by Chanel Smith
I had merely glanced at the signature, but when she pointed it out to me again, I saw, instantly, what had perplexed her. “Agness? Really? Do you suppose he’s a relative?”
“At least a distant one,” she replied. “It is common for the middle name of an English son to be the maiden name of the mother.”
“I wonder why he didn’t mention it?”
“Well, if you recall,” she began. “When my name was brought out, you and Ewen were in something of a pissing match, and then we left rather abruptly. There wasn’t really a good time to bring it up again. Do you think he always signs his notes that way or is he leaving a message in it?”
“I think we’re overanalyzing this,” I said. “It’s probably just the way he does his signature.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she replied. “I’ll bring it up the next time we see him.”
“Good idea.” I turned back toward the receptionist. “Was there anything else that he told you or did he leave any other instructions?”
“Oh,” she laughed. “Mr. Wandsworth left plenty of instructions, but what you have is the bulk of what was meant for you.”
“Did he give a possible time of return?” Ellen asked.
“He only said a few days, and that he would call if it was going to be longer.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, before Ellen and I exited the museum to return to the waiting car. Rochester had not faltered in his duties, even if he had become a bit more familiar with us. He was waiting with the door open by the time we were at the curb.
“Where is the first place on the list?” Ellen asked.
“The Library and Museum of Freemasonry,” I replied. I had never made the connection between the Masonic Lodge and the Druid Order, but Henry had scribbled a note beside the location telling us that it would help us link from something a little bit more familiar, back to the Druid Order. “We’re looking into human sacrifice.”
“How lovely,” Ellen replied. “But I guess it is necessary if we want to understand the possible reasons behind it and search for an alternative, right?”
“I suppose so.”
Rochester had already started toward the Hall of Freemasonry, where the museum and library were located. We arrived and I was instantly struck by the pyramid-like structure that, to me, resembled the creepy structure where the keymaster and gatekeeper were joined together in the Ghostbusters movie. I commented on it to Ellen and received a raised eyebrow in reply.
“Well, let’s do this then,” I said, sliding out of the open car door and extending my hand to help Ellen out of the car. “I don’t think we’ll be long here, Rochester.” To be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to discuss human sacrifice, the Druid Order, or aliens. None of it was sitting right with me and I was longing for the heady days of “regular” ghost hunting with all of the gadgets at my disposal and plenty of more predictable forces of evil. However, I also knew that we had to be better prepared for our next encounter and we needed to search for a way around human sacrifices.
“Since the late nineteenth century, the official stance of the Freemasons and those of the Druid Order is to ‘harm none.’ Our current sacrifices are herbs, incenses, flowers, oils and that sort of thing,” a man who had introduced himself as Stephen told us when Ellen posed the question. “Historically, that is a different story.”
“We are concerned with a period between BC 55 and AD 45 or so,” I replied.
“Most definitely,” he began. “Julius Caesar wrote extensively about the Celts practicing human sacrifices. Stories and recorded histories of the period from Caesar’s first invasion until the end of the first century are quite common; however, there are no authenticated claims that the practice continued beyond the first century. There were claims in the 5th and 6th centuries when the Roman Catholics were battling for the Christianization of the British Islands against the Irish Catholics who had married a great deal of the Celtic religion with Catholicism, but most of the those claims were never substantiated. They were likely just a form of propaganda against the Irish Catholics.”
“So, what purpose did they serve?” Ellen asked.
“Most often they were a form of healing or restoration, but the person sacrificed was often a willing victim, rather than someone snatched up or drawn in a lottery. The one who laid down his life believed that his sacrifice was the only means of healing or reconciling the balance between humans and the Celtic gods. Of course, we now know, through the advantage of scientific inquiry that those pagan beliefs were greatly mistaken.” He smiled as he finished, then folded his hands and waited for another question.
“That’s a little bit on the creepy side,” I murmured. I was thinking of Henry’s willingness to step forward. In fact, as I thought about it, the discussion between him and the Celt was probably clarification of how the sacrifice was supposed to take place. Likely, he had learned that one must volunteer for the job. I wished that I had been able to hear the rest of their conversation, and was a bit put out with Henry that Ellen and I had been kept out of that discussion.
We spent another hour or so exploring the museum and gathering a few more tidbits of information about Celts, Druids and Freemasonry. It filled us in on some things, but the value of our visit had mostly been taken care of by Stephen.
It was evening when we left the Hall of Freemasonry and headed back to our hotel. We settled in for a hot shower, room service and a little bit of Ellen’s special talent; love making, though we didn’t make a marathon out of it. We were a little spent from touring and were planning an early trip the following morning. It was a trip that I was dreading, but understood was probably necessary; the British UFO Research Association (BUFORA), located in Letchworth, Hertfordshire, a little more than an hour’s drive north of London.
Chapter Thirteen
Though unimpressed by what we discovered at BUFORA, I had enjoyed getting a tour of the English countryside north of London. In my opinion, our time in Letchworth was a complete waste and I commented to that effect on our drive back to London.
