The Vengeance of Snails

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And maybe we can have dragons fly over the reception. They can drop water bombs on the guests.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Time to give up. ‘I might be back late. Just put the dishes outside the door, and I’ll collect them later.’

  ‘Right.’

  For a moment I battled with the temptation to reach over and give him a good shake. Then I took a deep breath, turned, and walked back to the hallway and down the stairs.

  Peter arrived a few minutes later, and soon we were heading up the M1 on our way to Coventry.

  ‘Give him some time,’ Peter said after listening to me agonise about my brother. ‘None of us like to be reminded that we’re not immortal, but it’s even worse when you’re young. I had a skiing accident when I was around his age. Left me on crutches for ages. It took me awhile to regain my confidence.’

  ‘Can you have a chat with him?’

  ‘I can.’ He flicked me a quick glance. ‘I’m happy to talk to him, Penny, but I don’t think I can be a father to him. Not like Alan was.’

  ‘I'm not asking you to be.’ The mention of Alan reminded me about a difficult conversation I needed to have about beds, but I wasn’t going to try whilst Peter was driving. ‘What did you think of the ending of Doom Coalition?’

  ‘Big Finish have done a great job, as ever.’ Peter chuckled. ‘We’d never have had the Eighth Doctor if it hadn’t been for those audio adventures. I hope Peter Capaldi agrees to do some. I wouldn’t mind more adventures with Bill.’

  And so we managed to pass the time until we were bouncing over speed bumps through Earlsdon. I found my fingers curling into my palms as we passed the small shops and the large Methodist Church. Peter drove the car up onto the small drive beside the semi-detached house. Golden light spilled from the bay window across a small front lawn.

  ‘I have some flowers for Mom in the back,’ Peter said as he opened his door. ‘Do you want to give them, or shall I?’

  ‘You go ahead.’

  My legs felt rubbery as I walked up to the storm porch. The last time I’d been this nervous, I was sitting on a dragon’s neck and about to invade a matriarch’s longhouse. Peter shifted the bouquet to his left arm and reached out to press the doorbell. I fixed a smile on my face as I reminded myself that, whatever happened, Peter’s mother was very unlikely to eat me.

  Chapter Four

  As the door opened, I remembered just in time to slide my left hand into a trouser pocket. Peter’s father greeted us and stepped aside so we could enter. The house was warm, and the smell of roast chicken and garlic wafted through the brightly lit hallway. My shoes clacked against the hardwood floor as we made our way to the kitchen.

  Mags was busily stirring something at the cooker as we came in. Alfred called out to his wife, ‘We’ve got flowers. Shall I put them in the sink?’

  ‘In the utility room, yes. I’ll sort out a vase later.’ Peter’s mother turned briefly to give us both a smile. ‘We’ll be ready to eat in twenty minutes. What would you like to drink? Alfred, what reds do we have in?’

  ‘With chicken?’ he asked. ‘How about that New Zealand white in the fridge?’

  ‘Actually, Mum, Dad, we need to tell you something.’ There was the barest tremble in Peter’s voice, which somehow gave me courage. ‘If you both could give us a moment?’

  Mags put down her wooden spoon, turned, and smoothed down her apron. Alfred drifted to her side. I looked at them, one black face, one white, waiting to hear from me. The moment had come. I pulled my hand from my pocket and held it out. The small diamond glittered in the overhead lights. Somehow I managed to find my voice. ‘I hope it’s okay to join your family?’

  ‘Okay?’ Mags covered the space between us in a few quick steps. ‘This is fantastic news!’

  I was pulled into an enthusiastic, gravy smelling hug. Alfred was shaking Peter’s hand, a large smile creasing his broad face. A ping from the oven made Mags release me, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief as she returned to her cooking.

  ‘Well, that settles that,’ Alfred announced. ‘Champagne it is. I’ll go get a bottle from the spare fridge. Come on, Peter, you can also help me pick out a good red.’

  ‘You keep a bottle of Champagne in a spare fridge?’ I asked as the men left the house.

  ‘We put a bottle away after we’d met you at Christmas.’ Mags poked at the chicken, and then closed the oven again. She straightened, and then nodded, looking pleased. ‘I said to Alfred then, “I hope that boy knows a good thing when he sees it.” I’ve been praying for this day, Penny, I really have.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too soon?’ I asked worriedly.

