Gift of the Winter King and Other Stories

by Naomi Kritzer

  “How does St. Mary’s fit in with all of this?” Andrew asked.

  “Lisa brought me a Bible,” Jasper said. “Once I understood what religion was, I realized that I wanted a part of it.” Andrew met her eyes, and again he was struck by their strangeness. Jasper straightened her shoulders. “I want to be baptized,” she said.

  Andrew’s iced tea glass—empty—slipped out of his hand and hit the floor with a clunk. “Baptized?” he said.

  “That’s right,” Jasper said.

  Andrew had almost reached the conclusion that he would welcome Jasper to church even if everyone else in the parish engaged in pointed sneezing fits, but baptism was something else entirely. “Do you even understand what that means?”

  “Yes,” Jasper said. “Baptism will bring me closer to God.”

  Andrew carefully picked up the glass he’d dropped. “I’ll have to think about this,” he said.

  “In the meantime, may I continue to attend church?” Jasper asked. “That is why you came today, wasn’t it? The other humans this morning were not happy.”

  Andrew stood up and handed the glass to Lisa. “That’s their problem,” he said. “I said I hoped I’d see you both again. I haven’t changed my mind.”

  ***

  “THE CHURCH’S DOORS are open to all, Mrs. Petersen,” Andrew said. It was Tuesday afternoon, and the flood of calls had finally started to slack off. Jasper had a handful of supporters who’d made their opinions known, but they were vastly outnumbered by the people who were horrified at the idea of praying beside a dog.

  Mrs. Petersen glared at him from his screen. “It’s not that I don’t like enhanced dogs,” she said. “I don’t know what we’d do without our children’s nanny-dog. But to take one to church . . . !”

  “If Jasper wants to come to my church, she is welcome,” Andrew said.

  “I’m going to have to complain to the bishop,” Mrs. Petersen said.

  “That’s your choice, of course,” Andrew said, and rung off.

  Andrew had sent e-mail to Leo as soon as he returned from the Lisa’s farm, even though Leo hadn’t answered his first message yet. Baptism. Of a dog? His parishioners were outraged enough by the idea of a dog attending Mass, never mind participating in the sacraments. The message Andrew sent to Leo was a single hundred-line paragraph, closing with a question: “This is an absurd request. Why am I even considering this?”

  Monday afternoon, he finally had a chance to read the reply.

  Andrew - Your final question is the easy one. You’re considering it because you’ve looked into Jasper’s eyes. I have to confess, though there are easily as many enhanced dogs in Italy as in America, I had always ignored them as blithely as you do. After I received your story, I found one of the dogs who sweeps the streets here in Rome and engaged him in conversation for a few minutes. You’re right; they’re definitely not “just animals.”

  But the question becomes then, what are they? Doctrine tells us that animals have only temporary souls—they lack the immortal souls of human beings because in eternity, they would be unable to comprehend and contemplate the glory of God. Animals are irrational and act entirely on instinct, whereas humans can resist our instinctual urges—and I have certainly seen instinctive behavior in the enhanced dogs I have observed. Finally, animals were not created in the image and likeness of God.

  You’ll want to talk to Bishop Gunderson, of course. But I don’t see any way you can do it, even if you decide you want to. Not that you should stop the dog from coming to church. I think you’ve got that one right, at least. But I’m always in favor of unsettling the complacent, by whatever means seem most attractive.

  The phone was finally quiet, and Andrew went to pick up the paper mail. In addition to the usual junk mail, there was an envelope with no return address. He opened it immediately, expecting a prayer request. The paper inside was tightly folded; as he unfolded it, something fell out. He saw what it was when he bent down to pick it up, and felt ill.

  Someone had used an image editing program to make a picture of Father Andrew engaging in . . . carnal relations with an enhanced dog. It was crudely done and wouldn’t have fooled a first-grader, but the intent was not libel, it was threat. The picture showed gruesome bloody slashes across both his throat and the dog’s. Just in case the message wasn’t clear, the paper that had been wrapped around the picture spelled it out in block letters:

  DOGS DON’T BELONG IN CHURCH YOU BITCH FUCKER. TELL IT AND THE GIRL TO FUCK OFF OR YOU’LL BE SORRY.

