Beneath the Hallowed Hill (14 page)

No,
Cagliostro thought,
you can’t stop me.
He reached past the being and brushed against the man who’d left the circle.

“You are not a harmonic
,” the entity at the surface of the crystal said in an apologetic tone. She pushed Cagliostro into blackness.

* * * *

The water from White Spring glowed in the night. Anne ran her hands under a gushing spout. The water felt like starlight. She turned and walked through a small gate in the wall between the springs and made her way through the yews and flowerbeds to Red Spring. Careful on the flagstone steps, slippery in the dew, she knelt beside the wellhead and traced the overlapping circles on the lid. She lifted it and stared down into the fern and moss of the well walls, wondering how deep it was. As if in answer, water began to brim up, filling the shaft, running over the edges onto the flagstone. A deep rumble sounded higher up on the Tor and the ground shook beneath her feet. The water thickened and turned a deep red. Anne reached out to cup it in her hands. It was slippery between her fingers. She sat back on her heels, startled by the texture. Red blood gushed from the spring. She jumped up to run and woke sitting up in her bed.

Anne stretched her hands out in front of her. In the moonlight, they appeared clean. She reached over and snapped on the light. No blood. She pushed back the covers and walked over to the window, looking down on Chalice Well Gardens. The oak blocked most of her view, but one flowerbed lay peaceful under the glowing moon. She turned and walked down the hall to the back window. The Tor was a black outline, majestic and still. The dream seemed real, like something happening on another dimension. She remembered how Grandmother Elizabeth brought her to a ritual that took place on the astral plane. The next morning, her grandmother knew all the details of her so-called dream. Maybe she should go see what was happening outside. Didn’t that local man say White Spring was flowing erratically? In her dream, if that’s what it was, White Spring gushed, but Red Spring actually bled.

Anne pushed her feet into some slippers, wrapped herself in a terry cloth robe, and walked outside. She looked over at Chalice Garden from her front porch. The wall and trees stood as quiet guardians. She carefully negotiated the wet steps that led down to the street and inched her way toward White Spring. She should have brought the flashlight; it was pitch black under the trees. After a few steps, she made out a huddled shape next to the dark building and stopped. The figure whirled and shone a flashlight in her face. She threw up her hand to block the light.

“Anne, wait,” the man called. He pointed the light at the ground.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Garth, your neighbor.”

Her eyes adjusted. His hair stuck out at angles and his eyes were puffy with sleep.

“What are you doing out in the middle of the night?” she asked.

He hesitated. “I could ask you the same.”

Anne hugged her robe tighter, glad she took to sleeping in pajamas since Michael went to New York. “Something woke me.”

“Me too.” He regarded her solemnly.

“A dream,” she said.

Garth shone his light on the spout of White Spring. Water trickled out. He shook his head, then looked at her as if he just made a sudden decision. “Let’s talk. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

“All right.” Anne followed him up the street, Garth limping slightly and pointing the way with his flashlight. Neither spoke. His house turned out to be a way up the hill. He opened the gate and they walked across the farm-like yard, craving the comfort of a well-lit room and something warm to drink before they unpacked their respective nightmares.

The floor plan was similar to the one in Cynthia’s house, with the kitchen in the back. A nightlight shone amber from halfway up the stairs, faintly illuminating bulky furniture and paintings. Stacks of books and files cluttered the floor in the room to the right. Garth switched on the light in the kitchen and turned to her. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Anne sat down at a round, plain kitchen table and watched Garth as he put the kettle on, pulled two mismatched mugs from his cabinet and rummaged for spoons, frowning all the while. He seemed to be circling the topic like a dog sniffing out something new in his territory. He put the carton of milk on the table and glanced at her. “Just let me get this ready.”

She nodded, wishing now that she had gone home to change clothes, but Garth was still dressed in his worn robe. Red plaid flannel pajamas stuck out from beneath. Once the coffee was made, he poured and sat down at the table. Instead of speaking right away, he ran his finger around the rim of his mug, seemingly lost in thought. Finally he looked up. “Why don’t you go first? I’ve lived here a while and had a lot more experience with the antics of this place.” He gestured out the window that should have revealed the Tor but only reflected their faces back to them.

The coffee warmed her, bringing her more firmly back into this world. Anne stretched out her hands. The sticky feeling was gone. Garth’s solid presence helped. Cynthia trusted him, based on the note Anne found. She took a breath and plunged into her dream. Garth listened without interruption, his brown eyes watching her intently.

When she finished, he sipped coffee, his eyes distant with thought. She waited, tapping her foot on the linoleum. Finally he said, “Much of your dream is standard imagery. Have you read about Glastonbury?”

Again, he seemed to be circling the topic, but Doctor Abernathy was equally careful when dealing with psychic phenomenon, so she answered him. “No. We just got back from Egypt, so I studied those sites.”

“That you picked things up so accurately speaks to your spiritual development.” He filled his cup again. “Perhaps your lineage as well.”

She hesitated. “I’ve only been studying metaphysics for four months. I guess that might seem strange to you, knowing my aunt.”

“Cynthia explained your circumstances.”

“I did keep doing the meditation she taught me as a child,” she added.

“Good for you,” he said. “My comment stands. You’ve done a great deal of spiritual work in past lives.”

“Perhaps,” Anne said, thinking of her memories of lives with Michael in Egypt.

“Now, let me explain a bit about our site here. Red Spring flows from the bottom of the aquifer in the Tor and is rich in iron, thus the red color. It is the spring of the Goddess, and of course, the color also connects it to the fertility of women and the menstrual cycle.”

“Then White Spring must represent the male principle,” Anne said.

