The Sign of Ouroboros

by David Longhorn

  “Come on, Dad,” said Kelly, kneeling beside him. She was wearing a white robe, sandals, with flowers in her hair. “Get up, sleepyhead!”

  Brad stood up and let his daughter lead him through the forest, then out onto a sunlit plain. Rolling grasslands stretched in front of them, and a small village nestled by a stream. The village was inside a stone circle, and he felt sure that these were the Dancers of Wychmere.

  “Come on, we'll be late!” urged Kelly, tugging at his hand. They set off towards the village. The scene had a timeless quality. As they got closer, he noticed that the fields were being worked not with machines, but by men, women, and children in homespun clothes. They came to a road that was not a tarmac highway but a cart track. The village, he could see now, consisted of white, half-timbered cottages. There was no sign of telephone poles, satellite dishes, or any modern technology.

  “So,” he said, “this is what happens after the really big god-snake smashes up the old world order? The survivors grow organic kale and sing folk songs by candlelight?”

  “Isn't it peaceful?” said Kelly. “So beautiful and serene.”

  “A Golden Age,” Brad said, “so long as you don't start thinking about stuff like clean water, antibiotics, and criminals appearing over the horizon. Oh, and high infant mortality, that'll help keep the population down.”

  “You're so cynical, Dad. Has it ever occurred to you that people can live simply, and in harmony with nature? That there needn't be criminals if everyone learns to just get along? And that most of the illnesses we suffer from are down to a crazy, artificial lifestyle?”

  Brad looked at her, baffled by her obvious sincerity.

  “There was a time you'd have called all this cheesy and boring,” he said. “This isn't you, Kelly. You like traveling, loud music, a bit of booze, and quite a bit of other stuff I shouldn't know about. You'd go crazy living as some kind of hippie peasant in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Oh, Dad,” said Kelly, shaking her head, “you don't really know me at all. But that can change. Now, though, let's listen in on your new friends.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Kelly's reply was to put a finger to her lips and lead him to the nearest cottage. The window was shuttered but through the slats, Brad could see into Marcus Valentine's living room. The Englishman was sitting opposite Kathy Hopkirk. And another figure had their back to Brad.

  That's me, he thought. This is the hypnotism session.

  He heard Marcus begin the process, setting Kathy at ease and then putting her under. But then things departed from Brad's memory. Instead of questioning the girl, Marcus said, “Okay, you can stop pretending.”

  “Is he under?” asked Kathy, looking over at Brad on the couch.

  “Oh yes, he's quite suggestible,” replied Marcus. “Anything I tell him now he'll believe. But we'd better not go too far. Just soften him up a bit, so he'll follow my advice.”

  Kathy stood up, walked over to Brad on the couch.

  “What do you reckon he's worth?” she asked.

  “He might be good for a few hundred thousand,” said Marcus, smiling. “But let's not be greedy. You've got to give the fish a bit of play on the line before reeling him in.”

  Brad pulled away from the shuttered window.

  “That didn't happen!” he protested angrily. “It's just another bullshit mind trick!”

  “How do you know?” asked Kelly. “You think I'm being manipulated, yes? Maybe it's you who's the real victim here.”

  “That's a load of crap!” Brad said. “You're being manipulated by a death cult, don't you realize that? Haven't they told you about the sacrifice?”

  Again, she shook her head pityingly.

  “These things are symbolic, Dad,” she said. “But even if they weren’t, I'd give my life to make a better world. Wouldn't you?”

  Brad could not answer, and as he struggled to find the right reply, the sky darkened.

  “Or would you like to stick with your world? Because we can do that?” said Kelly.

  The spring sunshine was blotted out by clouds. The rolling rural landscape faded to be replaced by a gray wilderness, a dust-bowl. On the horizon, a line of black oil derricks topped by gas flares belched smoke. The quaint village and cultivated fields were gone, replaced by the ruins of a nameless city, a concrete hell of ruined and damaged buildings. People clad in ragged clothes picked their way through rubble while camouflage-clad men with assault rifles stood watch over them.

