by Thorne Moore
I laughed bitterly. ‘If I went round explaining what I felt, Peter, they’d lock me up. People don’t want to understand. Do you have any idea what it’s like when the whole world is pointing at you, calling you mad or bad?’
‘Oh look, that old man, you were a child—’
‘Yes, children learn. And I learned what I had to do to survive.’ The aroma of wood smoke reached us. ‘Look, here’s the yurt.’
Annwfyn was a serious building site. The last time I’d been up here, a pile of long stripped poles had been the only evidence of an incipient round house. Now a wide ring of sturdy short posts were in place and longer poles were waiting to one side, with an elaborate crown, in a vast and complicated jigsaw. It was going to be huge, dwarfing the yurt, which sat squat and homely under the trees.
Molly was alone, busy weaving wands purposefully into the wide circle of posts, with the help of good solid boots under a long embroidered kaftan, fringed scarf and a dozen strings of beads.
‘It’s going to be a palace,’ I said, taken aback by the size of it. ‘You must have cut down a forest to make room for it.’
Molly’s brow clouded with regret. ‘Mostly saplings. We did seek permission—’
‘Oh don’t worry, Sylvia wouldn’t object. She’s been enthusiastic about the whole project from the start.’
‘The trees,’ corrected Molly. ‘We asked permission of the trees.’
‘Did they give it?’ Peter shot me a grin.
‘They recognise us as non-confrontational spirits.’ Molly selected another long supple rod and raised it like a druidic staff. ‘They know we create, we do not destroy. We’ve planted new seedlings as appeasement.’
‘Sustainability,’ said Peter, gravely.
‘We take nothing that we don’t replace. And we worship with them.’
‘I hadn’t thought of trees worshipping,’ I said.
‘They worship by being. They draw strength from the force beneath us. They are its expression. There’s a very strong ley line here. That’s why we chose it.’
Peter shut his eyes as if to sense the earth energy, and nodded. I could feel the derision bursting within him.
‘You can feel the force,’ said Molly. ‘It comes down from the stones, through the spring. That’s our harmony line. We tread it each day so that the trees know we understand.’
‘A real ley line!’ said Peter.
‘You’re interested? I have books.’ She was wiping her hands clean, leading us towards the yurt. ‘Would you like some tea?’
I would have said no, but Peter was enjoying himself. ‘So you feel the force, what, in your fingers? Your feet?’
I sat back on a pile of rugs, drinking a tisane and cautiously nibbling little cakes, while Molly talked, earnestly, in full druidic mode, and Peter egged her on, struggling not to laugh.
‘We ought to go,’ I said at last, as he crossed his eyes over Molly’s explanation of the temperamental difference between the ash and the beech. ‘I really need to get back and see what’s happening. Thanks, Molly.’
Peter followed reluctantly, but once we were free of the camp he was almost dancing, shouting his laughter. ‘My God, she’s a gem. Ley lines. Earth forces. She is one loopy lady.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Hey! I suppose this is their totem pole!’ He slithered down the slope to a jutting rock where a single shaft of bleached wood speared up at the sky. ‘Do you reckon they dance round it?’ He was about to demonstrate.
‘It’s one of Michael’s sculptures,’ I said. ‘A new one. Hasn’t been here long.’
‘Yes? Right. Yes, okay.’ Peter did a double take. He stepped back to look at it, teetering, oblivious, on the edge of the rock. ‘Yes, well, art. A bit stark, isn’t it? What’s it mean, then?’
‘Does it have to mean something? Molly calls it Taranis. The force of lightning vitalising the earth.’
‘Well there you are! A bit of minimalist artwork and she has to turn it into an earth god thing. I bet they’ll be dancing round it. You wait till the next thunderstorm. They’ll be out here, chanting.’ He started laughing again, mockingly worshipping the white shaft, while I flinched.
An austere white shaft, untouched, desolate, solitary. Thank you, Michael.
‘I take it Molly hasn’t converted you,’ I said.
She might not have converted him, but she had offered him a lot of cake. He clearly hadn’t realised what was in it. ‘Oh, come on Kate. Don’t tell me you believe any of that clap-trap? Where did you get these people? They’re crazy, Kate. Totally bonkers.’
