Letting herself out of the museum, she headed towards the Lady Chapel, unusually at the west end of the abbey instead of the east, and built, it was claimed, on the site of the little mud and wattle church, the Vetusta Ecclesia, built with Jesus’ own hands.
But why, her cynical other self, the self who had gone to theological college, put in, would Jesus have built a church here at all when he hadn’t yet invented Christianity? If he invented Christianity, which he didn’t. Not really. That was Paul. Wasn’t it? The historical Jesus was an observant, probably a strict, Jew. Maybe an Essene, that intriguing ascetic sect who had hidden the Dead Sea Scrolls in the caves at Qumran. He was certainly a rabbi. A scholar. He wasn’t, couldn’t have been a student here!
With a rueful smile at the contradictions spinning in her brain, she headed towards the walkway which ran at the original floor level of the Lady Chapel, above the now gaping crypt and she stood staring at two signs in front of her describing the building of this chapel after the original abbey had been burned down in the twelfth century. After reading them she turned back to the entrance and made her way to the flight of steps which led down to the floor of the crypt which in the sixteenth century had been turned into a chapel dedicated to St Joseph. The gallery was now behind and above her as slowly she walked forward between the towering, ruined walls towards the apse where a roofed-in area covered a plain altar. A few yards away from it she stopped. She closed her eyes. Could she feel anything special on this most holy of spots? It was hard to say.
Behind her she heard voices. Three people were standing on the walkway. They too had stopped to read the inscriptions there. She could feel their eyes on her back. It was hard to concentrate, to feel any sense of the sacred. It was all so neat, so – the word to describe it wouldn’t come. Antiseptic, perhaps. Regulated. Controlled. Where was a sense of the sacred sanctuary of the druids – the place dedicated in even earlier times, so some of the books said, to the mother goddess, hence the later dedication to the Blessed Virgin. Or had it been dedicated to his mother by the young Jesus himself; and where did Gwyn ap Nudd fit in? And who was he? She found herself shaking her head, still too cynical, too hog tied by history, too bound by her own orthodoxy to make any sense of this at all.
She waited. Because of this especial holiness St Bridget, St David and St Patrick had all come here. As a place of pilgrimage it had been called ‘the Second Rome’. Domesday Book itself confirmed the gift of twelve hides of land, given by the Celtic king Arviragus to Joseph to build his church. And yet she could feel nothing.
Turning she retraced her way to the steps and almost ran from the chapel, heading out across the grass which marked the position of the old cloisters. In the distance she could see the black silhouette of the Tor behind the trees. Nothing. No feeling of sanctity. She had felt it at Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire. At Dryburgh in Scotland. Why not here? Here of all places she should sense it. She felt a wave of something like panic. She was being excluded from something precious. All around her, as the day warmed up and the sun appeared, lighting up the gold and russet of the leaves on the trees around her, were people immersed in the feelings which she should be feeling.
She sat down on a bench, her hands in her pockets, her shoulders hunched. She had come here to pray. No prayers came. She had come here to feel the ancient sacredness of the land. No feelings came.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up. A figure was standing on the path close to her, a woman’s figure.
Abi!
It was a whisper, no more.
Abi!
‘Mora?’ Abi leaped to her feet.
She had gone. There was no-one on the path at all.
‘Mora?’ Abi turned slowly around, straining her eyes into the sunshine. ‘Where are you?’
Nothing.
Kier drew his car up onto the gravel outside Woodley Manor and sat staring through the windscreen at the oak front door with its elegant, square Georgian porch and frame of scarlet Virginia Creeper. A road atlas lay open on the seat beside him. For several seconds he remained motionless. The house seemed deserted. There was no sign of any cars around; no people that he could see. He sighed. This was a lovely place. No wonder the bishop had chosen it as a retreat for Abi, where she could recover her sense of balance and her faith. Even here in the car he could feel the peace reaching out to him. Groping for the door handle he pushed it open and climbed out. When he rang the doorbell there was no answer. From somewhere deep inside the house he heard dogs barking but no-one came to the door. Maybe he should have phoned. But he had wanted to surprise her and have the chance to convince her that he wanted nothing but her happiness and wellbeing. He wandered round to the side of the house and found a courtyard area with a range of ancient outbuildings, and what looked like a couple of garages. Still no cars. So be it. He would have to come back later. He reached into the car for the map. He had been given the address of Ben Cavendish, her spiritual advisor. Perhaps he should go and see him first.
