Diana’s memory sparked to life and she quickly realized the identity of the man—his picture had sat atop her grandmother’s piano until the day she died—he was Grandma Lily’s father, though she’d always said his name was Walter. He must have gone by his middle name.
Emmitt W. Green was my great-grandfather.
Diana just stared in wonder for a moment before looking to the date again. 1916 would have been about when he immigrated to America. He must have sold the inn during the War. Continuing on down the left, each antique portrait to the last was of a man named Green.
Diana was standing in her family’s ancestral home.
Feeling dazed, Diana took a step back from the fire to catch her breath. Turning away from the roaring flames, she took in the sight of the old tavern once again, finding it incredibly hard to believe that it all had once belonged to her family. Why did they sell this place and move to America? The War couldn’t have effected them that bad. If they hadn’t, perhaps Diana would be the girl behind the bar wiping the pint glasses clean.
Diana was pulled from her visions of what might have been when she heard Darien call her name from across the room.
“Diana, there you are,” he said, pleased to have found her. “I have someone for you to meet—this is Mr. Cartwright.”
Taking her gaze from the bar, Diana turned around to see a cheerful elderly man—who had to be in his nineties—standing at Darien’s side, wearing high brown trousers and a thick green sweater that looked extremely comfortable. His white and wooly sideburns, and beardless face, made him look like a kind old fellow from a Dickens novel.
When his bespectacled gaze finally landed on Diana, his eyes went wide with pleasant surprise.
“My word…” Mr. Cartwright said, astounded. “You look the spitting image of Miss Charlotte, back from the dead.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” Diana replied with a smile. “Did you know my great-aunt?”
“I may be close to a hundred years old, little lady, but I still remember the most beautiful woman my young eyes ever knew.”
“Please,” Diana said, feeling a bit embarrassed that the old man had just indirectly called her beautiful. “Tell me about her.”
“There isn’t much to tell. I was a babe when my father bought the inn from Emmitt Green. It wasn’t until many years later that his sister, Miss Charlotte, finally returned to the village in the company of that eccentric fellow she called Fox. They only stopped by the inn for a day or so, but I still see her in my mind like I was that eleven-year-old boy again.”
“What year was this, may I ask?” Darien interjected.
The old man brought his hand to his chin and rubbed it a moment. “1926, I believe.”
“Do you remember why they came back to Glastonbury?” Diana asked.
“No, dear, I’m sorry,” Mr. Cartwright replied. “They did tell me stories of their adventures, though. Mostly things like being chased by bad folks and buggerin through dark caves—the kinda thing you’d hear on a radio program. I ate it up.”
“Sounds like the stories my grandma used to tell me,” Diana said softly.
“Which of Emmitt’s girls was your gram,” the old man asked, curious. “Rose or Ivy?”
“Neither sir,” Diana replied. “Lily was my grandma—the youngest. She was born shortly before her parents moved to America.” It still amazed Diana that her grandmother had been in her nineties when she died. She had looked comparatively young for her age and could have easily passed for a woman in her early seventies. I guess I have good genes, she’d often say.
“Aye, that must be it. My memory is a bit hazy at times. I only know Rose and Ivy from what my father told me of them, and from some pictures that were left. He must not have known the wee one long.”
Diana could only just shake her head. The situation had quickly become a bit too surreal for her—and perhaps a little too convenient. She was quickly starting to realize that something far greater was going on around her than she first thought. Not only had Charlotte and Flinders apparently stumbled upon the Naphalei and discovered the fabled Chalice of the Moon—and met a bitter fate because of it—but Diana’s family had lived a stone’s throw away from the sacred dominion of Qir’Aflonas, for generations. Diana’s mind reeled at the possibilities of it all.
“Are you sure you can’t tell us anything else about Charlotte and Fox, or why they came back?” Diana asked again, hoping to spark more memories.
The old man eased himself into a chair in front of the fireplace and continued to rub his chin.
