The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [90]
‘We’ve got some good energies going already tonight,’ says Trevor. ‘Everybody step back one pace. No, keep holding hands–feel the pull on your arms. It’s all about balance. Dark and light in equilibrium…’
Across the circle, clear eyes in the lamplight meet mine. The corkscrew curls under the woolly hat seem familiar but I can’t remember why.
‘Stirring the energy…’ Trevor starts to move the circle, sunwise. The man opposite keeps his eyes fixed on me as the circle moves faster and faster. ‘Opening the vortex,’ calls Michelle, her scarf slipping, hair flying round her face. ‘Let’s hold it within ourselves…’ I have no idea what we’re supposed to be doing, but the motion is dizzying and exhilarating. The moon comes out again, the clouds have silver rims, stars wink between the branches of the trees, and I can hear a soft panting growing louder in my ears, like the breathing of the whole universe…The Druid next to me stumbles on the uneven ground, jerking my arm, and the movement somehow communicates itself round the circle to Trevor. He starts to slow, brings the circle to a halt, then drops his arms.
‘Brilliant,’ says the spike-haired Druid, squeezing my hand in a bone-crunch grip. ‘Utterly brilliant. Trev, I’ve some mead in my backpack, shall I pass it round?’
‘Have ours instead. Made from our own honey’ Michelle flourishes the bottle, Trevor produces a cup from his furry satchel, pours the mead into it, holds it up to the moon, then both he and Michelle take turns in stirring it, he with a black-handled knife, she with a white. The cup goes from hand to hand round the circle, while one of the stoned girls reads a poem. The Druid produces his bottle anyway, and that, too, is passed round. The mead scalds my gullet like sugary heartburn. I offer the bottle to Martin, who hesitates, then wipes its neck surreptitiously on his sleeve before drinking.
‘All we need now is some drumming,’ says the keen Druid next to me. ‘I brought my bongos.’
Trevor nips the idea firmly in the bud. ‘Bit late at night for drumming. Sorry’
‘Aw, we always have drumming. Wouldn’t be the same without drums.’
‘We get complaints, George. Some of us live round here. You can drum at the campsite if you want to–that’s far enough away from the village.’
‘Always have drums,’ repeats George the Druid, in a sulky mutter.
‘Is that it?’ whispers Martin, in my other ear. ‘Bloody hope it is, before I have to freeze my bollocks off listening to another poem.’
Michelle has hooded the lantern. Trevor begins his closing incantation, sending the elemental spirits back to the four quarters. The circle breaks up and with shouts of merry part! echoing in our ears, we stumble across the uneven ground towards the gate in the lane and make our way back to the cottage where Martin is staying, a National Trust property that was once home to an eminent academic in her declining years, now used to house visiting archaeologists.
‘Well, that was an experience.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I ask.
‘I could have done without the hug-a-hippie bit at the end.’
‘You wouldn’t have said that if it had been those lads from the northern tradition.’
‘Or that pretty boy across the circle, who was giving you the eye.’
‘Did you think so? Not really my type,’ I say regretfully. ‘Tediously predictable, looking for a dad and all that, but I usually go for older men. Preferably bastards.’
‘Oh, I don’t think the Midnight Cowboy’s entirely a bastard,’ says Martin, as we walk up the path. He stops under the porch light, fumbling for the key. ‘Can I tempt you in for a farewell jar? I’m away early tomorrow.’
‘Don’t want my gran worrying.’
‘Won’t she be asleep?’
‘Oh, all right, then.’
The cottage is essentially one up, one down, with kitchen and utility room tacked on like an afterthought. Martin tickles the fire in the living room, while I uncork the bottle of red wine on the table. There is a small sofa, but Martin sprawls on the floor.
‘So how did you wind up with these TV people, petal?’ he asks. ‘They’re exploiting you ruthlessly, you know.’
‘It’s the way television