Beneath the Hallowed Hill (45 page)

Michael sat in the living room of the Glastonbury house, catching Garth up on his hunt for Atlantean crystals. “We never found the current holder of the Roerich artifacts, but received reassurance they were safe.” The slanted rays of the afternoon sun hit his face, and he squinted.

Anne got up and pulled the shade down, then turned on a few lamps. Arnold perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair, refusing to relax.

Michael looked at him. “Tell them what you found.”

“The Illuminati have sent an agent to find them, but she’s still investigating the false leads set up by Franz’s group. Cagliostro is the one who bears watching.” His smile made him look like a wolf.

“He always bears watching,” Garth muttered.

“He turned up back on Bimini right after the theft in India, which confirms our suspicions. He took some engineers from Black Ops out into the Atlantic and the next day he went out with only his bodyguard. Early the next morning, I took these.” Arnold’s laptop sat on the coffee table. He turned it around.

Garth and Anne leaned forward to peer at the screen. Ghostly silver shapes stood in the water. Something lay in the sand. “What’s this?” Garth asked.

Arnold touched a button to reveal a close up of the large crystal lying on its side.

“That is the Tuaoi Stone,” Michael said.

“Bloody hell.” Garth put on his glasses to see better. “Are you certain?”

“I estimate the crystal to be over thirty feet tall,” Arnold said. “Could be more. It’s hard to tell how much of the base is buried without more sophisticated equipment. It’s twelve feet thick.”

A low whistle came from Garth.

“I made a mistake.” Arnold said, shaking his head. “It’s common practice to skip a day between extended dives, but not for our Alex. I thought it would be safe for me to go see about the Roerich fragments, so I left the next day. Cagliostro went out again that very night.”

“What did he do?” Garth asked.

“We aren’t sure,” Michael said. “We didn’t hear about it until later. The following evening, he flew to England. Cagliostro’s holed up at his ancestral home.”

“That’s it then.” Garth stood up in his excitement.

“What?” Anne asked.

“That’s what I’ve been sensing, that feeling there’s a door ajar. Remember me telling you?”

Anne nodded.

“He’s used it,” Garth said. ”He’s reactivated the Tuaoi Stone.”

“Maybe,” Michael said. “Let’s think it through. What’s likely to happen?”

Anne reached for the laptop and punched a few keys. “Here’s one thing.”

Michael and Garth sat in front of the computer. Arnold walked behind the couch and leaned over the back.

Bermuda Triangle Claims Another Victim

Nassau

A fishing boat was reported missing two days ago just off the coast of New Providence. The search turned up nothing. No bad weather was reported. Locals speculate that the infamous Bermuda Triangle is to blame.

“I was out late that day,” a fisherman who asked not to be identified reported. “We saw that funny lightning and dark clouds came up out of nowhere.”

Michael looked up from the screen at Anne. “What paper is this?”

“
National Inquirer
,” Garth said. “Isn’t that—”

“Anne,” Michael protested. “Be serious.”

“Who else is going to report it?” She put a hand on her hip.

“We don’t know if it actually happened.” Michael shook his head in dismissal.

“The local paper reported the same ship missing,” Anne said.

Michael turned back to Garth. “What else?”

“Oh.” Anne’s eyebrows arched. “You admit that’s something, then.”

Garth hid a smile behind his huge hand. Arnold shrugged. Michael turned back to her. “Okay, so a boat has disappeared. What else?” he repeated.

“It could be this is what’s affecting White Spring,” Garth said.

“You said it’s been running erratically for a few years now.” Michael’s eyes glinted.

“Yes, but over the last couple of weeks it’s been much worse. In the last two days, it’s gushed and then dripped almost on a schedule.” Garth scratched his beard and his gaze darkened. The others waited, now accustomed to his long silences. After a few minutes, he looked up. “I think the Tuaoi Stone is cycling through some kind of energy fluctuation, opening and closing some sort of gate. Maybe the Tor is in sync somehow, and it’s showing up in White Spring.”

“I thought Glastonbury had a telluric link with Jerusalem,” Michael said.

Garth nodded his approval and held up his index finger. “Atlantis, too.”

“We need to put together a team of divers to lull our giant back to sleep,” Michael said.

“Good man.” Garth stood up. “I’ve got email addresses at my house.”

Arnold looked up. “No email. Do you have phone numbers?”

“Well, yes,” Garth said. “People can also eavesdrop on phone calls, you know.”

“Not on my watch,” Arnold said.

“I’ll just go and—”

The house shuddered. The lamp in the hallway swung like a pendulum from its cord. A few books fell from the desk in the office. Everyone stood stock still. After half a minute, everything settled down again.

“What was that?” Garth asked.

“An earthquake?” Michael looked around, frowning.

Anne walked into the office to turn on the radio. The front door burst open. Arnold ran into the hallway and pulled a revolver.

“Garth, the spring—easy on.” Bran stood in the hallway, hands in the air.

“He’s all right, Arnold,” Anne said.

Arnold tucked his gun away. Bran looked from him to Garth, who asked, “What’s happened?”

Bran gave a little start, remembering his mission. “It’s the spring. The water’s stopped.”

* * * *

Govannan lay himself on the earth, offering his life to the Mother of All, but it seemed She had other plans. As his body grew cold and his breath shallower, a tiny seed of light glowed to life, as if the Mother blew on an ember in his chest. He reached to find the source of this sensation and his hand brushed against the small crystal point the Sirians gave him. A stream of energy reached out and touched him. Something answered the call of that crystal—something deep, quiet, and immensely powerful.

He lifted his head and looked around, but saw only darkness. The touch took on weight and shape. He began to sense something out there in the darkness, some distance away. It was faint at first, ephemeral as a dream, then it grew stronger. A pulse, an energy song, a heartbeat. Yes, a portal.

