According to Clay, all the stone circles in Britain and beyond had been temples to a universal snake-deity. Clay dubbed this hypothetical god ‘Ouroboros’ and seemed to believe that it represented some kind of primal force of nature. All subsequent gods, Clay asserted, were creations of human superstition and credulity. Only Ouroboros was real.
So why, wondered Marcus, isn't the Snakey One still in charge?
Here, Clay's theorizing became vague and contradictory. But one thing was clear. Clay believed that some kind of cosmic cycle was coming to its climax, and that this would herald the return of the 'Great Old One,' as he called Ouroboros. The book ended with an exhortation for all 'true believers' to prepare the way for the return of the world's true god.
“Crackers,” said Marcus, slamming the book shut. “But obviously sincere.”
In his years of investigating cults, he had encountered plenty of scam artists, eager to exploit their followers financially and sexually. Clay seemed to belong to a different category.
Declan Healy arrived just before midday to drive them to Sussex and the Catholic rest home. Marcus gave him a synopsis of the book, trying to sum up its peculiar blend of scholarship and mysticism.
“How useful is it to us, do you think?” asked Healy.
“You never know,” replied Marcus. “Knowledge is power. I think Clay is sincere, which arguably makes him more dangerous than a mere charlatan. And the violent death of Matt Arnold is a fact, however it was done. We should tread carefully.”
“Too right,” said Healy. “I still can't quite remember what happened to me yesterday. I keep getting flashes of this naked woman.”
Marcus tried to suppress a smile.
“Not nearly as pleasant as it sounds,” said Healy. “Now, what's the best route to this rest home?”
An hour later, they arrived at the gates of Saint Benedict's Retreat for Retired Clergy. They were met by a formidable Irish nun who introduced herself as Sister Mary Assumpta. Healy, who had called ahead, introduced Marcus as 'an expert consultant,' and insisted that Father Quigley might have vital information in a murder inquiry. The nun looked skeptical, but led them into the rambling Victorian building, all the while warning them not to over-excite the priest.
“The poor man's had a few rough days lately,” she explained, “what with the nightmares and all.”
“Nightmares?” asked Marcus.
“Yes, he's been screaming about demons and pagans and the like,” said the nun. “He has his good days, but they've been precious few lately. So don't expect him to be too coherent.”
Sister Mary showed them into a wing of the house that had been converted into some self-contained apartments. They stopped outside a green door marked Father Patrick Quigley. The nun knocked and called, “Father? I have some visitors to see you.”
There was a brief pause before a nervous, high-pitched voice said, “Who are they?”
“One is a policeman,” she explained. “The other seems a nice enough gentleman. Are you decent, now? We don't want a repeat of the incident with the plumber, now do we?”
“Yes, woman, I'm fully dressed!” came the exasperated reply.
A chain rattled, the door was flung open, and a man of about sixty looked out. Father Quigley was dressed in clerical garb, but his hair was untidy and he hadn't shaved for several days.
“Men are all right,” he said, staring at Marcus, then at Healy. “No strange females allowed in here, that's the rule.”
“Yes, Father,” sighed Sister Mary, waving the visitors past her.
Quigley slammed the door and chained it behind Marcus and Healy.
“Got to be careful,” he said. “Security, you know! Now, let me put the kettle on.”
The priest bustled into his tiny kitchen. Following, Healy introduced himself and explained that he was working on a case linked to Ouroboros. Marcus lingered in the living room, noting the bookshelves stacked two deep with books on a wide range of topics. Most seemed to be about religion, paganism, and related matters. Something else caught the Englishman's eye. He went over to the window to check. It was sealed shut with heavy masking tape. Then he noticed that the pleasant ornamental fireplace had been bricked up.
“Security,” said Quigley, emerging from the kitchen. “You can't be too careful. They can wriggle in through the smallest crevice.”
Healy looked thoughtful at that.
