by Chrys Cymri
‘Welsh is the language of lovers and poets,’ Morey said. ‘Any self respecting rat isn’t going to waste time trying to compose something elegant in English.’
I felt insulted on behalf of my mother tongue. ‘I’ll dig you out some of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poems. What did the rat tell you?’
‘My matriarch has accepted my choices for my grŵp rhyfelwyr. And we’ll be collected on Saturday for the first challenge. It’s going to be a hunt, so we should be back late that evening. But you might want to make plans in case we don’t arrive back until Sunday.’
‘I’d better talk to Rosie about covering the service.’
‘And your churchwarden.’
I groaned. ‘And Holly.’ I topped up my glass before going to the study to place the phone calls.
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Sitting in Rosie’s warm kitchen, glowing in the aftermath of a congratulatory hug, I had felt that even a dozen disapproving churchwardens couldn’t dampen my mood. But when I went on to visit my churchwarden, Holly managed to do so within five minutes. I endured her accusations that I was abandoning the parish ‘in our time of greatest need’, and allowed her to list the many ways in which I’d already disappointed the people whom the Bishop had sent me to serve. ‘Actually,’ I pointed out, ‘God sent me, not Bishop Nigel.’ This only succeeded in turning her ire on our bishop and his inability to ordain more dedicated clergy.
I allowed her to air her grievances for twenty minutes, then I informed her that Rosie had the list of upcoming parish engagements. ‘I don’t entirely know when the sabbatical will start, but I think it’ll be worked out in the next week or so.’
‘So you’ll tell the congregation this Sunday?’
‘If I’m back in time.’ Her house was bitterly cold, and I slipped my hands into my fleece. Of course, she hadn’t offered me a hot drink. ‘I have an engagement on Saturday which might take up two days.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Doing my diocesan work,’ I replied steadily.
‘Which is?’
‘Which is taking up my weekend.’ I rose to my feet. ‘When I have the sabbatical dates, I’ll let you know.’
Once back in my car, I took a few minutes to take deep breaths. Soon I’d be in Lloegyr for three whole months. A little unpleasantness from a stroppy churchwarden was worth it. And maybe, just maybe, I could stay longer? Were there any transfer arrangements between the two dioceses?
I was nearly home when I found myself wondering whether Peter would want to extend his own time in Caer-grawnt. Would he miss the challenge of working in the Northamptonshire Lloegyr Liaison Team? Cross that bridge, I told myself, when we come to it.
<><><><><><>
‘Coat,’ I told James blearily as I gulped down the last of my coffee and placed the empty mug on the stairway. Somehow the idea of trekking back to the kitchen just exhausted me all the more. ‘We don’t know where we’re going.’
The only response was a grunt. But he reached into the hallway closet and pulled out an overcoat. I fished my car keys from my pocket, then drew my own jacket closer around my shoulders as we headed out into the chilly pre-dawn. Clyde made a soft noise of complaint from his carry case as I lowered him into my brother’s lap.
‘Why this early?’ James complained as I backed the car from the garage.
‘This is the time the rat said.’
‘But did she say why?’
‘No. It could be that we’re going to a different timezone.’
‘Why aren’t we being picked up from home?’
His tone was more like a petulant child than a grown adult. I drew on the caffeine I’d ingested to provide the necessary patience. ‘We can’t keep having dragon rides from the back garden. Eventually someone is going to see us, and wonder how we’re floating through the air. So we’re using a thin place.’
‘So I’m going to pass through some horrible black darkness before I’ve even had breakfast.’
That he’d not had time to eat was his own fault, but I bit my tongue. It had taken me three attempts to get him out of bed. ‘It’s not as bad as the one in London.’
‘But it’s still pretty bad?’
‘You’ll be all right,’ I assured him. ‘I’ve used the crossing several times, and I’ve survived.’
‘Yeah, but you’re tougher than me.’
The extraordinary confession stunned me to silence. As I struggled for a good response, we entered Ashtrew. Smoke trickled from a few chimneys, but otherwise there were no signs of life in the small village. Finally, as I pulled the car into a parking space near the church, I told him, ‘We’ve both survived a lot, James. And you’re getting your sword today.’