  Father Andrew set both the letter and the picture down with a shudder, glancing involuntarily towards the window. No one was in sight, but he called Caramel inside and locked the door of the Rectory anyway. He turned off the ringer on the phone and went to his study to sit down.

  His knees were aching again, so he stretched out his legs on his ottoman, putting a little pillow under his knees for support. He needed to call the bishop—and probably the police, come to think of it, but definitely the bishop. Before he did that, though, he wanted to get his own thoughts in order.

  Although C. S. Lewis had not been a Catholic, Andrew had a shelf in his study dedicated to Lewis’s books. Including, of course, the Chronicles of Narnia. The one with the talking animals, and the Great Lion that everyone liked. He stood up with a groan, pulled The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe off the shelf, and put his legs back on the ottoman.

  Andrew had only intended to look up the parts with the Great Lion, Aslan, but as soon as Edmund stepped through the wardrobe, to sell his soul to the White Witch for a box of Turkish delight, Andrew was as hooked as he’d been when he read the story in elementary school. He finished the book in another three hours of nonstop reading. When he’d finished, he set it down and looked up at the crucifix on his wall. “The image and likeness of God,” he said aloud.

  Yes, Leo, but what is the image and likeness of God? Does it mean opposable thumbs and a body without fur? We could make that in a test tube these days, starting with dog DNA, if we wanted to. Jasper became interested in religion after reading C. S. Lewis. In her eyes, God’s “likeness” is that of a Great Lion. How sure are you that she’s not right?

  With Andrew’s encouragement, Bishop Gunderson took Jasper’s request seriously, although he was dubious. “I’ll have to talk to Rome,” he said after a long conversation. “This may take some time.” He agreed to meet with Jasper and Lisa, and agreed that in the meantime, Jasper should be allowed to attend church. “It hardly seems as if it could hurt anything,” he said.

  Leo’s response to Andrew’s message was short and predictable: “C. S. Lewis. Bah. Bloody Anglican. You’ll need a better argument than that to convince a Jeb like me.”

  On Sunday, the church was packed to the walls—it wasn’t even this crowded at Easter. Looking around, Andrew saw as many Lutherans as Catholics, there to gawk at the dog. Lisa and Jasper tried as hard as they could to ignore the crowd, despite open glares and whispered insults.

  Andrew had decided that on this Sunday, subtlety would be wasted. During his homily, he spoke directly to the question that was on everyone’s mind. “So far as we know, Christ embraced all who came seeking him. He ate with tax collectors; he defended prostitutes; he taught his followers that the hated Samaritans were their neighbors. Just as Christ turned no one away from his ministry, neither will St. Mary’s turn anyone away from our ministry.”

  There was a rustle as people shifted in the pews, and a low rumble of whispered conversation. “Christ had words for people who would close doors on others,” Andrew said, raising his voice. “‘Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the Kingdom of Heaven. For you do not go in yourselves, and when others are going in, you stop them.’” The rumble increased in volume. “Let me say this as plainly as I can. This church’s doors are open to anyone who comes here. Anyone. That is not going to change.”

  Andrew had expected someone to walk out, but no one did, not even the Lutherans. Some of the pa
rishioners glared at him with steaming fury; others stared at the floor in what might have been shame. Lisa kept her face carefully expressionless, looking at him intently; Jasper fixed her eyes on the hymnal. They left quickly when the Mass was over; so did most of the others.

  Andrew stayed up late that night, searching for theological texts that had some sort of bearing on this situation. At ten minutes to midnight, he was reciting the Evening Office in preparation for going to bed when he heard a knock at the door. He went downstairs and peered out through the peephole, but couldn’t see anything. The knock came again, but at knee-height. He opened the door—a greyhound stood on his doorstep.

  “Lisa sent me,” the greyhound said. “She wants you to meet her three miles east of her farm, as soon as you can get there. She needs your help. It’s really important.”

