“An excavation that no-one’s going to allow.” Fergus had followed her pointing finger, which swept through the churchyard and a cluster of cottages before returning across the green. “In any case, if that’s as logical as you say, it wouldn’t prove anything.”
Clare carried on as if he had not spoken. “No houses then, of course, and the valley was cleared for crops, so there was a clear view from here to where the Mill House now stands. No dam, though, just that spur of the hill.”
“This all sounds very detailed.”
“I told you, it feels frighteningly real. Real enough to remember the sound of rain striking metal helmets, and feel the weight of weapons.”
“Shit!”
“I must have excavated a dozen Saxon swords in my career. They used a distinctive, single-sided blade called a seax, see? That’s what gave them their name, Seaxons. Usually all that’s left is a rust stain in the soil, but now I’m dreaming of the weight of one in my hand. She fought, you see, our Olrun.”
“Clare, I really think you should talk…”
“I am. I’m talking to you. Do you know the sound of an arrow hitting someone’s face?” Clare spoke more quickly now, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Sort of wet and hard at the same time, and it’s as real and shocking as watching someone shot over there, today.” She pointed towards the White Hart, where a tall, well-built man had just parked an old Land Rover. There was a flash of auburn hair from the passenger side as Eadlin got out and joined him. Fergus watched the pair go into the pub together.
“Why don’t we…”
“And in the dream it feels as if the Saxon, Aegl, is my lover...”
“I’m told necrophilia is dead boring.”
Clare’s shoulders sagged. “Ha bloody ha. Look, take me seriously will you? I need to talk to someone about it and it’s easier if you don’t laugh at me.”
“Sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine. I get flippant about things that make me nervous, like dead Saxons. And I’m not laughing at you.”
“Well, if this is making you nervous, think what it’s doing to me. Tell me I’m not going mad, Fergus.” Again that pleading look.
“I don’t think you’re mad. There’s something weird going on that neither of us understands. But don’t you think it would be better if you spoke to someone, um, professional about this?”
Clare shook her head emphatically. “That goes back to what I said at the beginning. If I’m not going loopy, I’m being shown something. If I see a doctor I’ll be off the project and onto Valium, and I’ve lost all chance of working this out. For me, the question is not what I’m being shown, but why. It’s just that I haven’t worked out the message yet. And I wish you could understand what it costs for an academic to admit even the possibility of something so unscientific.”
“It sounds like you need a drink.” Fergus’s eyes were still on the White Hart.
“Thanks. It might help me sleep.”
“If my sparkling conversation hasn’t had the same effect.”
“Sorry, I’m not much company at the moment.” Clare stood, and for a moment she seemed to be staring through the cottages on the opposite side of the green. “Last night…” She waved across the green.
“Last night what?”
“Nothing. I wanted to give you an idea of what it’s like to be inside someone else’s head. To think as they thought. When I’m in the dream, it’s real, every bloody moment. Then when I try and put it into words…” Her voice faded away. Fergus put his arm around her shoulder and hugged.
“Hey, I believe you. And I don’t think you’re mad, any more than I am. But maybe we’re both a bit screwed up.”
Clare’s eyes filled as they walked across the green, and she slipped her arm inside his elbow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
EADLIN HAD MANAGED to find a table. She smiled at Fergus across the crowded bar and spoke sideways to her companion before waving them over. The man beside her was a big, broad-shouldered individual with a mop of sandy hair, and he stood as Clare approached rather like a tousled bear rearing up on its hind legs. Eadlin introduced him as Russell Dickens, and as Fergus completed the introductions Russell enfolded Clare’s hand in a great, oil-stained paw. Clare treated him to one of her pause-then-smile greetings, and Fergus could swear the man started to blush.
“Russell owns the Forge Garage on the green,” Eadlin explained as they sat. “We was just discussing the May Day celebrations in the village. Russell’s organising some of the events.”