“I’m shocked that the Torchwood Institute isn’t on Henry’s list,” I chuckled, noticing Rochester’s half-smirk in the mirror. He had, evidently, been amused by my reference to the top secret extraterrestrial defense society from Doctor Who.
“I don’t think it was a waste,” Ellen replied, attempting to keep things professional in spite of my total rejection of the idea of alien involvement in anything, let alone our ghost case. “I certainly have a better understanding of the theory that ties Stonehenge to aliens.”
“I suppose that you like the ‘landing pad’ theory?” I didn’t mean to mock Ellen, but the theory that Stonehenge was built as a landing pad for alien flying saucers to land, seemed beyond ridiculous to me.
“Actually, I was more intrigued by the evidence that suggests the Celts in Britain in BC 2500 simply didn’t have the technology nor the manpower to haul stones that were cut in the Preseli Hills in Wales, nearly 200 miles away. Had they, by some miracle, been able to accomplish that, there is no evidence that they had the tools or the understanding to erect the structure. How did they even quarry the stones? Or do you think the exact stones to fit their structure were just lying around, ready to be picked up by the next lorry that passed by?”
“Seriously, Ellen, aliens?” I replied. She was mocking my disbelief and I was growing impatient with her. I was trying to remain objective and professional, but things just weren’t adding up right. “There has to be another explanation.”
“Perhaps there is,” she answered. “But, I have sensed an alien presence in our connections with these spirits. The Celt makes references to higher, more powerful beings from the planets and stars. Henry even suggested that the human sacrifice that was being asked for was more of an alien abduction than it was a true blood sacrifice. What if the Celt is telling the truth?”
“Yeah?” I replied. “And what if he’s manipulating us into something?”
“Like what?”
/> “I don’t know, just…” The truth of the matter was, I didn’t know. I knew that I didn’t believe in aliens and UFOs, but, then, I hadn’t believed in ghosts either. “The UFO sighting near Stonehenge sounds extremely suspicious to me, too. The entire set up of BUFORA is a fraud. They aren’t there to objectively authenticate sightings as much as they are to perpetuate one of the greatest hoaxes of our time. Roswell and Area 51 aren’t even on par with this hokum.”
“Then how do you explain the archeological findings of ancient art and iconography that depict air and space vehicles, non-human, intelligent creatures and artifacts of advanced technology that doesn’t seem to fit with the period when Stonehenge was built?”
“Ellen,” I snapped. “I don’t have an answer to those things. I just know that it wasn’t aliens.”
The sharpness of my reply had created a chasm between us. Though I wasn’t particularly fond of my tone and manner, neither was I willing to accept a cockamamie theory about aliens building a landing pad out of stones from Wales. The rest of the ride back to London and the Park Plaza was made in silence. There was also a considerable chill still between us throughout the evening. Before going to bed, I apologized for my tone and manner and things were a little bit less tense as we drifted off to sleep.
With the trip to Stonehenge planned for the morning, we were up and at it by the crack of dawn. Even Rochester seemed to have a few cobwebs of sleep lingering when he greeted us and opened the doors to the Rolls for our outing of the day.
I was again treated to a fantastic view of the verdant, English countryside and Ellen and I had quickly laid aside the tensions from our spat the day before. You simply didn’t experience anything like what we were witness to on that drive in LA or Southern California, and we were in complete awe.
Even with the photos and information from the Internet, as well as the historical and theoretical origins of Stonehenge as background, I still wasn’t quite prepared for what awaited us when we arrived.
To be honest, in pictures, moving a few stones around in order to make a circle and placing several others on top of them didn’t seem like that big of a deal to me. When I actually saw the size and perfectly-fitted shape of the stones, however, I began to realize that without some of the major construction equipment of our modern times, or of even the 19th century, creating what we were seeing would have been a massive undertaking.
To add to it all, standing on the Salisbury plain and looking in every direction, it was quite obvious that the stones did not come from anywhere near the area. The entire thing, to use an old cliché, stuck out like a sore thumb.
If I was right in my thinking, and the ancients had been able to transport the stones from Wales, how long would it have taken them to transport each of those stones more than 200 miles? Ellen’s rather clever jab from the day before about “waiting for the next lorry to come along,” made one corner of my mouth raise up in a half grin.
“What are you smirking about?” she asked.
I swear that I can’t get away with anything around her. “Nothing.” My grin spread further.
“Oh, I know that look,” she said. “Spill it, or else.”
“Or else what?” I played along.
“Don’t make me go there.” She faked a glare. “Tell me.”
There was no use. She was going to get it out of me one way or the other. “I was remembering your comment about waiting for the next lorry to come along.”
“That was a pretty clever jab, wasn’t it?” She laughed.
Things were better between us and, though I hated to admit it, I was beginning to see why the origins of the structure had been so perplexing. I wasn’t quite ready to shift over to the “alien landing pad” theory, but I could understand how, barring what seemed to be impossible circumstances, the explanation held at least a hair’s breadth of a possibility.
