Dance of the Stones (13 page)

A fiddler led the way as the congregation, joined by the children, marched from the church, winding in and out of the great stones. The lanterns were placed against the stones, and the people moved to the center of the Circle. They held hands, made their own circle and began to dance, moving sedately first to the left, then to the right.

The Barber Surgeon followed and stood by a stone, glaring at them.

*   *   *

Owen noticed the faint mist gathering as the night-prowling wraith lurked on the edge of the Circle. He sucked in his breath, knowing what was likely to happen.

As the Barber Surgeon stood against a stone, the mist rose up around the man's feet and melded with him.

*   *   *

The Barber Surgeon watched and listened in anger and disbelief as the villagers raised their voices in song and tripped around and around.

Oh, the Holly bears a berry as white as the milk.
And Mary bore Jesus who was wrapped up in Silk.
Oh, Mary bore Jesus our Savior for to be.
And the first tree in the Greenwood, it was the Holly.
Holly, Holly.
Oh the first tree in the Greenwood, it was the Holly.

“DESIST!” The Barber Surgeon erupted into the middle of the dancers. Instead of just being angry, he'd suddenly become filled with a strange power. Power to change the world. “I will not stand by and watch blasphemy,” he roared. “Where is your priest?”

The villagers stopped in bewilderment.

“He's in yon church, but he be coming along directly,” said a cherry-cheeked woman. “We be celebrating Christmastide with the stones. Come, stranger, celebrate with us.” She moved over to make a space.

“I will not!” shouted the Barber Surgeon. “The stones are evil. Who raised them?”

The people looked at each other and shrugged.

“Please, sir, they've always been here,” said a youth.

“Could you have raised them?” the Barber Surgeon asked. The youth shook his head.

The Barber Surgeon pointed a finger at the biggest man, the smith. “You?”

The smith shook his great head. “Not I. 'Twould take stronger men than me.”

“Only one person could raise this Circle. THE DEVIL!” roared the Barber Surgeon. “There is no place for the Devil's work in a Christian world.” He pulled a crucifix from his jacket and held it up. “This place is cursed. I travel the length and breadth of England and never have I seen or felt a place so steeped in evil.”

The villagers looked at each other in fear. They stepped back.

“Save yourselves before it is too late,” roared the Barber Surgeon.

“How?” asked the smith.

“Topple and bury the stones. Let the blessed church protect you instead. The stones must be destroyed.”

*   *   *

Owen watched the vision with disbelief as, exhorted by the stranger, who was now joined by the priest, the shocked villagers were bullied and browbeaten into fetching spades and picks and working through the night, digging deep holes into which they would topple the great stones.

“Don't do it,” Owen whispered, but the people of the past couldn't hear.

*   *   *

The scene became a celebration as religious fervor enveloped the village. Fires were lit to soften the ground and provide light. The night took on a hideous glow. Then someone thought of laying fires at the base of the stones.

“Burn them like witches!” cried one woman.

“Yes, let them taste Hell,” answered another.

“Watch me,” boasted the smith. “Witness the art of the blacksmith. I know the magic of fire and water.” He gestured to the observers. “Fetch water from the stream that does not run. Go to the village well.”

A woman rushed to the inn courtyard and lowered a bucket into the deep stone-lined hole.

The drunken revelers spilled out from the inn to join their sober neighbors.

“Aye . . . what sport. Let's topple the stones,” shouted a brawny farm worker. He brought forth a great hammer and swung it against the nearest stone. A chip flew and he laughed and swung again.

A stone, faggots blazing around its base, glowed with the heat.

“Bear witness to the power of the blacksmith,” shouted the smith. He took the brimming bucket and dashed the icy cold contents against the hot rock. With a great crack the stone split in three pieces and fell to the ground.

A cheer went up.

The priest knelt and prayed with the stranger, giving thanks that this Christmas night had seen the old religion finally overthrown.

“Come . . . we need more men.” The cry came from a group of shadowy figures struggling to push a large stone into a yawning pit at one side.

