by Chrys Cymri
I knocked at the door, and was relieved when Cadfan answered within a few seconds. The house was neat and plain inside. I took a seat on a wooden bench in the lounge. The hour of conversation and tea passed pleasantly enough, but my backside was aching by the time I rose to make my farewells.
Most of our topics had been inconsequential. I did file away the information that Cadfan was divorced, that he served as a floor manager at the tile factory, and he had a fondness for beer. I managed to engineer an invitation to join him in a pint at the local pub after the PCC meeting.
My next visit was to a housebound member of the church. Hafwen, a dwarf, was in one of the retirement homes, living in a small ground floor flat. As she made me a cup of tea and chattered about the weather, she kept calling me by the name of my predecessor. As Father Apted was a male elf, I found it hard to understand her confusion.
A thump at her door interrupted her diatribe about a bishop who had visited the parish ten years previously and had blown out the candles on the altar in the wrong order. ‘The Gospel candle should never burn alone!’ Hafwen waved her arms, making the tea in her cup spill over into the saucer. ‘Gave him a piece of my mind, I did!’
The thump came again. ‘I’ll get that,’ I said, glad for an excuse to climb out of my understuffed armchair. I opened the door to find Clyde on the step. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Bored.’
‘Who is it, Father Apted?’
‘Just a snail shark.’ The rain had washed off all signs of his gory breakfast. I picked him up and carried him in. ‘He lives with me.’
‘Pah!’ Hafwen pulled her lips in tight. ‘Vermin, they are. Take it away.’
‘If Clyde has to leave,’ I told her, ‘then I’ll have to go too.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Which altar candle is blown out first?’
‘The right side,’ I said, deliberately giving the wrong answer.
‘That’s the Epistle candle!’ She rose to her feet. ‘You’ll never rise to high office at this rate, Father Apted!’
‘I’ve never sought high office,’ I told her. ‘Thank you for the cup of tea, Miss Hafwen. I’ll see myself out.’
The rain had eased, leaving grey clouds hovering overhead. I slung the umbrella under my arm and carried Clyde in the crook of my arm. ‘Vermin?’ he asked me as I trudged uphill towards the rectory.
I sighed. ‘Not everyone likes snail sharks.’
‘Why?’
‘Remember what you did to the rabbit this morning?’
His tentacles waved. ‘Yum.’
‘Well, some people worry that you might do the same to them.’
Colours pulsed through his body. ‘Rabbits! Birds! Lemmings!’
‘I know.’ I rubbed his shell in reassurance. ‘But, on Earth, snail sharks have eaten human babies.’
‘Babies.’ Clyde sounded horrified. ‘Closing Time?’
‘Yes, like Alfie, the baby in Closing Time,’ I affirmed, pleased that Clyde’s education in all things Doctor Who hadn’t been wasted. ‘So you’ll just eat the rabbits, yes?’
‘Lemmings,’ he said strongly. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’
I had quick lunch at the rectory, trying not to wonder what creature had produced the cheese which graced my sandwich. My first afternoon visit was to one of the primary schools. The head teacher gave me a tour, and I grinned as I watched a mixture of young dragons, vampires, and weres playing tag. We agreed the dates on which I would call in to deliver assemblies.
Then back home to think about my sermon for Sunday. I sat in the lounge and made notes by hand before turning on my Macbook. The portable solar panels I’d brought with me were resting on a windowsill, waiting for a glimpse of sun.
James came home after 6pm, full of praise for his office manager. I sent him out to bring in wood so I could fire up the range to cook our dinner. The stew turned out well, although I couldn’t identify the meat. And who had brought potatoes to Lloegyr? Did they have an equivalent of Sir Walter Raleigh?
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Despite a regrettable lack of red wine in the house, I was still in a good mood as Peter and I stood outside the rectory, looking down at the few lights across the town.
‘Yes, I got the message,’ Peter said. ‘Next Tuesday. I’d like to speak to Morey before then. I’m not happy about that last challenge.’
