by Chrys Cymri
‘There aren’t humans on Daear,’ I reminded him. ‘Only those who go through a thin place, either accidentally or on purpose.’
The unicorn scraped a hoof against the kitchen tiles. ‘I want my mam,’ she reminded us.
‘Certainly you do,’ the rat said gravely. He gave her a deep bow. ‘May I have lodging for the night, yes? And a dinner of your British roast beef? The herd will meet the mademoiselle in the morning.’
The filly gave an unhappy whicker. ‘It’s only one more night,’ I told her. ‘Your mother must have her reasons.’
‘There’s no roast beef,’ Morey told the rat. ‘But I’d be happy to catch a blue tit for you.’
The rat’s ears flicked in confusion. ‘What wine does one serve with blue tit?’
‘A nice white,’ Morey said thoughtfully. ‘Probably a Chablis.’
‘I’ll send James to buy some beef,’ I declared. The local garden bird population was suffering enough from satisfying the appetites of a gryphon and a snail shark. ‘And I’ll get a room ready for you.’ Just as well that vicarages came with four bedrooms, since between me, Morey, and James three were taken up already.
I left gryphon and rat discussing the pairing of wines with the flesh of various bird and mammal species. Clyde remained, obviously fascinated with the topic. James accepted a twenty pound note from me and went off in the car to buy supplies for our sudden guest. And I tried to turn my attention back to a sermon about death, since I’d made a rash promise to my congregation to preach about ‘The Four Last Things’ during Advent.
Evening meal was successfully served for those who did not demand still bleeding meat. Morey declined my invitation to accompany me to the Parochial Church Council meeting. James had spent my money not only on several slices of cold roast beef but also a bottle of Chablis, and the members of the household who did not have to work for their living were enjoying the wine and conversation about rugby. I did scoop up Clyde to dump him in to his tank. He protested mightily, but I’ve witnessed hung over snail shark and I was determined to avoid a repeat performance. The stench had hung around the study for a week.
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In the summer the PCC met in the church. But in winter it was hard enough to shiver for an hour in church every Sunday morning. So, by general agreement, winter meetings were held in the churchwarden’s house. I pulled into her drive two minutes before we were due to start, which meant in her eyes that I was ten minutes late.
We gathered around the large table in her dining room. The walls were covered in prints of horse-riding hunters chasing after eager hounds. We weren’t offered any refreshments, which warned me that Holly was in a belligerent mood.
All were present. Eight people supposedly chosen by the congregation, but who were really there only because I had convinced them to be. After a seven month gap, we even had a treasurer. I smiled at Robert, relieved that an ex-accountant had been willing to take up spread sheets again.
‘Thank you for all coming,’ I began. ‘Rosie, would you mind opening the meeting in prayer?’
Rosie was, strictly speaking, not a member. She was the retired minister whom the diocese had appointed to assist me, freeing me for duties as Vicar General. Her grey hair matched those of the PCC members, but her bright purple cardigan stood out against their choices of more neutral browns. ‘Certainly, Penny. Loving God, thank you for bringing us safely here this evening. We pray for your guidance in all that we discuss. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ we all dutifully repeated. I took a deep breath. Based on past form, this would be the only time we would agree on anything.
At first, all went well. There were no amendments to the previous minutes. Holly spoke about the leaning wall and all agreed that village support would be sought for the spring. Nothing to report under correspondence, as yet again no American multi-millionaire had suddenly discovered an ancient connection with Saint Wulfram’s and contacted us with an offer of money. (This had actually happened to a nearby parish and my congregation still lived in hope.) I talked about the services planned for Christmas and mentioned that Rosie would be officiating at the upcoming Sunday morning service. There would be evening services throughout Advent and I would be taking those.
Then it was the treasurer’s turn. He passed around a copy of the profit and loss account. ‘As you can see,’ Robert intoned, ‘we have broken even this year. Thanks to income from the village fete, and a rise in weddings.’
