by Chrys Cymri
‘No controversial sermons, please,’ the mouse added. ‘Annoyed clients sometimes eat their hearing mouse.’
I stared into her black eyes. ‘Why do you do this job, if it’s so dangerous?’
Her whiskers twitched. ‘We aren’t important. Only the king matters, and we obey his commands.’
I suppressed a shudder. ‘Right shoulder.’
Morey flew in, skirting around Cadfan to land on the vestment chest. ‘Good, you have your mouse. Mine is at my stall. I’ll take her up to the pulpit for my sermon.’
The bell rang, marking the moment of silence before the start of the service. The altar party formed outside the vestry door. A vampire was crucifer, holding the wooden pole on top of which gleamed a golden cross. A were-fox and a were-hedgehog carried the candles. Cadfan held the blue and gold Gospel book. Morey dropped down into place behind the elf. And I came at the rear, in the church tradition of the first being last.
The organist trailed off, leaving the church in silence. I waited until we were in the middle aisle before announcing the first hymn. A hundred voices started singing ‘Clodforwch Frenin nefoedd fry’. The line ‘O Thou, to whose all-searching sight’ was reached at the moment that I saw the mouse king. This, I quickly realised, was not a single entity. The tails of a dozen mice were entwined so closely that their rear legs overlapped each other. Several opened their eyes as I walked past, and I nearly stumbled. The large eyes were white and glassy. The mice were blind.
Morey and I walked past the empty choir stalls and halted at the altar rail to bow. Then we walked back down, me taking the rector’s stall on my left, Morey to fly up to the slanted shelf at the curate’s stall. A grey mouse took up a position to his left.
My own mouse was so light, compared to the weight of Morey or Clyde, that I was able to ignore her presence. Not all of the congregation, I noted, had taken advantage of the mice system. It did feel a bit odd, when I paused from speaking, to hear my words being whispered in various parts of the church.
Morey carried his mouse in his beak when he flew up to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. I listened closely, although his liberal use of ancient Hebrew made his points difficult to follow. He redeemed himself by moving on to the scapegoat theory of the atonement. ‘“In the story of Cain and Abel, the story of Joseph, the book of Job, and many of the psalms, the persecuting community is pictured as guilty and the victim is innocent. But Christ, the Son of God, is the ultimate “scapegoat”—precisely because he is the Son of God, and since he is innocent, he exposes all the myths of scapegoating and shows that the victims were innocent and the communities guilty.”’
We recited the creed, and the congregation adopted various postures for the intercessions. There was no peace, of course, since Saint George’s used a variation of the Book of Common Prayer. I found I was getting better at remembering to use the ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ as I started the Eucharistic prayer. The mouse, disturbed by the many movements of my arms as I presided, hopped down to the book rest on the altar to pick up my voice from a more stable platform.
There was a sudden shifting of bodies as I was finishing the preface. Clyde charged up the middle aisle, ducked under the altar rail, and slid to my right. I finished, ‘Glory be to thee, O Lord most High.’ As the congregation responded with ‘Amen’, I bent down to speak to the snail. ‘Just stay there, Clyde.’
‘Up?’
‘No. If you climb into the altar, you might get consecrated. And then we’d have to eat you.’
Although I was pretty certain Clyde didn’t believe me, he did stay in place near my feet for the rest of the Communion prayer. As the altar party came forwards to collect the elements for distribution, he slithered up onto a window sill. There were uneasy glances from some as Clyde watched the proceedings, and my mouse refused to return to my shoulder.
As Cadfan and Morey consumed the left over bread and wine, I deliberately walked over to the snail and put my hand on his shell to bless him. ‘Jesus,’ he reminded me.
‘Yes, I know. We will get you confirmed, Clyde. I promise.’
I gave the final blessing and dismissed the congregation. The mouse leapt onto my back as I made my final bow to the altar, and climbed to her spot as we processed back to the vestry.
‘We must find a better solution for your companion,’ Cadfan said as soon as we were through the doorway. ‘We can’t have him disrupting our services.’
‘Especially when Lord Willis is here,’ Aislin agreed as she thrust herself into the room.