“Eadlin provides the horses and the wagon for the May Queen, see?” Russell spoke to Clare rather than the group. His voice had the same rural burr as Eadlin, but he spoke more slowly, almost shyly, as if he considered all his words before assembling them as speech.
“Wonderful! A traditional May Day festival!” Clare’s stress had evaporated. “Some of those old customs go back centuries.”
“Oh, we just do the usual stuff. May Queen parade, morris dancers, that sort of thing, then a bonfire and fireworks in the evening. It’s a bit of fun for everyone. Plus there’s always been a Jack-in-the-Green, although the Vicar’s trying to stop that this year.”
“What’s a Jack-in-the-Green?” Clare’s question showed more than polite interest. Fergus wondered whether he was seeing professional enthusiasm, or flirtation, or a mood swing. He knew about mood swings.
“Just a tent of leaves with garlands and May blossom, a bit like a Christmas tree with a dancer inside. The Jack dances round making fun of everyone, with a couple of helpers in green costumes. Some young women get their asses pinched, begging your pardon, but it’s all pretty innocent. Anyway this year the Vicar’s set against it. Pagan symbolism, he calls it. P’raps he’s still upset about the blood on the church door.” It had taken Russell a long time to say that, and he paused to hide behind his tankard.
“Jake Herne is well pissed off,” Eadlin smiled and leaned forward, hugging herself, relishing the story, as if gossip like this was too good to wait for Russell’s measured delivery. “My ex,” she added, seeing Clare’s blank look. “His pub is called the Green Man, see, and for years he’s been the dancer in the Jack, so he’s taking it personally.”
Fergus lifted his pint. “Well, here’s to the Vicar. Sounds like he’s fighting back.”
“You’ve lost me.” Clare looked puzzled.
“We’re pretty sure that it was one of Jake’s group that daubed the church with blood,” Eadlin explained. “There are a few of them who are daft enough to do it.”
“This is starting to sound like tribal warfare.”
“That’s probably a good description.” As Eadlin spoke, Russell looked at her in a way that had more meaning than a casual glance. A warning, perhaps.
“I need another pint. Let me get a round in.” Russell interrupted the thread of the conversation and stood without waiting for a response.
“I’ll help you carry.” Clare followed him to the bar. Fergus and Eadlin watched them go, and then looked at each other. Eadlin lifted an eyebrow.
“Those two have hit it off.” Fergus surprised himself by feeling a twinge of jealousy.
“Nah. Half the men in the village have been lusting after Clare since the dig started. It’s the cute-little-girl-lost look; it makes them go all protective, like.”
Fergus could understand that. At the bar, Russell and Clare were deep in conversation, Russell leaning over to listen, while Clare placed her fingertips lightly on his hand to emphasise a point.
“And she’s enjoying the attention. But don’t worry,” Eadlin continued, “you’re safe.” She leaned back in her chair, eyeing the two at the bar, with a knowing smile on her face.
“Me? But Clare and I aren’t…”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Fergus watched Clare lift a drink in each hand and turn towards them. Sensing his scrutiny, she lifted her eyes from the brimming glasses and smiled at him. He’d forgotten that her smile could light up her face. Had he be
en missing something?
“Eadlin, thinking of Jake,” Fergus asked his question before the others could hear, “I’m still amazed that in the twenty-first century there are people who believe in this Satanic crap.”
“You don’t have to believe. You just go along for the fun, don’t you, Russ?” she called the question to the approaching pair.
“Go along where?”
“Jake’s parties.”
Russell narrowed his eyes at her as he sat, and she made an almost imperceptible nod of reassurance, an affirmation of trust.
“It sounds like you know something, Russ.” Clare grinned at him. Her question held a note of challenge.
