by Chrys Cymri
I studied him. ‘Run out of money again?’
His face flushed. ‘The clients in New Zealand had to cut back their IT budgets. That’s not my fault.’
I mentally reviewed my diary for a time when I could visit the supermarket. ‘Have you rented a car?’
‘No. And I’ll need a lift to the train station tomorrow.’ James lifted his plate. ‘More toast?’
I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and went back to my office. A moment later Morey flew in, landing on a section of desk not covered with papers. He peered at my on-line calendar and asked, ‘Did the Archdeacon give you a date for the meeting?’
‘I thought you could hear telephone conversations.’
‘Not when I’m also talking rugby.’
‘Her secretary will come back to me.’ I tapped at the computer screen. ‘So, today I’m seeing a family to plan a funeral, this afternoon I’ll be writing my sermon, and this evening is the village fete meeting.’
‘I’ll come with you on the funeral visit.’
I stared down at him. ‘Really?’
‘It would have been in the appointment letter. “The Associate will attend parish duties in order to better understand the dual role of the appointee.”’
‘It’s not a church-going family.’
‘The parish system,’ he informed me, ‘also exists in Lloegyr. Anyone is entitled to the services of the Church for baptism, marriage, and death.’
‘Hatches, matches, and dispatches.’
Feathers ruffled in confusion. ‘I thought humans were born?’ Then his neck smoothed again. ‘Ah, epistrophe. Very clever.’
I tried to memorise the word so I could look it up later. ‘I wasn’t the one who thought of it.’
Wings flipped in a shrug. ‘But before the day’s work begins, the work of the day must begin with prayer. Which Office do you use?’
‘Common Worship.’ I lowered myself into the office chair and pulled over the red-covered book. Morey padded over the desk to stand by my elbow. ‘You’re staying?’
The furry ears shot upright. ‘Of course. We work together. So we pray together.’
So for the first time in my life I said the canticles and psalms with a gryphon. He insisted that we sung a hymn, and James appeared briefly in the doorway at the sound. As soon as my eyes met his, he slipped away. His initial dislike of religion had been sealed by my decision to become a priest. This distaste, I’ve discovered, is quite common for those who were raised in vicarages.
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‘Would you like a drink?’ the oldest daughter said as I cleared a seat on the tatty sofa. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Well, it is traditional,’ I responded. Sometimes the rejoinder gains a laugh. But the four simply looked at me and I made sure my sigh remained internal.
Morey was a warm weight against the left side of my neck. As it was a breezy day, I was wearing a light fleece, so I was mostly shielded from his claws. When the weather warmed again, I was going to have to work out a different arrangement. ‘Sorry about your mum,’ I told the three people still in the small room. ‘Had she been ill for long?’
‘It was quick.’ That was the older son. They all looked to be in their forties. ‘Heart attack. We wasn’t expecting it.’
I said sympathetic words, and accepted my mug as it arrived. I could feel Morey shift his weight, so I lowered the tea away from his reach. ‘There are no rules in funerals. I’m here to help you put together a service to show respect to your mum, and to help you say what you want to say. I’ll give you an idea of how we could put it together, but if you want to change anything around, just let me know.’
This was the third funeral visit in the last two weeks. I always try to remember that, although I officiate at many funerals, for these people this is the only funeral they will ever have for their loved one.
The hymns were quickly decided. As in most funerals (and indeed, weddings and baptisms), they wanted ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and ‘Morning has Broken.’ We agreed on Psalm 23 for the reading.
‘After that we have our prayers,’ I continued, ‘ending with the Lord’s Prayer. In the traditional version?’
Several of them shifted in their seats. I waited for a moment, letting my eyes roam over the brown wallpaper and faded prints. Then I asked, gently, ‘What do you need to tell me?’
‘About the prayers.’ The younger son cleared his throat. ‘Mum was an atheist.’
I felt Morey stiffen, neck feathers rising to tickle against my earlobe. ‘I thought you wanted a Christian funeral,’ I said calmly, ‘since you asked for a Church of England vicar. Was I wrong?’
