The Cult of Unicorns (Penny White Book 2) Page 8

  ‘In your claws, of course,’ Hreinalög retorted. ‘And see that you don’t drop it.’

  ‘I’d planned to show something else to Penny,’ Raven grumbled. ‘If you can get this to the entrance, we’ll collect it later.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And I’ll bring a bottle of Talisker next time I visit,’ I promised Hreinalög, still feeling guilty over his generous gift.

  ‘The Skye distillery?’ The small dragon nodded. ‘Their manager was very helpful when I was starting up. One of the forty year olds, mind. Cask strength.’

  I swallowed hard, wondering how much that would cost me. Guilt always carries a high price tag. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  The whisky was hitting my head. And my stomach. As Raven led me out of the tent, I dug into my pockets. I knew full well that there was no point in asking a dragon about lunch, as he’d only take me to their hunting grounds. So I opened a bag of raisins and nuts, and munched on them as we marched out of the settlement.

  The sun had risen further during my drinking session and I was beginning to sweat. But I left my coat on as I climbed onto Raven’s back. I knew better than to ask where he might next take me, and I’d rather be too warm than too cold.

  We spiralled into the blue sky. I tightened my legs against his neck as we left the updraft, and Raven’s wings pounded strongly on either side of me. He slipped sideways, a movement which made me grip his neck spine all the harder. Other dragons had carried me on their backs, but none of them could rival Raven’s ability in the air. He was like a sleek greyhound to their lumbering Saint Bernard.

  We flipped through a thin place, suddenly flying through dark night, and I could see city lights gleaming below us. Raven straightened his wings and coasted for a moment. A helicopter passed below us, filling my ears with the sounds of its rotor blade chopping through the air. Then Raven pounded his wings again, and we crossed back through to Lloegyr.

  I narrowed my eyes against the sudden brightness. As my eyes readjusted, I saw that we were above a large lake. There was a trace of white snow on the peaks of the mountains, although the land surrounding the deep blue water was covered with green grass and trees. The angle of the sun, and the cool of the day, told me that we had arrived not long after dawn.

  Raven spiralled down to the top of a nearby peak. As his wings swept back, bringing us in to land, I found myself frowning at the view. There was something familiar about it. Where I had seen this before? Certainly not in person.

  I hardly noticed when we touched down. Raven put out a leg, and I slipped from his neck. The grass was long and slight springy underfoot as I walked a few feet away.

  ‘Good landing, wasn’t it?’ Raven noted cheerfully.

  ‘Yes,’ I said automatically.

  ‘You usually complain that I’ve made your back ache.’

  ‘It was a good landing.’ I looked up at him. ‘Where are we? I mean, what’s the equivalent in my world?’

  He was folding his wings onto his back, but he paused to lift them in a shrug. ‘How should I know?’

  Then the answer came to me and I felt my mouth go dry. I swallowed. ‘It’s Queenstown. New Zealand. My brother came here to do some bungee jumping.’

  ‘And what’s bungee jumping?’

  ‘Just one of the many ways James has tried to give me a heart attack.’ I swept my gaze from left to right, taking in the entire vista. ‘On Earth, there’s a whole city here. This is empty.’

  ‘Full of birds,’ Raven corrected. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Humans never settled on your world,’ I reminded myself. ‘So they never brought rats or dogs or cats. Have dragons settled here? Or gryphons?’

  ‘Most dragons don’t like cold.’

  As if stirred by Raven’s words, a wind suddenly swept up the side of the mountain. I moved back to his side, and pressed myself against his warm hide. ‘Why do you keep bringing me to cold places?’

  A wing unfurled and draped over me, pulling me close. He snaked his head so that one gleaming eye was looking down at me. ‘Why do you think?’

  I took a deep breath, and regretted it. Raven smelled of fresh grass and wood smoke, and the scent weakened my knees. Why, I asked myself, was I so drawn to this dragon when I had a perfectly nice human male wanting to spend time with me? Then Raven turned his head, sunlight iridescing his scales from black to green, and I had my answer.

