by Chrys Cymri
‘My son will be with you soon. I simply wanted to meet the human who has so intrigued him.’
‘He’s offered to give me a tour of his factories.’
Her laugh was bittersweet. ‘Some of the factories. It would take several days to do them all justice.’
‘I’m certain it would, my lady.’
‘I’ve given you my name, Father Penny. Do feel free to use it.’
‘I beg your pardon, Lady Paityn.’ I gave her a smile. ‘I’m not used to using names with unicorns.’
‘My son and I aren’t like most unicorns.’
You can say that again, I thought. ‘Is your herd nearby?’
‘We’re not part of any herd.’
‘And we prefer it that way.’ Lord Willis had entered the hall from a side room. ‘What do you think of our rector, mother?’
‘She seems perfectly delightful.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Shall we go, Father Penny?’
And I followed him out the door, glowing at the fact that he’d not called me ‘temporary.’
The mansion was set back from the main road. I’d been confused at the lack of path when I’d walked up to the house, but as I followed Lord Willis, I could see why unicorns would prefer to stride across grass. I glanced back at the mansion as we circled around a large water feature. The wide doors, the tall windows, the perfectly balanced wings made me wonder if the builder had visited National Trust properties in England.
We passed the stone wall which kept street and front lawn divided. A dwarf fell in beside us. ‘The manager at the pottery is expecting you first, Lord Willis. Then the carpentry shop. Afterwards, refreshments at the foundry office, before going on to the textile factory.’
‘Four out of twelve,’ Lord Willis said to me. ‘You’ll have to return for another visit, Father Penny, should you wish to see all of my businesses.’
The idea of spending several afternoons visiting factories made my heart sink. But I put a smile on my face. ‘If you can find the time, Lord Willis, I’d love to see all of them.’
We passed several other large houses on our left and right, though not on the same scale as the unicorn’s mansion. A swath of well-tended grass marked a boundary between residences and municipal buildings. A library rose on our right, a ramp leading up to the wooden doors set into red brick walls. On our left was a large meeting hall, built of grey stone with a slate roof.
And beyond was our first destination. The sign over the broad frontage declared, in Welsh and English, ‘Willis Pottery.’ Lord Willis managed the half dozen steps which led to the front doors.
I was introduced to the factory manager, Queran, an elf dressed in a crisp grey suit. He showed me the production in reverse. We bipeds climbed up three sets of stairs, Lord Willis giving his apologies and remaining on the ground floor. Twenty elves sat at high tables, applying varnish to decorated pots and plates. On the second floor, more elves were painting various patterns onto the clay. Then, on the first floor, I watched as thirty elves worked at pottery wheels, their long fingers coaxing the grey clay into various shapes.
We returned to the ground floor, and Lord Willis led us out into a large courtyard. Two brick built kilns squatted near the factory. And, to my surprise, two dragons crouched by the base. They were carefully exhaling orange-red flames into glowing stones. Another two dragons rested at the end of the courtyard, their blue scales blackened with traces of soot.
‘That’s how you heat up the kilns,’ I said to Queran. ‘Dragon fire.’
‘How else would you do it?’ the elf asked.
I decided not to give them ideas about cutting down the nearby woods. ‘And these dragons.’ I dropped my voice. ‘They’re adults, not pufflings, but they do seem a bit on the small side.’
‘These are the ones who escaped,’ Lord Willis told me. ‘Dragon matriarchs usually eat those who fail to grow. We give them sanctuary here.’
‘In return for their labour?’
‘Even as Saint Paul tells us,’ the unicorn said. ‘“Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.”’
I always felt inadequate when people started firing Bible verses like small projectiles. So I looked past the dragons to the stone sheds lining the courtyard. ‘And what are those?’
‘Where the dragons live, of course,’ said Queran.
Years of hearing confessions has taught me how to hide shock. ‘Not in houses?’
‘Firing is low skilled work,’ Lord Ellis explained. ‘They do have Sunday afternoons off to hunt.’
