Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  “Size matters?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.

  He ignored her. “Okay, Germany it is. Want some coffee?”

  “Tea.”

  He started to get up, but she held onto his arm. “You’re warm.”

  Michael settled down against her. Anne nestled closer, content, then chuckled when she felt him stiffen. She rocked her hips and they came together yet again. Michael’s thrust built in intensity and just as she felt him tremble inside her, the front door of the house opened.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice called from downstairs.

  Way past the point of no return, Michael stifled his moan in the pillow.

  Anne recognized the housekeeper’s voice. “Goddamn that woman,” she said in a fierce whisper.

  Michael pulled the duvet over his head. “I knew I was pressing my luck.”

  Anne grabbed a robe and hurried to the head of the stairs. “Actually, this isn’t a good time, Tessa.”

  The stolid woman stood at the foot of the stairs. She looked down at her bucket and plastic container full of spray bottles and rags, then frowned up at Anne. “When do you suggest I come back, then?”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience.” Anne bit back the desire to tell the woman just how inconvenient she was. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

  Tessa put a hand on her hip. “My schedule is tight. I’ll have to check.”

  “Today really is impossible. I’m sorry.” Anne started to turn back, but then stopped. “When you come back, please bring the key to that cellar door.”

  Tessa frowned. “It’s always open.”

  “I don’t mean the one in the kitchen. The one in the back of the basement, the old one.”

  Tessa looked at her for a moment. “It was always locked as long as I’ve worked here. I know nothing of a key.”

  “Could you just double check your key ring? I’ve looked in all the drawers.”

  “Certainly.” Tessa picked up her supplies in one hand and awkwardly yanked open the front door. “I’ll call before I come again.”

  “I appreciate it,” Anne said to her retreating back.

  She went back to the bedroom, but Michael was pulling on his clothes. “What was that about?”

  “She came to clean…of all times.”

  “At least she didn’t come last night,” he said.

  Anne softened and leaned against him.

  “Where do you want to go?” His voice was muffled in her hair. “Shall we start where we left off?”

  “Actually, Garth showed me both springs and Wearyall Hill. We didn’t get to Bridget’s Well, though.”

  “I wanted to show you Glastonbury,” Michael protested. “Just what does this Garth look like, anyway?”

  “Tall, dark, handsome.” Anne smiled up at Michael. “He really knows his stuff.”

  “Worse and worse.”

  Anne laughed. “He was Cynthia’s lover. I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, I have an idea for today’s adventure.”

  Anne took another quick shower and dressed, accompanied by the sounds of Michael banging around in the kitchen. She came downstairs to toast and tea.

  “What was all that about a key?” he asked while she spread marmalade on a wedge of bread.

  “Oh, there’s a door in the back of the basement that’s locked. I wasn’t able to find the key.”

  “Call a locksmith.”

  Anne tapped her forehead. “They have those in England?”

  Michael laughed. “I’m glad I’m still good for something.”

  “He asked us to dinner, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Garth.” She wiped marmalade off her lip. “Cynthia dedicated her book to him.”

  “Are you still reading it?”

  “Yes, but I think it really is her vision. She mentions the crystal in it.”

  “She already had it. That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You should take a look at it.”

  “You can tell me all about it in the car.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Anne settled in the passenger seat of Michael’s Peugeot and they headed off. She narrated the story in Cynthia’s manuscript while she watched the green fields and small villages of Somerset pass by.

  Once she was finished, Michael said, “It matches stories of Atlantis, and some of Cayce’s information. The note says the story is real?”

  “Yes, but she wanted to publish it as fiction. She didn’t want the family to be embarrassed by her claiming that she channeled it. Garth said that my mother might try to have her committed.”

  “Garth again.”

  Anne punched his arm. “Stop it.”

  They fell into silence. Anne lost track of where they were. Michael took yet another roundabout then slowed down on a strip of road that looked to Anne just like any other. Suddenly to her right loomed a row of standing stones. She sat up. “What’s this?”

  Michael pointed ahead, where the road came to a T. An enormous stone stood in the field just on the other side of a fence surrounded by other stones almost as large.

  “Oh, my God. Michael?”

  “Welcome to Avebury, love.”

  “This is Avebury? The place where Megan did her first Beltane ceremony?”

  He negotiated the S curve in the road that ran through the stones. All the while, Anne turned her head back and forth, trying to see everything at once. The road straightened out again. More stones rose from the fields on both sides.

  “How big is it?”

  “It’s the largest megalithic circle in the world.” Michael pulled the car into a driveway, then put it in reverse and backed onto the road. “Let’s go park and you can see for yourself.” They drove through the tiny village again and left the Peugeot in the car park, forking over five pounds, then followed the path to a row of giants. Anne pushed open a small gate and walked past a couple of broken stones then down a line of plinths, small concrete pyramids. “What happened here?”

  “It’s the work of zealots, from the middle ages on, but mostly the 1700’s. Keiller bought it before they finished their handiwork. That wasn’t until the 1930’s, though.”

