In an ancient English church, first built in the religious fervour of the fourteenth century, just before the Wars of the Roses. Something, a gravity wave or perhaps a quantum ripple, the cause is not important, triggered long dormant energies. Some change in the underlying forces of the planet tipped the scales, shifting reality just enough to lower the impossibility threshold. By how much is not important. Such things cannot be readily quantified, even with the finest instruments humanity has been able to design. There is only cause and effect.

A small shower of fine limestone dust drifted through slanting rays of late afternoon sunlight. Up in the shadowy rafters something snorted. Afterwards, silence reigned once more.

A few minutes later, a large black snowflake spiralled silently to the tiled floor where it came to rest, still gently smoking. Up in the dark reaches of the old churches rafters there was a tiny soft red flare and another followed. Then another and another until the sad little ashen things almost covered the stone flagged tomb of some medieval benefactor.

That evening, as dusk dimmed the sky, the Very Reverend Penelope Denton-Clarke was on her usual evening patrol to check that the main doors were locked and that such church valuables they had left were safely stowed away. She was walking up the main aisle, directly underneath the old church tower, when her foot crunched on one of the sad little blackened shapes. “Oh.” she pointed her heavy duty Maglite at the black speckled ground before bending down to look closer. “Bats?” she said after a short pause. Her voice echoing loudly in the quiet of the evening church. She picked up one of the charcoaled objects, face creasing in dismay. Turning it over in her hand as it crumbled into black dust. “Oh dear.” She looked up, shining the heavy flashlight into the shadowy darkness. Nothing.

Many people, faced with burgeoning night in a such a church, would have immediately made for the exit. Not Penelope. She considered herself a sensible person. Sensible people did not run away when faced with the unusual, they jolly well stood up and dealt with whatever the fuss was about. Not to do so would have been so, well, silly. Penelope did not do silly.

She looked down the medieval tiled Nave. Her elderly tan and white Jack Russell, Norman, was sitting in the doorway, looking upwards with a distinctly focussed expression. Normally he’d have been fussing around her ankles as she did her nightly rounds, but no, that too was odd. Nonetheless, to be worried because of what her dog was doing was not sensible either. She shone her flashlight up into the rafters again.

Something was wrong, she wasn’t sure quite what, but was going to find out. No one was going to play silly buggers with her in her own church thank you so very much. She’d worked hard to get this parish and no prankster was going to chase her out of it. “Hello?” She called out. “Who is it?” No reply. She rumpled her top lip and began to walk in a sensible but determined manner toward the door. She was going to fetch a dustpan and brush from the vestry and clean up the mess before Mrs Rossersley, her volunteer cleaner, arrived in the morning. Not because it wasn’t Mrs Rosserley’s job, it was just that the damn woman had such a condescending way with her if there was even so much as a petal on the floor when she came to dust around the altar.

Perhaps it was time for another sermon on pride. She could write it tomorrow and deliver over the next three Sundays at the other two churches that fell to her part of the diocese. That was the nice thing about covering more than one rural parish. You could stagger your sermons. One polemic here. Another there. One sermon fits all. Yes, pride. Excellent idea.

As she was musing to herself something the size of a large pigeon flew through her peripheral vision and disappeared. She turned to follow it with her eyes, but it had already gone. She paused and harrumphed. A pigeon infestation. Well they might all be God’s creatures, but they were nothing but a nuisance. She paused and stared up at the rafters, waiting for the tell-tale ‘fooboodleoodle’ call of one of the self satisfied little pests. Perhaps Mister Jolly from Capon farm and his air rifle would grace them with a visit?

Penelope resumed her stride. Another wafting of still air made her stop and look around. After a few more moments she felt yet another breath of air, then a sensation of heat on the top of her head and the sharp smell of burning. She reached up, horrified. Oh my God! Her hair was on fire!

Running down the aisle to the fifteenth Century baptismal font she threw off the polished lid with a clatter and drenched her scorched locks with holy water. Norman barked and whined at his mistresses plight but stayed back in the church doorway.

“Right!” Said Penelope with dishevelled determination. Well that ruled out pigeons. Some vandals with concealed mirrors and high powered laser pointers no doubt. This was a matter for the Police!

