“No, but it’s getting dark and who’s to see? Is anything left at the buffet, Mother? I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I’m getting hungry.”
“Not to worry, there’s enough to feed a regiment. You’re not planning to jump the fire in that lovely skirt, Janet?”
“Not with a polyester slip underneath, I’m not. Suttee isn’t my idea of fun. I don’t see how Mary’s going to manage without setting fire to her petticoats. She appears to be wearing quite a few.”
“Ah, but they’ll be woolen. Wool doesn’t blaze up like cotton or synthetics, you know. If she does catch a spark, the cloth will just smolder till she can beat it out. Mary’s no fool; at least I’ve never thought so until this trip. If she doesn’t watch that tongue of hers, she won’t get asked back here again, that’s for certain. You two missed the scene of all scenes a few minutes ago. I really thought Iseult was going to scratch Mary’s eyes out.”
“What about?” asked Madoc.
“Something to do with Iseult’s emeralds. I’m not sure whether Mary was calling them fakes or intimating that Iseult had acquired them under unladylike circumstances, or some of each. They were both talking at once by the time we came along.”
“Loudly,” Sir Emlyn added.
“That, my dear, is one of your typical understatements,” said his wife. “They were yowling like a pair of fishwives, though I must say the only fishwife I’ve ever known personally was a model of decorum. Anyway, Mary was virtually incoherent and Iseult was coming out with some fairly picturesque language until that Williams man told her to shut up. Which she did, much to my surprise. You don’t suppose he means to marry her, Emmy?”
“After that exhibition, he’d be a fool if he did. But one never knows. Perhaps that’s just the way film folk carry on. It’s Mary I’m shocked by. She was always something of a bore, but never a pest on the grand scale, till now. You know, Sillie, I shouldn’t be surprised if Mary’s going the way her mother did, poor soul. They had to put her in some kind of looney bin for the gently reared. I should think Bob would have taken steps, he’s such a mass of pomposity. Mary must be a terrible embarrassment to him, carrying on like this.”
Lady Rhys was quietly amused. “I expect Bob will be able to endure the carryings-on as long as Mary’s also able to carry on with her gem-cutting. According to Tom Feste, who always knows everything, they haven’t a bean except what she brings in.”
“You can’t go by what Tom says,” Sir Emlyn objected. “You know what he’s like.”
“Well, perhaps, dear. Anyway, one can’t see Bob dipping into his own money while he can still get his hands on Mary’s.”
“But all those irresponsible insinuations she’s hurling about might land them in a lawsuit.”
“I don’t know whether you could take an insinuation into court,” said Madoc.
“Oh, stop talking like a policeman,” snapped his mother. “Go get your supper, wretched boy.”
“I don’t expect we’ll stay long,” said Janet.
“That’s all right, Jenny, take your time. Look at that little sweetikins, nodding off already. Was she her granny’s darling, then?”
Obviously they weren’t needed here, and Janet did want to see the lighting of the Beltane fire. Out behind the farmhouse, the scene had changed. Most of those who’d stayed must be inside the barn, its doors were open, the glow of lantern light showed through. Out in the middle of the lawn, a few young ones were fetching sticks and laying a small fire under Huw’s direction. Others were clustered around Owain’s middle son, who was twanging inexpertly at a guitar and whining out some ballad in such a confusing blend of English, Spanish, and Welsh that most of his audience probably hadn’t a clue as to what it was about.
Not that they cared, Janet didn’t suppose. The kids appeared happy enough, after having sat patiently through the afternoon’s concert, to be hearing their own kind of music, if such it could be called. Far over toward the west, another small glimmer of light was flickering. She touched her husband’s arm.
“Look, Madoc, somebody must have lit the candles on the altar. Do you suppose we ought to go see?”
“Mary could be jumping over the candlestick for practice. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a peek. We needn’t go in.”
Yes, the candles were lighted and yes, Mary was there. So was Bob. What they were up to was anyone’s guess, but they weren’t just fooling around. Both were working hard, their doughy faces shone with sweat. They had sprigs of some leafy plant in their hands. Janet guessed it might be mistletoe, though she couldn’t tell in so feeble a light. Anyway, they were weaving the sprigs in and out and betwixt and between as they pranced solemnly around the altar first clockwise, then widdershins.
