Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  `Easier for training. Men you know.'

  `We haven't got uniforms for an additional 25 officers, Asquith. And before you lead off about trivialities and how great is the need for action, uniforms are more than merely important, they're vital. A uniform commands the sort of respect that you could never get with armbands or whatever it is you have in mind. A uniform in itself provides a large measure of assertiveness and gives its wearer a massive psychological advantage in any confrontation.'

  Prescott smiled. `I agree with you absolutely, Harvey. A distinctive uniform is vital.'

  Evans gave the landowner a suspicious look.

  `But providing 25 traditional caps, helmets, and tunics would be impossible for us,' Prescott continued. `And they have to be a good fit, particularly peaked caps, otherwise they look ridiculous. You agree with that, Harvey?'

  `Yes,' said Evans uncertainly, sensing a trap.

  Prescott sorted through some papers in a filing tray and pulled out a drawing which he held up. `How about this?'

  Evans stared and would have laughed had he not been so surprised. The sketch showed a grim-faced figure wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, a loose, long-sleeved white blouse, black breeches, white socks and black buckle shoes. He was holding a long ash staff. A shorter baton was hanging from the figure's leather baldric.

  `Morris men kit!' Evans spluttered. `You can't be serious!'

  Prescott looked from the sketch to his visitor. `I'm deadly serious, Harvey. Let's look at the advantages, shall we? Firstly, your morris men wear a very simple get up -- very distinctive in black and white and very easy to make. The blouses can cover body armour or weapons most effectively when they're needed. The breeches can be made from ordinary trousers and dyed. The buckle shoes are ordinary shoes fitted with brass buckles. I understand that all your morris men have their own kit, and that your dance master holds about five kits in reserve...'

  `Eight,' said Evans woodenly, not taking his eyes off the drawing. `And my bagman has a spare kit.'

  `Even better,' said Prescott. `And thanks to your scrapping of the handkerchiefs, and bringing in those brilliant sword and staff dances, everyone takes your morris men side seriously. They have a reputation for toughness and they're well-disciplined. Exactly the qualities we need in our police force. I suggest that the straw hats are worn for ordinary duties and that white-sprayed crash helmets are worn when there's likely to be trouble.'

  Although Evan's initial instincts were to rebel at the suggestion, he was proud of the Pentworth Morris Men and knew that they were held in high esteem in the community. On reflection it seemed that Prescott's seemingly outlandish scheme had much to commend it, but he had grave reservations. `They would not have the powers of police officers,' he ventured.

  `Perhaps they shouldn't even be called police officers?' said Prescott expansively, sensing victory. `How about public safety officers? As for their powers, they should be no more than those of ordinary citizens in the maintenance of law and order. They could operate in teams with a police officer as their... What's the correct term?'

  `Foreman,' said Evans.

  `Foreman,' Prescott agreed, watching Evans closely. `So what do you think?'

  `I take it that the matter will put to the full council for approval?'

  Prescott looked at his watch. `Your side is opening the carnival in a couple of hours.'

  `The Mayday fertility dance,' said Evans. `They're getting ready in the Crown.'

  `Excellent, Harvey. Excellent,' beamed Prescott. He stood and shook hands with the police officer, draping his arm across his shoulder and leading him to the door. `You've no idea what a relief it is having us in total agreement on this one, Harvey. A tremendous weight off my mind. Now, if I were you, I'd nip across to the Crown and acquaint your side with their new responsibilities.'

  Diana entered Prescott's office when he was alone. She closed the door behind her and looked at her boss, her expression a mixture of hope and adoration. She was dressing well now. The light summer dress she wearing suited her better than her usual somewhat old-fashioned business skirts and over-fussy blouses.

  `Did you get all that?'

  `Yes, Mr Chairman--'

  `I've told you to forget that Mr Chairman nonsense when we're alone, Diana. Well?'

  `He could've been a little closer to the intercom but it's clear enough on the tape, and Vanessa Grossman took a shorthand transcript.' She smiled self-effacingly. `She makes an invaluable assistant. She's unbelievably efficient.'

  Prescott crossed the office and sat on the Davenport. He patted the seat beside him. `Lock the door, Diana.'

  She did so and sat beside him, sitting upright and looking tense.

