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After the happy couple had left the church and through two lines of crossed truncheons, the families left. I wandered outside chatting to Anna - who, it turns out has never cried at a wedding (I can't say the same, I'm a soppy old hound at heart). By now, the police honour guard was piling back onto the minibus and PC Milvus was locking a case with the lieutenant's gun in it back in his car. Harry was waiting by the lych-gate, looking more than a little worried.

'Francis, your Mum's here!' He said as we approached. 'She says she brought Gerald with her, but there's no sign of him.'

Abruptly, he strode away towards the vicarage, ears flat against his skull and his paws swinging; he was angrier than I had ever seen him before. Anna and I followed along in Harry's wake. My mother's elderly 4x4 was parked behind my car, looking every inch a mobile scrapheap. She was pacing back and forth in the front garden with Kiniun trying to calm her.

'Mum, what's wrong? Where's Gerald?'

'Francis, thank heavens you're here. Where have you been?'

I glanced down at my cassock and then back at my mother.

'I was taking a wedding, Mum. Come inside and explain what's happened, please.'

I ushered my mother inside the house and the others followed in. Having finally managed to settle my mother into a chair, I put the kettle on. Kiniun set out some mugs and the biscuit tin (somehow he had discovered its secret hidey-hole). I poured boiling water into the big tea pot. Once my mother had taken a large draught of tea, she calmed visibly.

'Is that better Theresa?' Asked Harry.

She nodded, then took a deep breath.

'It started last night,' She said, 'About midnight, I heard this awful noise coming from your old bedroom, Francis. I went upstairs to find out what the commotion was. By the time I reached the landing, the noise had stopped and young Gerald was just standing there, still and silent.

'I tried talking to the poor love, but he wouldn't or couldn't say anything. In the end I took him back to bed.

'So, first thing this morning, Gerald comes down the stairs gabbling and carrying on something awful.

'"What's the matter, love?" I asked him.

'"I have to go back, it is ordering me, pulling at me. I have to go back!"

'That's all he would say, over and over again. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't sit still; he just kept fretting until I said that I would drive him back to Rayton.

'All the way here he sat and fidgeted. As soon as I came to a stop outside, he just shot off down the road, towards that big estate and I haven't seen him since.'

My mother sat in silence. Tears of worry and frustration were coursing down Harry's face and muzzle. Kiniun appeared to be deep in thought. I looked to Anna, her eyes were wide. She tapped me on the shoulder and then inclined her head towards the hall. I followed her out of the kitchen. She put a paw on each of my upper arms and said quietly:

'I think Gerald is in danger. I think he's the tribute.'

Nodding, I explained my recent dream of the previous night to Anna, as I finished Kiniun walked into the hall.

'Francis, your mother has gone with Harry for a walk in the garden. What is this about?'

Again, I explained what I knew and Anna added her local knowledge.

'If what you say, Miss Felis, is correct, Gerald will be safe until their Offering. Francis, we have the chance to rid this place of this lurking evil. It is, also, the only way that I can see to rescue Gerald from his fate.'

'Right,' I said, my voice hard, 'He should be safe until tomorrow night, I'll call Canon Hopes at the cathedral and find out if he can help. Kiniun, you said this would need priests that I could trust implicitly?' The lion dipped his head in agreement. 'Good, Charlie I trust. The rites of deliverance call for two priests: me and Harry - there's no way that he will accept not coming with me. You and Charlie will have to be in the church - praying the rite, supporting me and Harry.'

Kiniun nodded again.

'That seems wise.' He said.

The sound of the back door opening and closing signalled the end of our conclave. I dispatched Anna to introduce herself to my mother and extracted Harry for a conference. He sat down in the armchair in my study. I pulled the office chair out to sit opposite him. There was a lingering wetness around his eyes, his ears were drooping and he was pulling nervously at his tail.

'What will happen to Gerald? Is he in some kind of danger?'

'I don't know, but I think this is something linked to my dreams, and to those bits of knife, some kind of possession. We will be able to get him back only if we free him and whoever is the conduit, the link animal from whatever power is controlling them.'

