An Unholy Communion

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  Colin looked satisfied. “All right, then. I was just going to point out that little building in stone was done in any part of Britain before the Norman Conquest.” Colin turned to Jared, who was standing nearest him, and continued his monologue about the inaccuracies of Arthurian tales that place sixth-century warriors in stone castles.

  Antony selected the smoothest mound of stones, standing almost waist-high, and opened his rucksack. He donned a white stole and spread a small white linen cloth over the stones, turning them instantly into an altar. He set his prayer book to one side, placed a chalice and paten on the fair linen and proceeded to arrange the elements. Felicity was amazed. She knew Antony had planned to celebrate Eucharist at the chapel, but she had no idea he had all that in his backpack. It was a good thing he hadn’t left them on the van because there was no sight of it yet.

  Antony was efficient in his preparations, but even in that short time it seemed the sky had grown darker and the wind keener. Felicity shivered.

  Antony faced his little congregation with outstretched hands, and gave the Easter season greeting: “Alleluia. Christ is risen.”

  They responded, “The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.” Felicity, aware that some of their pilgrims had sketchy worship backgrounds, to say the least, spoke out clearly to provide a lead.

  Antony led an abbreviated liturgy with only readings from the book of Acts and the Gospel of John, then stepped forward to give his brief homily. “Fellow pilgrims,” he surveyed the small circle, looking each one in the eye and offering a smile. “Here we are on a green Welsh hillside, come from our various locations and various occupations. Each one with our own hopes and our own problems. But we’ve come together as a community. A band of seekers. As brothers and sisters. It’s my hope that as we walk on through these coming days, that we will cease to be isolated individuals, but a true community. To do that, walls will need to come down, perhaps some old ideas jettisoned, some new attitudes taken on board. I pray that that will happen.

  “What happens will be different for each one of us; how much happens will be controled by how much each of you allow. But I can offer you one means that can lead to allowing the power of God’s Holy Spirit in your life. It is the means He ordained for us on the night before He was crucified. That is coming together around His table to receive His Body and Blood.”

  Antony stopped. He looked for a moment as if he would say more, then changed his mind. He returned to stand behind the altar. “The Lord be with you.” He held out his hands.

  “And also with you,” Felicity led the response.

  The wind picked up sharply as Antony began the prayer of consecration over the elements: “…You sent Jesus Christ, Your only and eternal Son, to share our human nature, to live and die as one of us, to reconcile us to You, the God and Father of all.”

  The fury of the gale beat on the tiny band of worshipers, driving spatters of icy rain into them like tiny nails. Felicity feared the vessels would be swept from the altar, but Antony continued as if he were in a monastery church: “He stretched out His arms upon the cross and offered Himself. In obedience to Your will, a perfect sacrifice for the sins of the whole world. Recalling now His death, resurrection, and ascension, we offer You these gifts. Sanctify them to be for us the Body and Blood of Your Son, the holy food and drink of new and unending life in Him.”

  Instinctively the group huddled together as the only source of shelter on the open hillside. “Sanctify us also, that we may faithfully receive this holy Sacrament, and serve You in unity, constancy and peace…” Antony’s last words were whipped away in a roar of wind.

  As if an angry spirit were tearing them away, Felicity thought with a gasp of horror.

  The darkness seemed so thick Felicity wasn’t sure she could grope her way to the altar only a few feet in front of her. The wind lashed as if it would fling her from the hillside. She didn’t want to stumble against a fallen stone.

  And then something reached out to grab her. A tentacle trying to encircle her wrist. Pale and ghostly. She opened her mouth to scream, then realized it was the end of Antony’s stole, whipping in the wind. Now Antony was before her, sheltering her from the fury of the wind. Her mouth remained open, but not in fright. “The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given you, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life.” He placed the wafer on her tongue.

  She crossed herself.

  Miraculously, all the pilgrims made it through the gale to the altar, and Antony concluded, “Let us go forth in the name of Christ.”

