Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  Michael finally broke the silence. “See this tree?”

  Anne looked over her shoulder at a smallish tree with waxy green leaves.

  “It’s one of the Holy Thorns. Do you know the story?”

  “If every bush and rock in Glastonbury has a story, we’re going to need more than a month,” Anne quipped, then turned her attention back to the pool.

  “Point taken.”

  The corners of Anne’s mouth turned up slightly. “All right, Mister Museum Curator, tell me about the tree.”

  Michael launched into his story with obvious relish. “When Joseph of Arimathea first landed on Wearyall Hill—”

  “Where is that?”

  Michael pointed behind them. “The green strip you saw when we first came into town last night, when we were talking about the Fisher King.”

  She nodded. “Joseph was the uncle of Jesus, right?”

  Michael nodded.

  “What was he doing all the way up here?”

  “Probably on a business trip. He was a tin merchant. According to the story, though, he brought his nephew with him at least once.”

  “Jesus visited Glastonbury?”

  “Yes, Blake wrote about it. ‘And did those feet…’” he started to quote the poem, then stopped. “Jesus probably came to study with the Priestesses of Avalon.”

  “I thought he went to India.”

  “That, too.”

  “He sure did get around a lot without jets.”

  Michael’s forehead wrinkled. “Feeling cynical today?”

  Anne sat for a minute gazing at the pool, twisting a strand of her blond hair around her finger. She turned to him. “I guess I’m feeling dense.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I had one of the best educations money can buy, but you know about this whole world I’d never even heard of.”

  “Annie—”

  Anne flinched.

  “What?”

  “That’s what Thomas called me.”

  “It’s ironic. He knew all this…and more.”

  “Mother didn’t try to control him,” Anne said.

  “He was older than you, already beyond her jurisdiction. And I don’t think Grandmother Elizabeth would have allowed her to take both of you out of the family legacy.”

  “I suppose.” Anne slipped off the bench and leaned against his knees. “Time to get on with my education. Tell me about the Vesica Piscis. There’s no wand cutting across this pool. I suppose the little guy there is the male energy.”

  “See, you’re pretty smart after all.”

  She nudged his knees with her shoulder. “Stop.”

  Michael took a breath and launched into his explanation. “This shape represents the process of creation. When creation first manifests from the void—”

  “Nut, or the Black Madonna,” Anne said.

  “Right,” Michael glanced down at her face and smiled. “The first manifestation is a sphere, energy shooting out in all directions.”

  “The Big Bang.”

  “That’s the scientific view. That sphere duplicates itself, not like an amoeba creates a whole new separate cell, but an overlapping sphere. This shape is the Vesica Piscis.” He began to stroke Anne’s hair. “It’s a basic form in nature. Fertilized eggs follow this pattern, the first cell division creates this shape.” He paused for a minute. “The folks here at Chalice Well explain that by drawing a line down from the Vesica Piscis, you get the fish symbol of the Age of Pisces.”

  Anne laughed.

  “What?”

  “Some people would call that the symbol of Christianity.”

  Michael chuckled. “Glastonbury gave birth to the earliest form of Christianity. There’s another shape that grows from the Vesica Piscis. If you keep creating spheres from this shape, you get what’s called a Flower of Life, twelve spheres around the central circle.”

  “Twelve,” Anne said. “Don’t tell me…twelve signs, twelve disciples.”

  “Exactly.” Michael took a breath to elaborate.

  “Enough.” Anne stood up. “Obviously, Glastonbury is an encyclopedia of metaphysical knowledge, but now I want to just walk to the Well and meditate. Doctor Abernathy always says to balance the intellect with direct experience.” She tried for an imitation of her older teacher’s voice.

  “He’s right. After all, we have a whole month.” Michael’s cell phone rang. He frowned, surprised he didn’t turn it off, and looked at the display. “It’s the museum. I should take this.”

  In the past month, he wrapped up his job at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. He was lucky enough to convince Stephen, a member of his spiritual group who was well versed in secret metaphysical history, to take the job. Stephen had impeccable credentials, so convincing the hiring committee he was the right choice was no problem. They even offered Michael a stipend if he remained on call as a consultant. He stayed an extra few weeks to smooth out the transition and promised to help if anything came up.

  “This is Michael. Could you hold for a second please?” He took the steps by the pool two at a time and walked down the path away from the gardens. “Okay, I can talk now.”

  “Sorry to bother you so soon,” Stephen said, “but something’s come up. We need your opinion.”

  “Certainly.” Michael leaned against the wall in the parking lot.

  “You remember the experiments we conducted with the items you loaned us from the collection?”

  “Yes.” Michael smiled at Stephen’s convoluted attempt at security. He was referring to an ongoing exchange Michael set up with his spiritual group and the museum. Sometimes people who owned valuable metaphysical libraries or sacred artifacts and were nearing the end of their lives asked him to find a home for their private collections, particularly if no one in their family shared their interest. About a year ago, he was given an interesting collection of crystals from an Italian metaphysician who lived in the Bay Area. The man sent a collection of crystal skulls and a large clear quartz, plus a library of typed psychic sessions and some rare books. Robert, the head of Michael’s spiritual lodge, had taken a few of the crystals at a time to experiment with. They compared their own experiences with the typed sessions to try to verify the history of the stones. It seemed the man gave them some ancient Atlantean artifacts, and Stephen was trying to track their history.