‘Which one was he?’ I asked.
‘The unicorn in the front row, of course,’ the harpy said. ‘You must have noticed him.’
‘Sorry.’ I shrugged. ‘Unicorns all look the same to me.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Aislin gasped. ‘Have you turned your mouse off?’
‘Nope,’ said the mouse. ‘Shall I stop now?’
‘Yes, do,’ Aislin snapped. ‘Father Penny, come with me now. You must apologise to Lord Willis immediately.’
She batted a wing, and the mouse was knocked from my shoulder. Cadfan caught her, and gave me a nod as he placed the mouse onto the vestment chest. ‘Better go with Aislin.’
So, still wearing my full robes, I followed the harpy back into the church.
Now that I was looking for him, Lord Willis was easy to spot. There was something about the way he held his head, his brown eyes continually sweeping his surroundings, which made him stand out from the other unicorns in the building. Although he was speaking calmly to a nearby dwarf, something about the muscles tensing in his shoulders told me that he was far from relaxed. A thin chain of gold rested around his neck, and the metal clinked as he turned towards me.
‘This is our temporary rector, Father Penelope White,’ Aislin said nervously. ‘She’s come to apologise.’
‘Surely that’s her own decision to make?’ The unicorn’s silver horn gleamed as he gave me a nod. ‘Greetings, Father. I’m Lord Willis.’
I wasn’t sure which was the more surprising, the fact that he seemed to have discovered the beauty of contractions, or that he had freely given me his name. ‘I do apologise, Lord Willis. My comment wasn’t meant as an insult. It’s just that most of you unicorns are the same colour.’
‘There’s only one thing,’ he said, ‘which can change the white of a unicorn’s coat.’
‘Murder?’
His eyes widened. ‘Guilt. What colour would mark a guilty unicorn, Father Penny?’
I could remember all too well. ‘Dark grey.’
‘Indeed. I’m surprised you seem to know about this, Father. The archdruids keep strong control on their herds.’
‘It’s a bit of a long story.’
‘Which I’d probably find very interesting. May I invite you to visit me?’
‘Certainly. And maybe you could take me on a tour of your factories?’
‘Very good.’ He lowered his head to the dwarf at his side. ‘Speak to Father Penny about a convenient time for us to meet.’
Then Lord Willis, with another nod, turned and paced down the central aisle. Both he and the church members seemed to take it for granted that they would pull out of his way.
‘Hmph.’
I glanced down at Clyde, who was sitting on the front pew. ‘Do you have anything more constructive to add?’
‘Hmph,’ he said again. The orange and yellow swirling through his body made his feelings clear. He did not like Lord Willis.
The dwarf cleared his throat. ‘Father Penny. Are you free Tuesday morning?’
I reached past my cassock alb to pull a small diary from my pocket. ‘Yes, I am. Where and when?’
Then, with that done, I was finally able to mingle with my parishioners. I accepted a mug of tea and listened to a concern about the coffee rota, a worry about a sick parent, and booked in a request for a fuller discussion about the sermon ‘but not with the curate, Father, because he uses long words and that confuses me.’ I made reassuring noises and tried not to wo
rry that my own sermons might be too simple.
When the churchwardens started putting out the oil lamps, I scooped up Clyde and headed for the door. Behind me, an argument broke out as to where the mouse king and his subjects should be stored. I continued walking. There was no way I could offer to take them home. Between Morey and Clyde, the little creatures wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The weather had improved. I took deep breaths of the warm spring air, and reluctantly let myself into the much colder house. Fresh bread rested on the kitchen counter, along with a slab of cheese and some form of cold smoked meat. I let Clyde out into the back garden, where several dozen lemmings greeted him enthusiastically.
Morey pushed himself through the front door rat flap as I sat in the front room, nursing a cup of tea. ‘Most satisfactory,’ he announced. ‘I had no idea that there’s a professor of ancient Hebrew in the congregation.’ Then he spotted the object lying on the low table. ‘Is that the knife Raven gave you? Why is it in a bag?’