  And then, as quickly as it had risen, the wind dropped. A weak sun came out from behind the cloud bank, looking as uncertain as Felicity felt, and cast late afternoon shadows over the scene.

  All the way through the arduous afternoon trek, Felicity had been looking forward to that afternoon tea break. I must be becoming English, she thought. But to be honest, it wasn’t just the tea. She had glimpsed the store of cakes Michael had laid in. But now, no Michael, no van, no tea and cakes.

  Antony, having repacked his communion vessels, approached her holding out his mobile and shaking his head. “No reception up here. Nothing to do, really, but to carry on. We have accommodation at a farm tonight.”

  “Not a church?” Felicity asked.

  “Nothing in convenient distance.” Ryan held out the map. “Not too far to go now.” He looked around at the sun sinking behind the mountain. “We’ll be all right if the weather holds. This track here past the chapel is a green lane, hollowed by centuries of use, so easy enough to follow. Fairly steep going, though. And it will be really important for everyone to stay on the path.” He raised his voice. “We’re going past the remains of an old colliery. All this area,” he pointed to the map, “was disturbed by mining. There will be tips, broken masonry around old upcast shafts, steep drops into quarries.” Felicity shivered as Ryan continued detailing the possible dangers, but he seemed entranced by the thought. “We’ll want to make good time. It would be a shame to go through such an interesting site in the dark.”

  Felicity shook her head at his focus. She was far more worried about getting off the mountain safely in the dark than missing a geological site. “Are you all right to lead, Ryan? I’d like to walk to the back for a bit if that’s OK.”

  “Certainly. No problem.”

  “And keep an eye out for Adam; he doesn’t have to walk to the front to carry the cross, but I think he means to.” Adam stood on the trail, the cross held aloft in both hands like the crucifer in a liturgical procession, rather than resting it over his shoulder as most had chosen to do.

  Ryan smiled. “He’s a good kid. No worries.” And Felicity believed him. This tall, broad Welshman in a Barbour coat and cloth cap with his soft voice and passion for the land inspired confidence.

  She wished she felt as confident about some of the other members of their group. Holding back, she watched them as they moved forward behind the leaders. Jared had been such a surprise: who would have thought their troubled youth—she refused to think juvenile delinquent—would be so charmingly relaxed, with such a winning smile?

  Or their nurse so pushy? She thought as Lydia hefted her rucksack and fell into step behind Evie and Kaylyn, another pair of enigmas. Her thoughts went back to Lydia with her ruddy cheeks and auburn hair, her narrow shoulders and wide hips. Hard to imagine a more unlikely brother and sister pair than Lydia and the frail Adam. But Lydia would need her strength in the demanding profession of nursing, Felicity concluded, before moving on to consider Nancy, her head bent to listen to Colin, her serenity undisturbed by his never-ending flow of words.

  Felicity and Antony fell in close behind. As Ryan had warned, it wouldn’t do to get separated in the gathering dusk, but Felicity wanted to be far enough back that they could talk, hopefully undisturbed.

  She reached for his hand and they simply stood, looking at each other for a heart-stopping moment, then moved forward. The path was too narrow to allow comfortable hand-in-hand walking. Under the c
over of Colin’s words she said as quietly as she could, “Antony, that storm… I mean— it was awfully violent. And the timing…”

  He was quiet for several paces until she began to wonder if he had heard her. Then, “It wouldn’t do to make too much out of it. Weather can change very quickly this time of year on the mountains. As we’ve experienced.” Again he was quiet for a moment.

  Felicity smiled. Always thoughtful, always careful, thinking everything through. That was her Antony. She, on the other hand… Well, she was learning to be less rash, less headstrong. At least she hoped she was. Although she wasn’t sure what she had gotten herself into just now.

  “On the other hand,” Antony picked up the conversation thread. “It could be a dangerous mistake to dismiss all the, er— unusual things that have happened lately as merely nothing.”

  “You mean you think something is going on? Something—” now it was her turn to stumble over her word, “as Nosterfield said, something paranormal?”