'I'm coming with you.' Said Harry, almost before I had finished speaking.

'Yes, good. Tomorrow is the Offering, we need to get there and stop it, scatter the cultists and find their "priest". Gerald is their tribute, a sacrificial victim, they will be holding him somewhere. Don't worry, they will keep him safe, they need him. Sorry, I'm gabbling this, but I do have a plan.'

This, I said with more confidence than I felt. A plan was starting to form in my mind, but it was hazy and vague. Harry stood and put his paw on my shoulder.

'I hope you do, Nerd.' He said. 'I'm not prepared to lose Gerald.'

He left the study without another word.

I span round in my chair and leant on the desktop. My paw brushed against something rough, the cover of my father's journal. I flicked through the creamy pages, side after side of my father's writing. What had Dad written in the flyleaf? I opened the front cover:

'Use this book well.'

I read. Could Dad have meant, could he have anticipated, that I would become an exorcist? Settling back in the chair, I switched on the computer and watched as it hummed into life, various coloured lights and panels illuminating. Once the computer was running, I began to read my father's journal.

There is, on the Savannah, a great deal of pagan tribal religion. It seems apparent, after my experience with Kiniun, that there is truly some great and controlling power holding sway over the Wildcat Tribes.

He went on in this vein for some while, part theological reflection and part travelogue. He detailed his research into traditions of exorcism and teaching around the evil one across the Church, even branching out to other religions. After twenty or so sides of this, he recounted a meeting with his bishop.

Today, I was called to the palace at Newton for an interview with Bishop Eric. News of my studies had reached his ears, I doubt very much that the old mouse will understand. Bishop Eric seemed weary, he was slumped at his desk.

'Shepherd, Church House tells me that you are engaging in research of exorcism.'

'Yes, my Lord.' I replied.

'There are some at Church House who are concerned that you are merely dabbling in unenlightened folk religion. But, I and some of my fellow bishops are convinced that the office of exorcist should be revived. Father Benedict, would you be willing to accept this responsibility?'

Naturally, I accepted.

From that point, Dad's style was that of a manual of the practice (and indeed the practise) of exorcism. The prayers and liturgies were outlined, along with details of how and when he founded that they worked. He also included salutary tales of when things didn't work. For example:

I was called to attend a young donkey, who, it was feared, was suffering under a possession. The demon was successfully cast out, but I did not fully ascertain the name of the vile being before returning it to the pit. In a final fit of rage, the demon's power lashed across my mind. I spent the better part of a week convinced that I was a cockerel by the name of Kevin.

Tasso-Meles was correct, the name is vital!

Dad went on to list what he called the 'Demonology', a hierarchy of evil beings and what their capabilities and weaknesses were. Despite my training, and my experience of the exorcists of the Medved Empire, I had never seen anything so detailed. I typed it out, just to try and make sense of it, reading it aloud to myself as I went:

'First Throne of hell, chief among them: Satan, the lord of evil. Cast to the pit by the angels of God. The Corrupter of all creation, yet unable to leave his throne. Therefore, he must send his demons into the world to do his bidding.'

So the list went on through all seven Thrones, Dad appeared to be following Tasso-Meles' outline of the corrupt hierarchy, but with much more detail. He had come to the conclusion that, as the thrones become weaker, it was easier for a demon to pass into the world.

From what I could gather, the commonest possessions were performed by demons of the fourth Throne, physically strong and devious, able to control the subconscious mind. Fourth Throne demons had to be consciously summoned, but yet could live within a host dynasty for generations.

After an hour of typing and muttering, I was happy that I had worked out the correct form of the liturgy and prayers. I was pretty sure that I could call out the demon and demand its name. Leaning back, I ran a paw over my aching eyes and scratched my muzzle.

A noise from the doorway made me turn around. My mother was standing there with a mug in either paw.

'Hello, Mum.'

'Hello, Taonta,' She smiled, 'I've brought you some coffee. Harry and Kiniun have tried to explain what's going on. Anna's nice.'

'Yes, Mum.' I replied, slightly fazed by her non-sequitur, 'She is nice and she's been a great help to me.'

'What are you reading, love?'

