by Robin Jarvis
‘So what happened when the tree was poisoned?’ Neil asked.
Aidan's face became set and grave. ‘It is said that there dawned a morning which was the darkest my ancestors had ever known and the sky grew black as a cloud of pestilence blew across the city.
‘Then the foul ogres of the north marched upon the World Tree and they hacked and chopped at it.
‘A wild, insane panic seized the people and they ran like scared sheep as the Ash quivered and trembled. Only the bravest stood their ground; those of the royal house, the city guard, and the Captain who had gained god-like powers and wisdom by hanging upon Yggdrasill for nine nights—Woden.’
‘Woden?’ Neil broke in. ‘You mean Odinn?’
Aidan's eyes glittered. ‘He must have been a postman's nightmare, the amount of names he had: Odinn, the Gallows God, Father of the Slain, Grimnir, Wodenaz, Sky Father, Leader of the Wild Hunt.’
Upon Neil's shoulder, Quoth lowered his bald head into his hunched shoulders and listened to all that was said.
‘But no one now has ever heard of the battle between the people of Askar and the lords of the ice and dark. With Woden at their head, they rode out of the city, though the stink of death was about them, and bravely charged to vie with the enemy.’
Quoth closed his eye and sank against Neil's neck as a vision of a storm-lashed day abruptly flooded into his thoughts.
He was surrounded by an army of mail-clad warriors on horseback and their thunderous shouts of challenge echoed inside his poorly-repaired mind. Above and behind him, countless green banners bearing the badge of Askar were torn by a black wind which came blasting from the north, and those whom the diseased mists touched, swooned and fell stricken from their mounts.
Like a tremendous cliff face, the titanic girth of the World Tree reared high upon the army's right flank, yet in his fragmented memory, Quoth's attention was focused solely upon a figure before him.
Riding a great ebon steed, sitting tall and fearless in the saddle, with a bright sword drawn in his gauntleted hand, a silver helm upon his head and a sable cloak flapping about his shoulders, was the Captain of the City Guard—Woden.
Unexpectedly, the glorious pageant faded from Quoth's thoughts and although he tried to recall more of the desperate scene, all he could make out was the shape of another raven swooping past him to alight upon the Captain's shoulders. Then the vision was gone and Aidan's voice broke into the bird's mind.
Quoth shook himself uneasily.
‘Most of the Askar folk were butchered that day,’ the man told Neil. ‘It was a hideous, bloody massacre—humans are no match for the Frost Giants. It lasted only until the Queen was killed and then the rest of the city's host were finally routed.’
Quoth shivered, for the image of an auburn-haired woman flared momentarily in his thoughts.
Clothed all in blue, with a circlet of gold about her brow and riding a dappled mare, the fleeting vision screamed suddenly and her ghastly shrieks reverberated around the bird's skull.
A jagged spear of ice had been savagely thrust through the woman's throat and the cream-coloured mane of her horse was spattered with royal blood as she tumbled from the saddle.
Crashing to the ground, her body was immediately engulfed in a dark, freezing shadow and the raven whined fretfully as a horrendous, rime-covered apparition started to form inside his mind.
‘Sshh!’ Neil told him. ‘Go on, Aidan.’
Quoth winced, not wishing to recall anything further of that terrible day, and recklessly banged his head against the window to jolt those unwanted memories back into hiding.
‘When she saw her mother die,’ Aidan continued, ‘the eldest princess called to her two sisters and rode with them into a vast, unexplored forest.’
‘The Websters?’ Neil breathed.
Aidan nodded, ‘Yes, but back then they were known by different names; Urdr, Skuld and Verdandi.’
‘At the outskirts of the forest, they were met by a magnificent white stag who guided them through the tangled woods until, at last, they came to a wide clearing. There, about a clear, shimmering pool, the sisters beheld for the first time the surviving root of Yggdrasill.
‘In that momentous hour, the stag and his brothers who were standing about the sacred pool, fell to their knees and bowed their heads to the princesses. Urdr saw that upon the banks was the loom which had been made from the fallen bough.
‘Then the earth shook.