‘Thank you for making my point, Peter.’
‘What point? You don’t believe that stuff any more than I do.’
‘No, but they do. They feel something. Or they think they do, or they want to. It’s not something I feel, but maybe Molly really does. Whatever it is, you don’t feel it, so when she talks about it, you call her crazy.’
‘Oh.’ He sobered up quickly, scrambling back to join me. ‘It’s not the same as your thing. You feel something real, I know you do.’
‘Why is it that you believe me, but not her?’
‘Because I know you, I trust you, because your feelings make sense—’
‘No they don’t. They make no sense at all. You believe me because, when we met, you wanted to get in my knickers, so it paid to take me seriously. You don’t fancy Molly, so you call her crazy.’
‘Don’t be daft. That wasn’t it at all.’
‘Yes it was.’
‘No it wasn’t.’
‘This is an adult conversation?’
‘God, you can be infuriating!’ He slapped a tree in frustration. ‘And that’s just what you want to be, isn’t it. You don’t want to trust people, you don’t want to share because deep down, secretly, you’ve always enjoyed being misunderstood.’
‘Don’t be so puerile.’
‘It’s the kudos, isn’t it? I’m your real problem, me, your husband, wanting to understand, wanting to share, wanting to spoil your magnificent isolation and mess up your life.’
‘Bullshit. I never thought you’d messed up anything!’
‘No? You’ve always blamed me for you not being there when your mother died.’
‘And you blamed me for killing the baby!’
He flinched as if I’d slapped him. For a moment he stood motionless, struggling to speak without shouting. ‘I did not blame you,’ he said at last, through clenched teeth.
I put my face in my hands. What was wrong with me? ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ How could I have said it? How could I blame him for that terrible thought? Hadn’t he loyally rejected it as quickly as it hit him? He’d behaved impeccably after that split-second treachery. He’d taken care of me, demanded action at the hospital when they told him I was just being paranoid. He’d held my hand when their tests confirmed what I already knew. He’d cried and brought me flowers, he’d done everything he could to console me. He’d never said a word of blame or criticism, even though, for one small second, he’d thought I’d wished it dead.
Christian’s vile innuendos came back to me. Killer Queen. No!
‘I’m sorry!’ I blurted.
Peter leaned back against an oak tree, staring up at the leaves. ‘Kate – Oh God, this isn’t going to work. This isn’t how I meant it to be when I came here.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.’
‘No it isn’t. It was a stupid idea, that’s all. My stupid idea.’ He sighed, took my hand and led me on, down towards the house. ‘Look, I’ll go. Coming here without phoning, without warning you; it was madness. I should never have just landed myself on you, challenging you like this.’
‘No it’s me. I shouldn’t have been so resistant. So argumentative.’
‘Shall we quarrel over the right to take the blame? It’s just bad timing. With this priest hole business, on top of everything, a body turning up. Christ, I chose the worst moment.’
‘It’s not the best.’
‘I’m going to go.�
�
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Better if I do. For now.’
Sylvia had gone to join Michael at the hall, which relieved us of the need for explanations. It took Peter five minutes to repack his bag and he came back down with a sad smile. ‘Sorry, Kate. That stuff going on over there really screwed up yesterday for you, and now I’ve managed to screw up today as well. You deserve better.’
‘Peter. Listen.’ I stopped him at the door. ‘You will come back, won’t you? You’re the one who deserves better. I really do want to talk. Let’s give ourselves one last chance to be adults.’
He nodded. ‘You know I never blamed you for the baby, Kate. I swear to God.’
‘I know,’ I lied. ‘And I never blamed you for my mother. I blamed myself for that, never you.’
‘Mutual paranoid sensitivity?’
‘That’s what it is. Promise you’ll return.’
‘I promise.’ He hesitated, not sure whether to shake hands, or kiss me on the cheek.
I kissed him properly. It had been a long time. We hugged, hard. ‘Take care,’ I said.
