Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  Pauline stroked the cat for a minute in silence. Michael waited, amazed by the story. Finally she looked up. “I think the Nazis were trying to steal sacred artifacts during the war. I’m not sure they stopped after it was over, although the new political situation made it more difficult. Rumor has it they moved certain items here to keep them safe. When the new Imperator started stealing, people soon realized the same group of dark magicians found the hiding place.”

  “The Illuminati?” Michael asked.

  She shrugged. “That’s the popular name. It’s somewhat misguided, in my humble opinion. I’m not sure what they call themselves. Anyway, when the dust settled, the World See was disbanded. What remained of any international leadership moved to the south of France. San Jose found itself missing several valuable artifacts and the records that they ever existed. Your ring might be in Reverend Sun’s vault, or in the hands of what you call the Illuminati.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Michael said. Pauline made a small questioning sound, but he shook his head. “It’s just that the ring is rumored to be a part of the Chintamani Stone.”

  She wrinkled her brow, trying to remember, and he explained it to her.

  “Well, surely the monks in Shambhala know how to keep malevolent influences away,” she said.

  “Of course,” Michael said, but secretly he thought Cagliostro could give them a run for their money. It was a mystery how Cagliostro could maintain his strength and effectiveness while doing such dark deeds; usually such activity disturbed the balance of energy more and more until it snapped back on the person who did the negative magic, leaving them wounded but wiser. Cagliostro seemed to have some sort of free pass.

  Michael stood up to go. “Thank you for the information.”

  Pauline handed him a card. “Let me know if I can be of any more help, and warn me next time you come to town. We’ll have a workshop for you.”

  Michael walked across the street and joined Bob. “Good thing I know some people at the airport. We can leave as soon as we get there,” Bob said.

  Chapter Eleven

  After leaving Garth’s house, Anne walked down the narrow lane in the still black night. She climbed the stairs by feel, regretting she didn’t borrow a flashlight, and then went back to bed. She fell into a heavy sleep despite the coffee and woke late in the morning. The night left her shaken, so she decided to risk waking Michael. She dialed his number, but his phone seemed to be switched off. She left a quick message then showered, standing under the brisk spray to drive away the remnants of sleep.

  Once dressed, she went down to the kitchen. She ate yogurt and watched the sheep graze on the green slope. A bird rode on the back of one sheep after another, blissfully eating its own breakfast—fleas, Anne imagined. After the makeshift breakfast, she walked around the corner to Chalice Well. She remembered her previous trip there, how she looked forward to a blissful month in Glastonbury alone with Michael, exploring the sites, looking through the house, and generally spending uninterrupted time alone with her fiancé. She had an assignment now: to try and discover more about the disturbing dream she experienced and the erratic flow of White Spring.

  When she reached the red gatehouse, she realized that in his rush Michael forgot to leave his companion pass. She bought one for herself, thinking this was a good way to support the place. She pushed open the wrought iron gate decorated with the recurring two circles of the Vesica Piscis, and started down the stone steps to the two overlapping pools that repeated the pattern. A clump of tourists walked on the green lawn, one of them snapping picture after picture. A couple sat on the same bench she and Michael occupied just a few days ago, the woman’s head resting on the man’s shoulder. On another bench, a young mother watched her toddler play. The baby kept splashing the smooth surface of the pools, delighting in the waves she created.

  Smiling, Anne dipped her fingers in the water then went back up the steps to the two ancient yew trees. She leaned against the sturdy trunk of one and asked for guidance, letting the peace that was Chalice Well Garden—even as crowded as it was—begin to soak into her. It was hard to credit any problem here, even after the previous night’s nightmare and the meeting with Garth. There was no immediate response, just a sense of the long sweep of time in the slow growth of green needles and new shoots and in the ripening of cones.

