Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (6 page)

Exhausted, the motion of the train lulled her to sleep, a welcome oblivion. She dreamed vague passing thoughts as her mind settled. Then a dark, frightening dream possessed her. It was like nothing she had ever dreamed before.

A deep hole yawned before her, black and ominous. She knew it led down into the earth and tried to cry out. No sound came. Her mouth was covered, taped shut! It was a pit, black and heavy, closing in. A woman at the end of a long, dark hall came toward her, carrying something sharp. Terror filled Germaine’s heart. And a memory came of pain, endless pain. Then, it all changed. Brilliant blue water, glinting with sunlight, surrounded her as far as she could see. High waves formed and moved toward her. They were crashing over her—she would die! She screamed and covered her face.

The high squeal of train brakes jolted her awake. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Had she screamed? She looked around the car, but no one was looking at her. Yet it felt so real. She thought she was drowning, dying!

Even though her eyes were open, she felt caught in the dream and wrapped her arms tight around her body. She couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of fear and peered out the window, expecting to see ocean waves crashing over the train tracks. But outside was all gray skies, cloudy and calm. No dangerous ocean threatened to wash over her.

The train stopped at her destination: Dorchester South station. Her heart raced as she grabbed her coat and plastic bags. She had to get out. She looked out the window and spied Aubrey on the station platform. He wore his dig uniform—a famously old safari jacket topped off by a worn Fedora, pulled down snug over his balding head. She hurried to the exit, anxious to get away from the unsettling dream.

Aubrey’s pink-cheeked face smiled up at the clouds as he handed her down from the train. The overcast sky held a hint of rain, which never distressed him—it was his preferred choice in weather.

He quickly found someone to carry her bags over to the station’s car park and then led her to an amazing old car with elegant lines. He lovingly patted it on the hood.

“It’s a 1960 S2 Bentley and that’s the original black paint! A little dented and not restored, but it’s the first thing I bought when some money came my way. I’ve always wanted one. It’s garaged here in Dorchester, so when I come down to the coast, it’s easy to get about. And it goes well with my new title!” he added, with a wink.

Aubrey’s family home was near Lyme Regis on the coast. He had grown up in this part of southern England, made famous by Thomas Hardy, where the gentle rolling land of chalk and clay met steep, Jurassic rock cliffs that dropped down to the sea. Hillforts and henges of standing stones dotted the countryside—the prehistoric was everywhere. A brilliant scholar, Aubrey’s skills and reputation were forged elsewhere, but this was his true home, and he loved it dearly.

They loaded her bags and computer into the spacious trunk. “Quite a lot of suitcases, Germaine,” he muttered, as they settled into the Bentley. In its day, it must have been expensive. Built for touring, worn, dark green, leather seats and the cracked walnut paneling spoke of a more luxurious time. The engine purred softly as they headed out of Dorchester on the A354.

“I don’t know what to say, Germaine. I’ll tell you all I know and it’s not much at this point. Lord Dorset called last night—that was the urgent message—and asked me to look into this. By the way, he is coming down today, so be prepared. He’s English Heritage, you know. And English Heritage looks after Maiden Castle. It’s one of their prime historical sites, though not a draw like Stonehenge, of course,” Aubrey quickly added. “Lots of tourists. That sort of thing. You’ll see when we get there. The thing is, someone blew a hole in the middle of the site and got himself blown up, too. Probably kids playing around with explosives. The hole is big. I was up there early this morning, and don’t know how one person could do that. Some sort of plastic explosive, the police said. I don’t know what to make of this.”

She patted his hand, worried. Aubrey was over seventy and obviously distressed. His face was flushed. She made a mental note to discretely question him later about his health.

“It seems the explosion demolished part of a Roman temple and an old Celtic hut site. It uncovered a grave site or a hoard—I’m not sure which at this point. There was a bronze piece, and I saw a bone in the debris. No one is allowed to go near it until we check it out. The police are there, of course, everywhere.”

He held the steering wheel with one hand and gestured around the car as if they were surrounded by the police. Germaine kept a nervous eye on the road. She would have had them in the ditch ten minutes ago.

