Time's Legacy

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘OK.’ Ben’s reply was guarded.

  ‘Can’t talk about her?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Not much. Anyway, she has to work a lot of this stuff out for herself.’

  ‘With God’s help?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It’s just, all this ghost stuff. It’s weird how she’s stirred it up.’

  Ben nodded again.

  Mat grinned. ‘Apparently one of the ghosts came into the kitchen while she and Cal were talking. Did she tell you?’

  Ben reached for his glass and took a sip. ‘She did mention it, yes.’ He wiped froth off his upper lip.

  ‘Cal was stunned. She didn’t see anything, but she said Abi’s reaction was interesting!’

  ‘Ah.’ Ben pulled his plate towards him. ‘This whole business is interesting!’

  The little church was shadowy and very quiet. Abi let herself in and walked thoughtfully to a chair about halfway along the aisle. Sitting down she stared up at the east window. Her mind was a blank. She hadn’t been able to eat much lunch and her conversation had been non-existent when Cal tried to chat to her, glancing every now and then at her in concern.

  In the end Abi gave up pretending. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not very good company. I think I need to go and think about things on my own for an hour or two. I might go over to the church.’

  Cal had smiled and moved the plates without comment. ‘Take your time,’ she said as Abi walked out into the sunshine.

  Old churches always had an atmosphere. A combination of worship and prayer, pain and sorrow, alternated with long periods of quiet and emptiness as the stone absorbed the emotions of the men and women who had come there with their supplications. Old churches like this one and St Hugh’s, medieval churches, had been built, she had once read, incorporating special long-forgotten mystical techniques to ensure the processing of pain and the constant gentle broadcasting of peace and love and prayer. They were, in effect, prayer machines. She gave a wistful smile remembering how she had tried to tell Kier as much. Maybe it was rubbish, but it was alluring rubbish and it was working now. The place was gently radiating peace and reassurance. She was, she realised, avoiding looking at the east window with its ancient depiction of the man on the cross. Her Lord. Jesus.

  Could he really be Yeshua? A living, breathing young man with intense brown eyes, with all the compassion and gentleness which she would expect and yet a young man who was wandering round this countryside with a druid priestess, who clearly fancied her, who had doubts and worries and –

  She stood up abruptly and walked up to the altar, staring up at the window. ‘What am I thinking?’ she asked out loud. ‘What on earth is going on? It can’t be you. It just can’t. This is nonsense. Nobody believes you came here. Nobody! The thought makes historians fall about laughing, theologians become apoplectic and mutter about the New Age and atheists take it as proof that everyone is mad!’ Her voice rang out in the silence and was absorbed by the limestone walls. ‘Well? Say something! Come on. Explain what is going on!’ She rested her hands on the altar, frowning up at the window. On the great slab of carved wood beneath her fingers were two brass candlesticks and a wooden cross. The slab was cold to the touch. Above her the glass in its soft lead framing was rippled and flawed, the colours gently muddy, throwing a warm wash of insipid light across the chancel as she stared into the face of the man on the cross. His skin was pasty, almost green, his loin cloth the colour of raw linen, his head streaked with blood from the enormous thorns on the woven twigs wedged down on his brow. His eyes were closed, his face serene. She shook her head. ‘This is not happening to me!’ Turning on her heel she walked swiftly back to the door and let herself out, closing it behind her with a bang before diving out into the sunshine. Almost running, she headed down through the churchyard into the orchard and stood there panting, trying to push the image of the man on the cross out of her mind.

  Flavius returned at dusk. Throwing the reins of his horse to one of the boys working in the granary with a barked order to rub him down and feed him, he ducked into the round house and stared down at Lydia and Petra who were seated in their usual places by the fire. Cooking for the household was usually done in the separate kitchen, but tonight Sorcha had brought in a cauldron of bean and mutton soup and hung it from a tripod over their fire. She was feeding twigs into the flames to warm it, her face reflecting the flickering light as she concentrated on her task.

  ‘So!’ Flavius stood, hands on hips looking down at them. ‘The woman, Mora. Is she not the one who comes here with medicine for you, Petra?’

