Mystical Circles

by S. C. Skillman

  “So. Bit of a testing ground for you here,” he said, adding Juliet’s card to his own collection.

  She nodded.

  “Craig’s scored one credit in his copy book, any road,” said Don. “For having you to stay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And he’ll let you record what you like?”

  “Certainly. He expressed no objection.”

  Don looked sardonic. “Might be coming. Once he’s thought things through. You wait and see.”

  They both turned as they heard the garden gate being unlatched.

  “Ah, Llewellyn,” said Don. “Welcome.”

  “Our in-house poet,” he explained to Juliet.

  A young man approached. “Don,” he declared, brushing a thick wing of hair back from his forehead in a theatrical gesture. “Just the man I wanted to see. I need marketing advice.” He drew up sharply at the sight of Juliet. “I do apologise. Hadn’t realised…” He regarded her with lively interest. “Hope I haven’t interrupted anything.” He stuffed an apple into the rucksack he carried over one shoulder.

  “See you’ve fixed yourself a packed lunch,” said Don.

  “That’s right. I’m off up to the ridge for a few hours.” He extended his free hand to Juliet, and grasped hers firmly. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “No.” His accent put her in mind of the Welsh hills.

  Don moved forward. “Juliet, meet Llewellyn. From Anglesey.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  They shook hands.

  “So, you’re Zoe’s sister. And you hope to make a documentary?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m surprised he’s agreed to it.” He glanced at Don.

  “Me too,” said Don.

  “As I’m sure you both realise,” she said, “I aim to be fair and accurate.”

  Don grunted. “I’ve spent thirty years doing that with Craig. And look where it’s got me.”

  “You sound jaundiced, Don.”

  “Juliet’s right there.” Llewellyn laughed. “If only you had as much faith in people as I do, Don.”

  “Hmm,” said the Yorkshireman. “Well, you must think something of them, else you’d write no poems at all.”

  “Ah yes.” Juliet looked at Llewellyn. “Don did say you were a poet.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Turn your back, and he runs up a verse,” said Don.

  “I’ve had a fair measure of success,” the Welshman conceded modestly. “Won a couple of poetry slams. Performed at literary festivals – Cheltenham, Hay-on-Wye, Oxford… Brought out two slim volumes so far.”

  Juliet wondered why someone with such a record of achievement had turned up in a group like this, which promised tools she fully expected he, as a poet, already possessed.

  But before she could ask, Don intervened. “Did you want marketing advice?”

  “Yes,” said Llewellyn.

  “What’s your product?”

  The Welshman opened his rucksack again, and pulled out what looked like a rolled-up news sheet.

  “Take a look. And you too, Juliet.” He handed it to her. “Delighted to have the thoughts of a newcomer like yourself.”

  She spread it out on the table and glanced at the front page. The image of a saffron pathway winding up a viridian green mountainside to a sunlit peak, enclosed within an electric-blue sphere, made her think of something one might produce in a creative visualisation workshop. She could almost see the legend scrawled beneath it: I am choosing to be successful.

  Pulling herself smartly back to the matter in hand, she read the masthead: Wheel of Love Weekly News.

  Don came and glanced over it with her. “Might work,” he said. “Planning to run off a few copies? Got a mailing list?”

  “No,” said Llewellyn, “Thought I’d sell it on the street.”

  “What’s your cover price?” asked Don.

  “One pound ninety-five pence.” The Welshman moved close to Don, massaging his shoulder in a matey manner. “So, the two of you, just imagine you’re window shopping in Cirencester, and I pounce on you with this. Would you buy it?”

  Don and Juliet leafed through it together. The centre page spread was entirely taken up with The poems of Llewellyn Hughes.

  “A money spinner, I do assure you,” murmured the Welshman.

  “It’s a fundraising idea. I’ll give it that,” remarked Don.

  “What do you think, Juliet?” asked Llewellyn. “Could it sell?”

  “People might well be attracted to it.”

