Mystical Circles

by S. C. Skillman

  At dinner Juliet avoided Craig’s gaze. It was made much easier by the fact that Llewellyn had claimed the seat beside her, and chatted constantly during the entire meal. Tonight she welcomed this. But she also itched to know what kind of power struggle was going on between Craig and the poet. Her curiosity was not yet to be satisfied though, because they both ignored each other. She was tempted on several occasions to look at Craig, but resisted. How on earth had Zoe – in common with Rory – dreamed up the idea that Craig was attracted to her? She was beginning to see how Rory could be so deluded; but not Zoe too.

  Looking across the table she caught Don’s eye. He smiled at her and immediately she felt an irresistible sense of relief. He was a shining beacon of normality here. Somehow this bluff Yorkshireman who didn’t easily share his emotions stood out in the context of this community. Thank God for Don.

  She was unprepared for the powerful feelings gathering strength inside her. She longed to be held in dependable arms, safe and protected. What was happening to her? She tried to shake this feeling off, and yet the more she looked at Don, the more it persisted. With an effort of the will she concentrated on the meal instead, and upon the other events unfolding around her in the community.

  Mutiny. How would Craig cope with that? But, perhaps, all things considered, it was no less than he deserved. Tonight she’d go to Llewellyn’s session in the barn with an open mind. And she’d reserve judgement until later.

  Three of the brightest stars in the sky, framed by the great east window of the barn, emerged into view. The summer triangle, thought Juliet, pleased to identify the stellar trio. But nobody else in the barn noticed. Their attention was focused on one star only, of a more earthly nature: Rory. Wearing a rather overdone purple velvet cravat that reminded Juliet of Lord Byron, he paced back and forth across a dais beneath the hayloft, declaiming at the top of his voice.

  Juliet had found a spare seat next to Llewellyn and slid into it. She’d attached a clip-mike to Rory’s shirt before the recital began. The other mike was in her hand, turned on, and the levels seemed to be behaving nicely so far. She intended to capture all the details of this supposed regime change in the community. Though Craig, she noticed, was absent. Why?

  As Rory paused for breath, Llewellyn leaned close, speaking in low, urgent tones as she held the mike towards him. “What do you think, Juliet?”

  “Well, Llewellyn…” she began. “You’ve certainly given Rory a good forum to express himself, and I’m sure that’s helped him. But do you honestly believe it is right to take over from Craig like this?”

  He looked slightly hurt, moving away from her again. “Take over? Come, Juliet, you don’t still see it like that do you?”

  “I certainly do.”

  He fell silent.

  A question broke into her mind. Who was he trying to impress? Nevertheless, rather than voice the thought, she judged it best to focus right now on the details of Rory’s performance. “Passionate, isn’t he?” she murmured. “It’s a bit scary here in the front row. I’m afraid he might leap off the podium and throttle me.”

  The Welshman nodded. “His first epic poem: an amazing achievement in twenty-four hours. And note, too, his subject matter: sex, love, and identity crises.”

  “Yes. I can feel the raw energy.”

  Rory launched into the next stanza, tears streaming down his face. Juliet concentrated on his recital until it drew to a close, and he stumbled down from the dais, sweating, to slightly bemused applause.

  Llewellyn massaged his chin. “Excellent therapy: far better than Dynamic Meditation. If he finds an outlet for his feelings in verse, he could achieve the freedom he’s been seeking in vain for years.”

  “Freedom from what, or who?” She eyed the Welshman narrowly, microphone poised between them. “Craig?”

  He returned her gaze. “Yes. Why not? That’s a freedom you probably long for, too, don’t you?”

  Her mouth turned dry. She hadn’t expected such a well-targeted attack from Llewellyn. She flicked the switch on the mike. OK, she could edit this stuff out; but she preferred not to record it in the first place.

  “No answer to that,” she said.

  “Ah. Perfectly diplomatic,” he observed. “Credit me with some powers of observation, Juliet. You don’t want to fall under Craig’s spell yourself, do you?”

  “No chance of that. Stick to the point, Llewellyn.”

  “Willingly. The point is, Craig doesn’t like all this. He insists he gives us a creative outlet already, and this is nothing new.”

