Chapter 8. An invitation
I forgot to mention that before my nighttime encounter with Jem, during the fortnight when I’d been grilling everybody I knew to find out more about him, the phone at Rose Cottage had rung for the first time.
I’d noticed the cottage had a landline when we first moved in because the phone looked as if it belonged in an antique shop. It was a mustard-green plastic brick with a dial rather than buttons, which sat on the floor in a corner of the kitchen. I didn’t think it was connected, so I nearly cut my finger off when it suddenly began to ring.
I was waiting for Rebekah to get back from work and right in the middle of slicing a particularly slippery tomato. I let out a cuss word or two, dropped the knife into the sink, and sucking on my bleeding finger tried to get over the settee to the telephone. Flipping it off the hook with one hand I cradled the receiver in the crook of my neck
“Mnfffff?” I removed my bleeding finger from my mouth and tried again,
“hello?”
“Thea?”
The voice sounded familiar, who could possibly be calling me on this phone?
“Yes,” I replied cautiously, “who is it?”
“It’s Shanty, Shanty Corydon. We met the other day.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” I was hardly likely to forget meeting a real live card-carrying professional witch, even if I didn’t think much of her supposed powers.
“I wanted to ask you if you have any time to spare on weekends. I’m looking for someone to help out occasionally in my shop, the Black Cat? Saturdays mainly.”
I caught sight of myself in the mirror next to the kitchen table. I was scrunched up over the arm of the sofa, trying to support the phone in my neck while holding the finger of my other hand vertically above my head in an attempt to stem the flow of blood which was threatening to drip onto the cushions. I realized what I needed most was some more of Shanty’s patent healing ointment.
“Sure, why not?” I told her.”
“This Saturday? Ten O’clock?”
“Mmmm,” my finger was firmly lodged back in my mouth again. Who would have imagined that making a salad could be so dangerous?
On Saturday, after a quick coffee at the Paper Mill in the company of the NG, I showed up for work at the Black Cat right on the button of ten. Shanty looked slightly surprised to see me, apparently the last assistant she’d had never made it in before half past; she’d just assumed all teenagers were equally lousy timekeepers.
Although I hadn’t lied outright to Rebekah about where I’d be working, I’d been deliberately vague. I didn’t want her to fret unnecessarily. Fortunately she was uber distracted by some complicated case she was dealing with at work so she didn’t really ask me much about anything. I didn’t think she’d mind particularly, I was just aware that the occult angle probably wouldn’t play well with my ‘path to recovery.’
The mystery of the phone call was solved relatively quickly when Shanty told me she’d known the previous tenants of Rose Cottage. It was certainly no secret what address the only American in the village was living at.
The job was a breeze; in fact I had no idea why she wanted to spend good money on getting someone in to help her at all. Most of the customer orders were for the online business - hazel wands, herbal remedies, spell books, natural beauty products and such like. All I had to do was read the order, throw whatever it was they’d asked for into an envelope, fix a sticky address label to it, frank it with the correct postage and toss it into a collection bag.
I had lots of spare time to twiddle my thumbs and chat with Shanty.
The few live customers who appeared were either spotty pre-teens looking for love potions, or middle-aged women after vegan face creams. A fat sweaty man with a black straggly beard, lots of tattoos and a tongue piercing dropped by looking for “some, like, really sharp knives for sacrifices innit?” and was swiftly shown to the door.
Actually Shanty didn’t seem to particularly like having customers in the shop - period. Perhaps that explained why there were so few of them.
The two of us managed to get on reasonably well together though our relationship was totally one-sided. Shanty liked firing lots of questions at me about my family mainly. It was done in a nice, friendly sort of way, but it became a little like one of those scenes in the movies where the secret agent has to sit on a chair with a light pointed in her face and beat the interrogator. The only way to deflect her was by giving her so much unnecessary detail that she started glazing over, and stopped listening.
I fired off a few questions of my own whenever I got the chance. I was very pleased with myself for managing to prize out of her that she and the NG had been an item once upon a time. Who would have guessed? I amused myself, in between packaging the occasional order, with picturing the two of them in intimate and increasingly compromising situations; which only goes to show how dull it was working there.
In fact the only genuinely interesting thing that happened at the Black Cat took place on the second Saturday I’d been there.
I was busy making myself look busy, not that Shanty seemed to care, organizing some crystals into a display when the door to the shop opened and a woman stepped in.
