“Doubting Thomas,” Jim said with a laugh. “Did you know the Elizabethan magician John Dee announced that he had discovered the elixir vitae-the water of life-at Glastonbury?”
“You seem remarkably at ease with the fact that so much of your religion is based on older beliefs,” Ruth said as Shavi filled a plastic water bottle from the spring. “Don’t you feel it undermines your faith?”
Jim shrugged. “I can be very pragmatic. But Christianity still speaks to me more clearly than anything else; I can’t ignore that. And I suppose, in my heart, I don’t see a conflict between the Old Ways and the new. There are always higher levels.”
Once Shavi had taken enough water, they continued along the path past two yew trees to another decorative pool in a sun-drenched lawn area.
“I’m very happy to be here,” Jim continued. “Glastonbury has always been somewhere special, sacred even, right back to neolithic times. The druids set up a college here to pass on their beliefs and wisdom. What is it about Glastonbury? You see, I believe the power of Christ is here, in the land itself. And I’m sure the pagans recognised the same thing, although they called it something different.”
Ruth wondered how much he knew about the Blue Fire, but she didn’t raise the point. “You said you wanted us to be aware of the risks.”
He nodded, suddenly serious. “No one has ever followed this to its conclusion, the Grail itself. But we know enough. We know it isn’t buried in any physical sense; it’s in some place that lies alongside our own world. I can’t really explain it any better than that. The ritual you’re about to embark on will unlock the door-that has been done before, once, long ago. But after that … Well, we only have the stories to go on.”
“What stories?” Ruth asked. Shavi was listening intently, as if there was no one in the world apart from Jim.
The cleric wandered over to the shade beneath a tree and leaned against the trunk. “In the third century BC the Celts established a lake village near here. In those days all the lowlands around here were underwater-there really was an Isle of Avalon. One reading has that name coming from the Celtic legend of the demi-god Avalloc or Avallach who ruled the underworld, and this was supposed to be the meeting place of the dead where they passed over to the next level of existence. Our knowledge of the Celtic tradition is limited and confusingcharacters were called by different names in different parts of the Celtic world. Others said the subterranean kingdom of Annwn exists beneath the tor, ruled over by Arawn, the lord of the dead, and anyone who ventures into it encounters demons rather than the land of bliss that greeted those who were invited. Others said the place was the home of Gwynn ap Nud, Lord of the Wild Hunt, which local stories say haunts the hills around Glastonbury.”
Ruth went pale at this information, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“The names don’t matter. The common thread is that the place you will visit is terribly dangerous. And,” he continued darkly, “we discovered that for ourselves when we opened the door long ago on that one occasion I mentioned. Never again. So I will ask you now to consider carefully before you continue.”
Shavi stepped forward deferentially. “I feel we have no choice,” he said gently.
Jim nodded. “I guessed that would be your answer. Then know this: the part of the message that is missing would have told you the timing is vital. You must take the water up on the tor at first light. And then God help you.”
chapter fourteen
a murder of crows
hutch, Veitch and Tom left Jamaica Inn after an early breakfast. The day was bright, with cloud shadows sweeping across the moor beneath the imposing background of Brown Willy, the highest point. But the light had that strained spring quality which threatened inclement weather at the drop of a hat. They could continue their trek, but there were no roads in the direction indicated by the lamp and they knew the going would be treacherous. Instead, they found a local woman who allowed them to cram into her carefully preserved Morris Minor on a shopping trip to Launceston, where they hoped they would be able to pick up another lift.
Although Tom and Veitch could both sense something was wrong, Church hadn’t spoken about his encounter in the night. Marianne’s revelation had tormented his sleep and on waking he wondered if he would ever sleep peacefully again. On the one hand he felt a great relief from the burden of responsibility in her death; yet the new mysteries that arose in its place were just as frightening in their implications. Who could possibly have killed her?