‘Oh, I talked to him this morning.’ We were standing, which meant that I fitted very comfortably under his left arm. ‘I told him we’d better have no more life and death situations, or I would take me, Clyde, and James out of the challenge process.’
‘Not me?’
I looked up at him. Peter hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and the designer stubble suited him. ‘I wouldn’t presume to speak for you.’
His answer was a long kiss. I soaked up the warmth of his mouth. ‘Just as well,’ he said when we pulled apart. ‘I support the equality of men, you know.’
Several dragons flew overhead, calling to each other as they headed away from the town. A unicorn whinnied in the distance. A couple of were-children chased each other around a tall gas lamp, shifting between human and fox. I sighed. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Peter?’
‘You’re happy to be here?’
‘Very.’ I bit my lip for a moment, then forced myself to ask the question. ‘Are you?’
There was a pause before he answered. ‘It’s a bit quieter than I’m used to. But I think it’ll improve my understanding of Lloegyr, and probably my Welsh. I don’t mind for a few months.’
‘And if I end up staying longer?’
‘Then I’ll probably look into other opportunities. Maybe I’ll join the mounted police. Having a dragon partner would mean I could commute between here and the city.’
‘So you’d stay?’
Peter stepped away so he could look me in the eye. ‘I’d stay. I know how important this is to you.’
I glanced away. ‘Alan never understood.’
‘Yes. You’ve told me before.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I’m not Alan.’
‘Certainly not,’ I agreed. And I returned to my place under his arm as we watched clouds pull away to reveal bright stars overhead.
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The rattle of the door should have warned me. But I still jumped as a rat landed on the photographs which I’d spread out across the lounge floor. ‘Don’t you lot ever knock?’ I demanded as I took a seat on the settee.
A photo of a stained glass angel had blown up against Clyde’s tentacles. He trilled a protest and shook himself free. This succeeded in alarming the rat, who cried out, ‘Malwen siarc, malwen siarc!’ as he leapt up to the fireplace mantelpiece.
‘Clyde won’t eat you,’ I assured him. Then I composed myself. ‘Noble rat, I pray, what message do you bring today?’
The rat peered down at me, then sat back on his haunches to recite. ‘She meant what she said, and she said what she meant. Tyra’s word is faithful, one hundred per cent. And so today, at half past two, a shiny knife was laid in a poo!’
‘Morey gets epic poetry,’ I grumbled, ‘and I get Dr Seuss.’
‘Poo,’ Clyde repeated excitedly. ‘Poo, poo, poo.’
‘Wipe that word immediately from your vocabulary.’ I turned back to the rat. ‘My dear rat, is there any more? When will I and knife be restored?’
‘Tyra will come apace, and take you to her place. Next week, Wednesday late, soon after half past eight. The knife is in a pit, buried deep in sh--’
‘I get the idea,’ I said hurriedly, cutting him off with a quick glance at Clyde. ‘Many thanks, noble rat, and send this reply. I shall await her coming from the sky.’
The rat cocked his head, and opened his mouth in an exaggerated pant. So I abandoned my PCC preparation and took him into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Morey arrived just as the rat left, nearly causing a collision at the door flap.
‘PCC in an hour,’ the gryphon reminded me as he followed me into the pantry. ‘They’re still remembering to give
you food?’
‘Looks like it.’ I lifted the lid on the cast iron dish resting on the marble top. ‘Another stew. I’m not so happy that people can just let themselves into the house. Why aren’t there locks on the doors?’
‘Why would you need to lock a door?’
‘Against thieves?’
Morey snorted. ‘You don't have anything worth stealing.’
I lowered the lid. ‘I’ll heat it up when I get home.’
Half an hour later, I slid the photographs and a notebook into a shoulder bag. Morey took his usual place on my right shoulder and I walked us down the hill to the church hall. The churchwardens were making final preparations as I let us in. I took a deep breath, and smiled. This might be Lloegyr, but the building had the same musty mixture of mould, dried sweat, and dying leaves as any hall in England.