Splashing some more font water on her scorched greying bob cut, she stared down at the rippled surface of the font for a few seconds until they began to clear. There was a breath of air and she felt a small weight settle on her right shoulder, getting ready to turn around and give whoever it was jolly well what for, she glanced down at the water and her eyes went wide. She spun around, a small scream issuing from her lips, furiously brushing at her right shoulder. The weight disappeared, leaving her to frantically stare around for the source of the pressure. There was no one but her in the whole building. Breathing heavily, she stared around in horror trying to unsee what she had seen as a reflection in the unsteady mirror of the font. Wide scaly jaws. Golden glowing eyes set in an angular dark green reptilian head, grinning.

Fleeing the old church, she stumbled to her elderly Toyota and retrieved her mobile phone. Norman leapt into the back seat, cowering. Settling herself into a more sensible frame of mind she took a deep breath and dialled. “Hello. Could you put me through to the Police please?” She said shakily, keying her cars central locking as a precaution. Just in case whatever it was had followed her.

“I’d like to report a…” She began and faltered. What had she seen? Was she going to report that a miniature dragon had been sitting on her shoulder? Good grief. She’d could lose her whole living over this. She’d be laughed out of the entire diocese. Now stop there Penelope. Pull yourself together. We are far too sensible to believe in such things as dragons. Even small ones.

Taking a deep breath, she responded to the operators urgent enquiries with; “I was just assaulted. Someone set my hair on fire…. They’d been setting fire to the bats in the belfry. No, no, I don’t need an ambulance.” Penelope said, briefly reflecting that the NHS did not provide emergency hairdressers. “Just a Police officer to come to St Mary’s-under-close parish church. No, no, I didn’t get a look at him. I was too busy putting out my hair.” She paused. “No. I do not need the fire brigade. Or an ambulance. I would like a Police officer.” Penelope gave her mobile phone number to the operator, who gave her a reference number and assured her that someone would call her back. They did not say when.

*

Two days later, on her way back to the vicarage, her mobile rang. She did not recognise the number. “Hello. Is that the Vicar of St Mary-under-close, Penelope Denton-Clarke?” Said a lilting Welsh male voice.

“Yes.” Penelope said carefully.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Dafydd Llewellyn-Evans, Anomaly task force. I understand you had a problem. Have you been in the church since then? Or anyone else?”

A-what-erly force? What was that? “No, only our cleaner has the other keys.” Penelope put her hand to her mouth. “Oh.”

“Is anything wrong?” Said the detective sergeant.

“I don’t really know, I look after three parishes. Mrs Rosserley our cleaner doesn’t have a mobile I’m afraid. She thinks they cause cancer. I’ll have to see if anyone has heard from her.” She gave him the address.

Arriving at the vicarage, Penelope was concerned to find Mrs Rosserly’s cleaning bag outside her back door with a note safety-pinned to it. The church keys had been pushed through the letterbox. The note was brief and to the point. “I resign.” It read. There was a sooty smudge on one corner.

Well that at least solved one problem, the insufferable woman had considered the parish church of St Mary-under-close her personal domain and had often actively discouraged other volunteers. Perhaps Penelope could now get someone she could actually negotiate with. Alison and her friends from the local Women’s Institute might be a good place to start.

She sniffed at the note. What was that smell? Good grief! Burned hair? She was still staring at it when the front doorbell rang.

A dark haired man with a receding hairline over a vaguely embarrassed expression greeted her as she opened the door. Behind him on the drive was a scruffy looking dark blue Ford Focus with a single large dent in the middle of the bonnet. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dafydd Llewellyn-Evans.” The man introduced himself, holding up his Police identity card briefly for her inspection. “You called the Police about getting burned in a church. There was also something about about toasted bats?” He briefly eyed the slightly crumpled note in her hand. “I can come back if you’re too busy.”

“Oh no. One of my volunteer cleaners has just resigned.” Penelope replied.

“Ah.” He said, in understanding tones. “Hard to find, good cleaners.”

“Oh Mrs Rosserley wasn’t a very good cleaner, frankly I’m glad to lose her. Perhaps I can get some better volunteers now.”

“You mean?”

“She put other people off. Not a woman with the greatest social skills.”

“Ah. Can I call her?”

“She doesn’t have a phone, but I can give you her address. Please come in.”

“Oh, that would be handy. Thank you.” His brow furrowed. “I went to the church, but it was all locked up.” He said, stepping over the threshold.

“Yes, I’ve just picked up the keys.” She gestured for him to enter the front room and sit down on her aged sofa. He glanced around at the well-preserved furnishings as she made tea for them both.

