The Cult of Unicorns (Penny White Book 2) Page 7

  Once we were comfortably settled, I listened to her list of various aches and ills. My tea had long gone the way of all liquid refreshment when Stella finally sighed and concluded with, ‘But I mustn’t grumble. What about you, Vicar? How’s your brother? Does he have a job now?’

  I certainly hoped so. ‘He’s still doing work with computers.’

  ‘Is he courting?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Although I did pray that Miranda’s messy life and even messier death hadn’t put him off relationships altogether. Perhaps in this I was more like a mother than an older sister. It would be good to see him settled.

  The parrot made a crude observation regarding sailors and prostitutes. Stella ignored him, so I did as well. ‘Do you want Rosie to bring you Communion?’

  ‘I’ll be in church again soon,’ Stella said. As she had done for the last six months.

  ‘Well, let me know if you change your mind.’

  Her telephone rang. I nodded that she should answer it, and I wandered back into the kitchen to give her some privacy.

  Jack studied me, head down, feathers fluffed. I blinked. He suddenly reminded me of Morey’s body language when the gryphon was alarmed. I looked at the cage, large but still a prison. There were wooden toys hanging from the bars, but all looked far too intact. I wished I still had the sense of connectedness which I had enjoyed earlier in the unicorns’ forest.

  I slid my hands into my pockets. My left fingers bumped against the wad of tissue. I pulled it out, and carefully unrolled it to expose the gleaming unicorn hair. The parrot shifted closer, his dark eyes fixed on my hand. I lifted the strand free, and wrapped it around my left index finger. Somehow it seemed wrong to speak the Archdruid’s name aloud. So I thought it instead. Neciaunim.

  The shift wasn’t as dramatic as in the woods. I could feel the arthritis gnawing away at Stella’s bones, and smell the dried pineapple in Jack’s food dish. More importantly, I now knew that the bird lived in fear. Taken away from the only home the parrot had known, thrust into the company of someone who did little more than provide fresh food and water, no wonder the bird spoke aloud in the voice which was so missed.

  The strand of unicorn mane crisped, then fell away. The residual energy was gone. But Jack and I stared at each other in new understanding.

  ‘Sorry ‘bout that, Vicar, it was me sister.’ Stella joined me in the kitchen. ‘You been making friends with Jack?’

  ‘Singing,’ I found myself telling Stella. ‘Sing to Jack.’

  ‘Not with my voice.’

  ‘The quality doesn’t matter.’ I glanced back at the bird again. ‘And maybe we could move the cage into the living room? Jack needs to see more of you.’

  She shook her head. ‘With that language?’

  Even without the earlier connection, I could read the promise in the parrot’s eyes. ‘The swearing will stop. Oh, and one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jack’s a girl.’

  Stella agreed to call her son over to help move the cage. I left the house wondering what more I could have done. Jack’s life would be less miserable, but she would still be spending all her hours in that cage. There was no way Stella could cope with letting the parrot out.

  At least I had established that unicorn hair, just like unicorn horn, carried some form of power even in our world. I hesitated to call it magic. But I did wonder whether, as with the hair, the healing properties of the horn would diminish over time.

  Something about the horn was worrying away at me, and I couldn’t quite work out what it was. A light rain began to fall as I walked back to my car, and I put it out of my mind as I hurried to unlock the door and slide inside.

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  I woke with the happy realisation that it was Thursday and my day off. And I was indeed having the whole day as work free, having successfully fended off several attempts by others to involve me in various meetings. Above all, Raven was coming to fetch me.

  James had finally bought a car of his own, so he had taken himself off to the train station long before I yawned my way down the stairs. I collected Clyde and busied myself with breakfast while the snail continued his attempts to demolish the wild bird population. Morey had a quick cup of tea before setting out for his own day off. Although he hadn’t shared his plans with me, I had hopes that he was going to spend time with Taryn.

  Clyde came through the cat flap, and I sent him back outside to wipe bloody feathers off his shell. Together we raced through the Morning Office, but we were still in the throes of a canticle when I heard the thump in the back garden. ‘Green dragon!’ Clyde told me enthusiastically.