‘It’s the knife.’ I picked up the pocketknife, and looked at it through the clear plastic. ‘I’ve done my best to clean it, but it still smells.’
‘You need to oil it.’ Morey hopped onto my knee and looked it over. ‘Look. Rust is setting in.’
‘I can’t open it, you know that. Raven would come.’
‘Then maybe he should.’ Morey looked up at me. ‘Friendships, like knives, can easily corrode if left untended.’
‘I thought you didn’t like Raven.’
‘That’s when I worried you might form an attachment to him.’ Morey dropped his beak in a smile. ‘But you’re well in with Peter, now. So maybe it’s time you talked to Raven. We don’t want to have to make a second trip to the Arctic.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday afternoon I stood in a field and looked at the pocketknife. I was a good mile, a small forest, and a hill away from town. No one would spot a search dragon coming in to land. Raven and I could talk undisturbed in the spring sunshine.
I forced myself to open the blade. Red rust was an ugly blemish on the mottled metal. Before leaving the cottage, I’d poured some oil onto a rag, and I now removed the cloth from another plastic bag. As I rubbed the metal, careful to avoid the sharp edge, I wondered what I could do about the handle. The polish had been taken off the wood, and the colour was a dull green.
The minutes crawled by. I was beginning to wonder whether Raven wouldn’t come, and how I would cope if he ignored me. But, just as I was giving up hope, I saw his sleek shape cutting across the sky. I found myself taking a deep breath, relieved.
He landed twenty feet away. I disentangled my boots from the long grass and strode towards him. There was a well crafted and endlessly rehearsed speech in my head, starting with my disappointment in him and ending with a suggestion that we could still be friends. But what came out of my mouth was, ‘I thought you weren’t going to come.’
Both his horns and ears pulled back in anger. ‘I would always come. A dragon may be many things, but he keeps his commitments.’ Then his nose wrinkled. ‘What is that smell? Have you--when did you visit a dragon midden?’
‘To retrieve this.’ I unwrapped the rag and held up the knife. ‘That’s where it was.’
‘You threw the knife I gave you into a midden?’
‘Of course not,’ I snapped.
‘Then how did it get there?’
‘Tyra ate it.’
‘That was rather careless of you.’
‘It wasn’t my idea.’ I rubbed again at the blade. ‘And I had to dig it out myself.’
‘From Tyra’s midden?’ A low chuckle rumbled from his throat. ‘She would have enjoyed that. But you, not so much. I’m surprised you made the effort.’
Now it was my turn to be angry. ‘What, you think I wouldn’t have bothered? Do you think this knife means that little to me?’
Raven cocked his head. ‘What does it mean to you, Penelope White?’
My mind scrambled for a sensible answer, but unfortunately forgot to advise my mouth to wait for one. ‘It’s not particularly useful, is it? I mean, I can’t ever really use it, can I? I can’t have you flying to me just because I needed to clean under a fingernail or cut a piece of string. What’s the point of a knife which you can’t use as a knife?’
‘Why do you think I gave you that knife?’
‘I don’t know!’ Both of us pulled back at my sudden outburst. ‘Actually, I can guess. To show off. So you can come running to save me if I get into trouble.’
‘You misunderstand. I would never try to save you.’
I felt my shoulders tensing. ‘Well, that’s me put straight.’
‘I’ve always told you that I admire your strength.’ His nostrils expanded, and I caught a whiff of smoke. ‘If you expose the blade, I’d come so that we could fight side by side, adding my strength to yours. If you’re looking for a protector, then you shouldn’t be flying with a dragon.’
‘I’m not looking for a protector.’ I took a moment, determined not to cry. ‘I was hoping for a friend.’
‘I gave you a knife. Without a coin.’
‘I needed more.’ The nails of my free hand were digging into my palm. ‘When I was in the unicorn forest. All you had to say was that you cared about me. That’s what I needed to hear.’
‘I gave you a knife,’ Raven said. ‘I helped you to fight off a snail shark. I took you into the Inkeri longhouse to save your brother. Twice I invaded unicorn lands for your sake. Isn’t what someone does more important than what they say?’
