The Buried Circle

by Jenni Mills

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Right takes us between the henge banks, past the massive diamond-shaped Swindon Stone, and into the circle. ‘Follow the road round by the Red Lion, then we’ll go down the Avenue to where the equipment’s kept at West Kennet Farm. Graham asked us to pick up a chainsaw.’

  He guns the engine and we move out between the Manor gates onto the main road. It’s a sunny, blustery day, cloud shadows scudding over the high Downs, a bit chilly but what do you expect in March? At least it isn’t raining. But those cowboy boots will take some punishment when we go up to the Long Barrow. There’s a lake of mud at the bottom end of the track.

  Anchors on again. Dead halt.

  ‘What the fuck’re they doing?’

  ‘Oh, no. Druid procession.’ I’m scanning the fluttering white robes in the hope of spotting a friendly face. ‘I hope Michael knows…They’ll be trying to Reclaim their Ancient Dead.’

  ‘What?

  ‘Someone delivered a leaflet to the Trust. Part of the spring equinox celebrations–they’re complaining about the skeletons in the museum. This’ll be a protest march.’

  Strung out across the road, at great personal peril given that it’s the main route from Swindon, the Druids are doing a stately dance to the sound of a drum. They are led by a mountainous man with a grey beard and dreadlocks. Next to him, a fire-eater juggles blazing clubs, the flames deceptively transparent in the sunlight. Bringing up the rear, a man in a wheelchair is doing wheelies in time with the beat.

  ‘This lot aren’t from round here,’ I say. ‘The local Druids wouldn’t let them interfere with the traffic. That’s a blind corner–you can’t see what’s coming.’ A screech of brakes behind underlines this. One massive supermarket lorry in a hurry could flatten us all. ‘We ought to move them off the road.’

  A car hoots angrily from the back of the queue. The grizzled Druid swings round and blows his horn in answer. His is bigger and louder.

  And sod you too,’ says Ed, one hand on the steering-wheel, peering cautiously out of the Land Rover window, the new cowhand clasping the reins against the pommel of his saddle while he surveys the milling herd. ‘Now I remember why I prefer flying.’

  I open my door, ready to jump down.

  ‘Hang on.’ He turns off the engine. ‘I think I should be gallant here. Allow me to exercise my natural authority.’ He grins at me, unclips his seatbelt and hops onto the road.

  The procession ignores us.

  ‘Before I attempt to sort this lot out, do you know any of them?’ he asks, as I join him. ‘You sure there are no locals?’

  ‘Might or might not help if the Avebury Arch-Druid was here because not all the Druid groups recognize his authority.’ There are about twenty protesters, divided almost equally between men and women: several in white robes, and not a soul I’ve seen before. ‘Sorry. You’re on your own here, Ed.’

  ‘What do you mean, I’m on my own? You’d better back me up.’

  ‘Right behind you. But I thought I heard you volunteering to exercise your natural authority’

  ‘I’m not proud. This could be a two-person authority job.’

  Judging by the rising chorus of hoots from the backed-up traffic, it won’t take a Sainsbury’s lorry to create bloodshed and mayhem if the Druids stay on the road much longer. Their dance is taking them slowly towards the crossroads in the centre of the village. They’ve almost reached the pub car park, the perfect opportunity to herd them out of danger, if only they’d pay attention. Ed could either jog ignominiously after them, or–

  ‘EXCUSE ME!’ He’s gone for the more dramatic option, hands on hips to summon the necessary lung power. ‘NATIONAL TRUST! WOULD YOU KINDLY GET OFF THE ROAD SO WE CAN DISCUSS THIS WITHOUT ANYONE GETTING RUN OVER?’

  The only response is another contemptuous horn blast. The drum beats louder and faster, and there’s a lot more energetic twirling of white robes. A she-Druid with a wraparound skirt seems to be deliberately flashing her knickers.

  ‘Politeness doesn’t always work,’ I tell him. ‘But don’t be tempted–’

  Too late.

  At least he doesn’t break into a run, which would be humiliating, but his long legs take him at remarkable speed through the twirling dancers and up to the grizzled Druid with the horn. Resisting the temptation to cover my eyes, I follow.