  “They were stolen. And there’s something else.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, Michael.”

  “Just tell me the whole story,” Michael said. Something in Stephen’s voice set his nerves on edge.

  “Robert was bringing the last batch of crystals back to the museum. He was very excited about some work he just did, told me he knew the big crystal was a sentinel for the Tuaoi Stone.”

  Michael straightened up. “The Tuaoi Stone? Is he certain?” The famed Fire Stone, the center of Atlantean crystal technology.

  “He was. I waited for him for over three hours, I thought maybe he’d done another meditation with the crystal and lost track of time. I called his house and his wife said he left the house right after he called me.”

  A shiver of alarm ran down the length of Michael’s spine. “What’s happened?”

  “The police found Robert—” Stephen’s voice choked off.

  “No.”

  “He was murdered.”

  “I’ll come right away.”

  “Good. We need you.”

  Michael ended the call and ran back to the Vesica Piscis pool. Anne glanced up, her face the picture of contentment…until she saw Michael’s. She jumped up and ran over to him. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Robert. He was killed. I have to go back to New York.”

  *
* * *

  Anne drove Michael to Heathrow the following morning. After he checked in, she went with him to security where they found a private corner to say goodbye. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

  “You have work to do at the house, and I’ll be busy with the group.”

  “But you’ve lost someone very important to you. You stood by me when I lost Thomas.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I knew Thomas, too. We’d shared research several times. I don’t want you in any danger.”

  Anne stepped back and looked at him in alarm. “I’m calling Arnold.” He was head of Le Clair family security.

  “But he works for your family.”

  “So what are you? Chopped liver?”

  Michael smiled for the first time since he got the news. “The police are investigating. I’m sure they’ll find the killer.”

  “Right,” Anne said, then spoke in falsetto, “Officer, you see, my friend was doing psychic investigations on crystals from Atlantis, and we’re being trailed by this Illuminati master who is obsessed with uncovering Atlantean technology to take control of the world.”

  Michael took a sharp breath. “Do you think Cagliostro is involved in this?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve tightened security in the lodge, Arnold did background checks on everyone. How could Cagliostro have known about this?”

  “Who knows? The point is, I don’t think he’s given up; we still have these.” Anne lifted the silver chain holding her crystal that was hidden beneath her blouse.

  “I hope you’re just being paranoid,” Michael said, “but please do call Arnold.”

  “Good.”

  Michael’s brown eyes were full of pain. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  They kissed goodbye. Anne called Doctor Abernathy as soon as she was back in the Vauxhall. Roger Abernathy held an unusual position with the Le Clair family; it was passed down through his own family for generations. He was the current holder of an ancient trust originally begun with a group of monks known as the Knights Templar. Over the years the position became secular, but he still considered his position of Protector of the Bloodline a sacred duty. Anne told him all the details and asked if Arnold was available.

  “Actually, he’s on vacation, but I’ll bet he’ll come when I tell him what’s happening.”

  “I hate to interrupt him.”

  “We need him. I’ll call you as soon as I have more information. Tell Michael I’m sending a car to pick him up.”

  Anne dialed Michael and filled him in.

  “We’re boarding now, so I’m turning off the cell,” he said.

  “Talk to you when you land.”

  Anne arrived back in Glastonbury in the late afternoon. So much for her romantic tryst in England. She dropped the keys on the front hall table and walked to the kitchen. Sheep grazed close to the fence. One ram kept trying to mount one of the females, whose only response was to move a few steps away from him and continue grazing. Anne picked at the leftovers from yesterday’s breakfast extravaganza. Michael’s grief wasn’t personal to her. She never met Robert, but this death brought the feelings rushing back; it followed too quickly on the heels of Thomas’s, not to mention the others who were killed in the underground temple in Egypt…and Cynthia. She pushed the food away after a few bites.

  Shaking off her growing despondency, Anne stood up to explore the rest of the house. If they were going to pack it up and sell it, she would need to take an informal inventory. She already felt a growing attachment to the place, but she would still need to know what was here even if she decided to keep it. They only glanced at the rooms on the bottom floor, and there was a whole basement to explore as well. She would start there, it matched her mood.

  A white paneled door opened off the kitchen to the basement stairs. Anne ran her hand along the wall, but found no light switch. She turned back and rummaged through the kitchen drawers for a flashlight. She found a small one hidden at the bottom of a utility drawer. She switched it on and turned back to the steps.

  Anne walked down the wood planks, resting her hand lightly on the railing to avoid splinters. The concrete floor was fairly dry, which surprised her considering their proximity to the springs. A cobweb brushed against her face and she reached up to push it away, but it turned out to be a string hanging from the ceiling. One quick tug, and the harsh light of a bare bulb illuminated the basement. An ancient furnace stood in the front corner; next to it several filters, still in their package from the store, leaned against the wall. She wouldn’t have to worry about the heat for now—it was spring after all—but if they kept the house, she would have to replace it.

