Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  “That you picked things up so accurately speaks to your spiritual development.” He filled his cup again. “Perhaps your lineage as well.”

  She hesitated. “I’ve only been studying metaphysics for four months. I guess that might seem strange to you, knowing my aunt.”

  “Cynthia explained your circumstances.”

  “I did keep doing the meditation she taught me as a child,” she added.

  “Good for you,” he said. “My comment stands. You’ve done a great deal of spiritual work in past lives.”

  “Perhaps,” Anne said, thinking of her memories of lives with Michael in Egypt.

  “Now, let me explain a bit about our site here. Red Spring flows from the bottom of the aquifer in the Tor and is rich in iron, thus the red color. It is the spring of the Goddess, and of course, the color also connects it to the fertility of women and the menstrual cycle.”

  “Then White Spring must represent the male principle,” Anne said.

  Garth nodded, a bit surprised. “Perhaps. It flows from the top of the Tor through the limestone where it picks up calcium. If we see this spring as the male complement, the white color represents the seed. But springs belong to the goddess.”

  “Aren’t these ideas of the god and goddess just neo-Paganism?” Anne asked. “Do these beliefs really go back that far?”

  “Oh my, yes,” Garth said. “This imagery is the foundation of the English spiritual tradition. Glastonbury has been a site of pilgrimage for over ten thousand years.”

  “Really?” Anne gave a halfhearted attempt to recapture her former skepticism.

  “Absolutely. There’s archeological evidence of use back to 4000 BCE. Legends suggest a much longer use.”

  Anne gave up. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “We’re a few weeks past Alban Eilir.” At Anne’s blank look, he said, “Ostara?”

  “Are you talking about the spring equinox?” Anne asked.

  “Exactly, the time of the Sacred Marriage. In your dream, the blood spring literally bleeds.” He put his chin in his hand. After a minute he added, “The springs also represent the energies of the red and white dragons.”

  Anne frowned. “Is that some political thing?”

  Garth laughed, then caught himself. “Sorry. That’s an unusual interpretation. The dragons represent the primordial Earth energies.”

  “I see.” Anne could not suppress a huge yawn. She covered it with her hand.

  Garth glanced at the clock on the stove. It was half past two. “The thing that concerns me about your dream is the earthquake. The land here is geologically stable, at least it has been since a quake destroyed the church at the top of the Tor in 1275.” He paused to consider her. “Myself, I think that quake was the faeries objecting to the church.” He watched her carefully to see how she would react.

  Anne shrugged. After Egypt, she wasn’t going to rule anything out.

  This seemed to satisfy him. “How did you feel when the ground shook in your dream?”

  “Frightened. Like something was torn. The blood didn’t feel natural, either. It wasn’t like a monthly cycle. It felt more like blood from a wound. I didn’t sense any other beings, though.”

  “Right,” Garth said. He sat stirring his coffee, lost in thought.

  Anne watched him, annoyed that he didn’t say anything about his own experience. After a few minutes, she broke the silence. “You said you also had a dream. Is it something you’re willing to share?”

  Garth pushed his mug to the middle of the table. “My dream is not so straightforward, and it puzzles me how it may be connected to yours.”

  “Maybe we can figure it out together,” Anne suggested.

  Garth nodded. “I was standing with a group of people. We seemed to be doing some kind of ritual. I heard chanting, saw an enormous shaft of light…then something grabbed me.” He rubbed his thigh. “Like an iron vise. Hot.”

  “It still hurts?”

  “To be perfectly honest, it’s always bothered me.”

  Now it was Anne’s turn to cross-examine. “Did you notice anything else?”

  Garth closed his eyes as if trying to return to the dream. “Long, blond hair, but belonging to a male figure,” he said. “There was a tearing, something was wrenched from its right place.” After another moment, he shrugged and opened his eyes again. “Nothing more.”

  “What do you think it means?” Anne asked.

