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The inspector herded the two scientists from the room and I could just make out their shapes as they passed the window. Harry started to rattle cups and tea things, a distraction technique. Sadly, I was unable to be distracted, my mind was poring over the events of the last days. My thoughts kept lighting on isolated fragments of events, scraps of conversations, single movements and gestures. I tried desperately to work out how they could be related. The fire on the Oxfold Estate, the single minded stream of villagers (how could that be only yesterday evening? It felt as if it had happened months ago.), the knife, the Abbey, Arthur Oxfold's threats and talk of 'old ways', Gerald. These things spun around and around in my head until I was interrupted by Harry placing a mug of tea in front of me. I grasped the mug gratefully, as if it could anchor my thoughts.

In the end, it was Inspector Lamri who brought me back to reality - there is nothing more real than a copper standing in your kitchen.

'Houlette and Arval have finished their stuff.' She announced. 'Officially, I'm passing this over to CID in the morning. My advice to you would be to get some rest.'

She passed a small oblong of white pasteboard to me: 'That's my card, it has my direct-dial number. If you want to reach me, you can.'

I took the card and smiled briefly at her.

'Thanks.' I said.

Lamri nodded and left, moments later there came the sound of engines becoming fainter as the police car and van headed back to the nearest police station. There was a moment of silence, which was broken by Harry.

'Inspector Lamri was right, we should get some rest. Why don't I see about some food and you show Kiniun to his room, Francis?'

With Kiniun in tow, I headed upstairs to the spare bedroom, after the trials of the day the stairs seemed like some mountainside. Kiniun placed his bags on the little bed.

'The bathroom is down the landing on the left, I'll let you get unpacked. Harry will shout for you when dinner is ready.'

The lion patted me on the arm in thanks. I left him to his unpacking. By the time I returned to the kitchen, Harry was busy at the cooker pouring some dried pasta into a pan of boiling water. I opened the fridge and reached inside, my searching paw came across the greatest treasure that the fridge could contain - a pair of bottles of beer. The crown caps were flicked off the bottles with a satisfying hissing and popping noise. Harry was so engrossed in his cooking that he hadn't registered my presence, so I padded across the kitchen as quietly as possible and pressed the cold bottle against the fur on his arm. He yowled at me and grabbed the bottle.

'Your sense of humour gets much more stupid when you're tired, Nerd.'

I shrugged, he was right, of course, but I couldn't help my tail wagging at my weak joke.

'Sorry, Harry, enjoy your beer. What are you cooking?'

'Umm. Pasta, peppers and a can of fish that I found at the back of a cupboard. Tuna, I think.'

This brought a smile to my face, I had never met anyone who was so uninterested in food before or since. As Harry continued his work at the cooker, I laid out the dinner things and hunted out a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Harry started to serve up his concoction and I shouted for Kiniun to come down.

Kiniun's arrival was preceded by his heavy paw steps on the stairs. Harry looked around as the lion entered the kitchen. I looked up as well as Harry said:

'Wow, Kiniun, I like it!'

Kiniun was resplendent in a traditional En-gal robe of rich reds, glowing oranges and earthy browns in a dazzling pattern of angular stripes. He looked as if he had stepped out of a tourist guide book to the Savannah and directly into my kitchen. He looked just like a traditional En-gal tribal dignitary, except for the black bib-stock and clerical collar. Kiniun paused for a moment and then burst out laughing.

'Being a priest doesn't stop me from being an En-gal!' He said. 'I do not always have to wear black.'

'You look very... swish.' I said. 'Take a seat, dinner's ready.'

He sat down and I said grace. None of us, I think, had realised how hungry we were. For all Harry's rather utilitarian approach to cookery his pasta dish was very tasty and I was glad that the wine I had found complemented the tuna quite well. As we ate, I probed Kiniun for more information about the En-gal.

'You said that you destroyed the shaman-mage's scroll in your village, how did you manage to break your people free of the shaman's control?'

'The shaman's control was weakening, my brothers and sisters in the tribe had lost in him and what he taught after I left. Despite the control of the mask, some began to question the practices of the tribe's religious caste. When Ben came to the En-gal, his life was spared because he had medicaments that could save the sick.