She was in her mid-forties with a striking face, not exactly beautiful, more arresting and sophisticated looking. She had an air about her which suggested she was used to being admired. What made her stand out was Shanty’s reaction. She bristled, I know it’s an expression they use a lot in books to describe people’s reactions, but she really did bristle.
It was like watching a cat preparing for a fight, fur on end, muscles tensed, and a vicious hiss just waiting to come out at the first sign of trouble. I saw this nature program on the Discovery Channel once showing a mongoose watching a snake. That’s how Shanty looked when she was watching this elegantly dressed woman walk slowly around the shop touching this and that, stopping for a moment to open a book, then holding a scented soap under her nose to smell it.
Each of her movements seemed controlled yet at the same time fluid, no energy was wasted, and there was a strong sense of untapped strength in everything she did.
The mystery woman seemed blissfully unaware of Shanty’s bristle factor and strolled all the way around the shop before finally heading to the counter with a bottle of evening primrose oil. I put my hand out to collect the money when Shanty barged me aside and slammed the till shut.
“We’re closed!” She stood glowering at the woman, as if daring her to complain. If she was hoping to get a reaction she must have been disappointed, because the woman simply looked at her in silence for a moment, put down the bottle of oil, smiled politely and walked out of the shop.
Shanty was right on her tail, slamming the door shut the instant she’d stepped out though it, and twisting the key firmly in the lock. I gaped at her.
“What about the other customers? It’s only two O’clock”
“They can use the ruddy internet!” she snapped. What’s more she point- blank refused to tell me who the mysterious woman was, or why she was so uptight about having her visit the shop. The most I could get out of her was that she was bad karma.
I kept the fact that I thought it was fairly bad karma for the owner of a business to treat a customer quite so rudely, and that it probably explained why she lived in a run-down caravan in the woods. It took a while before I finally found out who the woman was, and even then it happened by chance rather than design.
The morning after Jem showed up outside my window and kissed me a hand-written card appeared with the mail. It was terse to say the least. The only words on it said “come to tea, 5 pm.”
It was only when I looked at the address printed on the top of the card that I realized who it was from. Draxton Manor, Baring. Jem wanted me to come to his millionaire’s mansion for tea!
I finished college early; I only had one lecture on Wednesdays, and rode the bus back into Baring feeling both relieved and guilty that I hadn’t seen eith
er Jayne or Jem at the campus that morning. I’d confided in Millie during class that I was meeting Jem later on, and had to put up with a monologue explaining what a bad idea it was. I’m ashamed to say I was fairly prickly with her and we didn’t part on the best of terms. The trouble was I agreed with every word she’d said. I just wasn’t going to pay any attention.
English tea, what kind of a social event could that be exactly I wondered? I could’ve asked Rebekah of course. I just wasn’t in the mood for one of those embarrassing chats about boyfriends adults always seem to want to have if they get the slightest hint you might be interested in someone.
Since Rebekah married dad we’d drunk a lot of tea together, I’d had tea at the Lodge, at Audrey’s and with the NG, though he preferred coffee, I just hadn’t actually been to someone’s house for tea - let alone to a millionaire’s mansion. I was already beginning to panic about what to wear. I admit it’s slightly odd given that I’d spent the night outside with Jem wearing a cardigan and a Onesie, but that’s how I felt.
The afternoon passed in a haze of outfits, none of which seemed to fit my idea of an English tea party. I finally settled on a pinafore dress over a thin roll neck sweater, with plain navy tights and a new pair of suede boots I’d bought in Ringburg. I wrestled my hair back in a long pony tail and secured it with a scrunchy.
I wanted to be sure that just in case Jem’s infamous mother was going to be there I looked like the sort of girl you could safely introduce to a parent. A horrible thought struck me. What if she really liked Jayne? Perhaps I looked way too square and boring? It was too late to do anything about it if I did, because it was already past the time when I should’ve left. I hurried out of the cottage, and set off on my bike along the road towards Ringburg, trying to keep the oil from the chain away from my tights.
About a quarter of a mile out of Baring I found myself pedaling next to a seemingly never-ending high stone wall. Some fifteen or twenty minutes further on I saw an impressive granite archway flanking the road.
On the top of the arch was a statue of a lion, guarding the entrance. A heavy wrought iron gate blocked the passageway underneath the arch, though through it I could see a long gravel drive leading off through woodland which then wound off to the left.
There was a control panel with a small camera on it next to the gate. Looking into the camera self-consciously I pressed a chrome button and waited. A foreign-sounding voice that was vaguely familiar spoke only one word.
