Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time

SPIRAL

BOOK ONE OF THE SPIRAL IN TIME

JUDITH SCHARA

To Diana ... A fellow traveler on the road

The Distinction Between Past,

Present and Future is an Illusion ...

But a Very Persistent One

Albert Einstein

PROLOGUE

Maiden Castle

June 4, 2006

Druid or not, a dark night always made Mick Aston edgy. There was no moon and this night seemed darker than most. Standing in the deserted car park, he gave a nervous glance at the sky. It was still early. Plenty of time before Merlin’s body arrived for its burial. But they had to finish before dawn. The shadowy form of Mick’s brother Jemmy moved closer beside him.

“It won’t be long now,” Mick said. “As soon as they get here we can start digging.”

He was glad he brought Jemmy. Learning about Druid ways would be good for him—help him forget about Iraq.

Mick’s hand shook as he struck a match to light his next cigarette. The car window caught the reflection of the bright yellow flame as it flashed on his face. It looked like a grotesque mask floating in the night. He instinctively drew back. You are way too jumpy mate, he thought.

Maiden Castle, the huge earthen mound of an ancient hillfort, loomed in the darkness behind him.

“No maidens out here, eh Jemmy?” he joked to his brother. Everyone Mick knew made the same old play on words. The name Maiden came from the old Celtic name for the hillfort—
Mai Dun
. Never was any castle up there either, Mick thought. Somewhere along the road to modern times it became Maiden Castle, but had no turrets or tall towers, no moats or drawbridges. Just a high hilltop where the ancient tribes and their Druids lived and fought for thousands of years. Mick glanced at his brother who wore his old school backpack.

Holy Christ! He didn’t go anywhere without it. He was like a child with his favorite blanket. Mick knew what was in the backpack: some photographs of Jemmy’s dog, now lost and presumed dead, Jemmy’s identification card and honorable discharge papers, a collection of small stones. And a gun.

If it made Jemmy feel better to carry it around, Mick wouldn’t say anything. But he wondered every day as he watched him carefully clean his pistol, was this what happened to blokes in the Special Forces? Did they always need to be armed? Even when they were safe at home? Jemmy was SAS—Special Air Service, the UK’s tough antiterrorist commando unit of the Army—and just six months home from Iraq.

Not a day had gone by without the bottle or some kind of drug. Mick shook his head. Lately, it was marijuana. Just yesterday he walked into Jemmy’s room and found him rolling a joint. Jemmy had looked up and went on, as if nothing was wrong.

“Don’t look so disapproving, brother,” Jemmy said as his fingers expertly wrapped a thin paper around the dried leaves. “Our very own British government is giving money to Oxfordshire farmers to grow opium poppies for morphine. Opium! My own righteous queen is a drug dealer! So, don’t tell me not to light up—it’s a national business. It’s patriotic!”

And that beret, fumed Mick. He still wore that SAS beret with the insignia on it. A bloody flaming sword on a bloody Crusader’s shield. It’s the damn Crusades, all over again. And no good came from that.

A harsh rattling sound broke the silence as an old Volkswagen van coasted into the car park. Two men got out; Ian and Robbie, the newest members of the
Ancient Order of the British Druids—
neo-Druids, who considered themselves modern incarnations of the pagan Celtic Druids of ancient British times. They were last minute replacements for two older members, who both fell sick at the same time. They would have to do.

They looked like white ghosts floating in the dark.

Mick looked at the two newcomers in disbelief as they mumbled hello. Both wore long, white, hooded robes, tied at the waist by a thin cord with tassels, and dirty work boots sticking out from underneath the robes. He smelled beer.

“Lads,” he hissed. “Take those robes off. Have you no sense? Don’t you know anything about not being seen at night? You can put them back on later for the ceremony.”

The one called Robbie gave a nervous laugh, and they went back to the van to change.

“And bring your shovels,” Mick called. “We have work to do.”