He wanted her to help him and yet, he was the real authority on prehistory in Britain. She felt nervous, and secretly hoped she was good enough. But wasn’t that always the fear of the pupil with the teacher? Aubrey had trained her. She wanted to make him proud.

Aubrey moved on to other topics, talking nonstop about growing up on the coast and playing with his brothers when they went camping out at Maiden Castle.

“Unholy terrors we were. We took our dogs, and they would run about barking and routing the sheep into a right panic. They still keep sheep up there, my dear, and they are a very funny sight when small boys set them off, all baaaing and running every which way. We even tried to shear their wool with our mum’s kitchen scissors. It was not a success!”

He shook his head and squinted at the crossing up ahead. Bales of hay were scattered over the road, and an old farm truck had stopped to pick them up. The Bentley glided to a halt at the blocked intersection, while Aubrey elaborated on his story with an imitation of a wild-eyed sheep pursued by an equally wild-eyed boy. He was a gifted comic and she relaxed a little and laughed. It nudged her anxiety a little further into the background.

When they finally moved on, she gazed out the window as Aubrey chattered on about finding bits of iron and broken shards at his grandmother’s farm, all of which started his love for archaeology. She leaned back in the comfortable leather seat, content for the moment.

Her own past was so different from Aubrey’s: no warm boisterous family or dogs. She knew next to nothing about her mother and father—she was only a baby a little over two when they died. Aunt Edie, her guardian, was a retired history teacher who had never married, and didn’t know what to do with such a small child. Aunt Edie did love books, though, which floated around everywhere in the house, like ships lost on the sea. You could find them perched crooked on tall shelves or in piles around Aunt Edie’s bed. And, not knowing what else to do, she read to Germaine. Every day, the baby heard the magic of words, starting with a daily reading from the Bible, and progressing onward with Shakespearian plays at breakfast, perhaps a little Homer or Aristotle at lunch, and poetry at dinner.

Words filled the very air she breathed and kept a lonely child company. She found everything she needed in books, especially in history—great civilizations, Greek myths, tales of lost worlds, and intriguing ancient people. Living in the past seemed natural; modern life was never as compelling. It was a short leap to the fascination of archaeology and finding hidden artifacts. One way or the other, she and Aubrey both ended up loving the same things.

Two miles outside of Dorchester, as the road turned east, the whole of Maiden Castle came into view.

“There it is,” Aubrey said. “
Mai Dun
, as the Celts called it.” An enormous, flat-topped hill loomed gray and hulking, in the overcast light of the misty day.

“
Mai Dun
.” Germaine whispered the name, and her heart gave an unexpected lurch. A chill ran down her back.

Those ancient Celtic words meant “great hill.” Somewhere along the road to modern times it became Maiden Castle. The English seemed to call any great edifice a castle, even though it was not a castle as defined by modern thought. It was a defensive hillfort, surrounded by a complex of high ramparts, built to protect the ancient people living at the top.

“You know, this was the center of the Durotriges, a powerful tribe. Powerful, that is, until the Romans came,” he said. “But of course, you know all that. Forgive me, Germaine. I’m still teaching.”

She smiled at him. She
did
know a lot about hillforts. Early on, after graduating, she worked with Aubrey excavating Danebury, a large hillfort in Hampshire, and another in Brittany. Then her interest in Celtic grave sites drew her to France and Germany, with their princely burials full of rich materials. Always busy elsewhere, she had never worked on this great Celtic hill. She studied its history—it was a classic in early British archaeology. The renown archaeologist Sir Mortimer Wheeler worked here in the late 1930’s, though she heard there had been some more modern follow-up work recently.

The Bentley drew closer still. From one side of the windshield to the other, Maiden Castle filled the horizon.

Suddenly, her headache was back in full force. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. The upsetting dream on the train tried to come back, too, and bits of it flew by in her memory. She shuddered.

Her eyes flew open. From afar, Maiden Castle looked deserted, but sheep still grazed on the sides of the ramparts, white dots moving on the misty green sides of the hillfort. There were no other signs of life. She felt addled, confused, as she stared at the hill, rubbing her temples. Her hands were ice cold.

