The Green Stone

by Graham Phillips

‘We need to find out if there’s an island in the pool, I suppose,’ said Andy. ‘Can’t see anything up here.’

  They decided to follow the path further along. A small animal scurried away into the undergrowth as they moved forward, torches scanning quickly for any unnatural movement in the trees. After a short time, the trees thinned, allowing a better view of the pool. Making their way to the water’s edge, once more they shone their torches across the lake. This time they could see the end of it.

  ‘Now what?’ said Graham. ‘There’s no island, so that possibility’s eliminated.’

  ‘Let’s try to find the old mill, if we can,’ said Andy. ‘And, if possible, a holly bush.’

  ‘But there might be hundreds of them,’ Graham protested, ‘although I haven’t seen one yet.’

  ‘Maybe there isn’t one at all,’ said Andy, pointing his torch towards the end of the lake. The beam illuminated some brickwork. It was a small bridge, half overgrown with thick brambles and semi-obscured by bushes. Here the pathway crossed over to the opposite side of the lake, and they followed it onto the slightly humped bridge, under which water slowly trickled. As far as they could make out, it came from a small stream which fed the lake.

  Standing on the bridge, they peered towards the far end of the pool. It appeared to be about a hundred yards away. All around was quiet and still. They were alone in the darkness.

  ‘D’you really think someone else could be making their way here?’ asked Graham.

  Gaynor Sunderland at Knights Pool Bridge in 1980

  ‘If they are, they’ll see us a mile off with these bloody torches,’ said Andy.

  What would happen if someone did come? Neither could explain their increasing sense of urgency. Imagination? Yet there persisted the disturbing and unshakeable feeling that someone was coming nearer.

  ‘Where’s the mill?’

  ‘Presumably it’s a water mill.’

  ‘Then there must be a stream leading out of the pool. Quiet.’

  They listened carefully. A soft breeze had now risen and brushed gently through the trees. A bird splashed suddenly on the waters, and a moving car could be heard in the distance. But no hint of running water.

  They continued round the lake, following the path along the other bank. As they walked the trees thinned until they could hear the sound of trickling water. The sound grew louder and more distinct. They moved towards it, Andy leading the way as Graham swept the opposite bank with his torch, checking if anyone else was approaching from where they had just come.

  The torch picked out an area of stone rubble. Old grey stones scattered round a little stream that filtered from the pool.

  ‘My God,’ Andy said, ‘this must be it.’ In pieces on the floor were parts of the old grindstone, while all that remained of the mill were several piles of moss-covered brickwork. He picked up some bricks and shook his head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Graham.

  ‘I don’t think this mill is going to help us. Look at these, they’re much too new. A hundred years old at the most. And even if I’m wrong, if there ever was anything hidden here it’s certainly gone now. Hardly anything left of it.’ Andy shook his head. ‘Either way I think we can count out the mill.’

  ‘What about the holly bush?’ said Graham. ‘It seems our last hope.’ He started to leave, but Andy didn’t follow. Graham turned and shone his torch at Andy. He stood quite still, staring out across the lake.

  ‘What the hell is it?’ asked Graham.

  For a moment Andy didn’t answer. ‘Pakington logic,’ he said. ‘We’re forgetting to think Pakington logic. We’ve become too damn preoccupied with Alan’s message. He gave us enough to guide us to the right track, but he never said where the sword was hidden.’

  ‘Go on,’ Graham prompted, returning to the site of the mill.

  ‘Where would Pakington have hidden the sword? There’s no island in the pool, so where else?’

  ‘How can we guess that in the dark?’ protested Graham. ‘If there’s another old building somewhere round here it could be some distance away.’

  ‘If Pakington used it, it would be nearby, I’d guess,’ said Andy.

  They searched again. The minutes passed and turned to hours while they grew colder and colder. They were tempted to leave and return in the daylight, but somehow they knew that if they did they would return to find nothing. The urgency in Alan’s voice troubled them still. They knew they had to find it tonight.