‘But we haven’t broken even,’ I pointed out. ‘We've underpaid our parish share by four thousand pounds.’
‘The diocese can wait,’ Holly snapped. ‘We have an ancient heritage to maintain. This village needs its church.’
‘This village also needs its vicar,’ I pointed out, keeping my voice mild. ‘And right now she’s not being paid for. We have some money in reserve. We should look to pay more into parish share.’
‘Well, Vicar, I would query the amount.’ Robert leaned forward. ‘The diocese wants us to pay more than our fair share.’
‘In what way?’ asked Rachel, putting down her knitting.
‘Bishop Nigel says we must pay for what we get,’ Robert continued. ‘Well, I’ve had a look at the service registers. And our vicar has only taken services on forty Sundays this year.’
I hid my hands under the table so they couldn’t see that my fingers were curling into fists. ‘I am entitled to six Sundays off a year,’ I reminded them. ‘Then I was asked to lead a weekend retreat. One Sunday I was off ill. And some Sundays I’m called away for my diocesan role. Rosie always takes those services, and the diocese appointed her for that reason.’
‘But we get her for free, don't we?’ Holly asked. ‘Since she’s retired and all.’
Holly is a beloved child of God, I reminded myself. ‘There’s more to a vicar’s role than Sunday worship. That’s not all that parish share is paying for.’
‘What else do you do in this village?’ Holly glared at me from across the table. ‘You don’t visit anyone, you don’t show up for village meetings, you don’t seem to care whether the church remains standing.’
Rosie caught my eye, and gave me a small shake of the head. But there was no way I was going to let this slide. ‘It would break confidentiality for me to tell you about my visits, I turn up to meetings when I can, and of course I care that the building remains standing. I also do assemblies in the school, I’m one of their governors, and I’m the one who prepares and photocopies the weekly pew sheet. Never mind funerals, and weddings, and baptisms not only for this village but the two housing estates our parish also covers.’
‘And you’re not even with us this Sunday morning,’ Holly complained. ‘Rosie’s taking the service.’
‘Because we’re having evening services in Advent,’ I reminded her. ‘You’ve all asked to have evensong reinstated. This is our trial period. It’s what we agreed. We’re having four evening services, during which I’m going to preach on the Four Last Things.’
Rachel frowned. ‘What’s that?’
‘Traditionally,’ Rosie said, ‘the four Sundays leading up to Christmas are as much a time of preparation as Lent. The Four Last Things are death, judgement, hell, and heaven.’
Rachel’s frown deepened. ‘And you expect people will come to hear that?’
‘We all know you work hard, Vicar,’ Robert said in a tone which suggested that he very much doubted it, ‘but all that doesn't bring in extra people on a Sunday. And it’s the people who come on a Sunday who put money into the collection plate. People want to see the vicar when they come to church. That’s what brings them in.’
I glared at him. ‘I thought it was God that brought them in, not the vicar.’
‘But if their vicar isn’t interested in them--’
‘Dear Lord God,’ Rosie prayed, interrupting Holly, ‘we ask for the guidance of your Holy Spirit in all these matters financial. In a moment of silence, we ask you to speak to us, so that we may continue to strive for the coming of your kingd
om.’
The PCC members dutifully bowed their heads. Rosie glanced at me, and I did the same. For a minute there was silence. Then Rosie ended with an ‘Amen’ which we all echoed.
‘No more payment towards parish share,’ Holly said firmly. ‘Not until we know what repairs to the church might cost.’
‘Agreed,’ Rachel said. She was knitting again. ‘Vicars come and go, but we need a church to pray in.’
I bit my lower lip, and moved us on to the next part of the agenda.
The rest of the meeting proceeded more smoothly. There was a moment of tension when Janet announced that she could no longer be responsible for the daily opening of the church. This stirred up the old resentment that their vicar lived on a housing estate, not in the village, which meant I couldn’t be expected to come out twice a day to do the necessary unlocking and locking. But then Gerald volunteered to take over, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.