“Yes?”
I looked blankly into the camera. I was on the verge of giving my name when there was a buzz, and a clunk, and the gate swung open slowly on its hinges.
The trees planted along either side of the drive were amazing; there were dozens of huge conifers lining the route on either side of the gravel track soaring hundreds of feet into the air. I almost got a crick in my neck staring up at them as I cycled past. Rounding the corner I’d seen from the gates I had my first sight of Draxton Manor.
Whilst the Lodge had been a wild fantasy of a building, Draxton Manor was the most perfect house I had ever seen in my life. Ivy, climbing roses and clematis trailed around the windows of an English country house, made of a honey-coloured stone, which looked as if it had been there since the beginning of time.
I don’t mean it looked old, though of course it did; it looked as if it belonged right where it had been placed, almost as if it was part of the forest itself.
A path led up towards the property through a rolling meadow of wild flowers. Half way through the meadow a square of grass had been leveled and provided the landing site for a sleek black helicopter which squatted like a giant insect guarding the bottom of a set of stone steps.
Leaving my bike at the bottom of the steps I clambered up them until I reached a paved terrace flanked on one side by a thick green hedge. Coming to an archway cut into the hedge I passed through it, and entered an enclosed formal garden which took my breath away.
A fountain gushed water through the mouth of a bronze fish into a stone basin surrounded by ferns. Stone columns linked by a lattice of wooden cross-pieces provided shade for paths bordered by ornamental shrubs and flower beds, and each of the paths ended in a pleasing feature of some kind; a statue, or a pedestal, or a sundial.
I passed a series of benches which seemed to have been placed in the best spots all the way through the garden, tempting you to sit and listen to the gentle hum of bees as they flitted through the air collecting nectar from the late blooming flowers.
Although I would have loved to spend more time in this heavenly place I was only just in time for the tea date so I made my way swiftly through another hedge archway only to run straight into Jem.
His expression on catching sight of me would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so hurtful. He gasped in shock, and gawped at me stupidly, looking for all the world as if he’d seen a ghost.
“What the?...What are you doing here?” he stammered, barely able to get the words out. This wasn’t the scenario I’d been picturing.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” I demanded, jabbing my finger towards him to emphasize what I was saying. “You invited me.” His response left me completely stunned.
“Are you crazy?” He grabbed me by the arm, turning me back towards the gap in the hedge, “you have to get out of here, right away,” his hand was in the small of my back, and he was physically pushing me along now.
“Just a minute!” I dug my feet in firmly and resisted, the soles of my boots scraping along as they dug into the gravel path, “what the Hell do you think you’re doing?”
I was furious. I wouldn’t be shoved aside like an empty crisp packet, particularly not by someone who had told me to come here in the first place. Jem looked desperate to get rid of me, what was going on? Then I twigged.
“Is Jayne here?”
“No, of course not,” Jem insisted, “it’s nothing like that!”
“Oh yeah?” I dripped sarcasm, “is that so?”
“Yes, it is!” He looked so agitated it was obvious he was lying. “You have to leave now.”
I felt my face flush involuntarily with anger, and tears pricked my eyes, I would not cry in front of him, the pig! I managed to speak, although my voice sounded fairly wobbly. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t stay here another second, even if you offered me a million bucks!”
I spun hard on my heel and marched off back through the formal garden, none of this was doing my new suede boots any favors. The fountain, statues and columns didn’t look so appealing on the way back. I blundered my way past them tears starting to fog my sight, so utterly consumed with anger I thought I would spontaneously combust.
Just before I reached the other side of the garden I lashed out with my foot at one of the pretty shrubs bordering the path, kicking it as hard as I could and hearing a very satisfying crack as snapped at the base. I could always buy another pair of boots.
“What a pity, I was fond of that plant,” the words came from a delicate wooden arbour I’d missed seeing on my journey through the garden the first time. A woman was sitting inside it, concealed by heavy foliage.
My heart sank. I looked down at the shrub I’d attacked; it was leaning drunkenly. My anger evaporated and I felt totally wretched. I groaned inwardly. “I’m really sorry. I’ll pay for it to be replaced.”
“No matter, though perhaps you’d like to share your reason for crushing it in the first place?” The woman leaned forwards so that the sunlight caught her face. She was wearing sunglasses, but I would have known her anywhere, it was the elegant woman from the shop. This must be Circe Masterson; Jem’s mother.