  Antony nodded. “I think that was my word, but Nosterfield accepted it. I dislike using it because it’s overused and over-hyped by the media. But still, it can be useful because we need to realize that things do happen—inexplicable things—that are outside our ‘normal’ experience.”

  Felicity shivered and zipped up the waterproof jacket she had donned against the evening chill. “You mean demon possession?” She couldn’t help her eyes seeking out Kaylyn. It would be easy enough to imagine that sullen young woman participating in something occult.

  “Whoa. That’s the problem with such terms. People tend to jump to the most sensational examples. Of course, as a priest, I know it exists. There are enough examples in the Bible. But oppression is often a far more useful word and not so emotion-charged.”

  “Yes! That’s it exactly. That’s what I felt all day. And then that storm at Eucharist. It was like an assault.” She breathed deeply. “Oppression. Amazing how it can help just to put the right word on something. Thank you.”

  The sense of comfort lasted for several yards. “So, you do think something is going on?”

  “Like I said, you could find natural explanations for everything that’s happened, but I believe we would dismiss them at our peril.”

  Felicity looked at her hand and saw again the paper bursting into flame. Felt the instantaneous heat. Smelt the sulfur.

  A large black bird flew overhead. A scream rose in her throat as she thought of Hwyl plummeting from the tower. She stifled it immediately. Focus on your surroundings, she commanded herself. She looked up at the mountain looming over them to the right. In the growing dark she sensed more than saw the abandoned tip from the old colliery. Nature was reclaiming its own as scrubby bushes and coarse grasses pushed their way over the rocks. She hoped they held. The top must have been 100 feet above them, the hillside terraced like wide stair steps with a few trees clinging to the shallow earth.

  Ryan stopped before a crumbling stone structure built into the hillside; a tall tower, the curve of its Roman-arched doorway repeated in two more arches on the top. Beside it, a lower structure of the same sturdy stone, its wide, arched opening gaping like a hungry mouth. The hillside above loomed threateningly; dead branches among the trees seeming to reach forward. “The entrance and fan house to the old mine,” Ryan announced. “Careful of all the broken bits in the grass,” he warned the walkers who gathered around him.

  “Foul air was sucked from the mine workings by a large steam-driven fan. Fresh air then entered the mine by airshafts dotted around the mountainside. There was a terrible accident here when a tram jolted off the rails and slammed into a boiler pipe, spewing out the entire contents of the boiler.”

  Felicity didn’t want to know that, but Ryan was unfazed. “Want to say a Station here, Father?”

  Antony shook his head. “Too dark. Let’s press on. We’re already late for dinner. I hope they’ve held it for us.” They could meditate on the cross after dinner.

  Ryan pulled a torch from his pocket and shone it on the map. Pant-yr-yrfa Farm just here.”

  “That’s ‘career valley.’” Colin interpreted. “Odd name.”

  “It’s only about a mile or so on, I’d say,” Ryan continued. “Looks like the nearest road comes up here, then there’s a track, so Michael should be all right.”

  “Great. Press on.” Antony raised his voice to reach the little clump of walkers. “Everybody all right, then? Just a bit further on. Then it’ll probably be shepherd’s pie and bed.”

  Felicity could only fantasize about how good her bedroll would feel. And a full stomach. “Oh!” She cried out and clutched Antony for support as she stumbled over a stone on the path. How good it all would feel if she could just manage to get there.

  Then up ahead a familiar melody rang out, “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah…” What could possibly be more appropriate than to be singing “Cum Rhondda” as they trekked toward the Rhondda Valley? Blessing Nancy, Felicity joined in with far more energy than she knew she possessed: “… pilgrim through this barren land…”

  A light from a single window shone through the gloom, leading them forward. The isolated farmhouse took shape against the hill as the pilgrims increased their pace. Soon, they were inside.

  “Ah, warmth!”

  “Oh, that smells so good!”

  “Oooh, I want to take my boots off and not move for hours and hours!”