  We spent some time admiring the view in silence. Then I climbed onto his back, and Raven flew us down to the water’s edge. The sun had climbed further into the sky. I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist, and also spread more sun lotion on my face. James had complained of getting some bad sun burns in New Zealand.

  Small brown birds were working the shore line. They ignored us both as we walked across the mixture of rocks and grasses just beyond them. ‘Are there any were-birds?’ I asked Raven.

  He snorted. ‘No humans. So no weres.’

  I stopped short. ‘Interspecies breeding created the weres?’

  ‘That’s one theory.’

  ‘What about Cadw ar Wahân?’

  ‘If they even exist,’ Raven said dismissively. ‘A hidden organisation against species mixing? I refuse to fear those who dwell only in rumours.’

  ‘Matriarch Bodil feared Cadw ar Wahân enough to poison her own son,’ I said, ‘just because he was involved with a human. And they’re probably the ones who poisoned Morey’s wife. That was a mixed relationship.’

  Raven arched his neck. ‘I refuse to live in fear.’

  A green bird landed on a nearby bush. He lifted his black head, and I listened in wonder to the bell-like notes which emerged from his throat. I thought of Morey coming to this avian paradise and shuddered. ‘How often do dragons come here? Or gryphons?’

  ‘They would have to find their way through the thin places,’ Raven reminded me. ‘And there are better lands on which to hunt. A large bird roams the forests, and makes a tasty snack, but there is an even larger eagle. Even a full grown gryphon would hesitate to test her strength against those claws.’

  ‘Then why do you come here?’

  ‘I like to explore.’ He cocked his head. ‘And I knew you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘I do,’ I agreed. The air was clean and fresh, the birds were hopping around my feet, and the mountains glimmered in the distance. ‘I do. Very much.’

  We explored the views from several more peaks before I reluctantly asked Raven to take me home. We stopped off at the settlement for him to collect the whisky barrel. Clutching it between his forelegs made for an awkward take off and landing. I opened the kitchen door and thanked him profusely as he lowered the barrel onto the tiled floor.

  ‘Next Thursday?’ Raven asked as he prepared to leave.

  ‘Not until the afternoon,’ I said. ‘I have to take James furniture shopping. It’s about time he had more than a bed in his room.’

  ‘And he can’t go on his own?’

  I shook my head. ‘I dread to think what he’d come home with, left to his own devices.’

  Raven lowered his head, and I rested my hand on the warm space between his red-lined nostrils. Then I backed away, and he kicked himself into the air. I found myself sighing as he disappeared.

  Then I hurried into the study. Clyde was still watching TV on the Mac screen. Four odd characters were dancing on a hill of green grass and flowers. They looked like toddlers wearing a one-piece suit, with strange antenna protruding from their heads and a grey patch on their stomachs. Two were waving at the camera and calling out, ‘Eh-oh!’

  Clyde turned his eyespots towards me. He was glowing with excitement. ‘Teletubbies,’ he told me in an awed whisper.

  I sat down on my study chair, sank my face into my hands, and groaned. ‘What have I done?’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘And it’s ready!’ I announced cheerfully, balancing the roasting tray on my oven gloved hands. I transferred the chicken onto a plate, and brought it over to the table. Everyth
ing else was already waiting. Carrots, boiled potatoes, gravy. I grinned in pleasure.

  James sat back, arms folded across his chest. Morey gazed at the bird from his place on the table, ears flat against his head and tail lashing. Clyde, resting on a place mat at the end seat, pulled his tentacles away from the steam.

  ‘Carrion,’ Morey reminded me. ‘I don’t eat carrion.’

  I lifted carving knife and fork. ‘Listen to me, all of you. It’s Sunday, we’re a family, and we’re sharing a roast. I went through minor hell at PCC about having this morning off, so you’re going to eat it and enjoy it. And I know for certain that snail sharks like chicken.’

  Clyde backed away. ‘Running chicken.’

  ‘It’s free range,’ I said. ‘Organic, free range, living happily until the day some nice farmer slit her throat. Who wants a leg?’

  ‘You know why she’s doing this, don’t you?’ James said to Morey. ‘Peter’s coming over Wednesday night. She’s practising on us first.’