This time Athena took Abi to a different coffee shop. This one was opposite the Tribunal. As they sat on the comfortable green sofa, teapot and cups on a small tray in front of them, Abi was conscious of the other woman studying her face. She smiled uncomfortably. ‘I meant it when I said I needed to buy a book on crystals. I need to know more about them.’
‘So you couldn’t work it out on your own?’
Abi shook her head. ‘I can use it in that it has switched something on. I see these visions. I see –’ She hesitated. ‘Mora. She’s called Mora. My druid priestess. She is trying to speak to me. Just now I went to walk round the abbey and she was there. She came and stood right beside me. She cast a shadow…’ Again she stopped and shrugged. She reached out for her cup. ‘She shouldn’t cast a shadow if she’s a ghost. Surely that much we know about ghosts.’
‘And you spoke to her?’
Abi nodded. ‘Well, perhaps I was less than conversational. She gave me a fright! But I called out her name.’
‘And did she react?’
Abi shook her head. ‘She had already gone. Disappeared.’
Athena picked up her own cup and sipped thoughtfully. ‘So you need to know how to speak to her?’
Abi nodded.
‘It seems to me, it is nothing to do with the crystal. It is your own doubt and fear which are getting in the way.’ Athena set down the cup. ‘Is it possible the thought of making contact with another world like this is something you cannot bring yourself to believe in? You have set your own credibility limit.’ She leaned back into the sofa, sitting sideways so she could watch Abi’s face. ‘Or do I mean credulity?’ She shook her head. ‘You know what I mean.’
Abi smiled. ‘I do, and I would say that is undoubtedly one of my problems. The trouble is trying to reconcile what is actually happening here and what I believe is possible.’ She still hadn’t mentioned the priest bit. It was too big a deal. Bound to be. ‘So, how can I reset my parameters?’
Athena laughed. ‘My dear, I think that is for you to do. All I can suggest is that you give yourself a good talking to and logically confront what is going on. Look at what is real – have you been to the Tribunal tourist centre across the road, for instance? Upstairs there is a wonderful little museum. They even have an Iron Age canoe over there. That is the reality behind what you are seeing. Study it. Let yourself feel. Does anything come. Does it make a difference, looking at all this as archaeology rather than myth? Then see how you feel about what has happened with your ghosts and decide whether, logically, you can readjust your belief systems.’
Abi shook her head. ‘I fear that is easier said than done.’
‘I doubt it. If you were too disbelieving you would have dismissed all this as rubbish the first time it happened and shut down. I’ve seen people do that here. Glastonbury makes things happen for people. There is something in the air!’ she sighed. ‘They come, all excited and eager and waiting for some wonderful spiritual experience, then when – and if – it happens they
go into free fall. It’s so sad.’
‘I sense there are no half measures here. One is either a Believer or a non-Believer in the Glastonbury experience.’ Abi was watching a group of women who had walked in. They went straight to the counter, helping themselves to trays. ‘You can tell by the way they dress,’ she added absent-mindedly.
Athena snorted with laughter. ‘So you have me down as a goddess worshipper, which in your case is not a compliment, right?’
‘OK. Sorry. Yes, I suppose I did. It’s your skirts. But I love them. I wish I had the courage to wear them myself. They are pretty and floaty and glamorous and they look very comfortable.’
‘And they hide the bulges, dear,’ Athena added dryly. She stood up. ‘I have to get back to the shop; it’s Bella’s half-day. We’ll talk about this some more, but in the meantime, go to the museum, then do some parameter stretching exercises.’ She smiled. ‘I would think just living round here for a bit would do the job; expanding your open-mindedness.’