The words of my spiritual director came back to me. ‘“Love is shown more in deeds than in words.”’
‘Dragons act. That’s what we do.’ His ears tipped forwards and he arched his neck. The old arrogance had returned, and I could almost welcome it. Almost.
‘If that’s so true,’ I asked, ‘then why did you slink away after Clyde saved me?’
Raven’s tail rose and slammed behind him. ‘A malwen siarc saved you, while I stood and said nothing. A malwen siarc. I am a dragon!’ The last was roared, and followed by a plume of yellow-red flame which scorched the grass by his feet.
‘You don’t have to singe my hair to prove it,’ I said drily, glad I’d kept some distance between us. ‘Yes, you’re a dragon. And you made a mistake. So why didn’t you man up and come back to see me? Wouldn’t that have been better than destroying your tent and going off to the Arctic to die?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘If I understood, I wouldn’t be asking you.’
His wings loosened from his sides. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘No.’ I used my free hand to brush strands of hair from my face. ‘I don’t want you to leave. I’ve--I’ve missed you.’
‘Of course you have.’
Some of the black sheen was returning to his scales. And suddenly I lost all desire to fight any longer. ‘Then don’t relegate me to a tacsi dragon, next time the gryphon clan summons us.’
‘Magnificent Penny, I am a tacsi dragon.’
‘No,’ I declared. ‘Never. You’re Raven.’
And now I didn’t mind the arch in his neck, the way his horns pointed proudly at the sky. ‘I would never relegate the bearer of my knife.’
I held it out to him. ‘I’m afraid it’s suffered a bit.’
‘It wasn’t forged to go through a dragon’s gut.’ Raven backed away from the burnt grass. ‘Put it down.’
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Clean the blade, of course.’ He chuckled. ‘I have more than one type of flame.’
I lowered the pocketknife to the ground, and stepped back. Raven brought his head close and exhaled a tight stream of blue-white flame. With one golden claw he turned the knife over, and then bathed the other side in the same fire. ‘You can pick it up now.’
‘Won’t it be hot?’
‘Not after this type of flame.’
I crouched next to the handle, and slowly lowered my hand. The woo
d was darker now, more brown than green. It was cool to the touch, so I picked it up. The grey-black metal was once again clean. I rotated the blade in the sunlight, admiring the intricate design rippling along the length. ‘And, thank goodness, it doesn’t stink any more.’ I folded the blade into the groove, and slid the knife into my trouser pocket.
‘I must go,’ Raven said. ‘My time is not my own. Would you like a lift back to the rectory?’
‘I’ll walk.’ His ears twitched, and I added quickly, ‘I’ll ride on you when the clan sends for us again.’ I didn’t want to admit how much it bothered me to see him wearing a saddle. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to climb up his side and settle into it.
As I walked back to the town, brushing away the bits of mud and grass thrown up by Raven’s departure, I felt the weight of the many things still left unsaid. But at least we were speaking again. It was a start. Or so I tried to tell myself.
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‘Father Penelope. Good, you are prompt.’ And the elf, wearing a dark suit which screamed butler!, opened the door wide. I stepped into the entrance hall of the most impressive mansion I’d seen in Lloegyr.
My shoes squeaked on the blue patterned tiles. Wood panelling lined the walls. Lighter wood had been inset to form images of trees and flowers. The ceiling was high enough that dragons could have stood comfortably inside. Rather than staircases, two large ramps at the far end curved to the upper level. Several long tables lined the walls, holding what looked like heavy ledgers. The sweet scent of beeswax polish filled the air.
‘Lord Willis will be with you shortly. May I offer you some refreshment as you wait? I understand that tea is traditional.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I allowed him to lead me to a small table, where I was left to serve myself something which almost tasted like Earl Grey.
A clop of hooves on wood made me turn, expecting to see Lord Willis. But a unicorn mare studied me from the ramp. The tea cup rattled in my hand. Her coat was grey.
Dark eyes flicked down to my neck. Then she walked down into the hall. ‘Father Penelope White? It’s good to meet you. I’m Willis’ dam, Paityn.’