  ‘…any fucking idea how fucking dangerous this is?’ Ed is saying, as I catch up. ‘This is the main road from Swindon, not a fucking pagan playground.’

  ‘And who might you be?’

  Oh dear. Mr Big has an American accent. I have a dim and hung-over memory of Ed telling me exactly what he thought of Americans with a mystical bent. The ones booked onto the helicopter had phoned his mobile painfully early to give him pre-takeoff grief about having to share their crop-circle flight with a film crew.

  ‘Erm…’ I have to intervene before injury is done. ‘We’re from the National Trust.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that much.’

  ‘Which means we have a duty of care to everyone who visits Avebury.’ The novice warden is back in control of himself. ‘For your own safety…’

  ‘Safety? I don’t take lectures on personal safety from thieves.’

  ‘Thieves?’ Ed is bewildered.

  ‘We’re here to represent the dignity of the ancestors.’ The huge Druid has slung his horn over his shoulder, and planted himself as firmly as a sacred oak in the middle of the road. His eyebrows are a startling black, in contrast to his greying hair and beard. His full lips are plum red. ‘How would you like it if, five thousand years from now, your earthly remains were dug up and put in an exhibition?’

  ‘I’d quite like it, actually,’ Ed begins, then catches my disapproving glare. He tries to look more serious. ‘Of course, you’ve every right to express your views, but we’d prefer it if you didn’t do it in the middle of the A4361. If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the pub car park…’

  Mr Big turns his back, and raises his arms to the sky, turning slowly sunwise. ‘Spirits of the Circle, we invoke you.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Ed asks, in a low voice.

  ‘He’s opening a circle to raise the elemental energies.’

  ‘Magic? He’s not trying to hex us, is he?’

  ‘Don’t worry, this is standard Druid stuff. But unless you want to clasp hands with a couple of men in frocks, it might be wise to retreat.’ Ed takes a hasty step back.

  ‘In the East, Air, who will lend power to our voices,’ booms the grizzled Druid. Pahhrrr. the word flies out between the sensuous red lips like the fire-eater’s flame. ‘In the South, Fire–’ fahhrr ‘–forge the purity of our hearts. In the West, Water, to wash clean our intentions…’

  A snort from beside me. Mr Big wisely pretends he hasn’t heard, but his arc brings him round to fahhrr the last salvo right in our faces.

  ‘…and in the North, Earth…’ urrrth ‘…whose solidity will confound our enemies.’

  Druids don’t go in for cursing, but this is about as close as they come to invoking a whopping great mound of mud to bury us and all our works. Spinning again, he rallies the troops, gripping the hands of the two pagans nearest him. ‘Join hands, brothers and sisters, at this time of Alban Eiler, equal night, when dark and light are in balance.’

  But hurrying down Green Street past the antiques shop, here’s the cavalry. I never thought I’d be so glad to see a set of Avebury pagans.

  John slips into the circle in front of me as the away team are about to clasp hands. Several others infiltrate from the opposite side: Beech Tear and Wind Rose–no idea of their real names, but they live in a flat over a shop on Marlborough high street–and a woman in a fluffy scarf, who calls herself Moon Daughter. Half a dozen more are steaming along from the direction of the museum.

  ‘Not joining us, Indy?’ asks John, over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m representing the forces of darkness today.’

  ‘Don’t joke. This is the heavy mob.’

  ‘Where’s the
Arch-Druid when we need him?’

  ‘Knee replacement.’

  The grizzled American Druid is trying to look happy about how large his circle has grown. But he suspects something’s afoot. He’s right. Before he can carry on the ritual, John has seized the initiative. ‘Welcome, brothers and sisters, to Avebury Merry meet and merry part.’

  ‘Merry meet,’ says the American, uneasily.

  ‘Will you join us in the Cove? We’ll be opening a circle there, and in the absence of the Arch-Druid who usually leads our rituals, we’d be delighted if you’d preside.’

  This is neatly done, and hard for Mr Big to refuse. All the same, he tries. He casts a helpless glance down the high street towards the barns and the Manor. According to John, the collective noun should be a dispute of Druids.

  ‘Our plan was to hold a ceremony for the dead at the museum.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d let us help you there, after you’ve celebrated Alban Eiler with us in the Cove?’ The tiniest, most delicate stress on after.