This had to be some kind of mystic rite; they wouldn’t be going to all that bother just for exercise. Janet began to feel ashamed; she stepped back lest they catch her spying on them. Madoc was glad enough to follow; he could feel the sweat running down his spine.
“What do you suppose it’s all about?” she whispered once she and Madoc were away from the window.
He wrinkled his nose. “Some kind of purification rite, perhaps, or else a spot of fire insurance. Let’s eat.”
Janet was more than ready; all the same, those shenanigans in the chapel had left her with an eerie feeling. However, once inside the barn, it was easy enough to let herself be pleasantly distracted with Rhyses hailing them right and left, Alice pressing them to try the Welsh rarebit, and Mavis chauvinistically offering Madoc a glass of Patagonian beer.
At least half the crowd must have left; there didn’t look to be more than thirty or so here now, most of these either home folk or near neighbors. Tom was with Lisa down at the end of the left-hand table, where drinks had been set out. Each had a glass, but only the man was drinking. Janet and Madoc stopped to say hello.
“Uncle Caradoc had enough, has he?” said Madoc. “I don’t see him around.”
“No, he was getting tired, and about time,” Lisa answered. “Dafydd walked him back to the house a little while ago. Dafydd’s fagged out himself, he said he was going to bed.”
“He didn’t specify with whom,” Tom added.
Lisa was not amused. “You had to put that in, didn’t you? Dafydd has every right to be tired. He was performing all afternoon while you were lolling around getting squiffed. Why don’t you go and eat some ham or something to soak up the alcohol?”
“Because I am a rigid vegetarian. You will find me drinking Brut like a tutor on a toot. You will find me drinking ale like an agrarian. You will find me drinking gin—what a perfectly splendid idea.” He picked up a bottle and waved it around in a manner presumably intended to beguile. “Gin for you, Jenny mia?”
“Nothing for me, thanks. Have you tried the rarebit, Lisa?”
Janet hoped she hadn’t taken Tom up too short, but she didn’t care for being leered at by vaguely connected in-laws who’d had too much to drink. Lisa was fairly ticked-off too; she was scowling down into her glass.
“I don’t know why I took this. I don’t want it, but I hate to leave an unfinished drink sitting around. It looks so wasteful.”
“Pour it down a crack in the floor,” Madoc suggested.
“As a sacrifice to the earth spirit? Why not? Tonight’s the night.”
Lisa let drop the scarf she’d thrown around her shoulders and bent to pick it up. When she rose, the glass was empty. “And there we are. I thought I heard a faint hiccup from down underneath, but it may have been only a toad. Yes, Jenny, by all means let’s try the rarebit. I love scooping food out of a chafing dish, it makes me feel so baronial.”
She was putting up a front, turning on the chatter to hide the inward smart, Janet decided. Where the heck had “inward smart” come from? More important, what was Lisa smarting about?
Her stepbrother, most likely. Tom was prancing around in front of Iseult now; he’d switched his Flaming Youth outfit for tweed plus fours and a Norfolk jacket. The actress had
changed out of her mermaid disguise into dark green wool slacks and a bulky green pullover with a wide cowl neck, not forgetting a long, heavy gold chain with chunks of emerald set into it every few links. She’d let her hair down, Janet rather hoped she was planning to jump the fire. Iseult should make quite a picture with that red-gold mane streaming out behind her.
The rarebit was lovely. Lisa chased the last bite around her plate. “I’m glad we got to this when we did; there wasn’t much left. I’ve a notion to go back and scrape the dish.”
“Go ahead,” said Janet. “Lick the spoon while you’re about it. I dare you.”
“Don’t think I shan’t. I may be a glutton, but I’m not a coward.”
Lisa was making good her boast when Bob and Mary marched in like a couple of drum majors who’d got strayed from the parade. Janet expected Bob to make a beeline for the by now depleted buffet. Instead he planted himself squarely in the center of the vast room, took three or four deep breaths, and roared, “The time has come!”
“God, he sounds like the crack of doom.” Iseult’s comment came loud and fuzzy. She’d had a couple too many herself, from the sound of her. “Time for what?”
“Time to light the fire, of course.” Reuel, who’d been slumped over a glass of Mavis’s beer, pushed back his chair. “I want to see this.”