“It looks so empty. Where are the people?” Germaine knew she wasn’t making sense and shook her head.

Aubrey gave her a concerned look. “Well, of course, my dear, no one lives here anymore. Not over the jet lag yet, my girl? Your eyes are a little glassy. We’ll have to get you a stiff drink and a fine English meal. Then a glass of champagne later. A good night’s sleep will finish it off. You’ll feel fine tomorrow.”

Germaine nodded in silent agreement. Aubrey had an almost mystical faith in the power of a good stiff drink. It was his chosen method of remedying all manner of problems. His distant relative, Winston Churchill, was renowned for drinking prodigious amounts of champagne. Aubrey had adopted the same habit, and you kept up with him at your own peril.

“And don’t worry, in a moment you will have more people around than you could possibly want.”

They pulled off the main road onto a service road where the Bentley crested a small rise. The car park for Maiden Castle was before them, packed with people, noisy trucks, and cars. When they got out, Aubrey craned his head around, obviously searching for someone.

“Aha! I see them. Wait here and don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Safari jacket flapping in the breeze, Fedora clamped on his head, he strode into the throng like Moses parting the Red Sea. Germaine leaned against the car and tried to track his path through the crowded car park, but he soon disappeared.

Blue-and-white police tape stretched across the main gate to the hillfort, a clear reminder this was a crime site and no one entered without official approval. Parked near the gate were two vehicles marked Dorchester Police, and a silver Rolls Royce with a yellow license plate that read,
Hdorset
, with a uniformed chauffeur standing by its door.

The car park had all the atmosphere of a war zone. A brown Army truck was parked to one side, and a uniformed officer stood beside it talking on a cell phone. More soldiers emerged from another truck. The new arrivals were SAS forces wearing the signature sand-colored beret with the insignia of the flaming sword on a crusader’s shield. Germaine knew about the SAS, the UK’s Special Forces—everyone did.

But why were Special Forces here? Well, of course, she quickly realized—there had been an explosion. Security forces would want to know more. Maybe terrorists were involved. Now that was a strange thought, out here in the rural depths of Dorset.

Germaine glanced at her watch. Aubrey had been gone a long time. She walked a little way from the car. A truck with a red and blue British flag and Brigantia Ltd. painted on one door rattled past, almost hitting her. A group of workers sat in the open back, all wearing jackets with the same red and blue insignia, along with piles of shovels and buckets, water coolers and a wheelbarrow.

Shovel bums, most likely. They were contract archaeologists and the backbone of almost any excavation. She had used them on her own digs in France and Germany. Many were highly trained and didn’t want to be tied down to a regular job. Some traveled all over the world, working at exotic archaeological sites. Those in the truck were probably working in the area to arrive so quickly. Of course, English Heritage would treat the explosion site as an archaeological dig; the explosion had demolished two ancient sites and there might be artifacts to be found.

Germaine turned around and bumped into someone. She looked up into bright blue eyes. Conan Ryan, the blond Adonis! Flustered, she almost called him by the Greek god’s name. Her cheeks felt hot.

“We meet again!” he said, grasping her hand in a kind of handshake. “Looks confusing, doesn’t it? It’s almost always like this, though.” He stopped a worker going by and pointed him in a different direction. Germaine frowned, puzzled. He laughed, pointing to another open truck coming into the car park.

“My business,” he shouted over the truck’s noise. “Brigantia Ltd. We do Rescue Archaeology. We save whatever gets in the way of modern progress. Only it’s usually some new highway or a shopping center construction that does the damage. Not a bomb!” He gave a wide grin and grabbed her out of the way of an oncoming water truck. With his protective arm around her, Germaine quickly decided this unusual dig could be very interesting.

“Conan!” Aubrey appeared suddenly out of the chaos and shook Conan’s hand. He nodded toward Germaine.

“Dr. O’Neill is helping me out. Come along, Germaine, there are people you must meet,”

Conan smiled at her, gave an exaggerated salute to Aubrey, and walked off. Aubrey was very much a director, sometimes even a dictator. He led her toward a group of well-dressed men in suits.

“English Heritage folk,” he said in a low voice.