Garth nodded, a bit surprised. “Perhaps. It flows from the top of the Tor through the limestone where it picks up calcium. If we see this spring as the male complement, the white color represents the seed. But springs belong to the goddess.”

“Aren’t these ideas of the god and goddess just neo-Paganism?” Anne asked. “Do these beliefs really go back that far?”

“Oh my, yes,” Garth said. “This imagery is the foundation of the English spiritual tradition. Glastonbury has been a site of pilgrimage for over ten thousand years.”

“Really?” Anne gave a halfhearted attempt to recapture her former skepticism.

“Absolutely. There’s archeological evidence of use back to 4000 BCE. Legends suggest a much longer use.”

Anne gave up. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“We’re a few weeks past Alban Eilir.” At Anne’s blank look, he said, “Ostara?”

“Are you talking about the spring equinox?” Anne asked.

“Exactly, the time of the Sacred Marriage. In your dream, the blood spring literally bleeds.” He put his chin in his hand. After a minute he added, “The springs also represent the energies of the red and white dragons.”

Anne frowned. “Is that some political thing?”

Garth laughed, then caught himself. “Sorry. That’s an unusual interpretation. The dragons represent the primordial Earth energies.”

“I see.” Anne could not suppress a huge yawn. She covered it with her hand.

Garth glanced at the clock on the stove. It was half past two. “The thing that concerns me about your dream is the earthquake. The land here is geologically stable, at least it has been since a quake destroyed the church at the top of the Tor in 1275.” He paused to consider her. “Myself, I think that quake was the faeries objecting to the church.” He watched her carefully to see how she would react.

Anne shrugged. After Egypt, she wasn’t going to rule anything out.

This seemed to satisfy him. “How did you feel when the ground shook in your dream?”

“Frightened. Like something was torn. The blood didn’t feel natural, either. It wasn’t like a monthly cycle. It felt more like blood from a wound. I didn’t sense any other beings, though.”

“Right,” Garth said. He sat stirring his coffee, lost in thought.

Anne watched him, annoyed that he didn’t say anything about his own experience. After a few minutes, she broke the silence. “You said you also had a dream. Is it something you’re willing to share?”

Garth pushed his mug to the middle of the table. “My dream is not so straightforward, and it puzzles me how it may be connected to yours.”

“Maybe we can figure it out together,” Anne suggested.

Garth nodded. “I was standing with a group of people. We seemed to be doing some kind of ritual. I heard chanting, saw an enormous shaft of light…then something grabbed me.” He rubbed his thigh. “Like an iron vise. Hot.”

“It still hurts?”

“To be perfectly honest, it’s always bothered me.”

Now it was Anne’s turn to cross-examine. “Did you notice anything else?”

Garth closed his eyes as if trying to return to the dream. “Long, blond hair, but belonging to a male figure,” he said. “There was a tearing, something was wrenched from its right place.” After another moment, he shrugged and opened his eyes again. “Nothing more.”

“What do you think it means?” Anne asked.

“It’s not specific enough to draw any conclusions, but it is quite significant that we both had a troubling dream at the same moment, that we felt something torn or wrenched out of place, that it disturbed us so deeply we investigated…and that we were both drawn to White Spring.”

“You know, when we first got here, a local man said White Spring was running erratically, that people are afraid it may fail.”

Garth slapped the table with his hand. “That can never be allowed to happen.”

Anne flinched. “I agree, but what can we do?”

Garth studied her. “I’m not certain, but I believe your arrival is fortuitous.”

“I know nothing about this place,” Anne objected.

Garth dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Your dream suggests otherwise. I propose we work together to solve this mystery. Is your fiancé metaphysically inclined?”

“Oh, yes. Michael has studied all his life. He’s much more talented than I am.”

Garth’s mouth crooked in a small smile. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Anne ignored this. “He had to go back to New York suddenly.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

Anne decided not to explain the details; it was very late. “He should be back in about a week.”

“Then our little project will be a distraction for you.”

“I’d like to work with you. Maybe you can tell me more about my aunt.”

Garth’s eyes clouded for a moment, then he gave his head a little shake. “Now, if you’re going to be doing magic on the Tor, I need to show you around and explain a few things.”

“No time like the present,” Anne said.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was close to three. “I have an appointment in London today. What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is,” Anne said.

“You can start today, though. I suggest you go to Red Spring and meditate. Attune yourself to the place, see what you pick up.”

“I will.”

“Excellent.” Garth’s eyes strayed to the clock again.

Anne got up. “I should let you get some sleep.”

Garth snorted. “Not likely after all that coffee. I was thinking that if I leave now, I can run a few errands before my meeting.”

“Then I’ll let you go.” Anne pushed her chair under the table.

Garth stood and escorted her to the front door, his limp still distinct. “We’ll meet at a more convenient time. Say one o’clock Saturday afternoon?”

Anne laughed. “I don’t know, this place keeps waking me up right about this time every morning.”

Garth looked at her closely. “It’s the sign of someone closely attuned to energy.”

Anne shook her head. “That’s what Michael said when I told him.”

“I think I’ll like this man of yours.”

“Drive safely.”

“I shall. I’ll come to Cynthia’s—” His eyes narrowed. “I mean, your house tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Anne said in a soft voice.

Garth teared up. He set his jaw, saying nothing.

“See you tomorrow.” Anne patted his shoulder then left him to his grief.

Chapter Nine

Caitir listened to the low murmur of her mother’s voice in the darkening room. If she were standing on the Tor, she could watch the sun slide toward the ocean and light the path to the old lands. Megan shifted in her chair. Caitir watched her for a moment, then sat back herself, satisfied the Morgen was comfortable for now. That was how she thought of her—the Morgen first, mother second.