Finally, I was leading them all in the Grace, and we headed off to our respective homes or cars. I slid into the driver’s seat, and wondered if I should remove my dog collar before swearing.
A rap on the passenger window made me glance to my left. Rosie was peering in at me. I leaned over, unlocked the door, and she climbed in. ‘Do you need a lift?’ I asked.
‘No, my car’s just down the road. I thought we should talk.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Thanks for the guerrilla praying.’
Rosie laughed. ‘The other option is to start singing, but I don’t think that lot would welcome a worship chorus.’
‘I don't know what they’d welcome. Other than a vicar for free.’
‘My advice? Don't rise to it. That was your mistake back there. You tried to justify yourself.’
‘But I was trying to help them see that a vicar isn’t only there for Sundays. And not just for them, but the whole parish.’
‘Don’t try to justify yourself,’ Rosie repeated. ‘That just raises the tension rather than reduces it. You know your value to this community. Don’t you?’
I looked away. ‘Actually, sometimes I do wonder.’
Her hand was warm on my arm. ‘All vicars do, in my experience. What did you really think of Robert’s attitude?’
‘I wanted to tell him it's not his place to look at how many services I’ve done, as if I were some factory worker who had to clock in every Sunday.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
I stared at her. The yellow glow from the streetlight emphasised her small nose and rounded cheeks. ‘Because he would’ve walked away, and it was hard enough to find a treasurer.’
‘So you think one thing and say another.’
‘That,’ I pointed out, ‘is part of a priest’s life.’
‘That depends on the priest.’ Rosie patted my arm. ‘My advice? Maybe you need to say what you think. Just a bit more often. Vicars are not meant to just be nice to their parishioners. Sometimes, we have to throw in a challenge as well.’
‘And if you lose a treasurer?’
Rosie shrugged. ‘Treasurers come and go, but there will still be a church for them to pray in.’
Then it hit me, and I groaned. ‘I’m supposed to meet Holly and the death watch beetle inspector about the pews tomorrow morning. But something’s come up with the diocesan job. Could you go instead?’
‘No,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Pews do not require the attention of a minister. Let Holly meet the expert on her own.’
‘She’s not going to be happy about that,’ I muttered.
‘God did not place you here to keep churchwardens happy.’
And I found myself laughing. ‘Just as well!’
She patted my arm again and exited the car. I headed home.
The vicarage was very quiet when I let myself in. I dropped my iPad into the study, and went through the door into the kitchen.
What I saw made me want a drink all the more. The filly was lying on the floor, the steady rise and fall of her chest showing that she was asleep. James was sitting in a chair, both Morey and Clyde at his elbow. All three of them were simply staring at the unicorn, and all three of them seemed to have the same glazed look in their eyes, or in Clyde’s case, eyespots.
‘How long,’ I demanded, ‘have you three been watching a sleeping unicorn?’
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Morey said with a sigh.
‘Beautiful,’ Clyde echoed.
‘Can we keep her?’ James asked.
‘Keep her, keep her,’ Clyde urged, his tentacles turning in my direction.
‘She’s going home tomorrow morning,’ I said firmly. And I was annoyed. The filly’s head was blocking access to the floor cabinet where I kept my bottles of whisky. Well, that meant I had no other option. I went to the wine rack and picked out a bottle of red. I took it to the living room, leaving the males and the snail to admire the unicorn in peace. Time for some Doctor Who. A Tom Baker episode, I decided, and slid a DVD into the side of the TV. I’d watch The Seeds of Doom and imagine whom I might want to feed into the grinding mechanism of a compost machine.
Chapter Five
The morning after PCC meetings almost inevitably found me nursing a hangover. So I was already in a bad mood when I found that, try as I might, there was no hot water to be coaxed out of my shower. I shivered my way through a quick soap and shampoo session, wondering which of my housemates was the culprit.
When I entered the kitchen, determined to find ibuprofen and coffee in that order, the unicorn was out in the back garden and the rat was tucking into toast and marmalade. Every one of his grey hairs looked nicely fluffed, and I wondered if he were the hot water hogger. I could think of no tactful way to ask, so I busied myself with pain killers and caffeine.