She reached out with the coffee and as I took the mug, her paw snatched the little journal off the desk.

'Ben's journal.' She breathed, her eyes glittering. My mother had the most expressive eyes, her left eye was dark brown, but her right (as with a lot of collies) was a startling blue-grey (as mine are, both of them - for years my parents worried I would go blind before I left school), now they glittered and shone as she remembered her husband. 'Your dad always wanted you to have this. He said it was only to be given you when you were ready.

'For ages I prayed that you wouldn't follow your dad's paw steps so closely. He went to so many awful things, so many animals in such pain and anguish. I didn't want for you to have to see what he saw.'

'I know, Mum. What was this he wrote, about thinking he was a cockerel called Kevin?'

My mother snorted slightly at the memory, a smile spreading across her muzzle.

'The first I knew of it was a telephone call from his Archdeacon, you remember Archdeacon Hunter? He's just had his ninetieth birthday.'

I rolled my eyes at the digression.

'Anyway,' Continued my mother, 'Archdeacon Hunter said that I had to come and collect Ben from an address in Ridding. So I got in the car and drove to Ridding. When I got there, the doctor had sedated your father, so him and Archdeacon Hunter just kind of poured Ben onto the back seat. We went home - that was a long drive from Newton to Ridding in those days, we weren't all that long married either.

'The next morning, I went up to see how your father was getting on, and I found him, dressed only in his nightshirt, scratching at the carpet with his foot paws and trying to crow! The strange thing was, even though he thought he was "Kevin"; he knew that he was married to me. It confused him no end, trying to work out how a chicken would marry a dog!'

I laughed at this, the very idea of my sombre, serious father acting like that was just so odd.

'I miss him every day.' Said my mother. 'I am proud that you're a priest, like your dad, and an exorcist, taonta, it's what he would have wanted of you. That doesn't stop me from worrying, though.'

She leant down and embraced me. I set my coffee on the desk and returned the hug. For a while, she wouldn't let go. In the end, we were interrupted by Anna poking her head through the door.

'Father Kiniun got hungry, so he's made lunch. It's ready.'

I disentangled myself from my mother and we walked through to the kitchen, where Kiniun had laid out a dizzying array of small bowls. He beamed at us as we entered.

'Francis, I have not yet been able to repay your hospitality, and your local shop is surprisingly well stocked. So, I have done the best approximation of a Wildcat meal that I can - although tinned carrot does not figure too often on a Savannah Menu!'

'There was no need to go to these lengths, Kiniun.' I said. 'Thank you, I'm sure it will be delicious. I can't remember the last time I actually cooked in my own kitchen.'

'When did you learn to cook, o son of mine?' My mother chimed in.

This caused Anna to collapse into a fit of the giggles, and add:

'Mrs Shepherd, I think he just lives on the cakes that Mrs Avis at the Post Office makes!'

'Call me Theresa, Anna dear.'

The criticism of my culinary talent, or lack thereof, having finished we tucked in. Harry was clearly still worrying about Gerald, as he merely pushed his food around his plate. That was until Kiniun leaned in to him and said softly:

'If you do not eat, you will not be able to help Gerald when you are needed the most. Surely an ex-soldier must realise the importance of eating well before a battle?'

This worked spectacularly, I'm not sure for fear of the big lion, or out of a sense of duty to Gerald, but Harry managed to eat something from each dish. The food was quite different from what I was used to: very spicy with earthy flavours. Savannah cuisine seemed to consist of lots of little stews and marinated meats that were eaten by scooping mouthfuls out of a bowl with a scrap of bread. By the end of the meal, my paws were covered in spicy sauces.

There was a hiatus after the meal; a little pause to aid the digestion before I began to think about clearing away the dishes. We were all too full of Kiniun's cooking to even think about moving, even Harry had managed to stuff himself.

The clearing away was easily sorted, as everyone mucked in. This was not, perhaps, the least stressful manner in which the table could have been cleared, my mother has never liked the way I load the dishwasher, but it had the advantage of being quick.

