Beneath the Hallowed Hill (2 page)

“That’s the Tor.”

“I thought I saw a light.”

Glastonbury Tor rose out of the fields before them, its green slopes spiraling to a slightly rounded top, the stone finger of St. Michael’s tower etched against the purple-streaked sky of sunset.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Told you you were going to like it here.” Michael smiled over at her. “Which way?”

Anne smoothed out the map in her lap. “Go up Street then left on Fisher’s Hill.”

“The Fisher King,” Michael said.

Anne’s face lit up. “Wait, you mean this is where it actually happened? Morgen le Fey? King Arthur?”

“Not all of it. I don’t think Arthur and Guinevere are really buried here, but this is the Sacred Isle all right.”

“Remind me about the Fisher King.”

“You should know, this is your heritage. I’m the Egypt expert.”

“There’s bound to be a connection between Glastonbury and Egypt,” Anne teased.

“Of course, but you’re avoiding the question.”

They passed a grocery store on the left and a slope of green on the right. “There’s his hill now.” Michael pointed.

“Okay, smarty pants. The Fisher King kept the Holy Grail. He had a wound in his thigh…probably higher than that. Percival came to dine and the king showed him the grail.”

“Well, technically the grail was kept by the maiden, but a passing summary.”

“Oh, thank you, Professor Levy. Do I get an A?”

“You’re my best student.”

Anne dug into his side.

“Ouch.”

“I’m the one with the sore ribs. Oh, turn here. Left.”

The tires protested Michael’s quick response. He drove up the street and negotiated the next roundabout.

“Now, watch carefully. Grandmother Elizabeth said it’s easy to miss the next turn, it’s really just an alley.”

They drove beside a low stone wall. “This might be it. Yes, Wellhouse Lane. Turn left.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, this is it. It doesn’t look like much, but—”

“Your Aunt Cynthia owned a house on this road?”

Something in his tone made her turn to look at him. “Why?”

“See that?”

Anne squinted in the growing dark at a squat brick building with wrought iron gates over wooden doors.

“Do you know what that is?”

“An old garage?”

“That, my dear, is White Spring, one of the sacred twin springs of Avalon. Your aunt’s house, your house now, is on the Tor. Smack in the middle of one of the world’s major power spots.”

Anne looked back at Michael. “I thought you said this was the perfect place for R&R.”

“Glastonbury is full of peace.” Michael pulled the car into a spot beneath the house and they climbed cracked cement steps toward a two-story stone cottage. The front yard, filled with ivy and shade-loving flowers, lay in the shade of an ancient oak. The round stones of the house’s foundation supported a white wrap-around porch. They stopped in front of an oak front door with a diamond paned window inlaid with red and white roses. The door swung open to a long hallway and a set of stairs on the left.

“Hello,” Anne called out. They stood in the hall on a blue Persian runner, listening, but no answer came. She called again. They listened for footsteps, a voice, but the house was silent. “The housekeeper said she’d get the place ready.” Anne whispered.

They walked into the parlor on the right, where a small fire burned cheerfully in the grate. “Looks like she did just that and took herself off. The perfect housekeeper.”

“Well, she left the door unlocked.”

Michael swung Anne into his arms and kissed her forehead. “This will be…” He kissed each eye closed. “…an extremely…” He kissed the tip of her nose. “…quiet…” He kissed her mouth lightly. “…relaxing vacation.” Anne pushed against him and the fire between them kindled. Michael’s hand found the smooth skin of her back.

The sound of someone clearing her throat made them jump apart. “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

A short, round woman stood in the hallway, watching them quite frankly. Her dark hair hung in a long braid down her back and matched the brown of her eyes, whose fine lines at the corners hinted at her age.

Anne pulled at her blouse. “Tessa?”

“Yes.” The woman walked into the parlor.

“I’m Anne Le Clair, Cynthia’s niece.”

“Tessa Harden.” She extended a reddened hand, which Anne shook. “Welcome to Glastonbury. The house is ready for you, I’ve even stocked the fridge.” She walked into the room to check the fireplace, then straightened a doily on the back of an overstuffed chair. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going now. I’ve left my number on the kitchen counter, but the phone’s switched off.” She went into the hall again and stood studying Anne.

“We’ve got our cells.” Anne found herself blushing under the woman’s gaze.

“Sir.” Tessa inclined her head to Michael, then left.

After a minute, Anne said, “I guess the diffident servants of England are a thing of the past.”

“Anne,” Michael scolded, “you’ve never stood on ceremony.”

“Not usually, but there was something…she acted like I was in her house.”

“Well, she was caretaker for a long time, wasn’t she?”

Anne smiled at his turn of phrase. Michael was already picking up the question at the end of a statement so characteristic of the British.

“I’ll get the bags,” he said.

“Let me help.” Anne followed him to the front door.

He held up a finger to stop her. “You’re still healing.”

She paused at the front door, then on impulse turned and climbed the stairs, trailing her hand along the golden oak banister. The third step from the top let out a rather loud squeak. She found herself drawn by light at the end of the hall. The Tor was framed perfectly by a large window whose inlaid theme of red and white roses echoed that of the windows on the front door. Sheep grazed on the slopes in the last of the sunlight. The silence wrapped around her like a wool blanket.

The squeaky step announced Michael’s arrival. “Which one’s our room?”

“I haven’t looked yet.” She opened the first door to find a bathroom dominated by a claw-foot tub. The door directly across the hall revealed a small room with a low table placed in front of another large window; a futon stood against a wall and colorful cushions lay scattered about. The walls started out a deep purple at the bottom, then faded gradually to almost white. The ceiling darkened again into a midnight blue with a splash of stars painted across it.