Abi watched her make her way towards the door, greeting two people as she left, chatting to them briefly, then moving on. She seemed to know everyone. Abi sighed wistfully. She was an outsider here, an impostor, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, but no longer the person she was. She reached for her teacup and sipped from it thoughtfully.
The table jerked slightly and she looked up. The couple Athena had greeted had edged in beside her with enquiring looks to see if the seats were free. They both smiled at her.
‘You’re a friend of Athena?’ the young man said. He was tall and thin and dressed in cargo pants and a cheesecloth shirt. ‘Lovely lady.’
Abi nodded. ‘I’m just a visitor. She’s been very hospitable.’
‘She said you were interested in crystals,’ the young woman said. She put her head on one side surveying Abi critically. Abi was immediately conscious of her own conservative clothes. At least her hair was loose and wild, but the grey slacks and dark blue sweatshirt were unadorned, stereotyped: the female vicar trying to look the part off duty and, she suddenly realised, unremittingly boring. She nodded. ‘I was given one which appears to be very powerful and I’m not sure how to interact with it. That was why I went into Athena’s shop. For advice.’
‘I’m Serena and this is Hal.’ The girl held out her hand with unexpected formality. Her accent, Abi realised, was more home counties than Somerset. ‘We come down here every year. Hal makes musical instruments.’
‘Drums,’ Hal said.
‘Have you been up to the Tor?’ Serena asked. Again she put her head slightly to one side, like a bird listening for a worm.
Abi nodded. ‘Not lately but I used to come here a lot as a child. My grandparents lived up near Priddy.’
Serena nodded. ‘You’re local then. Lucky you.’
Abi was thoughtful for a minute. How strange, just as she had been feeling so much an outsider she was complimented on being a local. She found she was smiling broadly. ‘This seems to be a welcoming place. Very special.’
It was obviously the right thing to say. Serena’s whole face lit up with excitement. ‘Isn’t it.’ Hal said nothing.
Abi grinned again. Then she levered herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, but I do need to get on. Perhaps I’ll see you around?’
By the time she had reached the door they had taken receipt of two plates overflowing with salad and were leaning over their food with rapt expressions. Abi grinned again.
Athena was right about the museum. As she walked round the two small rooms looking at the glass cases Abi felt a definite pull into the past. These objects had belonged to people who had lived in the Lake Villages around Glastonbury which were constructed in the watery landscape in the years before the Romans came. This was the scene through which Romanus had paddled his canoe. This was the view she had seen with her own eyes. For real. She bit her lip, looking round. For real? Those loom weights, spindles, weaving combs, dice. Those cooking utensils. That jewellery and glass. The tools and belongings of a long-gone people. Downstairs, she stood looking at the dugout canoe which had been excavated from its watery grave and she gave a wry smile. Athena had thought it might help, coming here. What it did was to was create a strange ache in her heart, as though she could feel the touch of the men and women who had made these things; hear their laughter. And their anguish. For real. She shook her head thoughtfully. Perhaps Athena was right. Perhaps it was a help.
Pools of mist in a landscape of shadows and milky waters and iridescent light. He smiled. This was a land of dreams and fleeting sunbeams, of numinous tides and dancing wind. A place where leaves fluttered from the trees and floated in patches of gold on silver reflections, where islands vanished into the distances and reappeared as songs on the lips of children…
10
Romanus was sharpening his old knife, honing the blade with intense concentration when Flavius sat down beside him on the fallen log overlooking the eel traps. ‘Good weapon that,’ he said with a friendly grin. ‘You are quite the hunter, I hear.’
Romanus blushed. ‘I enjoy it. I’m good at it.’
‘And you are a fisherman too, I would guess?’
Romanus shrugged.
‘Do you have your own boat?’
‘We have three dugout canoes. Down there. I can take any of them if I want.’