  ‘Three days gives her plenty of time to monitor our symptoms,’ Morey agreed.

  ‘I’m not practising on anyone,’ I protested. ‘Sunday. Family. Roast dinner.’

  ‘Peter?’ the snail shark asked.

  Morey leaned over to him. ‘Penny’s boyfriend. The nice police Inspector. You met him after your mother--’

  ‘And there’s plenty of breast meat,’ I interrupted. Clyde did not need to be reminded that I’d killed his parent with a shovel.

  Clyde’s eyespots swivelled towards me. ‘Green dragon?’

  I felt my cheeks flush. James glanced at me. ‘Why does he think Peter’s a green dragon?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just a bit confused,’ I said quickly, aware of Morey’s gaze. ‘He’s getting Peter mixed up with Raven, the search dragon that took us to the Inkeri longhouse.’

  James shrugged. ‘Yeah, that must be it.’

  Clyde opened his jaws. His tentacles were stretched to their full extent. The snail shark was looking daggers at me, or at least pointed shark teeth. ‘Green dragon,’ he muttered sullenly.

  I began to carve. ‘Come on, light meat or dark meat. Speak up.’

  James poked at the limp carrots. ‘Maybe I’ll go vegetarian.’

  ‘Come along, James,’ Morey said. ‘We are the body of Christ. Remember 1 Corinthians 12: 26. “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it.”’

  I dumped a leg onto one plate, and placed it on Clyde’s mat. Breast for Morey, another leg for James. Breast for me. ‘Do you want some vegetables, Morey?’

  ‘Black, you insult me.’

  ‘You still call her that?’ James asked, poking half-heartedly at the carrots.

  ‘She gave me a name, I gave her a name.’

  ‘Actually,’ I pointed out, ‘you’re the one who chose Moriarty.’

  Clyde slithered towards his plate. His belly cracked open lengthways, exposing his jaws, and he tried to swallow the chicken leg, thick end first. As the leg was longer than his body, the end joint extended past his teeth.

  ‘You need to chew it,’ I told the snail crossly. ‘Tear off small bits first.’

  ‘Mmph?’ Clyde responded.

  ‘It’s not moving,’ Morey retorted. ‘That’s how he usually eats. He needs the bird alive and kicking so he can tear bits off.’

  James paled. ‘Too much information.’

  ‘Spit it out, Clyde,’ I ordered. He obeyed. ‘James, cut up the snail’s meat for him.’

  My brother looked down at the grey-green slime which coated the brown flesh. ‘I’m not using the same knife and fork afterwards.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll get you a fresh set.’

  ‘And a bottle of Pinot Noir,’ Morey suggested. ‘Food always goes better with wine.’

  ‘Particularly this food,’ James muttered, his knife slicing into the chicken leg.

  ‘Why,’ I asked as I splashed wine into three glasses, ‘can’t we just have a roast dinner like any normal family?’

  James stared at me. ‘We’re two humans, a gryphon, and a snail. On what planet is this a normal family?’

  The phone began to ring. ‘It’s your bishop,’ Morey told me. ‘You might want to answer it.’

  ‘How do you know?’ James asked.

  ‘He always knows,’ I said as I headed to the study. I picked up the handset. ‘Hello, Bishop Nigel.’

  ‘Penny.’ He sounded startled. ‘I was expecting your answering machine. Have I interrupted your lunch?’

  ‘It needed interrupting.’ I cleared my throat. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Just wondering if you’d made a decision about the filming at Saint Wulfram’s.’ He sounded apologetic. ‘The producer would like to meet with you.’

  ‘I’m still not keen,’ I admitted. ‘The blog and the book were one thing, but this just seems, well, one step too far.’

  ‘Please think it over. They’d want to start filming in January, so you’d need to meet with them in the next week or so.’

  We shared some friendly small talk about the weather and the Archbishop of Canterbury, and then I hung up.

  When I returned to the kitchen, the chicken was gone, Morey and Clyde were nowhere to be seen, and James was tucking into the potatoes. ‘These are good,’ he told me enthusiastically.

  ‘Where are Morey and Clyde? And the chicken?’

  James grinned. ‘They said something about bait.’