The priest and Barber Surgeon rose to their feet and ran to help.

All threw their full weight against the stone, but still it stood.

“Wait.” The Barber Surgeon threw himself on the ground and felt along the base of the stone. “There is a smaller stone preventing it. Hand me a pick.” He leapt eagerly into the pit beneath the looming Sarsen.

The villagers watched aghast as the stone shifted and tipped of its own accord.

The ground shook as the great weight thudded down, crushing the Barber Surgeon before he could utter a word of protest.

Silence fell.

“The stones are angry,” whispered a woman.

A man nodded. “This was a poor night's work. We will regret it.”

One by one the villagers retreated, leaving the priest praying amidst fire and devastation. No one noticed a thin mist rise above the pit before being sucked swiftly back into the ground.

*   *   *

The vision wavered and became smaller, dimmer. A moment's dizziness, and once again Owen was leaning against the glass case, staring at the bones and rusty knife. His eyes were moist. “How could they?” he muttered to himself. He blew his nose noisily. “And how come I'm seeing things without Ava's help?” He shook his head to clear it and moved away to find the others.

Owen . . . Owen!
The voice in his head was a tiny sibilant squeak.

Owen stopped in mid-step. He looked around.

Holly and Chantel were still exploring the exhibit around Hewll. Sue the interpreter was talking to a person in the doorway. Adam was playing on a computer exhibit at the other side of the barn. No one else was within earshot.

A tingle ran up his spine. “Who's there?” he whispered.

The answer came back in short squeaky bursts of thought.

Me. Swoop. Friend of Ava. Mindspeak. I hear
.

Owen concentrated and spoke using his mind.
Where
are you?

Up . . . up.

Owen looked up. Hanging from the rafter was a small brown bat with bright eyes. It dropped from the beam and fluttered silently through the museum to the far corner of the barn.

Owen hurried after it.

Swoop hung from the corner of an exhibit case containing a computer simulation of the various stages of building Avebury.

Sit. I talk.

Owen settled on the bench opposite the screen.

Ava took acorn.

Owen gave a huge sigh of relief.
Ava saw what happened
at the stone? Thank goodness. We were afraid to touch the
acorn once the wraith was inside it.

Ava hurt. Drop acorn.

WHAT . . . where is she
?

Here. Sheltering. In roof,
squeaked Swoop.

Owen stared up at the rafters. He could see nothing in the shadows.
Ava, are you up there? Did you send me the
vision of the Barber Surgeon? Are you okay?

Owen had a blinding flash of Ava's pain. He swayed on the bench.
AVA, what happened?

Her mind touched his for only a moment as she tried to mindspeak. King heal, was all he got. It made no sense. He looked worriedly at the bat.

Help Ava.
Swoop continued.
When museum shut. Come.
Bring bag. Carry her.

I'll come,
promised Owen.

Take her. Gold King,
squeaked Swoop.

Take her where?
asked Owen.

Silbury Hill. Go sunset. Gold King help
.

The Golden King,
said Owen doubtfully.
King Sel? How
are we supposed to find him?

The bat ignored his question.
Go Silbury Hill. Sunset.

Swoop vanished into the shadows.

*   *   *

Owen tugged Adam's arm. “We've gotta go. Where are the girls?”

A puzzled Adam pointed around a screen at another set of exhibits. “There's still loads to see,” he protested.

“Come on. It's important,” insisted Owen. He ran over and whispered in the girls' ears.

“This better be good, Owen,” grumbled Adam as the four of them huddled around one of the wooden tables outside.

“Good . . . it's terrible! But keep your voices down,” Owen whispered. “Ava's hurt. Really hurt. I felt it.” His voice was raw with worry. “She's sheltering in the roof of the barn with the bats. One of them's been talking to me. I've got to find Ava after the museum closes. I need a bag to carry her in.”

The cousins gawked.

“I hope she's a hawk, not a woman,” said Adam. “Or you'll need a pretty big bag.”

“She's a hawk, stupid,” said Owen. He paused. “I hope,” he finished uncertainly.

