“Earth, fire and water were in Owen’s dream. So was mistletoe,” said Holly slowly. “But was mistletoe air?”
There was silence while everyone thought.
Owen suddenly pulled the feather from his pocket and waved it. “This was air . . . the hawk-headed shaman used a feather. Birds fly in the air and Ava flies! Hey . . . what if Ava’s air?”
“Earth, air, fire and water,” said Holly slowly. “It sounds right. Ava could symbolize air . . . but what was the White Horse?”
“Earth,” said Chantel.
Everyone stared at her.
“The White Horse and the Red Mare were carved in earth,” Chantel explained patiently. “Everything was earth. The talisman was buried, the dragon was buried and Adam had to go underground to see Wayland. So Equus is earth.”
“That can’t be right. If Equus is earth and Ava is air, what about fire and water? There are only three Wise Ones,” said Adam.
Holly shook her head. “There are four,” she said firmly.
“No.” Adam ticked them off on his fingers. “Equus, the horse; Ava, the hawk woman; and the old man, Myrddin. Three Wise Ones.”
Holly shook her head. “There are four. I know it. I don’t know how or why. I just know it.” She pressed the sides of her head with both hands. “It’s like something inside is telling me.” She dropped her hands and continued with utter conviction, “There are four Wise Ones, and Myrddin is fire and the other is water.”
Owen and Adam looked unconvinced, but Chantel touched Holly’s arm and they exchanged quick smiles.
Owen shrugged. “Then the mistletoe must mean some–thing else.” He punched Adam’s arm. “Thanks, Adam!”
* * *
The long-haired girl staggered as another wave of dizziness hit her. She thrust the penny whistle at the musician beside her. “ I must have sunstroke,” she muttered and stumbled to the shade of a tree at the edge of the field.
She sat on the grass and leaned against the trunk. The dizziness grew worse. She closed her eyes and a shiver ran through her body. Blackness gathered and she was sucked down into an icy swirling void.
She surfaced angrily. Angry that she had got sunstroke, angry at the stones because it was their fault, and angry at . . . at . . . her mind cast around trying to make sense of her anger . . . Aaah! She was angry at those kids who’d run into her. They laughed when she dropped her ice cream. How dared they?
A rush of fury flooded her body. She’d get even with them if it were the last thing she did!
The girl clambered to her feet and swayed groggily. She’d find those bratty kids and teach them a lesson. Maybe they were among the people watching the festivities. She made her way unsteadily back to the edge of the Stone Circle and stared at every kid, but none of them were the right ones. She’d try looking in the village next.
* * *
Following the arrows labeled MUSEUM, Owen, Holly and Adam pushed the Bath chair containing Chantel into a large cobbled courtyard surrounded by trees. Loud caws burst from the trees as they walked past.
“Crows?” asked Chantel.
“Rooks,” said Owen. “Look.” He ran under the trees and clapped his hands loudly.
With cries of alarm the rooks rose from the branches in a great black cloud and wheeled angrily overhead.
As soon as Owen had disturbed them he felt guilty. He shouldn’t have frightened them. He’d been a bird last night. He remembered the feel of the wind under his wings and his delight in the freedom of flight. Then he remembered how his heart had pounded in his chest when he was buffeted and blown in the snowstorm. He sent a mind message. “Sorry, rooks, I won’t frighten you again.” To his surprise, they immediately stopped their cries and settled back in the tree branches.
Adam pointed across the courtyard. Several wooden tables were filled with people eating and drinking. Behind them were the open doors of a converted stable. “Great, a restaurant. Let’s see what’s on the menu.”
“We’ve just had lunch,” protested Holly.
Owen backed up Adam. “There’s always room for snacks.”
“Later,” insisted Holly, rolling her eyes toward Chantel.
She marched into the doorway of the largest building. “Come on, show your passes.”
The ticket collector waved through their passes but pointed to the Bath chair. “That stays outside. It’s too big, but we’ve a wheelchair you can borrow.”
