Glastonbury

by Brian L. Porter

  Cutler nodded.

  “And Arthur died of wounds he received at the battle of Camlann in the year 542, and was carried back here where his body was interred somewhere in the area?”

  “Whereupon,” Sally joined in the conversation, “Sir Pelleas, husband of Viviane, otherwise known to history as The Lady of the Lake, took it upon himself to bury the sword Excalibur in a place apart from the body of Arthur, to prevent its discovery and the possibility of it being used by his enemies against the forces of good that Arthur stood for. Pelleas was afraid that Arthur's enemies might attempt to disinter his corpse and remove the sword if it were there, and use it as a rallying symbol for those who would follow the pretenders to his throne.”

  “Looks like you guys have got it,” said Cutler, with that irrepressible smile spreading across his face again.

  “And you say that all this is true?” asked Sally.

  “No, Sally, the book says it's true, Capshaw says it's true, and his tame historical expert says it's true.”

  “Ah yes, boss, the expert. When the hell we s'posed to expect the great man anyhow?” Winston wanted to know. “Wasn't he s'posed to be here by now, man?”

  “He was busy translating some old medieval manuscript according to Capshaw. It was taking longer than he expected but he should be here any day now. He's spent months checking the facts apparently and Capshaw is convinced he knows what he's talking about. He's apparently managed to separate a lot of the fact from the fiction and he'll be here to help us once we get the Ground Penetrating Radar up and running. His name by the way is Walter Graves.”

  “Good name,” said Winston.

  “Very appropriate,” Sally giggled.

  “Lay off you two.”

  Cutler smiled as he spoke. He wouldn't swap the two of them for anybody else. He could trust them implicitly, and he knew that despite their apparent scepticism regarding the search for Excalibur, deep down they were probably just as excited as he was at the prospect of making such a momentous discovery. If they really did find the sword of King Arthur it would turn history on its head. All the doubters would have to run and hide and bury their cynical heads in the proverbial sand of their inaccurate and out-of-date text books. If Arthur really did exist, live and die within the shores of Olde England as legend tells, then the history books would have to be re-written, new lessons devised for school history courses, and all those childhood games he remembered playing about the Knights of the Round Table, riding to save damsels in distress, would take on a whole new meaning.

  Joe Cutler looked at his watch and realised that the signals his stomach was sending to his brain indicated lunchtime was imminent. “Okay, guys. Let's leave it there for now. It's time to eat. How's the outside world looking, Winston?”

  Fortune moved over to the window and surveyed the busy street scene outside the Rowan Tree. Cars were gleaming again as sunlight reflected from the highly polished paintwork, the grey mantle of the previous three days replaced by a bright and cheerful picture postcard scene as Glastonbury took on the look of an archetypal historic English Country town. People were no longer dashing along the street with their heads down to avoid the rain; the umbrellas had gone, and it was as if the pavements themselves were filled with a new vibrancy, as though coming awake after slumbering through the drowning torrents of the last three days.

  “Hey man, de sun is shining, and all's well wit' de world” he said in a gross self-parody of his own Jamaican background.

  “Stop playing around, Winston,” said Cutler, always aware that as far as Winston Fortune was concerned, racial stereotypes were a waste of time and he was always the first to have a little fun at his own expense when it came to regional or national accents. He was comfortable with his own birthright, and he was in fact a grand master when it came to imitating almost any accent on the planet. Oh yes, and the former Special Forces operative was a brilliant linguist. Winston could speak English, French, German, Spanish, Dutch and Japanese fluently and could speak a fair bit of Farsi, Hindi, and Mandarin Chinese to boot.

  “Sorry, boss, but yes, it's cleared up a lot, and people are even walking around out there in their shirtsleeves, so it must be warming up quite a bit, too.”

  “Tell you what,” said Cutler, “What do you say I treat us all to a decent lunch at that pub we had a drink in last night? Then we'll take a stroll around the abbey and maybe take a walk up to the top of the Tor, sort of reconnoitre the area a bit before we start work in earnest?”