  “It’s not specific enough to draw any conclusions, but it is quite significant that we both had a troubling dream at the same moment, that we felt something torn or wrenched out of place, that it disturbed us so deeply we investigated…and that we were both drawn to White Spring.”

  “You know, when we first got here, a local man said White Spring was running erratically, that people are afraid it may fail.”

  Garth slapped the table with his hand. “That can never be allowed to happen.”

  Anne flinched. “I agree, but what can we do?”

  Garth studied her. “I’m not certain, but I believe your arrival is fortuitous.”

  “I know nothing about this place,” Anne objected.

  Garth dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Your dream suggests otherwise. I propose we work together to solve this mystery. Is your fiancé metaphysically inclined?”

  “Oh, yes. Michael has studied all his life. He’s much more talented than I am.”

  Garth’s mouth crooked in a small smile. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Anne ignored this. “He had to go back to New York suddenly.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Anne decided not to explain the details; it was very late. “He should be back in about a week.”

  “Then our little project will be a distraction for you.”

  “I’d like to work with you. Maybe you can tell me more about my aunt.”

  Garth’s eyes clouded for a moment, then he gave his head a little shake. “Now, if you’re going to be doing magic on the Tor, I need to show you around and explain a few things.”

  “No time like the present,” Anne said.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was close to three. “I have an appointment in London today. What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow it is,” Anne said.

  “You can start today, though. I suggest you go to Red Spring and meditate. Attune yourself to the place, see what you pick up.”

  “I will.”

  “Excellent.” Garth’s eyes strayed to the clock again.

  Anne got up. “I should let you get some sleep.”

  Garth snorted. “Not likely after all that coffee. I was thinking that if I leave now, I can run a few errands before my meeting.”

  “Then I’ll let you go.” Anne pushed her chair under the table.

  Garth stood and escorted her to the front door, his limp still distinct. “We’ll meet at a more convenient time. Say one o’clock Saturday afternoon?”

  Anne laughed. “I don’t know, this place keeps waking me up right about this time every morning.”

  Garth looked at her closely. “It’s the sign of someone closely attuned to energy.”

  Anne shook her head. “That’s what Michael said when I told him.”

  “I think I’ll like this man of yours.”

  “Drive safely.”

  “I shall. I’ll come to Cynthia’s—” His eyes narrowed. “I mean, your house tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Anne said in a soft voice.

  Garth teared up. He set his jaw, saying nothing.

  “See you tomorrow.” Anne patted his shoulder then left him to his grief.

  Chapter Nine

  Caitir listened to the low murmur of her mother’s voice in
the darkening room. If she were standing on the Tor, she could watch the sun slide toward the ocean and light the path to the old lands. Megan shifted in her chair. Caitir watched her for a moment, then sat back herself, satisfied the Morgen was comfortable for now. That was how she thought of her—the Morgen first, mother second.

  A beam of sunlight fell on the oak door, illuminating the intricate carving of the god and goddess at Midsummer. The rooks were gathering in the orchard up the slope to sing the sun down. They needed to tend to the younger trees, mend the fence on the north side, weed the garden plots. Her mother claimed these extremes of the seasons were new, that before the disaster, the changes during the year were mild. Now, even the stars moved in the heavens and the seasons created a struggle to survive.

  Caitir shook herself slightly, trying to clear her mind of all these mundane things, no matter that their small settlement depended on her guidance already. She should be preparing herself for the ordeal—for ordeal it did become, to walk between the worlds. Megan’s voice stopped. Her eyelids drooped. Caitir waited, and when her mother’s breath lengthened, she slipped into the garden and walked the paths between the beds of feverfew, yarrow and chamomile. How long would Megan tell her stories of the days gone by? Regardless of what her mother thought, Caitir had her own memories of those golden times before the island fell, before the land she yearned for despite her best efforts sank deep into the sea. Now her task was to establish this stronghold, to teach the young ones and serve visitors to the shrine. She feared the goddess blessed her with an abundance of common sense and little of the psychic sensitivity she would need for this quest. Why not send Sorcha? She practically lived in the other realms, traipsing through her days forgetting what was at hand to do, her long flaxen hair flowing behind her.