  “What is this?” Brad demanded.

  “This is the real great little world you want to keep,” his daughter replied. “The world made by the practical men, businessmen, people like you. Driven by oil, and money, fear, and death.”

  As if on cue, sirens wailed and a squadron of military jets screamed over the horizon. Brad ducked instinctively as explosions erupted around them. Gunfire blazed across the leaden sky. Brad saw a screaming woman clutching a child to her breast as a wall collapsed onto them. All around, people ran for cover as a firestorm engulfed the area. Brad could almost feel the heat from the flames.

  “Yeah, Dad,” said Kelly, looking at the vista of misery and devastation, “we can just carry on pretending it’s all great. Or we can do something about it. However crazy it might sound, Ouroboros is all about doing that something.”

  “This is horrific, but it can't ever be stopped, not really,” he insisted. “You can't change human nature!”

  Kelly looked him in the eye, unblinking.

  “Wrong. Because that's exactly what we aim to do.”

  Brad woke in the dawn light, still tasting the smoke and dust of the bombed-out city.

  I'm sure you're wrong, Kelly, he thought. But God, I never could tell you that and not feel like a total asshole.

  It was just before six. Brad got up and splashed some water on his face, then got dressed. He would just have time for breakfast. He had an appointment with a courier at Bishop's Green at seven sharp. The kind of person Brad was dealing with did not like to be kept waiting.

  After the deal was concluded, Brad put the package into the trunk of his car. Then he checked in with Marcus and explained that he was going to Wychmere to meet Clay. Brad felt a slight pang of guilt at not sharing everything he knew with the Englishman, but reasoned that the fewer people knew his plans, the better.

  ***

  Brad's car crested the gentle rise to the east of the village. Though he had seen pictures of Wychmere online, he was still impressed by the ancient monument. The ring of thirteen stones known as the Dancers was about half a mile across, and surrounded by a large ditch about six feet wide and three feet deep. The village was small, picturesque, and sleepy in the warm April sunshine.

  The stones give it a weird, timeless vibe, he thought. But it looks harmless enough.

  The neat road passed over the ditch. Brad stopped his car and got out to walk over to one of the stones. It was a granite slab, about eight feet high. He put out a hand and after briefly hesitating, put his palm onto the moss-covered stone.

  Nothing, he thought. No weird jolt of energy, no visions of prehistoric times. Just a big lump of rock somebody brought here thousands of years ago.

  Then his hand encountered something different to the roughness of un-worked stone. He stooped to look more closely at the granite. It was barely perceptible to the eye, but his fingertips traced out a circular pattern.

  The Ouroboros. Must have cut it pretty deep for it to still be apparent today. Or they renew the design every few centuries.

  Brad continued to walk around the stone, examining every square inch of rock. He found signs of weathering, some graffiti scratched in decades or centuries earlier. He began to wonder if he would have to move on to the next stone, and how much unwanted attention that might bring. But then he found what he was looking for.

  Just above ground level, he thought, and nice and deep. I could seal it up with turf and grass easily enough. Nobody would notice if they didn't know what they were l
ooking for.

  Satisfied with his examination, Brad went back to his car and drove into Wychmere. The pub was not hard to find. The sign of the George and Dragon puzzled him, as it showed a knight on horseback slaying what was essentially a winged serpent. St. George was putting his lance through the dragon's neck. The creature was vainly trying to bite through the warrior's shield, which was decorated with a red cross.

  As Brad gazed up at the sign, someone spoke behind him.

  “It signifies the triumph of the new religion over the old.”

  A bald man, dressed in a sober business suit, walked over from the pub doorway. Brad recognized the face from old photos of Jonathan Clay, though the archaeologist had clearly put on some weight and lost what little hair he had had in the Nineties. Brad noticed the plump little man was limping slightly. It made Clay seem even more inoffensive, vulnerable. Hardly a conventional image of a cult leader.

  “So Christianity defeated the serpent?” asked Brad. “And now you're planning a rematch?”