Once more, the kettle was put on and the tea pot refilled. I left my mother and Anna chatting in the living room and herded Harry and Kiniun out into the garden. I gestured for Harry and Kiniun to sit in the big wooden chairs, and I perched on the low wall.

'I need your help, although the bishop has licensed me for exorcism and I've done them before, I only have half a plan. I don't want innocents to be hurt, and, we cannot fail.'

I looked from lynx to lion, saw the determination in their eyes. That was encouragement enough, that others believed what I was saying; for the last few days I had barely been able to believe what I was hearing come out of my mouth.

'There are two big problems that I can see.' I continued. 'First: we don't know where this "Offering" is going to happen. I've had fleeting glimpses of some old temple or folly, that's probably on the Oxfold Estate, but I've only got my dreams to rely on. I can't believe I've even said that, I'm relying on dreams.

'Second: if what I think is correct, is actually correct, there will be a lot of animals there. We cannot run the risk of them either stopping us, or getting hurt. They may not believe in God, they may not look to the Church for anything, but I am still their parish priest and I have a duty towards them.'

At this, I stood and slapped one paw into the other. Pacing the patio, I could feel my hackles rising at the apparent futility of the whole enterprise: four priests against five- or six-hundred villagers. I paced for another couple of minutes until Harry spoke.

'I have an idea, about how we could get animals to leave us in peace...' He trailed off into silence.

'What, Harry? Anything is better than nothing.'

'Francis, I don't think you're going to like this.'

I huffed in frustration. I looked down at my foot paws and then back up to meet Harry's eye.

'Please, Harry, just share your idea.'

'Well... Natasha Fuchs owes me a huge favour. I think I could persuade her to let me have some... some stuff from The Regiment's depot.'

I looked at Harry, there was a certain air of vagueness about him that didn't sit well. His ear twitched and he wrinkled his nose, then said flatly:

'I think I could get my paws on some grenades.'

Kiniun stared, I stared.

'We do not want to kill anybody, Harry.' Said the lion gently.

'No, no, not HE grenades, Natasha owes me one, but nothing would convince her to let lethal weapons out of the armoury. I was thinking about flashbang grenades and smoke grenades - they make a huge noise and confuse things, but they wouldn't kill, they're not designed that way.'

The idea of an explosion and a magnesium-white flash underground filled my mind, but if Harry thought that these things wouldn't kill, what other choice did I have?

'Can you sort that out, Harry?'

'Yes, I'll need to use your phone, Nerd.'

With that, Harry stood and walked back to the house. I sat down again and looked at Kiniun; then, absently I began to pick at the tip of my tail - teasing out stray hairs from my fur.

'Ben used to do that when he was thinking.' Said Kiniun. 'He would sit for hours on the edge of my village, staring out across the plain, picking at his tail. What is it that you are thinking about?'

'How can me and Harry get to this temple, is there even is a temple? Harry seems pretty sure he can scare off bystanders, but that's worse than useless if we can't get to where the Offering is happening.'

'Have you tried asking Miss Felis? She seems to be very knowledgeable when it comes to the traditions of this place. It is not beyond the realms of possibility that she could tell you.'

I agreed with him, and the lion stood up and stretched.

'Speak to her, Francis.'

With that, he walked off. I sat for fifteen minutes or so, feeling the warmth of the sunshine through my fur. I was just beginning to drift off into one of those day-dreamy moments, when Harry came and sat heavily on the wall beside me. He scratched the tip of his nose with a claw.

'Well, I'm going to hell.' He opened. 'I've just talked a serving officer in His Majesty's Forces into stealing, Natasha is bringing some, what she called, "goodies" tomorrow afternoon.'

'If we get through this, I think we're going to be owed some leeway, upstairs, as it were.'

Harry laughed weakly.

'I'm sorry, Harry, for getting you mixed up in this... this weirdness.'

'It's not the first time I've come across this weirdness.

'Really?' I asked, cocking my head to one side in puzzlement at the very matter of fact statement.

'Really. It was a few days before that attack. We were on a front line patrol, two weeks of keeping the rebel and allied militias apart. Two weeks of facing down idiots armed with ancient assault rifles. You know, they kept their proper fighters back for hit and run attacks on each other and on us: the poor mugs who willing put themselves in the middle. We weren't dealing with the same calibre of animal as those who attacked us later that same week.

