The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [88]
As this is a Wiccan occasion, Trevor, a former estate agent and now a full-time practitioner of Gardnerian witchcraft, is presiding.
‘I was expecting something…well, a bit more sinister,’ murmurs Martin. ‘He looks like Eric Morecambe. Jolly with glasses.’
‘Eric Morecambe was before my time, but I don’t imagine he had waist-length hair.’
‘And the–er–reindeer on the top of his staff. I’m sure it started life as a Christmas-tree ornament.’
‘Pagans believe in recycling. Live lightly on the earth is one of the Wiccan tenets.’
The outfit changes with the season, but tonight Trevor’s resplendent in furry moon boots, velveteen dressing-gown, and a Bob-the-Builder hat, sprayed silver, to which he has Superglued a pair of antlers, thus representing the Horned God. His consort, Michelle, who shares his Georgian house in Marlborough, is either Diana or Hecate: John did explain Wicca to me once but I wasn’t paying attention. She’s in a full-length dark blue cloak, with the hood thrown back, her bobbed hair dressed with a diaphanous blue scarf sewn with silver stars and moons. Rumour has it she’s someone important in marketing at Asda’s head office.
Trevor raps his staff on the ground. ‘Think we ought to get going in a minute or two, people. Drink up and, if you wouldn’t mind, save the bar staff a job on a cold night, take your glasses back into the pub.’ He turns to Martin and me. ‘Haven’t seen you two before, have I? Merry meet. Oh, sorry, it’s India, isn’t it? You look different somehow’
‘I was blonde last time.’ I introduce Martin. Trevor’s delighted: he’s addicted to Time Team. Scratch a pagan and you find an amateur archaeologist–and sometimes vice versa. I wander off and leave Trevor explaining why, in his opinion, dowsing can be as reliable as geophysics in revealing archaeology under the soil. Martin has a polite but strained expression on his face. Lady pagans are popping into the pub for a last pee, while the gentlemen head into the darkness to water Mother Earth; coats are being buttoned against the chill, hats pulled down over ears, bottles of mead, the midnight tipple of choice for your average Wiccan, already stashed in backpacks.
I sit down on one of the benches, remembering drums at dawn, the eastern sky flushing gold, Margaret dancing, a land of lost content. Until I turned eight, this was a way of life. Now all I feel is cold and bored and faintly resentful. If I were a pagan still, I’d be a Hedgewitch, like Moon Daughter: do-it-yourself rituals alone under a starry sky.
The moon pops out like a white traffic light, and Trevor leads his ragged troop across the main road and through the gate onto the grass. Someone flashes a torch; someone else stumbles with a muffled shit. I stir reluctantly from the bench and attach myself to the end of the procession. Moon Daughter holds open the gate to the stones, with a shy smile. Moonlight pouring down over the circle reveals Trevor and Martin a long way ahead, already passing through the massive entrance stones, deep in conversation. Trevor breaks off to pat the Devil’s Chair as if he’s reassuring an old friend–all for the best in the best of all possible worlds–then he and Martin are hidden in the shadow of the beeches. A ewe calls to its lamb, the gate clicks again, the moon flicks behind a cloud and disappears.
And the skin over my shoulder blades is prickling because, although I was the last to leave the pub, there is someone behind me.
Steve.
Don’t be silly. I know it isn’t Steve. Steve is dead and the dead don’t come back–at least, not to people like me. I turn my head, catching no more than a glimpse of someone disappearing between