  ‘Prayer first,’ I reminded him. I came to my feet to give Raven a wave, then sat back down to finish the Office.

  Clyde allowed me to place him into his terrarium. I closed down the lid, then stared down at the snail. James would be away overnight, I wouldn’t be back until the afternoon, and I had no idea how long Morey would be away. I found myself thinking of Jack, and I swallowed bitter guilt. Clyde was at least as intelligent as the parrot, and I was consigning him to a long day in a glass case which held nothing but a fake log and a water bowl. But I didn’t feel able to give him access to the house without someone around to keep an eye on him.

  The tank was on a wheeled platform. So I moved it over to the desk and turned on the computer. I told Clyde, ‘I’ll put it onto live streaming for you, okay? TV all day.’

  ‘Neighbours?’ the snail shark asked hopefully.

  ‘CBeebies,’ I said firmly, once again annoyed that Morey had dragged Clyde into his own obsession with Australian soap operas. ‘TV for human children. It’ll be educational.’

  I pulled on my boots and retrieved my coat. There had to be a better solution for Clyde than all day TV. But what could I do for him? It wasn’t like I could check him into a day nursery or some snail walking service.

  Then I was striding across the recently grazed grass of my back garden, and all I could think about was Raven. The dragon arched his neck, his scales shifting from black to green in the bright sunlight. His blue-green eyes met mine, the reptilian pupil nothing more than a small black slit. He was darkly handsome, and he knew it.

  ‘The indomitable Penny,’ he greeted me. ‘And for how long may I occupy myself with your company?’

  ‘All day,’ I told him happily.

  ‘Then let us go.’ He lowered himself to the ground, and extended his left foreleg. Raven was about twice the size of a horse, but it was still a scrabble up to his back. His warm hide bent under the grasp of my fingers as I reached up to the black spine just in front of his shoulders. With a tug and a kick with my boots I was able to pull myself up and swing my right leg over.

  Green dragons, like Raven, had triangular spines and the gap between two of them was just large enough for me to sit comfortably. As long as I didn’t gain any weight. That was enough reason alone for me to avoid chocolates.

  ‘We need to go through the thin space as quickly as possible,’ I told him. ‘So that the neighbours don’t see me and wonder how I’m floating through the air.’

  ‘Then quickly it is.’ He spread his blue-green wings and shifted his weight back onto his haunches. My small back garden didn’t lend itself to a running take off, so I braced myself for his kick into the air. But I still gritted my teeth as the thrust dug a spine ridge into my back, and I gripped the one in front of me.

  Raven carried us above my vicarage. The prickling sensation of entering a mid-air thin space traced along my neck and down my arms. There was a shimmer across my sight and then we were in Lloegyr.

  We were flying over the black lava fields which surrounded the search dragons’ settlement. The sun was only just rising from the nearby sea, which meant that I was still comfortable in my coat. The time difference and the geology of the area had led me to conclude that Raven lived in this world’s equivalent of the Galapagos Islands. Unlike ground based thin places, which were geographically linked to their Lloegyr
equivalent, the air crossings led to another part of the planet altogether. That, along with the lack of cold and dread, once again made me wonder why the two types of thin places were so different.

  Sulphur from a nearby volcano made my eyes tear and my nose ache. Raven made a slow turn, taking us past the smouldering caldron and over to the other side. Then he brought us down, landing in a jog which jounced me against his hard back.

  I slid to the uneven ground, my boots catching against the lumps of long cooled lava. Ahead was the wall of the settlement, a tall structure of black obsidian gleaming in the sun. Raven had once explained to me that search dragons were often cast out from their birth families, due to their ability to find anything. Including long hidden secrets.

  Tyra was on guard at the entrance. I recognised her by the near-white torc which rested around her neck. The green-black dragon lowered her head as we drew near, and her red-rimmed nostrils expanded in fear. ‘Knifebearer,’ she greeted me, her tail lashing behind her.

  ‘What, no welcome for me?’ Raven asked.

  ‘You live here, Hrafn Eydisson,’ Tyra said crossly, using his real name. ‘And you don’t bear steel. But just remember that you carry someone who does.’

