The Chalice, page 8
It started to go wrong very quickly, all in a rush, and it was so strong Headlice was just dragged down, like he’d lost the use of his feet, like they’d rotted into mush.
Because he was no longer above the Tor, he was inside it.
In this giant cave, full of mist.
It didn’t matter too much at first that he had no control … got to roll with it, man. I’m a shaman now, me. This is where they go, inside the earth, inside themselves … Until he realised that without feet you couldn’t run away.
At some stage, he saw what seemed at first like only a darker part of the mist. It writhed. It became like a tree, with fuzzy outstretched branches and little knotty twigs, the kind of wintry tree you see through fog from a train.
And then it wasn’t a tree because trees don’t move like this: the branches were dark arms and the twigs were fingers, thin fingers, bony, wiggling like they were underwater and the currents were doing it, and he saw arms inside sleeves, torn sleeves, hanging like sodden leaves gone black.
He tried to clench his own fingers on Mort’s hand and Steve’s. Only nothing happened. He couldn’t work the muscles. Clenched his fingers, but nothing clenched.
A ring. A ring on one of the wiggling fingers, a big one, size of a curtain ring. Headlice heard, … let me go … let me go unto my Lord.
A figure in black with stains down the chest, this rough cloth around it, ripped in places, and stains, stains everywhere and a hard, powerful smell of dirty sweat, fear-sweat, and wet, rusty iron, like when you pull an old pram out of a pond, all black, the fabric rotted and dripping and the frame poking through.
No, I’m not going for this. This is dope in the fuckin’ water. You get me out of this, you bastards, hear me?
The body was coming towards him in this kind of lopsided crippled way; it couldn’t stand up straight, couldn’t lift up its head. He tried to scream, feeling his throat working at it, pushing, but nothing coming out.
And the reason this ragged thing couldn’t lift its head was because it hadn’t got one, only stains around the neck of its robe.
Help me. Help me to my Lord. Its hands groping out for Headlice, fingers waving like seaweed in shallow water, Headlice shrinking away. Fuck off … fuck off, old man. Leave me alone.
Dom, dom, dom. Heart banging away in his chest. Blood throbbing in his head. Drum going dom, dom, dom, and he could see the old man was offering him something. Something that had formed between his hands, a bowl, and Headlice reeled back; this was all he could do, throw his body back from the waist, because his legs had gone now, gone into soup.
And the old man pushed the bowl towards him, but it was still joined to his hands, this bowl, this chalice, his fingers throbbing like veins in the curved metal. The old man was giving off long sobs, ragged as his rotting clothes, because he was as helpless as Headlice, this old man, didn’t know what he was at.
Holding out the bowl, the old man said, Alan.
Which was Headlice’s real name.
The entity said, Alan. Real sick and sorrowful, and Headlice looked down and saw, briefly, a wavering shadow of himself in the mist, and he knew that he’d become part of it, another wiggling thing. Part of the darkness. He started to cry too, because there’d soon be nothing left of him but tears and snot evaporating in the dark.
Alan, however, Alan started to feel dispassionate about this, about his body floating away from his consciousness, or maybe the other way round, who gives a shit, roll with it.
And this was when the air thinned into a paler darkness, and he became aware that he was out of it, up in the night sky again, over the Tor and looking down, and he could see everything very clearly. He was up here in the sky – thank you, thank you, thank you, gods – and looking down on …
… some miserable little sod scrabbling on its knees in blind circles, right under the church tower, surrounded by candle lanterns, its stupid fingers dipping into the flames, but showing no pain. Just twitching and scuffling like a lost thing, helpless and pathetic.
They were lifting it up from behind, two people, an arm each and the drum was going dom, dom, dom, like one of them execution drums, dom, dom, dom, and he was looking straight down now, like looking down a chute, on to the very top of its head, where a swastika …
Oh shit! Oh shit, man, it’s me. That’s me!
Being propped up like a scarecrow.
