They walked down the hall toward the front of the house and found a large bedroom with a canopied bed and marble-topped bedside tables. Michael dropped the suitcases at the foot of the bed. They turned to find the room stretched to the whole width of the house. Opposite the bed, a large chair and chaise lounge were drawn up to another fireplace laid ready. A gilded mirror hung above a mantel decorated with dried-up evergreen sprigs, holly with browned berries, and pillar candles.
“Looks like she planned to celebrate here. Wonder why Tessa didn’t take it away?”
“Maybe she misses Cynthia.” Michael kissed her forehead. “I’ll get the rest of our bags.”
Anne turned her back on the sad mantelpiece and explored farther. What was once a smaller room, perhaps a nursery, was converted into a walk-in closet. Rows of drawers and hanging clothes ended in a cozy dressing room complete with a little table and mirror. Anne opened a small door on the left and found a water closet. The second, larger door led to the bathroom they first discovered.
Suddenly, Michael stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He was winded from climbing the steps, and his breath blew warm on her neck. “Hungry?”
“What time is it?”
“Five hours earlier in New York, but it’s dinnertime here.”
“Look at all this.” Anne pointed to the full closet, then at the dressing room. Brilliantly colored Egyptian perfume bottles lined the dressing table. Silk scarves and necklaces hung from small gold hooks from floor to ceiling. “She must have spent a lot of time in this house.”
“I don’t blame her.” Michael closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you feel it?”
Anne stretched her senses. “It’s so quiet. Not like Giza, I couldn’t sleep there.”
“Glastonbury is full of peace,” Michael repeated, then his stomach rumbled and they both laughed. “Let’s go to town. There are some good restaurants and the walk will work out the kinks from the plane.”
They hiked down Wellhouse Lane and passed the stone wall dividing Chalice Well from Chilkwell Street. Past the Well, a row of townhouses crowded up to the sidewalk, the windows full of plants and sun catchers with pentagrams and Celtic knots now lit from the lamps inside. An orange cat ran from the garden of a larger house and paused to look at them. The mouse he was chasing took advantage of his hesitation and dove into a drainpipe.
They turned down High Street and slowed their pace to look into shop windows.
“There’s a Chinese takeout.” Anne pointed to a sign in one of the windows. They stopped to read the menu.
“Another night,” Michael said. “I’d eat it before we got home.”
They passed a health food store, then noticed a regular grocer across the street. A young man with dreadlocks was just folding up his display blanket from in front of the St. John’s Church. The stores displayed their offerings to the tourists. Crystals filled one window, locally made clothes another, books and Tarot cards were displayed in a third.
“Here.” Michael led the way into Café Galatea, where they took an empty table next to the front window. The wares of local artists hung on the walls, and a variety of newspapers were strewn about. They ordered a large pot of tea and two sesame stir fries. The tea arrived, and with steaming mugs in hand, they watched the tourists and town residents parade up and down the street. After dinner, they strolled past Market Square and the haunted George and Pilgrim’s Inn, down Magdalene Street along the wall of the Abbey, then up the hill back to the house. Michael lit the fire in the bedroom and they sat in comfortable silence.
“I’m too tired to unpack.” Anne pointed to the suitcases still piled at the foot of the bed.
“We’ll settle in tomorrow, then I’ll show you around.” Michael stifled a yawn.
Anne smiled. “Time for bed.” They curled together beneath the smooth sheet, but sleep won over passion.
* * * *
Something woke Anne. She listened for a sound, but heard only the ticking of an old clock downstairs. She rolled over and snuggled down under the duvet, but sleep did not return. Rather than toss and turn, she crept out of bed, careful not to wake Michael. In the closet, among Cynthia’s clothes, she found some old jeans and a shirt. At the window, the dark sky held a faint promise of light. Birds twittered in the apple orchard. The Earth lay suspended in that silent moment before the tides swing toward morning.
Anne made her way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step, and found a woolen cloak and clogs next to the back door. She slipped them on and walked through the dark backyard. A rickety wooden gate opened onto the gentle green slope. Above her, Anne could just make out the long finger of St. Michael’s Tower. She climbed the wet grass to the steps running up the hill. She stopped to catch her breath at a convenient bench, then pushed to the top and sat against the old stone tower facing east, waiting for the sun to rise. She closed her eyes for a minute and sank quickly into deep silence.
From the west side of the tower, a lone voice lifted in a wordless chant. She opened her eyes and half turned to see who else left their warm bed to climb the Tor and greet the dawn, but instead of the tower, she found herself leaning against a tall standing stone. Anne leapt to her feet and backed away.
“Good morning, Cynthia,” a voice called from behind her.
Anne whirled to find an older man walking up the last slope of the Tor, his breath steaming in the chill.
The chant cut off mid phrase. Anne turned back to look for the singer and almost rammed her nose into St. Michael’s Tower.
“You’re up early,” the man said.
“What the—” Anne turned back to the newcomer. He wore a woolen cloak similar in make to the one Anne grabbed from the back porch, but his was a darker brown, almost matching his hair.