  Twenty minutes later the three of them were seated at a table in `Ye Queens Head' hotel on Glastonbury High Street. Lunch was a light-hearted affair with Winston and Joe making various jokes about the `days of old when knights were bold', and there was much speculation as to character and personality of the historian Walter Graves. Sally Corbett wondered what use he would be to their search, and Cutler had to point out that his historical knowledge might mean the difference between them finding Excalibur or possibly unearthing a medieval toilet.

  The food was excellent; Winston Fortune devouring a twelve ounce sirloin steak in no time at all, garnished with chipped potatoes, onion rings and garden peas.

  Cutler enjoyed gammon and eggs, while Sally tucked in to a generous helping of spaghetti bolognaise. Cutler never ceased to be amazed at young Sally's ability to eat large meals without ever seeming to gain weight. He guessed most women would be envious of her talent for eating and staying slim without the need for dieting or overly vigorous exercise. They shared a bottle of very good Australian Chardonnay and finished off with a pot of coffee between them.

  They walked the meal off by taking in the sights of the abbey ruins and, as they'd arranged, a walk to the top of Glastonbury Tor, from where they had a superb view of the surrounding countryside. Great swathes of green seemed to disappear into the far horizon as they stared out across the Somerset countryside, each lost in their own thoughts for a time. It was impossible to stand at that point and not be awed by the sheer weight of history and legend that emanated from that great mount, and from the very brickwork and stone of the town that lay sprawled in the shadow of the Tor. It was as if something intangible hung in the very air above Glastonbury, a secret shrouded in the mists that often swirled around the grassy top of the Tor. Would they have the knowledge and the skill to find something that until now had been nothing more than a story in their minds? Was it possible that in a few days one of them could be holding aloft the famed `Sword in the Stone' of fairy tale fame? Could the fairytale become reality, a material thing to be seen, touched and felt by human hands for the first time in over a thousand years?

  Time would tell, and as Joe Cutler, Winston Fortune and Sally Corbett began the long walk down from the Tor and back to The Rowan Tree, a companionable silence fell over the three friends as each kept their private thoughts hidden from the others. Little did they know that each had similar thoughts. The money they'd receive for a successful search would be great, but to actually find Excalibur? Despite any sceptical reservations any of them had harboured to begin with each of them knew that that really would one day be something to tell their children about.

  Chapter 5

  After their brief foray around the town the three members of the Strata team made their way back to the guest house. The company van was parked in Mrs Cleveley's private lot at the rear of the building. Fortune and Corbett spent a couple of hours rechecking that everything was in working order while Cutler went up to his room to make a few phone calls. The final and most important one was to the fourth member of the Strata Survey team, the hub around which all of Cutler's tiny empire revolved, Mavis!

  White-haired widow Mavis Hightower was fifty eight years old, opinionated, highly efficient in every respect, and totally protective towards Joe Cutler. She'd worked in the office of Strata Survey Systems for the last three years and now basked in the highly important title of `Office Manageress' which Joe had bestowed upon her some time ago in recognition of her efforts in keeping the business afloat from
an administrative perspective. There were no staff to manage, of course, just a desk, a computer and a filing cabinet, but whatever she did, Mavis did it well! Though her appearance gave her the look of being everyone's favourite maiden aunt, Mavis was a skilled administrator, expert with a computer and a first class book-keeper. Whenever they were away `on site' Joe would check in with Mavis every day, to make sure that everything was ok in the office, and to let her know that she hadn't been forgotten about while he and the team were away `having a good time' as she always referred to their jobs away from home. Though she wouldn't admit it, Mavis appreciated those calls more than anyone would ever know, the loneliness of living alone was often unbearable, and her part in the survey team's operations was her lifeline, small though her involvement may have been. The nice thing about Joe Cutler, as she'd always tell anyone prepared to listen, was that he had the knack of making people, making her feel important.

