The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [56]
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘And…well, sorry.’
Light slants down through the gaps in the wooden walls, misty white spears stabbing the packed-earth floor. I’m trying to decide which chainsaw is the least heavy when Ed’s voice startles me. ‘What on earth is this?’ He’s at the far end of the barn, deep in shadow, examining an enormous mottled grey bulk propped against the wall. It’s taller than a man, broader than an elephant’s backside. Ed’s goggling. ‘Don’t tell me they keep a spare stone for the circle, like a replacement light bulb…’
‘Give it a push.’
He hardly touches it, but the megalith promptly falls over. I flip it with my foot and it wobbles like a giant lopsided rugby ball. After a shocked silence, Ed starts laughing. ‘It’s effing polystyrene!
‘It was a prop in a children’s drama serial filmed here. The plot required the stones to move about. A tourist leaned against it, and nearly had a heart-attack when she knocked it down, but now it only comes out occasionally for staff Christmas parties.’
‘It’s so–lifelike. No, wrong word, stone isn’t alive.’
‘The pagans will tell you it is.’
‘Your pagans are barking.’ He gives it a kick and it rolls back against the barn wall. ‘Hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake in this place. Indy–’
Somehow we’ve ended up standing very close in the darkened barn. I take a step back. ‘What?’
‘There’s something else I’m sorry for. I was being a bit of a pillock this morning.’
‘Well.’ I can’t think what to say.
‘I’m finding this difficult too, you know.’ Ed runs a hand through his spiky hair. ‘Had no idea you were connected to this place. You told me about some television job on the train.’
‘I may have bigged up my role, somewhat,’ I say. ‘Not even sure the programme’s commissioned. It’s about Avebury, when Keiller was digging here.’
‘Keiller? One of my archaeological heroes.’
‘You know about him?’
‘Of course. Pioneer of aerial survey. Anyway, thought I was going into cardiac arrest when Michael mentioned your name. Didn’t know whether you’d have told them about the crash. Then I’d have lost the job. Believe me, I need it.’ He’s watching me intently. ‘Thanks for keeping quiet.’
‘It’s in my interests too, you know.’ Suddenly my eyes are welling. ‘I only want to forget that bloody day…’ Damn, damn, damn. I shake his hand off my arm and walk out into the sunshine, blinking in the brightness.
A squelch behind tells me Ed has followed. It’s a small comfort to think those cowboy boots are muddying up.
‘One more thing to see here,’ I say briskly, to prove I’m fine, really. ‘Round the back of the barn we have the pagans’ altar.’
No one has tidied its stone slabs for a while, and the wind has scattered withered flowers and grasses across the mud. Coloured ribbons and beads hang damply from the branches of the nearest tree.
Ed picks up a shell. ‘So what’s this about? Please don’t tell me you facilitate them sacrificing the odd goat.’
‘Ed. It’s where volunteer pagans on litter duty put offerings that have been left in the stone circle–flowers, feathers, ribbons, pebbles, whatever. The Guardians didn’t like the idea of throwing them away, so this altar gives them somewhere to bring them. Every month or so the Arch-Druid and the Wiccan high priest pop down and bless the offerings, before putting them on a sacred bonfire. And don’t scoff. These people are serious in their beliefs. Talking of which…’ I glance at my watch ‘…those Druids will have hit the museum by now. We should see what’s happening.’
‘Fine by me.’ He starts back towards the farmyard where we left the Land Rover. There’s a glutinous sucking sound. ‘Oh, fuck!
He’s standing comically on one leg. Behind him an empty cowboy boot sits in a sea of mud.
‘You idiot. That’s the Goddess’s revenge for disrespect.’
‘Hey Don’t make me laugh. I’ll fall over. Fetch my bloody boot, can’t you?’
‘Get it yourself But, of course, I pluck it out of the mud and carry it over to him. Somehow our fingers touch as he takes it from me.
Bloody Ed.
No sign of Druids on the