“Oh, you’re not…I thought…” He came to a halt.
“I’m Anne, Cynthia’s niece.”
He stood close enough now for Anne to see wisps of silver in his beard. She pointed behind her. “Did you hear someone chanting just now?”
“You heard chanting.” It was a statement.
“Yes. And I thought…” She pointed to the tower, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
“You thought…?”
“The tower disappeared and I saw a standing stone.”
He nodded. “Some people see a ring of stones, some just the one.”
Anne gave him a closer look.
“When is Cynthia coming back?”
She hesitated. “You haven’t heard?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes we are out of touch for months at a time.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid Aunt Cynthia died late last year in New York.”
“Died?” He stepped toward her. “But…such a vital woman.”
“It was sudden. A heart attack.” No sense telling the world it was murder.
The man stared at her, eyes wide. Then he shook his head. “Cynthia and I were…neighbors.” He offered his hand and Anne shook it. “My name is Garth.”
“I’m sorry to bring you this news.”
He ducked his head and leaned on his walking stick. Finally, he looked up and studied her face. “Anne.” He shook his head. “I don’t recall—”
“She and my mother were estranged. Cynthia probably never mentioned me.”
“Ah, so you’re the one.”
“Excuse me?”
“The niece she had so much hope for.”
Anne stifled her surprise. “So I’m told.”
“You’ve taken up residence?”
Anne nodded. “I inherited the house. We—my fiancé and I—came to see about it, visit Glastonbury.”
“And you’re an early riser?”
“Actually something woke me. It’s probably jet lag.”
“I
felt it too.” He turned back to the east and gazed out across the downs. The bright curve of the sun lit the horizon. The fields greened under his gaze. Garth turned back to her. “I hope you and your fiancé will come to dinner. I would like to hear more about Cynthia’s passing. Perhaps I can help you know her better.”
“We’d be delighted.”
“It was good to meet you.” He walked into the middle of the tower, his shoulders bowed.
Anne walked back down the hillside, leaving Garth to his own meditations. The sun lifted fully from the horizon and the mists began to thin. She slipped through the gate, now seeing the flowerbeds in the morning light. The jonquils were fading, but tulips pushed up from the earth. She picked one with a bent stem, went into the kitchen and rummaged through the top shelves until she found a small vase. She set it in the middle of the table and shed her aunt’s cloak and clogs, then climbed the stairs. The third step from the top protested her weight.
“Anne?”
She opened the bedroom door to find Michel looking up at her from a jumble of covers, his hair tussled, eyes still heavy from sleep. “Where were you?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He reached for her. “You’re cold.”
“I went for a walk.” She shed the rest of Cynthia’s clothes and crawled into the warm bed. Michel pushed against her and she wrapped herself around him eagerly. Afterwards, they slept again.
* * * *
A clatter followed by a muffled curse woke Anne this time. There was nothing mysterious in that. The smell of coffee followed the sound up the stairs; her stomach responded with a loud gurgle. After a quick shower, she slipped into the clothes she wore earlier and found Michael in the kitchen scrambling eggs.
“Good morning.” He kissed her on the cheek. “There’s coffee here, tea in the pot, cream and sugar on the table.”
Even though the coffee beckoned her, the china cup with its row of delicate rose buds around the rim called for tea. She added cream and took a tentative sip. Perfect. The red tulip opened in the warmth of the kitchen. Michael pulled scones out of a small toaster oven and placed them on the round table. Anne reached for one, but he held up an imperious forefinger. “Wait.” He turned and rushed into a small nook, coming out with raspberry jam and Devon cream still in their containers. He rummaged through a cabinet, looking for bowls.
“They’ll get cold.” Anne opened the containers and spread cream and jam on a scone. “It’s a good thing I climbed the Tor already,” she said, then took her first bite.
“Is that where you were?”
She nodded, savoring the taste.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She told him about her experience.
“Having visions already.” Michael tilted the pan to test the eggs.
Anne took a breath to deny it, but stopped short. How else could she explain what happened? “I met a neighbor. He asked about Cynthia.”
“He didn’t know?”
“No, but I got the feeling they were close. He asked us to dinner.”
“Maybe we’ll learn more when we go over.” He scraped the eggs onto a platter and grabbed a bowl of heated beans, then placed them like an offering before her. “One more thing.” He took a small casserole dish out of the oven and with tongs lifted a cooked tomato onto each of their plates.
“So you want to open an English bed and breakfast?” Anne asked. “Where’s the bacon?”
“I knew I’d forgotten something.” Michael put another plate down, this one filled with soy strips masquerading as pork.
“How long have you been up?”
“About an hour.”
They ate in quiet contentment, listening to the song of the birds in the orchard and the occasional bleat from the sheep on Chalice Hill. Finally Anne could fit no more into her stomach. She took her plate over to the sink then sat back down. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.” Michael nodded. “I was inspired.”
“I’ll say. What’s next on the agenda?”
Michael finished his last bite before answering. “You have to do the dishes.”
Anne laughed. “And then?”
