Beneath the Hallowed Hill (26 page)

Anne rolled down her window. “What’s happening?” A couple standing on the sidewalk shrugged. She got out and slipped through the people until she could see the patio around White Spring. Tessa stood with the tall woman she was with before, her hands on her broad hips, complaining to Garth. Anne edged closer.

“…and now some strange woman is there. Do you know what she—” Tessa stopped dead when Anne walked up.

Garth turned with a frown to see what Tessa was staring at and his face lit up. “There you are. I was looking for you.”

Tessa colored a deeper red.

“I’m afraid we haven’t met.” The tall woman’s upper crust accent matched the elegant hand she offered to Anne.

Garth took on the burden of introductions. “This is Joanne Katter, the well-known writer.”

Anne searched her memory, but came up with nothing.

“Joanne, meet Anne Le Clair, Cynthia’s niece.”

“A pleasure. I’m so sorry to hear about your aunt. Her presence in Glastonbury was an asset.”

Anne wondered if she imagined the slight emphasis on the word “her.”

“This is…?” Garth’s hearty voice made her turn around.

“Michael.” Anne reached out for his arm. “My fiancé.”

Tessa smirked.

“I was finally able to park,” Michael said to Anne. He looked at the others. “Joanne Katter, is it?” The woman’s thin lips curved up. “I’m Michael Levy.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Indeed? Another luminary come to Glastonbury?”

“You’re too kind,” he dissembled. “You must be the infamous Garth.”

“So this is your man.” Garth winked at Anne. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His large hand swallowed Michael’s.

“Tessa.” Michael acknowledged her with a nod then turned back to Garth. “What’s all the fuss?”

Garth rocked back on his heels. “It seems our impromptu ceremony the other day didn’t quite do the trick.” The crowd parted for him as he walked over to White Spring’s water duct. The water dripped at long intervals.

“We were trying to explain to Garth,” Joanne said from Anne’s elbow, “that a women’s ceremony is what’s needed. Bridget will answer to our call.”

“Bridget?” Anne turned to her with a frown.

“Yes, the white maiden. This is her well.”

“I thought—”

“Yes, well,” Joanne brushed by Anne’s opinion without pausing to pay attention to it and fixed Garth with a look. “We can straighten this out.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

“We have the situation well in hand.”

“Then, if you’ll excuse me?” Garth looked at Anne and jerked his head toward her house. He turned back to the crowd. “Our good Joanne here will be doing some work to restore the spring. Your prayers are welcome, of course.”

A few voices rose in protest, but Garth turned and started to climb back up the slope of Wellhouse Lane. Anne took Michael’s hand and followed. A short man with a ruddy complexion and wild brown beard hurried up to Garth. “You’re leaving it to them, then?”

Garth glanced back to see if anyone was in hearing range, then said, “I’ll be in touch, Bran. Tonight.”

The man gave a curt nod and walked back down the hill. From the front steps of her house, Anne could see a small knot of people gathered around Bran, their heads together.

She followed Michael and Garth inside where they arranged themselves in the front room. Garth studied them both for a long minute then addressed himself to Michael. “I assume I don’t have to explain to you just how grave the situation is.”

Michael shook his head. “This is one of the major power spots on the Earth grid. It keeps the planet in balance, links the worlds. People have come here since…” he searched for the right phrase “…well, forever.”

Garth’s face softened. “I’m glad you understand.”

“What was all that about Bridget?” Anne looked between the two of them. “I thought this well belonged to the male side of the, uh…force.”

“It’s never that simple,” Garth said. “Water is a female element, and springs and wells traditionally are kept by women. Tradition holds that White Spring belongs to the goddess Bridget, especially in her maiden form. Calling on Bridie should help.”

“Who was that woman down there, anyway?” Anne asked.

“Joanne Katter wrote about the return of the goddess in the early eighties,” Michael explained.

“She doesn’t look that old,” Anne said.

“True. Her face and her views haven’t changed much since then,” Michael said. “It was good work for the time.”

Anne sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “So men are the problem.”

Garth barked a short laugh and looked at Michael. “It’s a lucky thing to be in love with a Le Clair woman.”

This melted the last of Michael’s reserve. “I couldn’t agree more. I am sorry for your loss.”

Garth bit his lip and shook his head in a gesture growing familiar to Anne. “She told me this might happen.”

Anne leaned forward. “Her murder or White Spring drying up?”

“She felt that something was building to a crisis, something begun a long time ago.” Garth looked across the hall to the study. “That’s why she started looking into the past. She said she was searching for the other end.”

“Of what?”

Garth shook his head. “When she left for New York, she wanted to try more trance work with Elizabeth and her group.” His eyes filled with tears. “They got to her before she could finish it.”

Anne reached for Michael. The room filled with shadows as the sun sank. Garth took a breath to speak, then shook his head and closed his eyes again. “How could I not have known?” he whispered.

“Maybe because she never fully left you. She must still be with you spiritually and so you never felt an absence.” Anne switched on a lamp. Amber light from the stained glass shade lit Garth’s rugged face, wet with tears.

“I’ll go make some tea.” Michael walked into the kitchen.

Anne spoke in a soft voice. “We’ve all lost someone. First Cynthia, then my brother Thomas. Last week, Michael’s spiritual mentor was shot in New York. He’s just home from the funeral.”

Garth opened his eyes and looked at her, the soft look in his brown eyes hardening. “Did they all die at the hands of the same man?”

Anne shuddered at the memory of her first meeting with Cagliostro. “At his orders.”

“I should have killed him when I had the chance.” Garth stared at his large, rough hands.

“You know him, too?”

He nodded, not looking up. “Everyone in the magical world knows Cagliostro. We just can’t figure out why his deeds haven’t caught up with him yet.”

