Beneath the Hallowed Hill (31 page)

He pressed on. “I was always taught not to accept gifts, eat, or drink in faery, although I was sorely tempted at times. It seems…” He scratched his beard and looked out the window at the Tor, which today was dotted with cattle. “…unsociable. Taking in faery food or drink is believed to attune you to their world too closely or even trap you there.”

“Like Persephone eating the pomegranate seed,” Anne said.

“Something like that.” Garth glanced at her then turned his gaze back to the slope of the Tor. “One is likely to lose touch with our time while there. They could come back months, even years later. There are some reports of centuries passing.” The yearning in his voice was unmistakable.

“You’ve been in faeryland?” Anne asked. “I thought they were just—”

“Faery tales?” His eyes sparkled.

Anne laughed. “What are they then?”

“Ancestral legends, wisdom teachings. Stories of humans going into faeryland have been told for centuries, as well as the other way around. Lancelot came from faery.”

“No, France,” Anne said.

It was Garth’s turn to laugh. “If you look carefully at the various versions, you’ll see that in the early Arthurian romances, Lancelot is said to have come from the land of faery. It’s the oldest triangle—a man and a faery vying for the love of a female.” He studied her a moment. “I think it’s time you learn your own tradition. Egypt is fine and all, but you are a Celt, after all.”

“According to my family, we’re originally from Israel, and the family went into Egypt when—” She stopped and looked at him carefully. “Did Cynthia tell you?”

“All that bunk about the bloodline?” Garth dismissed the idea with a wave of his broad hand.

“Bunk? Thomas showed me the research.” At the scowl on his face, Anne hurried on. “I didn’t believe it at first either. I thought they were all nuts, but Thomas showed me ancient scrolls and all those books.”

“Plantard forged those records of the Priory of Sion. It’s well documented. He duped Baigent, Leigh, and Lincoln. He renewed some old medieval scam for money.” Garth pointed a huge index finger at her. “You, my dear, are a descendant of the Le Clairs, who came here with William the Conqueror, but your branch of the family married into the Brythonic tribes. You carry the old blood.”

Anne wished for the thousandth time that she could talk to Thomas. “What did Cynthia believe?”

“We agreed to disagree.” Garth smiled at a private memory, then focused on her. “The point is you don’t understand the cosmology of your own people.”

“Would you teach me?”

He reached out to the coaster on the low table, but found no mug.

“Want some tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

Anne smiled at the incongruity of that delicate word coming from the mountain of a man lounging on Cynthia’s silk cushions. She ran down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She rustled up some egg salad sandwiches while she waited for the water to boil, then poured it into the pot and took everything upstairs.

“Excellent.” Garth consumed two sandwich wedges in one bite and washed them down with half a mug of tea. “Now, about the Celtic cosmos.” He rubbed his hands together and looked around, then pulled out a sketchpad wedged between the table and the wall.

Anne let out a little exclamation of surprise. “I still haven’t found everything. Do you know where the key to the cellar door is?”

“You have them all.”

“Except for—” Anne began, but Garth shushed her.

He drew a diagram with three circles connected by the trunk of a tree. “I’ll forgo the branches and leaves. Basically, there are four worlds—Earth, moon, sun, and stars. You could say the lunar world includes the moon and the Earth. It’s where we humans live with the animals and plants. The solar world includes the planets, but also spiritual beings, those the Christians call angels, and humans who have perfected themselves. In the stellar world we find the stars, obviously, and the divine beings.”

Anne pointed to his drawing. “This looks like the tree of life in Kabbala.”

Garth snorted. “You don’t think Odin hung on a Jewish tree, do you?”

“He’s from the Norse tradition,” Anne said. “He’s not Celtic.”

“Ever notice the Green Man has a vine through his mouth?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He hangs on the tree as well. You’ll find this same diagram in most traditions because this is an accurate depiction of the created universe.”

“Created?”

Garth gave her a sharp look. “The highest plane of existence might be called uncreated. It’s the unmanifest pure consciousness, what we’d call God now, or Ceugant in Welsh…at least after the Romans. It’s what those people who taught that meditation in the sixties called the transcendent.”

Anne pointed to the drawing. “I don’t see any faeries.”

He gave her an approving nod. “That’s because the lunar realm is divided into three levels. The moon, of course, then the surface of the Earth, where we live now, Tolkien’s Middle Earth or Abred in Welsh. Then there’s the underworld, which is the home of the faeries, elementals, and underworld deities. The Welsh word is Annwn. The Christians say this world is evil, but that’s nonsense, of course. Some of the high fae do live in the stellar world, at least in my experience.” He ate another sandwich, licked his large fingers, then stopped and looked at Anne like a little boy. “Excuse me.”

“I forgot to bring the –” She stopped herself from saying “napkins,” remembering that meant something quite different here in England, but she couldn’t find the right word. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”

Garth’s laugh was as hearty as Merlin’s was in her dream. “When your Megan walked through the waterfall, she went into faeryland, into the underworld.”

Anne nodded. “You’re saying this is a real place?”

“Yes. This spot…” He thumped the floor with his index finger. “…is a place where the worlds are close together. It’s easy to slip through, because of the energy of the Tor and the twin springs.”

“Now what? We don’t know what Megan let loose, but we’ve balanced White Spring.”

“Not quite,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Last night I sensed something like a door ajar between dimensions. The alignment still needs work.”

“What about the spring? How’s the water?”

“An excellent question. Let’s go see.” He jumped to his feet, graceful for all his bulk.

They walked down to White Spring. Besides the vagrant Anne noticed earlier, a small knot of people milled around. Joanne stood with a circle of women holding hands in the middle of the flagstone patio. “Blessed be,” they chanted in unison, then broke up the circle.

