Chapter 1

Dulcie Hanson should have been happy, or at least content. She and her husband had settled in to their roles as Rector and non-stipendiary minister at St. Mary's. They'd been welcomed and accepted, the congregation was beginning to respond to their different approach; they'd even had a couple of songs in the main Communion service accompanied by a young group on guitars, keyboard and flute; a couple of house-groups were beginning to work well and a few weeks previously she'd officiated at the wedding of Paul and Eileen Meadows, a joy and a delight.

No, she should definitely not have this heavy, dark cloud of foreboding hanging over her. Peter, her husband, noticed and asked her what was wrong; she shook her head.

"I don't know, Peter, darling. I just can't pin it down. I feel ... I feel as though ... I'm under a shadow of some sort."

He frowned and was silent for several minutes. "I've learned to take your feelings seriously..." he said hesitantly. "I'm ... worried, I suppose. There's nothing going on that indicates a problem, is there?"

"That's just it. There's nothing I can put a finger on. I've really struggled to read my Bible for the last day or two..."

The frown deepened. "We'd better pray, then, hadn't we?"

They moved to the study where Dulcie sat silent as Peter read a Psalm. As he began to pray, he, too felt a dark heaviness surrounding him; it was a struggle even to talk. After a while he stopped.

"Dulcie..." he said, "use your gift."

She looked at him and opened her mouth, but no sound came out. He stood and walked over to her; it was like wading through treacle.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me..." the pressure lessened; he reached his wife and rested his hand on her shoulder. Instead of psalm 23, words in a language he didn't know flowed from his lips and after a few moments she began to speak also, the words, their rhythms blending and combining in a harmony that was more than human. Joy bubbled up in Dulcie's heart as she and her husband were released in praise. They continued long after the last trace of darkness receded.

"Well," Dulcie said as they crossed the road to the church later, "we know what the problem is now. Or, at least, the nature of it."

"Yes ... yes we do. And possibly the last thing I would have expected here. I'm sorry, Dulcie; I really ought to have anticipated it."

"Nonsense, sweetheart. If you should have expected it, then so should I."

He cleared his throat. "Er ... Dulcie..." he reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box. "I bought this ... well, it was going to be a Christmas present, but I think I'd like you to have it now ... and wear it, please."

She raised her eyebrows but took the box. Opening it revealed a jet cross, perhaps two inches tall, on a silver chain necklace.

"Why ... it's lovely, Peter. Thank you. But shouldn't you have one too?"

"I took the precaution of buying its twin so we match," he said. He was smiling, but it was somewhat grim. "They do say nothing happens by chance to a child of God."

(For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the stone, Jet is a black stone than polishes like marble. As far as I know it occurs only in or near Whitby in Yorkshire, and has been prized for jewellery since Queen Victoria took to it after the death of her beloved Albert).

Dulcie took the cross out of its box and fastened it round her neck. It sat high, just below the little hollow called the 'sterno-clavicular dip'. Peter nodded approval and took a similar cross from his pocket to fasten about his own neck.

The evening office seemed much as usual; the usual handful of elderly ladies, Bert the church-warden, Dulcie and Peter, but the reading from Ephesians took on a new significance; 'For our struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the rulers, against the authorities against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms..."

Afterwards, Peter said to Dulcie, "I think I need to have a word with the Bishop. I'm not sure where he stands on this sort of thing. With or without his approval, though, we have to deal with this thing."

"I had an idea during the service," Dulcie said tentatively. "Do you think Harry Banks might be willing to come and give us a hand? It's not that I don't trust you, or God, for that matter, but I'd be happier with his experience to call on."

"Excellent idea! I wish I'd thought of it myself, " Peter said enthusiastically. "Will you ring him when we get back to the Rectory?"

"Oh, no, Mister Rector, it's your responsibility to invite another minister into your cure of souls," Dulcie laughed.

"You're right, I'm sure, but I just think he's always had a soft spot for you!"

They shared a chuckle as they made their way home.

Dulcie slept heavily and dreamed; she was standing in a ruined church, facing the glassless East Window, standing on the grassy sward that formed the floor; under the window, a stone altar, bearing a broken cross; a full moon cast a silvery light over the scene, but an oppressive darkness seemed to surround her.

"I have come to take you back. You are mine, no matter what you say; you are mine." The voice was deep and resonant and seemed to come from above the altar, but didn't convey the warm, loving Presence she sought; her breasts and genitals ached. "You must come back to me," the voice commanded.

"I ... I..." as often in nightmares she struggled to speak. "In ... the..." She felt a hand on her shoulder, hearing Peter's voice praying quietly. Her voice was freed. "In the Name of Jesus Christ ... Son of the Living God, go to the place appointed, I command you!"

As she spoke the last words, she was aware of sitting up in bed, her arm extended, Peter still praying quietly, his hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you, darling," she said, turning to him.

"Dream? Nightmare?" He asked quietly.

"That would be the latter," she said. "I couldn't speak until you prayed for me."

"You were sitting up in bed making choking sounds." Peter drew her into his arms and they cuddled as her heart-rate returned to normal. "Shall I make tea?"

"No, just hold me and I think I can sleep."

Nothing out of the ordinary occurred over the next few days. Dulcie and Peter maintained their devotional routine and continued their parish visiting. Harry was due to arrive Monday afternoon with his wife; Dulcie met them at Chelmsford Station.

"It's so good to see you, Harry," she said before embracing him.

"It's good to be here, Dulcie. I don't think you ever met my wife, Lydia?

Lydia was small and plump with a serene expression. Dulcie held out her hand, but Lydia spread hers in invitation to hug. As they embraced, Dulcie lost the tension she hadn't realised she was feeling. Harry was watching her face and laughed.

"I wish I knew how she did that," he said, "it's a gift!"

He insisted on their joining Peter and Dulcie at evening prayer. Afterwards, at supper, he wouldn't allow them to talk about the reasons they'd invited him, instead chatting about some time Lydia and he had spent on Lindisfarne. It was later, over coffee, that he began probing. He didn't seem at all worried when they admitted they had nothing solid to point to as a problem. He had them describe their feelings – he was particularly interested in Dulcie's dream. At the end he made no comment, but had them say Compline, a short, ancient service originally said by monks (or nuns) at the end of the day, and suggested they have a good night's sleep.

Dulcie fell asleep quickly, but Peter lay awake for some time, wondering what Harry had in mind – he obviously had something he was considering. As he lay there Dulcie began to twitch and whimper. Not knowing what to do he spooned up behind her, wrapped her in his arms and prayed; she quietened, relaxed and continued to sleep. Peter, too, drifted off.