As fascinated as I was with the ancient structure, I could tell that Ellen was truly in her element. She was in deep thought or perhaps feeling spirits, like she often did when we were exploring something with a profound impact on history. From what we had learned about Druids being worshipers of the sun and of nature, I’d surmised that Ellen had perhaps come by her tendency toward being green genetically. I had always admired how she saw such beauty and simplicity in some of the most common things in nature and how she could spend hours admiring it. I imagined the Stonehenge had her buzzing in several different directions at the same time.
“So,” I whispered in her ear as I wrapped my arms around her from behind. “Is my powerful Druid Priestess, Ellen Oanez, connecting with her ancient relatives and considering sacrificing some helpless Yank so that her alien gods can come whisk him away?”
“You are impossible,” she replied, leaning her head back for a kiss. “Actually, I’m just soaking it all in. I can see why this was such a sacred place. The sun seems to glisten in the sky. Don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t really noticed it, but, yeah, it sort of does.”
It seemed much too beautiful a place to have been connected to the idea of human sacrifice. We had learned from Stephen that volunteers for being sacrificed were often lowered by a human shaped litter down into a fire and burned to death. That little bit of knowledge linked to what was explained by the guides and guidebooks concerning the cremation cemetery that surrounded the structure sent a chill running up my spine.
“Men do some pretty horrific things to each other in the name of religion and in the belief that they can somehow make things right with God or the gods, don’t they?” I commented.
“Yes, they do, Monty. I thought I had begun to get a handle on it until we took off on this paranormal investigation venture. It has only made it harder for me to understand man’s cruelty and ignorance. What’s worse is that we can’t even claim that we are above it all or more enlightened. We are ‘experts,’ right? But sometimes, I don’t feel like an expert.”
“Wow. Yeah.” What she said was so profound that those were the only two words that I could come up with, but they were enough. We were connected in our understanding, or lack thereof, of the strangest anomalies of the seen and unseen world.
“Do you think that it’s possible that Henry – or the Celt, actually – was telling the truth? Do you think that a human sacrifice is the only way to set those ghosts free and, in turn, prevent any disaster in the Tube?”
“Babe, I don’t know what to think, to be completely honest. I think both the Celt and Henry believe that it is. To tell the truth, even after the past few days of looking a little deeper into things, I’m still drawing a blank where alternatives are concerned.”
“Me too,” she sighed. “It is so hard for me to admit defeat, but we seem to have bitten off more than we can chew on this one. I can’t sacrifice someone to prove or disprove a theory, but I’m coming up blank where any other solution is concerned.”
“So, what do you want to do?” I asked.
“I want one more visit with the Celt,” Ellen said.
I know my face reflected what I knew would have to take place; actually, who would have to be brought in to make talking to the Celt possible. Like I said before, I couldn’t get away with anything around her.
“I know that you don’t like him, Monty. I’m not fond of him myself; he gives me the creeps. But without Henry, he’s our only option.”
“Can we at least call and see if Henry has made it back or left a message or something first?” The idea of having any contact whatsoever with Ewen Egham turned my stomach.
“Sure, Babe,” she replied. “We can try to get a hold of him first.”
“You ready to head back to London Town?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied. I could tell that she was somewhat reluctant to leave, but we had pretty much experienced all that Stonehenge had to offer.
As we were walking back toward the car, I was doing something that I sometimes do when I’m in deep thought. I was looking at the ground and strolling along slowly. Had I not fe
lt such a heavy burden concerning our dilemma, I might never have seen the metallic glimmer deep in the grass that flashed in my eyes. Curious, I stooped to see what it was. Pressed down into the soft soil, nearly covered up completely was a gold pocket watch and chain, almost identical to the one that I had seen Henry fiddling with.
“Hey, Babe, look what I found,” I said, dangling it by the chain so that she could get a look at it.
“That’s almost exactly like Henry’s,” she replied. “Won’t it be a hoot to be wearing that the next time we see him? Does it work?”
I stopped to open it up and noted that all three hands were standing still, oddly enough, straight up on the hour of twelve. Giving it a wind, I listened to it and heard the sound of the mechanism ticking away inside. I looked at my watch and reset it to match. “Yeah, it seems to work just fine.”
I put the watch in my pocket and we got in the Rolls for the drive back to London.
Chapter Fourteen
Though I would rather have had a root canal without anesthesia, I found myself walking alongside Ewen Egham in the tunnel of the soon-to-be Battersea Tube Line. We had tried to call Henry several times the evening before without getting a response and had even made one last ditch effort to find out if he was back at the museum or had even checked in earlier that morning, but our efforts to contact Henry failed and we were stuck with option B.
The best way for me to describe Ewen’s enthusiasm about being called upon to help out was: oily. When I came up with that word for him I wasn’t thinking about sweet-smelling, glistening, extra-virgin, olive oil; more like the stuff they dumped into the grease vat after it had been used up deep fat frying fish and French fries at Long John Silver’s.
The fact that we needed him, made him even worse to tolerate. He had, of course, felt that it was necessary to expound upon his vast knowledge of everything Celtic as well as the Celtic culture as we walked down the tunnel. His efforts were mostly aimed at impressing Ellen; something that also wasn’t sitting well with me.