“Meditation room, maybe,” Anne said.

They walked down the hall toward the front of the house and found a large bedroom with a canopied bed and marble-topped bedside tables. Michael dropped the suitcases at the foot of the bed. They turned to find the room stretched to the whole width of the house. Opposite the bed, a large chair and chaise lounge were drawn up to another fireplace laid ready. A gilded mirror hung above a mantel decorated with dried-up evergreen sprigs, holly with browned berries, and pillar candles.

“Looks like she planned to celebrate here. Wonder why Tessa didn’t take it away?”

“Maybe she misses Cynthia.” Michael kissed her forehead. “I’ll get the rest of our bags.”

Anne turned her back on the sad mantelpiece and explored farther. What was once a smaller room, perhaps a nursery, was converted into a walk-in closet. Rows of drawers and hanging clothes ended in a cozy dressing room complete with a little table and mirror. Anne opened a small door on the left and found a water closet. The second, larger door led to the bathroom they first discovered.

Suddenly, Michael stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He was winded from climbing the steps, and his breath blew warm on her neck. “Hungry?”

“What time is it?”

“Five hours earlier in New York, but it’s dinnertime here.”

“Look at all this.” Anne pointed to the full closet, then at the dressing room. Brilliantly colored Egyptian perfume bottles lined the dressing table. Silk scarves and necklaces hung from small gold hooks from floor to ceiling. “She must have spent a lot of time in this house.”

“I don’t blame her.” Michael closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you feel it?”

Anne stretched her senses. “It’s so quiet. Not like Giza, I couldn’t sleep there.”

“Glastonbury is full of peace,” Michael repeated, then his stomach rumbled and they both laughed. “Let’s go to town. There are some good restaurants and the walk will work out the kinks from the plane.”

They hiked down Wellhouse Lane and passed the stone wall dividing Chalice Well from Chilkwell Street. Past the Well, a row of townhouses crowded up to the sidewalk, the windows full of plants and sun catchers with pentagrams and Celtic knots now lit from the lamps inside. An orange cat ran from the garden of a larger house and paused to look at them. The mouse he was chasing took advantage of his hesitation and dove into a drainpipe.

They turned down High Street and slowed their pace to look into shop windows.

“There’s a Chinese takeout.” Anne pointed to a sign in one of the windows. They stopped to read the menu.

“Another night,” Michael said. “I’d eat it before we got home.”

They passed a health food store, then noticed a regular grocer across the street. A young man with dreadlocks was just folding up his display blanket from in front of the St. John’s Church. The stores displayed their offerings to the tourists. Crystals filled one window, locally made clothes another, books and Tarot cards were displayed in a third.

“Here.” Michael led the way into Café Galatea, where they took an empty table next to the front window. The wares of local artists hung on the walls, and a variety of newspapers were strewn about. They ordered a large pot of tea and two sesame stir fries. The tea arrived, and with steaming mugs in hand, they watched the tourists and town residents parade up and down the street. After dinner, they strolled past Market Square and the haunted George and Pilgrim’s Inn, down Magdalene Street along the wall of the Abbey, then up the hill back to the house. Michael lit the fire in the bedroom and they sat in comfortable silence.

“I’m too tired to unpack.” Anne pointed to the suitcases still piled at the foot of the bed.

“We’ll settle in tomorrow, then I’ll show you around.” Michael stifled a yawn.

Anne smiled. “Time for bed.” They curled together beneath the smooth sheet, but sleep won over passion.

* * * *

Something woke Anne. She listened for a sound, but heard only the ticking of an old clock downstairs. She rolled over and snuggled down under the duvet, but sleep did not return. Rather than toss and turn, she crept out of bed, careful not to wake Michael. In the closet, among Cynthia’s clothes, she found some old jeans and a shirt. At the window, the dark sky held a faint promise of light. Birds twittered in the apple orchard. The Earth lay suspended in that silent moment before the tides swing toward morning.

Anne made her way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step, and found a woolen cloak and clogs next to the back door. She slipped them on and walked through the dark backyard. A rickety wooden gate opened onto the gentle green slope. Above her, Anne could just make out the long finger of St. Michael’s Tower. She climbed the wet grass to the steps running up the hill. She stopped to catch her breath at a convenient bench, then pushed to the top and sat against the old stone tower facing east, waiting for the sun to rise. She closed her eyes for a minute and sank quickly into deep silence.

From the west side of the tower, a lone voice lifted in a wordless chant. She opened her eyes and half turned to see who else left their warm bed to climb the Tor and greet the dawn, but instead of the tower, she found herself leaning against a tall standing stone. Anne leapt to her feet and backed away.

“Good morning, Cynthia,” a voice called from behind her.

Anne whirled to find an older man walking up the last slope of the Tor, his breath steaming in the chill.

The chant cut off mid phrase. Anne turned back to look for the singer and almost rammed her nose into St. Michael’s Tower.

“You’re up early,” the man said.

“What the—” Anne turned back to the newcomer. He wore a woolen cloak similar in make to the one Anne grabbed from the back porch, but his was a darker brown, almost matching his hair.

“Oh, you’re not…I thought…” He came to a halt.

“I’m Anne, Cynthia’s niece.”

He stood close enough now for Anne to see wisps of silver in his beard. She pointed behind her. “Did you hear someone chanting just now?”

“You heard chanting.” It was a statement.

“Yes. And I thought…” She pointed to the tower, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

“You thought…?”

“The tower disappeared and I saw a standing stone.”

He nodded. “Some people see a ring of stones, some just the one.”

Anne gave him a closer look.

“When is Cynthia coming back?”

She hesitated. “You haven’t heard?”