Govannan lifted his face toward the sky that he knew was still above him and asked for help, for the intervention of the Divine Ones, for a miracle. If somehow, beyond all hope and reason, he could get to this portal, then perhaps he too would do the unthinkable. After all, the worst already happened…thousands of years ago. He would travel back in time. He would go back to Eden and stop its destruction. At the very least he would save Megan, or see her once again.

He walked over to the grated window and began to sing to a tiny spot of rusted metal. He sang of dissolution, of loss, of decay and despair. He poured his grief into that metal, and it began to crumble. Eventually it turned to dust. Govannan rested his hand on the grate, gathering his strength. He pushed, and it gave way with a creak. He waited. No footsteps came, so he grabbed the ledge and pulled himself up. The slick metal of the window well gave his fingers no purchase. He jumped. On the third try, he caught the top of the well. A sharp edge tore his fingers open, reopening a wound, but he ignored the pain and hauled himself up.

He lay on the wet ground, reveling in the moisture, even the goose flesh from the chill. The portal pulled at him, a homing beacon. He got to his feet and loped across the lawn, heading toward it.

* * * *

That afternoon, Anne sat in the back of the Assembly Hall with Michael. The room buzzed with talk and tension. Even the peace of Glastonbury Abbey on the other side of the wall did nothing to calm the crowd. She leaned her head against Michael’s shoulder, feeling slightly queasy. Michael said his head ached, and Garth was snappy. The quake disrupted Glastonbury in more ways than one.

Joanne Katter walked up on the stage and raised her hand for silence, but the best she got was a lull in the din. “Please, everyone. We’re here to heal Bridget’s Spring.”

“White Spring,” someone shouted over the crowd noise. “It belongs to the god.” Everyone turned around to look. The man ducked before people could see him, but most of them were neighbors and knew who spoke.

“Thank you, Glenn,” Joanne said, “but we need to cooperate if we’re going to get anything accomplished.”

“Perhaps we need to acknowledge everyone’s views,” came a mild voice.

Anne recognized the well-dressed man she saw in the crowd at White Spring the first time there was trouble.

Joanne conceded this with a dip of her head. “Right you are, then.” A door banged in the back of the hall. Garth and Bran came in with a few other people. Half the room cheered. The other half shook their heads and muttered. They sat in the front.

“Come up, Garth,” Joanne said, a strained smile on her face. “I’m sure many people will want to hear your perspective.”

Garth stood up. “Thank you. First, may I suggest we hear from Doctor Manly? He went into the cave to assess the damage.”

“Cave?” Anne whispered.

“You know, Merlin’s Crystal Cave?” Michael said.

“I thought it was a legend.”

“It’s real,” he continued in a low voice. ”I just didn’t know you could still get into it.”

Doctor Manly mounted the stage and began in a sonorous voice, “With the permission of the British Heritage Foundation and the township of Glastonbury, we went into the cave as soon as we could after the quake yesterday.”

“If you’ve got the right connections, I guess,” Michael said in her ear.

“This disturbance registered 4.5 on the Richter scale.”

“That’s nothing,” came an American voice.

“Which our
friends
in America are quite accustomed to, thank you.” The interruption was quelled. “I am happy to report that there is no structural damage inside the Tor, as we feared.”

A general hubbub followed this declaration. Doctor Manly waited for a moment, then spoke again in a voice that penetrated through the hall but still seemed mild. Anne remembered Grandmother Elizabeth teaching her how to do that in political meetings. She regarded Doctor Manly with renewed interest. “This leaves us with the problem of why no water flows through White Spring.” He turned to the well-dressed man toward the front. “We wondered if the problem was with the pipes the Victorians installed, but found they are still intact.”

The man nodded. Anne remembered that’s what he was concerned about before.

Manly continued. “We shall have to replace them in the near future, but our immediate problem still remains. White Spring flows from the top of the aquifer. We think the quake shifted some rock, but that the water will work its way through again.”

“How long?” someone shouted.

“It’s difficult to know.”

The crowd had quieted somewhat, although comments and side conversations still continued, but now shouts erupted again. “No.” “This science is bunk.”

Manly spoke through the heckling. “I’ve pulled a few strings and the Royal Air Force has agreed to fly over and do some ground-penetrating radar. This should give us a more complete picture.” He smiled, expecting gratitude, but the crowd seemed ambivalent. He gathered himself up again. “Once this is done, we’ll have a better estimate of when the water will return.”

More shouts came. “We can’t wait.” “We need to do a ritual.”

Garth arrived on the stage and his size alone seemed to quiet people. He thanked Doctor Manly, then Joanne took over again. “Now the caretakers of Chalice Well have something to share with us.” A man and a woman took the stage and reported that Red Spring seemed not to be affected by the quake.

A woman dressed all in green behind Anne and Michael kept telling her companion what the problem was. “More people need to connect with the faery realm. We must balance with the Underworld.”

“We’re planning to meet tonight,” the man beside her answered. “We’ll petition Gwyn.”

Garth shouted over the racket. “We all agree that spiritual work must be done. Joanne and I have agreed to hold a joint ritual tomorrow.” Both cheers and jeers went up. “We invite all groups to come. We need a concerted effort to heal the spring.”

Shouts and questions rang out, and Garth tried to answer them all.

“Let’s go back to the house,” Michael said. “I’d like to see what Arnold’s spies know about Cagliostro.”

“I’d like to take a nap,” Anne said. “I’m exhausted.” On the way out the door, she spotted a vagrant huddled in a corner. Something about him pulled at her memory. His avid eyes and air of power were at odds with his torn clothes. A smudge of red that looked like blood spread across his cheek, but copious braids covered much of his face.

Anne tugged at Michael’s shirt. “Do you see that man?”