  She'd assured Joe that all was well back at the office, there'd been no new job requests since they'd left for Somerset, and she'd make sure that if there were any inquiries she'd do whatever to ensure any potential clients were put on hold in a professional and positive manner. In other words Mavis would fill the diary with appointments starting in two weeks time.

  Satisfied that all was well back home, Cutler joined the others as they cleared away the last of their equipment and helped lock everything up for the night.

  “Mavis says `Hi' to you both,” he said cheerfully to Sally and Winston as the big Jamaican locked the transit's rear doors.

  “Mavis doesn't say `Hi' to anyone, boss,” said Winston. “Hello, maybe, or even `Good Morning', or `Nice to see you', but `Hi'? Never.”

  “Yeh, well, that's what she meant anyway.”

  “How is she?” Sally cut in.

  “You know Mavis, Sally, as bright and breezy and super efficient as ever.”

  “Any work waiting for us when we get back, boss?” Winston asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Geez, we'd better make sure we make a mint out of this one then, hadn't we?”

  “A fortune for Mr. Fortune,” joked Sally.

  “And why not? Why not indeed?” asked Winston.

  “There'll be no fortunes for anyone if we don't get a good night's sleep tonight,” Cutler intoned. “I want us all to get to bed early after dinner and be up at six in the morning. As soon as we can I want us to start laying out the first search grid in the morning.”

  “No problem, boss,” said Winston.

  “What about the historian?” asked Sally.

  “That was another of my phone calls. I spoke to Capshaw's secretary and she said that Mr. Graves should be arriving sometime tomorrow. She couldn't or wouldn't say exactly when, so if he turns up after we've gone in the morning he'll just have to wait until we get back, or come looking for us.”

  “You don't like her at all do you, boss?”

  “No, Winston, I don't. She's a self-important over made-up little cow if you want my true opinion.”

  “Well, Capshaw must see something in her,” said Sally.

  “Must be a great secretary,” Winston suggested.

  “Yeah, and the rest,” Cutler sneered, his meaning clear.

  “Joe Cutler, you're nothing but a sexist overbearing male chauvinist pig.” Sally snarled at him. “Just because she looks good you think she can't be good at her job, and that her boss only keeps her there as window dressing or to keep him company between the sheets.”

  “You said it, Sally, not me.”

  “Really! You men can be so bloody irritatingly predictable sometimes,” she snapped.

  “Hey, Sally girl, calm down,” urged Winston. “The boss told us what she was like when he met the great Mr. Capshaw. I don't think I'd like that lady too much either if I met her, and that ain't got nothing to do with how she looks. Heavens sake, girl, I haven't even seen her and I'm developing a distaste for the woman.”

  Cutler cut the friendly banter short.

  “I'm going for a shower. I'll see you two for dinner in an hour. We'll meet in the bar, okay?”

  The others nodded in agreement and all three were soon in their own rooms in the Rowan Tree. Sally took the time to languish for a while in a hot bath piled high with about a twelve inch covering of bubbles. After washing and drying her hair she changed into a simple white blouse and grey skirt and sat reading a trashy romantic novel for half an hour before making her way downstairs to join the others in Mrs. Cleveley's small, but well-stocked, bar for a pre-dinner drink.

  “Hey man, what do you know? Mrs. Corbett's little girl, she got legs!” exclaimed Winston Fortune as he caught sight of Sally entering the bar in her evening attire.

  “Ha, bloody ha,” sneered Sally, “I do have other things to wear you know apart from my working gear.”

  “You look real good, girl, real good,” Winston said. “Hey, boss. What d'you think about our little Sally, eh? She looks real good, don't you think?”

  Joe Cutler raised his head from the newspaper he'd been studying as he sat at the bar and nodded in agreement with Fortune.

  Sally knew Joe felt a slight embarrassment whenever Fortune indulged in his little performances with her, and she didn't press him for a verbal answer to Winston's query.

  “I see you got me one in advance,” she said instead as she reached out and took hold of the glass at the side of Cutler.

  “Hope I got you the right thing,” Cutler said as she took a sip of the gin and tonic.