  Clay smiled benignly.

  “Christianity is all about progress from A to Z, from original sin to judgment day and the end of the world,” he said. “It does not take cycles of recurrence into account. We see things differently.”

  “I know a bit about your beliefs,” Brad cut in. “I agreed to talk to you. But you can't convert me, so don't bother trying.”

  “Walk with me a ways,” said Clay. “Up this road.”

  Brad fell in beside the bald man. As they walked through the village, people smiled and greeted Clay as if he were an old friend. Clay, for his part, returned their hellos and engaged in a little village gossip. One theme kept recurring. Saturday was May Day, and a big celebration was being planned. Clay and his cultists seemed to be central to the big event.

  “They seem to have taken you to their hearts,” said Brad, sourly. “How did you do it?”

  “No doubt Mister Valentine would say we brainwashed them all, very rapidly,” smiled Clay. “An entire English village. Not very likely, is it?”

  Brad did not reply.

  He's right, he thought. It's a crazy notion, like something out of a comic strip. But how else could the cult suddenly be so popular round here?

  “What we really did,” Clay went on, “was reveal the truth about the May Day ceremony these people have performed for centuries. Their focus on the stones, the spring ritual of rebirth. They were in possession of half the truth. We brought the other half, the truth about the deity that lies sleeping here. And in many similar places.”

  “So what is Ouroboros, really?” demanded Brad. “An ancient god, or goddess? Some kind of primal force out of the earth? A kind of ancestral memory lurking in the subconscious?”

  “Well done!” said Clay, without apparent sarcasm. “You've done some research. Ouroboros is all those things and more. Ouroboros is unity, a sense of oneness that we lost long ago and constantly seek to rediscover. And the day after tomorrow, with luck, we will.”

  By now, they had reached their destination. Clay gestured at two stones standing very close together. Both had been crudely fashioned into points.

  “These are sometimes called the Fangs,” said Clay. “For obvious reasons. Look more closely.”

  Brad examined the stones. On one, he noticed the circular Ouroboros symbol of the snake biting its tail. On the other, the snake was contorted into a figure eight.

  “How old are these carvings?” he asked.

  “About five thousand years, according to most authorities,” replied Clay. “They are the oldest religious images in the British Isles.”

  Brad ran his fingers over the carvings. Again, he got no sense of any unusual power.

  Just two big old rocks, he thought.

  “You are apparently immune to their influence,” said Clay, as if reading Brad's mind. “Most people get a jolt of spiritual energy from the Dancers.”

  “Why call them the Dancers?” asked Brad. “Seems to me thirteen lumps of rock couldn't be more static.”

  Clay smiled, and gestured at the broad arc of the stone circle.

  “The stones have attracted all sorts of nicknames down the centuries, and they seem rather fanciful. The one at the entrance to the village, for instance, is the Warden. We have just passed Mother Grindle, said to resemble a stooped old lady. But to answer your question, some say pagan dancers were struck by the wrath of God and turned to stone,” he explained. “Or is possible that a ritual dance was held here in prehistoric times.”

  “And you're going to recreate that dance?” asked Brad. “With Kelly playing the leading role?”

  Clay wagged his finger in reproof.

  “That would be telling,” he said. “You'll have to wait and see.”

  “I won't let you put her at risk,” warned Brad, moving closer to the plump little man. “Tell me what you're planning. Is it as risky as the stunt you pulled at Hampton Round?”

  The barb struck home. Clay looked confused, as if struggling to remember something.

  “No,” he said, hesitantly, “nothing happened at Hampton Round.”

  “Someone died!” insisted Brad. “A priest was driven insane. There was an actual earthquake. That's not nothing!”

  Clay put a hand to his forehead.

  “No, nothing really happened,” he said, his eyes oddly unfocused. “You're mistaken. It was a non-event. We simply timed it wrong. There was a silly accident, not my fault.”

  “That's enough. It's time for Jonathan to come home.”