'So, the last night of our patrol brought us to what was marked as a village on our maps. It couldn't have been much of a village, even before the civil war. Those years of war had seen the front line wriggle back and forth like a worm on hot ground, this village was just in the wrong place. By the time my unit was deployed there, the village was just a huddled collection of ruins. Only the church was left standing - gutted and daubed with strange signs.

'After yet another day of being jolted through mile after mile of mud, we dug in at that church for the night. The routine was the same as any other patrol camp: I ordered the tanks to form a protective barrier around the church; sent a report back to Regimental Headquarters, once we had the radio operating; that and the hundred and one other small, but necessary things that a body of animals need to do before settling for a night in the army.

'It was my habit to walk the sentry line each night, to see how my soldiers were faring. And, to keep tabs on the general situation. About halfway through my walk, I was stopped by one of the sergeants, Sergeant Oakcate, he was a squirrel from the Ironmont side of the White Forest, a normally unflappable soldier -he struck terror into the hearts of new recruits- but, that night he was on the verge of panic.

'"Sir! The forward guard fire team have found bodies, lots of them!"

'I followed Oakcate out to the forward guard post. The soldiers on duty were shining a big spotlight-like torch out into a field. The powerful beam of light threw the shape of a paw into stark relief; I saw one paw, then another, then a tail.

'We had all been briefed as to the mass murders and other atrocities that had been committed. Those, and the mass graves. This was the first I had seen. I'm not ashamed to say that the first thing I did was throw up.

'The smell, Nerd, such a smell - worse than at the Abbey. That stench of death hanging heavy in the air. One side or the other had been shelling the area recently, that had brought the body parts to the surface; and had added the flat, chemical smell of burnt explosives to the air.

'It was a relief to walk back to the camp, though it felt as if the stink was clinging to my fur. Somehow, the news had got back to the rest of the unit ahead of me; I was treated to a series of puzzled and nervous stares. Luckily, the army had procedures for everything, or so I thought, so I was able to report the discovery of the mass grave pretty much on auto-pilot. The radio set had been brought into the church and placed on a folding table, its aerial cable snaking out through the empty hole of the window-frame. At that time, half of the army's radios were having problems - flashy lights not flashing, and so on; it was no surprise that our radio was on the blink. The radio had stopped working after being moved from my tank to the church, and, in the end, I resorted to thumping the radio's casing with the flat of my paw, which had absolutely no effect. Having prised the back panel off the radio, I found the problem - a clump of ginger fur from our radio tech, a cat with particularly long fur whose name escapes me. Finally, the radio crackled into life.

'"Patrol Delta to Control, over."

'There was a burst of static and then the voice of Natasha Fuchs.

'"Go ahead, Patrol Delta."

'"Tasha, it's Harry, we've found a site. Send a containment unit and get on to Divisional for the forensics wallahs."

'"Received, Patrol Delta - hold until 0700, Control out."'

Harry paused and looked across the garden, but unseeingly - I was sure that his gaze was looking across hundreds of miles and back through the past decade. He sighed and tweaked at an ear. Slowly he brought his focus back to the present and looked at me.

'Sorry, Nerd, I lost my thread there for a moment.

'Anyway, there was nothing we could do, so we settled down for the night. It wasn't a good night. I was woken three of four times with reports from sentries of shapes moving in the dark, and of strange howling noises cutting through the stillness of the night. In the end, I went out to see for myself. I spent three hours crouched in a scrape in the hillside, feeling the damp creep its way through my fur and turn my skin horribly clammy.

'Time crawled past, and, after I don't know how long, something flitted across my field of vision. It was a pale figure, a dog, a fox, a wolf? I couldn't tell. Soon the figure was joined by others, all moving slowly through the dark. They seemed to glow faintly as they moved along. I blinked and then they were gone. It sounds stupid to say it, Nerd, but they were there one second and gone the next. They were gone, but that glow persisted, faint and white.