  Anne stepped away from the tree and headed across the lawn where a wooden gate stood open. In the brochure, she saw the place was named King Arthur’s Court. Here the shade dominated. A bench ran the length of the ivy-covered wall, and across from it a rectangular pool at the far end of the courtyard caught the water that flowed down the stones. Sunlight glinted between the tree branches and reflected off the waterfall, highlighting the red-stained rock beneath. A fuzz of rust-colored algae covered the bottom of pilgrims’ bath. Anne kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge. A sign warned of the slippery bottom, but she tried to stand anyway and sure enough, her feet slid right out from under her. She plopped back down on the flagstone where she stayed. She soaked her feet, enjoying the play of light and shadow, listening to the music of the water. As the quiet returned, so did the sparrows, flitting from branch to branch, dropping down to the ground to peck in the ivy. Time and worry faded.

  After a time, Anne grew thirsty. There had to be a place to drink here; the main attraction was a spring and they sold bottles at the gatehouse. She got up, put on her shoes, and climbed a set of flagstone steps. She found a path and followed it around into a large rectangular lawn. Water spurted from a lion’s head, set in the grey stonewall at the far end. The water stained the stones below the fountain the characteristic red of this place. Algae covered the wall. An ordinary drinking glass sat on the wall above, and another below caught the flow of water from the lion’s mouth, overflowing onto the two round stones it balanced on. Anne picked up the full glass and drank. The water left a faint taste of rust in her mouth, but satisfied something deep within her. She filled it several more times, drinking her fill, then walked amongst the flowers soaking in the noonday sun, as free of thought as the open faces of the impatiens lining the walk.

  A wrought iron arch almost lost in a profusion of white roses marked a new part of the garden. Anne walked through, and immediately to her right in the shade of a bay tree sat the well itself. The lid, latched open, repeated the Vesica Piscis pattern, but with variations. The brochure said that the cover was English oak decorated with a bleeding lance passing through the middle of the circles. Filigreed oak leaves decorated the sides. Frederick Bligh Bond copied the medieval design and donated the cover in 1919. Several people sat on the stone seats built into the wall surrounding the well. Anne followed a tiny path between tall flowers and found a wooden chair set in the middle, but someone was sitting there, their eyes closed. She crept back out and stood on the cobblestone path waiting her turn.

  Finally the group wandered off. Anne walked to the top of the step and stopped, asking the spirit guardians of Chalice Well permission to enter. A gentle swirl of breeze seemed to welcome her, so she went down and knelt on the flagstones surrounding the well shaft. She peered through the grate. The walls looked much as they did in her dream, covered with moss and ferns, but the water was visible, clear and brimming just out of arm’s reach. Anne settled on a stone seat beneath the thorn tree, tucked her legs beneath her tailor-style, and let her gaze float on the water. Her intention, spoken to the yew trees, remained the same.

  People came and went, some silently, others chatting, one even conducting a loud conversation on her cell phone, but Anne did not pay them any mind. Signs around the garden encouraged meditation and quiet. She didn’t stand out. Others sat with their eyes closed or hung colorful ribbons in the trees, each tie a prayer or spell. After a while, the surface activity faded away. A silver mist rose from the well shaft and billowed out, filling the stone hollow. Shapes moved in the mist but faded away when Anne tried to focus on them. Whis
pers slid by her, just out of the range of hearing. Two people took the bench across from her, nodded in greeting, and continued their quiet conversation without seeming to notice the spreading fog. Anne focused back on the water, trying to still her mind so she could catch what was happening around her, but the mist dispersed as quickly as it came.

  Disappointed, she unfolded her legs, wincing as the blood returned to one that fell asleep. Once the tingling faded, Anne left the well hollow and walked to the back fence. On the other side of the wire mesh, more sheep grazed. She followed the path around the back end of the garden and found a meadow with a few low trees and benches sprinkled around. She sat in a swing and, on looking up, found the Tor framed between the trees, a perfect postcard, Michael’s tower pointing into the clear blue sky. She sat while her mind made a list of tasks she should be working on—do an inventory of the house, pack up Aunt Cynthia’s clothes, fix the step that squeaked. Then came a list of worries. She should be solving the mystery of her dream and White Spring, and help Michael find the crystals he was searching for. Instead, she sat on in the peace of that green meadow, as content as the grazing sheep.