“Well, sort of. Me and Jake used to be mates, see? He invited me to one of his parties, last year. Just the one, ’cause we sort of fell out after that. It was weird.” Russell shifted on his seat and toyed with his beer, making wet smears in the wood, while the others waited for him to build the words in his head. “I thought it was just going to be a Halloween party in the woods, with Jake providing the fancy dress. There weren’t many people there, maybe a dozen or so. I got the impression most of ’em had been before, and knew the ropes, like. It was almost like it was a club, and I was being tested.”
“Tested in what way?” Fergus was intrigued, but Russell didn’t answer his question directly.
“The fancy dress turned out to be cloaks and animal masks. Maybe it was the masks, or p’raps the mulled wine he was pouring was spiked. Both of those, most likely, knowing Jake. Anyway, people lost their inhibitions.” He glanced up at Clare from where he was staring into his beer. This time, the blush was unmistakable. “It was like you could hide behind the mask, pretend you was someone else. Things got a bit out of hand.”
“They know about the stag, Russ.”
“Right.” Fergus wondered if Russell’s relief hid more secrets than a sacrificed stag. “Well, I left soon after Jake hacked the head off this beast with that bloody great sword of his. It sort of sobered me up. All of a sudden it seemed like reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards wasn’t just a party trick.”
“I can see why he’s an ‘ex’.” Clare was round-eyed as she looked at Eadlin.
“He wasn’t always like that. A bit wild, maybe, but not cruel.”
“But I still don’t see the connection between a Halloween party,” Clare wondered, “and this tribal war with the church that you’re talking about.”
Russell inhaled a couple of times as if he was about to speak, or was wondering how to say something.
“Spit it out, Russ.” Eadlin put her hand on his arm and squeezed her encouragement.
“There are rumours that Jake’s going to try black magic against the church, to get back at the Vicar. Have a ceremony with a funny name. Not a sabbat, but an es… es...” he fumbled for the word.
“Esbat.” Eadlin’s eyes were hard. “It’s used for a ritual curse.”
“And the people in this club of his will go along with that?” Fergus thought the conversation was bizarre. “They actually believe he has some kind of power?”
“I don’t think they believe, not all of them.” Russell sighed and fiddled with his tankard. “Leastways, they didn’t at the beginning. For most of them it started as an excuse for that kind of party. There’s something about those masks and the drink and the chanting that makes it feel right to behave… differently.” He shuffled in his seat. “I know some of them. Now Jake’s calling it a coven, and I think they’re finding it’s hard to leave, like they’re bound together with their own sordid secrets. But Jake believes. Jake really believes. He’s convinced he’s got power, and the rest are beginning to wonder.
“I think some of them feel frightened as well as dirty, but they’re too scared to get out.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“HOW’S IT GOING?”
The following day, Fergus leaned over the gate at the Mill House to watch Clare hunched over a plastic bowl, scrubbing at unidentifiable lumps of matter with a toothbrush. He was pleased with himself for walking up the hill from the village without a stick. A month before, he’d barely made it on crutches.
“Zilch.” Clare wiped the back of a gardening gloved hand over her forehead where she had started to perspire in the warmth of the afternoon. “Not a thing, apart from bottom-of-the-pond rubbish. If we don’t find something exciting soon, the mud monkeys are going to lose interest.” Clare waved her toothbrush towards a troop of students who were nibbling away at centuries of soil with trowels and spades. The bowl of the pond looked like an open cast mine, with heaps of soil being trundled up a path to a waiting skip. From the top of the old dam, the owner was diverting some loads to a new pile as part of a landscaping exercise, to the clear annoyance of the students.
“As it is, some of them didn’t come back after Easter. We have to finish this week because term starts next Monday, but we’ll be pretty much done anyway.”
Fergus felt a stab of regret. He’d miss her company. “I was worried about you this morning. You looked a bit frayed.” That was an understatement. Clare had blinked at the morning with bloodshot eyes, and set off for her run looking as if she’d already finished a marathon.