‘In the great distance Yggdrasill toppled and went crashing to the ground. No earthquake, no tempest, no flood or erupting volcano has since matched the violence of that time.
‘As Nirinel quivered and trembled, the sisters heard the legion of ice lords come roaring over the plain in pursuit of them. Woden tried to beat them back but they hurled him aside and louder their fierce, unholy roaring bellowed until the three sisters knew that they would be killed and the final root destroyed—heralding a new eternity of darkness for the world.’
*
Aidan fell silent as he manoeuvred the van into the streets of Wells then, in a voice filled with respect and reverence, he said, ‘But, of course, that didn't happen—or you and I wouldn't be here now. Because in that dreadful moment Urdr did what she had been born to do. To the loom she went and, with the trumpeting yells of the enemy raging at the fringes of the forest, she strung it.
‘At once a protective mist rose about the clearing and shielded them from the ice lords’ fury. But as soon as the first weft was created, the fate of the world was written and the Nornir came into being. The princesses became mistresses of destiny—yet to it they were irrevocably bound and there was no escaping.’
‘So they've been stuck there ever since,’ Neil muttered, suddenly feeling sorry for the three old women.
‘The museum is built upon the site of the original clearing,’ Aidan said, ‘and they have never left its protecting walls—not until now. That is why Urdr fears for her sister.’
‘So what happened to the Frost Giants?’
‘They returned to the frozen wastes and the shadows beneath the cruel mountains. What else could they do? Until Nirinel dies they cannot reclaim the everlasting dark—and so they wait.’
‘Then Veronica and Edie going off isn't anything to do with them?’
Aidan shook his head, ‘No, nothing they could do would entice Verdandi from the sanctuary of the museum.’
Neil let out a deep breath. A sombre mood had descended upon the driver, and the boy attempted to lighten it once more.
‘So if it's not the mud-caked hippies,’ he began cheerfully, ‘then what makes Glastonbury so special and marvellous?’
Aidan grinned disarmingly. ‘Ah,’ he uttered, ‘you'll see—soon as you clap sight of it. Not far now, this is Wells and you'll have your first view of the Tor in a minute. A ravishing place it is—a haunting, beautiful land.’
‘Beauty draweth more than oxen,’ Quoth cawed, reaching up to push the tip of his beak into the narrow gap at the top of the window where a delightful draught was blowing.
Aidan glanced at the bird and scratched his sideburns. ‘A stranger passenger I've never had,’ he declared. ‘But Urdr must know what she's doing, letting it come with us.’
‘There's nothing wrong with Quoth,’ Neil said defensively. ‘Don't start getting at him.’
Through the picturesque city of Wells the van drove and Neil looked out at the huddled jumble of old buildings which reared up on either side of the narrow roads. Behind the high rooftops he saw the stately towers of the cathedral jabbing into the sky, and they reminded him of the spires and spikes which rose from the gables of The Wyrd Museum.
‘Yes,’ Aidan said. ‘It's a roly-poly, buttery landscape around here. But for all its sedate, picture postcard prettiness, Somerset holds the most inspiring spot you'll ever see outside of dreams.’
Then, leaving Wells behind, the van took a country road that was flanked upon both sides by open fields. Trees and hedges dashed by and, as the boy stared
out across the great flat fields, he suddenly felt Quoth's claws pinch his shoulder tightly and he sucked the air through his teeth in irritation.
‘Hoy!’ he told the raven. ‘Let go.’
But Quoth was not looking at him. The bird was leaning forward, murmuring softly to himself—his eye peering through the windscreen.
Neil followed the raven's gaze and forgot at once the mild pain in his shoulder for, in that instant, he caught sight of Glastonbury.
*
In the distance, rising like an island from a sea of slate-clad rooftops, rearing majestically up into the sky, its grassy shoulders kissed by the wintry midday sun—was the Tor.
With the tower of Saint Michael standing alone and mysterious upon the summit, the great, breast-shaped hill was an extraordinary, enigmatic spectacle and Neil had never seen anything quite like it before. It was as if he was viewing some ancient, mythical land.