“Thanks,” said Chantel. She climbed out of the Bath chair and hopped over to the waiting wheelchair. “Hey, I like this.” Spinning the wheels by hand, she propelled herself into the barn.
The others followed.
The barn was cool and dim after the brilliant sunshine.
The thick stone walls and massive interior roof beams arched high over the children’s heads.
“It’s like being in a church,” said Chantel softly as she gazed up into the shadows.
“Something up there moved,” said Holly. Her voice echoed in the large space.
“Looking for our bats?” asked an interpreter.
“Bats?” said the children. They all stared intently at the roof.
“Occasionally one moves,” continued the interpreter. “Or you hear the odd squeak, but they sleep during the day. The best time to see them is dusk, when they stream out of the vent holes to catch flying insects. It’s quite a sight. There’s been a bat colony in the barn for hundreds of years.” She laughed. “We could only get permission to make the barn into a museum if we promised not to disturb the bats.”
“Neat,” said Holly.
“I’m Sue,” said the interpreter. “You can come and ask me anything you like about Avebury.”
“I want to know about the Stone Circle,” said Owen eagerly. “Who built it, and why are so many stones missing?”
The interpreter pointed to a small ramp. “If you go up the ramp you’ll find information about the builders. Then move to the middle of the barn for information about the Barber Surgeon and how he helped destroy the stones.”
“Barber Surgeon?” questioned Chantel.
Sue smiled. “Yes, a man who wandered from village to village pulling teeth, lancing boils and cutting hair. He made quite an impact on Avebury.”
“Thanks.” Owen flashed her a smile and ran up the ramp.
He stopped short and pointed. “I don’t believe it! That could be Hewll!”
A life-sized model of a man with long hair, wearing a leather tunic and a woolen wrap, stared at them. He was holding an antler pick in his hand as if about to strike. Below the model were a couple more antler picks and some scapula shovels. Above them a sign said “Please Touch.” “Those clothes, the antler pick, it’s just like my dream,” whispered Owen.
Adam picked up an antler pick and swung it experimentally. Holly tried hefting a bone shovel.
Chantel picked up a stone hammer and banged repeatedly on a log provided for the purpose. The stone head wobbled and fell off as the leather binding loosened. Chantel looked embarrassed and dropped the handle back on the display table. “It’s hard to believe the ditch and Stone Circle were made with these tools. The Circle is so massive and the tools so . . . so . . . ” she searched for the right word, “so fragile.”
Holly was reading the exhibit labels. “It took two thousand years to build the ditch and the Circle.” Her voice was filled with awe. She lifted an antler pick again in her hand. “Making it must have been really important to the people who lived then.”
“Of course it was,” hissed Owen. “They’d promised Ava.” He paused, a look of revelation on his face. “That’s where the name comes from, isn’t it? Ava’s circlet is buried here . . . Avebury. Brilliant!”
He went charging off to see what else he could find.
* * *
Ava lay weakly on a rafter. She struggled to raise her head. Owen was near; she could sense him. He would help her, but they were running out of time. He needed one more clue for the ritual. If only she had enough strength to show
him another glimpse of the past.
* * *
“Hey, Owen, here’s the Barber Surgeon.” Adam waved Owen over and pointed to a photo of human bones poking out from beneath a massive stone, and the rusted remains of ancient tools and a knife blade in a glass case. “This guy tried to wreck the stones, but they wrecked him. One fell on him and crushed him.”
“Good for the stone,” said Owen. He peered at the exhibit as Adam wandered off to the next section.
A strange feeling swept over him, a momentary dizziness as though his eyes weren’t focusing properly, then a feeling of seeing things from far away. One moment Owen was leaning against the museum case, peering through the glass to look at the bones and read the story. The next minute the glass dissolved, the exhibit disappeared and it was as though he was hovering, hawk-like, above the Stone Circle, watching the past again!