Despite Launceston buzzing with all the life of a healthy market town, they had to wait until midafternoon before they could find someone who could take them on the next leg of their journey. They bought some heavy Cornish pasties, which they ate in the back of a painter and decorator’s van while they made their way slowly through North Cornwall villages which didn’t seem to have changed since the fifties; the only sign of modernity was a huge battery of wind turbines, turning eerily in the sea breeze. “We like the old ways round here,” the driver said between drags on a cigarette. The countryside was green and leafy after the desolation of Bodmin Moor and the closer they got to the coast the stronger the sun became, until it was beating down with all the force of a summer afternoon. Eventually they crested a ridge to see the deep blue sea ahead of them. The road wound down to the coast through an avenue of gnarled, ancient trees where the breeze smelled of salty, wet vegetation. They were dropped off in Boscastle outside the sun-drenched white walls of the Museum of Witchcraft, and although the lantern was still flickering towards the south-west, Church sensed they were near to their destination.
They set off walking along the road which clung precariously to the craggy coast, heavy with the history of smugglers and shipwreckers, and three miles later, as the sun slipped towards the horizon, they found themselves in Tintagel.
“I really should have guessed,” Church said as they rested in the village at the top of the steep track that dropped down to the ancient monument. “Arthur again. All those references don’t make sense.”
Veitch stuffed the last of his bag of chips into his mouth. “What’s this place got to do with King Arthur?”
“Just stupid legends. There was some writer in the twelfth century, Geoffrey of Monmouth, who made these outrageous claims that Tintagel was the birthplace of Arthur and that Merlin took him from here to be fostered in secret. Good for the local tourist trade, not much good for actual history.”
“There are no such things as stupid legends,” Tom interjected coldly.
“I know what you’re saying, Tom, but when people believe this kind of stuff it makes an archaeologist’s job so much harder.”
“The Folie Tristan said the castle was built by giants and that it used to vanish twice a year, at midsummer and midwinter,” Tom said with a strange smile.
“Exactly.” But Church had the uncomfortable feeling that Tom’s comments weren’t in support of his own argument; the man continued to smile until Church looked away.
“So was he real or not?” Veitch said looking from one to the other. “Excalibur! Lancelot! Bleedin’ great stories.”
“I don’t deny they’re great stories,” Church said, “but that’s all they are. Archaeologists recently dug up a piece of slate or something here with part of the name Arthur scrawled on it, and suddenly all the thick bastards on the national papers were saying it was proof he lived here. But Arthur and all the derivations were common names, meaning bear-like-“
“Old stories do not always tell the truth in a literal sense,” Tom said directly to Veitch, “but sometimes they tell the truth in their hidden meaning.”
Veitch seemed quite satisfied by this, but, wearied by the travelling, Church had little patience for Tom’s obfuscations. “So what are the hidden meanings?” he snapped. “I know this was an important place to the Celts, like all the other places we’ve trawled through, but I can’t see what any of it has to do with a character who didn’t exist, or at least not in the form everyone’s talking about.”
Tom glanced up at the darkening sky, then turned to the track down to the castle. “Come on. We must be there before nightfall.”
Church thought it was another attempt to divert his questions, but as they trudged down the steep incline, Tom said, “When the Celts ruled Britain was the last time the land was truly alive.”
“You’re talking about the Blue Fire-the earth energy?”
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, his eyes fixed firmly on the sea in the distance. “When the gods departed, the people were freed from the yoke of terror, but they lost something too. The people and the land are linked; like a mother and the baby in the womb, the blood that flows through one nourishes the other. But more than that, what you call the Blue Fire is also a powerful force for offence-for the defence of the land and the people. But like any weapon it needs to be nurtured to prevent it falling into disrepair. With the gods gone, there was no longer the immediate need for the people to unite and stay strong, with the force of the land at their backs. The mundane, day-to-day struggle of survival in a difficult environment took over and they forgot the importance of caring for the land through ritual at its sacred sites. The power dimmed, then grew dormant, and the people continued happily in their ignorant belief that all they needed was what their hands could grasp. But the Blue Fire is the spirit of the land and the people, inextricably linked for all time.”