  “I thought so too,” cried Llewellyn. “It’s bright, it’s positive, it’s life-enhancing. The illustrations are all in full colour.”

  Don laughed. He handed the news sheet back. “Could give it a go.”

  “Glad to see you have faith, Don.”

  “Ah. Faith. Not so fast. You know me. I’m lacking in that department.” Don dug his hand in his trouser pocket, brought out his handkerchief, and blew his nose. She suspected it was a device to cover his awkwardness, rather than because he was starting a cold.

  “The only way to prove something true or false,” Llewellyn said, “is to suspend disbelief, and agree to conduct an experiment, as if it were true.”

  Don shook his head. “Don’t believe it. Recipe for a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  Juliet gazed from one to the other. How would Llewellyn counter Don’s argument?

  Silence fell instead.

  The Welshman’s hair stirred in the breeze. “Perhaps you should take part a little more, Don,” he suggested. “You haven’t done that yet, have you? And you’ve been here nearly a week. We’ve all noticed. Why don’t you join in?”

  Don lifted his hands, as if raising a shield against an oncoming charger. “I’m here to sort the finances, not attend my own son’s classes,” he said. “Though he’d be keen enough to show off his skills, I’d be bound.”

  “Come to Dynamic Meditation in the barn tomorrow evening,” said Llewellyn. “You don’t want to miss out. I hope you’ll forgive me for quoting one of my fellow countrymen. The poet R.S. Thomas speaks about seeing the sun break through to illuminate a small field. That might be the experience you’re having now.”

  “Nonsense,” said Don. “Expect me to swallow that?”

  Juliet couldn’t resist a smile.

  “In the poem,” continued Llewellyn, “he goes his way and forgets it. Years later he discovers it was the one field that had the treasure in it. Do the same, Don, and you might spend the rest of your life searching for it again.”

  His gaze swung round to include both of them. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he remarked.

  “Thought you’d quote that,” grunted Don. Then he sighed. “Idealism of youth. Tell me. What do you know about gullibility, cheating and lies?”

  “Plenty,” Llewellyn said softly. “Put away your cynicism.”

  “You’re persuasive, Llewellyn,” said Juliet. “What’s Dynamic Meditation?”

  Don broke in. “They let all their emotions hang out. Be warned.”

  “You come too, Juliet,” said Llewellyn. “It might open something up in you. Try it. It could help you understand what we’re about.”

  Then he said his goodbyes and walked back through the gateway, leaving her alone with Don once more.

  “So, Don?” she said. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard a silver tongue or two in my time.”

  “But what about Dynamic Meditation?” she persisted. “Will you go? I certainly shall, to make recordings. Why not join me?”

  “Perhaps. If I do, Craig may even…” He stopped short.

  “Craig may even do what?”

  “Nothing.”

  She felt rebuffed.

  Then he said, “You’ll want a bite of lunch. Come along.” He set off towards the garden gate, and she followed. “Might meet a few more of them,” he flung over his shoulder. “Won’t join
you though. Just show you the way.”

  Hmm. No more clues from him then, for a while. But never mind. She’d meet some others.

  As they passed through the gateway, and emerged onto the forecourt again, a door on the north side of the house banged shut, and they heard voices raised in argument.

  “What’s that about?” she asked. “I thought this was a place of love and serenity.”

  “Did you?” Don crossed to the front door and held it open.

  “Yes. Isn’t that what Craig’s brochure promises?” She walked through into the hallway.

  “Look more closely,” said Don, closing the door behind them. “Might find something very different.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “All that talk of heaven. And freedom.” He went through into the sitting room, and as she joined him, he swung to face her.

  “I’m well aware those two words are much misused,” she said.

  “Even more so here. Express all emotions – good and bad. That’s what he tells them. And so they do. Especially the last.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ha! Best not go into it.” He held her gaze. “Wait till you’ve tasted it yourself.”

  Then she heard a sound like a nut being cracked behind her. She spun, and gasped. She was staring into the eyes of a parrot.