* * *
It was a cold crisp midnight and the air smelled of Christmas. Mulled spices and cooking odors wafted from the open door of the Catherine Wheel Inn. Owen watched as the Barber Surgeon strode angrily out, his bag of knives and tools clinking on his belt. Behind him, drunken voices sang a raucous version of an ancient carol as the roasted head of a pig with an apple stuck in its mouth was hoisted onto the inn table.
The Boar’s Head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary,
And I pray you my masters be merry,
Quo estis in convivio.
The inn door slammed on the voices as the Barber Surgeon strode down the street toward the church, muttering, “’Tis blasphemous.”
A bunch of children, boys in breeches and jerkins, girls in woolen kirtles and shawls, ran past him to gather around the church door as a lantern-lit procession emerged.
A fiddler led the way as the congregation, joined by the children, marched from the church, winding in and out of the great stones. The lanterns were placed against the stones, and the people moved to the center of the Circle. They held hands, made their own circle and began to dance, moving sedately first to the left, then to the right.
The Barber Surgeon followed and stood by a stone, glaring at them.
* * *
Owen noticed the faint mist gathering as the night-prowling wraith lurked on the edge of the Circle. He sucked in his breath, knowing what was likely to happen.
As the Barber Surgeon stood against a stone, the mist rose up around the man’s feet and melded with him.
* * *
The Barber Surgeon watched and listened in anger and disbelief as the villagers raised their voices in song and tripped around and around.
Oh, the Holly bears a berry as white as the milk.
And Mary bore Jesus who was wrapped up in Silk.
Oh, Mary bore Jesus our Savior for to be.
And the first tree in the Greenwood, it was the Holly.
Holly, Holly.
Oh the first tree in the Greenwood, it was the Holly.
“DESIST!” The Barber Surgeon erupted into the middle of the dancers. Instead of just being angry, he’d suddenly become filled with a strange power. Power to change the world. “I will not stand by and watch blasphemy,” he roared. “Where is your priest?”
The villagers stopped in bewilderment.
“He’s in yon church, but he be coming along directly,” said a cherry-cheeked woman. “We be celebrating Christmastide with the stones. Come, stranger, celebrate with us.” She moved over to make a space.
“I will not!” shouted the Barber Surgeon. “The stones are evil. Who raised them?”
The people looked at each other and shrugged.
“Please, sir, they’ve always been here,” said a youth.
“Could you have raised them?” the Barber Surgeon asked. The youth shook his head.
The Barber Surgeon pointed a finger at the biggest man, the smith. “You?”
The smith shook his great head. “Not I. ’Twould take stronger men than me.”
“Only one person could raise this Circle. THE DEVIL!” roared the Barber Surgeon. “There is no place for the Devil’s work in a Christian world.” He pulled a crucifix from his jacket and held it up. “This place is cursed. I travel the length and breadth of England and never have I seen or felt a place so steeped in evil.”
The villagers looked at each other in fear. They stepped back.
“Save yourselves before it is too late,” roared the Barber Surgeon.
“How?” asked the smith.
“Topple and bury the stones. Let the blessed church protect you instead. The stones must be destroyed.”
* * *
Owen watched the vision with disbelief as, exhorted by the stranger, who was now joined by the priest, the shocked villagers were bullied and browbeaten into fetching spades and picks and working through the night, digging deep holes into which they would topple the great stones.
“Don’t do it,” Owen whispered, but the people of the past couldn’t hear.
* * *
The scene became a celebration as religious fervor enveloped the village. Fires were lit to soften the ground and provide light. The night took on a hideous glow. Then someone thought of laying fires at the base of the stones.
“Burn them like witches!” cried one woman.
“Yes, let them taste Hell,” answered another.
“Watch me,” boasted the smith. “Witness the art of the blacksmith. I know the magic of fire and water.” He gestured to the observers. “Fetch water from the stream that does not run. Go to the village well.”