“I know they spent a couple of nights here—in Miss Charlotte’s old room—and they walked the Abbey, Well, and Tor.”
“Thank you for your help, sir,” Diana said with a warm smile. “It was nice to spend some time with my family’s history.”
“You’re always welcome back, young Miss Diana,” he replied. “There will always be a place for you to rest your head, free of charge.”
Diana thanked the elderly gentleman again and then turned to Darien. “What now?”
“We have a few hours until we need to be on our way,” he replied. “It might be worth investigating the ruins of the abbey and the Chalice Well Gardens. We will save the Tor for last.”
They both said their goodbyes to old Mr. Cartwright and left The Red Dragon Inn to walk down the main street towards the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey.
Having read the pamphlet on Glastonbury’s history, Diana found it a bit odd—and rather ironic—that the streets were lined with various neo-pagan establishments, occult bookstores, and palm readers.
“What’s with all the pagan stuff?” Diana asked. “I thought this was supposed to be a Christian town.”
Darien chuckled, finding her confusion amusing. “Human beliefs change about as often as their musical tastes, Diana, but they can always sense the power of this place. Druids, Romans, Christians—no matter what gods are worshiped, Qir’Aflonas remains the Sacred Jewel. It seems the Druids have made something of a return in recent decades.”
“Nothing new under the sun,” Diana said.
“Quite right,” Darien replied with a smile.
Diana had to admit that there was something mystical about Glastonbury. Knowing that the Temple of the Fallen was relatively close by only made the feeling more potent. Darien had said the Flinders University campus was a similar magical environment, and that it was for that reason the Veil had called to her after so many years. If so, what horrors would be waiting for Diana in the realm of dreams when she fell asleep in Qir’Aflonas? She shivered at the thought.
Diana’s troubled musings were successfully held at bay once she and Darien reached the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, where her mind was fully occupied taking in the remains of Gothic chapels and cloisters. According to the tour signs, the abbey had been established in the 7th century by monks, and by the 14th century, it had become one of the richest monasteries in England. The success of the abbey didn’t last, however. When King Henry VIII dissolved the monastic system, he seized the vast wealth of the church and the once magnificent building complex fell into ruins. In the place of grand buttresses, high altars, and sacred shrines of saints, visitors now walked among the skeletal remains of a past glory and the lawns of green grass surrounding them.
While walking in the midst of a lawn surrounding the ruins of a small chapel, Diana found an intriguing sight. A small metal sign stood next to a large wooden rectangle that had been laid out like a grave plot. She read the sign out loud.
“Site of King Arthur’s tomb. In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On the 19th of April 1278 their remains were removed in the presence of King Edward I and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the dissolution of the abbey in 1539.”
Diana looked to Darien. “Were Arthur and Guinevere really buried here?”
“To my knowledge, yes,” he replied, fairly ce
rtain of the account’s accuracy. “Arthur was buried here about a century before the first monastery was built—probably as a grave shrine. I’m not certain where the bodies of the Serpent and his queen are now, though.”
Staring at the plot of earth that had once held the legendary king and queen, Diana could almost feel the tragedy of it all. If Charlotte’s accounts were true—and Darien had confirmed that they were—Guinevere had led a rebellion against her husband alongside her lover, Lancelot. Yet, in spite of it all, she and Arthur had been buried together in the end.
“So the bodies were lost, found, and then lost again?” Diana asked, finding the notion a bit peculiar. “Do you know what happened?”
“I have an idea, though it’s from nothing substantial,” Darien replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Only what I’ve pieced together from a few Crusader accounts and tomb murals. Have you ever heard of the Knights Templar?”
Diana crossed her arms over her chest and just stared at him, surprised he’d even had to ask. “Of course I know who the Knights Templar are; anyone with cable TV does. Hell—the Templars are blamed for every conspiracy from the Holy Grail to alien cover-ups.”