Tables had been arranged to make a square, with an empty space in the middle. I took a chair, and Morey hopped down to sit on my right. The rest of the PCC slowly filed in, twelve assorted beings who either took a seat or found a place to stand.
At 7pm, I greeted them, and they introduced themselves. I had sketched out a square in my notebook, and now I populated it with names and species. The variety reflected what I’d seen at my licensing service. Two elves, one harpy, one unicorn, two dragons, a vampire, a dwarf, and two weres, one a badger, the other a fox. Most of their names were Welsh, although the dragons bucked the trend and offered something far more Nordic and even less pronounceable.
Morey led us in a short act of worship. On to business. I followed the same order as at Saint Wulfram’s. Cadfan had the hand written notes from the last meeting, and he summarised them. We then moved onto the agenda items. The church had received a rat from the neighbouring parish of Saint Chad, asking for a joint service after Easter. We agreed on a date. The new sound system was almost ready for use, and they hoped I would try it out on my second Sunday. I made a note that it was called ‘MICE’ and decided that I would try to puzzle out the acronym later. The treasurer, a yellow dragon, reported that the usual funds had been received from the patron. The health and safety officer, the were-badger, advised us that asking dragons to take a deep drink of water before entering church had reduced the risk of flame damage. As for social events, all agreed that a BBQ would be held in the spring, with grain alternatives for the non meat eaters in the congregation.
‘All good,’ I told them. ‘And now I’d like to move to the main agenda item, namely the mission of the church.’
‘You’re going into the schools, aren’t you?’ asked the unicorn who, in common with her kind, had kept her name private. ‘That’s how our previous rector spread the Gospel.’
‘The mission of God belongs to everyone in the church.’ I pulled out my collection of photographs, and spread them across the table. Morey moved aside to give me more room. ‘These are images of angels, taken from my own world. Morey, please read to us from the Revelation to Saint John.’
Morey, of course, merely sat back on his haunches and recited the passage from memory. ‘“I was in the spirit on the Lord’s day, and I heard behind me a loud voice like a trumpet saying, ‘Write in a book what you see and send it to the seven churches, to Ephesus, to Smyrna, to Pergamum, to Thyatira, to Sardis, to Philadelphia, and to Laodicea.’ Then I turned to see whose voice it was that spoke to me, and on turning I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the lampstands I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest. His head and his hair were white as white wool, white as snow; his eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of many waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and from his mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword, and his face was like the sun shining with full force.’”
‘Those places,’ I told the PCC members, ‘were some of the earliest churches established by Christians in my own world.’
Morey continued at my nod. “‘When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. But he placed his right hand on me, saying, ‘Do not be afraid; I am the first and the last, and the living one. I was dead, and see, I am alive for ever and ever; and I have the keys of Death and of Hades. Now write what you have seen, what is, and what is to take place after this. As for the mystery of the seven stars that you saw in my right hand, and the seven golden lampstands: the seven stars are the angels of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches.’ And now I hand back to Father Penny.’
‘Thank you.’ I pointed at the dozen photographs. ‘If you read further in Revelation, Christ addresses the “angel” of each church in turn. I’d like you to look at these images. Get up and come closer, if that helps. Which angel do you think represents Saint George’s, and why?’
Several did walk over, and I moved back so they could peer over at the images. Others remained seated, despite my best attempts to call them over.
‘So,’ I said five minutes later, ‘would anyone like to make a start? Which angel do you think is like Saint George’s, and why?’
‘I don’t get it,’ the were-badger said. ‘Saint George is a dragon, not an angel.’
‘It’s metaphorical,’ the dwarf told him. ‘Not literal.’
The were-badger sighed. ‘I dig tunnels. Dirt and rocks are real. I can work with real.’
‘Angels are real,’ the unicorn stated.
‘If this church were an angel,’ the treasurer said, ‘then it’d be a small one. Because only small people are welcome in Saint George’s.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ the were-fox challenged.
