The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [54]
‘Which means we have a duty of care to everyone who visits Avebury.’ The novice warden is back in control of himself. ‘For your own safety…’
‘Safety? I don’t take lectures on personal safety from thieves.’
‘Thieves?’ Ed is bewildered.
‘We’re here to represent the dignity of the ancestors.’ The huge Druid has slung his horn over his shoulder, and planted himself as firmly as a sacred oak in the middle of the road. His eyebrows are a startling black, in contrast to his greying hair and beard. His full lips are plum red. ‘How would you like it if, five thousand years from now, your earthly remains were dug up and put in an exhibition?’
‘I’d quite like it, actually,’ Ed begins, then catches my disapproving glare. He tries to look more serious. ‘Of course, you’ve every right to express your views, but we’d prefer it if you didn’t do it in the middle of the A4361. If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the pub car park…’
Mr Big turns his back, and raises his arms to the sky, turning slowly sunwise. ‘Spirits of the Circle, we invoke you.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Ed asks, in a low voice.
‘He’s opening a circle to raise the elemental energies.’
‘Magic? He’s not trying to hex us, is he?’
‘Don’t worry, this is standard Druid stuff. But unless you want to clasp hands with a couple of men in frocks, it might be wise to retreat.’ Ed takes a hasty step back.
‘In the East, Air, who will lend power to our voices,’ booms the grizzled Druid. Pahhrrr. the word flies out between the sensuous red lips like the fire-eater’s flame. ‘In the South, Fire–’ fahhrr ‘–forge the purity of our hearts. In the West, Water, to wash clean our intentions…’
A snort from beside me. Mr Big wisely pretends he hasn’t heard, but his arc brings him round to fahhrr the last salvo right in our faces.
‘…and in the North, Earth…’ urrrth ‘…whose solidity will confound our enemies.’
Druids don’t go in for cursing, but this is about as close as they come to invoking a whopping great mound of mud to bury us and all our works. Spinning again, he rallies the troops, gripping the hands of the two pagans nearest him. ‘Join hands, brothers and sisters, at this time of Alban Eiler, equal night, when dark and light are in balance.’
But hurrying down Green Street past the antiques shop, here’s the cavalry. I never thought I’d be so glad to see a set of Avebury pagans.
John slips into the circle in front of me as the away team are about to clasp hands. Several others infiltrate from the opposite side: Beech Tear and Wind Rose–no idea of their real names, but they live in a flat over a shop on Marlborough high street–and a woman in a fluffy scarf, who calls herself Moon Daughter. Half a dozen more are steaming along from the direction of the museum.
‘Not joining us, Indy?’ asks John, over his shoulder.
‘I’m representing the forces of darkness today.’
‘Don’t joke. This is the heavy mob.’
‘Where’s the Arch-Druid when we need him?’
‘Knee replacement.’
The grizzled American Druid is trying to look happy about how large his circle has grown. But he suspects something’s afoot. He’s right. Before he can carry on the ritual, John has seized the initiative. ‘Welcome, brothers and sisters, to Avebury Merry meet and merry part.’
‘Merry meet,’ says the American, uneasily.
‘Will you join us in the Cove? We’ll be opening a circle there, and in the absence of the Arch-Druid who usually leads our rituals, we’d be delighted if you’d preside.’
This is neatly done, and hard for Mr Big to refuse. All the same, he tries. He casts a helpless glance down the high street towards the barns and the Manor. According to John, the collective noun should be a dispute of Druids.
‘Our plan was to hold a ceremony for the dead at the museum.’
‘Perhaps you’d let us help you there, after you’ve celebrated Alban Eiler with us in the Cove?’ The tiniest, most delicate stress on after.
The big Druid knows when he’s outflanked. Besides, a strong contingent of local pagans will make his demo at the museum all the more impressive. Within seconds he’s closed the circle and turned it into