'I was drawn to Ben's character, his friendliness, but others remained wary of him because he was Or-engta, a foreigner, a non-being. You see, En-gal isn't just the name of the tribe, but En-gal means being, one worthy of existence. It was not in the nature of the En-gal to trust anyone who they perceived as "other". I had to learn to trust Ben, not only as he not En-gal, but he was the first dog I had ever seen.

'It was easier for the En-gal to trust me on my return from Port-Saint-Christopher. Remember, I was brought up in the ways of the tribe. I overpowered the shaman, wrenched his mask from his face and smashed it. The En-gal still live in a harsh world where physical strength is greatly valued.

'This triumph allowed me to start to unpick the false teachings of the shaman-mages from the centuries of vital lore and traditions of the En-gal, knowledge that had been garnered from long and unforgiving experience. Some of my fellows did not listen, did not see the value of the Church's teachings, but many more did. My little village was converted and baptised.

'Years passed and more En-gal converted, even our tribal high-chief was baptised - he ordered the removal of the shaman-mages from the tribe, the destruction of their tools and texts. I was even able to train some En-gal to spread the word across our more far flung villages. Now, most En-gal are baptised. We are more open to the world - all beings are, in their way, En-gal, beings. Our males still wear their scars with pride and our females their gold neck bands, but now we have a new scar, worn by both males and females: a cross.'

He folded back one edge of his robe to bare his upper arm and revealed a scar in the shape of a cross showing through his fur. He settled back and yawned as hugely as only a lion could.

'That was delicious, Harry.' Said Kiniun. 'I think that I should head to bed.'

We said our goodnights to Kiniun and he walked out of the kitchen.

'Leave the dishes, Harry, I'll deal with them in the morning. You look half dead on your paws.'

Harry nodded and left the room, I followed shortly after him. I undressed and changed into my pyjamas and having done all that must be done before bed, I laid down. Very quickly, I fell into a deep, if uneasy sleep.

I dreamt, vividly, which was unusual, my sleep is usually pretty boring. It was one of those dreams that messed with my perception of time. I found myself at Saint Meinrad's Abbey, not as it is now, but in its heyday. I was standing in that towering nave of the Abbey church, the sun was slanting through the stained glass of the windows, sending dappled pools of colour across the flagstones. Ahead, in the choir I could see the monastic community at their prayers. I moved towards the monks, my paws making no sound on the polished stone floor. I came to a stop at the choir step and found that I was stuck fast; no matter how hard I tried, I could not move forwards or backwards.

In the choir, the monks continued their office. I could do nothing as the light changed. The sunlight disappeared as if a light had been switched off and dull reddish glow filled the church. The chanting of the monks faltered and stopped, to be replaced by panicked chattering. A lion stood in his stall, pushing his cowl back from his face: this was Abbot Henry Leonis. He began to speak, his words sounding muffled as if coming from a long way off.

'Brothers... fear not. ...in the Lord. We are... here, the community... safe.'

I felt, or somehow shared in, the monks' panic - I began to thrash violently but to no avail stop passively, I looked on as great gouts of purple flame burst out of the floor. The fires were truly terrifying, clinging onto any surface, dropping vile looking blobs of burning matter onto the helpless monks. My subconscious forced me to watch impotently as a splashing burst of amethyst coloured fire caught the Abbot full in the chest. Held motionless, I watched as the stately lion fell to the floor.

The vision of horror dissolved into an inky blackness before my mind's eye. It was as if the Holocaust I had seen had never happened; yet, I was left with the iron-clad conviction that it had. For a while (seconds, minutes or hours, I had no way of knowing) I floated in this elicited nothingness. Then came a peculiar sensation of transition, as if my whole being had been suddenly, but gently, set moving at some incredible speed.

An image resolved itself: now, I was standing in a field or meadow, looking towards the village, but not the village as I knew it. The school was not there and neither was the vicarage, the houses were different: a kind of wattle and daub, half-timbered construction with thatched roofs. As I watched, a cart loaded with hay worked its way up the rutted track that had replaced Church Road. It appeared to be that this was a dream of Rayton-in-Amble as it was perhaps four or five hundred years before.