Adam grinned.

“Adam, give over!” said Owen. “Or I won't tell you what else.”

Adam sobered. “There's more?”

“Loads. She sent me a vision, about the Barber Surgeon! But the most important thing is to rescue her. The bat said to take Ava to Silbury Hill and the Golden King, at sunset.”

Adam looked nonplussed. “Who?”

Holly nudged him. “Remember, Mum told us about Golden King Sel, the one who's buried under Silbury Hill.”

Owen nodded eagerly. “That's the one. The bat says he'll help.”

Adam shifted uneasily. “This is nuts. And I thought the last adventure was complicated!” He started ticking things off on his fingers. “Wise beings, dreams, a magic acorn, the Mother Tree, a wraith and stones that are supposed to dance. That was all complicated enough. Now suddenly Ava's hurt and there's a talking bat and a Golden King.” He spread his hands in a gesture of despair. “It's too much. We've not even figured out the ritual yet. I can't keep track because everything's happening at once.”

“‘The light grows, but dark things stir,'” quoted Chantel softly. “It's the Old Magic waking everything up. Good things and bad things all happening at the same time.”

“Let's hope nothing else wakes up, or we'll be toast,” muttered Adam.

“How are we going to reach Ava?” asked Holly, sensible as always.

Owen shrugged. “Dunno yet.”

Holly checked her watch. “The museum closes in about half an hour, but the sun won't set for ages. Why don't I take a bike and ride over to Silbury to check it out. It's only a mile away. I'll come back and report just after five. You go home and find a bag or something for Ava.”

“A backpack would work, wouldn't it?” suggested Adam.

“Will we need the first aid kit?”

“Good idea.” Owen looked at Chantel. “Someone should stay and keep an eye on the barn. Do you want to do that?”

Chantel nodded. “We can hide Ava in the Bath chair to get her home,” she suggested.

“Okay,” Owen said. “I'll fill you all in later.”

“Right. We'll meet back here in half an hour,” said Holly.

She, Adam and Owen scattered.

*   *   *

The teenage girl paused in the village street. There was no sign of the children she was searching for. She rubbed her head again. She could remember nothing, not even why she was angry, but the anger drove her on. She walked up the lane toward the museum.

Suddenly, there was one of them, the small red-haired girl with the broken leg, sitting on her own in the courtyard. The girl who'd laughed! A wave of hatred swept over the teenager and wiped out all rational thought.

The wraith's knowledge filled her mind. This was a Magic Child, a child linked to the stones' magic. A child who had resisted a melding. She was a threat and must be destroyed.

*   *   *

Chantel stared at the roof of the barn. What could have happened to Ava? How could a Wise One get hurt? They were invincible, weren't they?

She sat up straight. Something else was wrong. She could feel it. Something or someone was staring at her, hating her. It was the same feeling she had experienced from the wraith.

“Not again,” she whispered and frantically looked around.

She saw nothing to alarm her. The museum barn, the stable block, all looked normal; none of the visitors was paying attention to her. Still the feeling persisted, eyes of hate boring into the back of her head.

Chantel extracted herself from the table and grabbed her crutches. She caught the glance of the long-haired teenage girl standing in the middle of the lane.

Eyes blazing, the girl stepped toward her.

Chantel shuddered and limped away from the table. She propelled herself across the yard in the opposite direction. She had no idea where she was going, just as far as possible from the mad-looking girl.

In a blind panic she moved rapidly beyond the barn and along a cobbled path. Suddenly there was a wall. She was trapped. No, she spotted a gate and a turnstile, the entrance to the manor grounds. Chantel waved her pass at the ticket collector and hobbled through with a sigh of relief.

The girl chasing her would have to stop to pay. That should give her time to hide.

“OY! Where do you think you're going?”

The teenage girl rattling the turnstile turned to stare at the ticket collector.

“Costs money to get in here.” The man held out his hand.

“Two pounds or get lost.”

The girl fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a pile of change. She flung the coins toward the ticket collector and pushed again at the turnstile.