  Boxes loomed in the opposite corner. Anne pried open the first one and found strings of colored lights neatly coiled, and several tin boxes containing ornaments for a tree nestled in tissue paper. Cynthia decorated the mantelpiece, but didn’t get around to putting up a tree. The next box contained more prosaic items—extension cords and light bulbs—a third was full of old knickknacks. Maybe she’d find a few antiques in this one when she had time to unpack it. She closed the boxes and restacked them.

  Gardening tools hung on the opposite wall. Several terra cotta pots nestled into each other like Russian dolls and an unopened bag of potting soil leaned against the wall. Next to this, two steps led down to a packed dirt floor. Wooden bins ran along both sides of the alcove. A root cellar, but the bins were empty.

  Anne turned toward the back of the basement, where another couple of steps led to a dark hallway with a low ceiling. Ducking her head, she made her way down the passage. The clean cinder block walls of the basement gave way to rough hewn rock. At the end of the passageway stood an old wooden door with a round top straight out of a Tolkien book. The gold handle turned out to be an elaborately carved dragon’s head. Anne tried the door, but it didn’t budge. She rattled the handle, pushed on the door, but it seemed to be locked.

  She stepped back and shone the flashlight around the passageway, but found no key. She ran her hands around the frame of the door, searching for a hiding place. Finding nothing, she crept back down the passageway to the cinder blocks and looked for a nook or a nail, something that would hold a key to the mysterious door. No luck. She would look in the kitchen; the key was probably floating around inside the large utility drawer. If not, she’d ask Tessa. She switched off the light and climbed back up the stairs.

  Outside, the sun had already set, and orange and red clouds streaked the sky. Anne walked to the front of the house and discovered an office across the hall from the front parlor. Maybe she would get to know her aunt better if she looked over her books and papers. She heated a spinach-and-feta pasty in the microwave, made a pot of African rooibos tea, and settled into a sleek but comfortable grey leather chair with a low table beside it. After polishing off her pasty she switched on her aunt’s computer and brought up British Airway’s website. She typed in the flight number, then clicked on the map; Michael’s flight was over the Atlantic. She noticed a pile of papers sitting next to the leather chair. On top lay a note in Cynthia’s handwriting.

  Dear Garth,

  I’ve decided the best approach is to publish the material as a novel. I hesitate to join the throng of channelers, the family would die of embarrassment. In all seriousness, this way the material will be readily available. True sensitives will recognize the veracity of the story. Let’s just hope we can discover how it all ends. Let me know what you think.

  All my love,

  Cynthia

  “All my love,” Anne read aloud. So there was something between Cynthia and Garth after all. Curious, she picked up a handful of pages and started to read.

  Chapter Three

  “The time has come to tell you the whole story.” Megan studied the face of the young woman befor
e her. “Afterward, you will go into the hill and find the stones I tell you about.”

  She pulled the red wool blanket tight around her shoulders, resisting the urge to move her chair even closer to the fire. The shears of the weaver goddess hovered just out of sight. So quickly, it all happened so quickly, and she must leave this one to carry on. Caitir was already a mother, true, but not ready to become the elder. Nowadays life rushed by like a tumbled race from infancy to parenthood, and people became elders before they lived long enough to truly know themselves.

  “I wish I could tell you what it was like then. So much has changed, my stories sound like make believe, but I tell you, it’s all true, every word of it.”

  Caitir murmured acquiescence. Megan closed her eyes, but felt the woman studying her. She knew her skin had grown paper-thin, almost transparent, the dark smudges beneath her eyes the only color in her face. She listened to the crackle of the fire, willing it to fill the marrow of her bones and warm her. Where to begin? Her thoughts scattered with the wind blowing through the trees outside. Her chest, fragile as a small bird’s, rose and fell as if she just climbed the Tor.

  A rustle from Caitir made her open her eyes again and she saw her pulling her hands back from the herbs on the table—crocks of yarrow, feverfew and yellow dock. No need for those now. Megan’s fever had abated, leaving behind the chill of November rain, in such a sharp contrast with the unfurling spring outside. Caitir pushed the black kettle out of the fire and sat back, waiting.

  Megan’s blue eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “He was such a glorious man…Govannan. Noble, gifted with the Sight…but this is ridiculous, everyone had the vision then. We were all awake, fully awake—”

  A frown flitted over Caitir’s face. Megan could no longer read her thoughts or feelings. Was it impatience, doubt? She hardly blamed her. How could Megan explain how they lived in Eden, that gleaming city on the shores of the isle of Atlantis? Her lost home. If only she could reach through the veil of years, perhaps she would wake and find herself sitting on her terrace watching the waves, the buzz of the hummingbirds at the riotous bougainvillea loud in her ear…or in the temple awash in the intricate harmonies of their chant, feeling the giant crystal come to life and open to the heavens.