Joanne approached Garth. “Bridget has heard our prayers.” She pointed to the pipe, which gushed water. One man filled his gallon jugs while several waited in line behind him.

“Congratulations.” Garth seemed entirely genuine, but Anne knew he led the ceremony that freed the water…perhaps it was a combination. “Tell me, do you feel the spring is healed entirely?” He leaned his head down to her, one adept to another. “Did you pick up anything during your ceremony?”

“The goddess withdrew her abundance because of the violence against women in the world. We pledged to redouble our efforts. Our group is taking up a collection to send to the rape victims in the Congo, and we want to help with shelters for battered women in the UK. How much can we put you down for?”

Garth nodded his approval. “I’ll write you a check when I get home.”

Joanne glared at Anne, who said, “I’d be happy to contribute to such a worthy cause.”

“You think White Spring was healed, then?” Garth asked.

“If we continue to be vigilant, yes.”

“Excellent.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Good work.”

Bran sat next to the door, inconspicuous in his well-worn trousers and flannel shirt, but his brown eyes held such a bright spark that Anne marveled no one deferred to him. With a nod, Garth invited him to walk with them. They turned up the path to the Tor. “What is your assessment, Master Bran?”

Bran waited until they passed the houses to their left before answering. “That one’s a wee bit daft is my assessment, Master Garth.”

The two guffawed shamelessly.

“You two.” Anne shook her head. “The situation in the Congo is horrible, you know.”

“Yes, but it has nothing to do with White Spring,” Garth said. “Nevertheless, I’ll make my donation to stop that atrocity. She’s quite right that the goddess needs proper honoring in this world and that women should be treated with more respect.”

Bran nodded his agreement then answered Garth’s initial question, “The spring seems happy enough this morning, but I’m still not easy about it.”

“Nor am I,” Garth said. They reached the gate at the end of the meadow and walked up to the bench on the lower slope of the Tor, where they sat down. Bran chose the ground. Below them, the cows nosed around in the spring grass. Garth sat in silence, which didn’t seem to bother Bran. Finally, he spoke. “I’d like to set a watch. A discreet one, of course. Any change in the water should be reported directly to the both of us.”

“I’ll see to it.” Bran stood and brushed off his trousers. “Anne,” he doffed an imaginary hat at her.

“Nice to see you again. Let me know what I can do to help.”

“You and your man have helped more than we could have hoped for. Where is he this fine morning?”

“Gone to do some research.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for you, then.” He jerked his head toward a man lingering in the meadow below.

Anne looked down and saw Bob. “Oh, he works for my family. Security.”

Bran nodded. “Good, but we’ll keep an eye out regardless.”

Anne’s eyes filled and she shook her head, annoyed with the strong and unexpected tides of emotion she was experiencing. She said simply, “I appreciate your kindness.”

Bran walked down the hill and Garth stood up. “I have business as well. Let me know about any dreams or visions. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks for everything,” she said.

He left her sitting on the bench. Bob wandered past her, and she turned and climbed the Tor after him, enjoying the burn in her calves. At the top, the green of England stretched out to every horizon. Tourists stood in the tower, looking up, one narrating the Christian history of Glastonbury. Anne took the path down the other side of the Tor and walked down the road to her house.

A small truck pulled up just as she reached the steps. A workman got out of the car and pulled his toolbox out after him. He started up the stairs.

“Hello,” Anne called. “Did you come about the locks?”

“I did.” He turned and waited for her.

“I’m Anne Le Clair, the current owner.” He shook her hand. “I’d like to change all the locks. We had a burglary recently.”

“Indeed? Unusual in Glastonbury.”

“Yes, well,” Anne said. “Also, there’s a door in the basement that I haven’t found a key for.”

Once inside, the man set to work. Anne went to check her cell phone to see if Michael called, but found no messages. She went to the desk to check her email, but the empty wood grain surface stopped her short. The computer was stolen along with the manuscript. She touched the crystal hanging between her breasts, grateful the thief did not take the most important artifacts in the house. The workman stood in the hallway, waiting for her attention. “Yes?”

“I’ve replaced the locks on the outer doors. Here are you are.” He handed her two shiny new keys on a circular ring. “You said something about a locked door in the cellar?” He bent down to pick up his tools, and a pentagram on a black leather cord fell out from his shirt.

Pagans are everywhere
, Anne thought.

She led him to the kitchen. “Leave the door open until I switch on the light.” She made her way down the steps in the semi-dark and found the string hanging from the ceiling. She gave a sharp pull and harsh light invaded the corners of the basement. The man climbed down the steps, his heavy boots setting the boards vibrating. “It’s just back here.” She walked to the low passage, ducking slightly, and walked to the rounded oak door. The man had to hunch over. “See this old door?”

He frowned and shook his head. “That’s quite old, madam.”

“Yes, but surely you have the tools to open it.”

He stood looking at the door for a while. He glanced surreptitiously at her, then back at the door, and mumbled something about needing different tools. The stairs vibrated with his footsteps. Anne waited by the heavy oak door, tracing the engraved dragonhead on the handle with her finger. He seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. Finally, she went upstairs and walked to the front door. His truck was nowhere to be seen. Anne walked through the yard. She looked up and down the street, but the truck was gone. Perhaps he didn’t have the right tools with him and went to get them. She didn’t even pay him, for heaven’s sake. He was a trusting sort.

Anne went inside and looked up the locksmith’s phone number. It rang through to his voice mail. She hung up and tried again. This time he answered.

“This is Anne Le Clair. You just left my house. Have you gone for special tools?”

After a pause, he answered in a stiff voice, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you with that door, madam.”