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About half an hour passed and my stack of paperwork shrank agonisingly slowly. I was saved from the horrors of the diocesan missional statistics return (a form that is just as boring as it sounds) by the church door creaking open. I looked up and suppressed a sigh. Through the door walked Arthur Oxfold's young lackey, Gerald I was just wondering why Oxfold would feel the need to send one of his goons to me again, as Gerald sat down. I looked across the table at the young fox. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and clasped and unclasped his paws as he sought for the words he wanted. I realised that the swagger had gone from the fox; his puff and bravado had all but melted away.

'Can I talk to you?' He asked. 'Privately?'

'Of course, we'll go and sit in the Lady Chapel.'

I led Gerald along the south aisle of the church and opened the door to the Lady Chapel. Inside were a few chairs arranged in a circle around the small altar. We sat down and Gerald started to speak:

'I'm scared. There's something happening on the estate. I'm not sure what it is, but something feels really wrong.'

Gerald let out a heartfelt sigh and his head dropped into his paws. For the first time I noticed that his clothes were rumpled and his fur matted. He looked as if he had slept under a hedge.

'I ran away' he continued. 'I didn't feel safe, so I ran. I spent last night in a barn on the edge of the estate. That's not major, I'm used to running away...'

Gerald then, over the course of about three quarters of an hour, related his life to me. As I remember it was like this, although Gerald told me his story with much repetition:

No one knows when Gerald was born, he was found in a basket on the steps to the Newton Central Police Station. The police officer who found Gerald later told social services that he thought the little fox cub to already be dead on the station steps. Thankfully, the warmth of the police canteen had revived the cub. The reckoning of the authorities was that Gerald was found that about two or three weeks old.

He was taken to Newton General Infirmary and it was there he was first called Gerald, after the police officer who had found him over the next few days little Gerald regained his strength and slowly came back to health.

A week or two later, Gerald was given into the care of the St Augustine Orphanage (after all searches for his natural parents had failed). Here he received his surname of Vulpes - it was common to name orphans after their species, because many other animals had the same surname, surnames like mine or Harry's were less common.

As he grew, Gerald developed into an intelligent and spirited cub. And, he began running away. I gathered that he found the orphanage a very restrictive place, he couldn't adapt to the regimented life, so he would sneak out and be gone for days at a time. I think that, in the end, the nuns who ran the orphanage were glad when he left their care as an adult.

Sadly, Gerald never made good use of his talents and ended up living on the streets and this led to, about a year ago, him trying to rob Arthur Oxfold.

As his story drew to a close, Gerald settled back in his chair and looked at me expectantly. I studied his features: he was, perhaps, nineteen or twenty and his bright, intelligent eyes were filled with apprehension. I twitched in ear, then said:

'I'm glad you've got out, Gerald. Be assured that I will help you in any way I can. But, I need to know more about what it is that has got you so worried. Is there anything else you want to tell me?'

Gerald thought for a while, his tail brushing back and forth across the flagstones that formed the church floor. In the background I could hear Harry talking quietly with someone.

'I think I heard Bert mentioned something about an... An offering to someone from the village, or an offering of someone from the village; I don't know who he was talking to, though.'

I nodded thoughtfully. The conversation at the back of the church was getting louder. It sounded as if Harry had become embroiled in an argument. I was just about to poke my head through the chapel door to see what was happening when Gerald grabbed my paw.

'That's Bert Ursus!' He whispered urgently. 'He'll try to take me back to the estate. I have to hide!'

Gerald's eyes were wide and fearful, his ears drooped as he tried to control his emotions. My mind whirled as I thought. For a long, hanging moment nothing would come to me, but my memory kicked into life - the priest hole!

The priest hole was a little hidden escape route. It was a hangover from the dark days of the Church's persecution when a priest may have needed to escape marauding soldiers. It was rare for a church building to have one, but I was lucky. Quickly, I pulled the loose panel out of a pew and gestured Gerald inside.

'This leads outside.' I said. 'Take my keys, you can let yourself into the sacristy through the outside door. You'll be able to lock yourself in, you'll be safe there. I'll get rid of Bert.'

