The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White Book 1)

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘No,’ I declared. Then I studied him. ‘You’ve watched Buffy?’

  ‘Only just scanned the DVDs now.’

  ‘What, you just looked at the DVDs and you knew the storyline?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m able to scan books in the same way.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Not as impossible as a gryphon being able to fly.’ He turned his head. ‘There’s a good one. Sherlock Holmes. I could be Sherlock.’

  ‘With your ego? Duw a’n gwaredo. The doors in this house aren’t big enough.’

  His laugh was high-pitched and almost human. ‘Then Moriarty. I like that name.’

  I swallowed. Once again the tension had eased, and I wanted to avoid a return to combat. ‘Your name. It’s too long. By the time I’ve called out, “Look out, Moriarty”, it could be too late. How about Fred?’

  The bright eyes scanned the DVD shelf again. ‘The Ribos Operation,’ he declared. ‘Episode one. Paraphrased. But point taken. You can call me Morey.’

  ‘Morey,’ I agreed, although I wondered what my bishop would say to my Associate being named after one of the most famous villains in literary history.

  ‘And as for your name--’

  ‘My name? What’s wrong with my name?’

  ‘I have a new name, you have a new name.’ He scratched at his neck. ‘Black. I shall call you Penny Black, Black for short.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘My sire collected stamps from your world. And he had a Penny Black.’

  I tried not to think how much such an old stamp might be worth. Probably more than I earned in a year. My stomach growled. ‘House tour later. Lunch time. Let’s eat, gryphon.’

  ‘Careful where you put that comma,’ Morey replied. ‘Correct punctuation saves lives.’ And he winked at me.

  Perhaps, I thought, this relationship might work out after all.

  <><><><><><>

  The days of a vicar are full enough. Visits to arrange funerals or baptisms. Patient conversations with wedding couples to explain that, no, we will not allow a hawk to swoop through the church with the rings. The inevitable physical or emotional crises of church members. (If there are any spiritual crises, these never seem to be shared with the vicar.) The weekly struggle to carve out time to write a decent sermon or school assembly. Posters to put up about the latest fund raiser and emails from abroad asking for research in church registers. The small matter of making time for personal prayer.

  So I felt more than just physically sore as I sipped at my glass of wine. ‘Did you have to bring so many books?’ I asked Morey.

  We were in the room he had decided to adopt as his own. The guest bedroom, of course, the second largest in the house. He was striding along one of the many bookshelves. ‘I read a lot,’ he said, tail whipping past the leather-bound volumes. ‘I left most back home.’

  ‘Even what you’ve brought is more than I own.’

  ‘Only because you fill your shelves with science fiction DVDs.’

  ‘They’re easier to lift than your books,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Have you read Summa Theologica? Simply magnificent.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You have the whole set.’

  ‘Back home. I had expected any well read priest to have the Summa in her own library.’

  I was tempted to find out how many volumes of the Summa it took to squash a small gryphon. ‘I can always look it up on-line.’

  Morey cocked his head. ‘You didn't offer me any wine.’

  ‘The bottle’s in the kitchen.’ Then I grinned. ‘You’ll need me to open it, won’t you?’

  ‘I could open it myself, but the results would be rather messy.’

  Morey leapt into the air and flew out. I glanced around the room. The spare bed was still in place, now covered with striped and spotted furs which certainly didn’t come from any animals known to humankind. A low table by the window was covered in a mixture of rocks, shells, and beads. I noted a tattered Bible rested on the bedside cabinet, and a rosary made of white stones curled over the cover. Morey had supervised while I fixed a crucifix over the bed. The walls were otherwise bare. It suddenly struck me that I knew very little of what sort of place a gryphon would normally live in. What had Morey left behind?

  I had just poured him a glass of red when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the kitchen clock. Just after 6:00 pm. About time to start cooking dinner. As I made my way to the door I hoped that I wasn’t walking towards some major pastoral crisis.

  What met me when I opened the door was nearly as disruptive. ‘Hey, Pen,’ said James. ‘Surprise!’