  The big Druid knows when he’s outflanked. Besides, a strong contingent of local pagans will make his demo at the museum all the more impressive. Within seconds he’s closed the circle and turned it into a long, hand-holding snake of pagans who file docilely off the road and through the gate. They reassemble themselves in three concentric circles in the lee of the massive Adam and Eve stones, a.k.a. the Cove.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Ed. ‘That was impressive. Never seen Druids in action before.’

  ‘They’re not all Druids. Pagans follow lots of different paths. Two of those are Wiccans, Gardnerian, I think, and the one with the fluffy scarf is a Hedgewitch.’

  Ed closes his eyes. ‘I won’t ask. Who’s the bloke with the limp?’

  ‘John Bolger. The pagans call him Wrongfoot because of his leg. Argie bullet in the Falklands–or possibly a police truncheon at the Battle of the Beanfield.’ I decide not to reveal my connection with him. ‘He’s a shaman.’

  ‘Sweat lodges and stuff? More American nonsense?’

  ‘There’s a Saxon tradition of shamanism too, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. This is like being beamed onto another bloody planet.’

  ‘Welcome to Avebury.’

  ‘How come you know so much about this pagan bollocks?’ asks Ed, as we chug away from the village, after warning Michael. The stones of the Avenue march alongside us in the field next to the road.

  ‘I spent the first eight years of my life as a pagan.’

  Anchors on again, right by the sarsen on the verge Frannie calls the Courting Stone.

  ‘Just run that past me again. I thought for a moment I heard you say you were brought up as a pagan.’

  ‘I was. My mother was a pagan. We lived in Bristol, but we’d hop in the van and head for Stonehenge or the Rollrights or wherever for the eight festivals. I’d never been into a church until I was eight, and the first time I went into one I was certain God was going to strike me down with a bolt of lightning.’ A sudden memory of the coolness of St James’s, on a hot summer’s afternoon, my small fingers tracing the serpent carved on the font…

  ‘Eight festivals?’

  ‘Surely some of those people you flew over crop circles must have been pagans.’

  ‘We didn’t ask them to fill in a questionnaire–age, hair colour, religious persuasion.’ He puts the Land Rover into gear again. ‘You don’t believe in it, do you?’

  ‘I went to live with my grandmother after that, and she sent me to Sunday school. A few years of Anglicanism knocked anything remotely spiritual out of me.’

  ‘Good.’ He’s looking at me warily, in case I suddenly whip a pentacle out of my pocket. ‘Right. Better press on, then. Where to?’

  I take a quick look at my watch. ‘First, we should pick up the chainsaw from West Kennet, and then we’ll drive back to see what’s happening at the museum. Michael should have it all under control, but he might need back-up.’

  Sacred geometry. Earth magic. It was so long ago when my mother explained it to me, and I’ve forgotten a lot, but some of it sticks. The Goddess’s body, sculpted in the landscape; the Avenue a divine snake curving up the hillside. Sadly all utter bollocks, as Ed would say. Those theories were developed before archaeology revealed evidence of further ancient structures to confuse the pattern, including vast palisaded enclosures by the riverside at West Kennet, uncovered the same summer Margaret, John and I camped under the trees at Tolemac.

  Ed touches my arm as I struggle with the padlock on the door of the barn where the wardens store equipment. ‘Indy, can I say something without you biting my head off?’

  ‘What?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve been making me feel like an idiot all morning. This is my first day. You seem to be getting some twisted kind of pleasure out of seeing me flounder.’

  I open my mouth, then snap it shut again.

  ‘See?’ says Ed. ‘You were going to say something sarcastic again, weren’t you?’

  The key finally turns. I release the catch and swing back one side of the massive wooden doors.

  ‘Look, you made your feelings utterly plain first thing,’ says Ed. ‘I take your point. That night…well. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner I had a wife. But chances are we’ll keep running into each other while I’m doing this job for the National Trust. So pax?’

  I kick a stone into place to prop the door open, then walk away from him into the barn. Stop. Close my eyes. Count to five. Turn round.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘And…well, sorry.’