  “Mmm, just the thing, thanks. Anything more to report from the office?”

  “No, I didn't bother to call Mavis again. There was nothing happening earlier, so I didn't see the point. I'll check in with her tomorrow as usual, see if there's anything new on the books.”

  “Hey, man. Can we forget about work?” asked Winston, with a large grin on his face. “I'm starving!”

  That was the last they spoke of the job until they'd finished their meal that evening. Not wanting to risk any upset stomachs the following day they'd all stuck to a simple meal of roast chicken with fresh vegetables and new potatoes. Mrs. Cleveley had done them proud. The food was superb and they were soon back in the little bar once again being served drinks by the landlady's daughter, Claire.

  “So, tomorrow we start in earnest, eh, boss?”

  “Yes. The sooner we get underway the sooner we stand a chance of making you that fortune, Mr. Fortune,” Cutler replied, his own inhibitions slightly relaxed by the amount of wine he'd consumed at the dinner table.

  “So what's with the historian, boss? Tell us again why we need Mr. Fuddy Duddy,” Sally interjected, completely changing the direction of the conversation.

  “I've told you,” said Cutler, “We might have the document and the map and book, but we need help in pinpointing exact locations as described in the old papers. The whole topography of the land has changed over the last thousand years, what was an island then could be a hill now, a river could be a gorge, or a field could be under a modern housing estate. Graves will help us translate the old markings and texts into something approaching a modern layout of the old representations. That way we won't be shooting totally blind, or at least that's Capshaw's theory.”

  “So why we startin' tomorrow without the big bad history teacher then?” asked Fortune, lisping into his native accent once again.

  “Simple,” said Cutler. “We lay out a starting grid in the general direction indicated by what we know from the document, and start eliminating the areas we can easily identify. Even Graves can't be too specific according to Capshaw. There've been too many changes in the land since the sword was originally buried to pinpoint a location with certainty, so we `cut' the land into parcels and work outwards from the town. Graves will guide us as best he can when he gets here, but the real work is still down to us.”

  “Sounds to me like having him here will be next to useless,” Sally offered and then concluded, “If he can't tell us where the sword is, and doesn't have a clue where we
should be looking then I don't see the point of his part in the project.”

  “Look, Sally, Capshaw is paying Graves the same way he's paying us. If he thinks he can help us that's up to him. He should at least be better at deciphering the old text than any of us would be, and he should be able to point us in the right direction. As for starting without him tomorrow, at least it'll give us the chance to field-test the equipment and eliminate part of the search area.”

  “What about the authorities, the local council, the countryside commission, or whosever toes we'll be treading on by carrying out this search? Has Capshaw got them in his pocket as well?”

  “Probably, Sally, I don't know. He told me that we wouldn't have any problems with the local authorities. As far as they're concerned we're representing Capshaw Enterprises searching for early Christian artefacts in the hope of unearthing physical evidence to support the theory that Joseph of Arimathaea visited Glastonbury.”

  “And they believe that old chestnut of a story?”

  “Whether they do or they don't we just get on with our jobs, and leave the behind the scenes politicking to Capshaw. If he says there'll be no local interference then we have to believe him. He's the money man after all.”

  “Bet he's bald,” said Winston suddenly.

  “Who?” asked Sally.

  “Graves. Bet he's old, bald and walks with a stick.”

  “That's a sweeping conjecture, Winston,” said Cutler. “Just because he's a historian doesn't mean he has to be old.”

  “Or bald,” said Sally.

  “Anyway, we'll see tomorrow with a bit of luck,” said Cutler, trying to bring the conversation to a close. “I think it's time we all thought about hitting the sack. Like I said, I want us to get an early start tomorrow.”

  The others concurred with Cutler's suggestion and the three friends made their way up to their respective rooms in a spirit of wine induced conviviality. Within twenty minutes all three were tucked in their respective beds, the prospect of a hard day's work the next day conspiring with the effects of the wine to send them all into a deep and pleasant sleep.