  A sword, Alan had said. They were looking for a sword. In their imagination the night played strange tricks. Everywhere they saw swords, erect branches, mysterious shadows. Then, just as they were about to give up and leave, they saw it.

  ‘The holly tree,’ cried Andy. A large single holly tree stood beside the path, twenty or so yards from the bridge. Was this what Alan had seen? Could this really be where the sword was buried? It was a large holly tree, not a bush, but good enough.

  They began digging.

  ‘D’you think it could be the bridge?’ Andy said slowly. ‘It’s the only structure around the pool. If it was there in Pakington’s day then it overlooked the pool. What better place?’

  It was possible. The holly tree was nearby. They transferred their attentions to the bridge. Here the slowly-moving stream passed beneath. Long grass and soil covered the bridge, thick turf above the red brick arch rising about four feet over the waters below. Bulrushes grew alongside it. The foundations were matted with successive layers of branches and undergrowth.

  Graham leant cautiously over the edge and shone his torch beneath the arch.

  ‘No way,’ his voice echoed from below.

  ‘What is it?’ said Andy.

  Graham pulled himself up. ‘I can’t see this bridge dating back to Pakington. It’s just not old enough. The red brickwork is too modern.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It can’t possibly be three hundred and fifty years old. Besides, bridges have to be repaired, so they’re hardly likely to be much of a hiding place.’

  Andy leant over the edge and pointed his torch into the undergrowth on either side.

  ‘Hold on a moment!’ he cried.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some of these foundation stones look pretty ancient.’

  They clambered down the side of the bridge and under the arch, crouching painfully on a narrow ledge only inches above the freezing waters. They examined the brickwork. Certainly, the foundations appeared to be much older. Large, irregularly hewn stonework. As far as they could see, the foundations to both sides of the arch were of the same roughly-hewn stones. How old these foundations were they had no way of telling, but there was little doubt they were of much older construction, completely different from the red house-bricks of the arch itself. The arch had obviously been repaired. They scrambled out, back onto the bridge.

  ‘D’you think it’s possible that this bridge does date back to Pakington’s time?’ Graham asked.

  ‘Apart from the arch it’s certainly very old,’ Andy replied.

  They moved back and forth, examining the bridge still further. Andy’s ‘Pakington logic’ echoed in their ears. If something had been hidden by Humphrey Pakington, Gertrude Wyntour, or whoever, and if Knights Pool was the place alluded to by the Nine Worthies, then where would the artefact be hidden? Had there been an island then surely they would have chosen that. But no island was to be seen. So where else? If the bridge had stood in his time it would be the obvious choice.

  Suddenly it struck them. Even though bridges need repairing, their foundations remain. Here the foundations to either side were completely covered by years of vegetation.

  The prickly brambles and creepers scratched viciously as they hacked a path through to the stones. One side of the bridge seemed well-preserved, whilst the opposite side was quite dilapidated. It was the side facing the lake that was in the best state of preservation. No doubt following heavy rainfall, the flooding waters would gush under the bridge and, over the years, cause more damage to this side. The lak
eward side would not have suffered such batterings, and presumably Pakington would have reasoned this out, taking the precaution to bury nothing on the riverward side. Perhaps somewhere on the side nearest the lake there lay buried the artefact they sought.

  ‘I suppose it would make sense for him to hide something in the side of the bridge overlooking the pool,’ said Graham, ‘assuming he chose the bridge. But which side and where?’

  ‘Behind a stone, maybe,’ said Andy. ‘They’re certainly big enough to hide something behind.’

  ‘Yes, but which one?’

  Andy thought for a moment. ‘So many down and so many across perhaps?’ he suggested.

  ‘But how many?’

  Andy thought again. ‘Got it!’ he said. ‘The number of the Worthies, of course. Nine.’ It seemed too easy. Yet why not; logically that would be what the Nine Worthies would have represented. Pakington logic once again.

