The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [55]
‘Bloody hell,’ says Ed. ‘That was impressive. Never seen Druids in action before.’
‘They’re not all Druids. Pagans follow lots of different paths. Two of those are Wiccans, Gardnerian, I think, and the one with the fluffy scarf is a Hedgewitch.’
Ed closes his eyes. ‘I won’t ask. Who’s the bloke with the limp?’
‘John Bolger. The pagans call him Wrongfoot because of his leg. Argie bullet in the Falklands–or possibly a police truncheon at the Battle of the Beanfield.’ I decide not to reveal my connection with him. ‘He’s a shaman.’
‘Sweat lodges and stuff? More American nonsense?’
‘There’s a Saxon tradition of shamanism too, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know. This is like being beamed onto another bloody planet.’
‘Welcome to Avebury.’
‘How come you know so much about this pagan bollocks?’ asks Ed, as we chug away from the village, after warning Michael. The stones of the Avenue march alongside us in the field next to the road.
‘I spent the first eight years of my life as a pagan.’
Anchors on again, right by the sarsen on the verge Frannie calls the Courting Stone.
‘Just run that past me again. I thought for a moment I heard you say you were brought up as a pagan.’
‘I was. My mother was a pagan. We lived in Bristol, but we’d hop in the van and head for Stonehenge or the Rollrights or wherever for the eight festivals. I’d never been into a church until I was eight, and the first time I went into one I was certain God was going to strike me down with a bolt of lightning.’ A sudden memory of the coolness of St James’s, on a hot summer’s afternoon, my small fingers tracing the serpent carved on the font…
‘Eight festivals?’
‘Surely some of those people you flew over crop circles must have been pagans.’
‘We didn’t ask them to fill in a questionnaire–age, hair colour, religious persuasion.’ He puts the Land Rover into gear again. ‘You don’t believe in it, do you?’
‘I went to live with my grandmother after that, and she sent me to Sunday school. A few years of Anglicanism knocked anything remotely spiritual out of me.’
‘Good.’ He’s looking at me warily, in case I suddenly whip a pentacle out of my pocket. ‘Right. Better press on, then. Where to?’
I take a quick look at my watch. ‘First, we should pick up the chainsaw from West Kennet, and then we’ll drive back to see what’s happening at the museum. Michael should have it all under control, but he might need back-up.’
Sacred geometry. Earth magic. It was so long ago when my mother explained it to me, and I’ve forgotten a lot, but some of it sticks. The Goddess’s body, sculpted in the landscape; the Avenue a divine snake curving up the hillside. Sadly all utter bollocks, as Ed would say. Those theories were developed before archaeology revealed evidence of further ancient structures to confuse the pattern, including vast palisaded enclosures by the riverside at West Kennet, uncovered the same summer Margaret, John and I camped under the trees at Tolemac.
Ed touches my arm as I struggle with the padlock on the door of the barn where the wardens store equipment. ‘Indy, can I say something without you biting my head off?’
‘What?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve been making me feel like an idiot all morning. This is my first day. You seem to be getting some twisted kind of pleasure out of seeing me flounder.’
I open my mouth, then snap it shut again.
‘See?’ says Ed. ‘You were going to say something sarcastic again, weren’t you?’
The key finally turns. I release the catch and swing back one side of the massive wooden doors.
‘Look, you made your feelings utterly plain first thing,’ says Ed. ‘I take your point. That night…well. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner I had a wife. But chances are we’ll keep running into each other while I’m doing this job for the National Trust. So pax?’
I kick a stone into place to prop the door open, then walk away