  “He’s right though isn’t he?”

  “But, Juliet…” A shadow of disquiet flickered across his face. “Surely you see this is radically different to anything Craig offers. You do, don’t you?”

  She felt perturbed. Was all this an ill-advised bid for her good opinion? “I left my personal viewpoint outside the entrance gate when I drove in on my first day here.” She hadn’t used this line before, and now it was out, she strongly doubted whether she’d ever pull it into service again. It sounded hollow.

  Llewellyn’s next remark confirmed her insight. “Your words put me in mind of something Zoe said earlier.”

  “Which was?”

  “That all this being objective of yours is nothing but a front. Underneath you have very strong opinions about everything that’s going on here: you’re probably more passionate than any of us.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Restrained passion is very attractive.”

  “Is it indeed?” she retorted, choosing to remain non-committal. Despite that, she was aflame with anger. How dare Zoe play the part of agent provocateur?

  “She also threw out a challenge to me,” said Llewellyn, “that I might like to persuade you to open up.”

  Juliet remained tight-lipped.

  “Juliet,” he said, “you’re among friends here. You need hide nothing. You can trust yourself with me.”

  And now his expression took on a powerful appeal. She was sorely tempted. If she played Zoe and Llewellyn’s game, it might afford some protection against Craig. She was about to respond when she realised everyone else had fallen silent and focused their attention upon her and the Welshman. “Llewellyn,” she murmured.

  He came to, and jumping up, walked to the front, where he stepped onto the dais, and swung to face the performance poet. She switched her microphone on again. “Thank you, Rory,” said Llewellyn. “You’re an inspiration to us all.” Then he addressed himself to the gathering. “I hope Rory’s example has shown you all how poetry, when it comes alive on the air, can be the answer for you, not dynamic meditation – nor any of the futile exercises Craig offers. Creativity, that’s the key. Things will be very different from now on. I promise you that. Trust me. Don’s waiting at the bar over there. Ask for whatever you want.”

  Juliet turned to look in the direction he indicated. Don’s eyes met hers from his position behind a table at the south west corner of the meeting space, loaded with bottles and glasses. Had this little lot already been in Craig’s supply, or did Llewellyn buy them in specially for the occasion, on Craig’s account?

  As Llewellyn placed his hand on Juliet’s arm, Theo materialised before them. “Ah, Llewellyn. A word with you, if I may.”

  “Of course.” Glancing apologetically at Juliet, the poet released his hold on her arm and moved aside with the clergyman.

  Juliet hurried across to Rory and removed his clip-mike so she could attach it to her own jacket, enabling her to move around freely, recording a number of conversations.

  Al, wearing a magenta shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, and Laura – in a green smocked dress that looked as if it had come from the children’s section of an Oxfam shop – had just left the bar with their drinks and now made their way along to the massive oak table set against the west wall of the barn. The American, raising a glass of whisky, was saying something to her that made her giggle. Beyond those two, Juliet noticed Beth and Oleg, standing apart from everyone else, talking quietly togeth
er. She resolved to go and chat to them in a moment. But first she crossed to the bar. “A new role for you, Don?”

  “Not so new,” he replied. “Pulled the Yorkshire Ruddles in my time, you know.”

  “Excellent. Have you a Cinzano?”

  “Yes.” He poured her a measure, dropped ice and lemon in, and handed it to her. She then made her way back along the north end of the barn to join Zoe beside the west staircase.

  “What do you think of the poetry workshop idea, Juliet?” asked Zoe.

  “Fine as far as it goes. But Llewellyn doesn’t run the place,” said Juliet. She surveyed Zoe, then flicked the switch once more on her machine. “What’s this about you encouraging him to make a big move towards me?”

  “Come on Juliet. Lighten up.”

  “All very well for you to say that. As for Llewellyn, he’s a good poet but shouldn’t be trying to grab the crown.”

  “I agree,” said Zoe demurely. “But…”

  Juliet broke in. “Why did you feed him that rubbish about my supposed passions, and then goad him to pounce on me?” She began to feel agitated, and drank her Cinzano too fast. She noticed her sister had the grace to look slightly shame-faced.