‘Oh, she was an atheist,’ said oldest daughter. ‘But we’re not.’
Morey was muttering something under his breath which I decided to ignore. ‘The Lord’s Prayer, traditional version. I suggest that you ask the funeral directors to print it out on the order of service. Not everyone knows it anymore.’
We agreed to leaving music and also that the curtains would be shut at the end of the service. Funerals at crematoria are tricky, in this regard. Burials, I find, give a definite end point. If the family decides that the curtains should be left open, they then find it hard to leave the room at the end of the service. I handed out my business card and started to wrap up. ‘We have a visiting team in the parish. Maybe in a couple of weeks they could phone you? Arrange to come out and give you a listening ear?’
‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ said eldest daughter. ‘We’ve arranged to see our favourite medium. She’s going to contact Mum for us, and we’ll ask Mum how she’s doing.’
‘You’re doing a Christian funeral,’ Morey said into my ear, ‘for an atheist whose children are spiritualists!’
‘If you change your minds,’ I said, gathering as much dignity together as I could with a gryphon fuming on my shoulder, ‘just let me know.’
I managed to get outside before Morey threw himself into the air to hover in front of my face. ‘How can you take this funeral?’
‘In the car, Morey,’ I whispered.
Once inside, his claws digging deep into the passenger seat, Morey glared up at me. ‘This is not a Christian family, Black.’
‘The parish system, remember?’ I started the drive back home. ‘And I let God be judge of these things.’
‘But we are meant to challenge pagans!’
‘When they’re grieving?’ I found myself smiling as I recalled having a similar argument with the priest who had trained me. Now I was repeating his words. ‘Remember that this might be the first time in years, if ever, that they’ve met a minister. They will judge the church, they will judge God, on how I act. How do you think that family would’ve felt if I’d suddenly said I wouldn’t do their mother’s funeral? Would that have been very pastoral?’ Silence from the gryphon. ‘Well?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘A priest has do her best with all sorts of people. Laypeople don’t always understand that.’
‘I was ordained.’
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I was ordained, once.’
‘But you’re not now?’
‘I resigned from the priesthood. Then I became an Elder and made my vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience.’ His tone warned me not to ask any more questions.
The rest of the drive was quiet. So I heard my phone ringing even as I unlocked the door. Morey flew off and I strode to my office. ‘Penny White speaking.’
‘Hey, Penny-O!’ The cheerful voice of John, the Kettering office manager, made me smile. ‘I’ve got word that you need the place cleared for a meeting tomorrow morning?’
I glanced down at my answering machine. The light was flashing. ‘Probably. I’ve only just got in, and haven’t listened to my messages yet.’
‘You can make that time?’
‘Even if I couldn’t, I would.’
John laughed. ‘Of course you would. Really pleased you�
�re the new Vicar General, by the way. You’ll be great.’
‘So,’ I said slowly, ‘you know about Lloegyr?’
‘I’ve got a massive great lift which takes people down into the bowels of another world. Of course I have to know about Lloegyr. So, if I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume the meeting’s on. Right?’
‘Right.’
I hung up and played back my messages. Yes, there it was, 10:00 am tomorrow. I found myself listening closely to the voice of the Archdeacon’s secretary, trying to decide what sort of being she was. No luck. Just sounded Welsh to me.
‘Blackbirds,’ Morey said as I came into the kitchen.
‘What about them?’ I put the kettle on and pulled out bread.
‘Would that be more acceptable than blue tits?’
I looked in the fridge. James had obviously already had his own lunch. The cheese was gone, as well as the last two slices of ham. I resigned myself to my standby, honey on toast. ‘Why not goldfinches? There seems to be a lot of them.’
‘They’re bullies.’
I glanced over at Morey. ‘They’re only a quarter your size.’
‘They ganged up on me. Nasty little things.’ There was a pause, then he added, ‘Or I could hunt cats. Seem to be plenty of them around.’
‘You can’t hunt cats,’ I said, appalled. ‘They’re people’s pets.’