  Petra looked up at him, her face white. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ His face was tight with anger. ‘Because I have just ridden across the countryside to find out that the man I am looking for is one of her companions. He has been here months. He goes everywhere with her. He has probably been to this very house!’

  Lydia stood up, her fists clenched in the folds of her skirts. ‘Do not dare to shout at my daughter, Flavius,’ she said, her voice tight with anger. ‘I can assure you no-one has come to this house with Mora except sometimes her betrothed, Cynan, who is as local as Sorcha here.’

  ‘What if I say I don’t believe you?’ Flavius pushed his face aggressively towards hers, his eyes as hard as flint.

  ‘What you believe, Flavius, is of no consequence to anyone here,’ Lydia said. Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. She moved away from him around the fire and went to stand in front of her loom. As the flames under the cauldron rose, licking at the metal, the large room was full of leaping shadows. Lydia was studying the length of woven material hanging before her with exaggerated concentration, noting how the dancing light emphasised the russets and greens of her checked patterns. She reached out for the shuttle and weaving comb.

  ‘Leave it!’ Flavius was behind her in two long strides. He seized them out of her hand and threw them to the floor. ‘Look at me, Lydia!’ He grasped her wrist. ‘I will not be lied to!’

  ‘You will not threaten me, brother!’ She emphasised the word sarcastically, holding his gaze. ‘Take your hands off me now.’

  ‘Why should I?’ He gave a cold leer. ‘There was a time when you liked my hands on you, sister!’ He echoed her emphasis. ‘Does Gaius know about that?’

  ‘Mama?’ Petra’s call was anguished.

  ‘I’ll go for help.’ Sorcha dropped the ladle with which she had been stirring the soup back into the cauldron and turned towards the doorway. She dodged past Flavius and ducked outside before he could catch her. Within seconds she was back with two young men at her side. Dressed in working clothes, their feet swathed in loose-fitting boots, their hair long and unkempt, they stood side by side just inside the doorway looking at each other and then at Sorcha as though uncertain what to do.

  He glanced at them and sneered. ‘Oh I am so frightened! Is this the best you can do, Lydia, in the way of a bodyguard?’ He reached into his belt and pulled out his dagger. ‘So,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Who is first?’

  ‘Flavius!’ Behind him Gaius had appeared in the doorway, still swathed in his travelling cloak. He took in the scene in one glance. ‘Put up your dagger. How dare you!’ He stepped forward. ‘What in Hades is going on here?’

  ‘He is threatening us, Gaius,’ Lydia said coolly. ‘As we knew he would. I would like him to leave our house.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Flavius rammed the dagger home in its sheath and turned away from them to sit down next to Petra. He folded his arms. ‘I suggest you send these peasants away,’ he said. ‘This does not concern them.’

  ‘It concerns them if my wife and family are threatened,’ Gaius retorted angrily.

  ‘They are not being threatened.’ Flavius adopted a tone of exaggerated boredom. ‘What nonsense. Lydia is being hysterical. All I did was ask if this man I am seeking has come here to this house.’

  ‘And I told you he hasn’t!’ Lydia snapped.

  Flavius shrugged. ‘If you say
so, then I must believe you.’ He yawned. ‘Why not get that girl to serve some supper? If she leaves it much longer it will burn.’

  Lydia glared at him. ‘I have not asked you to stay and eat with us.’

  ‘No, but you will.’ He smiled at her. ‘For old time’s sake.’

  Gaius sighed. He reached up to unpin his cloak, then he stared round. ‘Where is Romanus?’

  ‘He went hunting.’ Lydia went to his side. She took the cloak from him and folded it over her arm. ‘He’ll be back before dark.’ She looked up at him. ‘Gaius –’

  ‘Here we go,’ Flavius put in. ‘Gaius, darling, your nasty brother is bullying me.’ He raised his voice to a falsetto as though imitating her. ‘Here. Lydia. A present for you. I bought this from the people I visited today. You see, I didn’t bully them or threaten them. I gave them money for something they had to sell. A trinket, but I thought you would like it.’ He reached into his pouch and held out his hand.

  She stepped closer to Gaius. ‘Thank you, Flavius, I do not need trinkets.’