  ‘You’re not teenagers, swept up in some wild romance,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re both mature adults and you know your own minds. And you have so much in common.’

  I grinned. ‘Like Doctor Who?’

  She pretended to swat a tea towel at me. ‘Common values. That’s what keeps two people together. You’re both committed to helping people, Peter in the police, and you in the church.’

  ‘So you approve?’

  ‘Did you think we wouldn’t?’ Mags laughed. ‘I’m so pleased. This is all Peter’s ever wanted, to have a wife and family of his own.’

  I felt my smile slip. ‘I’m a bit old to be a mother.’

  ‘Nonsense. I had Alice when I was forty-three. You’ve plenty of time left.’

  Fortunately, Peter and his father returned before I could say anything to wreck the celebratory mood. Then the evening passed in a happy blur of wine, roast chicken, and obvious affection between Peter and his parents. I excused myself from the room, pretending I needed the loo, when Mags said to me, ‘You can keep on calling us by our first names, if you want, but we’d be honoured if you called us “Mum” and “Dad”.’ As I stood in the small washroom, staring at my blotchy face in the mirror, I found myself wondering what my life would’ve been like if my parents hadn’t died when I was just a teenager. It was hard not to envy Peter. I blew my nose, readjusted my smile, and returned to the dining room.

  With some reluctance, I switched to water after drinking my share of the Champagne and the somewhat bitter Australian red. My head had settled to pleasantly blurred when Peter and I said our farewells and started the drive back to Northampton.

  ‘I was right,’ Peter told me as we drove on the nearly empty A45. ‘Mum and Dad insist on paying for part of the wedding. Or something new for the vicarage, if you’d rather. Anything you’d like?’

  ‘A new bed,’ I found myself saying. And then I silently cursed alcohol’s ability to remove all guards from my tongue.

  ‘If that’s what you want, I'm sure they’d agree to that. What size? What do you have now?’

  ‘The one Alan and I shared.’ A part of me was cringing, but I knew it had to be said. ‘I was so busy looking after James, that, well, when I met Alan--he’s been the only one. Ever.’

  Peter was silent for a moment. ‘I had a couple of girlfriends before Sam. After our divorce, I threw myself into my work. There was an episode after a New Year’s party I’m not very proud about, but there’s been no one serious until you.’

  ‘And maybe the new bed could be delivered while we’re on honeymoon.’

  ‘Penny,’ he said quietly, ‘I'm not expecting to share a bed with you until our wedding night. You’re a vicar. Kind of goes with the job, doesn’t it?’

  A mixture of relief and disappointment made my face warm and my legs twitch. ‘I don't think my bishop would excommunicate me, but it’ll keep my congregation from gossiping.’

  ‘Nothing stops a congregation from gossiping.’ He paused to negotiate a roundabout. ‘What’s your lot saying about you coming back?’

  ‘I’ll find out on Sunday. I’ve told Rosie that I’ll deacon for her.’ The warmth of the car and the wine were making me feel drowsy. ‘By the way, Bishop Nigel wants us to come to lunch.’

  Peter groaned. ‘I wasn’t meant to ask his permi
ssion first, was I? As your Father-in-God?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ I assured him. And then I settled down to watching road signs flash past us. I was far too tired to tell him about the rest of my conversation with my bishop.

  <><><><><><>

  I phoned Sally on Saturday morning. After a polite exchange about the weather, I said, ‘Can you send a rat to Bishop Aeron? Tell her that it was kind of her to invite me, but I’ve decided not to meet with her. Maybe the rat can turn that into a nice sonnet?’

  ‘You’re certain? I think the Bishop’s hoping to put you back into Caer-grawnt. This might be the only time you’re ever offered a parish in Lloegyr.’

  ‘I'm well aware of that.’ I had to swallow against a sudden lump in my throat. ‘Maybe the sonnet can include something about how much I valued the opportunity.’

  ‘I’ll send the message this afternoon. Our office rat is out on another message. So if you change your mind by then--’

  ‘I won’t. Thanks for your help.’