But not Sunday mornings, should they want to go to church? I needed to quickly shift the conversation before I said something which might offend the unicorn. ‘Why is the factory all elves?’
‘Elves are very precise,’ the manager explained. ‘Our pots have always passed every quality inspection.’
‘Thank you for your time, Queran.’ The unicorn shifted his gaze to me. ‘Are you ready to walk on to the carpentry shop, Father Penny?’
‘Yes, Lord Willis.’
The next factory was far larger. Imposing logs in varying shades of brown and green were stacked outside the long grey building. A mixture of dwarves and were-beavers swarmed around and over the trunks, calling out measurements and estimations of the wood’s quality. The manager, a were whose face occasionally shimmered into the long snout of a fox, was standing nearby with a clipboard. She greeted the unicorn with a curt nod and finished making a few notations.
I felt our visit had been poorly timed. It was obvious that she had plenty to do. But the manager, who introduced herself as Edme, still gave us a quick tour of the lumber yard before taking us to the saw mill. The sound of metal cutting through wood was too loud for conversation, so I watched as brown were-bears fed logs in at one end and collected planks at the other. A mixture of unicorns and dragons pulled the loaded carts, hooves and claws pitting the dirt floor as they threw their weight against their harnesses. I bit my lip as I saw sores from where the leather straps had cut through their skin.
We had a quick glimpse into the smaller buildings, where a mixture of vampires and various weres assembled pre-cut planks into tables. Edme explained that, in other parts of the complex, other types of furniture were made. I agreed that I was quite happy just to see the one workshop and that there was no need to take me to any more.
When I asked what powered the saws, I was taken to the boiler room. Small dragons, most of them blue but two with red scales, were providing the necessary fire to heat up large cylinders. Steam engines run by dragon flame. Cleaner than coal, no doubt, but I was again uneasy when I looked at the brick sheds nearby. This accommodation seemed very paltry, compared to the dragon longhouses which I had visited. Even the tents of the search dragons were at least three times larger.
The cup of tea offered at the foundry was very welcome. The manager who greeted us was a dragon. In contrast to the working dragons I’d seen thus far, Aelwen’s purple scales glowed with health, and a torc of polished silver gleamed around her neck. She took us into the viewing gallery above the factory floor. Large metal buckets hung from large steel girders. Dragons tipped them to allow yellow-white metal to flow into moulds lining the floor. Dwarves scurried around the dragons’ legs, poking long metal rods into the bright alloy. Their faces dripped with sweat, and the dragons regularly dipped their snouts into barrels of water.
It was with a sense of relief that I followed Lord Willis into the textile factory. Just this last visit, and I could escape back to the rectory. My feet were beginning to ache, and my eyes felt gritty with soot.
The textile factory was another large building, several stories tall. Tan bricks were laid in arches over the tall windows, a nice contrast to the red bricks of the walls. The manager, another unicorn, asked to speak with Lord Willis the moment we entered the lobby. So a sub-manager, a harpy called Regan, was tasked with showing me around.
‘We’ll have to speak out here,’ Regan told me as we halted by a set of doors. ‘It’ll be too noisy inside
. What do you know of cotton manufacturing processes, Father Penny?’
‘Precious little,’ I admitted.
Regan crossed her arm wings over her chest. ‘There are separate floors for each part of the process. Above us are the blowing and carding rooms. We’re about to enter the spinning room. Weaving is carried out in a separate building. Ready?’
At my nod, she reached out one wing and pushed the doors open.
At first, all I saw was the long rows of metal machines. They extended down the full length of the building. White objects, which reminded me of cocoons, were stacked three rows tall. I realised that these were the bobbins onto which thread was being spun. Metal wheels, set into poles near the ceiling, rotated canvas belts which extended down to the machines. The sound was like that of a thousand bees, and the fresh smell of cotton was undercut by the richer scent of oil.
