by Rhys Bowen
“A bloke?” Barry asked. “With long blond hair?”
“That’s right.”
“Sounds like a proper pansy to me.” Barry looked around at the other men for agreement.
“Ooh, he’s not at all. He’s ever so sexy-looking—just like those men you see on the covers of romance novels—you know, rippling muscles and open shirtfront. Too bad he’s married and to an old woman like her too. He’s going to be testing me tomorrow.”
“Hang about,” Harry said. “What’s all this about tomorrow? It’s Saturday tomorrow. I’ll need you here all day.”
“Oh, but Harry …” Betsy turned her big eyes on him, pleading.
“I can’t have you going running off just when you feel like it. You’ve got a job to do here, young lady, and Saturday isn’t your day off.”
“Not just this once, seeing as how it’s so important?”
“No, not just this once. Tell your psychic friends they can wait for Monday and your day off. And if they were really bloody psychic, they’d already know that Monday is your day off! And before you start pouting, go and collect the empties. I’m running out of glasses back here.”
“Old spoilsport,” Betsy muttered as she pushed past the men at the bar.
She was just passing the front door with a tray full of glasses when it opened and a woman came in. Betsy looked up and gave a shriek of delight. “Emmy! You’re here. How lovely to see you! Everybody!” She raised her voice. “This is Emmy I’ve been telling you about. The one who has just moved in with Mrs. Williams.”
The woman smiled shyly, pushing a curtain of dark hair back from her face. “Boy, what a dinner I’ve just had!” she said. “Can that woman cook, or can she cook? I owe you big-time, Betsy, for finding me that place to live. Those lamb chops tonight—boy, am I glad I stopped being a vegetarian. I am in hog heaven!”
Evan swallowed hard as disturbing visions of Mrs. Williams’s lamb chops danced before his eyes—nicely brown on the outside and just pink enough in the middle, probably accompanied by fluffy mashed potatoes and cauliflower in a parsley sauce. He remembered that Betsy hadn’t served him the warmed-over meat pie yet.
“Come on in, Emmy, and meet everyone,” Betsy said, clearing a path for her through the crowd with her tray.
“I wasn’t sure whether to come or not, seeing that women aren’t really welcome in the pub.”
“Not really welcome—who’s been telling you that?” Harry demanded. “Of course they’re welcome. We’ve a lovely lounge with comfortable chairs and tables all ready and waiting. Show her the way through then, Betsy.”
“Oh, don’t make her go in there on her own,” Betsy said. “It’s terrible cold and unfriendly in there tonight and she’s the only one. It’s up to us to make her feel welcome in the village.”
“Rules are rules,” Harry said in Welsh, “and we’re not breaking them for any foreigners.”
“You really are being an old grumpy tonight,” Betsy said, also in Welsh.
“On account of my being run off my feet because the hired help didn’t turn up on time,” Harry said.
“Come on through to the ladies’ lounge then, Emmy,” Betsy said in English. “Harry here is a stickler for his rules, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay. I find it delightfully quaint,” Emmy said. “It’s nice to know that there still are parts of the world where tradition is important.” She approached the bar from the lounge side and leaned on it looking through at the sea of male faces watching her. “So has Betsy told you the news? Aren’t you excited about having a genuine psychic in your midst?”
“Genuine psychic, my foot,” Harry said, putting a pint in front of Emmy none too gently. “If she’s a genuine psychic, then I’m the duke of Edinburgh.”
“No, I’m sure we’re onto something here,” Emmy said. “Of course, she hasn’t learned how to harness her psychic ability yet but it’s there all right. I can’t wait for the director to see her tomorrow. He’s a famous psychic in the States. Anyone who is anyone consults him, y’know. He used to have his own TV show.”
“No wonder he looks so lovely,” Betsy said as she ducked through into the bar area and popped up close to Emmy. “I said he looked like a film star, didn’t I?”
“He’s one of the best-known psychics in the world,” Emmy went on. “I’m so happy that he’s agreed to help me with my research. He’s really excited about finding local people with untapped powers. I know it’s going to blow his mind when he meets Betsy tomorrow and feels all of that untapped energy bursting out of her.”