Darien arched a brow in confusion. “Regardless,” he continued. “The Templars occupied the Jerusalem Temple Mount during the First Crusade and spent a great deal of their time excavating the caverns below.”
“What’d they find?” Diana asked, quickly growing excited. “The Ark of the Covenant?”
Darien chuckled and shook his head. “Something much more important—books.”
“What kind of books?” Though considerably less enthused, Diana still found the Templar discoveries fascinating.
“I wish I knew exactly,” Darien replied with disappointment. “I’ve been trying to track one down for decades but haven’t had much luck. Whatever was in them, I know it led the Templars to Glastonbury Abbey in 1191 to search for the Holy Grail, however, they only found Arthur’s body. The Templars and their successors had a vested interest in the abbey following their discovery, which led to the monastery’s subsequent wealth and power. During the Reformation, they most likely secreted the bodies away to save them from Henry’s plundering.”
“Sounds plausible,” Diana said, considering Darien’s findings. “I wonder why they thought the Grail was here in Glastonbury; Charlotte’s poem made it seem like Guinevere wanted to keep the Chalice far away from the war.”
Darien had the stern expression of a displeased professor. “Bear in mind, it was never confirmed that the White Wraith even had Chalice of the Moon in her possession, and only a brief reference to the Serpent’s quest for it is mentioned in the Annals of the War. Like I’ve said in the past, your aunt made fair use of her artistic license.”
With fists on her hips in defiance, Diana narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow. “Is, or is not, Charlotte’s poem the most recent mention of the Chalice to have been written by either Naphalei or Human?”
“It is,” Darien confirmed, begrudgingly.
“Then is it safe to assume that Charlotte and Flinders may have been privy to information you have yet to obtain, O Great Seeker?”
“It is,” he repeated.
“Then let’s be on our way,” Diana commanded with a victorious smile. “Because I’m pretty sure the White Wraith hid the Chalice of the Moon in the last place Arthur would have looked—the ruins of Avalon.”
At Diana’s suggestion, Darien’s defensive expression softened and his eyes lit up as he considered the truth her words most likely held. “Under the noses of both our peoples—it makes perfect sense.”
“Of course it does,” Diana confirmed, her smug smile remaining. “Now, let’s go to Qir’Aflonas and find the Chalice—after the ball of course.”
“Of course,” Darien agreed with an amused grin as he took Diana’s hand to continue on.
After walking the entirety of the abbey ruins, they left the area and proceeded up the road a ways to the Chalice Well Gardens—another site Charlotte and Flinders had visited with supposed links to the Holy Grail legend. The gardens were situated on a hillside in the midst of thick trees and bushes, and in any other season, a wide array of beautiful flowers would have lined the paths and surrounded visitors. Currently, however, the winter had left the trees bare and the gardens quite empty of blooms. Through the middle of the area, a small stream flowed into a row of descending pools. As they neared the waters, Diana found everything below stained a blood red color.
“It’s the large amount of iron,” Darien said when he noticed Diana’s surprise. “The Christians thought the well turned red from the blood of Christ when Joseph filled the Grail with its waters. Since then, many pilgrims have come to partake of the waters’ healing properties.”
With a shrug Diana cupped her hands together and put them under the lion’s head fountain, letting them fill with water. She brought the liquid to her mouth, noting the slight smell of rotten eggs, and took a sip. It tasted foul—like most well water, but much more potent.
“Ugh—this is supposed to have healing properties?”
“It does, actually,” Darien said, laughing at her revulsion. “You can’t taste the magic, though, only the highly concentrated minerals.”
“What makes it magical?” Diana asked, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“That particular spring will sometimes get a splash of runoff from Qir’Aflonas’ refreshment pools.”
Diana’s revulsion renewed and she fought the urge to throw up.
“You mean I just drank elven toilet water?” she asked in disgust.
“Yes, I suppose you did,” Darien replied with a sheepish grin. “But at least you’ve been cleansed of impurities.”