I dropped my gaze, wondering which Lloegyr species might specialise in this work. Then I had to drop my eyes further. That’s when I saw them. A young unicorn was nearest to me, his eyes fixed on the threads spinning at his eye level. Beyond him was a gryphon, only half my height, slipping on the oil-slicked floor as she hurried to attend to a broken thread. On the next row, a were-fox cub was climbing onto the metal frame to put bobbins in place.
As Regan led me along the front of the machines, I counted five more weres, three unicorns, two vampires, and a harpy. Admittedly, I didn’t know the growth rates of every Lloegyr species, but I was certain none of them could be considered an adult. The workers in the textile factory were children.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One of the vampires, who looked like an eleven year old boy, was working awkwardly with his bobbins. I looked closer, and saw that he was missing two fingers on his left hand. The unicorns, I realised, had chips missing from their horns, and I could see why as one colt used the bright tip to loosen a thread. A were-badger cub limped as he moved to another portion of his machine.
I motioned to Regan that I’d seen enough. We stepped back into the corridor. ‘Children,’ I said weakly. ‘They’re all children.’
‘They’re very efficient workers,’ the harpy said in a reassuring tone. ‘As reliable as their parents.’
‘What about school?’
The lines of her harsh face pulled together in a frown. ‘Why would they go to school?’
‘To gain an education?’
‘It would be wasted on them.’ She smoothed her dark smock with the ends of her wings. ‘Much better that they have a job which gives them food and clothing.’
‘And a salary?’
‘When they’re old enough and can do the more difficult tasks,’ Regan said. ‘But at least their parents don’t have to worry about feeding them whilst they’re with us.’
My stomach was roiling. ‘I guess that’s something.’
‘It’s better than the mines.’
‘Mines?’
‘Lord Willis ensures that none of the children from our town go to the copper mines,’ Regan said proudly. ‘He saw how the work deformed their backs, hunched as they were over the chutes to pick through the ore.’
So they just lose fingers or bits of horn here instead, I thought. Aloud I said, ‘Thanks for the tour, Regan. I think I’ve seen enough.’
‘You’re certain you don’t want to see more? The carding room? Or I could take you across to the weaving building?’
‘I’ve seen quite enough.’ My tone was sharper than I’d intended, and I tried to soften it with a smile I didn’t feel.
Only Lord Willis’s assistant was in the lobby when we returned. ‘Lord Willis extends his apologies,’ said the dwarf. ‘He’s been called away. However, he’s asked that I guide you back to the house. He has a gift for you there.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling awkward. I’d never been given the dwarf’s name, and it seemed a bit too late to ask now.
‘That’s very good of you, Erskine,’ Regan said. I quickly filed the name away. ‘Thank you for visiting us, Father Penny. Aislin speaks highly of your sermons. One day I must come to hear you preach for myself.’
‘Every Sunday at 10am,’ I found myself saying. The fact that I’d only preached twice at Saint George’s made me doubt the sincerity of her words.
Clouds had drifted in to cover the sky. The grey light matched my mood. Great Britain had used child labour during the Industrial Revolution, of course. But somehow I had hoped that Lloegyr was a more enlightened society. How could families have traded the freedom of fields, forests, and mountains to labour in factories? How could they have decided to do the same to their children?
At the mansion, Erskine presented me with a bundle of white linen. ‘For the altar,’ he said. I tucked the package under my arm, and tried not to wonder how many children had lost fingers to make this set of cloths.
As I turned to leave, I suddenly realised that the entry hall boasted a number of black ribbed radiators. So, when the front door had been closed behind me, I tried to talk to myself out of wondering what provided the energy for the central heating.
No, I had to know. A quick look around proved that no one was in sight. Acting as if I had every right to do so, I walked around the right wing of the house. No face, unicorn or otherwise, rushed to a window to look at me. No gardener appeared to challenge me.
The land dipped down as I walked along the side of the mansion. The smell was my first indication. I paused for a moment. After a hot afternoon near the search dragons’ settlement, I knew all too well the smell of dragon excrement.