“I won’t be able to meet him tomorrow,” Betsy said, with a catch in her voice.
“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out, Betsy?”
“No, but Harry here won’t let me have the day off. He’s making it hard for me.”
“She has a job and that comes first,” Harry said. “She’s bloody lucky to find a job around here. Most young people have to move away, don’t they?”
The American woman touched Betsy’s arm and leaned close to her. “Look, Betsy. If this is going to be a problem, maybe I’ve got a way out. I happen to know that they’re hiring extra help at the Sacred Grove, ready for the summer season. If you like, I could speak to the owners about finding you a job there. Then you’d be on the spot so that we could do further testing and help you to bring out your hidden talents.”
Betsy’s eyes were shining. “Me, miss? You think they’d hire me down there?”
“Sure they would. The place is already booking solid for the summer and they need the same kind of staff as a five-star hotel. You’ve already worked in the hospitality industry so you’ve got a head start. Let me ask the owners in the morning and see what they say.”
“You hear that, Evan?” Betsy looked round at him. “Did you hear what Emmy was saying? She thinks she can get me a job at the place where they’re testing me. Imagine that—me among all the healers and priestesses and everything. You just watch how psychic I get when I’m surrounded by all those good vibrations.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of leaving Harry and going to work down there with foreigners, are you?” Evans-the-Meat had also overheard the conversation.
“Why shouldn’t I? Grumpy old man,” Betsy said. “Do you think I haven’t been dying to find something better than this? I’ve got dreams and ambitions, you know. If they’ll have me, I’ll be out of here in the morning and Harry can like it or lump it!”
Chapter 6
Excerpt from The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon
The History of Druidism
The Druid religion extends back into the mists of time. It is not known whether the Celts brought Druidism with them when they migrated from their homeland around the Black Sea to populate and dominate much of Europe, or whether Druidism evolved only among the western Celts—those in Britain and northern France. It is in those areas that we have found the physical evidence of Druids—the carved statues of the gods, the stones with charms inscribed on them, the priestly torques, the ritual objects placed in wells and lakes.
It is in Wales and Ireland that we feel their presence most strongly.
In any case we know that Druidism was flourishing in the British Isles when the Roman armies invaded with Julius Caesar in 55 B.C.E.
It is also shortsighted to speak of Druidism as being a thing of the past, recently resurrected. In Ireland and Wales, among the true Celts, Druidism has never died out. It has been subdued, Christianized, but it still lurks at the base of every Celtic psyche.
Druidism has suffered from what today would be described as bad press. The only historical accounts of Druid worship still extant come from Roman sources. The conqueror justifying the act of conquest. Julius Caesar, Pliny the Younger, and other notable Romans describe the Druids as savage barbarians, prone to unspeakable sacrifices and torture of prisoners, holding mysterious and terrible ceremonies in oak groves. These same Romans failed to mention that captured Britons, many of them Druids, or ahherents of the Druid
religion, were shipped off to Rome to provide spectacle in the arenas by fighting gladiators or lions.
Tacitus writes: “The graves devoted to Monas barbarous superstitions he demolished. For it was their religion to drench their altars in the blood of prisoners and to consult their gods by means of human entrails.”
What few facts we can glean from these Roman distortions tell us that the Druids were indeed formidable foes. When the Romans reached the Isle of Mon (which the English call Anglesey), they were confronted by a horde of blue-painted Celts, both men and women, brandishing weapons and howling so fiercely that the mighty Roman army was unnerved and the soldiers could not be persuaded to cross the strait to do battle. Eventually, when reinforcements arrived and the Celts were hopelessly outnumbered, the Romans advanced and there was a fierce battle before the Celtic army was wiped out.
Wales became a Roman province. Christianity arrived in the fourth century. Druidism was suppressed but never completely wiped out. The Christian missionaries cleverly incorporated the most important Druid feasts into the church year, so that the winter solstice, with its garlands of holly and ivy, its burning of a great log, and its feast to brighten the shortest day, has become Christmas.