“So.” He said when she returned from the kitchen with a tray of tea and biscuits, taking out his police issue mobile. “Can you tell me who got burned?”

Penelope related her story, carefully omitting the salient detail of the glowing golden eyes set in a grinning reptilian face. Just in case. Sensible people didn’t believe in all that nonsense.

After a few thumb-busy minutes he looked up and said; “Right, so you didn’t get a good look at your assailant?” He asked. “Do you mind if we go and have a look?”

“Is it necessary?”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “Well, your hair’s been burned and you’ve got hair extensions to cover the damage. Not very well done, I’d get a new hairdresser if I were you. Your church cleaner has resigned. Oh yes, and there was a slight whiff of burned hair on that ash smudged note you were holding.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “So yes. I’d like to take a look. With your permission of course. Or do I need a warrant?”

Penelope bridled at the criticism, but bit down on her embarrassed anger. The jibe about a better hairdresser had been particularly annoying. “Very well, but I don’t know what you expect to see.”

*

At the church they were greeted by a puzzled middle aged woman, sitting in a Florist’s van. “I was supposed to meet a Mrs Rosserley to confirm the flower arrangement for the Fisher wedding on Friday.” She said. “When I went to her address she just swore at me through the letterbox and told me to go away.”

“Oh dear.” Said Penelope. “I’ve never heard her swear. Whatever happened must be bad.”

“Okay.” Said Dave decisively. “I’d better go first. See what’s what.”

“Shouldn’t you get reinforcements? A SWAT team or something?”

“This is South Cheshire, not the United States.” Dave chuckled and held his right hand out for the keys. Penelope handed the jangling bunch over. After a minute fiddling with the outsize antiques he managed to unlock the main door. “Right.” He said grittily, opening the Judas gate in the massive oak portal and slipping inside, closing it with a hefty clunk.

“Is he doing something dangerous?” Said the Florist in tones of mild concern.

“I don’t know.” Said Penelope. “He might be.”

“Is it wild animals? A badger or something?” The Florist asked.

“Not a clue. We’ll know in a minute.” Penelope lied. She chatted with the Florist to pass the time, angling for inside information on her hopefully happily married couple to be.

Just inside the echoing silence of the old church, Dave stopped and stood by the main door, looking around carefully, noting the bizarre limestone carvings in the shadows, a grotesque face here, a dragon-like gargoyle there. All very medieval.

In the middle of the aisle between heavy wooden pews was an incongruously bright yellow bucket lying on its side and a large dried up water stain on the old tile floor. The remnants of dried soap suds still showing the outer limit of the spillage. So, this was where the cleaner had been when she was attacked. Moving slowly, Dave took a flashlight out of his coat pocket and walked quietly around the side of the church, keeping fairly close to the wall, looking up at tall and narrow stained glass windows which had somehow escaped the iconoclastic predations of both Henry VIII and the English civil war. Just past the altar, the ornate tomb of a medieval knight or some other armoured local notable stared eternally up at the rafters. He wondered idly why such people were always portrayed in chain mail and armour. Was his anticipated afterlife that hazardous?

Dave ducked involuntarily as something fluttered past. A small waft of methane and billow of warm air passed over the top of his head with a soft ‘whomp’ as he did so. What the hell was that? He twisted around sharply to see something, he wasn’t quite sure what, flutter off into the shadows.

“Bloody hell.” He swore reflexively. “Someone’s armed the pigeons.” Although if he thought about it, that hadn’t sounded like the distinctive slapping of pigeons wings. Oh. He looked down. A charred pigeon, half eaten, lay at his feet. Taking a picture with his phone he checked the signal. No signal. Bugger.

Moving quickly, he walked up the side aisle to just level with the altar. A small sound made him turn around to see something bright green and scaly diving straight at him. He dodged, letting whatever it was swoop past with a flutter of leathery wings to swing back up into the shadows. “Dragons?” He said in astonishment. Pointing his flashlight up into the rafter shadowed darkness he saw the reflections of twin golden lights. Tiny dragons? Well it would certainly account for the charred bat and pigeon bodies.

Swiftly striding down the side aisle, he skipped over the dead pigeon and ducked another swooping attack. Right. This looked could be a job for Ozzie.