  For a moment, he nearly hugged me. Then he remembered that he’d sworn off physical contact with his older sister when he’d turned thirteen, and we shared an awkward handshake instead. I wanted so much to give him a more enthusiastic greeting, but the thought thundering through my head was, You’re finally here. Eighteen months too late.

  ‘Work dried up in New Zealand,’ he said over his shoulder as he brushed past me into the hallway. ‘So I decided to try my luck in Old Blighty. What’s for tea?’

  His suitcase was still resting in the porch. I fought and lost an old battle, so with a sigh, I brought the case inside before shutting the door. Act casual, I told myself. ‘I was just about to start. Chilli?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ I reached the kitchen just in time to see James pick up the second wineglass and take a drink. ‘Two glasses, Sis? You’re expecting someone?’

  The feathers along Morey’s neck were bristling at the sudden removal of his wine. I wondered how I could explain the state of the guest bedroom to my brother, and then decided that I couldn’t be bothered to lie. ‘James, I need to tell you something important.’

  He lowered himself into a chair, which was helpful. He’d been given the extra inches denied to me. His free hand swept through his shaggy brown hair. ‘Go on. You’re finally going to work for a living.’

  ‘I know, I know, I only work Sundays.’ I took a seat. Morey was staring at the glass, eyes narrowed, tongue licking the wine still glistening on his beak. ‘I’m starting a new job.’

  ‘You’re going to be a bishop?’

  Why, I wondered, did lay people think that was the burning ambition of every priest? ‘God forbid. And I mean it. No, something very different. Vicar General of Incursions.’

  He took another gulp of wine. ‘And what’s that, exactly?’

  ‘It means dealing with a people from a world which can be accessed from our own.’ I cleared my throat. ‘With beings we thought could only be found in fantasy stories.’

  James peered at me. ‘How much of this wine have you had?’

  ‘The licensing service is next week,’ I continued. ‘I’d like you to be there.’

  ‘Pen. You know I don’t do church. What’s the point of making up this weird story? It’s not going to change my mind. I’ll meet you afterwards for the drinks and nibbles.’

  Morey glanced at me. Then he lifted his wings in his version of a shrug. He strode across the table, jumped onto James’ hand, and lowered his beak into the wine to take in a gulp of his own.

  To my brother’s immense credit, the sudden appearance of a small gryphon did not make him jump. His dark eyes widened. ‘Wow. You’re a beauty.’

  ‘Don’t flatter him,’ I said drily. ‘His ego is big enough as it is.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like pets.’

  Skin dimpled as Morey’s claws dug in. ‘I am not a pet, James Alfred White.’

  Now James jumped. Wine and gryphon splashed across the table. I brought several towels over and concentrated on Morey, the table, and James in that order. The table was the only one who seemed to show any gratitude.

  I filled three glasses of wine, gave one to James, put one down for Morey, and clutched my own as I took a seat. ‘Morey is my Associate.’

  ‘From a parallel world?’ James took a gulp of wine, and the colour returned to his face. ‘Like Fringe?’


  Morey’s head turned to face the direction of the study. A moment later, no doubt having perused my DVD collection of the TV series, he pronounced, ‘Not really. A different world, not a parallel one.’

  ‘And Penny’s going to be dealing with this world?’

  ‘With one particular aspect of it, yes.’

  It took me a moment to interpret the look which James gave me. It was admiration. ‘Now, that is cool.’ He turned back to Morey. ‘So, what’s it like over there? Full of dragons?’

  ‘It’s different.’ Morey’s voice had taken on an edge I’d not heard before. ‘What is it like in New Zealand? Full of sheep?’

  Much as the sparring between gryphon and man was intriguing, I needed my dinner. ‘Chilli,’ I reminded my brother. ‘All right?’

  ‘Sure, Sis. Putting extra beef in for Morey?’

  ‘Eat carrion? Beth bynnag, I hunt my own meals.’

  I went to the garage to fetch another bottle of wine. A liberal amount went into the chilli sauce and an equally liberal amount into my glass. I browned meat and onions, stirred them into the mixture of tomatoes and kidney beans, and realised that I had tuned out the continuing conversation.