‘Look where we have to sit,’ the dragon continued. ‘Always at the back. The sidespeople always make us sit at the back.’
‘If you sat in the front,’ the dwarf pointed out, ‘no one could see.’
‘But it’s not fair.’ The dragon’s tail slammed against the floor. ‘You’re just being sizeist.’
‘No, just being practical,’ the were-fox said. ‘It’s not our fault you’re the largest people in the congregation.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Perhaps we could discuss the reordering of the church in a future PCC meeting. Look at the photos again. What would you say the culture of our local community is like?’
‘Welcoming to anyone but dragons,’ the treasurer grumbled.
‘Try being a harpy.’ Aislin ran a hand through her shiny hair. ‘It’s always, “Is it true your hair stays naturally clean?” “When did you last have a bath?” Or even, “At least you don’t have a cess pit to clean out.”’
‘Whenever we have a fundraising campaign,’ the dwarf said, ‘people expect me to come up with jewels. Like I own a mine or something.’
‘If you dragons wanted to be at the front,’ the unicorn said, ‘you could lie down on your stomachs.’
‘Or the history of the church.’ I tapped on the table. ‘What angel would sum up the history of Saint George’s?’
The were-fox snarled. ‘Even dragons don’t welcome dragons. I saw you, Sverrir. You all shuffled away from that search dragon.’
‘Not only was he a search dragon,’ Sverrir retorted, ‘he’s sold himself out for money. He was wearing a saddle. He’s nothing more than a tacsi dragon!’
More voices were now raised, making accusation and counter accusation. I had prepared for a number of different routes the evening could go, but none of these had included a unicorn stamping his hoof as a were-badger growled into the ear of vampire. Morey’s voice cut across the hubbub. ‘“How very good and pleasant it is, when kindred live together in unity!’”
‘Well reminded, Father,’ said the unicorn, breaking into the temporary silence. ‘Father Penny, this is all new to us. Perhaps we could display the images in church, and allow us time to pray over the matter?’
With some reluctance, I accepted the offered compromise. ‘I’ll find a space on the noticeboard.’
With nothing else to cover on the agenda, Morey said
a closing prayer and the PCC members shuffled out of the hall. I helped the churchwardens put away tables and chairs. Although I hung around, Cadfan showed no inclination of inviting me to the pub. So finally I picked up my bag and left.
‘We don’t really talk about mission,’ Morey told me as I turned the hand crank on my torch. A thin moon meant that it was very dark beyond the reach of the hall’s oil lamps.
‘Because people know where the church is?’ I pressed the switch, and was rewarded by bright light. ‘They’ll come if we just wait for them?’
‘Conversion is accomplished by the Holy Spirit, not by us.’
‘“But how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed?’” I quoted at him. “‘Or to hear about’, erm, “believe in one”--’
“‘And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent?” Romans 10.’ Morey leaned against my cheek, and I was glad of the warmth. A wind was rattling through the trees and digging through my coat. ‘How often have you challenged Saint Wulfram’s to proclaim their faith?’
I winced. ‘That’s the one thing Christians and non Christians have in common. They both hate evangelism.’
‘What makes you think the good people of Saint George’s are any different?’
‘They’re not as united as I’d hoped.’ I was relieved to see that we had nearly reached the rectory. ‘They need a cause. Something they can rally behind.’
‘Fairer seating for all would be a good start.’
‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Morey.’
He chuckled. ‘But the highest form of intelligence. And very necessary if a clergyperson is to remain sane.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The rest of the week passed easily enough. I made more visits, both to the housebound and to members of the PCC. As I had suspected, the differing species were segregated by street. The largest homes were for the dragons, the doors twice the width of those which led into the dwellings of dwarves. Although I could understand the practicality of these arrangements, it seemed a shame that the town planners hadn’t created more integrated neighbourhoods. Perhaps that was where the church could help in encouraging the development of community.