The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [53]
‘What?
‘Someone delivered a leaflet to the Trust. Part of the spring equinox celebrations–they’re complaining about the skeletons in the museum. This’ll be a protest march.’
Strung out across the road, at great personal peril given that it’s the main route from Swindon, the Druids are doing a stately dance to the sound of a drum. They are led by a mountainous man with a grey beard and dreadlocks. Next to him, a fire-eater juggles blazing clubs, the flames deceptively transparent in the sunlight. Bringing up the rear, a man in a wheelchair is doing wheelies in time with the beat.
‘This lot aren’t from round here,’ I say. ‘The local Druids wouldn’t let them interfere with the traffic. That’s a blind corner–you can’t see what’s coming.’ A screech of brakes behind underlines this. One massive supermarket lorry in a hurry could flatten us all. ‘We ought to move them off the road.’
A car hoots angrily from the back of the queue. The grizzled Druid swings round and blows his horn in answer. His is bigger and louder.
And sod you too,’ says Ed, one hand on the steering-wheel, peering cautiously out of the Land Rover window, the new cowhand clasping the reins against the pommel of his saddle while he surveys the milling herd. ‘Now I remember why I prefer flying.’
I open my door, ready to jump down.
‘Hang on.’ He turns off the engine. ‘I think I should be gallant here. Allow me to exercise my natural authority.’ He grins at me, unclips his seatbelt and hops onto the road.
The procession ignores us.
‘Before I attempt to sort this lot out, do you know any of them?’ he asks, as I join him. ‘You sure there are no locals?’
‘Might or might not help if the Avebury Arch-Druid was here because not all the Druid groups recognize his authority.’ There are about twenty protesters, divided almost equally between men and women: several in white robes, and not a soul I’ve seen before. ‘Sorry. You’re on your own here, Ed.’
‘What do you mean, I’m on my own? You’d better back me up.’
‘Right behind you. But I thought I heard you volunteering to exercise your natural authority’
‘I’m not proud. This could be a two-person authority job.’
Judging by the rising chorus of hoots from the backed-up traffic, it won’t take a Sainsbury’s lorry to create bloodshed and mayhem if the Druids stay on the road much longer. Their dance is taking them slowly towards the crossroads in the centre of the village. They’ve almost reached the pub car park, the perfect opportunity to herd them out of danger, if only they’d pay attention. Ed could either jog ignominiously after them, or–
‘EXCUSE ME!’ He’s gone for the more dramatic option, hands on hips to summon the necessary lung power. ‘NATIONAL TRUST! WOULD YOU KINDLY GET OFF THE ROAD SO WE CAN DISCUSS THIS WITHOUT ANYONE GETTING RUN OVER?’
The only response is another contemptuous horn blast. The drum beats louder and faster, and there’s a lot more energetic twirling of white robes. A she-Druid with a wraparound skirt seems to be deliberately flashing her knickers.
‘Politeness doesn’t always work,’ I tell him. ‘But don’t be tempted–’
Too late.
At least he doesn’t break into a run, which would be humiliating, but his long legs take him at remarkable speed through the twirling dancers and up to the grizzled Druid with the horn. Resisting the temptation to cover my eyes, I follow.
‘…any fucking idea how fucking dangerous this is?’ Ed is saying, as I catch up. ‘This is the main road from Swindon, not a fucking pagan playground.’
‘And who might you be?’
Oh dear. Mr Big has an American accent. I have a dim and hung-over memory of Ed telling me exactly what he thought of Americans with a mystical bent. The ones booked onto the helicopter had phoned his mobile painfully early to give him pre-takeoff grief about having to share their crop-circle flight with a film crew.
‘Erm…’ I have to intervene before injury is done. ‘We’re from the National Trust.’
‘Yeah,