I was about to reply when Jem reappeared next to me. I shot him a look filled with daggers, bits of broken glass and sulphuric acid.
“Have you met my son?”
I really hated it when I got things right. Jem and I spoke at exactly the same instant. He said “no” just as I said “yes”. Circe Masterson’s eyebrows lifted enquiringl
y. Jem spoke first.
“She was just leaving.”
I mumbled my agreement; if he was going to pretend we’d never even met I wasn’t going to bother to argue. Let her think I was trespassing; it was probably less embarrassing than trying to explain what a jerk her son was. Circe shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she announced with a quiet authority. I looked at the shrub again; it must be something rare and extremely valuable. Jem’s fists were clenched, and he was trembling with barely repressed emotion.
“Why not?” he demanded.
Circe removed her sunglasses, and turning to look at me she patted the seat next to her.
“Because I invited this young lady to tea, and she hasn’t had any yet.”
I think it’s fair to say I was more surprised than I’d ever been in my life. She’d invited me? Not Jem at all? Not that it made his reaction to me any better or easier to understand; though actually it did. It was even more likely that Jayne was at the house if he’d no idea I’d been invited round for tea.
He stood there dumbstruck, it was clear he didn’t have a clue what was going on. In spite of the fact that all my instincts were telling me to get the heck out of there I also felt a powerful urge to rub Jem’s nose in it by staying. Let him worry about Jayne seeing me, I really didn’t care anymore. Trust him? I’d rather trust a rattlesnake. He was still gaping at the two of us like a toddler who’s had his toys stolen.
I pulled myself together and crossed to join Circe in the arbour. Jem moved a step forward as I sat next to his mother on the wooden bench, only for Circe to shoo him away, and tell him to “get Lechkov to bring tea.”
He hovered for a second or two longer, as if he was going to argue about it, then abruptly turned his back and stomped off towards the house.
“I must apologize for Jem’s rudeness,” her voice was as rich and exotic as she appeared to be herself; I also thought I caught a hint of a slight foreign accent in her vowel sounds though I couldn’t place it.
She continued, smiling at me reassuringly. “He knows how jealously I guard my privacy. I generally make it a rule that no one. No friends or acquaintances should ever be invited to the house.”
The image of Jayne slumped on the sofa next to Jem I’d been holding in my head burst like a bubble, I studied Circe more carefully. What kind of mother won’t allow her son’s friends back to the house? It must have made the usual swapping of sleepovers tricky to say the least.
An image of Jayne wearing Goth-style pajamas lounging in Jem’s bedroom suddenly popped into my mind, I suppressed it. Circe was still speaking, “…happy to make an exception in your case. Indeed, I sent the card myself. I’d no idea you’d already met my wayward son.”
I glanced in the direction Jem had gone then blurted out the questions which had been bugging me since she’d invited me to sit down. “Why did you invite me here? What’s all this about? And how do you even know me?
“I saw you working in the Black Cat that day, you remember?” Circe leaned her head on one side and waited until I nodded before continuing, “I noticed something about you in the shop, something which made me want to meet you in person, and also…“ She paused as if she wasn’t sure how to phrase what she wanted to say next.
“I don’t mean to sound alarming or over-dramatic… but I wanted to warn you about something. My ears pricked up.
“Warn me? About what?”
As I spoke a shadow fell across the entrance to the arbor, something was blocking out the sun. I looked around to see an enormous shape silhouetted against the late afternoon light.
As my eyes adjusted I realized it was the figure of a man holding a tray of tea things. I recognized him immediately, it was the giant male psychiatric nurse I’d seen pushing the man in the wheelchair at the Lodge.
“Ah! Thank you Lechkov, just put them down on the table.”
The huge hands holding the tray looked like they’d be designed for tearing encyclopedias in half rather than dealing with delicate bone china and plates of cream cakes, however he managed well enough, setting the tray down gently onto a circular iron table just next to the bench.
Circe must have noticed my reaction, because once she’d waved him away and he’d lumbered off back towards the house she leaned in towards me conspiratorially.
“No doubt you’ve already encountered dear Lechkov at the Lodge?”
The question threw me, how could she know that?
Circe smiled like a cat with the cream, “I’m a writer Thea, you must allow a writer to know practically everything about everything if she chooses to set her mind to it. Research is an essential element of the profession.”
I took her point; I just didn’t know what had motivated her to take such an interest in me.
Concentrating on pouring tea from an exquisite porcelain tea pot into wafer thin china cups Circe pushed a three tiered tray of tiny cakes and pastries in my direction.