  He shrugged. ‘Very well, then Petra shall have it. A pretty thing for a pretty girl.’ He turned and smiled at her. ‘Here you are, sweetheart. This will suit you better than your mother anyway. It will look nicer against a younger face.’ He tossed a small packet into her lap. Petra stared down at it, then at Lydia, her eyes full of anguish. Flavius watched, amused. ‘So, she doesn’t dare open it without your permission. She doesn’t have her mother’s spirit, does she!’ He reached down and picked the packet up. Unwrapping it he exposed a string of coloured glass beads. ‘There. Let me put it round your neck, child. See how pretty it is. The beads glitter in the firelight.’

  Petra gasped. Her swollen hands went to her throat. ‘Mama –’

  ‘That was kind of you, Flavius.’ Gaius’s voice was acid. ‘How thoughtful. My daughter is very grateful.’

  Petra opened her eyes wide. ‘I can keep them?’

  ‘Of course you can keep them.’ Gaius leaned down and kissed the top of her head. He glanced warningly at his wife. ‘Let Sorcha serve the food, then we will all get some sleep. I’m sure Flavius will need to travel onwards tomorrow.’

  His brother grinned. ‘Tomorrow I am going to borrow your son. He can take me over to Afalon or whatever the place is called. The man I seek is a student there, as I suspected.’ He stuck his feet out before him towards the warmth of the fire. ‘Once I have seen him and dealt with that matter to my satisfaction, then I shall consider whether to go or whether to stay the winter here. It all depends, doesn’t it.’

  ‘Do you have any books about ancient Glastonbury in your library?’

  Abi burst into the kitchen where Cal was once more sitting at the table wrestling with her piles of bills. Cal looked up startled. ‘Go and look, Abi. You’re welcome. There are lots of guidebooks and things in there, on the left of the desk in the window. We shove them all there when we have travelled anywhere so we know where they are. And the older books would be roughly where we found that one the other night. I don’t know what Justin took, but I doubt if it was anything you would need.’ She frowned. Abi was already heading for the door, her face intense. Shaking her head painfully Cal looked down at the table again, and resumed tapping at her calculator.

  Abi let herself into the room. It faced the front of the house, the lawn, the long driveway, the hedges and behind them the road which led from Glastonbury to Wells. The guidebooks were obvious, lying flat on the shelf in a bright well-thumbed heap. She pulled them all out and laid them on the desk. Then came a tatty volume of William Blake’s poetry with a curly Celtic bookmark slotted, probably not coincidentally, opposite the page where ‘Jerusalem’, Blake’s own famous celebration of the fact that Jesus himself had walked upon England’s hills, was printed. Next to that was another selection of books of local interest. Some of these were modern, some she recognised from her mother’s shelves: John Michell, Geoffrey Ashe, Dion Fortune, Sabine Baring-Gould. She smiled. When she had studied history at Oxford the early Medieval period had been her speciality. She remembered some of this stuff from those days, and with them the botch of wishful thinking and confused rubbish which characterised the earliest chronicles and later inventions as England began to try and create for itself a pre-history to match its hopes and dreams as a nation. King Arthur of course was the most important character, his grave found right here in Glastonbury by the monks in the twelfth century. It was customary to put a cynical spin on all the legends these days. The unearthed couple were now thought more likely to have been some Iron Age tribal leader and his lady, if she remembered right. Whoever they were, the discovery of this tall rich man buried with a woman with golden hair, his Guinevere, did wonders for the income of the abbey. Pilgrims came from all over Christendom to pay homage, and it earned the approval and patronage of the king himself, remaining the richest abbey in England until Henry VIII set his greedy eyes on it. The legends about Joseph of Arimathaea and Jesus, as far as she knew, had come much later. She pulled out a small booklet. ‘Did our Lord Visit Britain’ by the Rev C.C. Dobson, MA. and smiled. The MA gave credibility presumably. She turned to the flyleaf. First published in April 1936. She read for a long time, one book after another. Some of these stories she remembered from when she was a child. She could hear her grandmother’s voice now, telling her the old tales.