The track grew less steep as a small valley opened beside them with a tiny stream winding among wildly overgrown nettles and brambles. To their left, the side of the valley soared up high above their heads where part of the ruined castle lay. No tourists ventured down at that time, and the only sound was that of the sea crashing against the crags.
“So now the Fomorii are back we need to awaken that power again? To help us get the strength to defend ourselves?” Church searched Tom’s face for answers, but his features were unreadable.
“It’s all talk with you two, isn’t it.” Veitch seemed uncomfortable. He was continually scanning the thick vegetation away to their left and the growing shadows behind them.
“And Arthur?” Church continued.
“The Celts used their stories to pass vital information down the generations. Nobody can be bothered to remember facts, but if they are stitched into the fabric of an exciting tale …” Now he was distracted by the landscape. Perhaps it was the way the valley’s steep slopes made them feel insignificant and trapped, or perhaps Veitch’s obvious uneasiness was catching, but Tom seemed to be growing increasingly wary.
“And?” Church said with frustration.
“And all myths and legends are the same. Arthur is not a man. He is the embodiment of the spirit of man and the spirit of the land.”
Church suddenly saw what Tom was suggesting. “The legend of Arthur sleeping under a hill to be woken in Britain’s darkest hour … That’s a coded message to awaken the power in the land.”
“Finally,” Tom said wearily.
“And all the sites linked to Arthur are ones that are important to the earth energy! But I don’t understand-“
“No more talk,” Tom snapped. He stopped suddenly and glanced back up the sweeping track, as if he had heard something. Church listened intently, but the only sound was of the faint breeze rustling the bushes. “Let us get to our destination. At least we should be safe there.”
“Safe from what?” Witch said. Church saw his hand go unconsciously to the gun hidden in his jacket.
They speeded their step along the gravel track, falling into an uncomfortable silence. Above, the sky had turned deep blue and they could make out the diamond stars; it made Church feel very alone. The English Heritage building was locked and dark at the point where the valley opened out at the coast. The stream plunged into an impressive white waterfall cascading down on to the pebbled beach. The tide was out, the sea dark and powerful, licked with creamy surf where the waves broke powerfully.
And high up on their left were the ruins of the twelfth century castle like jagged teeth on a broken jaw. “We go up there, I suppose,” Church said hesitantly.
“No,” Tom corrected. “Down. To the beach.”
Church looked at him curiously, but he gave no hint of how he knew the direction.
They clambered across the culverted stream and along a path that ran over treacherous, slick rocks where signs warned of the dangers of the crumbling cliff face. In the growing gloom, it was difficult to haul their way over the jumbled boulders to the crunching pebbles, but they managed it with only a few knocked bones. The beach had the thick, fishy smell of seaweed and the thunder of the waves was almost deafening.
Tom led them across the stones to a gash of impenetrable black in the soaring cliffs beneath the castle. “Merlin’s Cave,” he noted.
Veitch laughed. “Merlin! That’s not you, is it? You’ve got that look about you.”
“No, it is not,” Tom said indignantly.
“We’re going to do ourselves some damage in there,” Church said, trying to pierce the darkness. “We won’t be able to see our hands in front of our faces.”
Tom marched past him into the shadows. Church cursed and glanced at Veitch, who circled his finger at the side of his head. But a second later they were slipping and sliding over seaweed and rocks, splashing into pools and stubbing their toes, while desperately trying to keep up with him; in the end they were gripping on to each other’s jackets so they didn’t become separated. They seemed to hang suspended in the dark where the echoing sound of the sea was almost unbearable until Church cursed, irritated with himself for not thinking, and pulled out the Wayfinder. In its shimmering blue light he could see the cave actually went right through the thin promontory that joined the mainland to the bulk of the island where the oldest part of the castle stood.