No point calling this one in to base, no one would ever believe him, but that was probably why he’d been given the job in the first place. He was ‘Sensible Dave’, who never bothered the higher ups with complications if he could help it. If the Americans had task forces for everything under the sun, the Justice department had told him, then so could the British Police Service. Pity they didn’t have the budget for more than one Detective Sergeant for half the ruddy country of course. The Twitter Squad, chasing silly buggers who were rude to people online, had at least twenty dedicated constables and other ranks per county. Per county! And none of the lazy sods worked weekends. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself toward the exit and sprinted the last five metres to the main door, twisting through and slamming the door behind him. From the other side of the door there was a soft ‘phut’ and the smell of burning marsh gas. Right, That did it.

The vicar and florist stood looking at him as though he’d just stepped off a UFO. Pausing until his heart had slowed to something approximating normal, he nodded politely at them and carefully locked the church door. “Well.” He said, trying to keep the mad cheerfulness out of his voice. “I think I know what the problem is.”

Pulling out his mobile, he made a call. “Hello, is that Ozzie. It’s Dave. Have you got anything urgent going on? Oh good. I’ve got a a job for you. A special. At a church called St Mary’s-under-close. I’ll text you the details. Oh, there’s handy for you.” He looked up at Penelope and the Florist. “Ozzie is a specialist pest control officer. He says he can be here by four and done by seven. How does that sound?”

“When can we get into the church?” Penelope asked.

“Not until pest control have done their job. He’s usually very good.”

“Oh. Very nice. I suppose.” Penelope paused uncertainly. “Does he kill whatever it is?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

“Well if he intends to kill the poor creatures, he’s not to come.” She said decisively.

“Pardon?” Dave looked at her incredulously. “Well, I’ll give Ozzie another call and see what he wants to do with your infestation.” He redialled. “Hi Ozzie, it’s Dave again. Vicar says you’re not to kill whatever our infestation is.” He listened for a moment. “Dunno.” Another pause. “Oh, that’s all right then.” Dave turned to Penelope. “He says they don’t usually. Unless its rats or mice he mainly does catch and release. Too many endangered species, so he says.”

“Well, what do they do with them?” Penelope was still indignant.

“I don’t know. Pest Services are generally very humane.”

“They don’t just take them away and gas them or something?” She insisted.

Dave spoke into his mobile. “Did you hear that Oz?” There was an affirmative noise from the other end of the line. “Ozzie says they don’t kill special creatures.”

“Special? Can he guarantee that?”

“You heard that Oz? Oh, right.” There were more noises from Dave’s mobile. He looked at Penelope again. “He says he’ll be over in a couple of hours. I’ll wait here.”

“Are you all right officer?” Penelope enquired.

“Who me? All part of the job.” Dave said with a brightness he didn’t feel and watched the vicar leave in the Florists van.

*

An hour later as he was scrunched up in his dark blue Ford Focus writing up a report, a nondescript grey van crunched up into the Church’s gravel car park. A short, barrel shaped dark skinned man with a shaven head swung out of the cab after it rolled to a halt. The short man recognised Dave and waved a cheerful greeting. Dave got out of his car.

“Allo Dave, cher ami.” ‘Ozzie’ said in a heavy French accent. “You ‘as ze tiny dragoons?”

“Hello Ozzie. That’s right. Frisky little beggars. Singed the vicars hair, terrorised a cleaner and had a go at scorching me.”

“Yeah, yeah. We go see your tiny dragoons, oui?” Ozzie grinned back. Dave handed him the keys. Ozzie opened the church door briefly and sniffed. “Not dragoons.” He shook his head. “Wyverns.” He pronounced it in the French fashion ‘why-verns’

“What?” Dave looked at him incredulously.

“Ver, ver nasty. No dragoons. Two legs no’ four. Gold eyes. Burp methane. Eat bats and pigeons.” Ozzie explained with a gallic shrug. “You watch ze big tail, got a stinger.”

“What? Like poisonous.” Dave immediately regretted his bravado at having gone into the church alone.

“Non. C’est – eet like a wasp. Hurts. Alkaloid. Put vinegar on – no pain.” He grinned at Dave’s alarmed expression.

“Hang on. Wyverns you say?” Dave checked his smartphone. “But they’re mythical.”

Ozzie laughed. “So something mythical eet chase you.”

“All right. So what are you going to do about it?” Dave asked. Ozzie smiled and retrieved two big black golf umbrellas from the back of his van.

“We go take a look.” Ozzie’s grin widened.