I was rewarded with a quick grin before he handed Clyde’s case to me and then turned to open his car door.
‘Oh, I’ve had the date for my licensing,’ I said as our boots crunched on the gravel path. ‘I’ll be starting at Caer-grawnt in a fortnight. Have you decided whether you’re coming with me? Bishop Nigel says you can live in the vicarage while I’m away.’
James cleared his throat. ‘Anwen’s contacted me. From Green Feather Networking? They have an office in Caer-grawnt, and they’ve offered me a job there. It hasn’t worked out with Allie and me, so I’ll come with you.’
Allie? Who was Allie? I once again vowed to give up any attempt to keep up with my brother’s love life. ‘That’s great. The house is fully furnished, but the parish will pay a firm to move over whatever else we need.’
I unlocked the heavy door and ushered James into the dark church. The beam from my iPhone cast bright light onto the dusty pews and stone floor.
James nudged my arm. ‘There are light switches by the door.’
‘We don’t know how long we’ll be,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want the parish landed with a large electricity bill because we left the lights on.’
I led the way to the gallery, and put a chair into place. James looked down at the drop. ‘Seriously? I mean, talk about a leap of faith.’
‘You’ll feel the ground on the other side,’ I assured him. ‘You go through first. I’ll be right behind you.’
‘That’s what you said my first day at secondary school,’ James muttered. But he climbed onto the chair and followed my directions. The chair shuddered as he kicked himself into the thin place.
I followed a moment later, gritting my teeth against the usual screaming darkness. Once again I wondered why crossings in the air were so peaceful. Bad things happened in the sky as well, like plane collisions.
Grass was a welcome softness under my feet. I resisted the temptation to unbutton my coat in the warmer air. James was already standing near the tacsi dragon, his face pale. ‘What happened to those poor blokes?’ he demanded.
‘They were part of the Gunpowder plot.’
‘I couldn’t breathe.’
‘That would have been the ropes around their necks.’ I raised my head to address the orange-red dragon. ‘Bore da, good morning. You’re giving us transport to Clan Cornovi?’
‘Three to Clan Cornovi,’ the dragon agreed, his voice rising and falling with the Welsh inflection. ‘Best wait for the search dragon. He knows the way, see.’
‘And may I have the holding of your name?’ I asked.
The dragon’s ears swivelled in surprise. ‘Margh, that be my name.’ Then he craned his neck. ‘Mount up, if you please. I hear dragonwings.’
‘Bagsy the front!’ James said. And his hands scarcely touched the mounting rings as he climbed up the dragon’s side. I took my time, much more conscious of both age and gravity.
Raven pulled up and hovered as Margh made the usual announcements and then launched himself from the ground. Peter waved at us from the saddle on the search dragon’s neck. I fought back a sudden surge of envy.
The tacsi dragon flew closely behind Raven, following him through several changes in locale and time zones. James peered around with enthusiasm, and I realised how much I’d started to take dragon trips fo
r granted.
We finally emerged in bright sun over undulating grasslands. The brown tents of the gryphon clan formed a semi-circle near a small hill. The dragons angled their wings, and took us into a gradual descent. Raven landed first, then Margh. I slid to the ground, then stepped aside to make room for James.
From the angle of the sun, I decided that it was mid morning, and either late spring or early summer. I unzipped my coat. James had already taken his off and hung it over one shoulder.
Gryphons of varying shapes and sizes curled up nearby, tawny coats dark against the green grass. The scattered owl and osprey variations were tan and grey contrasts against their brown cousins. I looked in vain for Morey.
‘There you be,’ said a gruff voice. I looked down into Aodh’s brown eyes. ‘Your swords are ready.’
His small dragon waddled over. The blacksmith untied one scabbard at a time from the smooth black back. ‘James.’
My brother grinned as two sheaths were pressed into his hands, one short and one long. He wasted no time in sliding his belt through the loops. The bright blade sparkled as he drew the sword. I stifled a groan at the jewels embedding the gold hilt.
‘Careful,’ Peter said. ‘Our presents “are tools not toys”.’