Rozzie was there too, watching, white-faced, but the bitch was avoiding touching him, and there was … it was Gwyn, but it wasn’t. His face was long and black and pointed. His coat was off, his skin shone – he was naked – and so did his sickle raised, with the moon in it.
It was a hell of a shock at first, Mort and Steve holding the pathetic thing’s head back, exposing its throat to the blade, but the next instant he’d realised this was only Headlice, a naive little tosser, so it didn’t matter he was going to die. Anyway, it had begun ages ago, the death thing; the cut was like a formality.
Alan was above it all, directly above, exalted. Directly above the swastika, the sun symbol on Headlice’s head, the head chakra, the opening he’d like projected out of – he could see the cord now, a thin strand of silver, like a wire.
All he could see of Headlice was a pair of hands waiting to receive the chalice, the Holy Grail, and then Alan dissolved into laughter because the Holy Grail was black and slimy and smelt of piss.
TEN
With You This Night
Verity lit a candle for the Abbot.
Its light might have created the illusion of a warm area at the heart of ancient Meadwell. It didn’t. The light was as wan and waxy as a lone snowdrop in cold earth.
The silver candlestick and a dusty wine bottle, two crystal wine glasses and two pewter plates rested at the top of the oak dining table, which was as crude as an upturned barge.
On one was a salmon steak. They ate mainly fish, the monks, Colonel Pixhill had told her.
From the other plate, at the bottom of the table, Verity (who had never before sat alone here, who habitually ate in the kitchen listening to The Archers) was picking at a green salad, which, in this sparse light, looked grey.
She was perched like a sparrow on the oak settle under the window recess. At the top end of the table, behind the candlestick, was a high-backed oak chair with arms. The chair sat before the platter of salmon. There was a knife, but no fork.
The Colonel had said they did not use forks.
Oh, let this soon be over.
Verity chewed on a lettuce leaf which felt like crêpe paper in the desert of her mouth. Among beams and pillars of oak, huge shadows shifted sluggishly, like black icebergs. The lump of fish islanded by juices on the Abbot’s plate looked – although she squashed the thought at once – like some grisly organic remains on a surgeon’s tray.
The curious thing was that Verity had searched through all the records, the Church histories, the local histories – and there had been many of them, as writer after writer sought to explain the holy glamour of Glastonbury – without ever finding documentary evidence that Abbot Richard Whiting had eaten such a meal, or indeed that his last, sombre night upon this earth had been spent at Meadwell.
Colonel Pixhill, you see, had always said it was so. After the Dinner, relaxing a little with a small Panatella, the Colonel would ruminate on the Abbot’s fate.
Of course, quite apart from his differences with the church over, er, marital matters, Henry VIII was an extravagant blighter. Never had enough money: And here was Glastonbury, wealthiest religious house in Britain outside Westminster. Had to get his hands on that wealth somehow. Greed – that’s the orthodox version. That devil Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s hatchet man, as it were … only a matter of time before he was ordered to focus his scheming brain on Avalon …
The Colonel would pour red wine, brought up that evening from the cellar. Tonight Verity also had a bottle ready. Such a terrible waste, she drank hardly at all and hated the cellar. She’d taken the biggest flashlight in the house, but its beam down there had been but a flimsy ribbon. A cobweb was still laced around the bottle of vintage claret she’d snatched from the nearest rack, ramming it under her arm to grope for the iron handrail to the cellar steps.
But, of course, it was more than money. Henry was capturing Jerusalem, do y’see? Jerusalem Builded Here, as Blake was to put it, on England’s green and pleasant land. How could the king break from Rome, establish himself as the head of the Church, if he didn’t smash the power of the place where … where those Feet walked in ancient times. And old Whiting would’ve realised this, of course he would, and suspected his own days were numbered, poor chap. But he stayed, and he waited. For a miracle. How could God possibly permit the very Cradle of Christianity to fall?
For Verity, the Colonel had illuminated the history of Glastonbury as no book ever had. She pictured the great Abbey soaring, in all its golden splendour, into a flawless blue heaven. Who, indeed, could have imagined it then as broken and derelict? Certainly not the Abbot.