Diana punched him in the arm—mostly playfully—before they continued on up the hill. At the very top, they found a small area designated for quiet meditation. A few people sat on stone benches around the chalice well proper, enjoying the tranquil silence. The well itself was a small hole in the ground, about two feet in diameter, with a peculiar opened covering—a wooden circle decorated with a strange symbol wrought in black metal. Surrounded by floral vines, two circles horizontally interlocking in a vesica piscis were bisected by what looked to be a spear or a sword. Diana stared at the symbol, mystified by it, until Darien silently nudged her so they could move along.
With not much to see or investigate in the gardens, they left the area and returned to the roadside. Walking a short distance alongside the street, they came to an inclined pathway through the woods leading to the Tor, and soon after, Diana found herself standing in a vast open clearing with a large, grass-covered, hill standing tall in the distance. With naturally stepped terraces surrounding the sides, and the ruins of a lone stone bell-tower standing on the summit, the mound had a mesmerizing, other-worldly, quality about it.
Darien stopped a moment and squeezed Diana’s hand as they took in the sight. “That, my dear, is what the locals call the Tor. The ruins of Qir’Aflonas are directly beneath it.”
“And you’re intending to hike all the way to the top of that thing?” Diana asked, astounded.
“Of course,” Darien replied before pulling her alongside him.
She sighed heavily. “I’m so sick of walking.”
They began their long—and thoroughly exhausting—trek up to the top of the Tor. The hike ended up looking a lot shorter than it actually was, as well. Due to the nature of the hillside, the path was quite winding and not straight up towards the tower.
About half way up, Darien stopped in the vicinity of a small group of sheep and goats munching happily on the grass and Diana sat on a large stone to catch her breath.
“This entire area was a fenland in ancient times, you know,” Darien said as he gazed out on the grassy fields below. “The original hillside of Qir’Aflonas was surrounded by water and looked like a large island rising out of a lake. Since it was covered with magnificent stone buildings of other-worldly design, the ancient humans called it the Isle of the
Blessed—Avalon.”
“I still can’t believe King Arthur destroyed Avalon,” Diana said, shaking her head at such an immense deviation from the standard legends.
When they finally reached the summit of the Tor, Diana needed another respite. Stepping inside the ruined bell-tower, she was pleased to find a stone bench and swiftly sat down with a great deal satisfaction. As she rested, Diana read about the ruins on a placard mounted to the wall and learned that the lone bell tower was all that remained of an old church called St. Michael’s that was destroyed in an earthquake in 1275.
Once adequately rested, Diana walked outside and was almost blown over by a strong gust of wind, the cold air cutting through her to the bone. When she walked to the end of the summit, Diana took in the beautiful sight of the Glastonbury countryside. With rolling green hills set against the clear blue sky, the winter environments of England seemed very different than those in the American Mid-West—they were so much more alive. The ruins of the tower only added to the mystique of the surrounding area.
Only then did Diana notice that Darien hadn’t been with her for some time. When she realized his absence, Diana went looking for him only to find him impatiently watching a group of people leave the tower to make their way back down the hill.
“Good,” he said once Diana was at his side. “I was afraid we might have to wait a while longer for them to leave. We must hurry before more arrive.”
Darien took Diana by the hand and quickly led her back into the tower before taking one last look around, making absolutely sure no one else was in the vicinity. Satisfied, Darien used his stone magic to move a large slab in one of the corners of the tower, revealing a spiral stone staircase that led down into the center of the Tor. With one hand, Darien held the large stone in place while he lit a small flame in the palm of the other to act as a torch.
“After you, my lady,” he said to Diana, ushering her over to his side.
Diana followed his direction and descended the steps into the darkness, holding onto the sides of the stone walls to not lose her balance.
Using his powers, Darien put the stone slab back into place and the two of them descended into the ruins of the ancient elven city hidden in the bowels of the earth.
Moonshadow Page 30