Morey cocked his head. ‘You humans are very strange. Animals are not ranked equally in your affections. Why is a cat more important than a bird? Or a blue tit than a sparrow?’
‘Or pandas protected but sharks are culled?’ I put a mug of tea on the table for Morey. ‘That’s what we humans are like. Don’t tell me that there aren’t any prejudices in Lloegyr.’
‘There are plenty.’ Then he dipped his beak into his tea, refusing to say any more.
Chapter Six
The time of James’ train to London didn’t fit well with my meeting in Kettering, so I gave him some money for a taxi as I readied myself to leave. Morey flew to my left shoulder, and I managed not to flinch as he landed and made himself comfortable.
‘So that’s how you’re going to get around,’ James commented.
‘It’s easier to be carried than to fly in your own strength. But it seems to me that you are well used to being carried.’
James stared at the gryphon. ‘What do you mean?’
I exited the kitchen, thus separating the combatants. ‘For someone who was ordained,’ I told Morey as I walked to the car, ‘you don’t show much tact. James has just come back from two years abroad. Give him some time.’
‘As Paul wrote, we should speak the truth in love.’
‘If Paul actually even wrote Ephesians.’
Morey hopped down to the passenger seat as I slid into the car. ‘Of course St Paul wrote Ephesians.’
‘The language used and the subject matter are very different than, say, in Corinthians or Galatians.’
‘The style of a writer can and does change over time. And the audience he was writing to was also different.’
By the time we reached the Kettering office we’d discussed Colossians, argued over Timothy, and were about to start a promising argument about the Gospel of John. I felt a pang of regret as I parked the car. I’d forgotten how much I’d enjoyed these debates during my training to be a priest.
John pulled open the main door and ushered us in. ‘All other meetings have been redirected elsewhere,’ he told me. Then he nodded at Morey, once again perched on my shoulder. ‘John Armstrong, Centre Manager. You’re Penny’s Associate?’
‘Seems so. Moriarity, which she has shortened to Morey.’
‘Interesting choice.’ John halted at the stairs. ‘They’re all upstairs. The family accepted ale, but the brothers didn’t want anything. What about you two?’
‘Tea,’ Morey said promptly. ‘Milk, no sugar. Biscuits, chocolate if you have them.’
‘Nothing for me.’ And with that I took us up the stairs.
The smell hit me first. Even as I emerged into the upstairs lobby, the heavy mixture of leather, sweat, and smoke charged up my nostrils. ‘Enter strong,’ Morey murmured into my ear. ‘Dragons respect confidence.’
I straightened, checked that my dog collar was firmly in place, and smoothed down my grey shirt. Then I grasped my jacket and tugged it down. Alan’s comment about a knight going into battle flashed through my mind, and today it seemed very apt. I was about to face dragons, and I wanted my armour to be ready.
I pushed the door open to the meeting room and strode inside. Six dragons were inside, seated at opposite sides of the large room, heads held low to avoid the ceiling. Tables had been set up, but gave the impression of having been done so more to create a barrier between the two sides than to provide a place to rest drinks and papers.
The dragons on the right were wearing dark grey cowls, and crucifixes rested against the wide scales on their broad chests. Two were red, one dark and one light. The third was a dark blue, and slightly larger than his monk brothers.
On the left, therefore, must be the family. All of them were red, similar in colouration to Dominic. Golden bands circled their thick forelegs, and I couldn’t help but stare at the jewels gleaming in the polished metal. Black plastic buckets rested on their tables. I wondered if Paul stored barrels of ale for visiting dragons.
‘The Reverend Penny White,’ I announced, ‘Vicar General of Incursions. This is my Associate, Moriarty. May I have the holdings of your names?’
‘Bodil Inkerisdottir,’ said the largest red dragon, ‘Matriarch of Family Inkeri. My name is enough for these blood-weak Christians to know.’
‘Insults won’t help the negotiations,’ I pointed out. ‘And names will.’
