Phil Rickman - The Chalice

'Well good God, you're only going to London..

'Ah,' said Fay.

It wasn't just London. The World Service was planning some kind of trans Global Christmas linkup under the working title Peace on Earth. Fay would be involved in producing the European end. From Brussels and places.

'Ah,' Powys said.

'And then there's a few other things. Paris. Amsterdam. Back in March.' Fay said. 'Probably.'

'Sounds brilliant,' he said, hoping she'd think the hoarseness was on the line. 'Do it. Don't look back.'

But, she said, what about him?

Fine, he said. Really. And he told her about the book.

The book that Ben Corby was passing on to this guy Frayne at Harvey-Calder.

Not the book which came off the shelf, sailed halfway across the room and smashed the lamp.

'That's wonderful, Powys,' Fay said. 'So you could be back in business, then.' And there was a silence, and then the conversation became rather weepy.

Later that morning, Powys went for a walk with Arnold. They climbed to the top of the hill behind the longhouse, Arnold indignant at being carried part of the way. From here, you could see along Offa's Dyke, the earthwork which used to mark the boundary between England and Wales but was only an approximation these days. The dyke itself was not exactly the Great Wall of China and probably never had been. It was just a symbol of an old division.

In The Old Golden Land, Powys had argued that borders were very sensitive places, where the veil – yes that veil – was especially thin. It was a place where you might expect to have extraordinary experiences.

So what was he still doing here?

'Hiding,' he said aloud. 'Hiding out.'

But had something found him?

He had Arnold's ball in his jacket pocket, and Arnold knew it. Usually, Arnold would race about after it, proving he'd never really needed four legs anyway. Today he stuck close to Powys.

It was Fay who'd rescued Arnold from the dog pound after Henry Kettle, the dowser, died in the car crash. Fay was small, like a terrier. She'd held on as long as she could. Now, in taking the London job, she had, in theory, cut Powys loose as well. He'd told Ben he was still here because it was Arnold's home, and Ben had said that was a wonderfully New Age thing to say.

But it wasn't really true.

He looked back down at the cottage. Mrs Whitney next door was hanging out towels on her washing line. Mrs Whitney had known Fay wasn't coming back; he could tell by her expression.

'Let's go, Arnie. Home.'

Home?

When they got back to the cottage, Arnold stood in the doorway and growled. Powys made his senses go dead and uncaring, or, at least, that was the message he sent to himself. It's nothing, it doesn't matter, it's irrelevant.

The big black book lay in the centre of the hearth this time, its spine split.

Avalon Out, Says Candidate A bitter attack on the 'New Age subculture' of Glastonbury has been made by the man chosen by South Mendip Tories as their next Parliamentary candidate. The Hon. Archer Ffitch, son of local landowner Viscount Pennard, says the town will become a national joke unless it 'stops encouraging cranks'.

Mr Ffitch won a standing ovation from constituency party members when he told them, 'We must seize the future and stop mooning about our mythical past.' He said the town had become saturated with pseudo mystics, many of whom were blatantly pagan, and had become a Mecca for New Age travellers. As a result, local house prices had dropped and businesses were reluctant to invest in the town. Even the boundary signs identified Glastonbury as The Ancient Isle of Avalon in acknowledgement of 'a probably bogus legend'. Mr Ffitch said, 'If the local authority wants a new slogan, I'll give them one: Glastonbury FIRST, Avalon OUT.' Mr Ffitch's remarks followed his formal acceptance of…

'You bastard,' Jim Battle muttered, as dusk settled like mud around the red roofs.

His first thought was to screw the Evening Post into a ball and ram it into the nearest litter bin. Instead, he folded it into his saddle bag. He would show it to Juanita. If he could face her.

He'd waited until the end of the day before cycling into town, Nothing to do with not wanting to show his face in daylight for fear of people pointing at him: That's him, that's the bloke who was executed last night, ho ho. Where's your hat, Jim?

Nobody would, of course. Nobody knew and nobody would find out. Even the buggering travellers had spirited themselves away. He wouldn't have to face anyone. Except for Juanita and his own hatless head reflected in shop windows.

Perhaps his humiliation on the Tor had been a small payback for his self-indulgence in fleeing the city to reside amid ancient mystery. How bloody Pat would have enjoyed it: the invasion of Jim's little idyll, a barbarian's blade over his throat.

As it turned out, nobody commented even on the premature departure of the travellers. The report of Archer Ffitch's speech had greater implications.

'This is the kind of chap we need,' said Colin Border in the off-licence, pointing to the Post's picture of Archer looking severe but dynamic. 'What I've been saying for years. How can you hope to attract new industry to a town where half the potential workforce appear to be pot-smoking sun worshippers? Fourteen pounds 49p, please, Jim,' wrapping Jim's bottle of Scotch in brown paper.

'Won't be terribly popular down the street, though.' Jim put his money on the counter. 'Lot of New Age types running quite profitable businesses now.'

'What, vegetarian sandwich bars and poky shops specialising in bloody overpriced gimcrack jewellery that's supposed to have healing powers? Give me a Marks and Spencer any day. Not that Archer'll be losing any support in that direction. Most of these halfwits throw away their votes on the Green Party and the rest are bound to be Labour, the odd one or two Lib-Dems. What's he got to lose? Nailing his colours to the mast from the outset. I like that.'

'Hmm,' Jim said. Because of the way he dressed and his disapproval of thieving travellers, people like Colin assumed he must be as reactionary as they were.

'I like this bit, Jim. Listen to this, "Glastonbury enshrines the idea of a strong English and Christian tradition within an established, solidly prosperous country town. It stands for the Old Values. Whereas Avalon, said Mr Ffitch, is a place which exists only in legends and folklore. It has been adopted by those who choose to turn their backs on the real world, to inhabit a drug-sodden cloud-cuckoo land where no one has to work for a living and traditional family values are laughed at.'"

'Yes,' said Jim. 'Quite.' He picked up his bottle and got out of there before he exploded.

Outside, he looked down the street to where the lights of the New Age shops began. He saw a twinkling display of assorted crystals. He saw tarot cards and dreamy relaxation tapes and a lone twilight candle burning in the window of The Wicked Wax Co.

Well, all right, one or two of the windows were rather lurid; some of the owners a little, erm, eccentric. But that candle, for instance, symbolised something important, something close to the essence of it all. Something Archer Ffitch wouldn't understand and many of his supporters wouldn't realise until it was too late.

Jim folded the evening paper, jammed it under his arm and mooched off towards The George and Pilgrims. He needed a couple of drinks.