  I sank into a chair and took a quick gulp of wine. ‘Bait?’

  ‘Morey said he quite fancied a bit of terrestrial rat.’ James shovelled another potato into his mouth, and spoke around it. ‘Look at this way. It’ll save a few blue tits.’

  I reached over for the carrots and wondered glumly whether my meal with Peter would prove to be equally disastrous.

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  The week’s events had cut into sermon writing time. I spent the afternoon trying to find a conclusion to my sermon about death. The joke was taken out, but I decided to leave in the Doctor Who quote. The word count indicated that the sermon would take fourteen minutes to deliver, well outside the congregations’ preferred length of no more than ten. It’s an evening service, I argued with myself. They’ll survive.

  I went up to my bedroom to retrieve my robes. When I came back down, James was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing a suit and tie, and looked very smart. ‘You going somewhere?’ I asked.

  ‘With you. To church.’

  Fortunately, I had taken a seat on the stairs to change my shoes. ‘I thought you were allergic to church.’

  ‘Are you going to give me a lift or not?’

  I finished tying shoelaces and rose to my feet. ‘Of course. But you might want to grab a coat. It’s not the warmest of churches.’

  We said nothing during the ten minute drive from the vicarage to the church. I parked on the grass verge, grabbed robes and sermon, and James followed me down the path to Saint Wulfram’s.

  The organist was playing something intricate and unrecognisable as we went inside. This was usually a sign that she did not approve of my hymn choices. Or that she was annoyed at coming out on a Sunday evening. Or perhaps she had burnt the toast that morning. With Mary, it was hard to say.

  There were three people inside, spread out evenly across the body of the small church. James took a seat at the back. I went to the vestry and pulled on my cassock and surplice. When I came out, at 6:00 pm, there were seven people waiting for the service to begin. So about a quarter of our average morning congregation.

  Although I hadn’t officiated at an evensong service for several years, I felt I sang the minister’s portions competently. So I was rather cheerful as I mounted the steps into the pulpit. I smoothed out the pages of my sermon and looked down at the congregation. Rosie, sitting in a front pew, gave me an encouraging smile.

  It suddenly occurred to me that she was the age my mother would have been, had my parents not died when I was a teenager. I looked down at my printed text. For a moment my carefull
y crafted words blurred. Then I blinked my eyes clear and began.

  I heard my voice deliver the sermon, pausing at the appropriate points, emphasising certain words. But my thoughts were elsewhere. Death. James and I had known too much death. The car accident which had made me the guardian for my then four year old brother. Alan’s heart attack while out on his boat, taking away my husband and a man who had been like a father to James. And then Miranda, slaughtered in front of James.

  The sermon continued. I preached on the Christian hope of resurrection, the promise we had that death had been conquered forever. My voice threatened to shake as I continued, ‘We might believe this. This truth might be firm in our heads and in our hearts. But that doesn’t stop us from grieving when someone we love has died. And that’s only right. Never forget that Jesus himself wept at the grave of his friend, Lazarus, even though he was soon to restore him to life. We are Christians, we believe in the power of Christ’s resurrection, but it is perfectly acceptable to grieve. As the Doctor once said in a Doctor Who episode, “The day you lose someone isn’t the worst. At least you’ve got something to do. It’s all the days they stay dead.”

  ‘Because we who are on this side of death are those who have the harder job, don’t we? Our loved ones are safe with God. But we miss them. One day we shall see them again, but for now there is that empty place at the dinner table, the birthdays and holidays no longer celebrated together.’

  I didn’t dare look at James. Why had he chosen tonight, of all times, to come to church? Christmas Day would have been so much better. He would have heard a cheerful sermon on Christmas Day.

  Finally, I delivered the conclusion. Then I lifted up my robes and carefully made my way back down the wooden steps. When I reached the lectern, I suddenly realised that Morey had joined the congregation. The gryphon was perched on the back of a pew near James. The bright red-brown eyes were focussed on my brother, who was blowing his nose.

  I led the prayers, sang the plain chant versicles and responses, intoned the collects, and dismissed the congregation with the Grace. Then I strode to the back of the church to stand by the door and speak to people as they left.