“Poor Lechkov. Unfortunately two or more part-time posts are the norm for many in these straightened times, the minimum wage being what it is. However in spite of his moonlighting he does us proud. Milk and sugar?”
I wasn’t certain what she’d said made any sense. Surely she could afford to pay her servant more than the minimum wage? I guess that’s how the rich stay rich. I was starting to become impatient with this whole situation; it just didn’t feel quite right.
“You said you wanted to warn me about something Mrs Masterson?”
“Circe, please!”
“Circe. What is it I need to be warned about?”
A nasty thought crossed my mind. Research… the price of servants, poor little rich boy, and a shop girl who has been asking lots of questions about her son and heir. I put down the mini scone I’d been about to put in my mouth, and stood up.
“I get it,” I announced, my voice tense with controlled anger, “if you want to warn me off you don’t need to. I wouldn’t date your son if he was the last person on earth.”
Circe blinked; she gave a rich warm chuckle and then popped a tiny cream éclair into her mouth and chewed it appreciatively. “Please sit down my dear,” she said, picking up a second with her elegantly manicured fingers, “as I think I mentioned before I had no idea you and Jem had already met. In fact I’m most disappointed in him for not mentioning it to me right away. You may appreciate it’s not easy being the parent of a teenager. One day you have a delightful flaxen haired infant rushing to embrace you, and the next you wake up to find you are sharing your home with an ogre. In fact I should incorporate that idea in my next book. Far from warning you off I should be delighted to find someone willing to shake him out of this infuriating hormonal moodiness. I’m heartily sick of it. I’m sorry, does my directness shock you?
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I considered this. “No” I said, cautiously.
“That’s a relief. I seem to manage to offend pretty much everybody I speak to these days. My concern for you is not related to my son at all, it’s something quite different. Could I ask you to be so kind as to show me your wrist?
I stared at her blankly. “My wrist?”
“The left one… the underside?”
I turned my hand and pulled the sleeve back on my sweater. She peered closely at my arm.
“Yes. I thought I saw it the other day when you were about to take my money, before we were so rudely interrupted.”
I looked down at where she was pointing, the brown pigment in the shape of a tree on the back of my wrist stood out clearly in the Autumn sunlight.
“My birthmark? I asked, Circe inclined her head, “what about it?”
“I wonder if I could ask you something?” Circe leaned back and rested her arm along the back of the bench.
“Ask away, I won’t promise to answer.”
“A wise response,” another éclair vanished into her elegantly painted mouth. She dabbed at it with a spotless linen napkin, leaving a smear of bright
red lipstick on it, “has your employer ever shown any particular interest your birthmark?
I thought for a moment. Was I being disloyal to Shanty if I admitted she had behaved a little strangely when she’d first noticed it? I didn’t see how, so I admitted as much, telling her about the tarot reading in Shanty’s caravan. I reached for the Nazar necklace around my neck to show it to her, before realizing that I wasn’t wearing it. It was still in the bathroom.
Circe’s expression seemed to imply that none of this surprised her at all; in fact she looked quite smug, as if what I’d said confirmed some suspicion she’d had all along.
Tutting slightly to herself she reached for another éclair only to find there were none left on the cake stand. Her hand hovered over a Florentine for an instant, just long enough for me to admire a chunky ruby ring on her index finger, before she withdrew it to rest it in her lap once more.
“I’m afraid to say Shanty hasn’t been completely open with you my dear.”
“You know each other then?” I watched her face carefully; I was interested in finding out why Shanty had bristled to such a degree on seeing her. Circe offered me a tight smile.
“We’re acquainted. As you may know I make my living writing about the supernatural, and as a consequence I find myself obliged to…how shall I put it nicely? Deal with… a wide range of people who dabble in witchcraft, magic and the occult. Some of them… like Shanty can seem charming, but only until they reveal their other side, a side which for the most part remains concealed from sight.
It’s OK, I said, “you don’t have to worry. Shanty told me straight out she was a witch.” Circe’s smile got even tighter; I could tell she wasn’t reassured.
“She told you about Wicca?” I took a small chocolate muffin from the cake stand and was about to dip it in my tea when I realized where I was.
“Yep.”
The tight smile was back again, “and the mother Goddess; Gaia?”
I nodded my head,“ she told me everything.”
The smile tightened so much it almost became a grimace. “Oh I doubt that very much indeed. Did she try to tell you that witches are all just wise women? Wiccans who have been given a bad press by men?”