“I found your name in some old news reports, Father,” said Marcus, deciding to get to the point. “I thought you might be able to enlighten us about Jonathan Clay and his followers?”
“Followers?” echoed the priest. “Ah, who's following who? I thought he was the leader, but now I'm not so sure. No, no, it's not so clear at all.”
Further questioning produced a garbled account of the incident in Ireland.
“I was sure Clay had murdered that poor lad,” said Quigley. “But I was wrong. It was worse than that. But I must get your tea.”
When the priest was out of sight, Marcus and Healy discussed him in low tones.
“I've seen some unreliable witnesses in my time, but this one takes the biscuit,” said the detective.
“I don't think he could stand up to cross-examination in a courtroom,” agreed Marcus, “but we could still learn something useful.”
Quigley returned with tea and biscuits, and before either visitor could speak, he had resumed his rambling narrative.
“You see, it took me years to track Clay down,” he explained. “I was a parish priest, I had duties, and the church is not happy when a clergyman goes rogue, so to speak. I became an embarrassment. Started to lose my grip a little, I dare say.”
Quigley paused, then looked at Marcus.
“You've seen something of evil.”
The Englishman looked uncomfortable.
“When I was young, a student at Oxford, I dabbled in the occult. It was my way of rebelling. Things went wrong. Someone died.”
Marcus looked over at Brad.
“That's why I try to help, I suppose. To make amends.”
The priest nodded.
“I sought to do what was right. I sought them out after that dark business at Ballymahan. But I didn't realize quite how dangerous it was, not really.”
With a little prompting from Marcus, Quigley began to tell them his story.
Chapter 7: Southern England, June 2005
“Oh yes,” said the barman, “they're camped up on top of the earthwork. I saw their campfire last night. Been there for a few days now.”
Father Patrick Quigley followed the man's pointing finger. Out of the wide front window of the pub he could make out the great prehistoric structure known as Hampton Round. This early in the morning the Sussex village of Lesser Hampton literally lay in the shadow of the grassy mound. The earthwork was a vast artificial hill, flat-topped, and surrounded by a deep ditch. Its purpose had been a mystery since the beginning of recorded history.
“And does anybody know what they're doing up there?” asked the priest.
The barman shrugged.
“I've heard they dance about at night, singing, doing some kind of ritual,” he said. “But that's nothing new. All kinds of folk come down here. There are scientists, pagans, psychics, Wiccans, and ghost hunters. Their money's all equally good, as far as we're concerned. Got to make a living, after all.”
“Do they come in here?” asked Quigley. “The people up there now?”
“They stopped off for a drink on the way,” replied the barman. “Nice chap seemed to be a sort of leader. Had quite a harem of pretty, young ladies. Nice work if you can get it, leading these cults, eh?”
“Quite,” said Quigley. “So they didn't tell you why they came here?”
“No,” conceded the barman, “but he was very interested in the name of the pub.”
“He asked about the Hampton Worm?” asked Quigley.
“Yes, very keen to know all the folklore. Of course, it's just a load of nonsense for the tourists, and I told him
that. All that stuff about monsters, it's just for kids, isn't it?”
The barman gestured at a plaque on the wall behind him.
“Old folk song,” he explained.
Quigley read the verses that referred to 'the Hampton Worm' that supposedly once terrorized the area. It had, according to the song, emerged from the prehistoric mound at the behest of a sorceress. The worm had possessed 'great big jaws and great big teeth, and great big goggly eyes.' Fortunately, after eating all the local sheep and cattle, plus quite a few peasants, the fearsome beast was slain by the brave Lord Hampton. Similar stories of enormous 'worms' were found throughout England. They were dismissed as folk legends by most experts. The priest was not so sure.
“If only real evil could be dealt with so simply,” Quigley murmured.
The priest thanked the barman for his help, finished his beer, and left the pub. His rental car was parked in the one street of Lesser Hampton, which had only a few dozen residents.