  `A telephone system, a proper police force, and a special security team to guard this building, courtesy of Father Adrian Roscoe,' said Prescott softly, resting a hand on her knee. Her legs were bare which pleased him. She had good legs. `It's all coming together, Diana. You look lovely in this dress. I told you blue would suit you.'

  `Thank you... Asquith.'

  Prescott moved his hand along her thigh. She gave a little sigh and closed her eyes, relaxing against him, allowing her knees to part slightly. He was in no hurry; he liked to tease her.

  `Where would we be without you, Mmm, my little Diana?' Prescott's voice was soft and wheedling. Her answer was to grasp his hand and pull it higher, pressing herself against him with all the clumsy urgency of someone who feels that they have wasted a lifetime. Prescott kissed her. She responded -- a desperate, yielding passion that had so surprised him when he had visited her home to apologise. Moments later she was moaning softly and biting his earlobe as her pelvis ground against his hand.

  Prescott was a happy man; he had the world in the palm of his hand, and his chief executive officer around his finger.

  Chapter 65.

  THE WAIL OF ANGUISH from the salad bar was that of a Mothers' Union commando unit who had used 200 eggs to brew a cauldron of mayonnaise that had gone wrong.

  Sarah was about to commiserate when she caught a glimpse of Anne Taylor in the crowded square. She scrambled onto the barbecue for a better view. `Oh, bugger!' Her dismay equalled that of the grieving Mothers' Union.

  `Oy -- Miss Rhubarb Legs!' Tony Warren bellowed. `Down!'

  Sarah poked her tongue out and jumped down. `That's dropped a spanner among the pigeons, Viks. Your mum's beaten me to it, She's sunk a million hooks into Mike Malone. Bang go my chances.'

  Vikki was alarmed on two counts. The presence of her mother at the festivities was bad enough -- decidedly style-cramping, but the thought of her being with a man other than daddy was doubly unsettling.

  `But she said she wasn't coming.'

  `Well, she's here. Near the maypole.'

  A boy on a mountain bike pushed through the crowd. He was wearing the green sash of a government messenger -- eminently suitable work for youths whose only skill was staying upright on a bike. He handed a slip of paper to Tony Warren.

  `Right, everyone!' the butcher bellowed when he read the message. `We're lighting up!'

  `Bit early, Tony?' Vikki queried.

  `Order from the chairman's office. The health officer wants the barbecue really hot for the chicken breasts.' The butcher added moodily. `Bloody busybodies think I can't cook chicken.' He thrust lumps of paraffin wax into the huge charcoal bed while bawling out some boys who were supposed to be scrubbing a mountain of potatoes.

  The Mothers' Union ended their period of mourning and started making more mayonnaise.

  There was a stir and some ragged cheering around the entrance to Government House when the white safari-suited figure of Asquith Prescott appeared. With much head patting, he chatted briefly to the school children who were being shepherded into position around the maypole by parents and teachers. Preceded by the red-coated town crier, he mounted the steps to the stage.

  The crier rang his bell for silence and called upon the people of Pentworth to draw near and give heed to the Chairman of Pentwo
rth Emergency Council.

  Prescott stood at the microphone, beaming around, acknowledging cheers and waves of the crowd, radiating bonhomie and capped teeth. There were a few catcalls, even boos from the edges of the square, but he took them in his stride as he welcomed everyone to the Mayday carnival.

  `My fellow citizens of Pentworth...'

  `Oh, Christ -- a presidential address,' Ellen muttered.

  `...We are all facing the most terrible problems. But you have risen to the challenge of those problems and confronted them in a spirit of fortitude, sacrifice, comradeship and co-operation that will be remembered in Pentworth long after this crisis is over. In the years to come our children, and our children's children, will look back with pride on these dark times and see them as your finest hours.'

  `Oh, God,' Ellen complained. `Now he's going all Churchillian on us.' Some scattered jeering suggested that the anti-Prescott faction thought the same. Ellen scanned the crowd in the hope of spotting the malcontents, wishing that there were more. But at least there were some...

  Anne Taylor turned to Malone. `Delusions of grandeur would you say, Mr Malone?' she asked her escort.

  `I'd rather not say anything, Mrs Taylor,' Malone replied solemnly.

  Anne caught the flicker of amusement in his usually inscrutable eyes and decided that she liked Mike Malone's company. The detective returned his attention to the stage -- not to the speaker, but to the people surrounding the stage. Prescott's vociferous coterie of about thirty admirers intrigued him.