  “Sorry,” said Zoe. “I shouldn’t have stirred Llewellyn up. He is trying to impress you, though. Surely you can see that.”

  “Well, no, I can’t.”

  “A desperate last resort to get your attention,” Zoe continued, undaunted. “He saw no other way, what with Craig about to swoop.”

  “Zoe, stop at once. You make me angry.”

  “You did turn your recording machine off, didn’t you?” her sister asked pointedly.

  “Of course. Now listen. I have nil interest in Llewellyn. And the same goes for Craig.”

  Zoe studied her pityingly. “You seem very on edge about him. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Juliet snatched a glance back across to the bar, where Don was busy serving drinks to Edgar, Sam, James and Patrick. Sweeping a look round the barn, she saw Craig was still absent. She turned once more to her sister. “Never mind me. You’re my main cause of worry.”

  “Why waste your energy? I’m perfectly happy,” said Zoe.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” insisted Juliet. She was about to say more when she stopped. What was it Theo had suggested? Tell her the truth. Your doubts and fears about me, I mean. “You and Theo,” she continued. “Of course, I like him. And I can see how keen you both are on each other. But is he really your type?”

  “Yes he is.”

  “Zoe, you don’t share his faith.”

  Her sister sighed. “All that matters is that we like each other. Lots.”

  Juliet stared at her, nonplussed. “That may be good enough for now. But what about later?”

  “I’m not thinking about later. I’m living in the present.”

  Juliet bit back a sharp retort. Her heart pounding, she drained her glass. What also niggled her was the fact that Zoe and Theo did, to the casual observer, make a very compatible pair. She had no intention of saying so to Zoe, though.

  Looking again at her sister’s face, she decided it would be best to go off and join Laura, Al and James beside the oak table. She made sure she was live again. Upon approach, she saw Al pivot on his heels, bronze medallion bouncing on his chest, and grab the fruit bowl from the table behind him. For a moment she thought he was going to throw it at her.

  “Juliet, why don’t you go for a peach? One or two strawberries perhaps?” From the sound of his voice, he’d clearly already had more than a few drinks.

  Juliet spoke lightly. “I’d be interested in some of those grapes.”

  “I’ll throw a bunch across,” Laura giggled. “Here, catch.”

  Juliet nearly ducked to avoid the missile. But it was unnecessary. James, in a ruffle-front silk shirt, had intercepted Laura’s serve, and passed the fruit to her.

  “Thanks.” Juliet eyed Laura warily. It seemed she, also, had already taken too much advantage of the bar. Perhaps someone had held Don in an arm lock while the rest helped themselves. But then, Juliet guessed, Laura may well have started before she’d even entered the barn. At that moment, she twisted round to look at Don, and the mystery was solved. He’d abandoned his bar duties and gone over to join Theo and Llewellyn. Juliet ate the last grape.

  “You downed that yet, Laura?” said Al. As she finished her drink, he took her glass and was about to head back to the bar for a refill. Before he could do so, however, Juliet stepped in front of him. “I think you’re being rather irresponsible, Al,” she said.

  “Not at all. This is a special night,” he declared. “The Centre has been reborn as a literary salon.”

  “Nonsense, Al,” protested Juliet. “I don’t think this coup of Llewellyn’s will last long.”

  “Sorry, honey. I disagree. In any case, at least it’ll blow a little smoke up Craig’s butt.” And with that, he pushed past her.

  Rory and Patrick added themselves to the group surrounding Laura. Rory was, as ever, clutching a glass of water. Considering he was the most violent person here, Juliet found it highly ironical. Certainly alcohol wasn’t the cause of his problems. Unless of course he had a secret supply back in his room. Juliet thought he seemed exceptionally smooth and relaxed, now he’d finished his performance. In fact, his manner reminded her of the one he’d adopted at dinner on the evening of her arrival, urbane and charming. She had no doubt at all it was a mask.

  Patrick held two tumblers of whisky. Laura stretched out her hand and whipped one away from him; one, Juliet felt, she could well have done without. She sensed a new recklessness in the air, as if an unwritten rule had been breached and now all restraint was thrown aside.