  * * * *

  Anne woke the next morning still feeling wrapped in the peace of Chalice Well Gardens. Her visit brought no new revelations, nor did her dreams. In fact, she didn’t remember dreaming at all, but this was her pattern: after a vivid psychic experience, things went silent, underground as it were. Doctor Abernathy taught her that patience and persistence were the keys. If she kept moving forward, more guidance would appear exactly when she needed it.

  Late morning, Michael gave her a call, his voice heavy with sleep. Her longing for him returned in a flood. “When do you come home?” she asked after they exchanged news. “We’re supposed to be honeymooning.”

  “You’re still calling it home,” he chuckled. “I like that.”

  “For now, anyway.”

  “I need to find out what happened to these pieces of the—” He paused. “You know.”

  “Do you really think they’re important?” She lay across the bed upstairs, plaiting and un-plaiting the fringe on a purple chenille throw.

  “I can only imagine what I would do in his place,” Michael said. “I would look for them.”

  “Where are you going next?”

  “Back to New York, to find out what Arnold and Doctor Abernathy have discovered about our friends.” Somehow they stopped calling Cagliostro and Mueller by name.

  “I miss you.”

  He was silent for a minute. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry you’ve lost your mentor.”

  “You lost Thomas.”

  “I’m tired of all this death. I wish we could put an end to it.”

  His bitter laugh felt like a cloud over the sun. “It seems we have no choice.”

  “I love you.”

  “Me too. I’ll call when I get to New York.” They hung up.

  Garth arrived promptly at one o’clock, dressed in jeans, corduroy shirt, and stout boots. He leaned on a walking stick with subtle spiraling lines running the length. The knob was carved into the head of a badger. “Ready?” His brown eyes glinted beneath his shaggy brows.

  His earthiness and steady confidence comforted her. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Garth favored his left leg, but his limp seemed to have improved since Friday morning. He stopped at White Spring and bent to the pipe. A tiny trickle of water dripped into the drain below. He shook his head, but made no comment. They walked to the corner.

  “Tor or Red Spring?” Anne asked.

  “Did you go to the Well yesterday?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I didn’t receive any answers.”

  “How did you feel there?”

  “Wonderful. I haven’t felt that peaceful in a long time.” The heightened state of consciousness she experienced in the underground temple in Egypt left her filled with wonder. Yesterday, she felt a peace that transcended any problems that might arise in her future.

  Garth studied her face for a moment then smiled. “Yes, Glastonbury has that quality at times. Let’s just walk through then, to pay our respects.”

  The person keeping the gate greeted Garth as visiting royalty. The place was flush with children, a fact that ended any hope of another meditation, but they walked through the garden anyway, Garth pointing out the places Anne visited yesterday. “This pool in King Arthur’s Courtyard used to be deeper,” he said. “Up to your chin at least.”

  When they got to the Well, Anne told him about the mist and the subliminal voices.

  He narrowed his eyes, his chin resting on his barrel chest. He seemed to listen to something. Finally he nodded. “You understand the basics of how the springs work with the energy of the Tor. I don’t want to fill your head with legends. I’d rather see what you pick up on your own.”

  Just like Doctor Abernathy, Anne thought.

  “Let’s walk over to Wearyall Hill. I want to take you into the Abbey after hours sometime soon, to visit the Lady’s Chapel.”

  “Are you sure?” Anne pointed to his leg.

  “Much improved.”

  As they walked down Bere Lane past the houses that separated them from the Abbey grounds, Garth told her how Glastonbury Abbey saw a succession of various clergy, first the Druids and then the Saxons, who continued to consult the Druid priestesses. “Next came the followers of Joseph of Arimethea. He was a tin merchant, you know, but some say that’s a reference to the alchemical element associated with Jupiter.”