  ‘But she wasn’t right for me,’ James was saying. ‘She wanted us to live on her family’s farm. I mean, she’s right, I can carry on my work wherever I can get wifi. But I’m a city bloke. Can’t stand mud, and the dark, and the quiet.’

  ‘Has there been anyone since?’

  ‘No. Oh, an airline stewardess, but her schedule was impossible. Besides, it’ll be good to be back in England. New Zealand is just so far from anywhere.’

  ‘It’s near Australia.’

  ‘Far from anywhere interesting.’

  I stirred the sauce so hard that the wooden spoon creaked. In five minutes Morey had found out more about my brother than I had in the last two years.

  ‘And what about you? Any cute lady gryphon back home?’

  ‘No. I have taken a vow of chastity.’

  ‘What, you’re a monk or something?’

  ‘An Elder. A lay person but with special responsibilities. Bishop Aeron licensed me herself.’

  ‘You have woman bishops?’

  ‘Bishop Aeron is a dragon.’

  James turned in his chair and met my eyes. ‘I’m so coming to that licensing service.’

  Chapter Five

  James accepted the smallest bedroom without a fuss. I quickly made up the single bed, found a towel which wasn’t too threadbare, and left him to unpack and check Facebook, although I suspected there would be far more of the latter than the former.

  I headed down to the study. Morey was sitting on my desk, eyes gleaming as he ran his gaze past my Doctor Who DVD collection. ‘You’ve really watched all of these?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘And even liked them?’

  ‘All of them.’

  The phone rang. I glanced at the clock. 9:00 pm.

  ‘I’d answer that if I were you. It’s your bishop.’

  ‘And you can tell that how?’

  ‘The same way I know what’s in your DVDs.’ He pointed his beak at one particular title. ‘You like all of them? Even The Creature from the Pit?’

  ‘Even The Creature from the Pit,’ I said loyally. I picked up the phone. ‘Hello, Bishop Nigel.’

  ‘Oh, Penny. Sorry to phone you so late.’

  ‘That’s okay. Morey said it was you.’

  ‘Morey?’

  ‘My Associate. It’s the name we’ve agreed on for him.’

  ‘I see. And how are you two getting along?’

  The gryphon turned his head towards me. ‘Since he can hear every word you say,’ I told the Bishop, ‘I’ll call our relationship a work in progress.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Then his voice dropped into apology. ‘I know you haven’t been licensed yet, Penny, but we need you to step into the Dominic situation. The family and his religious order are arguing over what happens to the body. The Archdeacon of Ocheham will be visiting England tomorrow. Can I give her your number? She’s hoping you can help negotiate a compromise.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t know anything about dragon burial customs.’

  Both bishop and gryphon said, at the same moment, ‘What do you think an Associate is for?’

  I wrote down the Archdeacon’s number, although I couldn’t help but wonder how a unicorn talked on the phone. Handsfree, surely. Or was that hoovesfree? After I’d hung up the phone, I sat down in my office chair and looked at Morey. ‘So. What are dragon funeral customs?’

  ‘Depends what religion the dragon practised.’ Morey made an elegant leap onto a bookshelf to bring our eyes level. ‘Christians, of course, believe that only burial will do.’

  ‘Some Christians,’ I told him. ‘Others accept cremation.’

  The red eyes widened. ‘But that is to desecrate and destroy what God made and ordained for us. The body is an integral part of a being and the temple of the Holy Spirit.’

  It was far too late in the evening for a theological argument. ‘And if the dragon weren’t a Christian?’

  ‘By tradition, the family consumes the deceased. He’s eaten.’

  I coughed. ‘All of him?’

  ‘Not the bones,’ Morey conceded. ‘Only the flesh. Families sometimes fight over the choicest parts, such as the heart, or the eyes.’

  ‘The heart and the eyes?’

  ‘The seat of the soul, and the windows to the soul, in the pagan tradition.’

  ‘I’ll phone the Archdeacon in the morning,’ I decided. I suddenly felt the need for a good night’s sleep before dealing with cannibalistic dragons.