A woman rushed to the inn courtyard and lowered a bucket into the deep stone-lined hole.
The drunken revelers spilled out from the inn to join their sober neighbors.
“Aye . . . what sport. Let’s topple the stones,” shouted a brawny farm worker. He brought forth a great hammer and swung it against the nearest stone. A chip flew and he laughed and swung again.
A stone, faggots blazing around its base, glowed with the heat.
“Bear witness to the power of the blacksmith,” shouted the smith. He took the brimming bucket and dashed the icy cold contents against the hot rock. With a great crack the stone split in three pieces and fell to the ground.
A cheer went up.
The priest knelt and prayed with the stranger, giving thanks that this Christmas night had seen the old religion finally overthrown.
“Come . . . we need more men.” The cry came from a group of shadowy figures struggling to push a large stone into a yawning pit at one side.
The priest and Barber Surgeon rose to their feet and ran to help.
All threw their full weight against the stone, but still it stood.
“Wait.” The Barber Surgeon threw himself on the ground and felt along the base of the stone. “There is a smaller stone preventing it. Hand me a pick.” He leapt eagerly into the pit beneath the looming Sarsen.
The villagers watched aghast as the stone shifted and tipped of its own accord.
The ground shook as the great weight thudded down, crushing the Barber Surgeon before he could utter a word of protest.
Silence fell.
“The stones are angry,” whispered a woman.
A man nodded. “This was a poor night’s work. We will regret it.”
One by one the villagers retreated, leaving the priest praying amidst fire and devastation. No one noticed a thin mist rise above the pit before being sucked swiftly back into the ground.
* * *
The vision wavered and became smaller, dimmer. A moment’s dizziness, and once again Owen was leaning against the glass case, staring at the bones and rusty knife. His eyes were moist. “How could they?” he muttered to himself. He blew his nose noisily. “And how come I’m seeing things without Ava’s help?” He shook his head to clear it and moved away to find the others.
Owen . . . Owen! The voice in his head was a tiny sibilant squeak.
Owen stopped in mid-step. He looked around.
Holly and Chantel were still exploring the
exhibit around Hewll. Sue the interpreter was talking to a person in the doorway. Adam was playing on a computer exhibit at the other side of the barn. No one else was within earshot.
A tingle ran up his spine. “Who’s there?” he whispered.
The answer came back in short squeaky bursts of thought.
Me. Swoop. Friend of Ava. Mindspeak. I hear.
Owen concentrated and spoke using his mind. Where are you?
Up . . . up.
Owen looked up. Hanging from the rafter was a small brown bat with bright eyes. It dropped from the beam and fluttered silently through the museum to the far corner of the barn.
Owen hurried after it.
Swoop hung from the corner of an exhibit case containing a computer simulation of the various stages of building Avebury.
Sit. I talk.
Owen settled on the bench opposite the screen.
Ava took acorn.
Owen gave a huge sigh of relief. Ava saw what happened at the stone? Thank goodness. We were afraid to touch the acorn once the wraith was inside it.
Ava hurt. Drop acorn.
WHAT . . . where is she?
Here. Sheltering. In roof, squeaked Swoop.
Owen stared up at the rafters. He could see nothing in the shadows. Ava, are you up there? Did you send me the vision of the Barber Surgeon? Are you okay?
Owen had a blinding flash of Ava’s pain. He swayed on the bench. AVA, what happened?
Her mind touched his for only a moment as she tried to mindspeak. King heal, was all he got. It made no sense. He looked worriedly at the bat.
Help Ava. Swoop continued. When museum shut. Come. Bring bag. Carry her.
I’ll come, promised Owen.
Take her. Gold King, squeaked Swoop.
Take her where? asked Owen.
Silbury Hill. Go sunset. Gold King help.
The Golden King, said Owen doubtfully. King Sel? How are we supposed to find him?
The bat ignored his question. Go Silbury Hill. Sunset.
Dance of the Stones Page 9