The house was quiet when he drove away. Quiet as a tomb. I tiptoed upstairs, shutting my bedroom door. Al and his gang could sort out their own tea and sandwiches for once. I didn’t want to see them. Not today. I wanted to be alone. Just as Michael had portrayed me; a white shaft, isolated, rejecting, closed, reaching into nothingness. I curled up on my bed and let the solitude feed my old grief.
Chapter 12
Our bones were removed to a lab, to be studied with scholarly interest. The verdict, as Al guessed, was that they were of a male, from the seventeenth century. A young adult and, apart from being dead, in good health. Cause of death unspecified, identity unknown, presence unexplained, mystery unsolved.
Michael revisited his researches on the house in the records office, but found no clue. There was a crabbily written ledger, citing monies spent on everything from the demolition of a tower to the purchase of servants’ liveries, but nothing about a priest’s hole. A civil war atrocity perhaps? Whoever he was, our skeleton was doomed to be buried a second time, in the stories that were soon in circulation at the Cemaes Arms.
The starting favourite was that he was a gardener’s boy from Llys y Garn, who had gone missing in 1922, amidst rumours of Satanic happenings at the house. But the story that won, soon cited as gospel fact, was that “she” was the low-born wife of a lord’s son, murdered by her father-in-law on her wedding night, and that she had been found still shrouded in her wedding gown.
‘It’s what people want him to be.’ Michael laughed as I ground my teeth when the postman mentioned it. ‘You can’t fight wishful thinking.’
‘You’re a scientist. You should fight it.’
‘I’m a scientist, so I observe, and study the phenomenon.’
He was right of course. We were stuck with the smothered bride. Even Sylvia embraced the tale, so I gave up, and found better things to worry about. Professor Pryce-Roberts arrived to set up his summer school. In the paddock beyond the orchard, a camp was erected, with tents, a dining marquee and Portaloos. The two labourers’ cottages, recently inhabited, with plumbing and electricity, would be acting as cookhouse and bathrooms, with beds for a select few. I directed deliveries and found Ronnie contemplating his camp bed, in Cottage No.1, with quiet ascetic pleasure. His sister had a comfortable sprung mattress for him, down the valley, but apparently he preferred a narrow canvas hammock in a draughty cottage.
At Annwfyn there was movement too. Nathan left, but plasterers Tim and Baggy arrived from Chester, Gary the glazier came from Bath, and Pete from East Anglia was going to thatch the round house. Joe and Padrig, something to do with metal working, were due back from Peru sometime in the next couple of months.
They were professionals. Anyone could see that. I hadn’t demanded full references, or checked them out properly, but they so obviously knew their business, it would be absurd to sneak in an on-line search now. I refused to be nudged by Peter and the police, into doubting my own judgement.
Michael’s beautifully crafted panelling was soon in place, covering the scar of the rotted sections, and the entrance to the priest’s hole. I had hoped it would be fastened securely in place, forever sealing that revolting tomb, but Sylvia was determined that a priest’s hole should be preserved and Al had contrived cunningly concealed hinges and a catch in the last panel, so that guests could enjoy the thrill. I put my foot down at the idea of posing a skeleton inside, wrapped in lace and illuminated by green lighting, but I couldn’t stop Sylvia commissioning a picture of the tragic bride from a local artist. It, like the hall itself, promised to be ready for Sylvia’s Elizabethan Fayre. She didn’t doubt it for a moment.
The first archaeology students were bussed in, pleasantly rowdy, all keen to view the priest hole and speculate on its occupant, before settling into their canvas accommodation. By the end of the day they’d taken surgical possession of our lumps and bumps in the top fields and turned the paddock into a chaotic, booming, shanty town. Ronnie invited me to inspect the work so I strolled over to see what they were up to.
I pushed open the door of No.1 cottage and found my way blocked by a young woman carrying a tray of mugs.
‘Yes?’ She was occupied with the tray, but I could feel her, mentally, extending her arms to keep me out until I’d passed inspection.
‘It’s all right, I’ve just come to see Ronnie.’
‘The professor is very busy. I don’t know that he’ll be able to see you just now.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ I called over her shoulder. ‘Ronnie!’