Above the clustering houses, its massive grandeur dominated this unreal, magical world and a marvelling grin spread across the boy's face. Now he knew. Seeing it overshadow the small town and climb heavenward, he understood everything he had ever heard about this place. A slumbering power resided in that graceful green mountain and a tremendous desire to reach it suddenly burned in his heart. He wanted to charge up the slopes and run around the tower, shouting at the top of his voice.
‘Above Queen or Captain,’ Quoth muttered quietly, ‘such folly is love. Intimately doth I recall the curve of knoll and mound. Every shelf and hillock of yon lofty wold doth this poltroon know.’
‘You recognise this place?’ Neil asked.
Quoth shifted his weight from foot to foot and ruffled his feathers uncomfortably. ‘Yea,’ he answered, squinting up at the Tor, ‘the aspect of this terrain tickleth the dust of mine mouldered wits.’
‘Not surprising that you remember it,’ Aidan said, easing his foot upon the brake and pulling to the side of the road. ‘The Captain's ravens were often here. It was to this spot they brought the princess Verdandi many times, according to the legends that have been passed down the generations of my family. Yet after he had lashed himself to the World Tree, Woden never met her there again. He was beyond her reach you see—not mortal any more.’
The van came to a halt and Aidan rested his chin upon the steering wheel as he stared at the distant hill.
‘Heavy with myths is the air about Glastonbury,’ he said in a far off, spellbound voice. ‘Fair to drowning in them it is—the blessed isle of apples.’
‘Isle?’ Neil began. ‘It's not an island.’
Aidan smiled. ‘Not any more,’ he muttered. ‘But once, many thousands of years ago it was. Somerset—it means Summer Land. In the winter the sea would flood in and the Tor, together with Chalice Hill next to it and Wearyall Hill across the valley, would become true islands. Then, in the hot months, the water would retreat again and leave a treacherous marshy bog all around here.’
‘The Summer Land,’ Neil echoed. ‘But, Chalice Hill... why is it called that?’
The man breathed deeply and fingered his neckerchief. ‘Oh, just one of the more recent traditions hereabouts,’ he replied. ‘Don't they teach you anything in schools these days?’
‘Not about this place. Why should they?’
‘Haven't you even sung the hymn—And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon England's mountains green?
‘Course I have,’ Neil said. ‘What's that got to do with it?’
Aidan half closed his eyes. ‘Listen to the words next time,’ he whispered, ‘that's what they're there for—And was the Holy Lamb of God on England's pleasant pastures seen? This is where that happened. Did no one ever tell you that Jesus Christ came to these shores?’
‘Don't be silly.’
‘A good job I never attended school then,’ Aidan tutted, ‘or I'd be as uninformed as you.’
‘That can't be true.’
‘What? That I was never sat down and educated? There's more to learning than chalk and blackboards.’
‘No, the guff about Jesus—you don't seriously believe it!’
The man looked at Neil and the boy was astonished to see that his swarthy face was completely serious. ‘A fine rule in life,’ he said with an edge of impatience in his voice and a faint glimmer of emerald kindling in his eyes, ‘and one that you would do well to learn, is to not contradict one who knows better than yourself. Closed minds learn nothing Neil Chapman—remember that and you might one day be happy with what is around you.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Neil found himself saying. ‘You just didn't strike me as being particularly religious. Not the happy clappy God Squad sort anyway. I didn't mean to offend you.’
Aidan stared at him a moment longer, then started the van once more. ‘I wasn't talking of religion,’ he said. ‘Merely relating that around two thousand years ago a boy, probably about the same age as yourself, visited this land with his great uncle who was a wealthy merchant. Tin was an important trading commodity, you know, and the Cornish mines are not that far down the coast—not compared to the great distance between here and the Holy Land.
‘It would have been quite natural for Joseph of Arimathea to set out upon one of these trips—you don't get rich by stopping at home, and why shouldn't he let his nephew come along to see something of the world? A much happier voyage that first one with the young Christ, I imagine, than the one which finally brought Joseph here some time later.’
‘What happened on that one?’ Neil asked.