At last, laying down her knife and fork – she could not eat with only a knife, like the Abbot – Verity composed herself and said, in a tiny, tremulous voice like the tink of china, the words enunciated for so many years by Colonel Pixhill.
‘Have courage, have fortitude, My Lord Abbot. We are …’
She paused to correct herself, nervously fiddling with the lace handkerchief in the sleeve of the woollen pinafore dress she wore against the cold in here. For November, it was quite a warm night. Outside.
‘I mean, I am …’
No! She had to believe that Major Shepherd was here at the table and so was Colonel Pixhill himself. Had to believe she was not alone.
‘We are with you this night.’
The candle flame swayed to the left, as if a fresh draught had spurted into the room. Verity sat very still and did not See.
… no possible escape, of course. Royal Commissioners searching the old boy’s chamber and coming up with writings critical of the king’s divorce – as if anyone would commit such things to parchment. Plus a book about – Ha! That other famous cleric with the temerity to criticise his kind, Thomas Becket. And then they find a gold chalice hidden away and accuse Whiting of robbing his own abbey!
The first time she heard this, Verity had asked hesitantly, Might this not have been …? I mean, a precious chalice that he was so anxious to hide …’
The Grail, Verity? I hardly think so. If the cup from the last supper was indeed preserved, it was surely not precious in that sense. Certainly not made of gold. Wood or earthenware, more likely.
The Colonel had raised his glass, peered into the clouded wine, repeating,
We are with you, Lord Abbot. With you this night.
Drawing an obvious parallel with the Abbot’s own last supper.
In October 1539 – Verity remembered all the dates as clearly as if she had been there – Thomas Cromwell, the King’s agent, had ordered that Richard Whiting, a kind old man who was always mindful of the poor and the sick and known for his generosity, should be ‘tried and executed’.
The ‘trial’ took place at Wells, where the Abbot and two monks said to be his ‘accomplices’ were swiftly sentenced to death and brought immediately back to Glastonbury. This was November 14.
The following day, the Abbot was brutally stretched and bound to a wooden hurdle, dragged through the streets by horses past helpless, horrified townsfolk, past the forlorn Abbey.
And so to the Tor.
Verity now rose among the shadows, poured wine into the Abbot’s crystal glass and a little drop to moisten her own parched lips. It tasted bitter and salty, like blood.
There was a hazy necklace of light around the St Michael tower, just where it sprang free of the watery mist that rose from the Levels and gathered on the sides of the Tor.
Clutching her shawl around her, Diane stepped off the bus platform. Somewhere, a sheep bleated, a rare sound at night outside the lambing season.
It was OK; this was ordinary light. Perhaps a circle of candles. It wouldn’t be visible at all from the edges of the town. So they were all up there, doing whatever they’d come to do. Gwyn the Shaman presiding. With his ceremonial sickle.
That had been a pretty scary moment. All alone, and raising his sickle to the moon.
Another reason to get out of here. This was not the convoy she’d joined.
She moved silently across the grass, careful not to bump into any vehicles, always a risk when there was so much of you.
She’d moved her van closer to the field gate, knowing she’d probably be leaving before the others, knowing Juanita would let her stay at the flat for a couple of weeks while she sorted herself out.
Mort’s hearse loomed in front of her. Love is the law, love over death. She’d seen another, unpleasant side of Mort tonight. Another side of all of them. She stopped. There was the glow of a cigarette.
The thin moonlight showed her the hateful Hecate, sitting on the bonnet of the hearse. Her van was on the other side of the hearse. She couldn’t possibly reach it unseen.
Well, gosh, what did that matter? She could leave if she wanted to. Don’t be pathetic!
But she was pathetic. She imagined getting into the van, trying to start the engine which always took absolutely ages to fire. And Hecate standing there watching her, this large, strong and horribly precocious child smoking a joint. Opening the van door, which she could do because its lock was broken, and dragging her out, the younger children hearing the noise and coming to join in, black gnomes swarming over her.