  He balanced on his perch on one foot. His cage occupied the corner of the room next to the leadlight window.

  “Meet Groucho,” said Don. “He’s Craig’s.”

  “How did I manage to miss him before?”

  “Ah. Keeps quiet when it suits him,” said Don.

  He waited while she went over to stroke the parrot’s plumage of cobalt blue and deep yellowy orange. Then he moved alongside her. “Pricey he was too. Craig wouldn’t have any other.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Set him back a thousand. And don’t forget maintenance costs. He’ll likely live to sixty,” he added darkly.

  They watched the parrot scattering bits of walnut shell over the floor, and using his blunt tongue to extract the nut-meat. She reached out, and scratched his wing. At this, he hopped off his perch and onto her hand. He walked up her arm, and began to rummage in her hair with his beak. She was so engrossed by him that several minutes had passed before she remembered Don again.

  He touched her on the shoulder. She gave a start, causing the bird to rise to the ceiling in a flurry of sapphire and gold. He settled on the top of a bookcase, quizzing them with a glittering eye.

  She turned to see Laura had rejoined them. How childlike she was. The dress was probably meant for a thirteen-year-old. Though Juliet reckoned Laura might be in her forties.

  “Ah, Laura.” Don took his opportunity. “I’ll be off then, Juliet. Laura will show you where to find lunch.”

  “Thank you, Don.”

  He gave a curt nod and left the room.

  “Come through into the kitchen.” Laura led her to the farther door. “There are two others in there I can introduce you to.”

  “I’d like that.”

  As before, though slightly odd in her manner, Laura seemed friendly enough. Encouraged, Juliet followed her through the dining room, and out into the passage, where they turned left into an open doorway.

  The kitchen she found generously supplied with copper implements, brightly polished, hanging from the beams overhead; and the whitewashed walls between the black timbers were decorated with large bunches of dried flowers. A pale youth in his late teens sat at one end of the oak table, stirring a spoon round and round in a soup bowl. At the other end stood a thickset man in a lime-green shirt, busy sawing at a granary loaf.

  A list of rules pinned to a cork noticeboard above the fridge began with the statement: On the following days, silence will be observed at breakfast and lunch. She wondered if Craig liked to keep up a myth that the group had rules to be adhered to. But there again, she knew nothing to suppose it didn’t. However, that day, Friday, was absent from the list.

  Both men had stopped what they were doing to stare at her.

  “Sam and Al,” cried Laura, “meet Zoe’s sister, Juliet.”

  Ah, thought Juliet, so one of these two is Al. The man whose bedroom was near Laura’s, a fact which had caused giggles when she mentioned it. Which one was he?

  “Juliet, the journalist?” The youth opened his eyes wide.

  “Yes, Sam,” said Laura.

  Sam shrank back in terror.

  “The media isn’t that scary, is it?” laughed Juliet.

  Then she realised what a big deal it was for this group of people to trust Zoe after only three days here to invite her journalist sister to visit. Though she supposed it was Craig they trusted, not Zoe, for he was the one who’d given permission. Odd though, when clearly he had issues with his father, and she’d have thought he’d prefer them not to be aired to a radio audience.

  She remembered Llewellyn’s words: The only way to prove something true or false is to suspend disbelief, and agree to conduct an experiment, as if it were true. She didn’t think she wanted to live that out herself.

  “Well, well, well,” said the big man in a soothing bass. “Media hound or not, you don’t look at all like we imagined you.”

  “Although we did guess you’d look a little like Zoe,” said Laura.

  Fixing Juliet with a luminous gaze, the man continued. “Same gorgeous red hair, same green eyes. You look more controlled than your sister. Neater. Zoe’s a little wild.”

  Juliet laughed. “You are an American, aren’t you?”

  “Sure am. Born in New York. Raised in the Berkshire Hills around Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Alan Beckert. Call me Al.” He thrust his hand out. It was large and well-muscled, and nearly cut her blood supply off. Fortunately he didn’t maintain his grip too long.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, flexing her fingers. “What are you doing here in England, Al?”