Gerald shot me a thankful look and crawled away down the tunnel. As soon as his tail disappeared from view, I pushed the panel back into place and then sat heavily on the pew. Seconds later, the lady chapel door burst open and Ursus stormed in. The old bear was seething with anger.

'Where is he?' He raged. 'Where is that little ingrate? I told Mr Oxfold that he shouldn't trust foxes, but he didn't listen. Come on, priest, where are you hiding him?'

I held up my paws.

'Who, Mr Ursus?' I asked. 'Who do you think I'm hiding?'

'Gerald Vulpes, that's who. He disappeared last night.'

'He's not here.' I said. 'Me and Reverend Cormack have been here all morning.'

Ursus growled at this, his paws flexing threateningly. I glanced past the bear and saw that Harry was standing in the doorway.

'Mr Ursus,' I said, fighting to keep my voice level, 'I think you had better leave. Gerald isn't here.'

Ursus shifted his weight towards me, instinctively (and foolishly), I bared my teeth and spread my legs - the fight or flight response was too strong and Ursus was between me and the door. This was too much for Ursus, who swiped at me with one great paw. Before I could react I felt myself falling sideways and seeing stars. I looked up muzzily from the floor in time to see Harry lunge at Ursus and sweep his legs out from under him.

I staggered back onto my paws as Harry pulled Ursus into an arm lock. I was amazed and relieved in equal parts. Relieved, because I was certain that Ursus had it in him to beat me to a pulp; and, amazed as I had never thought of Harry using violence against another living thing (well, certainly not since he had left the army). Harry pulled at Ursus' arm and growled in his ear:

'Don't move. I will break your arm if you don't do what I say.'

Ursus grunted, his eyes watering with the pain.

'Good,' Continued Harry, 'Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to let you stand up and you're going to go home. Also, you're going to leave Father Francis in peace. Right?'

Ursus nodded. Cautiously, Harry took his weight off the old bear's back. Ursus hauled himself upright and began to hobble away. Harry stood in the doorway of the chapel until he was sure that we were alone. All of a sudden, he slumped against the door post, the breath running out of him in a long sigh. It was only then that it became apparent that Harry was shaking like a leaf. He sat on the floor for a long moment, picking absently at the tip of his tail. Eventually he looked up at me and smiled ruefully.

'I haven't done anything like that in twelve years.' He said, he paused and then asked. 'Where's that fox? Gerald, wasn't it?'

I started. I had all but forgotten about Gerald. I hoped he was still in the sacristy. I shot off down the aisle, holding one paw to my nose to staunch the cut that I had received when I had hit the floor. I drummed my free paw on the woodwork of the sacristy door.

'Gerald!' I shouted. 'It's me, Father Francis, we've got rid of Bert! Would you let me in?'

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of the key scraping around in the lock. Slowly, the door was inched open to reveal Gerald covered in dust, muck and cobwebs. He tried to brush some of the detritus off his face.

'Thank you.' He said. 'Thank you for believing me.'

Gerald fixed me with a stare that was a mixture of hope and caution, something he had doubtlessly learned from the city streets.

'What are you going to do now?' I asked. 'Is there anywhere you can go?'

I stopped speaking; partly because my nose had started to bleed again and partly because I realised that what I had said has come out the worst way possible. It appeared that I had managed to open my mouth and stick my foot paw straight into it. Gerald drooped, from his ears to his tail he looked simply abject.

'No.' He said, his voice barely audible. 'I'll get out of your fur, Father, I'll head to Newton and then... Somewhere.'

The resignation in his voice was like a knife in my gut. It was as if Gerald had, long ago, learnt to give up on hope. I looked at my paws, at the blood on them, then at Gerald, eventually my mind cranked into gear.

'Gerald,' I said, 'If you're happy to stay in the village for a while, you're more than welcome to stay with me. There is spare room at the vicarage.'

'Are you sure?' He said, the faintest glimmering of hope returning to his eyes.

'Yes, of course.' I replied. 'If what you told me is true, and after my meeting with Bert Ursus just now I'm inclined to believe you, it would be good for you to be away from here for a time. I think I know someone who would put you up.'

'Thank you, Father.' Said Gerald.