I can't be sure it's them, Quigley thought. So many years spent searching, so many false leads. But I have to know. And the legend of the worm is just the sort of thing to draw the cult.
He drove out of the village and took the winding dirt track to Hampton Round. The earthwork grew more imposing as he neared it. The priest struggled to suppress a sense of looming evil about the mound.
It's just a great work of men long dead, he told himself. Deluded men, denied the true faith. If they worshiped a false god, so much the worse for them. If anyone seeks to revive such worship, I have a duty to denounce it.
The makeshift road petered out at a turning place where two cars were already parked. The whole area was overgrown with grass and wild flowers. Quigley saw that a winding track to Hampton Round had been made by people passing to and from the vehicles. It led to a rudimentary footbridge over the ditch, and then around the conical hill in a spiral path.
Sighing, Quigley set off to hike up the slope in the bright morning sun. By the time he reached the top, he was perspiring, jacket slung over his shoulder. Sure enough, when he breasted the rise at the top of the Mound, he saw a cluster of three tents. A half dozen people turned to look at him as he came into view. One he recognized at once.
Jonathan Clay, he thought. Older and plumper, limping a little, but unmistakably the man. Found you at last!
“Father Quigley!” said Clay, recognizing the priest at the same moment. “This is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to this obscure little corner of Sussex?”
“I think you know,” replied Quigley, walking up to Clay and studying the renegade scientist. “It's a matter of simple right and wrong.”
“Ah, an ethical question,” said Clay. He gestured at a path that circled the summit of the Hampton Round. “You can see the English Channel from here, on a clear day like this.”
Quigley fell into step beside Clay, glanced at the distant glimmer of the sea.
“I'm not here for the view, Jonathan, and I don't think you are, either,” he said. “I want to know what happened to your student. Young Dermot Kavanagh. His family have a right to know the truth.”
“The local police concluded that he must have fallen into the bog,” Clay pointed out. “A tragic accident. What more can I say?”
Quigley grabbed Clay by the arm and spun him round.
“In the name of all that's decent, man,” he shouted. “What did you do to the poor lad? What part did he play in your unholy antics? And what are you planning to do here?”
Clay looked down at the priest's hand gripping him until Quigley let go.
“I don't mean to be inhospitable, Patrick,” he said, all trace of friendliness gone. “But we have the landowner's permission to be here, and you do not.”
“And that's another thing,” said Quigley, “how come you've suddenly got all these rich and influential friends? Why are you so hard to find? What are you all up to, here?”
“We are pursuing our path to spiritual enlightenment,” said a new voice. “It may not be yours, priest. But the days when your sort could suppress other faiths are long gone.”
A woman had walked up behind Quigley. She was tall, nearly six feet, and seemed vaguely familiar. Her expression, while not hostile, was calculating. The priest felt he was being sized up and found wanting.
“No need for unpleasantness, Olivia,” said Clay, with a touch of nervousness. “Father Quigley just dropped in to say hello.”
“I'm sure he has someplace he has to be,” said Olivia. “Very soon.”
“Olivia?” said Quigley, staring at the woman. “The little student? That's impossible. You haven't aged a day in over ten years, and you've grown eight inches. More!”
Olivia laughed. Clay looked uncomfortable.
“You should be careful, Father,” said the woman. “Go around talking like that and people might get the impression you're a trifle unhinged.”
“What happened to Dermot Kavanagh?” demanded Quigley.
“His physical body is no more, his soul is united with Ouroboros,” replied Olivia, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“That's a lot of nonsense!” shouted the priest.
“Whereas believing a god impregnated a virgin is rational?” asked the woman. “You're on rather thin ice, Father.”
“You can blaspheme all you like,” said Quigley. “But I will go on until the truth is told about your nasty little cabal.”
“You are trespassing,” said Olivia, in a condescending tone. “We could call the police to have you removed. It would probably feature in the local paper. Would that go down well with your bishop?”