Aidan's dark brows twitched as he answered. ‘It was Joseph who took Jesus’ body down from the Cross,’ he said, ‘and his was the tomb that Christ was supposed to lie in afterwards. A most courageous man that merchant must have been. Associating so openly with such a trouble-making kinsman would have cost him dear. Eventually he left his homeland and camp back to Britain, but he did not come empty handed. That's why Chalice Hill is so called. Somewhere around here The Grail resides—Joseph brought it with him.’
‘The cup used at the Last Supper?’ Neil breathed, unable to conceal the scepticism in his voice.
Aidan shrugged and looked at the outlying houses which they were now passing. ‘Well, maybe not a cup as such,’ he said. ‘Standing at the foot of the Cross he was supposed to have collected the blood and the sweat of Christ in two vessels. Cruets they're called, and they've got nothing to do with salt and pepper before you go asking.’
‘I wasn't going to.’
‘Well, anyway, The Grail myth leads us straight into the tales of King Arthur, which are also linked with Glastonbury and I haven't even mentioned the Holy Thorn yet—I told you the air is thick with legends around here.’
‘Like unto bees which doth swarm about the honey pot,’ Quoth put in.
‘Well said,’ Aidan chuckled.
*
Turning off the Wells Road, the van made its way down a long, sloping high street in which the windows of the ordinary, everyday newsagents and grocers were interspersed with more intriguing displays of crystals, strange ceramic figurines, colourful esoteric posters and vegetarian menus.
‘Might as well take the scenic route through the town as we shan't be staying long,’ Aidan remarked. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for Verdandi and the young girl, although I'm certain they'll be making straight for the Tor when they arrive—if they aren't here already.’
As the van passed by the entrance to a courtyard which basked in the title The Glastonbury Experience Aidan twisted around to see if there was anyone he recognised in there. But it was too cold to sit outside its cafe that day and only a handful of young people with studs in their noses and a short-haired terrier tethered by a piece of string were gathered in front of the New Age shops.
Steering the vehicle left into Magdalene Street, the man sucked his teeth and pointed behind the buildings.
‘The town grew up around the ruins of the sixth century abbey over there,’ he told Neil. ‘Very important it was in its day—quite a dandy little metropolis, until Henry the Eighth had
his way.
‘The first Christian church to be constructed above ground was built here, you know, and it was here that the monks dug up Arthur and Guinevere—if you believe in them that is.’
When they came to a gap between the buildings, Neil could see the impressive remains of the ancient abbey rising out of a wide expanse of meticulously tended lawn. Even in this advanced state of decay the splendour of the weathered, honey-hued stones was beautiful to see. A crumbling, moss-crowned husk of its former glory, it stood with silent composure—the empty Romanesque windows and arches politely permitting visitors to view and tread its august, roofless interior.
‘Don't you believe in King Arthur then?’ the boy asked, turning aside from the decorous ruins.
Aidan wrinkled his hooked nose. ‘Not the fairytale version,’ he said. ‘But behind everything there is a kernel of truth. Those romances are a collection and corruption of much earlier tales. One of my favourite parts though was always the bit where the dying Arthur is taken from the mortal shores by three royal maidens.’
‘The Websters again?’
‘You can't get away from the Spinners of the Wood, lad.’ Aidan chortled. ‘Their influence extends everywhere. Avalon is where tradition says Arthur was brought, and lies sleeping—until England needs him again.’
‘But you just said he was dug up.’
‘Oh, that was the Abbot's twelfth century version of a tourist attraction,’ Aidan scoffed. ‘Like putting a big sign in a shop window saying “sale now on”—it was just a con to bring in the pilgriming punters. No, if there is someone who sleeps under this blessed soil, I'm pretty certain it won't be any Celtic chieftain.’
Crouched upon the boy's shoulder, Quoth had grown unusually quiet. He no longer quested the breach in the window with his beak, and when the draught did blow upon him and stir his scruffy feathers, he cringed and buried his face beneath his wing. His delicate senses had detected something terrible out there and his little heart began to patter in his breast.
Veering left again the van headed up Bere Lane. They had skirted around the centre of the town and now the Tor reared up before them once more.