  I put the phone in its cradle, turned my chair, and found myself staring into the fierce red-brown eyes of my Associate. Fur and feathers were slick with anger. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘How dare I what?’

  ‘How dare you decide this without conferring with me.’ Morey stalked along the bookshelf, his tail lashing against my collection of Doctor Who novels. ‘You’re not the only one who was appointed to Caer-grawnt. I even agreed to be ordained as your deacon.’

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ I said. ‘You know, becoming a father, looking after eggs--’

  ‘“Oh, poor pretty Taryn, she’s a mother now,”’ Morey said in a mocking sing song. ‘“Can’t disturb her over any big decisions, her brain turned to mush the moment she laid her clutch.” Would you have said that about her?’

  ‘No, I--’

  ‘Exactly. So why say it about me? Becoming a parent doesn’t turn off your mental faculties.’

  His beak was within striking distance of my ears. I leaned back in my chair. ‘You agreed to leaving.’

  ‘Because you seemed so ready to go. But now I think you’ve made a mistake. I’ve watched you moping--’

  ‘I have not been moping.’

  ‘Moping.’ He hopped down to the desk. ‘What else do you call it? You’ve not really re-integrated yourself into this parish, have you?’

  ‘Rosie has organised so much.’ I winced at the defensiveness in my tone. ‘It didn’t seem right to interfere too soon.’

  Morey’s feathers had relaxed, fluffing up around his beak and ears, and I no longer feared for my extremities. ‘You want to go back.’

  ‘Not,’ I said, ‘when I’m not wanted. My mother always told me, “Pick your battles.” I’m not fighting this one.’

  ‘Then I’m disappointed.’ Morey sighed. ‘Think of the challenges we faced together, when I proved myself worthy to marry Taryn. You never gave up then. What would’ve happened if you had?’

  ‘James wouldn’t be on heart medication for the rest of his life.’

  Morey’s tail stilled. ‘Do you blame me for that?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’ I reached out and scratched his head. The purple feathers slid softly around my forefinger. ‘I’ve always told James that Lloegyr can be dangerous. Maybe we both needed to listen to my warnings.’

  ‘Speak to Bishop Aeron, Penny.’

  ‘No.’ I sighed, and pulled my hand away. ‘This is where I belong. Earth. England. Not trying to change the politics of Lloegyr.’

  ‘Until you spoke out,’ Morey said thoughtfully, ‘I’d never thought about children working in factories or underneath mansions. I’m not saying you’re right. But it took a human to make me even think about it.’

  ‘It still wasn’t enough to change your mind.’

  ‘I’m a father now.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘So my brain’s taken up with hatching temperatures and nest building.’

  I flicked a finger against his beak. Morey chuckled, then unfurled his wings to lift himself into the air. ‘By the way,’ he said as he flew to the door, ‘you might want to look out at the back garden.’

  My chair creaked as I rose to my feet. The sight of a dozen white furred bodies, gossamer wings glistening as they hovered over the tangled grass, made me bite back a curse. The lemmings had found Clyde. And the snail shark was perched on the bird table, his body pulsing purple as he drank in their excited calls. ‘Arweinydd mawr! Arweinydd mawr! Arweinydd mawr!’

  ‘Great leader, indeed,’ I muttered to myself. No doubt the small rodents were already bickering over who would have the privilege of being eaten by the snail shark. Self-sacrifice gone mad.

  <><><><><><>

  Sunday morning passed in a bit of a blur. I assisted Rosie in the main service, and half listened to her sermon about new beginnings. Mostly I concentrated on not looking too closely at the faces of my congregation. Holly, my churchwarden, had turned on her heel and walked out when she had seen me in the church. I wasn’t sure how many of the others felt the same, and really didn’t want to know.

  After the final blessing and dismissal, I changed quickly in the vestry and left the building. Back at the vicarage, I had a sandwich lunch, then wondered what to do with the afternoon. Drinking beer and watching Doctor Who appealed, and I pulled a bottle of Old Speckled Hen from the cupboard.

  Clyde zoomed into the kitchen. ‘Beer?’ he asked hopefully.