  They stood on the bridge, deliberating their best course of action. They agreed there was a good possibility that if there was a buried sword, then the bridge must be the hiding place. But they were poorly-equipped to begin removing stones from the foundations. The stones were too solidly fixed; they would need help. More importantly they needed to find out about the bridge. For a start, whose land was it on? Whose permission must they seek?

  They were caught between what they should or should not do. Alan had been too accurate for it to be a coincidence, and he had been right about what they had found so far. In addition, he had stressed the urgency. Over and over they discussed the situation, and everything that had happened to date which had led them to the bridge on this cold, dark autumn night.

  If they hesitated would it be too late? Alan Beard certainly thought so. Everything else had been right. The psychic messages, uncannily accurate. The historical information, totally correct. They could not afford to leave. They owed it to the psychics, to all those involved.

  The bridge was indeed in a state of ill-repair, clearly undisturbed for many years. Completely overgrown, and on the river side crumbling away into decay. Another stone or two carefully removed and replaced could surely do no harm. They had to try it.

  ‘From where should we count the stones, along, up or across?’ asked Graham, again leaning out over the edge.

  Andy joined him, shining his torch at the foundations. He began counting. ‘Nine from the bridge from where the centre arch gives way to the side supports, I’d think.’

  Graham agreed.

  ‘And nine down would put it deep in the foundation, safer than just a few stones from the top.’

  They now had to decide which side. It was a toss-up, but perhaps the swords of the Nine Worthies, since they were pointing to the right when viewed straight on, indicated the right-hand side of the bridge as it faced the lake. They chose that side. Here it was even more overgrown than the rest of the bridge, with almost impenetrable brambles, high nettles, thick weeds and creepers. They took turns holding the torch as the other hacked away at the undergrowth with a stick. Eventually they were forced to return to the car to collect the spade.

  After some time, they reached the edge of the wall which comprised the side foundations of the bridge. The side was equally overgrown, both from the top and bottom.

  Their hands were painful with cuts and nettle stings, but their work was far from being completed. Next, they had to clear the thick, twisting vegetation from the stonework itself, exposing the bridge for perhaps the first time in years. They jumped onto a band of soft ground below, dividing the bridge from the black mud and water of the lake. They cleared away the remaining creepers, which still clung to the lichen-covered stonework. The old wall was exposed before them, each stone about a foot wide and six or so inches high. It was then that they recalled the smell of rotting vegetation that Marion had told them about when she had her vision of the sword. Where they crouched the stench of decay was almost overpowering.

  Quickly, they counted the stones and found the one they wanted. Like the other stones it was fixed firmly in place.

  ‘Shall we try to move it?’ Andy asked.

  Graham glanced around. The cold, dark lake lay silent behind them. Again, they felt a mounting sense of urgency, a kind of fear. Were they on the brink of discovering something that would once and for all convince them of the reality of the strange psychic messages, perhaps even change their lives? Or would there just be nothing?

  Graham held the torch as Andy scraped away at the moss-filled crevice around the stone. The age-old cement behind it was more difficult to remove than they had expected. For nearly half an hour they took turns digging away at it, alternately using Andy’s penknife and trowel. They also had to loosen several of the surrounding stones. After some time, the stone moved a fraction, and they were able to get a grip, rocking it to and fro, heaving and pulling to loosen it further, scraping their mud-covered fingers in the process. The growing anticipation overshadowed their pain and discomfort. Then, with a final tug, the stone came away, bringing with it a shower of debris.

  Andy shone his torch into the black hole. There was something there! Something was lying on the narrow recess behind the stone which had fallen away, still partly hidden by an adjoining stone. Although encrusted with years of silt and earth deposits its shape could still be made out, the shape of a long dagger or short sword.

  Alan had been right! A sword. No! It was impossible.

  They had followed the trail of clues and psychic messages, but neither of them had ever really believed it could happen. How could they? No, it couldn’t be a sword, it was impossible. The dim light of the torches in the recess was playing tricks. They had been thinking about swords for too long.