I shrugged. “I suppose so, in a way. Not exactly in so many words,” I slipped the muffin into my mouth, it tasted amazing. Why were they all so small though? It was a bit like being at a doll’s tea party.
Circe put her cup down on its saucer deliberately. “The religion of Wicca is not quite as new- age and benevolent as Shanty might like to suggest. There are a significant number of Wiccans who follow what is known as the left hand path. You may have heard about Baring’s most infamous practitioner of black witchcraft…”
“Sibyl Osgood?” I interjected. Circe inclined her head. “Indeed, Sibyl Osgood. The followers of the dark arts live by a creed which is both simple and ruthless. Their motto is ‘do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law’, and they live by it.”
That was where I'd heard those words before. Shanty told me the Wiccan version, but I'd read the first part of the other one on Sibyl Osgood's grave
“There's nothing they won't stoop to, in order to fulfill their twisted aims. I know it might be interesting to you, amusing perhaps, to make friends with a witch, but I can assure you having anything to do with someone from the darker side of Occult is extremely dangerous. ”
I was shaking my head through the whole of this speech, “I can’t believe Shanty has anything to do with people like that.”
Circe stopped for a moment and seemed to reflect on this. “Perhaps not. Like all Wiccans she can’t stand me so it is hard for me to judge. When I appear they all react as if they were being forced to suck a slice of lemon.”
I couldn’t help laughing as I remembered Shanty’s pained expression when Circe had walked into the shop. “Why?” I asked, “why do Wiccans hate you so much?”
“Because I’ve turned their religious beliefs into a very successful franchise. I created a series of highly profitable stories for teenagers, and a couple of film screenplays out of what I consider to be a lot of mumbo-jumbo. Those that aren’t deeply offended are probably just plain jealous.”
I was starting to warm to Circe, she was blunt, to the point and she didn’t pull any punches. It was actually quite refreshing.
“None of that changes the fact that they believe in what they’re doing completely, and as such are not to be trusted. Your friend Shanty hasn’t been completely honest with you. She should have told you straight away to be on your guard.”
Circe dropped her voice as if afraid of being overheard and leaned closer to me, her perfume was heavy and quite overpowering close to.
“Have you ever heard of the name Cybele? More specifically the Sisterhood of Cybele? As she asked the question the sun dropped momentarily behind a cloud bringing a chill to the air. I pulled the sleeve on my sweater down to cover my wrist again,
“No.”
“Cybele is an older, and darker manifestation of the Goddess Shanty introduced to you as Gaia. They are the two aspects of the Great Mother, which are constantly vying for superiority over one another. While Gaia is the richness of the harvest and the movement of the seasons, Cybele is nature in the raw, untamable, uncontrollable, and insatiable. Her sacred attributes are control over life, death and re-birth. In Roman times her worship involved a ceremony known as the taurobolium which took place in a pit beneath a slatted floor. A bull was driven onto the floor above the high priestess and the celebrants beneath, and was slaughtered, drenching them in its blood. Some historians even suggest that it was not only animal blood that was used within her rituals in the earliest days.”
I mulled that one over and didn’t like the conclusions I came to one little bit. As Circe went on the shadow cast by the cloud seemed to intensify, making the arbor gloomy and cold.
“The Sisterhood is a cult which grew out of the ancient so called mysteries into a secret society that has existed for thousands of years. Nobody knows how strong they are, who they are or where they might be found.”
“What do they actually believe?” I asked, suddenly wishing I’d brought a jacket.
“Like the majority of Wiccans they believe that the world is out of balance. For the Sisterhood though, the only way that it can be restored is by fulfilling an ancient prophecy inscribed on the walls of one of the oldest temples to Cybele high in the mountains of Anatolia. Nobody outside the Sisterhood knows exactly where it lies. Though of course Anatolia is in modern day Turkey.”
I took a quick sip of tea to warm me, “what kind of prophecy?”
Circe considered this for a moment. “Sibyl Osgood’s translation is probably the best know.” She began chanting a rhyme in a low voice. “Mortal, fae, single, twain, blood of birth, got on Beltane, Meka Mater rise again.”
Although I didn’t understand a word of what she was saying I found the rhyme disturbing, frightening even. “Meka Mater?”
“Osgood left Cybele’s title in the original Phrygian, it means Great Mother.”
I nodded my head, “and Beltane?”
“An ancient fertility ceremony held on Mayday,” Circe replied.