His door opened and he peered round nervously. ‘Ah, yes, er, Mrs Lawrence. Indeed, thank you.’
The young woman rushed him with belligerent eagerness. ‘Professor, I’ve made your tea.’
‘Thank you, yes, Hannah, er, Miss Quigley. Thank you.’ He took a cup, peering into its pale, milky depths. ‘Um, I’m just going to show Mrs Lawrence the trenches.’
‘I’ll fetch your notes,’ said Hannah Quigley.
‘No! No, thank you, if you could just, er, gather C group in the lecture room, so that I can, er… Mrs Lawrence, please.’ He put down the untouched tea and earnestly gestured to me to precede him from the cottage. Hannah stood on the threshold, staring after us as we headed up the track.
‘You have a very efficient secretary,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes, no, Miss Quigley is one of the students. She was not very, er, comfortable with the tents, so she has a bed in the, er, house. Very, um, keen. Yes.’
Keen, and he was trapped with her in No.1. I sympathised. As we climbed the track and left the camp behind, he brightened and treated me to a short dissertation on aerial photography and radiocarbon dating.
‘… combined, of course, with dendro-chronology. Ah, here we are. You see we’ve already made progress with the surface layer of our primary dig, based on initial geophysical exploration.’
I surveyed mud and a cat’s cradle of pegged-out string, where two long strips of turf had already been removed by a small mechanical digger. It looked far more industrial than I had expected.
There were to be two trenches at this primary site, and he had high hopes of uncovering the post holes of one or more round houses.
‘The originals,’ he added with a disparaging sniff. ‘We are not going to be indulging in amateur reconstruction.’
‘We’ve been checking out the one in the woods,’ said one of his students, with a grin. ‘Mega!’
‘I can’t imagine what they hope to achieve,’ said Ronnie, acerbically.
‘I think their aim is just to build something eco-friendly to live in,’ I suggested.
Ronnie was unimpressed. ‘There is no validated evidence for their techniques—that roof crown… Ah, now, Matthew, are you using that theodolite as I instructed? Who is mapping? You are recording properly?’ He strode off among the mature amateurs, while the younger students hung back to ply me with questions about
the woodland camp.
‘So, what, they really going to live in it, for real?’
‘Like, permanently?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I realised I had no idea what Al’s long term plans were.
‘Methodology is everything,’ Ronnie returned from his tour of the incipient trench. ‘Please remember, everyone, that this is an educational project. The techniques of excavation will be completely different at our secondary site, but the need for care, accuracy and precise record keeping will remain the same.’
‘Your secondary site? You do know the standing stones are out of bounds, don’t you?’
‘Yes, indeed, Dr Bradley did explain the limits of our explorations. There is, however, a rather interesting bog.’ He produced an ordnance survey map from his pocket, and showed me. ‘It offers scope for a more novel approach. I think we have evidence that it is significantly old.’
I stared at the map. Contours, trees and a couple of marsh symbols. How innocent on a map. The bog. Why? What, in God’s name, had induced him to winkle it out and go poking about in it? ‘I didn’t realise that area was included in your plans.’
‘Mrs Callister gave permission.’
‘But – through the woods. Won’t it be difficult to get at?’
‘It will be a challenge, certainly, but I am reserving it for my more experienced students. The principle exercise will be to map it.’ Ronnie’s lip curled. ‘If the, er, beatnik persons will permit.’
I thought of Molly’s ley line, her withered flowers and grain. ‘They have their beliefs, their rituals. The ancient people who lived here would understand that, wouldn’t they?’
‘I hardly think you can compare the religious and ceremonial customs of our remote ancestors with the antics of that strange woman in beads, who is harassing my students. The young can be very impressionable. I trust she’ll not be allowed to inveigle them into some disagreeable cult. She seems to have erected the most bizarre idols, all over your woods.’
‘Actually, they’re Dr Bradley’s sculptures. They’re just supposed to be art.’
‘Ah,’ said Ronnie, groping for a way out. ‘Ah, indeed. Of course.’ I wondered what hapless form he would take, if Michael ever tried to capture his spiritual essence in knotted wood.