  Felicity, leaning against the wall of the welcoming, rustic kitchen, smiled. Through rough terrain, delays and sudden storm they had triumphed. The first day of any new adventure was always the hardest. The going would be easier now. She grinned at Antony across the room as she savored the blessed relief of pulling her boots off.

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday

  Llandderfel to Pontyminster

  In spite of his fatigue from the unaccustomed hillwalking yesterday, Antony woke early. He stepped into his trousers, black as always, but these of a waterproof fabric, and pulled a sweater over his head—what Felicity would call a sweatshirt. He would get back into his regular walking attire later: black shorts with his clerical shirt, sleeves rolled up, walking boots well padded with two pairs of gray walking socks. He picked up his office book and, moving as silently as possible through the roomful of sleeping bodies, he let himself out the front door.

  The sky was tinged an early morning pink and gold, the coarse grass dew-damp and fresh-smelling. The occasional birdsong could hardly be called a dawn chorus, but it lightened his troubled thoughts as he made his way to a rustic bench overlooking the valley at the side of the house.

  His cautious words to Felicity had been perfectly sincere, but he still felt uneasy over yesterday’s events. He paused and rephrased his thought to make it a question: What had happened yesterday? Had the sudden violence been a perfectly natural phenomenon of the weather patterns in this part of the country? Or something far more sinister?

  And if the latter—why? And what should he do about it?

  Why should any evil power bother attacking their little group of pilgrims? Certainly their goal was to be a presence for good everywhere they trod, and to foster spiritual growth and unity among their members but, praise-worthy as that might be, it hardly seemed worth calling down the wrath of the Evil One in such a spectacular effort.

  He thought again of the fury of the wind that felt as if it would snatch the Body of Christ from his hands. It had felt so— well, so personal.

  Certainly every mass was an affront to Satan, a declaration of the triumph of the risen Christ over his enemy: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again. He repeated the familiar words in his mind. But why pick on this small, remote band?

  And if yesterday’s storm, the flame attacking Sister Florence, the voice calling Felicity… If all the recent anomalies they had encountered added up to some sort of attack—he shuddered at the thought—what should he do about it?

  Aborting the pilgrimage, sending everyone home, seemed unthinkable, just the logistics
unimaginable. And would accomplish little. Giving in to a bully never worked. The dark had to be confronted. Besides, he was a priest. This was what he was trained to deal with, wasn’t it?

  He took a deep breath of the fresh, damp air and opened his book to the Morning Office. Even with the sun breaking in the east, however, the sense of lightlessness persisted in his mind. So he chose to begin with an evening collect: “Look down, O Lord, from your heavenly throne; illuminate the darkness of this night with your celestial brightness; and from the children of light banish the deeds of darkness…”

  Three hours later, their stomachs warmed with baked beans, homemade bread, and bacon and sausage produced right there at Pant-yr-yrfa, the energy among the pilgrims was tangible. Antony called them all together to begin the day’s journey with a Station of the Cross. “Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men,” he began.

  “Yeah, and the way to you-know-where being paved with good intentions,” Jared quipped.

  Antony grinned at him. “As I was saying—the plan was to say all the Stations each day, but since we only managed four yesterday, I think we’ll just cycle through them as we go. Today we’ll pick up at the fifth Station, Simon of Cyrene takes the cross: ‘He was looking tired,’ the fictional centurion narrated. ‘He had to be kept going, so I called a man out of the crowd.’” As if on cue, Jared stepped forward and grasped the cross.

  When the brief prayers were over, he continued walking by Antony, waving as the minibus pulled out ahead of them and they followed the narrow track back to the path along the side of the treeless green hill.

  “So what do you like to do, Jared?” Antony was happy to have this chance to get to know the lad better.

  Jared’s smile was self-deprecating. “Nothing special. Just hang out, like.”

  “How did you happen to come on this youth walk?”

  “My gran, really. It was her idea. She convinced my unit officer—you know, the teacher who, like, sees to it I study and stay out of trouble.”