With obvious reluctance Bodil named Jary Bodilsson and Signy Inkerisson. So, if the draconic naming system were similar to that in Iceland, the other two dragons were her son and a brother. I longed to ask whether they were Vikings and lived in longhouses, and it with some effort that I turned to the monks. ‘And your names, please?’
‘Father Gerald,’ said the dark blue dragon. ‘These are brothers Anselm and Matthias. I brought them with me because they made their professions alongside Dominic.’
‘Endre,’ hissed Jary. ‘His name was Endre.’
‘That was his pagan name,’ Gerald retorted. ‘His Christian name is Dominic. That’s the name in which he was baptised, and it was the name we used at his Requiem Mass.’
‘You and your timid religion!’ Jary was now on his feet, neck and back spines bristling. ‘Your faith insults all that is great in a dragon. How dare you dishonour my brother by mumbling your disgusting words in his name!’
‘Except he didn’t,’ I said sharply. ‘Father Gerald just told you that he used the name “Dominic.” If you don’t accept that that was the name of your brother, then there can be no dishonour.’
I felt Morey purr in approval. ‘Save your fire,’ Bodil snapped at her son. Then she lowered her head to bring her large eyes level with mine. The reptilian pupils narrowed, green irises bright against her red scales. I tried to ignore the exposed teeth and the wide nostrils which, I was certain, could easily pick up the scent of the sweat pricking at my underarms. ‘Well spoken, Penny White. Now tell these lizards that the claim of blood outweighs any claim of religion. Give me the body of my son.’
I didn’t need to see spines rise to realise that ‘lizards’ was a slur. ‘Matriarch, what honour is there in trading insults?’
‘We come in peace,’ Gerald agreed. ‘Remember that the law is clear. Any citizen of Lloegyr may convert to any religion of his choice. And that conversion takes precedence over any previous faith or family ties. We could simply insist on the body being given to us for burial.’
At that moment John entered with a mug of tea. A small table and chair had been set up for me, I suddenly realised as Morey flew down. ‘That law has been challenged and continues to be challenged,’ the gryphon said. ‘Do any of you want this to become a
court case?’
‘We do not want this to go to the harpies,’ Bodil agreed. I made a mental note to ask Morey afterwards whether these were real harpies or some term of insult for lawyers.
‘Then let’s start again.’ I decided to take a seat, even though that lost me precious inches of height. ‘Father Gerald, what are your intentions for Brother Dominic’s body?’
‘A Christian burial, in hallowed ground.’
‘And Matriarch Bodil, what are your intentions for Endre?’
‘A dragon belongs to his family, in life and in death,’ she declared. ‘We must eat him, so that his strength and life can continue through us.’
‘We can’t allow that.’ Anselm’s voice was low but determined. ‘Dominic was my brother in Christ. He must be buried so that he is ready for the physical resurrection, which our Lord offers to all who confess his name.’
‘And if we don’t consume him,’ said Signy, ‘then all that he was dies with him. There is no resurrection for dishonoured dead. The only way Endre can live on now is through us.’
‘Dishonoured?’ I repeated. ‘I thought we’d already established that the Requiem Mass wasn’t in the name of Endre.’
Morey pulled his beak out of his tea. ‘That’s not the dishonour you mean, is it?’
Silence in the room. I glared at one side, then another. ‘What are you not telling us?’
‘Yes, what are you not telling us?’ Jary taunted the monks. ‘Why was he in this world, and why was he naked?’
Gerald’s ears flattened along his skull. ‘Some matters are only spoken of between an abbot and his son in Christ.’
Bodil leaned forward. The buckets of ale slid down the tipped table, catching on the upraised lip. ‘We know, Abbot. We know about Miranda.’
The name Dominic had mentioned in his confession. I found myself holding a hand to my mouth, as if warning myself to keep quiet. Gerald met her glittering gaze. ‘What do you think you know?’
‘Endre was travelling between the worlds to visit her. They had a relationship. That’s why he was naked, isn’t it?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Why would he be travelling between worlds to visit another dragon?’