Phil Rickman - The Chalice

'Oh, Woolly, that's not you.'

'Yeah, I know. I hate that stuff. Man of peace. But what d'you do, Juanita?'

'Well, you don't do anything undemocratic. You're a councillor.'

'Sure,' said Woolly. 'But when you get on the council, you find out pretty soon how helpless local authorities are. Thing is, with this bunch in there and no local locals, you're gonner get demands for the extreme option anyway. Not counting the ones who'll recommend curses and laying out the runes and stuff.'

'Ceridwen's there, then,' Juanita said.

Woolly grinned. 'Least you done me proud, Juanita. You look

… sheesh.'

'Well, thank you, Woolly. I decided to pass up on the pearls.'

'Anyway.' Woolly straightened his tie, it was actually a kipper tie, circa 1974, featuring Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe. 'I better get in there, strut my stuff.'

'Just don't go over the top, there'll almost certainly be Press there.'

'Yeah,' said Woolly dismally. They're the ones not smoking joints. Sheesh, I can't even see Jim Battle. He'll be coming, surely?'

'Yes.' Juanita said tightly. 'I'm sure he will.' She glanced over her shoulder and went into the meeting.

He poured another Scotch, pulled three bristle brushes from the sink, putting aside the linseed oil; time for neat turps.

Got to work fast. Get this down while the energy's there.

The three paintings on their easels were all part of the same picture. He could see it now. The afterglow, usually close to the centre of the canvas, should in fact be on the perimeter, a before glow. The paint burning through from the edges, to the heart of the experience, the core of the pyramid.

Where lay the Grail.

Why had he never seen this before? To reach the inner light, you had to pass through darkness. Every experience, no matter how negative, was a force for progress. Even the worst humiliation – the sickle over your head, rejection by the woman you'd yearned for

… all part of a rite of passage, through the deepest darkness, to the core of it all.

He was feeling so much better now he was painting. He'd been hoping for a good dusk to fire him, but the rain had kept on. Only when a bough of the ash tree tapped on his window, awakening him – and he saw something hanging from that bough, yes, yes – did he realise he could ignite his own.

Inside, he'd poured more whisky, finishing off the Johnnie Walker, starring on the Chivas Regal he'd been saving for Christmas. Arousing a glow in his gut and feeling it spread.

And outside, he'd pulled out the dog grate and lit a fire on the stone hearth, building a pyramid of oak logs, watching the sparks shoot out until the logs began to turn red, and then he'd wedged more logs around them, making a hard, hot tunnel.

By the time it got dark, the whole room was glowing with a roaring, red energy.

Never lifting his gaze from the canvas, Jim Battle rummaged like a blind man among the tumble of tubes on his worktable to find a fat, full one he rarely used.

It would be labelled Lamp Black.

The association calling itself Glastonbury First was clearly not a sham after all. For a start, you had to be seriously confident to hold your inaugural public meeting at the Town Hall.

The building was next to the Abbey gatehouse and a little taller – nineteenth-century officialdom overseeing ancient sanctity. The town hall was lit up, the gatehouse an archaic silhouette.

The worrying part was that the main hall was nearly full. Must be close to four hundred people. Diane sat at the back, near the doors, as a sober-looking band filed onto the stage, among them Griff Daniel, discreetly followed by her brother Archer, and a wave of spirited applause from the floor.

She hadn't seen Archer in months. He'd put on a little weight, the chest-expanding, shoulder-widening kind she supposed heavyweight boxers like to acquire before a fight. Archer's hair was coiled and springy; he looked well. Would Archer chair the meeting? Couldn't, surely, be Griff Daniel; he didn't have a terrific reputation for integrity.

It was neither or them. A bulky figure in a pinstriped double-breasted suit stood up at the table, perusing his notes through half-glasses. Oh gosh, Mr Cotton, Quentin Cotton MBE, noted charitable fundraiser and the Ffitch family solicitor.

Credibility. Mega credibility.

Mr Cotton coughed for silence.

After thanking everyone for coming, he said, it saddens me that such a gathering as this should even be necessary.

One might reasonably have thought that everyone in this town would put Glastonbury first. But this, regrettably, is not the case.'

Oh well; obvious what was coming.

'An increasing number of persons in our midst – although I doubt that any at all is here tonight – appear to give higher priority to bizarre beliefs of a quasi-religious nature, which for various tar-fetched reasons, they appear to consider appropriate to our pleasant old country town… a town which, let me say at the outset, has no use for this nonsense.'

An awful cheer arose. Mr Cotton smiled grimly and nodded.

'Where once we attracted the more discerning visitor, we now draw, on one level, the lunatic fringe and, on another, what I can only describe as the dregs of the inner-cities. Those who exist on state benefits and prefer to steal from our shops rather than expend any of their hard claimed money, which they prefer to go on drink and drugs.'

Clapping, general noises of affirmation, and a dusting of bitter laughter

'But you're not here to listen to my opinions. You want facts. And behind me is a distinguished panel of experts ready and waiting to supply them. First, may I introduce a local businessman, well known to most of you – Mr Stanlow Pike, of Pike and Comer, estate agents and valuers, who will outline for you precisely how the value of the very fabric of this town has declined. By the fabric, I mean your homes. By decline, well, I think I am talking – and Mr Pike will confirm this – in the region of twenty per cent. Calamitous. Mr Pike…'

An anxiously overweight man in his fifties, Mr Pike began by saying that his business had been established in this town for three generations.

'I can see among you many of my clients, past and… and present. Among the, er, present clients are…' Stanlow Pike was pressing the tips of his fingers into the table, his body leaning back then forward like a large bird on a perch.

'… Are several who have had properties for sale for more than a year and been unable to find a satisfactory purchaser. This is, to an extent, a national problem as you all must be aware. And a problem shared by every other agent in this town. However, it is worse here. Worse than Somerton, worse than Street, worse than Castle Cary. Because this most beautiful and historic town is no longer… no longer considered such a desirable place to live. And… and we all know why.'

One after another, they arose. The chemist, who had suffered two drug-related burglaries. The local official of the National Farmers' Union, whose members had been obliged to blockade their land against the thieving, trespassing travellers.

Griff Daniel's own speech was brief and, at first, restrained. He was a local man. He remembered a time when these mystical types were just a handful of harmless cranks. When they wore suits and ties like everyone else. When they did nothing more threatening than picnic on the Tor.

Which brought him to the point of this gathering.

'It's a pretty place, the Tor, on a summer's morn,' Griff said lyrically, 'But after dark…'

He thumped the table once with his fist.

'… after dark, 'tis a threat and a menace to us all.'

Griff's face broke into a grim smile.

'But they also know the law, these scum. They know they're legal. Now don't that make you sick?'