“What the hell are we looking for in here?” Veitch yelled above the roar.
“A door of some kind, I suppose.” Church told him how the ground had opened magically at Avebury. Veitch shook his head in disbelief.
Tom’s frustration was obvious as he stood on an enormous boulder and scanned the shadows that scurried across the walls away from the lamp’s light. “Where is it?” he muttered.
Veitch glanced back to the cave entrance nervously. “There’s something out there.” He looked back at Church for some kind of comfort. “I must be going mad. I can’t see anything, hear anything, but I feel like my heart’s going to burst. I can’t shake the feeling there’s something bad coming for us.”
Church nodded as supportively as he could muster, then returned his attention to washing the lantern’s light across the rock. “We’ve all got to learn to trust our feelings,” he said distractedly.
“Thanks a bunch,” Veitch replied moodily.
And then Church did hear something, in the slight lull between the breaking of the waves. It sounded like a wild rustling or fluttering, but he couldn’t think of anything that might have caused it. He looked to Tom, who was searching the walls with renewed, almost frantic energy. “Just keep looking,” he said before Church could speak.
“There!” Witch exclaimed suddenly. He pointed to a part of the wall that was now in darkness. “Bring the lamp back!”
Church slowly swung the Wayfinder round until the section was illuminated. The shadows ebbed and flowed and then, for the briefest instant, a shape appeared. Church adjusted the lamp gently until the faint outline of a broadsword materialised out of a chaotic jumble of cracks that would not have been visible in any other light. Tom bounded from the boulder with a sprightliness that belied his age and slammed his palm against the symbol; blue sparks burst from his fingertips.
At that moment the pounding of the surf died again and the mysterious sound filled the cavern, throwing them all into a state of anxiety. Church looked back towards the entrance and saw some kind of whirling movement, darker even than the shadows. He thought he was going to be sick.
His attention was snapped back by a sudden rending sound from deep within the rock wall. A crevice
mysteriously grew until it was wide enough for them to slip through. They hung back for just a second while the disturbing sound from the entrance seemed to rush towards them, then they dived in without a backward glance.
Although they weren’t immediately aware of it, the wall closed behind them, trapping them in a tunnel in the rock barely big enough to stand upright. Their feet kicked up sand and seashells, and the deep, salty smell of the sea was everywhere.
“This place floods with the tide,” Church noted ominously.
“How can rock open up like that?” Veitch asked.
“It didn’t. It simply appeared as if it did,” Tom replied obliquely.
“What was that outside, Tom?” Church asked.
“No point talking about that now. The tide is coming in. We do not have much time.” He pushed past them and led the way along the tunnel which opened up into a cave the size of Church’s now burnt-out lounge. In the wall opposite were three holes set out at intervals along a line at waist-height.
“What are we supposed to do?” Veitch asked.
Tom dropped down on his haunches to peer into the holes. “I can see something …” A shrug. “I would expect the objects of power wouldn’t be lying around for just anyone to pick up.”
Veitch inspected the rest of the chamber, but there were no other distinguishing marks. “So, what? We have to find the combination?”
“Something like that.”
“Good job there’s not a lot riding on it,” Veitch noted bitterly.
“You know,” Church said, “there might be a switch in one of those holes.” He tapped his fingers gently at the entrance to the middle one.
“That’s not much of a security system.”
“Here,” Tom said sharply. Church and Veitch turned to where he was pointing. A trickle of frothy sea water had washed up the tunnel to the mouth of the chamber.
“The tide must sweep in quickly through the other entrance to the cave.” Church handed Tom the Wayfinder, then turned back to the holes. “Bloody hell. We haven’t got much time. What do we do?” Steeling himself, he rammed his hand into the middle hole. It went in up to the middle of his forearm and at the far end there were two loops of metal which his fingers slipped through easily. “I think there is a switch here!”
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