  “Let me get dressed,” Andrew said. He let the greyhound inside, to wait in his hallway while he changed back into clothes and combed his hair. Caramel barked at the greyhound, then hid under the kitchen table. The greyhound rode in the car with Andrew to the meeting place—Lisa was waiting for them, on foot, with a collie that Andrew didn’t recognize. Andrew pulled over and parked at the edge of the road, then got out and walked towards them.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Father,” Lisa said. “I know this really isn’t very good timing, especially since people are so angry about Jasper, but I really didn’t know who else to go to.”

  Andrew looked closely at Lisa. Her face was pale, and she’d clearly dressed quickly; her shirt was buttoned up wrong. “What can I do to help you?” he asked.

  “This is Phoenix,” Lisa said. “She’s owned by a man who lives outside of town, not too far from me; he uses her as a servant and a field hand.”

  Andrew looked at Phoenix. Her long tail waved like a flag in a hesitant wind, but she avoided his eyes. Her long fur was matted.

  “Her owner—” Lisa paused to wipe her eyes impatiently with her sleeve. “Whenever Phoenix makes a mistake, no matter how small, her owner beats her. This afternoon, she couldn’t take it anymore and she bit him. Now he’s going to kill her. Have her ‘put down’ is how he puts it. So she ran to my farm. She knew I’d try to protect her. But that’s—” Lisa’s voice gave out again. Andrew offered her tissues from his jacket pocket, but she shook her head. She took two deep breaths, then went on. “I can’t protect her, Father. Everyone knows how I feel about enhanced dogs. Whenever anyone goes missing, my farm is the first place they look.”

  “You want me to hide her?” Andrew said.

  “No,” Lisa said. Her voice was calm again. “There’s a safe house in Minneapolis. I need you to drive her there. Once she’s out of the area, there are people who can arrange for false ownership papers. Please, Father. There’s no one else up here who will do this, and I’m being watched too closely right now. If they come looking at my farm and the van is gone—”

  “I’ll do it,” Andrew said. “Phoenix, go get in the back seat of my car and lie down on the back seat so that you can’t be seen through the window.”

  Lisa gasped and then let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank you,” she said. She scribbled down an address. “If it’s safe to drop Phoenix off, they’ll have a lamp burning in the upstairs window that looks like a single candle.”

  Andrew checked the address and put the paper in his pocket. “You didn’t buy all your dogs, exactly, did you?”

  Lisa gave him a wry smile, her eyes still a little watery. “No. Not exactly.”

  Andrew started the car and headed towards Minneapolis.

  After five minutes of driving, his bravado started to fade. Andrew had never broken the law before, except for exceeding the speed limit. He tried to remember what the penalties were for Grand Theft Animal. There was a case in Brainerd recently—someone got ten years, but that wasn’t a first offense. If Andrew were caught, he’d probably get a suspended sentence. And he’d lose his parish. And Phoenix would die.

  The drive to Minneapolis took two hours; Phoenix was silent the whole way. The house was easy to find, on the network of numbered streets east of Interstate 35W. Then he turned down the street the house was on—and saw blue and red flashing lights. Cops. He felt a surge of panic; from the back seat; Phoenix whined softly. Not daring to turn around, Andrew cruised slowly past the former safe house. The lights in the house were all on; he could hear the howl of an anguished enhanced dog inside. Phoenix whimpered again.

  “We’ll be okay, Phoenix,” Andrew said as he passed the police car. He turned the corner and headed east. I’ll think of something, he thought. God, help me out here.

  Andrew wandered the streets of Minneapolis for the next two hours. Maybe, he thought, he’d see another house with the lamp in the window. Maybe he could knock on the door and they’d say something like, “So, where’s the dog who needs a safe house?” so he’d know it wasn’t just an odd decorating choice. More than once, he thought about calling Lisa, but if she were really under suspicion for this sort of thing, her phone might well be wiretapped. The best he could do would be to drive Phoenix back to the Rectory and contact Lisa in the morning. Maybe she knew of another safe house. Maybe.

  At four in the morning, Andrew pulled over near a park. “Wait here,” he said to Phoenix, and went to kneel in the damp grass. The Irish Saint Brigid was the patron of fugitives; he petitioned her now. “I haven’t done this before,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Help me to get Phoenix somewhere safe.”

  He got back in the car. “Are you hungry?” he asked Phoenix.