  I bent down to the cupboard and retrieved a bowl. As I wiped dust from the dish, I felt a pang of guilt. I should be starting Clyde’s confirmation preparation, rather than heading off for an afternoon with the Doctor. Then a thought struck me. Why couldn’t I combine the two?

  ‘We’re going to the living room,’ I told the snail. ‘Come with me.’

  Clyde flew ahead and was already resting on the coffee table when I joined him. I put down bowl and glass, and slid Battlefield into the DVD player.

  ‘Tennant,’ the snail shark said crossly as Sylvester McCoy’s face appeared on the TV screen.

  ‘This is classic Doctor Who,’ I told him. ‘And it has the Brigadier in it.’

  ‘Brigadier?’

  ‘You saw him in an episode of The Sarah Jane Adventures.’ I pointed back at the screen. ‘Now, watch, and think about how to use and how not to use power.’

  Clyde’s grumbling eased as he slurped at his beer. I could see him drifting off at points during the story, although he seemed to enjoy explosions as much as Ace. ‘Now, this is the bit,’ I said as we entered the final part of the story.

  We watched as the Doctor rushed between the two factions, UNIT soldiers squaring off against knights armed with swords. ‘Stop!’ the Doctor shouted out. ‘I command it! There will be no battle here!’

  I paused the DVD. ‘Look how the Doctor rushes in to stop bloodshed. Those two armies are fighting each other, and he tries to stop them.’

  ‘Beer?’ the snail asked hopefully.

  I sighed. ‘The Doctor is against violence, Clyde. He puts himself into personal danger to stop bloodshed. That’s how Christians view Jesus. Jesus showed himself to be against violence. When he was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, he stopped his disciples from using swords to defend him. Jesus went to the cross, allowing violence to be done to him, without retaliating in turn.’

  ‘Swords,’ Clyde said. ‘Fighting?’

  ‘Not fighting is good,’ I said firmly.

  His tentacles waved as he thought. Then he reared back to sing, ‘“Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before!”’

  ‘That’s about spiritual warfare, fighting the devil and all that,’ I said quickly. ‘Not about people fighting people.’

  ‘“Foward into battle,”’ Clyde continued quietly, almost to himself. ‘“See his banner go.” Beer?’

  ‘No, Clyde,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘One bowl, that’s all you get. Half a pint of beer. You know what happens if you have more than that, and it costs a lot to replace a carpet.’
r />   I pressed the ‘play’ button on the remote, and we watched the remainder of the story in silence. The Doctor Who theme played over the closing credits. Clyde slid closer to me. ‘Tennant? Fireplace?’

  ‘The Girl in the Fireplace? Again? You’re going to wear out that DVD.’ Then I had an idea. ‘Okay, Tennant, but we’re going to watch The End of Time. I’ll put it on, and then I’ll get us a cup of tea.’

  I left Clyde watching the rebirth of the Master and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As the tea brewed, I poured myself a small glass of Talisker, and downed it before taking two mugs of Earl Grey back to the living room.

  The tea was long gone by the time we arrived to the final scenes. Clyde watched, his body dull grey from the intensity of his concentration, as the Doctor pointed the gun first at the Time Lords, and then at the Master. The Master did his good deed, attacking Rassilon and sending Gallifrey away from Earth.

  ‘Doctor safe,’ Clyde said happily.

  ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Keep watching.’

  And Wilf knocked at the door of the nuclear booth, asking to be released. The Doctor ranted and raved, pounding his chest as he shouted, ‘I could do so much more!’ Clyde jerked as the Doctor swept a table clean in his rage.

  ‘Just watch,’ I urged him quietly.

  Clyde murmured as the Doctor exchanged places with Wilf, and again as the Doctor collapsed, radiation filling his body.

  I paused the DVD. ‘This is the Doctor’s Garden of Gethsemane moment. He could have decided to walk away. He could have decided to save his own life. But the Doctor sacrificed himself for his friend, Wilf. And that’s what Jesus did. He could have run away. But he decided to die for all of us, because he wants us to be his friends.’

  ‘Smith?’

  ‘Yes, the Doctor did regenerate into the Eleventh Doctor, played by Matt Smith. But the Tenth Doctor died. Just like Jesus told his disciples that he would rise again from the dead, but that didn’t make going through his trial and crucifixion any the easier.’