  ‘I have no fear of Penny’s blade,’ Raven said arrogantly, arching his neck and throwing out his chest. ‘Let us enter, Tyra.’

  The other dragon, grumbling under her breath, stepped to one side. I followed Raven through the opening and into the settlement.

  Brightly coloured tents were erected along the wall and further inside the enclosure. I ignored the splashing fountain on my left as, for once, I’d planned ahead and brought a bottle of water with me. And sun lotion. Questions would be asked if I were to return home with a sunburn.

  We strode past the open tents. Many of the dragons inside were still asleep, green-black bodies stretched across woven rugs. A few were sipping at hot drinks, and my nose twitched at the unmistakable scent of coffee. One was picking at his sharp teeth with what looked to be a bone, and I turned my eyes away from the scraps of flesh which still clung to the white surface.

  Raven turned down a passageway between the tents. Patterns swirled through the red and purple material. Whether by design or from the tread of many dragon feet, the lava here had been smoothed, making it much easier to keep up with Raven’s long strides. I knew better than to ask him to slow down.

  We emerged into an open area. My heart sank as eight dragons rose to their feet. These were the same ones who had once bounced me from wing to wing, until I had threatened them with the puny blade of my Swiss Army knife. Raven dropped back, leaving me to face them on my own.

  I slipped my hand into my pocket. Their eyes widened as I pulled out the knife Raven had given me. I unfolded the three inch blade and held it up. The intricate pattern woven through the grey-black metal shimmered in the sunlight. ‘Rwy'n dod mewn heddwch.’

  ‘Yes, peace, knifebearer,’ the leader agreed, backing away. ‘We have no quarrel with you.’ And they all literally turned tail and ran.

  Raven sighed. ‘You would be even more magnificent with a dagger.’

  ‘I wanted the knife to be legal in England,’ I reminded him. ‘I’m still amazed that this small thing scares them.’

  ‘As I’ve told you before, it’s not the blade in the hand, but the steel in the soul of the one wielding it.’ He turned his head. ‘This way. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  I had never before gone so deep into the settlement. We passed larger tents, including the one which was Raven’s home and workshop. I slipped a hand under my shirt to touch the obsidian cross which he had carved for me. The pendant was warm against my skin.

  The smell was what I noticed first. Suddenly I was transported back to a holiday in Scotland, not long after Alan and I had married. We had left James, still cute at seven years old, in the care of the bed and breakfast owner, and taken a walk in the soft evening air. The sea was on our right, and just ahead was the white building of the Talisker distillery. We admired the Carbost Burn waterfall and then stopped near the bonded warehouse. The distinctive scent of whisky evaporating through oak barrels had filled the air and made us smile. Talisker had been our favourite single malt from that day onwards.

  ‘The angels’ share,’ I told Raven. ‘Don’t tell me that dragons distil whisky.’

  ‘Just one dragon.’ And he nosed open the flap of a large yellow tent.

  I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the lower light level. A copper still, about my height, rested on the ground fifteen feet away. The round belly gave way to a smaller head, and a long copper tube arched up and then down to a copper pot. The fire under the still was cold, but the harsh smell of burning peat still hung in the air.

  ‘Hrafn bach,â beth ydych chi wedi dod i mi y tro hwn?’ The speaker was the smallest dragon I had ever seen. He was only the size of a small pony. His wrinkled hide was more black than green. A torc of twisted gold sparkled around his neck, and a large pair of red-rimmed eyeglasses rested on his snout.

  ‘Rwyf wedi dod â ffrind i gwrdd â chi,’ Raven replied. I was able to recognise the word for ‘friend’ but little else. Despite my best attempts, my Welsh lessons hadn’t prepared me for the rapid fire delivery of native speakers. ‘Efallai gallwn siarad yn Saesneg?’

  ‘Certainly we can speak in English,’ said the dragon, to my relief. ‘So, what have we here? I smell steel, and the peculiar sweat of human. Hrafn, will you please explain?’