  They continued to stare, but the earth-covered shape did not fade to become a protruding root or crack in the rock. It was still as they had first seen it. It was real. No fantasy. They stared in disbelief. It was true.

  What Joanna had said, Marion’s psychic visions, the psychic messages, all must be true. There was no other explanation. Graham felt his stomach muscles tighten. He had never denied the existence of psychic phenomena. But this...? It was not simply the realisation of the truth of the psychic messages, but all that it implied. Here was the final proof.

  Nor could Andy control his emotions. He lost control and burst into tears. Tears of relief, shock, or joy; he didn’t know which. He turned and shook Graham by the shoulders. Graham turned and stared blankly, his eyes wide and unseeing.

  ‘It’s here,’ Andy cried. ‘It’s bloody here! I don’t believe it.’

  Yet neither of them attempted to touch the object.

  ‘I thought I was dreaming,’ said Graham.

  ‘So did I. You can see it. I’ve been seeing swords everywhere.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  They stared at each other. Andy wiped a mud-covered arm across his face. They exchanged an unspoken question. Who would be first to pick it up?

  Graham stretched out his hand and touched it. It was real, he could feel its rough texture. He brought it into full view and withdrew it, holding it at arm’s length, somehow not wanting to hold it too close.

  The sword was about twenty inches long, the tapering blade about two-thirds of that length. A small cross-piece, perhaps of two inches, divided the hilt from the blade. No details could be made out through the encrusted silt. A long dagger or short sword, either way Alan had been right. Graham handed it to Andy, almost reverently.

  It was true. But what was true? What force, what power, what intelligence lay behind it? UFO beings, a living woman speaking through a medium, an ancient secret sect? How did it all fit? And why should they be the ones to find the sword? And what about the Stone? That must also surely exist. But where? The Stone that held the power to overcome some force of evil, a force of evil that... The realisation that this force must also exist hit them between the eyes. It had already destroyed so many. It, too, wanted to possess the Stone. Maybe it wanted to destroy it, or was its intention even more sinister? It want
ed the Stone, perhaps, for its own evil ends.

  Joanna had said there were others, mortals like themselves, who had been inspired by that opposing force to search for the Stone. Alan had stressed the urgency. He had said someone else was getting close. But this opposition, who were they, where were they?

  Their eyes searched the dark lake, the black silhouettes of the trees against the moonlit night sky. They were alone, and vulnerable.

  ‘For God’s sake, Andy, let’s get out of here,’ urged Graham, in a desperate whisper.

  Andy glanced round. ‘D’you think...’

  Graham did not let him finish. ‘I don’t know what I think. All I know is that anyone, anything, God knows what, could be on its way here.’

  They quickly checked the recess for anything else, replaced the stone and hurried back to the car, all the while looking behind them as they left the scene of the most shattering experience of their lives.

  Graham Phillips & Andy Collins at the Knights Pool bridge as it is in 2019

  Chapter 9

  Meonia fore Marye

  They found themselves bolting the door and checking the windows in the headquarters. Every small sound jarred their senses, sounds they would normally have ignored or perhaps not even heard.

  They laid the encrusted sword on a sheet of paper spread out on the table. It looked singularly unimpressive, a long metal object covered in dried earth.

  It was 3 am in the morning. What should they do? Contact Terry perhaps. But somehow they felt it might be unwise to speak over the phone. A plethora of ideas flashed through their minds, some crazy, some not so crazy. Were they being watched, or bugged? Quickly they rationalised the situation; back in familiar surroundings they could see things in better perspective.

  Alan had said that the sword would ultimately lead them to the Stone. The only way to find out was to remove the sediment from it. But if they tried to clean it, would they damage it? Should they take it to local archaeologists or historians, experts who could advise them on the correct procedure to avoid damaging their precious find? If the sword was to lead to the Meonia Stone, with time running out, there was no choice but to clean it immediately.