‘Father Christmas,’ James said. ‘When he hands out presents to the children in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’
‘You remember?’ I asked, pleased.
‘You read it to me every year, until I begged you to stop.’ James returned sword to scabbard and pulled out the dagger instead. ‘And you insisted on making me believe that Santa Claus was real.’
‘Because that’s what our parents did,’ I protested as Aodh placed sheathed blades into my own hands. ‘I thought you enjoyed it.’
‘I did, until I was the last in my class to find out it was a con.’
Peter shrugged. ‘Father Christmas might be real, in this world. Daear seems to have many things which we don’t see on Earth.’
‘Please all of you try out your blades,’ Aodh said. ‘I’d like to check the grip.’
I hurried to fasten sword on my left and dagger on my right. Both drew easily from their scabbards. The sword was shorter than I’d expected, and the blade wider. The hilt was warm and comfortable in my hand. The blade on the dagger was black, which surprised me, and a large green jewel had been set into the pommel. Never mind the length of the blade being illegal in England, the value was probably beyond my budget to insure.
The blacksmith had each of us do some simple moves. Olafor made a few comments, and at one point the two had a whispered debate about James. But then both nodded, and we were dismissed with the wave of a calloused hand.
‘Finally.’ Morey was perched on a nearby tent. ‘We need to sort out your mounts, and then we can start the hunt.’
‘Mounts?’ I echoed.
‘Dragons can’t be trusted around prey.’
Morey led us around the tents to a small corral. Five gryphons loitered near the wooden fence. They were only half the size of others in the clan, which led me to suspect that they were youngsters. Their attention was fixed on the five large creatures inside the enclosure. Even the shortest of our proposed mounts was taller than a horse.
I found my feet dragging. All of the animals had wings, and bore saddles, but that was all they had in common. One was a black lion, the other a wolf. Another looked like a goat, but jagged teeth rested outside scaled jaws and the twisting tail reminded me of a snake. The winged boar was growling at a creature which looked like the result of a collision between a huge rabbit and an equally massive barn owl.
‘You’d better have the lion,’ Morey told me from Peter’s shoulder. ‘He doesn’t like to be ridden by males. Have a look while I sort out Peter and James.’
I took my time walking over to the winged lion. His yellow eyes were bright against his dark fur, and bat wings rustled as he extended them above his maned head. The tan bridle resting across his cheeks reassured me that he must be tame. But I still stopped ten feet away from the massive paws. ‘Hello, I’m Penny. You must have a name?’
The young gryphons guffawed. The strange mixture of snarl and shriek made my cheeks redden. ‘Thought it could speak, she did!’ one said in Welsh. ‘Maybe she also talks to trees,’ another added.
I wandered back to my fellow humans. James had reached up to scratch the wolf under her chin, listening closely as Morey gave him some instructions. Peter looked over as I halted nearby. ‘What’s up with the gryphons?’
‘I had a reverse Narnia moment,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘Thought an animal could talk when it can’t.’
‘It is a bit confusing,’ Peter said. ‘Doesn’t mean that they’re unintelligent, though. I’ve sometimes wondered how anyone from Lloegyr can actually speak. How can they have the right vocal cords?’
‘The same sort of magic which allows them to fly, perhaps.’
The gryphon laugher had stopped. I looked up at the sound of wings. The clan had taken to the air. At least fifty gryphons circled above us, calling out to one another. ‘Go on, time to mount up,’ Morey urged. ‘Peter, you take the goat. The spears are strapped to the saddles.’
‘Spears, Morey?’ Peter asked. But the gryphon launched himself from Peter’s shoulder without answering. ‘Penny, look, I'm sorry to say this, but sometimes I find your Associate a real pain in the backside.’
I sighed. ‘Welcome to my life.’
James had already mounted the wolf. I hurried back to the lion, who helpfully lowered himself so I could get my left foot into a stirrup to swing myself into the saddle. Flaps of leather bunched up under my calves. I looked down, and realised the flaps were meant to be strapped around my legs. The metal buckles warmed my fingers as I tightened the leather.