  Joseph of Arimathaea was, it was surmised, a rich merchant, trading in tin, copper, lead and silver. He was, possibly, probably, Jesus’ uncle, being the younger brother of Jesus’ father. Or mother. (Mind you a lot of the books said great-uncle). Anyway, some sort of kinsman. He was supposed to have brought Jesus with him as a boy on one, or several of his trading voyages west and so the young Jesus had visited Cornwall, and Somerset and possibly other bits of the British Isles as well and he had later come back to Glastonbury to study. It was peaceful and it was sacred, the perfect place to meditate and pray as a preparation for what was to come; the presence here of a druid sanctuary of especial holiness and the fact that druidism was a peaceful religion with a belief in the Trinity had been another draw. She scanned the pages of Dobson, intrigued. The three aspects of the Godhead, represented by three golden rays of light were Beli the Creator of the past, Taran, the god of the present, and Yesu, the coming saviour of the future. A title which Dobson put in capitals. ‘The more druidism is studied,’ he went on, ‘the more apparent is its relationship to the revealed religion of the Mosaic law.’ She put down the booklet and stared out of the window. She thought the whole point of druidism, the bit that most people knew, was that as it was an oral culture, so secret in its time that no-one knew anything much about it, beyond the sour complaints of Roman historians like Julius Caesar. But then Julius Caesar was sour about anyone who opposed his plans to conquer the world!

  It was wonderful stuff. Intriguing. Mysterious. Irresistible. Abi leafed through some of the books again. All made more or less the same claims, with some asserting that Jesus’ mother, Mary, also came when he was a boy and again later, after his death. That was when Joseph returned with the vials or cruets of Jesus’ blood and sweat, collected at the cross, and with the Chalice from the Last Supper, which many identified with the Holy Grail and his staff, which implanted in Wearyall Hill became the famous Holy Thorn. Here, in Glastonbury, it was claimed, was the first dedication anywhere in Europe of a church to the Virgin Mary. All the books had scraps of credible history, all had stuff which was to her mind, rubbish. Most made the point that the true Glastonbury of history and the Glastonbury of legend were two different places, two different parallel worlds, co-existing to this very day.

  She closed the books and stacked them neatly in front of her on the desk, staring again into the garden. In her previous life she had been, briefly, an investigative journalist and she could feel it again, now. The excitement, the curiosity, the enthusiasm when an idea began to run. How did her story, the story of her vision, fit into this legend? Could she be seeing history as it happened? And Yeshua. Could he possibl
y be Jesus?

  Next morning she parked once more in the abbey car park, this time heading through a narrow passageway towards the entrance to the abbey itself. Her enthusiasm had taken a dive overnight. She woke up early with the firm conviction that she was undoubtedly mad and she thanked God she hadn’t mentioned her idiotic theory to Cal or Mat. She glanced up. Behind the high wall she could see the top of the ruined arches of the medieval building, but the entrance to the museum was modern. She paid her money and made her way in to the exhibition where for the time being she appeared to be the only visitor. Coming here was almost certainly going to confirm the impossibility of her ideas.

  They were playing a CD of plainsong. She smiled. The gentle voices of the monks were soothing, wafting gently between the exhibits; just what she needed. A plaque near the entrance stated: The Somerset Tradition and described the whole story, pretty much as she had read it the night before, but of course as a quaint curiosity, not fact. Obviously. Further into the exhibition a glass case was labelled, ‘An Ancient Church Built By No Human Skills…’ So, it was all here. Slowly she made her way round the glass cases staring at the history of the abbey which had been, so famously and horrifically, destroyed by Henry VIII in 1539 after the abbot was hanged on the top of the Tor on trumped up charges of concealing the abbey’s treasure from the king’s representatives. It was all fascinating, but it was the earliest history she had come to see: the actual origins as far as they were known, of this holy place described by St Patrick as ‘this holiest earth’.

  The site of Glastonbury Abbey was a huge thirty-six acres, according to the ground plan they had given her at the ticket office, of beautifully tended grounds, with what remained of the once great abbey standing stark and fragmented, the ruined walls neatly strengthened, situated towards the northern edge of the site.