They were all going to see it whether they wanted to or not. Bob and Mary were harrying everybody out of the barn like collies driving a flock of sheep to pasture. Janet had the distinct impression that either of the pair might nip at her heels if she didn’t move fast enough.
No matter, she was quite willing to go. The sky was all but jet black now. The stars were coming out; the moon was a thin golden sickle. Too bad Uncle Caradoc couldn’t capture it and pin it up in the dining hall. Somebody back in the pack was muttering about a silly waste of time. Maybe so, but this particular silliness had been going on since long before the Cistercians were here, long before the Rhyses were here, perhaps even before the Druids. Who could tell? Janet felt the excitement mounting, she gripped Madoc’s arm and squeezed.
“Have you ever jumped the fire, Madoc?”
“Oh yes, when I was a kid. It was just something one did. Getting the urge, love?”
“Not till I see how big the fire is. I suppose it would be something to tell the folks back home. They’d think I was either lying or crazy, I expect. Who goes first, or doesn’t it matter?”
“I don’t remember any special protocol, we just lined up and took our turns as they came. One waits for the fire to die down, of course, unless one’s a champion high-jumper. Dafydd pole-vaulted over the fire once, I remember, but he made a rather spectacularly ungraceful landing. He’d forgotten about some bramble bushes on the other side.”
“Dafydd’s always had a tendency to leap before he looks.”
That was Lisa, sounding more acerbic than Janet would have thought the observation called for, but Lisa knew Dafydd better than she did. “I hadn’t quite realized it,” she said, “but you and he must have more or less grown up together, didn’t you? Have you always lived where you are now?”
“Pretty much,” Lisa replied, “when I wasn’t off at school, except for a short while after I got married. Dafydd used to come and stay with Sir Caradoc quite often during the holidays when we were kids. He and Tom would go off and not take me with them, they made me furious. Oops, brace yourselves. Here comes another speech.”
Bob tried, but he didn’t get far. He’d made the mistake of standing with his back to the piled-up sticks; he’d barely got his mouth open when one of the youths who’d been lurking in the background sneaked up behind him and lit the fire. Janet had got a glimpse of the culprit’s face when the sticks flared up; she was pretty sure it was Dai, and who better?
Actually this hadn’t been the smartest thing to do, Bob had been pretty close to the fire. His own leap, once he’d felt a spark hit the back of his neck, was impressive enough to draw a round of applause that did not assuage his wounded dignity.
The bonfire was not a big one, Huw had seen to that. The dry sticks burned down quickly; then the long-legged youngsters came hurtling over, yelling and laughing. Maybe this pell-mell dash was not according to Bob’s notion of the Beltane ritual, but Janet had the feeling that she was seeing the ceremony as it had been back at the beginning of time: a raucous, half-savage celebration of youth and agility and the power of life and light. The jumpers would have been half-naked and half-wild, all of them young because hardly anyone lived long then, wearing only short tunics and no shoes. Now it was jeans and expensive sneakers, but the wildness was still there. Tib and Dai, pretty Annie and her burly brothers, their Patagonian cousins, all the brave lads and bonny lasses, they were like colts let out to pasture. Why couldn’t the grown-ups leave them alone to celebrate their own rite of spring?
No, the grown-ups must have their share. Iseult was up there now, having cannily waited till the fire burned low enough not to singe her emeralds. She must have studied ballet at some time in her theatrical career; she hitched up her slacks and sailed over the coals lightly as a firebird, her flame-colored hair and her golden chain flinging out around her. The boys were applauding, susceptible as very young males always are to the charms of an older woman, especially when that woman happens to be an actress with lots of glamour and lots of emeralds.
Now Alice, stalwart and matter-of-fact in her dark dress and brightly woven shawl, walked up to the fire and hopped over neat as a pin without so much as agitating her perm, and Betty after her amid loud rejoicing, and Lisa with the cowl of her jersey pulled up over her nose so that she wouldn’t sneeze from the smoke. Then Madoc swung Janet up in his arms so her polyester slip wouldn’t catch fire, and leaped high and handsome, and landed safely, moreover; and jumped back again and kissed his wife quite shamelessly in front of the lot of them.