The priest retreated in confusion, stumbling down the hill and back to his car. He sat for nearly half an hour, pondering the impossibility of an adult growing in stature by such a huge amount.
No normal human being could do that, he thought. Something strange and blasphemous is at work here.
Quigley drove back to Lesser Hampton to make a few more discreet inquiries. He learned from the village's sole shopkeeper that the Ouroboros cult had reserved the site until the following night.
“Apparently,” his informant told him, “it's about this thing called the solar system.”
Puzzled, Quigley went back to his accommodation at the pub. It took him several hours to work out what the woman had meant. Inspiration came around midnight, when he took out his diary. Sure enough, the following day was marked 'Summer Solstice'
The shortest night of the year, he thought. A significant time for pagans. But what are they going to do?
Lying on his bed, still fully dressed, Quigley went through his sparse collection of material published by Ouroboros. There was nothing about Hampton Round, but then there were only general references to circular prehistoric monuments. He fell into a fitful doze that lasted until morning.
As he ate breakfast in the dining room of the Hampton Worm, Father Quigley saw a steady stream of cars pass through the village. They were heading for the great artificial hill. The barman, doubling as waiter in the morning, noticed too.
“Never seen such a turnout for Midsummer Eve,” he remarked. “Quite the festival they're going to have.”
A thought struck Quigley.
“Will any locals be going up to the Round this evening?” he asked.
The barman hesitated, then laughed.
“Nobody round here's got any time for that nonsense,” he said cheerfully.
I saw fear, if only for a moment, thought Quigley. There is something about that earthwork, some lingering trace of pagan power. People here sense it, and know to avoid it on certain days.
Quigley spent much of the day trying to contact his bishop. He had made a nuisance of himself with the church authorities for years, claiming that a murderous pagan cult was rising. He knew that he was considered a joke by some, an embarrassment by others, but not a serious figure. After his fourth attempt to contact his superior was rebuffed by an underling, he gave up.
No help from on high, he thought. Or at least, not from any
earthly power. No point in contacting the Sussex police. They'll file me under 'crackpot', just like they did in Ireland.
After lunch, Quigley went up to his room and checked what he thought of as his Holy War kit. It consisted of a bag containing bottles of holy water, a large crucifix, and an old prayer book containing the rite of exorcism.
“I am acting like a lunatic,” he said to himself. “But when reason and moderation fail, what else is there but madness of some sort? And someone should speak out against evil, at the very least. Perhaps even strike a blow for what is right.”
The long June day eventually drew to a close. The setting sun was casting a blood-red shadow on Hampton Mound when Quigley set out. He drove to the parking spot, noted more than a dozen cars, and then slung his bag over his shoulder and set out for the earthwork. As he neared the lower slope, he heard chanting from above.
The sunset, he thought. The dying of the Good Lord's daylight must mark the start of the ritual, the blasphemy.
By the time he had hiked to the top of the hill, the chanting had become louder. And there was something in the air. Quigley felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
A static charge, he told himself. Foreshadows an electrical storm. Summer lightning.
The priest did not quite believe his own rationalization, but as he reached the top, the sight drove all other thoughts from his mind.
A large fire burned in the middle of the round space, and dozens of people were circling it, hands joined. Looking more closely, Quigley realized that there were two circles. The outermost consisted of around two dozen people of both sexes, all well-dressed and seemingly prosperous. The inner circle was composed of eight or nine young women, and they were all naked. As the priest watched, one broke free of the inner circle and jumped over the fire to general cheers.
Sky-clad witches, thought Quigley. A stupid, pornographic fantasy of medieval paganism.
At first, the priest could not make out the words that were being chanted, but as he crept closer he picked out a few phrases. 'Ouroboros will rise again' was repeated, as was 'the Great Old One' and something like 'the closing of the circle'.
The Sign of Ouroboros Page 9