A ramp led down to what appeared to be a cellar beneath the house. The smell became stronger as I picked my way along the cobbles. Very little light extended into the brick lined cavern. I halted at the entrance and peered inside.
The clouds parted, and a thin shaft of afternoon sun stretched past the opening. A dozen eyes gleamed back at me. Then one head turned, and flame erupted, heating a cylinder. I heard steam hiss up through the pipes which led into the house. The mansion depended on dragons as much as the factories did.
But these were not adult dragons. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the six were little more than pufflings, about the size of a small pony. Their scales were dulled and grimy, and I could see that their midden was at the far end of the cavern.
A yellow dragon on my left stepped closer. I heard the unmistakable clank of metal links, and looked down to see that a metal ring was bound around the puffling’s right hind foot. A chain was attached to the band, with the other end running to a spike in the wall. ‘Llwglyd,’ she informed me. ‘Bwyd?’
‘I don’t have any food,’ I told her in Welsh.
‘Home. Adref,’ said the purple dragon by the cylinder. ‘Go home?’
‘Wedi blino. Mor flinedig.’ The tone reflected the tiredness of which the dragon spoke. She came nearer, and I backed up in shock. This puffling had the green scales of a search dragon. I’d never thought to ask what happened to search dragons which didn’t find refuge on the island settlement.
The dank smell, the wasted muscles, the desperate look in their eyes was all too much. I turned and hurried away. There were no outcries behind me, no pleas for my return. The pufflings had accepted that no one would ever help them. And that only added to my sense of shame.
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‘But it’s child labour, Morey. It’s exploitation of the weak and helpless.’
‘Not entirely helpless, if they can run up and down factory floors.’
I glared at Morey over my mug of tea. ‘Would you want to see your children chained up under a house?’
Morey’s tail curled around his feet. The sound of a log cracking in the lounge fireplace made me glad that we, at least, weren’t exploiting dragon labour for our heating. ‘My eyasses would never be chained up under a house. Gryphons can’t produce flames.’
I leaned back in the settee. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘My children won’t be working in a factory,’ Morey said steadily, ‘because they’ll h
ave a deacon as a father and a police officer for a mother. So long as I pass the last challenge.’
‘And how is Taryn?’ I asked, feeling a stab of guilt.
‘She and her grŵp rhyfelwyr have successfully completed her clan’s set of challenges.’ Morey took a sip of his tea. ‘Now it’s just us.’
‘We won’t let you down.’ But my mind was already returning to the horrors I’d seen on yesterday’s factory tours. ‘There must be something we can do. Children shouldn’t be losing fingers in spinning machines or live in chains. There must be a way to protest.’ I paused for a moment. ‘I can’t remember. What sort of government do you have?’
‘You can’t remember because you’ve never asked.’
‘I must have done,’ I protested, stung. Then I made a face. ‘You’re right, I don’t think I have.’
‘Too busy riding dragons.’
‘Morey!’
‘All right, all right,’ he relented. ‘It’s complicated. There are so many clans and longhouses and tertiaries, never mind herds and pods and shoals and colonies. Our many species all have different ways to organise ourselves.’
‘Which didn’t matter when you all kept to yourselves.’
‘Precisely. Once we started rubbing up together, something had to be done.’ He paused to drink some tea. ‘Everyone trusts the unicorns--’
‘More fool them.’
Morey shrugged. ‘So the unicorns became the judges. Dragon and elf partnerships proved to be the best combination of logic and instinct, so they became our police. Government, as you’d understand it, is at a minimum. We still sort out a lot within our own racial groupings. But there’s a sort of parliament where representatives from each species can discuss common concerns.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘Of course, at first there was much blood spilt, and during one rather heated debate, the dragons ate their opponents.’
‘We British have something similar. It’s called Prime Minister’s Questions.’ The room was warming nicely, and I felt I could finally shed my coat. ‘So what if someone wants a law passed? How does that work?’