Shivering, Diane crept back to the bus. She’d wait until Hecate had gone – for a pee or something – and then creep past the vehicles to the gate and go on foot to Wellhouse Lane and the town. Knock on Juanita’s door, beg for sanctuary.
She sat in the front of the bus, in the driver’s seat. A night breeze awoke and made the bus rattle; more sheep began to bleat. Diane felt like a solitary spectator on the perimeter of an enormous stadium, the landscape primed as if for some great seasonal festival, Samhain, Beltane or whatever they called midsummer night.
November 14? A day, surely, of no particular import in the Celtic calendar. Not even a full moon. November 14 …
And then, in the sky over the Tor, she saw a light.
Not a torch, not a lamp, not a fire.
It hung there for a moment and then went out. Diane caught her breath.
When she was very young she used to go all trembly and run downstairs, and Father snorted impatiently and the nannies said, Nonsense, child, and felt for a temperature.
Nannies.
There was a certain sort of nanny – later known as a governess – which Father expressly sought out. Nannies one and two, both the same, the sort which was supposed to have yellowed and faded from the scene along with crinolines and parasols. The sort which, in the 1960s, still addressed their charges as ‘child’. The sort which, as you grew older, you realised should never be consulted about occurrences such as lights around the Tor.
And then there was the Third Nanny.
Her memories of the Third Nanny remained vague and elusive. She remembered laughter; the Third Nanny was the only one of them that ever smiled. And one other thing: she would sit on the edge of the bed but never left a dent in the mattress when she arose.
She knew now what the Third Nanny was.
Diane tensed. Behind the Tor, the whole of the sky was now growing lighter. Like a dawn. But it couldn’t be dawn; it was quite early in the night.
The light spread behind the Tor like a pale sheet. It was grey and quietly lustrous, had a sheen like mother-of-pearl. She wondered if Hecate could see it and suspected not.
Diane had certainly never seen a light like this before. The lightballs she’d watched as a child had fascinated her. They were benign, they filled your head with a fizzy glow like champagne. This light was ominous, like a stormcloud, and it stroked her with dread.
She wanted to turn away. She couldn’t. She couldn’t even blink.
Two dark columns had appeared either side of the silhouetted tower of St Michael. Rising above the tower into the lightened sky like arms of smoke culminating in shadow-hands, cupped.
And in the cup, a core of intense and hideous darkness.
We are with you this night.
But who was with him, Verity wondered, when they dragged him on his hurdle up the side of the Tor? The mud besmirching him, the bleak November wind in his face bringing water from his eyes so that it would appear he was weeping.
All the accounts said that Abbot Whiting went to his death with dignity and stoicism.
But the very act of hauling him up the steep cone of the hill, the violence of it! And at the summit, under the tower, the waiting nooses – three of them, an obscene parody of the execution, on another hill, of Christ.
The other two ‘convicted’ monks were Roger James and John Thorne, treasurer of the Abbey and a skilled carpenter and furniture-maker. All three went quietly to their God. But the humiliation of Abbot Whiting did not end with his hanging.
Took off his head. Soon as they cut his dead body down, they took off the Abbot’s head … to be displayed upon the Abbey gate, a trophy, a warning. Final evidence that Roman Catholicism was terminated in Glastonbury. That the Church belonged to the Crown. Imagine the impact of that on a little town in the sixteenth century. It must have felt like Armageddon.
Colonel Pixhill could never go on beyond this point, but Verity knew the Abbot’s body had been drawn and quartered, sections of his poor corpse sent for exhibition at Bath, Wells, Ilchester and Bridgwater.
Where did they carry out this butchery? Where did they take the axes or cleavers to the body? Not, surely, on the Tor. More likely indoors … somewhere.
Here? This was the inference, wasn’t it. That the Abbot was drawn and jointed in this house.
And if not at this very table, which was insufficiently ancient, then perhaps on another table standing where this one now stood.
There had been a body here. It was here that the Colonel had lain in his coffin, for three days, as stipulated in his will. People had said how brave she was to stay in the house alone with the corpse, but it had been a comfort to her, a period of adjustment, of coming to terms with it.