  “Too bad. Imagine what it must have looked like.” She reached the first original Saracen in the line. “Can you touch them?”

  “Of course.”

  She placed both hands flat on the stone and closed her eyes. Nothing. After a minute, she moved to the next one and did the same, but she felt only the rough granite beneath her hands. Anne continued down the line, pausing at each stone, spending a few minutes with each one. Some were round with curves and small cavities, others tall and pointing to the sky. Tiny round openings made spy holes in a few of them. About halfway down, a raucous caw startled her. A fat, shiny raven sat atop the long, lean stone. The bird tilted its head and regarded her with a beady black eye, then swiveled its head and looked at her out of the other.

  “What?” she asked.

  The bird squawked and flew down the line of Saracens. It landed on an enormous stone across the street then looked back and cawed again. On the ground lay a crisp black feather. Anne picked it up and pushed it into her buttonhole. “Thanks,” she called, then turned to Michael.

  A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Maybe he’s suggesting you could skip a few stones.”

  Anne walked over and took his arm. “Lead on. They’re not talking to me, anyway.”

  “We’ll try the Devil’s Chair.”

  “The what?”

  “That’s what the old farmers called it. The later Christians taught that all the sacred Druid sites had something to do with Satan…who came from their own religion, of course, not the Druid’s.”


  “Show me.” Anne tugged at his arm.

  “It’s the one the raven flew to.” He sped up his pace. “The story is if you walk around it three times counter clockwise, the devil will appear.”

  “Why would anybody want to see the devil?”

  “Indeed.” Michael thought of the young Cagliostro. He was somehow hesitant to tell Anne about Doctor Abernathy’s youthful indiscretions. They crossed the road and walked up to the same stone the raven flew to. Anne slowed down, picking her way through the sheep dung.

  “Here we are.” The massive stone hunkered near the road, rising at least three times Michael’s height. Seven or eight people standing side by side might be able to embrace it. Michael patted a natural ledge in the stone at a convenient height. “Have a seat.”

  Anne hopped up and leaned against the stone. It sent a wave of welcome to her. “Ah, this one says hello.” She closed her eyes.

  After a minute, Michael asked, “Does it say anything else?”

  She opened her eyes. “Nope.”

  Michael snapped a picture and Anne got down. “Just like real tourists.”

  “This stone marked the entrance to the southern circle. Up a ways is the entrance to the northern circle. The ancients placed the largest Saracens in these openings, but there’s another big one farther north.”

  “Do you think Cynthia’s right? That this is where the men gathered?”

  Michael shrugged. “It makes sense. Fire in the south, a masculine element. Earth in the north, feminine. No one knows for sure.” He looked around. “Now it seems to belong to the sheep.”

  They walked the circle at Avebury, pausing to lean against the stones, to touch them, to listen for whispers from the past. With the sun just past his zenith, they made their way to the Cove stones again then on to the Red Lion Pub, situated smack in the middle of the circle. Anne chose a table outside overlooking the southern circle and Michael went in to order. Sheep grazed, people drank their pints, and cars drove by. The bus to Salisbury stopped and picked up a couple of passengers.

  Michael returned with beer and water. “Ever heard of Florrie?”

  “Who?” Anne put her hand up to block the sun.

  “The resident ghost.” He sat across from her.

  “Tell me.” Anne took a long drink.

  “Florrie was the landlady here…in the seventeenth century, I think. Anyway, her husband went off to war. When he came home, he discovered her with her lover.”

  “He found out she was disloyal, see,” a male voice called out.

  Anne looked down the long picnic table to a couple in motorcycle-riding leathers.

  “That’s right. Killed her, he did. Tossed her down the well,” the woman added.

  “She still walks at night. Then there’s the man as was stabbed in the cellar,” the man added quite cheerfully.

  “That’s right. On the tellie, it was.”

  “Most Haunted is the show. Ever see it?”

  “Never have.” Anne shook her head.

  “Staying here?” the woman asked.

  “Just down for the day,” Michael said.

  “American, are you?”

  “Yes,” Anne answered. “What about you? Do you live around here?”

  “Just out riding. Live down near Kingston.”

  Their food arrived, rescuing them from more ghost stories. They ate Italian cheese and spinach risotto and a jacket potato stuffed with goat cheese and onion marmalade, stealing from each other’s plates, then topped it all off with French fries. Anne said no to the sticky toffee pudding.

  “Let’s go into the Henge Shop and check the crop circle board,” Michael suggested.

  “A bit early for those,” the man down the table commented.

  “I suppose it is. I want to show it to my wife, though.”

  Something in Michael’s tone made the woman look up. “On your honeymoon, then?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Ah, that’s lovely.”

  “Thanks for the stories.” Anne gave a small wave, and she and Michael walked down the road toward the shop. “Honeymoon?”

  Michael put his arm around her. “The Sphinx married us.”