  A quickening in the air announced the turning of the tides toward evening, so Caitir made her way back to the vigil hut. She would make her pilgrimage deep into the night. She found Megan stirring. Without a word, Caitir poured a cup of the hot herbal brew that cleared the lungs and mind. Her mother’s hand, dotted with brown age spots, was steady after her short nap. She drank half, then rallied her strength and began her tale again.

  “The trip to the northern isles was quite the adventure of my young life. No beaming through the crystal for me yet. They were saving that for another time. We went by boat. It was a cargo ship going to pick up tin, delivering goddess knows what. I was too young to think of that. The dolphins ran with us on the first day, leaping and twirling. I stood on deck and watched them, forgetting my sadness at leaving Govannan. At night, the sickle moon sat low in the heavens with the closest planets a line in the sky, Venus bright and close to the horns of the moon, Mercury and then Mars fainter dots of light. It was pure magic.

  “Most of the day we sailed under crystal power, but toward late afternoon, when the winds picked up, the seamen turned off the engines and ran up the sails for the joy of it. They used my father as an excuse to hang the purples out with all the other colors. The wind belled out the sails, and the sun slanting across the water lit them up like lanterns at a festival. If there was no wind, the weather worker called a bit of breeze, nothing to cause an imbalance, mind you.” Megan looked up at Caitir as if to admonish her.

  Caitir frowned as a memory surfaced. She was seven or eight. The gang of children went up to Wearyall to fly kites, but the wind didn’t cooperate. Onchu called it up, but it wasn’t just a breeze. The wind quickly turned into a gale, and three priestesses were needed to quiet it. Her mother remembered that Caitir did it, but that was not the case; she wished she had that kind of power.

  Megan was lost in her past again and continued her story, although Caitir heard this one many times before. “We danced on deck in pools of scarlet, emerald, gold and purple. We arrived on the fifth day just as the sun began to dip back toward the sea.”

  * * * *

  The ship sailed from the open ocean into the estuary where the land and water intermingled and made peace with one another. Cranes flew overhead or sat in the trees like ghosts in the haze. Ducks floated, breaking the silence with the bell beat of their wings when the ship sailed too close. Here and there, the heads of reeds just cleared the water and swayed with the tides, a forest in miniature. In the distance an island appeared from the mist. Alders skirted the shore and willows dipped their graceful boughs into the water. Above them rose a green hill, which then dipped back down again and almost submerged like the coils of a giant water serpent. Another undulation of the land ascended into a terraced hill, the coils tightening into a spiral; on the summit, a circle of low standing stones with a tall, graceful obelisk in the middle announced they had come to Avalon.

  Megan grasped her bag to her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart. She was here at last, in the land of her mother’s ancestors. She would meet the Lady of Avalon, someone she heard stories of all her life. At night when the family gathered in the scented garden, her mother told tales about the magic of this place—of the energy of the twin springs, the majesty of the Tor and the entrance into the Underworld, of the Lady who held the keys to all these mysteries. As a child she yearned to walk beneath the Tor and find the crystal cave, to call the faeries and be invited to join them in their court.

  A figure appeared beneath the canopy of trees on the shoreline, dressed in white with a blue shawl draped over her shoulder. Wheat-blond hair hung down her back in a long braid. From the trees sounded the caw of a raven; it took flight with a rustle of leaves, rounding back to perch on a distant standing stone. It sent a shock of recognition through Megan. She had seen this scene before. Despite the warmth of the sun, a shiver ran the length of her spine.

  The sailors dropped their easy jocularity when they dropped anchor at the base of Wearyall Hill. It was well named, the point of arrival after a journey, where weary travelers could find rest and sustenance. The crew stood at their posts almost at attention, stealing glances at the priestess and the Tor. Megan straightened up and smoothed the folds in her clothes, suddenly aware of her wind-tangled curls. A skiff pushed off from the shore poled by another tall figure in white. As the skiff grew closer, a man’s long hair and beard became visible beneath the shade of his cloak. He pulled up to the boat and stopped, nodding to the captain who now took Megan’s arm. “I’ll help you down.”