  Anne shook her head. “What does that mean?”

  “That he was an alchemist, not a business man,” Garth said, as if this explained everything.

  “I thought alchemy came from Europe,” Anne said.

  “Isn’t this man of yours an Egyptologist?” Garth smiled down at her.

  “I remember now.” Anne held up her forefinger. “Al Khem, Egypt’s ancient name with the Arabic prefix.”

  “Right.” Garth stopped at the small roundabout and guided them to Hill Head. They walked along a row of houses. “The next spiritual tradition to join us in Glastonbury was the Kabbalists.”

  “They displaced the Druids?”

  “Certainly not. They got on well together, had a grand time swapping teachings and comparing their maps of the universe, which were similar. Glastonbury and Jerusalem always had a connection. Mary’s mother came from here.”

  “What? How could that be?”

  Garth smiled at her. “In the ancient past, people connected over much larger distances than our anthropologists currently believe.”

  “Now you sound like Michael.”

  The end of Hill Head turned into a footpath that followed the ridge of the hill. Instead of sheep, cows grazed, lifting their heavy heads and staring while they chewed, wisps of grass hanging from their rubbery lips. Calves nursed and nosed at the grass copying their mothers.

  They came to a tree surrounded by a short metal fence. “Did your man tell you about the Holy Thorn?”

  “He started to, but we were interrupted.” Anne shook her head against the sudden wave of sadness.

  Garth politely pretended not to notice. “When Joseph arrived in Avalon, he pushed his staff into the ground and rested here. When he woke the next morning, the staff had sprouted, so he left it and it grew into a tree. People have taken cuttings, and now there are several around Glastonbury. The Holy Thorns aren’t native to the British Isles. They come from Lebanon—Jerusalem, according to the legend. They bloom when the Holy Thorns flower in the Middle East, at Christmas and again at Easter.” Indeed, buds swelled, close to opening. “The Christmas blossoming is considered a miracle.”

  Anne smiled at the story.

  “They pick a Christmas blossom every year and send it to the qu
een.” Garth stroked a thick leaf.

  “Michael said the earliest form of Christianity started here.” Anne kept probing the loss of Michael like someone would tongue a sore tooth.

  “I suppose you could say that. It happened in Israel at the same time. The early Jews who came here followed their ancient ways. That grew into Celtic Christianity and the Abbey.” He waved behind them. They settled on a bench. “Let’s spend some time in silence here, then tell me what you feel.”

  Anne obliged him. She sat beside Garth, as solid as a hill himself, and opened her senses to their surroundings. After a short time, Garth whispered, “Come back.”

  Anne opened her eyes and was startled to see the sun had moved a good way toward the west. “That was just a minute.”

  “About forty.”

  “What?” Anne glanced at her watch in confusion.

  “Time runs funny here.”

  “I guess.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “Quiet, but not as peaceful as Chalice Well. This hill feels more energetic. It’s like a transition place, to move from the ordinary world into the magical.”

  “I agree.” Garth nodded enthusiastically. “Did you see or hear anything?”

  “Nothing specific, but I felt Joseph put his staff here to protect Avalon and mark the place for travelers to wait before entering.”

  Garth slapped his knee in delight. “The ocean surrounded the Tor before they built the seawalls, making Wearyall a landing place. The male Druids today do much of their ceremony here.”

  “It has a more masculine feel,” Anne said.

  “Another day we’ll go to Bride’s Mound.” Garth pointed over his shoulder. At Anne’s look of confusion, he said, “Bridget. You know this goddess?”

  “Not really,” Anne said.

  Garth stood. “Let’s watch the sunset from the Tor. It’s a town tradition.” As they walked, he explained, “Bridget is one of the oldest goddesses. She has three aspects.”