My watch rested on the otherwise empty shelf in front of me. I could see that I’d been speaking for just over ten minutes. Time to wrap this up. Finger out, God, I prayed quickly. Holy Spirit, some inspiration now, please. ‘In my world, Saint George killed a dragon whom he believed was harming local villagers. In Lloegyr, Saint George was slain by a human who did not see Christ in the dragon standing before him. Don’t both tragedies stem from the same source? Christ is in us, in all of us, the light which has come into the world. We know that the darkness cannot put it out. It’s up to all of us, by recognising that of God in each other, which will decide whether that light shines brightly in our worlds. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the congregation echoed.
I climbed down from the pulpit, suddenly too tired to take in their reactions. My armpits were sticky, and my head was aching. All I wanted was to be home, settling down to a glass of red wine whilst soaking in a hot bubbly bath. Maybe a Doctor Who episode afterwards, preferably something featuring River Song. It’d been awhile since I’d watched River Song confounding the Doctor.
Aislin stood up. ‘Thank you, Father Penny. An interesting approach. We’ll discuss amongst ourselves and let you know the outcome.’
Cadfan came to my side. Again the congregation rose to their feet as he escorted me from the church. ‘An excellent sermon,’ he murmured in my ear as we stepped out into the twilight. ‘We’ll send a rat once we have spoken to the members of the church.’
Morey fluttered to my shoulder. I made my way back to the hall, where I collected my backpack. ‘Can you call for Raven?’ I asked as I trudged up the hill. ‘I think I’m all done in.’
<><><><><><>
The flight back was remarkable for being unremarkable. I slid to the ground, perversely grateful for the heavy rain which probably ensured that no neighbours would have noticed me floating into my back garden. Raven took off again without even looking at me. Raindrops hammered against my eyes as I looked at the black sky, unable to see even a flash of green.
James handed me a tumbler of Talisker as I dumped my wet jacket onto a chair. I topped it up before heading up to my room. A good dose of whisky, hot bath, and bed. Surely that was the cure for anyone worried both about what had happened to the dragon in her life and her most recent job interview. Everything would be better in the morning.
But dawn struck me through the windows without providing any enlightenment. I groaned my way downstairs and to coffee. Only Clyde and I seemed awake as I wandered into my study for Morning Prayer. The appointed Psalm, which told me to number my days ‘that we may gain a heart of wisdom’ did nothing to lift my mood. I looked out at the sun glinting against the chain link fence and asked Clyde, ‘Do you think it’s time we checked up on the webisode filming?’
The snail climbed willingly into his carry case, and a few minutes later we were on our way to Saint Wulfram’s. The filming schedule specified outdoor shooting near the church today, along with the intriguing note ‘special effects stand by.’ The good weather led me to hope that the film crew would keep to their plans.
A short man in an anorak was stationed at the bottom of the road into the village. I stopped the car a few feet from his chest and rolled down the window. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Filming, love,’ he replied, his voice raised to be heard over the chortle of my car’s ancient engine. ‘Access only.’
I pointed at my dog collar. ‘I’m the vicar. It’s my church you’re using.’
He leaned down to peer through the windscreen. ‘Of course, miss. Off you go.’
As I drove up the hill, and the church tower came into sight, I could see the reason why the film crew was discouraging visitors. A large crane was parked on the road, the arm reaching over into the churchyard. A number of men in high visibility jackets milled around. I could see Laura barking out orders as she ensured that the cameras were placed where she wanted them. Leslie was wearing a thick coat and sipping a coffee. I scowled at her all too perfect hair, then turned my attention to parking the car nearby.
The crew nodded at my dog collar and allowed me to enter the churchyard. ‘Oh, Beryl,’ Laura said as I glanced up at the seat which had been welded onto the end of the crane. ‘We’re busy today. Can I ask you to stand over there?’
‘Certainly,’ I said easily, giving her a reassuring smile. And I found myself a space between two gravestones. A couple of dragons were curled nearby. Their eyes glittered as I looked over at them. ‘Anything interesting so far?’
‘It’s the flying scene,’ the yellow one told me in Welsh. ‘They couldn’t film it yesterday.’
‘The woman didn’t want to go into the air,’ the purple dragon added. ‘Said the contraption rose too high.’
‘Doesn’t she have a stand in?’ Their ears twisted in confusion. I searched through my Welsh, and tried to explain. ‘Another woman who will go up instead of her. The production company would make sure they didn’t film her face.’ I grinned. ‘Maybe I could offer.’
‘You?’ The purple one raked his eyes over my body. ‘She carries much less weight than you.’
I didn’t come all this way to be body shamed by a couple of dragons. Turning my back on them, I watched as the director coaxed Leslie out of her coat and towards the lowered seat.
‘See? See?’ asked a muffled voice.
‘Sorry, Clyde.’ I opened the top of the case, and placed him onto the nearest gravestone. ‘Is that better?’
His eyespots took in the scene. ‘Saddle?’