  “Touring. At least I was. Now I’ve wound up here. And I’m staying put.” He cast a quick glance at Laura. “I’m hooked on you Brits. Love your hang-ups.”

  “Thank you. On behalf of British people, I’m flattered,” she said. Though, when it came to hang-ups, no doubt a rich treasure store of them lay waiting to be found here. But she had yet to meet the other members of the group to confirm that.

  “Irony,” said Al. “There’s something else I love. You’ve all got it. But back to the hang-ups. Some of you people say I put my finger straight on your problems. That’s great. I’ll stay just as long as I’m needed.” He gave a genial grin.

  Wasn’t it supposed to be Craig sorting out everyone’s problems, not him? She noticed Al wore his shirt with most of the buttons undone. This exposed the silver medallion nestling among his chest hairs. He looked like something left over from Woodstock. She’d be none too happy to trust him with her problems.

  “You haven’t put your finger on mine yet, Al,” observed Laura.

  Al gave her a lingering look. “I’m pretty much ready to get going soon as you let me, honey.” Then he turned to the youth. “You going to introduce yourself to our visitor?”

  “Sam. Sam D-D-Dorling. I can’t t-tell you about myself, Juliet. I can n-n-never do anything in f-f-front of anybody.”

  Al looked at Juliet again. “Sam has a bad time of it with his nerves.”

  “Enforced separation from his twin brother,” said Laura.

  “His GP green-lighted it,” added Al. “Get the picture?”

  Juliet didn’t really, and took the nearest vacant seat at the table. She was beginning to glimpse what she’d let herself in for.

  “So,” said Laura, “how do you find us so far?”

  Juliet played for time by fiddling with the silver bracelet on her left wrist. Though she was here to check up on her sister, and hopefully to rescue her, she could still feel the attraction of the place.

  “I’m not here to judge,” she said. “But one thing’s for sure. The house is out of this world. It seems to have a personality
of its own.”

  “I was sure you’d feel it before you’d been here long.” Laura’s face glowed. “Craig wants people to see what he calls the true reality, which isn’t like the outside world at all.”

  “But don’t you think living here for several months tends to make people not quite real themselves?” asked Juliet.

  “No. Why should it? Look at me. I’ve been here since January,” said Laura.

  Juliet remained silent.

  “Go on,” urged Laura. “Say what you think. We can take it.”

  “Please don’t misunderstand me, Laura,” said Juliet. “But I already have a feeling that it might be a glass bubble, too good to be true.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” said Laura. “Trust me. It’s real, all right.”

  The door opened, and another group member came in. “Ah, food. Just what I need.”

  Juliet turned. The newcomer had a circular bald patch on the crown of his head, rather like a monk, but offset this effect by sporting a luxuriant, almost Parisian, moustache. Rising to her feet again, and facing him, she found herself the subject of an unnerving scrutiny.

  “Juliet, this is Edgar,” said Al.

  “Ah! Our media lady.” Edgar thrust out his hand. “Very happy to make your acquaintance.” His grip, too, was immensely strong, but swiftly released. “Edgar Swinton. In charge of Craig’s forecasts, five-year plans, and statistics. I also interview the new recruits. I know what you’re here for, Juliet. Craig prepared us well for your arrival last night at dinner. You’ll want to mingle with the group and be as it were, one of us. I’ve a number of questions to put to you which I hope we can deal with quite quickly, perhaps after lunch.”

  She winced.

  “Ah, you’re a little uptight about this,” smiled Al. “It’s OK. Edgar’s not from the FBI.”

  “Maybe not, but I hardly think it appropriate…” began Juliet. What would her fellow journalists make of this? How would they handle it?

  Edgar drove remorselessly on. “You’ll be thrilled by our little chat. I designed the questions myself. They cover every possible eventuality.”

  Well, if he planned to include her in his ritual, she’d need to set him straight – without causing offence. She could be treading on eggshells here.

  “You’ve taken me aback, Edgar. What did you want to know?”