Michael came back with a tray laden with mugs, glasses, and a squat bottle of Irish whiskey. “I thought we needed something stronger than tea.”

Garth wiped his face with the corner of his sleeve and nodded at Anne. “I told you I’d like this man of yours.”

Michael poured a finger for each of them and held his glass in the air. “For the ones we have lost.”

“Hear, hear.” Garth knocked back his drink and grimaced. “Ah. That’s better. Where were we, then?”

“White Spring is failing.” Anne ticked the problems off on her fingers. “Alexander Cagliostro is stealing Atlantean crystals for God knows what nefarious purpose. Cynthia was having visions of ancient Atlantis and passing them off as fiction.”

“What’s the connection?” Michael asked.

Garth’s eyes lit up. “Let’s see that crystal.”

Anne pulled off the necklace and offered it to him.

Garth’s eyes widened. “I can handle it?”

She hesitated. “Is there a reason you shouldn’t?”

“Magical tools are often attuned to their user. It can muddy the energy to hand them around.”

Anne looked at Michael questioningly, but he said, “These stones are strong. They seem to be immune to disruption.”

Garth sat forward. “Did you say stones, as in more than one?”

“Well, yes.” Michael reached for the chain holding his own crystal, but didn’t find it. “I must have left it on the bedside table.” He got up and headed upstairs.

“I’d be careful. I’m not sure I trust that housekeeper,” Anne called after him.

Garth’s eyes darted to her.

Michael returned and laid his own stone next to Anne’s on the ottoman.

Garth bent to examine them, but still didn’t touch or even breathe on them. “How can it be that you two hold such similar artifacts?”

“You know the history of the crystals?” Anne asked.

“Only Cynthia’s. She said a group in America held another in trust.”

“Mine,” Michael confirmed.

“She mentioned a legend that said there were more. She went to look for one in Egypt before she flew to New York, but I never held out much hope she would find it.”

“We found them all,” Michael said.

“They found us, more like,” Anne murmured.

Garth sat back in his chair and stared at them. He gulped down more whiskey. “I must hear about this.”

As succinctly as he could, Michael told him the story of their adventure in Egypt, with Anne chiming in from time to time to add a few details. After they finished, Garth sat in silence for what seemed like a long time. Finally he spoke. “You’ve brought a massive surge of stellar energy into the earth. White Spring’s flow was strong for a few days afterward, then it became erratic again, and now it’s slowed to a drip.”

Michael and Anne nodded their agreement.

“There are two parts to this. First, I’d say your ceremony in Egypt was not the only action needed to bring in the Awakening, as you call it…if indeed any human action can affect such large cycles. Granted, we’ve seen some improvements in the world situation, but…something else must have disturbed the grid and it’s showing up in White Spring.”

“Hasn’t the flow been erratic for a couple of years?” Michael asked.

“True.” Garth ran his forefinger around the rim of his whiskey glass. After a moment, he surfaced from his thoughts. “There’s one sure way to find out.”

“How?” Anne asked.

He pointed at her crystal. “This stone started the flow again.”

“I didn’t really do anything. It was the key’s idea.”

“Now we have two keys,” Garth said. “I suggest we put them in the lock and turn them.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “We can try to pick up the exact nature of the disturbance.”

Garth got up and retrieved his cell phone from his jacket. “Bran should have gathered the group by now. Let’s just hope that dimwit isn’t holding her ceremony down there.”

Anne hid a smile; the pressure eroded Garth’s normally diplomatic nature.

“Even if there’s a crowd now, surely they won’t stay all night,” Michael said. “Sometimes this type of ceremony is best done late. Much quieter.”

Garth clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Good man.” He went into the study across the hall. Anne and Michael only heard snippets of his conversation. Minutes later, he returned, his face determined. “She’s down there with her group. We’ll do our work at midnight. I’ll come back for you.”

“She’ll take the credit,” Anne said.

Garth nodded. “All the better to keep ourselves hidden.”

* * * *

Close to midnight, Anne opened the front door to Garth’s knock. He made an imposing figure dressed in ceremonial robes such a deep purple they were almost black. Anne found a black robe with red silk in Cynthia’s meditation room and decided to wear it for the occasion. Garth bit his lip when he caught sight of her, then gave her a nod of approval. Michael wore all black.

They walked down the street to the squat building that housed White Springs. The wooden door stood open. A set of rickety old stairs that led to an upper level divided the concrete square in the middle. “We’ve cleaned out the remains of the restaurant, but that’s all so far,” Garth said in an undertone. They made their way toward the back right hand corner where a huddle of people stood, some in long ceremonial robes variously decorated with Masonic symbols, pentagrams, and Templar and Celtic crosses. Others wore corduroy pants or jeans with flannel shirts. All stood in bare feet, and Anne kicked off her own shoes.

Bran stepped forward. “Everyone who could make it has come.”

“Excellent.” Garth rubbed his hands together. “You want to use this corner, then?”

“The abbot’s sacrifice will aid our work,” Bran said.

Garth nodded then seemed to remember Anne and Michael, whom he introduced to the group. Nods and murmurs welcomed them. A couple of women from Joanne’s group smiled at Anne rather conspiratorially, she thought. Garth took Bran aside to discuss the ritual.

“What did he mean by the abbot’s sacrifice?” Anne asked.

“Ah, that’d be Richard Whyting, the last Abbot of Glastonbury,” one man answered. “He was hung on top of the Tor by order of King Henry VIII, but they cut him down afore he died, ya see.” He smiled gleefully, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “They thought the Tor was too holy to commit murder on. Brought him down here and cut him into quarters right on this spot.” He nodded as if the import of this fact was self-evident.