  Light slants down through the gaps in the wooden walls, misty white spears stabbing the packed-earth floor. I’m trying to decide which chainsaw is the least heavy when Ed’s voice startles me. ‘What on earth is this?’ He’s at the far end of the barn, deep in shadow, examining an enormous mottled grey bulk propped against the wall. It’s taller than a man, broader than an elephant’s backside. Ed’s goggling. ‘Don’t tell me they keep a spare stone for the circle, like a replacement light bulb…’

  ‘Give it a push.’

  He hardly touches it, but the megalith promptly falls over. I flip it with my foot and it wobbles like a giant lopsided rugby ball. After a shocked silence, Ed starts laughing. ‘It’s effing polystyrene!

  ‘It was a prop in a children’s drama serial filmed here. The plot required the stones to move about. A tourist leaned against it, and nearly had a heart-attack when she knocked it down, but now it only comes out occasionally for staff Christmas parties.’

  ‘It’s so–lifelike. No, wrong word, stone isn’t alive.’

  ‘The pagans will tell you it is.’

  ‘Your pagans are barking.’ He gives it a kick and it rolls back against the barn wall. ‘Hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake in this place. Indy–’

  Somehow we’ve ended up standing very close in the darkened barn. I take a step back. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something else I’m sorry for. I was being a bit of a pillock this morning.’

  ‘Well.’ I can’t think what to say.

  ‘I’m finding this difficult too, you know.’ Ed runs a hand through his spiky hair. ‘Had no idea you were connected to this place. You told me about some television job on the train.’

  ‘I may have bigged up my role, somewhat,’ I say. ‘Not even sure the programme’s commissioned. It’s about Avebury, when Keiller was digging here.’

  ‘Keiller? One of my archaeological heroes.’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘Of course. Pioneer of aerial survey. Anyway, thought I was going into cardiac arrest when Michael mentioned your name. Didn’t know whether you’d have told them about the crash. Then I’d have lost the job. Believe me, I need it.’ He’s watching me intently. ‘Thanks for keeping quiet.’

  ‘It’s in my interests too, you know.’ Suddenly my eyes are welling. ‘I only want to forget that bloody day…’ Damn, damn, damn. I shake his hand off my arm and walk out into the s
unshine, blinking in the brightness.

  A squelch behind tells me Ed has followed. It’s a small comfort to think those cowboy boots are muddying up.

  ‘One more thing to see here,’ I say briskly, to prove I’m fine, really. ‘Round the back of the barn we have the pagans’ altar.’

  No one has tidied its stone slabs for a while, and the wind has scattered withered flowers and grasses across the mud. Coloured ribbons and beads hang damply from the branches of the nearest tree.

  Ed picks up a shell. ‘So what’s this about? Please don’t tell me you facilitate them sacrificing the odd goat.’

  ‘Ed. It’s where volunteer pagans on litter duty put offerings that have been left in the stone circle–flowers, feathers, ribbons, pebbles, whatever. The Guardians didn’t like the idea of throwing them away, so this altar gives them somewhere to bring them. Every month or so the Arch-Druid and the Wiccan high priest pop down and bless the offerings, before putting them on a sacred bonfire. And don’t scoff. These people are serious in their beliefs. Talking of which…’ I glance at my watch ‘…those Druids will have hit the museum by now. We should see what’s happening.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ He starts back towards the farmyard where we left the Land Rover. There’s a glutinous sucking sound. ‘Oh, fuck!

  He’s standing comically on one leg. Behind him an empty cowboy boot sits in a sea of mud.

  ‘You idiot. That’s the Goddess’s revenge for disrespect.’

  ‘Hey Don’t make me laugh. I’ll fall over. Fetch my bloody boot, can’t you?’

  ‘Get it yourself But, of course, I pluck it out of the mud and carry it over to him. Somehow our fingers touch as he takes it from me.

  Bloody Ed.

  No sign of Druids on the main road or in the circle. The ceremony at the Cove must be over. We turn in through the gates and bounce down the gravelled drive towards the staff car park. White robes are fluttering outside the museum. One of the Druids is wielding a video camera, maybe hoping to sell footage to the local TV news. Ed gives me a sideways glance.

  ‘Michael’s there,’ I say. ‘It’ll be under control.’ Perhaps not the precise terminology when pagans are involved, chaos being an important magical principle.