'I walked slowly back to the camp, not quite believing my eyes. Then, came a sound, an unearthly howling screech. There were no words, just a heart-rending scream de profundis, from the depths of some soul in unbearable torment. I ran the rest of the way back into camp, my ears twitching, hunting for the source of the noise, my tail thrashing in frustration. Things got worse inside the ring of tanks, I was greeted by my 2-in-C, Lieutenant Vulpes-White, the kind of posh fox who was sent to the Royal Officer Training College at Alderholt as some form of finishing school, he was a good officer, though. I knew something was wrong when he saluted and addressed me formally; normally we were quite informal.

'"Sir, Lance-Corporal Roe hasn't reported in from his picket patrol."

'"Bloody hell, Simon," I replied, "How long has he been gone?"

'"He should have reported ten minutes ago. He's not responding to his call sign on the headsets."

'"Search teams out?"

'"Yes, Harry."

'There was not much else we could do. The search teams came back empty-pawed. About half an hour before sunrise, Lance-Corporal Roe staggered back into the camp. His uniform was torn and one of his antlers had been broken. Roe was babbling about God knows what: devils and demons; of paws grabbing at his legs from out of the earth.

'I remember my relief as the sun came up, the first rays of the morning light making the gilding on the church's funny onion dome burn like fire. It struck me as really strange, that the gilding had survived in spite of the vagaries of the war. The fragile beauty rising above the alien-looking and blasted landscape.

'Reality came back with the distant thrumming of helicopter blades. I squinted up into the sky, shading my eyes, to see three RIAF helicopters breasting the eastern treeline. They set down to the south of us and disgorged the forward elements of the containment team. Their commander, a Royal Military Police major, took over. I think you might have heard of him, Nerd, a bloodhound by the name of Doge, he became quite famous as an expert witness at the war crimes trials.'

I nodded, willing Harry to go on with his story. He ran a paw over his eyes.

'So, Doge puts us to guarding the grave site until the rest of the containment unit arrived.' Continued Harry. 'They put Roe in one of those choppers and took him to the field hospital, still jabbering about what he saw. They discharged him from service as "mentally unfit through combat stress", they thought he was loopy. But, I saw the conviction in his eyes, he had seen things I wouldn't wish on my own worst enemy. I was convinced that he had seen something that no animal should ever have to see.

'Weirdness is nothing new for me, Nerd.'

A shiver ran down my spine causing my tail to quiver. I rubbed my paws up and down my arms. Harry had gone back to staring out across the garden. We sat silently for some time, hearing the short, buzzing flights of insects and the distinctly prosaic rattle of a distant lawnmower. Harry put his head in his paws, his ears drooping. After a while, his shoulders began to heave and I could hear quiet sobbing.

'Oh, Harry.' I said, putting my arm around his shoulders.

'Three days later, they were all dead, Francis, all except me and Roe. The recovery units sent out after the rescue patrol found so _little_of Simon Vulpes-White that he was sent home in a sealed coffin. His funeral was the last time I wore my uniform - his parents had asked that I command the bearer party. It has stuck with me: having to carry that too-light coffin into the church; standing stony-faced in the same dark green, stiff-collared uniform that Simon had worn with such pride; feeling the brass on the peak of my cap digging into my side.

'That was the day I gave my last word of command. It has stayed with me as well, etched into my memory like acid: "Bearer party will come to attention with arms reversed." The sign that a comrade will never again take up arms in service of his King and his country. An order that is never shouted, only spoken. Then, standing at the graveside, ramrod stiff, rifle resting against my leg, trigger turned away from me, watching the undertakers lower Simon's remains into the earth. The sound of the Last Post echoing across the cemetery. Even now, ten years later, I cannot take a military funeral without seeing Simon.

'I took that uniform off for the last time and went to the nearest pub and tried to drown out the memories.'

Silenced reigned once more; roughly, Harry wiped a paw across his eyes, dashing the wetness away. The lynx sat slumped forward, his face hidden by his paws - it was as if the entire weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders. There was little I could say that wasn't going to sound like some trite platitude. There is a depth of grief where all one can do is share in it, to be at the edges - simply to be present.