  ‘Of course, Hreinalög.’ Raven’s voice had a tone of respect which I had rarely heard him use. ‘This is Penny, who bears a blade given from my own claws. I knew she’d be very interested in your work.’

  ‘And why should I be interested in her?’ Hreinalög asked. ‘I’m a very busy dragon.’

  Several dozen barrels, I could now see, were resting on the ground in the further reaches of the tent. If I wanted more than a sniff of their contents, I would have to make a good impression. And quickly. ‘Not much of a swan neck on your still,’ I said.

  ‘Eh? Why should you say that?’

  Alan and I had toured at least a dozen whisky distilleries during the course of our trips to Scotland, and I reached desperately into my memories. Unfortunately, my attention had usually been more focussed on reaching the tasting room than paying attention to the actual minutiae of the distillation process. ‘Well, more of curve would work better to separate the elements, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Really?’ He sat back on his haunches and used a foreclaw to push back his glasses. ‘What do you know about the noble dŵr bywyd?’

  I smiled. ‘Uisge beatha has been a passion of mine for many years. I recognised the smell of the angels’ share as soon as we came near your tent. What type of barrels do you use, bourbon or sherry?’

  The small dragon studied me for a moment. Then he chuckled. ‘Finally, someone who understands my art.’

  I gave him a small bow. ‘And how long do you allow the whisky to mature?’

  ‘At least three years, of course.’ He waddled towards the barrels. ‘There are glasses on the table. Bring two over.’

  ‘Only two?’ Raven asked, sounding amused. ‘Not one for you, old serpent?’

  ‘Young worms aren’t invited to sample my treasures,’ Hreinalög said with a sniff. He halted beside a barrel. ‘This was distilled four years ago. Mid May, if I’m reading my markings correctly. Pour some off for us, knifebearer.’

  I put a glass under the end of the wooden tap, and turned the handle. Liquid squirted out more quickly than I’d expected, and I quickly stopped the flow. I poured half into the second glass, and handed it to Hreinalög. ‘Long health,’ I said, raising my glass in a toast.

  ‘Iechyd da,’ the dragon responded.

  The spirit was undiluted fire. I managed not to cough, but my eyes were watering after the first swallow. I turned to Raven, and held out the glass to him in mute appeal. He, of course, drew back his head, leaving me to face the challenge on my own.

  ‘The four
year old is a bit fiery,’ Hreinalög mused. ‘I suggest that you only sample it. Fetch us fresh glasses for the eight year old.’

  This time I was more careful with the tap. And despite the old dragon’s disapproving clucks, I added some water to the amber liquid swirling in my glass. My taste buds approved. ‘Much better,’ I told Hreinalög. ‘This shows promise. Do you import the peat from Scotland?’

  ‘Ynysoedd Heledd.’

  ‘The Hebrides,’ Raven translated helpfully. ‘Our version, not yours.’

  We moved along to barrels at the far end. The liquid was now a much darker colour. I took a sip, and wanted to sit down and not move for hours. Even my beloved Talisker could not match the intense flavour dancing up and down my tongue. ‘How old is this one?’

  ‘Thirty years,’ Hreinalög said wistfully. ‘That was a good batch. Only five barrels left now.’

  Even more reason to savour what I had. ‘This is the best single malt I have ever tasted. And I’ve tasted quite a few.’

  The small dragon dropped his jaws open in a grin. ‘Always use peat for the heating process. Coal doesn’t give the same result.’

  ‘But where do you get your mash?’

  Raven was sitting back, his ears curved in amusement. I gave him a smile as Hreinalög explained the difficulties of brewing and distilling in such a warm climate. For all his arrogance, Raven was very good at recognising what I might enjoy. I treasured the memory of the night he had taken me to Iceland to watch the Northern Lights. The small meteorite he had found there had been forged into the blade of my knife.

  ‘Have some more,’ Hreinalög urged as I finished my glass.

  I shook my head with regret. ‘I don’t like to drink and fly.’

  ‘Then you must have one of the barrels.’ Hreinalög thumped the one nearest us. ‘Hrafn will carry it back to your domicile.’

  My protests were weak and insincere. Raven’s were more robust. ‘And how am I to carry that thing?’