Phil Rickman - The Chalice

It had been a really crazy thing to do. Madness. He opened the suitcase and took out her cloak and put it around her shoulders. Very gently, he brought her to her feet. Her face was very close, but he couldn't see it very well. The moon had gone, the mist had arisen, there was a thin and icy wind.

'I c-could see her.' A tremor in Juanita's voice. 'She was in a grey place and she was lying down. I g-got a feeling of terrible confusion. I tried to tell her I was there. Sure she knew at one point. But then she turned away.'

She buried her head in his chest and he held her under the arms of the Abbey as the sleet came, deceptively gentle at first.

'I felt a light go out,' Juanita said.

As they came back over the wall, Juanita shivering inside the cloak, Powys heard the rumble of traffic, the criss-cross of headlights on the stone.

Two vans came out of High Street; he turned and saw them enter Wellhouse Lane. An ancient, clattering Rover followed. And then – oh God – a bus.

A couple of dozen people were walking up High Street. They wore big boots and carried backpacks and rucksacks.

'What's happening?'

'You don't know?' a young woman said. 'Demo, mate.'

'Where are you from?'

A bloke said, 'Bristol Eco-guerrillas. BEG. Except we don't. Be people here from all over the country by morning. You know they started the road?'

A woman spotted Juanita in her cloak. 'You one of the pagans? It's getting, like, a bit confused. Groups everywhere been waiting for the call on the road, you know?'

Someone leaned out of the back of a truck. 'Happy solstice, sister!'

'Let's get out of here,' Juanita whispered. Powys wasn't aware until they were heading through the already crowded central car park to the back entrance of The George and Pilgrims that she had taken his hand.

In hers.

Shortly before seven, Matthew Banks and his friend, the secondhand bookseller, called for Wanda in Matthew's Discovery. Wanda was petulant and bothered about her clothes, settling at last for the capacious black and white cape and a black, wide-brimmed hat which Verity knew would be blown away by the wind on top of the Tor.

'You'll have to carry my bag, darling,' she snapped at Verity. 'I can't manage everything. The bloody, bloody bishop. Why couldn't he have simply waited until the Summer Solstice?'

'I'm not coming.' Verity handed Matthew the flask of coffee she'd made for Wanda and a half bottle of Glenmorangie.

'Don't be ridiculous. Get in the car.'

'I'm needed at Meadwell.'

'That damned house needs nobody. Except possibly a demolition crew. Now get in, Verity.'

'I'm sorry, Wanda. I should never have come here. I know you couldn't refuse. I know how much you owe Ceridwen.'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'They made you invite me to stay, didn't they?'

'What utter non-'

'To get me out of the way. Well, you can tell them I'm going back.'

She turned her back on the Discovery and walked off down the mews. Someone would give her a lift, perhaps.

'Verity!' Wanda screeched. 'I've done everything for you, you sad little woman!'

Don Moulder was manning his field gate, keeping the riff raff out, shouting at them that it was private property.

Who were all these buggers? They never said this. There'd been talk of a small demonstration against Bowkett 's Restriction of Access Bill (of which Don Moulder was fully in favour).

'No, you can't!' he roared at some cretin in a cagoule leaning out of his car and waving a twenty pound note. 'This is the official car park.'

At last, two new-looking cars prodded through the cold mist which was alternating with freezing clear spells and sudden wintry mist, the Tor appearing and disappearing, against a filthy night sky.

'Mr Moulder? Peter Wakery, Archdeacon.'

'Thank Christ.'

'Indeed,' shouted the Archdeacon. 'The Bishop's behind me in the BMW. Just tell us where to go.'

'Over there. Under the tree. By the buzz.'

Don Moulder didn't look at the bus. He hadn't been close to it. Hadn't even liked putting the keys in his pocket. Maybe the Bishop could bless them too. And then he'd sell the bus back to the scrap-yard for half of what he'd paid. Give the proceeds to charity. Thus cleansing himself and his land.

The Bishop was wearing a tweed overcoat, buttoned around a purple neckpiece. He stepped out under an umbrella.

'Morning, your grace. Donald Moulder. This is my field.'

'Good morning, Mr Moulder. And a very fine field. Wonderful view of the Tor.'

'About the buzz. Bishop…'

'The buzz?'

'I spoke to a feller in your office. Reverend Williams, could've been. Arranging for you to help me with this buzz. This one behind you.'

'My God,' said the Bishop, 'I don't think we can tow it away.'

'To cleanse it. Bishop. To free this buzz and my field from unwanted presences. This Reverend Williams said you could, like, exorcise it…'

'I'm sure he said no such thing, Mr Moulder.' The Archdeacon, a powerfully built man in a Goretex jacket, thrust himself behind them like a bodyguard, 'I think you must have misunderstood.'

'You sayin' this man lied to me?'

'He was in no position to make any such promise and on a day like this, with a schedule like ours… I suggest you write to the diocese. I'm sorry. Mr Moulder, we do have to get on.'

'Drop us a line,' said the Bishop, as he was hustled towards the field gate.

Don Moulder looked back towards the bus. All he could see in the darkness was a great black bulge in the field and the glimmer of the scab like radiator grille, rust on it like dried blood on grinning teeth. Grinning at Don Moulder's stupidity.

As the Bishop's party left the field, another BMW pulled halfway through the gate, a head leaned out of the driver's window.

'Mr Moulder!'

Archer Ffitch's voice.

'Hell's going on?'

Don wandered over. 'Somebody told 'em the new road's under way.'

'But that's nonsense.'

'You tell them that. Looks like hundreds of the bolshie devils, comin' from all over, look. Won't do your campaign no harm, though, will it, Mr Archer? You wanner get up there, argue with 'em. Be telly crews in a bit. Make the most of it, I would.'

He knew he sounded like a ranting lunatic.

'I'll come later,' Archer said. 'I have to see my father.'

He reversed out of the field. Don Moulder followed him, not looking back. People with torches and backpacks were swarming all over the lane. It was like Armageddon.

They went into The George and Pilgrims through the back door and quietly up the narrow stairs to Powys's room.

When Arnold leapt up at her, Juanita pushed both hands into his fur. Powys looking on, not sure if the dream was over.

Juanita held both hands under the Tiffany lamp. They were still luridly discoloured, but she could flex the fingers without pain. She reached up, very hesitantly, and untied her cloak.

Juanita and Powys looked at each other. Neither said a word. Powys pushed his hands through his hair, sat down on the bed.

'I suppose', Juanita said after a minute, 'that most people would say it was a nervous thing. That I… you know… could probably have used them any time. But I was scared to.'

'Is that what you think?'

She thought about it. 'If that was the case I think I'd have been able to use them when I wasn't thinking about it like when we were making love.'

'How long have you known?'

'I suspected from the moment I put my hands up before the stone arms. To receive the Chalice. I didn't think about it again.'

'Juanita…'

'Mmm?'

'Who was the other woman?'

'Did you see another woman?'

'I think I did.'

'There was power there, wasn't there?'

'A lot.' He couldn't stop looking at her hands, they were loosely clasped in front of her against the muslin dress. 'A whole reservoir.'