  Looking over to the west staircase, she saw Zoe chatting to Sam. Turning to her right she observed Oleg and Beth locked in earnest, alcohol-fuelled conversation with Edgar. She transferred her attention to Laura once more; she was downing the drink Al had brought back. “I feel like the scarlet woman of Babylon,” Laura announced.

  “To be sure,” said Patrick, directing a pointed stare at her, “you’re no better than you should be. But that’s only to be expected. I put it all down to original sin.”

  Rory intervened. “Most people put me down to that, too. Don’t you worry about it too much, Laura. I expect my sin’s more original than yours.”

  But before Laura could reply to this, she collapsed onto the floor. Al immediately plunged down to her side.

  “Can I help?” Juliet started forward.

  “No, no, she’ll be fine,” muttered Al.

  It didn’t look like it to Juliet. “I reckon she needs to be helped out of here, and off to bed,” she said. Then she regretted her words.

  “I’m the man for that job,” declared Al, raising Laura into a sitting position. She lolled back in his arms, a glazed expression in her eyes. Though Juliet would have much preferred to distance herself from this little scenario, she had little choice but to remain focused on it. And to record the lot. For she couldn’t tell which aspect of tonight’s behaviour – if any of it – would make good radio or not, unless she kept the machine running.

  Patrick chose this moment to continue his previous discussion with Rory. “Think your sin’s original, do you, Rory? Tell me: suppose one of those timber beams up above your head was to break off right now and fall on you. If you were to die tonight where would you spend eternity?”

  The Irishman was being very provocative, Juliet thought. What made him so confident Rory wouldn’t just knock him senseless?

  “Haven’t the faintest,” said Rory, “and I don’t suppose you do either.”

  “Then you suppose wrongly.” Patrick declaimed this in ringing tones. He forged on. “Now then, how old are you?”

  “That’s my secret,” said Rory.

  “Whatever it is, I’ll wager you don’t think you’re going to die until you’re ninety-eight. But what makes you think it won’t be in two seconds?” />
  Juliet held her breath. Surely this was Rory’s cue. A well-timed blow and Patrick would be flat on the floor.

  “Threatening me, are you, Patrick?” said Rory.

  The Irishman threw his arms out, managing to swipe Al in the face just as he’d begun to lift Laura. Juliet watched all this with baited breath. Would the American turn on Patrick? But before he got the chance, Patrick issued a challenge to everyone within earshot. “Having spent so much time here in the Wheel of Love, does anyone actually believe in God?”

  Al fell back, and startled by the unexpectedness of the question, let go of Laura and dropped her onto the floor. “What’s the deal with you, Patrick?” he demanded. “Believe in God? Course I do. Although …” he hesitated, “…since Llewellyn purloined the driver’s seat from Craig, perhaps it’s safer to opt for Don’t Know.”

  “What does Craig have to do with it?” demanded Patrick.

  Al ignored the Irishman as he became busy again, trying to coax Laura to her feet. “Come on, honey,” he beguiled her. Then he rushed over to the chairs, grabbed three, and dragged them back to her.

  “Since when,” continued Patrick, “have matters of faith and doubt, life and death, been dependent upon what Craig tells us? It’s what we all think that matters.”

  “Quite right,” said Edgar. “And I should know. I’ve been noting down what every one of us thinks since we’ve been here.”

  “And what do we think?” enquired Patrick.

  “Ah. Well, let me put it like this,” said Edgar. “We don’t yet have consensus. But never mind. Look at the mighty cosmos up there: the moon, the stars…” He swept his hand in the direction of the skylights that had been installed in the roof of the barn. Indeed, as Juliet had noticed earlier, the stars were unusually bright and it was easy to identify the constellations.

  “I’m glad he’s talking of stars,” Rory said in her ear.

  “Why?”

  “Because I hope to be one soon. I feel released to a bright future by my performance tonight.”

  She wasn’t prepared to discourage the newly-inspired poet. Instead, she sought to humour him. “That sounds positive, Rory. How do you see Llewellyn? As the new leader of the Wheel of Love?”