A trill reminded me that Clyde was still trapped inside his case. I pulled him out, and placed him on the saddle behind me. ‘Hold on tight,’ I warned him. ‘I’m not certain that this lion--’
My teeth snapped shut as my mount whirled and dashed towards the corral’s open gate. The saddle had a horn, and I wrapped my hands around it as the lion’s bounds increased in length. Then the leathery wings extended and swept down, carrying us away from the ground.
Wolf, goat and lion flew side by side. James looked elated, and he leaned into the wind as the wolf’s feathery wings propelled them forward. Peter seemed less comfortable on the goat, shifting in his seat. I glanced behind me to check that Clyde was secure. Then I settled back, concentrating on what I learned from riding horses and dragons to make myself comfortable in the broad saddle.
The reins had been looped around the saddle horn. I took them in my left hand, although there seemed little need to provide direction. The gryphons were ahead of us, Morey a small speck in their midst. The savanna slid past, the occasional tree breaking up the monotonous green and brown.
The matriarch rose from the group. At her shouted command, the rest of the clan peeled away. Morey hovered, allowing the four of us to catch him up. ‘Our prey is ahead,’ he called out to us. ‘Keep close, and have your spears ready.’
Chapter Eighteen
My hand reached back and touched the smooth shaft of the weapon angled across the saddle. But then I had to return both hands to the saddle horn as the lion plunged after Morey. A quick glance at my fellow humans showed that they were similarly occupied with keeping their seats.
We swooped over a hill ridge, and past a clump of trees. There, on the other side, a small group of brown-furred elephants grazed on the long grasses. I blinked. Not elephants. Not with the sort of massive tusks which would excite any poacher. Mammoths. We were hunting mammoths.
I counted eight animals in the herd. They raised their massive heads as our mounts pulled up, wings beating hard as we hovered fifty feet above them. ‘We’re after the old bull,’ Morey told us. ‘Penny, you get between him and the herd. Peter, scare the calf. The mothers will race after her. James, help Peter, then come back to keep the bull from following th
e others. When he makes a stand, that’s when we’ll attack. Go for the eyes. We only need to get him down, and then the clan will take over.’ He paused, then hissed, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? You need your spears!’
My hands felt clumsy as I undid the straps holding the shaft in place. I gripped both hands around the wood, wondering how I was meant to control the lion at the same time. My horse riding lessons had never included simultaneous weapon and mount management.
Morey threw himself at the bull. I kicked at the lion’s sides, and he followed. Behind me I heard a ‘Yee-haw!’ from Peter as he aimed his mount at the calf. I found myself throwing out a quick prayer to Diana before I remembered that she was the Roman goddess of hunters, not a Christian saint.
The mammoth was huge. I had once ridden an Indian elephant at a zoo. This animal was half again as tall, and his trunk waved at us in warning. I had no doubt that even a glancing blow could inflict bone-crushing damage. The lion had obviously decided that this was a hunt he could sit out, and carried us past the curved tusks and up again. I removed one sweaty palm from the spear and jerked at the reins. My mount snarled a protest, but as I pulled at the bit he turned his head and returned us to Morey’s side.
Behind me I heard trumpeting and the stamp of heavy feet. A dizzying glance showed me that the herd were standing tall against James and Peter’s attempts to make them run. The bull stepped forward, obviously determined to join his harem.
‘The calf, go for the calf!’ Morey shouted, ducking around the bull’s attempt to swat him. ‘Get a spear into her!’
‘Never did spear throwing at sports day!’ James shouted back.
I heard the sound I couldn’t identify, then realised it was because I’d never heard the thwack of a spear point into fur and flesh before. A loud bellow followed which, from the high pitch, I assumed came from the calf. I started to twist in my saddle.
‘Eyes forward!’ Morey yelled, and I obeyed.
The bull roared as the gryphon dove past his small eyes. I rested the spear beside my right leg and dug my heels into the lion’s sides. The wolf dropped down on my left, snarling as she swerved James past the waving trunk and towards the broad back. He shouted a phrase which certainly I’d never taught him, and then his spear was slammed into one rounded shoulder. A moment later and my own spear glanced off a foreleg. I bit back a curse as it tumbled harmlessly to the ground.