‘On the end of the crane? Sort of.’ I pointed at the design. ‘It’s meant to make it look like the actor is sitting on a dragon. They’ll do something clever with special effects later.’
A whispered but fierce conversation was going on between director and actor. I caught the words ‘budget’ and ‘very safe’ and ‘contract’ from Louise, and ‘agent’ as well as ‘union’ from Leslie. But finally the actor climbed onto the seat, grimacing as her legs swung down from either side.
‘Now, remember, excitement!’ the director urged her. ‘You’re riding Falcon, the most handsome dragon in all of Lloegyr!’
‘Who’s Falcon?’ the yellow dragon asked. ‘Never heard of him.’
I clamped my lips shut. The production company had obviously decided that Raven needed a more predatory name.
The production assistant called for silence, and the cameras were aimed at Leslie. The crane lifted her into the air. ‘Squee!’ she shouted with feigned joy. ‘Look at me, I’m flying! Squee!’
Clyde
swivelled his eyespots towards me. ‘I have never,’ I told him firmly, ‘squeed when riding a dragon. I do have some pride, you know.’
The dragons made comments about the delectability of Leslie’s legs as she was hoisted upwards several more times. Not really locker room talk, more like a discussion in a butcher’s shop. ‘Would you mind?’ I finally broke in. Although some of the terms they’d used were beyond my Welsh vocabulary, the discussion of the merits of ketchup versus gravy made the direction of their thoughts all too clear. ‘Those are supposed to be my legs, you know.’
‘Wouldn’t touch you,’ the yellow one said.
‘You carry a dragon’s knife,’ the purple one agreed. Then his pupils dilated, and he took a deep sniff. ‘Although I can’t smell steel on you.’
‘It’s not far away,’ I lied quickly. How much longer, I wondered, would it take for a knife to pass through a dragon’s digestive track? I needed to find a way to contact Tyra.
A car revved up the hill, the sound undercutting Leslie’s attempts to express a pleasure she wasn’t feeling. I just had enough time to recognise Peter’s blue Volvo when Louise shouted, ‘Cut! Will someone get that idiot to move on or park up?’
Peter did the latter, somehow finding enough space behind my Ford. I tucked Clyde back into his case and hurried through the churchyard. Peter emerged from his car, and bent his head meekly to accept the angry comments of the production assistant. But once the man had moved away, the grin Peter gave me was anything but repentant. ‘Thought I’d find you here. Shall we get a coffee at the pub? If I can drag you away.’
‘Let’s go,’ I said quickly. The last thing I needed was for Peter to hear Leslie squeeing. I’d never live it down.
We were the only customers in The Five Bells. After we’d collected our coffees, I led the way to the cubicle which was set back from the rest of the snug. Clyde slithered out of his case and onto the table, and I slid a biscuit in his direction. ‘So, Peter, what brings you to Saint Wulfram’s this morning?’
‘Other than just to see you?’
‘Other than just to see me.’
His expression turned serious as he took a sip from his coffee. ‘Maybe we should think about arranging some sword fighting lessons.’
‘Do you think we’ll need that?’
‘The blacksmith seemed to think so. And it might have been useful if you’d had some protection in the Arctic.’
I blinked at his grim face. Then I felt myself pale. ‘Oh. The Arctic. You’ve heard.’
Peter leaned back in his seat. ‘There’s a rat waiting at your house. She says she’s there to tell you the result of your interview. And she wanted to know about your trek across Grfnland. Seems it’s all over the rat network.’
‘I was going to tell you at some point,’ I protested. ‘I just haven’t got round to it.’
Peter ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the traces of grey. ‘Penny, you’ve been on your own for many years, I realise that. But if we’re going to make this work, you and me, then I need to know what’s going on in your life.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I pushed the plate of biscuits towards him, ignoring the protests of a hungry snail. ‘Will you accept a jammie dodger in apology?’
‘Only if you promise to stop dodging my questions.’
‘It was to find that search dragon, Raven.’ My mind was racing for a way to change the subject. ‘I met a very interesting were-polar-bear, and his merwoman wife. Anyway, did the rat give you the message?’
Peter shook his head. ‘She’ll only tell you. But if you’re offered the job, you’ll go?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ I put on a smile I didn’t feel. ‘But it’s only for three months. Like a sabbatical. It’s to make things easier while we help out Morey with his challenges.’
Peter slid the plate back to Clyde. ‘I wonder if Caer-grawnt needs a bobby.’
‘What about your work here?’
‘I’m not the only inspector in the department.’ Peter leaned over to take my hand. ‘I don’t want to only see you when we’re needed by gryphons.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think about that.’
‘Caer-grawnt is that exciting?’
‘It’s a planned community. Citizens from many of the different races living and working together.’
Peter smiled. ‘Dragons, I suppose. It’s always dragons with you, isn’t it? Careful, I could get jealous.’
‘Nothing to get jealous about,’ I said, almost too quickly. ‘Shall we get back to the vicarage to hear the rat’s message?’