Beltane, with its lighting of the new fire, its sprigs of flowers, and celebration of spring awakening, has been incorporated into Easter. And Samhuinn, that most mystical of days, on October 31st, when the door between this world and the otherworld is open so that spirits may pass freely between, has now become the children’s festival of Halloween.
Evan opened his eyes and blinked in a blinding white light. For a second or two his heart raced, and he sat up, wondering what was happening to him. Then he realized it was only the sun, streaming in through his as-yet-uncurtained bedroom window. It was the first sunny day since he had moved and he hadn’t realized that the window faced due east, allowing the morning sun to come streaming in. That strength of sunlight must also mean that it was quite late. He groped for his watch on the packing case that was presently standing in for a bedside table. Eight-fifteen. He rarely slept as late as that. Mrs. Williams had made sure that he never overslept and the tempting smell of bacon cooking had been enough to wake him. Then he remembered that it was Saturday. On weekends Mrs. Williams would serve him a full Welsh breakfast—bacon, sausage, fried bread—the works! Evan swung his feet onto the cold linoleum and sighed.
At least it was a sunny Saturday for a change. Maybe Bronwen would like to go for a hike, or they could drive down to the Llyn Peninsula and do some bird-watching. Spring was the best season for the seabirds. Then he remembered something else. This was his weekend to work. He took a lukewarm bath, not having learned yet how to coax the water heater into producing hot water for more than a couple of minutes, shaved, and made himself toast and tea. At least the stove had a grill element that worked. As he carried the toast through to the vinyl table, he heard a sound—the pop-popping noise of a revving motorbike. Evan jumped up and rushed outside. Surely he’d remembered to lock the lean-to where he was keeping the motorbike? And surely nobody could start it without the key? He imagined what D.C.I. Meredith would say if he had to call in and report the bike stolen after one day. He rushed outside in time to see a lanky figure wobbling down the hill on the bike, a large bag on his back. As Evan watched in horror, the bike picked up speed and the man gave a yell and jumped off, just before the bike ran into the gatepost of the Red Dragon and fell over, its engine still roaring.
Evan rushed to pick the man up. It was Evans-the-Post, his large mailbag still over his shoulder. “You blithering idiot!” Evan yelled. “What did you think you were doing?”
Evans-the-Post staggered to his feet and started brushing himself off. “Is the bike wrecked?” he asked. “I bloody well hope so.”
“You hope my bike is wrecked? Are you out of your mind, man?”
“I told them I wouldn’t be able to handle it, didn’t I?” Evans-the-Post went on, his large, mournful eyes staring at the prone motorbike. “I kept telling them. ‘I’m not good with mechanical things,’ I kept on saying, but they wouldn’t listen. ‘Directive from the postmaster general,’—that’s what they told me. ‘Rural postmen have to be motorized.’”
Evan was beginning to get the gist of what the postman was saying. “Wait a minute—are you saying that this is your bike?”
“Not mine. No, indeed. Belongs to the post office, doesn’t it? And they’re welcome to it. Telling me I’m not productive enough just delivering the letters to this village. Been doing it for twelve years now, haven’t I? Never missed a day sick and they’re not satisfied. And they think I should be taking the mail out to all the farms too—and right over to Capel Curig. The nerve of it.”
Evan went ahead of him, picked up the bike, and switched off the engine. “You’re lucky,” he said. “It doesn’t seem much the worse for wear. You’d have been in big trouble if you’d wrecked their bike, wouldn’t you?”
“Do you think they’d have fired me?” The basset-hound eyes fixed on Evan. “They wouldn’t fire me, would they?”
“They could,” Evan said. “You’re just going to have to get used to that thing, you know. I’ve been given one too, and I’m not too thrilled about it either.”
“Ah, but it will help you catch crooks, won’t it?” He grinned like a ten-year-old. “Tell you what—I’ll learn to ride mine better and we’ll have a race someday.”