I looked down and noticed that I was wearing some kind of white shift. I held out my arms, at least I could move, but they were not my arms. They were indeed black, but the colour slowly changed to a rusty red at the elbow. I craned to look behind me and saw that my tail was an equally rust coloured brush with a white tip. Now, it seemed, I was inhabiting the body of a fox. This I tried to put down to the simple fact, that dreams are weird; I still had some freedom of movement, which was something to be thankful for at least.

A distant shout made me turn. In the distance two figures were heading towards me. Then, it was as if time had jumped: one moment they were some hundred or so yards away; the next they were holding me by the arms. I tried to throw my assailants off, but they were too strong for me. I turned my head to look at my captors: they were both heavyset brown bears, but their faces were hidden by elaborate masks covered in cut foliage.

'There you are.' Said one of the bears. 'Come away, child, tonight is the time of offering, you are to be honoured.'

'Yes, sir.' Came an answer in a light, fluting voice. It had come from my mouth, but it wasn't my voice. It appeared that, yet again, I was merely a passenger, an observer in the dream. My captors, or my escort led me down the slope of the hill and towards a little stone temple-like building, the kind that are often placed as follies on country estates. As we neared, it became apparent that this was no folly - I could hear singing and see animals moving about through the open door. Some kind of ritual, I thought.

We came to a halt about fifty paces from the temple door.

'Weshale? Weshale?' Came a ringing shout from a creature with antlers and the ears of a hare, shrouded in a long, white robe.

'Good hale! Good hale! See, the tribute comes, clean and pure: all clad in white.'

Then came the sound of singing:

Join us and sing, love;

We'll dance in a ring, love,

For the summer is coming, love,

And the tribute shall die.

Harvest will bring, love;

Our hearts all to sing, love,

For the summer is come in, love,

And the god shall be nigh.

I, or at least my host, was brought into the circle of dancing creatures, surrounded by a ring of frantically swirling limbs and tales. Their song became louder and faster the beat of their paws on the earth of the temple's floor. My host? Projection? Sat calmly on a stone in the centre of the ring and did not move until the music and movement of the dancers abruptly stopped

the animals who formed the circle were almost like statues, perfectly still except for the heaving of their chests and the odd flick of a tail or an ear. Silently, the circle parted and the creature in the white robe stood before me, carrying a fine circlet of gold. It (he, she, I could not tell) neared me.

Again, the vision dissolved into blackness. Again, there came the feeling of sudden rushing movement. Please, I thought, please let this be the end of my dreams. Dear God, give me blessed, boring, dreamless sleep.

Sadly, this prayer went unanswered; another image came into being. This time, it was as if I were in some kind of ethereal viewing gallery. I was looking down from the roof of a large cave, lit with flares and lanterns. Directly below, was a silent crowd of animals: ahead of them, that a young weasel, dressed in a white shift, and wearing a fine gold circlet on his head.

The figure detached itself from the crowd. A creature with antlers, the ears of a hare and a white robe. The robed figure threw back its hood and I saw that it was a highland bull, not Arthur Oxfold, but his father, perhaps - there was a distinct similarity. As he neared the weasel, he raised along, leaf bladed knife that glinted readily in the light of the flames. The song I heard before broke from the throats of the crowd, the bull held the knife above his head. As he prepared to strike, the flares were snuffed out and there came a sickly, purple glow. A look of panic and fear had taken over the weasel's face. The knife flashed as it plunged towards its unfortunate victim's breast. I tried to scream in protest, but no sound would come.

Once more, the image faded and I was enveloped in darkness. My body was shaken by a voice, earthy and dark.

'Little priest, do not meddle in what you do not know stop fight me not, for I hold the power in this land.'

There was a sensation as if I had been punched in the chest. It sounds weak now I come to think of it, but, with that I awoke. I sat bolt upright in bed, my fur slick with sweat, my chest heaving as if I had just run a marathon. There was no way I was going to get back to sleep, a glance at the green glowing face of the clock showed me that it was a quarter past three. Too early to start the day; too late to go to bed. I climbed out of bed and put on my dressing gown, if I was going to be awake I might as well try to assemble my thoughts on paper. I crept down to my study and started to write.