He paced around the car as he waited and kept up an anxious, running monologue in his head. I don’t really know them well. They are young—too young to be serious about this. All they want to do is party and have sex. Boys like them had caused the Summer Solstice celebration at Stonehenge to be shut down for four years.

Mick Aston felt all of his fifty years; everyone younger was a boy to him. He lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and looked up at the few stars in the sky. You’re too nervous, he fretted. Those boys will do fine. They just need a firm hand.

Tonight was his first act as the new Grand Druid of the
Ancient Order of the British Druids
. The old Grand Druid, Merlin Fitzwater, had just died. Mick had been Merlin’s apprentice for ten years. He learned everything about being a Druid from Merlin. Even so, he needed to study more. Merlin said it took twenty years to be a real Druid.

Then he died unexpectedly and, overnight, Mick Aston became leader of fifty Druids. The brotherhood looked to him to plan Merlin’s funeral.

Where do you bury a Druid? This went beyond anything Merlin ever taught him.

Then Mick had an inspired thought. He should be buried in some place sacred only to the Druids, like Maiden Castle, the old Celtic hillfort. Now that was brilliant!

The thought thrilled Mick. It was the right thing to do, no other choice was fitting. It was a decision worthy of his master. Merlin would be buried in a sacred place of the Celts, not in a Christian graveyard. After all, he was a pagan. Mick was not even sure if the Christians—those pious bastards—would allow someone like Merlin to be buried in their cemetery.

Maiden Castle was a right proper place—far enough away from Dorchester, the nearest town. It was big, with open, grassy fields on top. Not too many people lived nearby, and it had no guards at night. Of course, they wouldn’t tell anyone. It was a simple plan: dig the grave at night and then, at first light—before anyone got there, have the ceremony and bury Merlin. Mick thought of everything.

This whole expedition is my idea, he thought. It better work well or the rest of the members won’t ever believe in me or my ability to lead the brothers.

Mick was very serious about the Druid fellowship. The old ways meant more and more to him as he got older. Most of all, he liked the idea of following a spiritual path laid down by his distant ancestors—he just knew they were Druids. He would follow in their footsteps and worship the ancient ways. Every Druid tenet resonated in his bones: worship the ancestors, honor all people, and be responsible and generous. It was his religion.

He jumped as Ian and Robbie suddenly popped out of the dark in front of him and laughed. He didn’t trust them. They were too frivolous for his taste, but Jemmy knew them. They had been in Iraq together, although Ian and Robbie were straight Army, not SAS like Jemmy. Ian was an ambulance driver and Robbie a cook’s helper. Now, Ian worked for some contractor and Robbie just hung out all day, drinking beer in Mick’s pub. He glowered at them. They were all he could find at the last minute. He needed them tonight—they’d better shape up.

He glanced at his brother’s silent figure. Iraq had damn near killed him and Mick wanted his little brother back. Mick had raised Jemmy since he was a baby and their Mum died. Jemmy had once been a smiling, kind-hearted lad, who never hurt anyone. He had even talked vaguely of going to veterinary school before the glamour of being in the SAS caught him. He was a dead shot with a gun, and the SAS loved that kind of talent.

“I’ll be a modern warrior,” he told Mick, eyes all bright as though seeing a great vision. Well, three years on an SAS demolition team cured that. Sneaking behind enemy lines, throwing bombs into buildings where Iraqi insurgents hid, along with women and children; innocents be dammed. Kill or be killed. The SAS never warned Jemmy that something inside him could be killed and he would still walk around, hollow and dead, except for the day and night screaming nightmares in his head. Jemmy said he would take almost anything to forget. Nothing helped.

And look at him now, poor lad. Doesn’t sleep, jumps at any little sound, and won’t talk much. Well, he’d change for the better soon. Mick would look out for him. It was good for Jemmy to get involved in the Druid fellowship. After all, it was his heritage, too.

They were both born in nearby Winterbourne and their family had lived in Dorset forever. Mick liked to think there was a Druid or two in the family’s distant past. He felt connected to everything around him. His ancestors were buried in the ground he walked on.