'I'll get Reverend Cormack to take you to the vicarage. It's him you have to thank for getting rid of Bert.'

We returned to the main body of the church. I waved Harry over to us and explained a little about Gerald's situation. A short while later the pair set out down the church path. As I watched them go, I reflected on how glad I was that Harry was here; I was worried that Oxfold would have more of his employees out looking for Gerald.

The Lady Chapel was a mess. I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket and did my best to mop up small pool of blood I had left behind when Ursus had knocked me over. Job done, I straightened up and glanced in the mirror that was in the corner of the chapel (to this day I have no idea where this mirror had come from, or why it was within the Lady Chapel). I looked a state: the cut on my nose with bigger than I had expected and the white markings on my muzzle had been stained a disconcerting shade of red. I very rarely got myself in situations where violence was likely, and up until now I had been very successful at avoiding fights. I stood there contemplating my wounds and also what I was going to do for Gerald. I turned away from the mirror and tidied the chairs.

By the time the chapel was back to how I liked it, I had given up on getting any more work done. I needed to arrange somewhere for Gerald to stay. My mother, I thought, would be ideal. Some years before my father's death, she had moved back to her family farm in the Borders, bringing my father and me out to the countryside. To me the little farm was an oasis, a place of happy memories. I was certain that my mother would be overjoyed to have a guest

for as long as I could remember, my mother had found reasons to take in guests. She had always had an insatiable curiosity for others; not that she would pry, just that she was genuinely interested. I remember that this would drive my father to distraction. He was a rather introverted dog, the shy one of his family and he found mother's successive streams of guests quite wearing. Eventually, he had taken over one of the farm's outbuildings to use as his study. Often, all our guests would see of him with the tip of his tail disappearing through the door to his study.

That study was a true cave of wonders for me as a pup. My father had travelled extensively as a missionary before he met my mother. His study was filled with artefacts that he had been given by the great semi-nomadic feline tribes he had encountered. His stories of the so-called Wildcats of the Savannah kept me enraptured hours. My father was a natural and gifted storyteller; his voice and the expansive movements of his paws wove great tapestries out of his adventures in the service of the Church.

As a pup I would frequently bug him for my favourites of his stories. My father had never given his stories titles, but this one was, in my mind, called: The Shaman's Curse.

My father would lift down a mask in the shape of a lion's head. 'Made from rare wood found only in the deepest, darkest parts of the jungle.' He would always tell me. He would turn the mask around and around, considering it from every angle - this was all part of the performance: father would study the mask until I was positively uncontrollable with excitement. Just at the point where I was about to storm out of his study, probably saying: 'I'm going to tell Mum, you're telling the story wrong!', he would sweep me up off the floor and sit me on his desk. Then, and only then, he would pass the mask to me, always with the same warning: 'Be very careful, Francis, that mask was not made for puppy paws. Who knows what might befall the careless hound who damages it?'

I would always handle that mask as if it were made of the most delicate crystal.

So the story would begin. Father would delicately take the mask from me and put it on my face. It had a subtle mask of earth and spices, a smell which would linger in my fur hours and in my memory for years.

'Ah,' He would begin, 'The mask of En-gal, given to me by the great Shaman Kiniun.

'I was travelling across the Savannah, to take up a post at a remote mission station, over a hundred miles from the nearest town. The journey from Port-St-Christopher to the station normally took three weeks. Three weeks of danger: bandits, the heat, the bad roads. I would stay in other mission stations along the way for fear of marauding tribes.

'After two weeks of travelling across the bush, a disaster befell us: the ancient and rusting truck that was transporting us stopped working, it simply died. We had no spare parts, no fuel and not enough water to reach the next village. It seemed as if we should die there on that lonely, sun-baked stretch of Savannah road.

'But, we were missionaries! We had a job to do, so we set out: walking towards our distant goal. We walked all that day until the darkness of the equatorial night forced us to come to a halt. Now, I thought, we will surely die. We had no shelter and only one antique rifle. If the local wildlife didn't eat us; surely one of these nomadic marauding tribes would capture us - a fate worse than death, or so we were told.