  <><><><><><>

  I was filling the bird feeders the next morning when I saw it. The body was lying near the fence, blue feathers strewn across the grass, neck twisted at an impossible angle. The belly of the bird was torn open and flies buzzed around a few pieces of congealed flesh. The slight green tinge along the head told me that the blue tit had been a juvenile, possibly one of those I had watched the parents raise over the summer.

  This was not the work of a cat. I marched into the house. Morey was on the kitchen table, standing in the middle of The Church Times. He glanced up as I slammed the door shut. ‘There’s a good commentary on the recent Methodist-Anglican Covenant.’

  ‘You’ve been hunting blue tits,’ I snapped. ‘In my garden. My blue tits.’

  ‘You know I hunt for my meals, Black’ he retorted, feathers rising from his neck. ‘And they’re very tasty.’

  ‘But not blue tits.’ I clutched the small bag of bird food to my chest. ‘Why not sparrows? There’s plenty of them.’

  Now fur as well as feathers stood up along his body. ‘No Christian could possibly hunt sparrows.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because our Lord valued them. “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father knowing.” Sparrows cannot be hunted.’

  ‘But Jesus didn’t mean that literally. He was trying to tell us that we’re worth more than sparrows.’

  ‘Sparrows were singled out by Christ,’ Morey insisted. ‘Doubt one part of the Bible, and you doubt all of it.’

  I snorted. ‘Come on. What about Genesis? Don’t tell me you accept a literal six day creation.’

  A sudden silence gave me the unwelcome answer. The beak jabbed towards me. ‘How can any Christian be a Darwinist? The Genesis account reveals to us the incredible creativity, intelligence, and power of God.’

  The phone started to ring, breaking into the icy silence. I strode to the office, the bird food in one hand as I picked up the receiver with the other. ‘Penny White speaking.’

  ‘Good morning, Penny. This is the Archdeacon of Ocheham. You are well?’

  No, I wanted to say. I have dead blue tits in my garden and a fundamentalist gryphon in my kitchen. But the traditional British response was already emerging from my mouth. ‘Fine, thanks. And you?’

 
‘Dealing with an accretion of sandbats on Llanbedr Cathedral, otherwise fine. I believe your bishop has spoken to you regarding the stalemate between Brother Dominic’s order and his family?’

  ‘Yes. What would you like me to do?’

  ‘I can arrange for representatives from both parties to meet in the diocesan offices in Kettering. Would that be convenient to you?’

  ‘Not in Lloegyr?’ I winced at the disappointment in my voice.

  ‘Kettering would be neutral territory. The family have promised not to flame anyone on Earth, even if they dislike the terms of any compromise.’

  ‘They wouldn’t make that sort of promise in Lloegyr?’

  ‘They wouldn’t.’ It took me a moment to realise that the soft sound curling through my ear was a sigh. ‘Dragons are very determined beings. Many of our greatest saints were dragons. And many of our worst dictators.’

  ‘“Meddle not in the affairs of dragons”,’ I muttered, ‘“for you are crunchy when fried and good with ketchup.’”

  The Archdeacon whinnied a laugh. ‘Very true. I shall speak to both parties, and my secretary will arrange a mutually convenient date.’

  Morey and James were sharing coffee and conversation when I wandered back into the kitchen. Bringing up blue tits or creationism seemed like an intrusion into their in-depth analysis of the Welsh international rugby team, so I focussed on preparing breakfast for the two beings in the house who did not rip small birds to shreds.

  ‘But the All Blacks have a good chance this year,’ James was saying as I slid a plate of toast between him and the gryphon. ‘They have an impressive full back.’

  Morey was seated, ears half cocked in what, I was beginning to realise, was a sign of him being at ease. He commented, ‘You’re taking this quite well.’

  ‘What? Having a gryphon discussing rugby with me?’ James grinned. ‘You’ve been in Penny’s office. You’ve seen what I grew up with.’

  ‘Certainly. And you have my sympathies.’

  I took a seat and buttered my own toast. ‘So, James, how long will you be staying?’

  ‘Well, I’m looking at some jobs in London.’ He shrugged. ‘But I don’t know. Might be for awhile.’