“Let’s get some water from White Spring first, then we can go see the sights. You’ve already been on the Tor, but I’d like to climb up sometime today. We’ll go to Chalice Well, maybe get over to Wearyall Hill. Tomorrow, we’ll tour the Abbey.”
“Sounds like a real vacation.”
Anne filled the dishwasher, protesting he used every dish in the house. They walked down to White Spring with a few gallon jugs they found on the back porch. A local man held his own plastic container under a trickle of water next to the brick building. He nodded as they walked up. “It’s still sluggish.”
“What is?”
The man glanced up when he heard Anne’s accent. “On holiday?”
“We just got in last night,” Anne said.
“Welcome to Avalon.” He jutted his chin toward the stream of water. “White Spring is running slow, has been for a while now.”
“How long?” Michael asked.
“For a few years really, but worse since midwinter.” He studied Michael for a moment. “It perked up around Imbolc for a few days, but then the flow got erratic again.”
“Has this happened before?” Michael asked.
“White Spring’s flow always changes, but it’s been reliable for thousands of years. Now, we’re not so sure of it.”
Anne stepped past the two men onto a flagstone patio. Spirals and inlaid crystals decorated a moss green wall next to the brick building that was now the entrance to the spring. A few ferns found footholds in niches in the rock; water trickled down the wall and gathered in a small pool. Several silver containers of votive candles, now burned down, sat on the edge. A few colorful ribbons hung from crevices in the rock face and the branches of vines; tiny green buds swelled along the stems. Anne turned back.
The local man tightened the lids on his bottles. “You know, there used to be a restaurant here. Some people just don’t get it.”
“Surely the damage isn’t permanent,” Michael offered.
The man shook his head. “One would hope not, but we must restore the flow.”
Goosebumps spread up Anne’s arms. “Restore the flow.” The phrase was passed down over the centuries to explain the purpose of the crystal keys.
Michael touched the crystal hanging beneath his shirt. “What did you say?”
“Something needs to happen to balance the spring. We’ve done some rituals, but if White Spring fails, I don’t know what that will mean for the world.” He loaded his bottles in the back of a Citroen. After he settled the last one, he smiled. “Sorry to be glum. Have a good visit.”
“Thank you,” Michael said.
Anne watched the car swing deftly around and head back to Chilkwell Street before she turned back to Michael. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
Michael shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’d tell you it was just a coincidence if I didn’t know better.”
“We already saved the world.”
“Guess it’s a two part job,” Michael quipped. He bent to open their jugs. “We’ll need water.”
“I’m on vacation,” Anne said, holding the first container under the pipe. “But, Michael—”
“Like you said, we’re on vacation.” He smiled at her. “Besides, there are plenty of Druids and witches around here. They can fix the place themselves.”
Chapter Two
Michael took deep pleasure in watching Anne discover the sites he long loved, first Egypt and now Glastonbury. In Egypt he spent half the time under the shadow of suspicion he may have murdered Cynthia Le Clair; the second half was spent dodging the thugs hired by the Illuminati to steal their cry
stals and their lives. They returned home to Thomas Le Clair’s memorial service. Michael planned to take Anne around the world, but now he longed for peace and quiet.
He followed her down Chalice Well’s cobble stone path under the oak pergola entwined with slender vines filled with spring green. Anne paused at the Vesica Piscis inlaid in the path, made of white stones, and pointed to the white line that ran through the middle. “Michael’s sword?”
“You could say that, but swords stand for the element of air as well as the male balance to the female circles. Some say it’s a staff. Wands are the other male element.”
“I feel like I should understand this symbol, but I’m not sure I grasp all the subtleties.”
Michael laughed. “It’s no wonder. It’s very complex. Let’s go sit by the pool and I’ll explain it.” At the gatehouse, he took out his Companion Card and showed it to the man behind the payment window, who nodded. They continued along the path. The last time he visited, it was late summer and all the beds were dense with flowers, the tall hollyhocks and bushes creating private nooks for meditation. Now spring plants burst from the brown beds, eager for sunlight.
Anne tried to look everywhere at once.
“Just relax,” he said. “We’ll be here for a month at least. It will all come to you.”
She took his arm. “Lead on, gallant knight.” They continued up the walk and the pool came into view. Anne stopped in her tracks.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Michael asked.
They made their way down the stone steps. Anne bent and trailed her fingers in the water. A small stream emerged from a stone bowl shaped like some exotic trumpet flower and flowed down what could only be described as a series of labia, finally falling on a squat and impertinent stone toadstool.
“Lucky guy.” Anne pointed to the mushroom-like phallus.
“He lives in the lap of the Goddess,” Michael whispered in her ear.
Anne pushed him away playfully. “You’re just like him.”
Two overlapping stone pools received the offering. The water brimmed to the top of the two interlinked circles, creating a sense of fullness and peace, then flowed out of the other end where it meandered through a spiraling stone channel down the hill into a small stone pool and finally disappeared down a just visible pipe. Anne sat on one of the benches and Michael joined her, taking her hand. They listened to the gentle trickle of the water.
Beneath the Hallowed Hill Page 2