“What does it mean; blood of birth?” I asked.
Circe looked at me as if to assure herself that I was strong enough to take what she was going to say. She must have decided that I was because she began to tell me in a perfectly matter of fact voice that as far as she could make out the Sisterhood of Cybele believe that by sacrificing a male infant conceived during the feast of Beltane, and pouring its blood on the altar of the secret temple somewhere in Anatolia they can wake their goddess and revive her.
Once they’ve brought her back they think she’ll appear on Earth in human form as a mighty Queen. She’ll be endowed with superhuman powers, able to strike down anybody who dares to oppose her. The Sisterhood see this as providing the planet with a new Golden Age saving humanity from its inevitable ruin, whilst other
commentaries speak of her return as heralding a dark and terrible reign lasting ten thousand years.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, I felt slightly nauseous, and had to gulp in some fresh air to settle my stomach.
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that these people think they can tackle global warming by murdering a baby? I nearly choked on the words I found it impossible to imagine that anybody could be stupid enough to think something so sick, so idiotic, so ridiculous and so absurd might even be the tiniest bit credible.
Circe looked puzzled. “No. Nothing like that, they don’t care about rebalancing nature. They intend to shift the balance completely across the spectrum, to end the power and rule of men on this planet once and for all.”
Just for a second I thought of Jem, and was sorely tempted to find out where I could join up - just for a second.
OK. I agreed in principal that men had screwed up royally so far, and that if things didn’t change in some way we were all going to find ourselves in a sticky situation one day. But sacrificing babies, in order to bring an all-powerful Goddess back to life? Please! There were some seriously messed up people in the world. How, I wondered aloud, could any of this have anything to do with me?
Circe pointed at my wrist, “the faery’s fork!” I looked at her blankly.
“Mortal and fae. The prophecy says quite clearly that the infant will be born to a woman who belongs both to the natural, and the supernatural realms. She will be part mortal and part faery.”
My mouth dropped open. “Are you trying to say.....?” I couldn’t even finish the sentence the idea was so patently ridiculous.
“The mark on the back of your wrist looks exactly like a pattern known to Wiccans as the ‘faery’s fork’, it’s supposed to identify children with faery blood - what they call ‘Tu'athain’; the child of a supernatural and a mortal parent. Their presence is supposed to lend enormous power to the casting of any spell or charm.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard !” I scoffed.
“But of course,” Circle answered smoothly, “It’s complete and utter nonsense. Unfortunately for anyone carrying the mark, the Sisterhood, and almost anybody else from the left hand path who wants to work a powerful spell can be a real danger. I heard of a case in Italy a couple of years ago where a young woman was kidnapped by a group of Occultists, and only managed to escape by opening the door to a moving car and rolling out onto the road; she could easily have been killed. These people’s ideas may sound far-fetched, absurd even, but I can assure you they’re no joke whatsoever.”
The cloud was still blocking the sun and I was beginning to feel really cold. Circe tried to reassure me, mistaking my involuntary shiver for fear.
“I’m sure I am fussing over nothing my dear. I just wanted to warn you that hanging around in an occult shop probably isn’t the safest option for a young woman like yourself. If you have to, then at least make sure you wear a long sleeved top. I have to admit that I’m surprised and concerned that Shanty didn’t mention any of this to you herself. Perhaps she just didn’t want to worry you either. I hope that I haven’t given you too much cause for concern myself. I just felt it was better for you to know.”
I completely agreed, and now she mentioned it, it did seem odd that Shanty had said nothing about the whole thing even though she’d obviously recognized the mark for what it was as soon as she saw it. I made a mental note to challenge her about it at work on Saturday.
Suddenly feeling very eager to get home I thanked Circe for her advice and got to my feet. The sun chose that moment to emerge from the behind the cloud and the garden brightened once more.
“You know, thinking about it the idea that I’m half faery’s quite cool, though I think I’d know if I had any magical properties.”
Circe smiled indulgently, “they’re not supposed to emerge until after your sixteenth birthday.”
“Which was last May”
“Ah, I beg your pardon. Then provided you don’t have visions, see into the future or have an unusual ability with wild animals I imagine you can put the whole thing out of your mind.” She patted my hand reassuringly.
I froze. Alarm bells were clanging in my head. Visions? I’d had more than my fair share of those. See into the future? Hadn’t I predicted dad’s car crash? And the last one; ever since I’d arrived in the New Forest I’d felt like a teenage version of Doctor Doolittle. I managed a weak half- smile. It must all just be a coincidence surely? Besides I knew who my parents were, and as far as I was aware neither of them were faeries! Something was nagging at me though, something to do with the prophecy.