  “Yes, please,” Phoenix said. Her voice was eager. Andrew drove to the university and found an all-night Chinese restaurant; he bought two bowls of noodles and took them out to the car. Phoenix got out and they sat side-by-side on the rear bumper of the car, eating noodles.

  On the other side of the parking lot, there was a shop with an illuminated painting in the window. Andrew squinted at it. It showed a man embracing what looked like a Siberian husky. He walked over to look closer, and realized that it was a wolf. The picture was labeled, “St. Ailbe, Patron of Wolves.”

  Andrew looked up at the name of the shop. The St. Ailbe and St. Brigid Wine and Cheese Shop. There was an apartment over the shop; looking up, he saw what looked like a single candle burning in the window.

  “Phoenix!” he called excitedly. “Wait here. I’m going to go talk to someone.”

  The door to the stairs leading up had been propped open slightly; Andrew ran up the stairs and knocked on the door. After several minutes, a young man opened the door, dressed in boxer shorts and blinking a little in the hallway light. He squinted at Andrew. “Are you a priest?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Andrew said, and realized that he didn’t know what to ask. “I, uh, is this a safe house?”

  The man blinked at Andrew groggily. “Are you the priest?” he asked.

  “Yes. I mean, I don’t know. I saw the light in your window. I’m here with a dog—”

  That woke the man instantly. “A runaway? Where is she?”

  “She’s downstairs,” Andrew said, with a rush of relief. “I’ll get her.”

  “Hang on a sec,” the man said. “Let me get my glasses. And some clothes.”

  Andrew fetched Phoenix and brought her up to the apartment. The man met them at the door, wearing jeans now, and wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m Tim,” he said, and clasped Phoenix’s hand. “You’ll be safe here.” There was another painting of St. Ailbe on the wall.

  On his way out, Andrew leaned against the doorway, realizing suddenly how tired he was. “You can spend the night here, too,” Tim said. “You don’t look like you should be driving.”

  “If I’m not home in the morning, the police might realize I helped Phoenix,” Andrew said. “That might put her in danger, or you.”

  Tim nodded.

  Andrew turned to leave, then paused. “Who’s Saint Ailbe?” he asked.

  “He’s Irish,” Tim said. “A friend of Saint Patrick
’s. He was raised by wolves, and he was a good son—according to legend, his foster-mother lived out her life in Ailbe’s hall.”

  The sun was rising as Andrew reached the outskirts of Willmar. He realized with a pang that he’d never finished saying the Evening Office, and now it was time for the Morning one. He felt queasy, as he always did when he was up too late, and his eyes felt like they had gravel in them. Still—as he watched the plains turn gold in the rising sun, he felt a strange quiet assurance that he had done the right thing.

  ***

  ANDREW BADLY NEEDED his sleep the next night, but he was woken three times by late-night calls—an anonymous caller who snarled an obscenity and hung up. Andrew finally turned off his phone to get some sleep. Tuesday morning, he had more hate mail. Wednesday morning, he found that his tires had been slashed; he had to borrow a car to visit his parishioners in the hospital. At least no one seemed to connect him to the “theft” of Phoenix—though, as she had predicted, Lisa’s farm was searched.

  In the dark hours of Thursday morning, Andrew woke to a crash and tinkling glass. Caramel started barking frantically. Andrew grabbed his glasses and his phone, dialing 911. “This is Father Andrew Pieri from St. Mary’s,” he said to the dispatcher. “I think someone just broke one of my windows.” Outside, he heard the screech of tires on gravel as someone pulled away very quickly.

  “The police are on their way,” the dispatcher told him.

  Andrew flipped on his bedroom light; it was 4:07 a.m. He pulled on his bathrobe and slippers and went downstairs. Caramel was still barking.

  The shattered window was in his study. Andrew shut Caramel in the basement, to keep her away from the shards of glass. There was a brick on the floor; it had been thrown with a great deal of force, slamming past the drawn blinds to land in the middle of the room. Andrew went in; the glass crunched under his feet, grinding into the carpet fibers. He squatted down to pick up the brick, his knees cracking. There was a note wrapped around the brick. “BITCH LOVER,” it said.