Morey, as usual, was drawn to the kitchen by the smell of fresh coffee. ‘How was the PCC?’ he asked as I plonked a mug in front of him. Then his eyes followed my glance at the near empty wine bottle resting on the kitchen counter. ‘I see. No change there, then.’
‘Did you have to chair PCC meetings in Lloegyr?’ I asked, taking my seat. Breakfast would have to wait until my headache eased.
‘Oh, yes, our church structures aren’t that dissimilar to yours. But I was only ever an assistant curate, never an incumbent with my own parish.’
James had come in while Morey was talking. ‘“Your own parish”? But you’re not a priest.’
‘I was,’ Morey said glumly.
‘He gave up holy orders,’ I explained, ‘because he wanted to marry a were-fox. Eglwys Loegyr doesn’t permit mixed marriages.’ I turned back to the gryphon. ‘You could probably reapply, couldn’t you?’
‘Why should I want to?’
‘Very true. Particularly if it forces you to attend PCC meetings.’ I took another sip of coffee. ‘This time, the treasurer accused me of not earning my keep.’
Morey’s eyes glittered. ‘And did you put him in his place?’
‘I told him about the work I do during the week. A vicar is more than someone who turns up in church on Sundays.’
‘You have no need to justify yourself.’
I grimaced. ‘That’s what Rosie said. She also said that I should stop thinking one thing and saying another.’
James brought his own breakfast to the table. ‘So,’ he said to the rat, ‘can I come with you? To take the unicorn back?’
The rat was just picking up the last of the crumbs from his plate. ‘Non. The Archdruid was very clear. Only the priest may come.’
‘The Archdruid?’ Morey’s ears rose high in surprise. ‘What is the filly to her?’
‘We did not ask. We are only the messengers.’ The rat sat back on his haunches and used his forefeet to clean his long whiskers. ‘The crossing place is a long flight from here. How can the unicorn be transported?’
‘Already taken care of,’ I said. ‘I’m expecting a car and trailer at nine. Do you know the name of the nearest town on this side?’
‘It is called Earls Barton.’
‘That figu
res,’ I muttered. At James’ quizzical look, I explained, ‘There was a snail shark infestation back in the summer. That’s when I gained Clyde. Speaking of which, I’d better get him out.’
I managed to get down some toast, and the rat joined Morey, Clyde and me for the Morning Office. He said the Lord’s Prayer in French, which meant that God had to listen to us recite in four different languages. I couldn't decide whether he’d be despairing at our lack of unity or roaring with laughter.
I steeled myself and made the phone call to let Holly know that I wouldn’t be in the church that morning. A knock at the door gave me the excuse I need to cut through her tirade and hang up.
The Land Rover and trailer were on the road near my house. The driver was Ed, the same man who had brought the filly to my vicarage. I moved my car out of the garage so he could back the trailer up to the open door. By bringing the filly through the house, and then into the garage through the internal door, we were able to load her into the trailer without inviting too much interest from the neighbours.
After a quick dash upstairs to put on clothes suitable for meeting an Archdruid, I grabbed my iPhone and house keys before hurrying out to the Land Rover. Morey and Clyde were by the front door, looking just as disappointed as James had been when the rat insisted that only I was welcome to accompany the unicorn back to Lloegyr. I felt a slight twinge of worry about not having Morey with me. But I was certain that I’d be crossing back to our world by the afternoon, long before the Sight could wear off.
As we neared Earls Barton, I called up Google maps on my iPad and showed the rat the satellite view. He was able to direct the driver to the edge of the town. Houses straggled down one side of the road, and a field stretched out on the other.
Ed dropped down the trailer door, and the filly pranced out. Her gleaming coat picked up what little sunshine was poking through the high level clouds. The rat was perched on the car roof, his dark eyes scanning the field. ‘Over the fence and to the other side,’ he said. ‘The crossing is there.’