  `But today,' Prescott continued, ignoring the ignorant fringe element -- there were always some, `we are here to forget our troubles and the undoubted hardships that lie ahead. Today we are here to enjoy ourselves. Once the open council meeting is over -- and I promise we'll keep it brief! -- there will be food and drink and music, laughter and love, and dancing the night away! I declare the Pentworth Mayday Carnival open!'

  A pipe band that had assembled near the maypole struck up and the children started dancing around the maypole, under rehearsed as always and bumping into each other. Two boys and a girl started brawling. Laughter echoed around the square.

  Woman laden with baskets of spring flowers created a floral dance area near the maypole which was the signal for the thirteen spring virgins -- one for each full moon of the coming year -- to get ready.

  Vikki and Sarah joined eleven other teenage girls crowding into Pentworth Antiques where they changed into flowing white chiffon dresses amid much ribald chatter and laughter. Mrs Williams, the antique shop's owner, clapped her hands for attention. She rebuked her charges because so few of them had attended the final rehearsal, and told them to watch the chief virgin for their cues.

  `And I don't want a repeat of last year when a girl turned out to be inadequately attired. Those photographs in the papers were quite shocking.'

  Foxing Mrs Williams was becoming an annual tradition. Sarah was among three of the girls who had decided to forsake all underwear. Nothing could persuade Vikki to join them, particularly with her mother in the crowd. The 13 virgins, an honorary title in Sarah's case, gathered near the door. With much moving about and swapping places they managed to pass Mrs Williams' inspection as being reasonably respectably dressed.

  `Vikki!' she called. `Where's our witch?'

  `Right here, Mrs Williams.'

  Mrs Williams smiled. `You're much too pretty to make a convincing witch, Vikki. Do you have to wear both those gloves?'

  `I prefer to, Mrs Williams.'

  `Very well. Now for goodness sake start your run the instant the Fool gives you the cue. Which is...?

  `He'll say, "Run... Run... Run..." in a loud whisper,' Vikki recited.

  `Good. You'd better wear shoes. They've nearly sold out of custard pies.'

  Vikki laughed. `I can run quite fast bare-footed, Mrs Williams.' Her laugh died when she remembered the night when she had fled bare-footed from Nelson Faraday. Mrs Williams clapped her hands again. `Quiet please, girls, otherwise I can't hear!'

  The young children finished their dance and were hustled away. The applause was Mrs Williams' cue. She threw the shop door open and her 13 virgins raced bare-footed into the bright sunlight, skipping and whooping, and kicking up flowers as they ran to the maypole and gathered around it, each girl holding a ribbon. There was a stampede of youths to get into good positions. Some even climbed lamp standards; word had spread rapidly that half the girls were virtually naked.

  The pipe band struck up again, this time a madrigal to which the girls moved with sinuous grace, entwining and untwining, circling each other to work a spiral pattern of coloured ribbon around the phallic symbol of the maypole. Some of them were out of step with the music but no one seemed to worry, least not the dancers, smiling self-consciously at the appreciative chorus of whistles and cheers from the boys.

  `It gets worse every year,' Ellen muttered disapprovingly. `Some of them aren't wearing bras, and look at the way Sarah Gale's flaunting herself.'

  `I am looking,' David cheerfully assured her. `Actually, I think it gets better every year.' It was an observation that earned him a playful dig in the ribs. He added, `God -- what a lovely kid Vikki Taylor is.'

  On the other side of the square near the dancers, Anne Taylor informed Malone that she had once been a Pentworth Mayday virgin.

  Malone looked down at her. `I really can't think of an answer to that, Mrs Taylor.'

  The pipe band stopped playing and dispersed when their conductor heard the slow beat of a bass drum. The crowd fell silent and marshals cleared a bigger area around the Crown. Led by the chief virgin, twelve of the thirteen girls formed a wide circle around the maypole, facing outward, young breasts heaving, looking demurely down as they were showered with more flowers. For Sarah to look the most demure maiden of all was a notable achievement. Vikki remained at the maypole, dancing with an unconscious, sensual grace by herself, without music, taking hold of each ribbon in turn in her right hand to gradually unwind the work of the troupe.

