Phil Rickman - The Chalice

She should not have to go through this. Her fear was spiked with an anger now at Major Shepherd for being so ill, too ill to realise what it took out of her. It's my duty to receive the Abbot, she'd told Juanita Carey, almost gaily! In truth, it would be upsetting enough for anyone, woman or man, to prepare a meal for a person long dead and then sit down to dine. Alone. With that person's spirit.

Oh, but she was getting old. She'd be with them all soon, the Abbot and the Colonel and Captain Hope her almost-lover who had died of peritonitis in 1959.

Telling herself again that the Abbot was such a kind man, known for his generosity towards the old and the sick, Verity rocked more slowly and became calmer, pulling her hands away from her face, making them relax on her knees under the table, retracting her claws like a cat. Of course the plate was not empty. With the worry and tension of the Abbot's dinner, anyone could be subject to minor hallucinations.

Why, the ancient stone and timbered dining hall was quite normal: silent and cold and still. Quite normal.

Until the very moment that Verity opened her eyes. When, as abruptly as if someone had plucked out the snowdrop or flattened it between two clapping hands, the candle went out.

And when the room was fully in darkness, not even the ghost of the flame still discernible, the Abbot's chair creaked. The way that a chair creaks when someone rises from it.

And Verity, alone in the reaching darkness – where it no longer mattered that she Did Not See – gave in at last to the pressure of that long-withheld scream.

'What the buggering hell's going on here?'

It might have been the erratic candlelight making Jim Battle appear to quiver. Or it might – Juanita couldn't be sure – have been real, Jim trembling not, of course, with fear but with barely suppressed anger at these bloody pagan scroungers taking over his beloved Tor.

What the buggering hell's going on here? Juanita couldn't believe he'd said that. It was just so Jim, but so completely out of context. Standing there defiantly, shoulders back, on the concrete apron at the foot of the St Michael tower, candles all around him: Jim Battle, building society manager turned mystical artist, being a dumpy little hero.

Juanita just hoped the pagan Pilgrims had a sense of humour.

Actually, there weren't as many of them as she'd imagined. Maybe a dozen. People always exaggerated where travellers were concerned. Juanita stayed behind Jim on the fringe of the assembly, a foot on the last step of the path, her nostrils detecting a soiled sweetness in the air – not marijuana.

No music either. Not even the rattle of the wind which normally haunted the summit of the Tor. Jim's outburst had erupted into a yawning vacuum, as if he'd stormed into church in that moment at the end of a prayer before the scuffling begins.

Juanita lightly squeezed his arm, a squeeze supposed to convey the message, Back off, Jim Make an excuse. Walk away, pretend you didn't see anything. You don t have anything to prove. Say you're sorry for interrupting. Just back off.

'Well?' Jim glared belligerently at the shadowy travellers. 'What have you buggers got to say for yourselves?'

Oh, Jim.

Nobody replied. 'The only sound was a choking gasp from up against the tower. Juanita felt Jim's hand groping for the lamp and before she could think about it she'd let it go and he'd flicked it on, stabbing the beam at the tower.

The gasping person wasn't much more than a boy. His eyes, speared by the lamplight, were glazed. A man and a woman were holding his arms. Juanita realised, with distaste, that the smell on the air was vomit. And it lingered; the air up here was dense, like wadding.

'What's the matter with this lad, eh?' Jim tried to spread the beam over the other travellers, but they moved away. 'Well? Too bloody stoned to explain ourselves, are we? I really don't know what to think about you buggering people, I don't indeed.'

Juanita peered over his shoulder as he sprayed the light about, looking for Diane and not finding her or any recognisable face.

Actually, it was all a touch unnatural. Only the candle flames were in motion, burning in a semi circle of lanterns around the tower, the glowing buds magnified by glass. At Jim's feet, there was a chalked semi-circle around one of the entrance arches; inside it, metal bowl and cups and implements of some kind. Probably some sort of altar, Juanita recalled fragrant summer nights here with Danny Frayne and bottles of Mateus Rose. And laughter, lots of laughter. Why was nobody laughing? Why weren't they making fun of Jim, old guy in a silly hat. Have a drink, dad, Danny Frayne would have said. Have a joint. Be cool.

Jesus God. Juanita shivered under her Afghan. Something wrong here. She remembered Jim saying what purposeful people they were, not the usual semi-stoned rabble, and became aware of shapes on the edge of the candle-lit semicircle, closing in around him. She wanted to show a warning, but suddenly her mouth didn't seem to work anymore.

Sensing movement behind him, Jim turned slowly and with dignity. He snorted.

'I don't know – you call yourselves bloody Green pagans, but you've really no idea what this place is all about, have you?'

For God's sake, how long was he going to keep up this Colonel Fogey routine? How utterly stupid men could be when forced into a confrontation.

'Well, I'll tell you. Tell you what it's not about, shall I? It's not about drugs and made-up bloody rituals invoking lots of shagging. It's not about littering the place with belching wrecks of buses. It's not about worrying sheep and ripping out fences for fires and having a shit on the buggering grass and not even burying it. It's not about contaminating a sacred site, and ruining all the…' A fissure developed in Jim's voice as it became personal, '… all the mystery.'

Juanita flinched as something slid past her and moved, with a fleeting feral smell, through the circle of candles and into the lamp beam.

She flinched again when she saw what it was.

Saw Jim's mouth fall momentarily open. Saw a man (?) with long, tangled hair secured by a metal circlet. Saw, with a feeling like a kick under the heart, that the hair enclosed a face from old, old nightmares, from those books she never really liked to sell, from magical pornography.

An animal's face and a devil's face. Sculpted and textured, harsh-haired around black eyes. And its body gleamed, well-muscled arms and legs glistening with grease. She saw this because, apart from the animal mask, the man (man? Oh lord, yes) was naked.

When he spoke it was not much above a whisper, but it carried like a fast train in the night.

'You've said too much.'

Juanita was shocked to see the lips move, then realised that the mask of hair and skin ended above the mouth but the beard below it was real.

Over the top of the lower, there was a curiously unhealthy glow in the sky. Juanita began to feel seriously scared. This was not your routine New Age extravaganza, and some part of Jim had known it from the start. You know what these characters are like, drugged up to the eyeballs or swigging cider… day trippers. Not these buggers.

Jim looked up bravely into the bearded face.

Please God, Juanita thought, don't let him say anything inflammatory.

Below, the lights of Glastonbury had been doused by mist; the Tor was an island again. It was no longer part of the world Juanita knew.

'And who the hell are you?' Jim demanded. 'Conan the buggering Barbarian?'

She shut her eyes in anguish. Her head seemed to fill up with cold mist. She felt the ominous nearness of other bodies, smelled the feral smell again, like tomcats. This was all so futile. Diane wasn't here. She'd have recognised Jim's voice by now, come dashing out to explain.