Chapter Seventeen
Morey and the rat sat drinking cups of tea in the kitchen. Their voices were low, but I was fairly certain they were discussing rugby teams in Lloegyr. The female rat was smaller and darker than others I’d met before, and a few feathers grew on her leathery wings.
The rat kings usually sent me English speaking messengers, so I had worked on my doggerel on the drive home. Poetry wasn’t my strong point, but it seemed to draw the best out of a rat. I gave her a bow. ‘Greetings to you this day, and many thanks for your stay. We wait to hear from you, a message loud and true.’
The rat wiped a few stray droplets from her long whiskers, and turned to face me and Peter. ‘The people of Caer-grawnt, have deliberated long. And now the arguments have ceased, they have called you to be their priest.’
I found myself grinning. ‘Kindly rat, please send a message through your king. I will gladly lead the church’s worshipping.’
‘But first finish your cup of tea,’ Morey added, ‘and tell me why you think the Llanbedr Unedig team has any chance in this year’s Rugby Cup.’
Peter caught my eye, and we exited the kitchen. ‘So,’ he asked while shrugging back into his coat, ‘what do I do now? Shall I apply to whatever police force covers Caer-grawnt?’
I suddenly wished I’d spent as much time thinking about Peter as I had on rhyming schemes. ‘Of course. You really should. So we can see each other. Because I’d miss you.’
‘And the new Doctor Who season.’
That hadn’t occurred to me. Somehow I managed to suppress a groan. ‘I’d miss you more. Even more than the Doctor.’
For a long moment he studied me. I kept a smile on my face, but wondered what he wanted from me. Then he dipped his head to give me a peck on my cheek. ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’ And as he left the house, I felt as if I’d somehow failed him.
The soft flap of wings gave me warning a moment before Morey landed on my shoulder. ‘Rat’s gone. And, by the way, congratulations.’
I strode to the kitchen. ‘Yes, we should celebrate. I’m going to be licensed to Caer-grawnt!’
‘And I’m going to be ordained again,’ Morey said glumly. ‘And serve as your curate.’
‘Which is worse?’ I teased. As I had hoped, a bottle of Prosecco was in the fridge.
Morey hopped down to the counter. ‘Just remember that I’ve run parishes, Black. I’ve been an incumbent in my own right. Don’t you forget that.’
‘You’ll owe canonical obedience to me,’ I mused as I pulled out two glasses. Then Clyde trilled at me from the kitchen table, so I bent down to retrieve a bowl. ‘That should be interesting.’
‘Don’t you dare.’
The welcome noise of a cork popping free undercut the sound of desperate gryphon. ‘Curates traditionally do children’s work,’ I continued. ‘Caer-grawnt probably has a good Sunday school. Or maybe an after school club?’
‘Sunday school?’ Clyde echoed as I placed a bowl of fizzing liquid in front of him.
‘Where the younger church members go.’ I placed two glasses on the table and took a seat. ‘I think you’d enjoy that, Clyde.’
Morey fluttered over to join us. ‘As much as Peter will enjoy being a bobby on the beat? He must have worked very hard to rise to the rank of inspector. This would be quite a demotion.’
‘‘It’s his choice,’ I said steadily. ‘It’s not like he can commandeer a search dragon to bring him over to
Caer-grawnt on his days off.’
‘Unlike some people.’
I glared at him. ‘That’s not the sort of relationship I have with Raven. Besides, he’s working for your clan now. That’s going to keep him quite busy, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm,’ Morey muttered around his glass.
At that moment, Clyde succeeded on pressing too hard on one end of the bowl. It tipped upwards, washing Prosecco over his foot and across the table. I rushed to rescue both snail and table with a towel. So I only dimly noted the rattle of the cat flap. When I straightened, I discovered that another rat had flown into the room.
‘Bit like buses,’ I said to Morey. ‘You wait forever for a rat, and then two come close together.’
‘Except this one is for me.’ His tail was slapping the table, never a good sign. ‘Siarad, lygoden fonheddig.’
The rat flipped leathery wings onto his grey back and helped himself to a slurp of Prosecco. Then he launched into a long poem in Welsh, using turns of phrase which made me reach for more wine. I managed to pick up ‘grŵp rhyfelwyr’ and within a tangled rhyme the Welsh for ‘Saturday.’ When he’d finished, Morey expressed thanks in a poem nearly as intricate. I thought back to my own literary efforts, and winced.
‘What was that?’ I asked after the rat had left.
‘Cyhydedd hir. A classic form of poetry. Two stanzas of eight lines with two quatrains each. The first three lines of each quatrain has five syllables, and the fifth word of each line rhymes. The fourth line of the first stanza--’
‘Very complex.’ I took a sip of wine. ‘The rats haven’t done anything that complicated when they’ve delivered messages in English.’
‘Welsh is the language of lovers and poets,’ Morey said. ‘Any self respecting rat isn’t going to waste time trying to compose something elegant in English.’