  The double doors to the Crown's coaching yard swung open and the Fool appeared. He pranced into the sunlight, his bell pad and garters jingling, each silver bell in the form of a skull. In one hand he held an inflated pig's bladder on a stick, in the other an ancient, stick-like object that was removed from the museum once a year for this occasion. It was a pizzle whip -- a bull's penis -- a vicious object capable of inflicting severe injuries that had been used in medieval times to drive demons from the possessed.

  In all the other dances in the Pentworth Morris Men's Sussex tradition repertoire, the Fool was the collector -- laughing and joking as he and his assistants rattled charity tins under the noses of onlookers -- playfully beating with the pig's bladder those whom he considered less than generous with their donations. But for this pagan dance he wore a frowning mask to scare off witches and demons; this was the ancient fertility dance that had its origins in the Moorish (hence `Morris') rituals of North Africa that predated Islam and even Christianity. It was a direct appeal to the old gods for fruitfulness during the coming year. Fruitfulness in the crops, in cattle and womenfolk -- a ritual too important to be sullied with demands for money.

  The crowd remained unusually silent, sensing that this time the ancient ceremony held a special significance. The people of Pentworth were alone, there was no one to help them. They had been trapped for a month behind an impenetrable wall created by forces or beings beyond their understanding. A wall whose very permanence told them that it could last many years. If the crops failed, they would surely starve. Under circumstances of such fragility of existence, it was all too easy to slip into a primitive belief in demons and witches, and vengeful gods that demanded constant appeasement and sacrifice if they were to heed the pleas of inconsequential mortals and accord them the insignificant gift of survival.

  Behind the Fool came the drummer, virtually hidden behind his huge bass drum as he beat a slow but purposeful step. Following him was the hobby-horse: a towering, hellish creature with staring
eyes, flaring nostrils, lips curled back in a permanent savage snarl to expose snapping teeth -- its operator hidden under an enveloping black cloak. It lurched to the left and right, its fearsome wooden teeth gnashing and clacking above the heads of onlookers. Children who had been lifted onto shoulders for a better view screamed as the sinister apparition threatened to devour them.

  Vikki felt sorry for them. She had a vivid memory of a time on her father's shoulders when she had shrieked in terror at the hobbyhorse. She caught sight of her mother with Malone and exchanged waves while wondering if she would ever see her beloved daddy again.

  There was a sudden tension in the air. The crowd pressed forward when they heard the measured beat of heavy, iron-tipped ash staffs on cobbles -- a beat that kept time with the drum. Crying children were quickly hushed, and two columns of black and white-clad morris men appeared.

  There were 12 of them -- a full "side". They were all big, powerful men, four of them police officers. Their faces were grim, staring straight ahead, straw hats on straight, baldric buckles gleaming, the little silver skulls on their leather bell pads glinting and jingling in the sun as they stamped in unison into the square, sparks flashing from the impact of their iron heel caps and staffs on the granite cobbles.

  The Fool danced ahead, half-crouching, leaping from side to side, sometimes confronting spectators, pushing up his mask and sniffing them up and down with much exaggerated, theatrical twitching of his nostrils. Children hid behind parents' legs when the scowling mask seemed to be looking at them.

  Ellen had seen the witch-sniffing part of the dance at many Mayday carnivals but this time she felt a cold, unexplainable and unreasoning fear welling up inside her.

  EX2218!

  The dread message flashed before her.

  `Was your Eleanor of Fittleworth sniffed out, do you suppose?' David asked.

  It was an innocent enough comment but its effect on Ellen was profound. In that instant the sun went out and the silent crowd became a yelling mob in rough homespun, brandishing blazing torches, and screaming abuse at a hysterical, naked young woman being driven around the square in a dogcart. The woman's raw and bleeding wrists were lashed to a crossbar that forced her to stand, her mane of once-lovely dark tresses now wild and unkempt; her thighs caked with blood, mucus and semen from the animal savagery of the mass rape she had been subjected to at the Temple of the Winds because it was believed that the semen of the righteous was poison to demons. But that treatment was nothing compared with the torture that awaited her at the stout oaken stake driven into ground in the centre of Market Square. The dogcart turned towards Ellen and for the first time she saw the face of the young woman, highlighted by the torches, and saw the abject terror in her eyes. It was a face she knew well.