“You’d better start off going up hill.” Evan helped him onto the saddle and adjusted his mailbag for him. “That way you won’t go so fast.”
“Or gore, plisman,” Evans-the-Post said. “All right. If you say so. I think I’ll go up to the youth hostel first. They always get a lot of letters with interesting foreign stamps on them. There’s one from America today. It’s from this girl’s boyfriend. He says he’s coming out to join her. Won’t she be surprised, eh?”
“Dilwyn—how many times have I told you you’re not supposed to read the mail?” Evan said.
“There’s no harm to it. Not when it’s postcards.” Evans-the-Post sounded hurt. “Postcards are meant for everyone to read, or they’d be in an envelope, like letters.”
Evan turned for home, then checked himself. “I’ve just had an idea,” he said, touching the postman’s shoulder. “How would you like to help the police? If you have to deliver any mail to a girl called Rebecca Riesen, will you come and tell me about it?”
“Is she a crook on the run?” Evans-the-Post’s long, lugubrious face lit up.
“No, she’s a missing American student. I’ve been around all the youth hostels to see if she’s stayed there. So far no luck.”
“Rebecca Riesen. Right you are,” Evans-the-Post said importantly. “Off I go then.” And he set off up the hill, the bike still wobbling dangerously under its heavy load.
Evan went back to cold tea and cold toast, then went to open up the police station. His bike was where he left it the night before and he chuckled when he thought of his encounter with Evans-the-Post. If only all postmen read every piece of mail like Dilwyn Evans, maybe they’d have tracked down the missing girl by now, and solved a few crimes too!
As he came out of the lean-to, a white Ford Fiesta drove past, slowed, and honked at Evan. Betsy wound down the window and put her head out. “Guess what, Evan—I’ve got the job! Emmy called them this morning and they said they could use me right away, so Emmy’s driving me down there. Imagine me, working with famous people and swimming pools!”
“Have you told Harry?” Evan asked her. “It’s not really right to walk out on him and leave him stuck, is it?”
Betsy’s face fell. “I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been such a grumpy old devil,” she said. “He’s never done a thing to praise or encourage me, all this time. And I’m the one who brings in the customers for him. Let him see how full the bar is when there’s no pretty girl to gape at, that’s what I say.”
“I still don’t like it, Betsy. And I don’t think it’s like you, either.”<
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“I’ve got to take my chances in life, haven’t I? You were the one who told me to follow my dreams, remember? Well, now I’ve got a real opportunity. If my powers are as strong as Emmy thinks they are, maybe I’ll turn into a proper psychic someday, like Randy, and people will watch me on TV.” She leaned out of the window as the car sped up again. “Wish me luck, Evan.”
Evan watched her white hand fluttering in a wave as the car disappeared down the pass. Poor Betsy, always dreaming of big things. He did wish her luck. He hoped this turned out to be the break she wanted, but he didn’t have good feelings about this Sacred Grove place. Not that he knew anything about it, but he was inclined to think that all these so-called spiritual healers and psychic types were a lot of bosh. Of course, naïve people like Betsy were easily impressed. She was so thrilled to be among—he paused as he remembered her actual word—“priestesses,” she had said. Hadn’t the American girl written about a date with Druids? Then he remembered that Druids used to worship in sacred groves.
He went inside and called headquarters.
“Constable Davies, it’s Evans here, from Llanfair.” Better keep things on a strictly professional level. “Any developments on your missing girl yet?”
“Oh, hello, Evan. No, nothing at all yet. Thanks for putting up the flyers in the youth hostels for me. I feel so bad that her parents are coming and I’ve got nothing positive to tell them.”
“Listen, Glynis, I’ve had a thought,” he said. “What do you know about that new healing center near Porthmadog?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about it. Ever so posh, isn’t it? Five-star rates to have your aura read?” She chuckled.
“It’s called the Sacred Grove,” Evan said. “And someone from our village who has just been there spoke of priestesses.”
“Priestesses?”
“Yes. So I wondered if it might be a place where we’d find Druids.”