  In the Henge Shop, Michael showed her the crop circle bulletin board with a detailed map of the area. Stickpins marked last summer’s crop of earth art. Below, picture books of each year’s best filled one shelf. Anne wandered off to look at the jewelry, while Michael stayed to check out the books. She decided on a puzzle ring with two slender silver bands tied together into a Celtic knot.

  “Ready for more?”

  “Stone circles?”

  “I want to save Stonehenge for a private viewing. It’s always crowded.” Michael pointed a finger at her. “Don’t let Garth take you.”

  She smiled.

  “There’s lots more to see around here,” Michael said.

  They drove by the flat-topped Silbury Hill and walked down to West Kennet Long Barrow, where Michael gave a long discourse on prehistoric burial practices in Britain. Anne lay in the spring grass and watched the clouds. When he realized she wasn’t listening, he lay down beside her and the fire between them rekindled.

  “Let’s go back,” Anne whispered in his ear, nibbling the lobe.

  “No one’s around.” Michael reached for her zipper.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Anne laughed and pushed his hand away. “There’s nowhere to hide.”

  “We could go into the tomb.”

  Anne shuddered and got to her feet. “Come on.”

  They drove home in the sultry air of anticipation, but when they pulled onto Wellhouse Lane, a crowd blocked their way. Michael leaned out of the window. “Excuse us.” No one paid him the least mind.

  Anne rolled down her window. “What’s happening?” A couple standing on the sidewalk shrugged. She got out and slipped through the people until she could see the patio around White Spring. Tessa stood with the tall woman she was with before, her hands on her broad hips, complaining to Garth. Anne edged closer.

  “…and now some strange woman is there. Do you know what she—” Tessa stopped dead when Anne walked up.

  Garth turned with a frown to see what Tessa was staring at and his face lit up. “There you are. I was looking for you.”

  Tessa colored a deeper red.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t met.” The tall woman’s upper crust accent matched the elegant hand she offered to Anne.

  Garth took on the burden of introductions. “This is Joanne Katter, the well-known writer.”

  Anne searched her memory, but came up with nothing.

  “Joanne, meet Anne Le Clair, Cynthia’s niece.”

  “A pleasure. I’m so sorry to hear about your aunt. Her presence in Glastonbury was an asset.”

  Anne wondered if she imagined the slight emphasis on the word “her.”

  “This is…?” Garth’s hearty voice made her turn around.

  “Michael.” Anne reached out for his arm. “My fiancé.”

  Tessa smirked.

  “I was finally able to park,” Michael said to Anne. He looked at the others. “Joanne Katter, is it?” The woman’s thin lips curved up. “I’m Michael Levy.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “Indeed? Another luminary come to Glastonbury?”

  “You’re too kind,” he dissembled. “You must be the infamous Garth.”

  “So this is your man.” Garth winked at Anne. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His large hand swallowed Michael’s.

  “Tessa.” Michael acknowledged her with a nod then turned back to Garth. “What’s all the fuss?”

  Garth rocked back on his heels. “It seems our impromptu ceremony the other day didn’t quite do the trick.” The crowd parted for him as he walk
ed over to White Spring’s water duct. The water dripped at long intervals.

  “We were trying to explain to Garth,” Joanne said from Anne’s elbow, “that a women’s ceremony is what’s needed. Bridget will answer to our call.”

  “Bridget?” Anne turned to her with a frown.

  “Yes, the white maiden. This is her well.”

  “I thought—”

  “Yes, well,” Joanne brushed by Anne’s opinion without pausing to pay attention to it and fixed Garth with a look. “We can straighten this out.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  “We have the situation well in hand.”

  “Then, if you’ll excuse me?” Garth looked at Anne and jerked his head toward her house. He turned back to the crowd. “Our good Joanne here will be doing some work to restore the spring. Your prayers are welcome, of course.”

  A few voices rose in protest, but Garth turned and started to climb back up the slope of Wellhouse Lane. Anne took Michael’s hand and followed. A short man with a ruddy complexion and wild brown beard hurried up to Garth. “You’re leaving it to them, then?”

  Garth glanced back to see if anyone was in hearing range, then said, “I’ll be in touch, Bran. Tonight.”

  The man gave a curt nod and walked back down the hill. From the front steps of her house, Anne could see a small knot of people gathered around Bran, their heads together.

  She followed Michael and Garth inside where they arranged themselves in the front room. Garth studied them both for a long minute then addressed himself to Michael. “I assume I don’t have to explain to you just how grave the situation is.”

  Michael shook his head. “This is one of the major power spots on the Earth grid. It keeps the planet in balance, links the worlds. People have come here since…” he searched for the right phrase “…well, forever.”

  Garth’s face softened. “I’m glad you understand.”

  “What was all that about Bridget?” Anne looked between the two of them. “I thought this well belonged to the male side of the, uh…force.”

  “It’s never that simple,” Garth said. “Water is a female element, and springs and wells traditionally are kept by women. Tradition holds that White Spring belongs to the goddess Bridget, especially in her maiden form. Calling on Bridie should help.”