“Single and twain” I asked, “what exactly is that supposed to mean?
Circe gave me an appraising look, extending her hand for me to shake, with a relaxed and elegant movement, like a ballerina. “Nobody’s quite certain; perhaps it refers to the duality of the Tu'athain herself. I have my own ideas on the subject – nothing worthy of sharing as yet, though I may use it in my next novel.”
I made ready to leave; half of me was glad that Jem hadn’t returned from the house during our conversation, while the other half was secretly disappointed.
“Let me get Lechkov to run you home.”
Protesting that I had my bike with me cut no ice; Circe said it would easily fit into the back of the 4x4. She insisted on going up to the house to fetch her giant manservant leaving me waiting in the arbour. As I sat there I pulled up my sleeve again and studied my birthmark intently. I’d never really paid it much attention in the past.
It was just a blotchy streak of brown pigmentation which looked like a hazy line running up the length of the inside of my wrist. There were three thin lines which did look a little bit like the prongs on a fork at the end nearest my hand.
There was nothing particularly strange about it to me. I’d had it all my life. Though now I found myself puzzling at it, wondering if it might have some other significance. I told myself to snap out of it, it was just a boring old birthmark like a million other birthmarks, whatever the Sisterhood or any other weirdoes might think.
A sudden shrill cry in the near distance seemed to drill right through me. I caught my breath and looked around to see if I could locate the direction it had come from. The sound came again, louder this time and more anguished than before.
It seemed to originate on the other side of the hedge, closer to the main building. I looked to see if Circe was about to reappear when the cry was repeated. There was something about it, a level of distress that I just couldn’t ignore.
I set off in the direction of the noise, hurrying down the paths and through the hedges until I emerged at the rear of the house. There was a set of outbuildings capped by a clock tower ahead and to my right. The sound was definitely coming from one of them. Rounding a corner I realized that I was entering a stable block.
“Hold still you brute!”
A man’s voice cut across the awful sound I’d heard from the garden. I found myself running through the stable, past empty stalls, almost falling on a patch of loose straw underfoot, until I saw the owner of the voice ahead of me brandishing a riding crop.
He was facing away from me holding a horse firmly by the halter, and as I watched he gave a vicious swing of the crop striking the horse’s neck, and causing it to repeat the squealing cry that had drawn me there in the first place.
I was next to him in an instant, and without thinking about it, I’d grabbed the crop from his hand and shoved him backwards. He lost his grip on the halter, tripped over a bucket of feed and crashed onto the concrete floor.
Without bothering to see if he was badly hurt I immediately began to sooth the frightened horse, horrified by the angry weals I saw on its neck. At least he hadn't stuck hard enough to draw blood. They looked bad, but they probably would heal well enough given time.
Staring into its eyes I reached my hand out slowly towards the horse’s neck. It surely couldn’t do any harm for me to t
ry to…
I sensed a movement behind me, and turning I gasped as I realized a riding crop was about to strike me across the face. My hands came up to protect my eyes and I waited for the blow to come, but after a few awful moments of anticipation nothing happened. I peeped nervously through a gap in my fingers.
Jem Masterson was standing as if he’d been frozen by the Medusa, with the crop still hovering in position ready to lash out. He gradually lowered it, a sullen expression remaining fixed on his face.
He was looking past me at something over my shoulder. I took a risk and glanced around. Lechkov’s enormous moon face stared back at me. There was no expression that I could easily interpret in that great mass of flesh, he was just there. Still his presence alone seemed to be enough to make Jem back down.
Dropping the riding crop on the floor, he stalked off in a complete strop, looking as if someone had ruined his fifth birthday party. I gulped oxygen filling my lungs with a sudden gasp, I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath.
The horse was whinnying pitifully. I leaned over, and gently placed my hand on its head and after a few moments it began to calm. “You have to call the vet,” I insisted, “right away!”
“Will be done,”the huge man replied, in his strangely high voice, so incongruous for such a giant. He held up a set of car keys that looked like they’d been made for a midget within his enormous hand.
“Come!”
It wasn’t a request, it was a command. He turned and strode out of the stables leaving me to follow. I gave the horse’s nose one last gentle stoke and whispered in its ear. “Jem Masterson? Talk about Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde. I thought I was supposed to be the crazy one!”
Beltane Page 9