  She turned to him. “I haven’t said goodbye.”

  “They’ll be missing you.” The captain faced her, his eyes bright in his wind-wrinkled face. “Hope we see you on your return.”

  It sounded like a question, so Megan said, “I don’t know how soon I’ll be coming home.” A bank of clouds covered the sun and suddenly she missed the bright light and cheerful colors of Eden.

  “Now, now,” the captain clucked to her like a hen to her chick, “you’ll be fine. I expect the Lady will keep you too busy to miss us much.”

  She turned and raised her hand in stiff salute to the crew. They smiled or nodded from their places, still overawed by the sight of Avalon. The captain lowered a rope ladder over the side and climbed down first. He handed the bag over to the Druid, then returned for Megan. With a final wave to the sailors, she followed him down the ladder and settled on a narrow bench, retrieving her bag from the bottom. The Druid turned his small craft, delicate as a mosquito, and poled back to shore. Megan glanced over her shoulder as they drew close to shore, but the ship was already turning toward the open sea. She settled in the skiff and looked at the Tor.

  After a few more expert pushes with the pole, her guide stepped into the shallow water, pulled the skiff onto the beach and held out a hand for Megan. For the first time in five days, she put her feet on firm ground, but it still seemed to bob with the rhythm of the sea.

  The woman who was waiting stepped forward. “Welcome to Avalon. May you find peace here.” The words had the ring of a ritualized greeting.

  “Thank you,” Megan said, and introduced herself.

>   “My name is Thalana,” the woman said.

  “An Atlantean name.”

  “Yes, I was born in Authochthesa.” It was the far northern coastal region of Atlantis, close to Iber. Megan never visited it. Thalana took her bag. “Come, I will take you to your quarters.”

  Megan turned to thank the Druid boatman, but found he also slipped away, his boat already blurred in the mist. They climbed the first hill along a narrow path through tall trees, a mix of ash, hawthorn, and oak. The forest thinned and then gave way to a green expanse. They walked along the spine of the hill. The settlement of the Sisters of Avalon nestled in the clearing at the foot of this knoll, below the ceremonial site. The thatched roofs of the cottages blended into Chalice Hill and the Tor that rose behind them. Clusters of woodland herbs nestled among the trees surrounding the village, if village you could call it.

  Thalana stopped in front of the first cottage on the edge of the tiny settlement. “This is for visitors.” She put Megan’s bag down on the threshold. “Settle in and I’ll come get you when the Lady can see you.”

  Megan’s stomach gave a growl—she skipped breakfast—but she thanked Thalana, took up her bag and walked in, closing the rounded oak door behind her. Sudden tears blurred her vision as she took in her surroundings. This was her third new home in the space of ten days. Before, she lived in the same house, the same room, surrounded by the same people. There was always someone to listen, someone to play with, someone to comfort any hurt. Not anymore. Now she was alone in a cold, gray land of stone and water and dark trees, away from her family, away from the man who awoke her budding womanhood. He was the one who sent her, in fact.

  She shook her head, trying to master herself. Avalon was her mother’s old home. She had family here. Soon she would meet them, and she would meet the Lady. Megan wiped the tears from her face and forced herself to explore the new cottage. She found a small nook for preparing food, and on the table sat a jug of water, a loaf of bread, a round of cheese, and a few of last fall’s apples—a bit withered, but giving off a wholesome scent. Her stomach growled again, as demanding as a younger sibling. Beside the kitchen was a private bath. Steam rose from the tub prepared to welcome a traveler. Next to the bathroom was a bedroom with a view of the hill she just came from. Megan dropped her bag by the bed, stripped off her clothes, and sank into the steaming water. She lathered up with rose-scented soap.