‘And you go across to the island quite often?’
Romanus nodded. ‘I like it there.’
‘That is where the healer lives, who treats your sister?’
‘Mora. She’s nice.’ The blushed deepened. Flavius noticed. He grinned. ‘She sounds a very special person. I look forward to meeting her. Your poor sister seems to suffer very badly. Do they know what it is that ails her?’
Romanus sighed. ‘Mora says it is quite common round here. The damp from the meres and fens and the lake gets into the bones. It’s old people who usually get it, but when someone young like Petra does it is ten times worse. Poor Petra suffers so badly in the winter she cries sometimes for days.’
Flavius looked concerned. ‘Would it not be wiser to move to a land where the sun shines all winter?’
Romanus stared at him. ‘I didn’t know such places existed.’
‘Of course they do. Where do you think your sister was born?’
Romanus bit his lip. ‘They don’t talk much about where they lived before we came here.’ He sighed. ‘I’d like to travel like my father used to. It sounds exciting.’
‘It is exciting.’ Flavius gave the boy an appraising look. Climbing to his feet he looked down at him. ‘Right, so would this be a good time for you to take me across to Afalon in your boat? Perhaps if Mora is there you can introduce me. I would like to see a girl who can bring such a sparkle to a young man’s eyes.’ He slapped Romanus on the back playfully. ‘Then tonight perhaps I can tell you some stories about life in the hot countries of the world. It might surprise Petra to know they even exist. She was much too young when your parents left Damascus to remember it. And they don’t appear to have told you anything. My guess is that it is because she was born in a different country to a different life, that Petra is so susceptible to the mists and damp of this godforsaken land.’
The smallest of the dugout canoes was a two-seater, narrow and unstable, but fast. Pushing it out onto the shallow waters of the mere Romanus hopped in and took the paddle. Flavius was seated in front of him, staring ahead at the island with its cluster of small hills, the tallest and strangest a cone shape reaching up towards the racing clouds.
Romanus steered deftly between the shallow patches of reed and mud, following the course of a deeper channel all but invisible to the untrained eye. The waters were rich in birdlife and Flavius noted ripples where fish swam in shoals beneath the surface. Two men fishing in the distance raised their hands as they went past; a beaver swam swiftly away from them, its nose cleaving the water leaving a sharp V-shaped ripple on the water.
Romanus aimed for a landing stage where several other boats lay pulled up on the mud a
nd they climbed out aware of the freshening wind tugging at their hair. ‘How many people live here?’ Flavius asked as he stared round. There was a fair-sized settlement here on the lower slopes of the nearest hill. He could see signs of other habitations above the trees as smoke rose and streamed in torn white wisps towards the east. Everywhere there were apple trees and he could smell the sweet-sour scent of cider presses.
Romanus shrugged. ‘There are a lot of people here. There’s a village further along the shore called Treglas. Then the druids have many students; this is a sacred island. Up there,’ he pointed towards the highest point, ‘that’s the Tor. There is a sanctuary there where no-one can go but the highest of the initiates. The healers live in a village about a mile from here, along this track.’ He waved his arm towards the west. Already he was setting off but Flavius caught his shoulder. ‘Wait. How do you know Mora will be there?’
‘I don’t. I go to her house. If she’s not there someone usually knows where she is.’
Flavius was thoughtful for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘Lead the way.’
They passed several men and women who greeted them in a friendly manner. No-one seemed surprised to see Romanus or queried his companion. Presumably they knew the boy, and knew he was of Roman descent, not least because of his stupid presumptuous name. Because of that, presumably, any stranger with him was accepted without question. Flavius snorted to himself. The place was populated. He was not going to be able to walk in and despatch his victim openly. First find him, make sure he had the right man, then he could decide what to do once he had located him and spied out the land. After all the young man had no way of knowing that anyone was after him. Romanus had set off up a hillside track. Light-footed and fit, the boy was drawing away. Flavius swore quietly under his breath and hurried to catch up with him.