The small man sauntered off to the church and slid sideways through the door. Dave hurried after him and found Ozzie, umbrella deployed, just inside the old building, looking around intently. Something fluttered overhead but this time there was no smell of methane. Ozzie signalled at him to open his black golf umbrella.

“I thought it was unlucky to open an umbrella indoors.” He said to Ozzie in a stage whisper.

“Not eef you don’ want to get tres croustillant.” Ozzie favoured him with a sidelong look he reserved for idiots.

“All right, all right, but if anything happens, I told you so.” Dave replied testily.

“See?” Ozzie pointed at the top of an arch column.

“What?”

“Where ze Wyvern, she come from.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Zat ees because it is no longer zere.” Ozzie replied with an air of disdain. “ze Wyvern was zere.”

“Don’t be daft. That’s just where the builders left out a carving.”

Ozzie rolled his eyes and pointed forcibly. “Non. Ze Wyvern was carved in ze stone.”

“So you’re saying it just came to life? Go on.”

“Ze Wyvern was a statue.” Said Ozzie in tones designed to convey disdain. “Now eet ees not.”

“Can’t we just leave the door open and let it fly away?”

Ozzie gave him a look so old fashioned it was used to value antiques. “Non.” He said flatly.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Reset ze building’s karmic signature.” Ozzie repeated. “C’est tres difficile. But fortunately.” He paused for effect. “I am only registered witch doctor for ze western of UK.”

“Oh.” Said Dave. “Didn’t know witch doctors had to be registered.”

“Also licensed Voodoo doctor, Wangateur, Acupuncturist and qualified Druid.” Ozzie said loftily.

“So what are you doing in pest control?”

“Ees a hobby.” Ozzie shrugged and led the way outside. As they closed the door behind them there was another belch of burning methane.

“You know Ozzie. I could get really tired of Wyverns.”

“Hokay.” Ozzie beckoned him over to his van. “I mix ze potion. You put one of zese at each corner.” He handed over a sack containing dozens of bones. “Do not lose.” Ozzie admonished sternly.

Dave walked around the old church, wedging a bone carefully at each corner. After he was finished he reached into the sack one more time and felt a horribly familiar shape. Pulling out a human skull he stared in horror. “Ozzie!”

“What ees eet?” Ozzie walked around the corner carrying a large clay pot. “Hey! Put zat back!” He said sharply.

“Who is this?” Dave asked suspiciously, having gotten over his initial fright.

“Mon Grandmere, grandmother. Ver’ great Hougan. Show respec monsieur Dave.”

“Why are you carrying her skull around then? How did she die?” Dave asked suspiciously.

“Not really dead. She just not ready to retire.” Ozzie shrugged.

“And you can take zose grubby feengers from my eye sockets.” Said a thin, whispery voice from Dave’s right hand. He almost dropped the skull in fright.

“Oh. Sorry.” With trembling fingers, Dave gently placed the skull back in the bag. It was only from sheer willpower that he did not wet himself.

Ozzie led him back to the church front door, placed the pot on the floor and lit a cigarette. “Don’t you have to wear a special outfit?” Asked Dave, still a little shell shocked.

“Non.” Ozzie took a deep drag of strong tobacco and blew smoke out of his nose at the door. “I did but eet chafe too much. Grass gussets.” He explained.

Dave handed the sack containing Ozzie’s grandmother back carefully. The cigarette smoke thickened and flowed around centuries old stone, sinuously wrapping itself about the venerable old building like fog. Then Ozzie threw his half smoked cigarette in the pot, there was a whoosh! a bright flare of light and the smoke cloud disappeared.

Ozzie looked at his handiwork with a nod of satisfaction and opened the church door before stepping inside. Dave followed. The Wyvern was sitting back on top of it’s column, once more a mythical medieval study in stone. Ozzie took his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it over to Dave. “Ze bill.” He said.

Dave raised eyebrows at the amount. “Two thousand three hundred and fifty one and thirty pee? Isn’t that a bit expensive?”

“Blame ze VAT.” Said Ozzie darkly. “You get accounts to claim eet back.” Once Dave had signed the phone app he took it back, picked up his grandmother’s bones and carefully collected those Dave had placed around the church.

As he watched the little Cameroonian drive away, Dave found himself wondering how he’d fill in the incident report for this one. Oh well, at least home was only an hours drive, traffic permitting.

This end back