And on they came and over they went, but still Mary hadn’t leaped. Janet could make out her tall steeple hat back there in the dark. It looked as if some people were urging her on—there was a little bustle around her—but Mary was taking her time, waiting her moment. The fire needed more wood now and got some, maybe a little more than it ought to have had because the young chaps were flaunting their muscles in front of Iseult. No matter, the blaze would soon settle down. At the moment, it was casting a flickering brightness over the entire scene. Janet could pick out everyone in the little crowd of watchers; she was surprised to spy Dafydd standing apart from the rest. She thought he looked rather strange, but then so did everybody else in this eerie play of glare and shadow.
But now the flames were dying back, and here came Mary on the dead run, high hat and all. And now she leaped, straight through the middle of the fire. And now—great God! A violent poof, like a giant’s sneeze. A huge ball of searing, blazing light. An acrid smell, a great puff of whitish smoke rising high toward the sickle moon. And Mary, what was left of her, sprawled facedown across the Beltane fire.
Chapter 13
NOBODY SCREAMED. THAT WAS the oddest part, nobody screamed. Janet wished somebody would, the sound might help to unfreeze her legs. She couldn’t herself, her heart must be blocking her windpipe. She felt as if it would be impossible to move. Not that she had to. Madoc was moving, he and his Uncle Huw and Huw’s son, Owain, shouting at the rest to keep back, lining Mary off the coals, laying her out on the ground away from the smoke, raising her head, laying it back.
Now Huw was running toward the farmhouse. To telephone a doctor? No, not the doctor, not from the way Madoc had put Mary’s head down. It would be the police Uncle Huw would have to call. Janet knew why. So must everyone else, with the smell of gunpowder hanging so heavy in the air.
Now there was screaming. That was Bob. Owain was trying to shut him up, but he kept on and on, shrieking out the one word over and over. “Sorcery! Sorcery! Sorcery!”
Huw was back, carrying a sheet or a tablecloth or something to cover Mary with, thank God. Trust Huw Rhys to observe the amenities. He
was glaring at the fire as though it were his personal enemy, but he couldn’t stamp it out because they needed the light.
Now a man was coming forward. Janet recognized him as the local doctor. He’d sung a funny song this afternoon, or maybe he’d just sung a song funnily; anyway, people had laughed. They were making way for him, released from their shocked silence by the magic of his little black bag. Huw was hailing him with a relief you could almost reach out and touch.
The doctor was pushing up Bob’s sleeve, baring the fat arm, swabbing the flabby, pallid flesh with something out of a bottle. Alcohol, Janet assumed. Now Owain was holding the arm, and the doctor was filling a hypodermic syringe out of a tiny vial. Now both Owain and Huw were trying to hold Bob steady while the doctor stuck him in the arm.
At last Bob was stopping that horrible screaming. Owain and Huw had him propped up between them, walking him back to the farmhouse. Dai was behind them, trying to help and being shooed away. The doctor was bending over Mary, raising the sheet, shaking his lead, covering her up again. Now Dai was at the doctor’s elbow, pestering. Madoc at least was willing to talk to Dai, he got the boy’s attention, started asking questions. Janet had known he couldn’t resist getting in a spot of police work. Dai was shaking his head, waving his hands, beginning to fall apart. The doctor was pointing over at the farmhouse, telling him to go in and keep an eye on Bob, or take an aspirin and go to bed, or just get out from underfoot. More likely to phone for an ambulance. They couldn’t leave Mary’s ghastly remains just lying there.
Where would they take her? There’d have to be an autopsy, even though the cause of death was only too hideously obvious.
Having grown up in hunting country. Janet knew a little about gunpowder. Mary must have had a pocketful, to cause a reaction like that. Gunpowder wasn’t hard to get hold of, back home you could buy it by the pound at any sporting-goods shop. It came in different grains: coarse, medium, and fine. Sam Neddick back home had an old muzzle-loader he fired off every year on the Queen’s birthday, and on various other occasions when the mood seized him. He’d ram coarse-grained gunpowder down the barrel, then put a pinch of a specially fine-ground powder in the priming pan to set off the discharge, since it was only the finest grain that could burn fast enough on its own to create the necessary explosion and detonate the rest. Coarser powder, if ignited directly, would simply fizz and burn itself out.
The Wrong Rite Page 12