“I think you were right. I’m getting too close to this dig.” Clare rocked back on her heels and looked as if she was about to say more, then closed her mouth as a student pushed a wheelbarrow up the hill towards them. “Fancy a walk?” She peeled off her gloves and tossed them down beside the toothbrush.
“If it’s not too far. I’m getting fitter but…”
“I’ll drive you up the road. There’s a level bridle path a bit further up. Do you have time?”
Fergus hoped Clare hadn’t seen his hesitation. The Downs road snaked away into the dark country of his mind, towards the place he pretended did not exist. Any lie would be justified to find another path.
“Sure.” Face the pain, always face the pain.
Ten minutes later Clare parked a mile above the village, at a point where a bridle track forked away into the woods that fringed the valley. Fergus paused for a moment beside her car, looking up the road as it climbed away from them. His relief that he hadn’t had to pass the bend above the trees felt like cowardice. One day soon he’d make that journey. He’d been avoiding it too long. His mind would not be fully healed until he could stand tall and composed above the oak tree. He breathed deeply and walked after Clare, trying to minimise his limp.
“This bridle track runs around the valley, pretty much following the contour line.” Clare spoke in the brisk way that he thought of as her ‘academic’ voice, the one that declared facts. “There’s a sort of hairpin bend at the end before it comes back on the other side. The hillside gets pretty steep up there. I’ve been here running a few times, see?”
“I sense you wanted to talk,” Fergus prompted.
“Hm. I suppose I’m frustrated at the lack of progress. Not just with the dig, but with the story behind the dig.”
“You mean the dreams?”
“Sort of. I’ve spent my working life piecing together ancient lives from fragments of evidence. Suddenly I’m seeing it all as vividly as a Hollywood movie, whether I want to watch or not, but I haven’t worked out the plot yet. After we wrap up and go, I think I’ll have lost the chance.”
Fergus let her talk on. A few hundred yards from the road the track forked again, with a rutted path branching off towards the valley floor. There was a padlocked five bar gate across it, hung with a dirty, hand-painted sign saying ‘Private’.
“I’d like to explore down there.” Clare paused and waved at the gate, as if wondering whether to climb over.
“Why’s that?”
“We’re near the end of the valley. The Swanbourne must have its source down there. Springs were often sacred to the Saxons.” She looked down the path into the valley, clearly tempted.
Fergus had rested against a tree. “You should have a talk with Eadlin about that sort of thing. She might take you to a few places, prov
ided you weren’t going to dig them up.”
Clare shrugged and walked on. Beyond the gate, a rusting barbed wire fence bordered the path on the valley side. On the downhill side of this fence, towards the stream, rhododendrons had grown into a thick screen which masked their view. On the uphill side of the track there were signs of active woodland management where the alien rhododendrons had been cleared, preserving an undergrowth tracery of native elder and hazel.
Clare stopped again at a gap in the bushes where the rhododendrons had been crushed in some way. Broken ends of branches were sprouting new shoots of furled green leaves while thick, nut-like flower buds covered the undamaged plants. A tangle of fresh barbed wire had been laid in the gap. The trail of broken undergrowth led down into the valley.
“Do you notice something strange?” Clare turned slowly through a complete circle.
“What?” Fergus was starting to shiver. The sunlight still touched the trees high above them but here where the valley narrowed into a steep, shadowed cleft it seemed unnaturally chill.
“No birdsong. It’s early April, birds have been singing all along the path, but here it’s quiet.”
“Apart from the crows.” A harsh, grating call sounded from below them.
Clare started picking her way through the barbed wire, lifting strands away from her jeans as she made her way through the gap in the shrubs.
“I think that’s private.” Fergus was uneasy. Suddenly the whole excursion was a crazy idea.
“Come on, this may be my last chance to explore. We can always say we got lost.” Clare seemed to have forgotten the state of his legs. Fergus looked round nervously for anyone who might object to their trespass, but Clare was already through the wire so he followed, picking his way cautiously downhill through the leaf litter. His muscles were aching; he should have brought his stick.
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