  Brad turned to see a tall woman clad in black appear between the Fangs.

  “You must be Olivia,” he said. “Keeping an eye on the Herald of Ouroboros? Afraid he'll say the wrong thing?”

  The woman ignored Brad, striding past him to take Clay by one arm. None too gently, she began to steer him back towards the village.

  “Are you the high priestess?” Brad shouted after them. “The real leader of this crazy outfit?”

  Olivia did not pause, but called back over her shoulder.

  “There are no leaders, Mister Steiger. There will be no need for leaders ever again, when all are followers.”

  Brad could think of no answer to that. He watched the tall woman guide Clay to a car that then drove off.

  Presumably to Garlock House, he thought. Where Kelly is either a captive, in some sense, or a willing resident.

  Brad walked back to the center of the village and went into the pub. It was a small, snug place, evidently a centuries-old tavern. A sign by the door read 'Original Coaching Inn'. A sprinkling of patrons sat around on benches. A TV screen above the bar was showing a soccer match with the sound set low.

  “What can I get you, sir?” said a friendly-looking barman.

  Brad explained that he was driving and ordered a diet soda.

  “Very sensible, sir,” replied the barman, fetching a glass. “Are you here for the ceremony?”

  “May Day, you mean?” asked Brad.

  “Of course!” The barman grinned. “Our only claim to fame, apart from the Dancers. Looks like fine weather for May Day, too.”

  “So what happens on this big occasion, anyway?” asked Brad as he paid for his soda.

  “Well, there's a parade,” said the barman. “A bit of a sing song, with the parish brass band, and the May Queen is crowned.”

  “All to welcome in the spring?”

  For a moment, the barman looked hesitant.

  “Yes,” he said, “it's a time of renewal. Everybody knows that.”

  “And Mister Clay and his friends, they're taking part?” asked Brad.

  “Oh yes, they've been helping prepare things,” agreed the man.

  “Odd, isn't it, for so many outsiders to just roll up and take over a local event?”

  The barman's broad smile faded, a hint of puzzlement crossed his face.

  “No, sir, quite the opposite. We're all one now, after all. I thought everyone knew that.”

  Brad felt a slight but definite change in the atmos
phere. He noticed that some of the other drinkers were no longer looking at the soccer match, but at him. It reminded him of a few similar occasions in less law-abiding countries. He downed his soda and left.

  The time to get out of Dodge, he mused, is well before anyone actually tells you to get out of Dodge.

  As Brad drove out of Wychmere, he looked at the village receding in his rear-view mirror. The old cottages still looked quaint and inviting. But now the dark stones loomed over the whitewashed homes like malign sentinels.

  Brad took careful note of landmarks along the way, and found a good place where he could park his car that night. He concluded that he would have to approach Wychmere without headlights to ensure he was not seen. It would be touch-and-go.

  But I need insurance, he thought. Never go into a hazardous situation without a Plan B.

  Chapter 11: Flesh and Stone

  Brad got back to the hotel to find Marcus and Kathy waiting for him. The Englishman had disappointing news.

  “The local police were very skeptical, bordering on derisive,” Marcus admitted. “It doesn't help that I couldn't really spell out what the danger to the public was.”

  “Did you tell them Kelly was listed as a missing person by Scotland Yard?” asked Brad.

  “She isn't,” said Marcus, bluntly. “It seems Detective Sergeant Healy is, to use the American phrase, full of it.”

  “You can never trust the filth,” said Kathy.

  “Maybe they got to him,” pointed out Brad.

  “Maybe,” admitted Marcus, “but I had to think fast. So I suggested that the cultists might damage the stones in their ritual. A bit feeble, I know, but it might prompt them to send a car on Saturday morning. These ancient monuments have a complex legal status, it's quite fascinating.”

  Brad quickly changed the subject and told them about his encounter with Clay, Olivia, and the villagers.

  “Sounds like they've got the place sewn up,” commented Kathy. She raised a hand to the faded bite marks near her throat. “Small place like that, wouldn't be too difficult.”