'We spent a long and lonely night sheltering under a baobab tree. As, at long last, the sun rose, we had a terrible realisation: sometime during the night a band of warriors from one of the Wildcat Tribes had surrounded us. Standing in a loose circle around us were twenty cheetahs, all taller than I am, all carrying traditional spears, all with captured or traded hunting rifles slung across their backs. To us, with the horror stories about the Wildcats fresh in our minds, they looked to be death on legs.

'Something unexpected happened. One of their number stepped in to the circle, laid his spear and rifle on the ground and spread his paws wide in a welcoming gesture. We were astounded, this had never happened before.

'He crouched down in front of us, resting his weight on his foot paws. Instinctively, I crouched as well. He smiled, the tribal scars on his muzzle crinkling. I reached ever so slowly into my pockets and laid out their contents on the ground before him. I wasn't carrying much: a Bible, a Cross and your grandfather's pocket watch, Francis, the one in the cabinet in the living room. I remember how the metal case glinted in the sun as I set it down.

'The cheetah smiled again, and then he spoke: "You must come with us. There is a sickness. Missionaries bring medicines to other tribes, but the En-gal need help."

'As he said the name of the tribe, he struck himself lightly across the chest with a paw and his fellow warriors did likewise. This was truly a day for amazement: not only were we still alive, but the rumours that the Wildcat Tribes would never learn another language but their own was clearly wrong!

'My relief was palpable. I agreed to some and help the En-gal. My counterpart also looked relieved, but then he pointed to the others in my group. They were all local workers for the missions, mostly from Port-St-Christopher, a strange mix of animals: a couple of jackals and a gazelle who was covered in scars.

'"They may not come. Two of my hunters will bring them to the mission station at Antara."

'He turned to his fellows and pointed to two of them:

'"Anian, Txaha, a-hanna ta'a or-engta'a fa'Antaran!"

'I could only watch and hear without understanding as the two warriors who had been indicated stepped forward and took my companions away. As they left, one of the warriors said:

'"Taan, na-ahnanagra ghe tal-ahn ta'a or-engta'a?"

'"Han!" Replied their Leader.

'"Do not worry," He said to me, "They will not kill your friends."

'Well, I had little choice and, once the rest of the En-gal warriors had collected my medicals supplies, I was taken off into the bush and to the En-gal village.

'The illness that was afflicting the En-gal was simple to treat, but deadly without the medicines that the missions had brought. I was looked after as an honoured guest, and over the months, I began to learn the language of the En-gal.

'My teacher was the Shaman, Kiniun. He was the only member of the En-gal who wasn't a cheetah. He was a lithe and tough lion of about my age. He taught the language and a little about their ways.

'I also taught him, Kiniun was fascinated by the Church and my beliefs. Slowly he grew in understanding of the faith, as I grew in understanding and respect for the ways of the En-gal. To this day he is the only convert that I am sure I made! I baptised him in the watering-hole near the village and he renounced is position in the tribe as Shaman. The En-gal were neither pleased nor displeased with this. They simply chose another Shaman.

'Now, each Shaman has his own lion-mask. He must make it with his own paws, using wood he has gathered from the far jungles. When Kiniun converted, he gave me his mask and asked that I keep it. And, he asked, that I exorcise it. Well, I couldn't believe that it was possessed, but didn't see the harm: so, after the new shaman had been appointed and had started his long trek to the far jungles in the south, I blessed the mask and Kiniun asked to come with me back to Port-St-Christopher, to the university there.

'We left the village to walk to the mission station at Antara. A week's trek through the bush brought us there, only to find it a burnt-out shell. A war had broken out in the country and this was one of its casualties.

'By now, Kiniun was convinced that the mask was to blame and he begged me to exorcise it again. So I did. It was the first proper exorcism that I had ever performed, it was more than the blessing of the mask in the village, which I had used a scant week before. During the rite the strangest things happened: the sky darkened and the earth shook. The mask itself began to dance around on the ground. As I finished the rite all returned to normal, the mask lay inert.'

That was how father's stories often finished. He would take the En-gal mask back from me and return it to its proper place on the study wall. Some years later, father taught me what he knew of En-gal, and of the rites of exorcism.