Phil Rickman - The Chalice

Poor little sod. He'd probably be hounded out of town, out of Somerset in fact. And then the old man would swagger back with a bloody huge majority thanks to Glastonbury First, which stood for Traditional Standards and road safety and getting rid of nutters.

Sam kicked at a branch, which turned out to be dead and rotten. It shattered into a shower of sodden splinters and one lump flew into his face. Bastards.

Everything collapsing. Everything diseased. How could any silly bugger believe there was a God up there?

The full implications were only now becoming sickeningly clear. The way the scum was rising back to the top: the return of Councillor Griff, man of the people, and Archer Ffitch smarming his way into Parliament – the cool, blatant way Ffitch had planted the idea with the TV people that his little sister was a hopeless fruitcake and you mustn't hold her against him.

Sam peered down the slope towards the bulk of a barn. You'd get a couple of horse boxes in there, no problem. If he got here before daybreak, came round under cover of this wood, he could do all the tyres before breakfast. No way they'd get them all replaced in time. Not on Boxing Day. Hunt off. Piece of cake. Merry Christmas, Mr Fox.

So, need to check for padlocks on the doors. Might need some cutters.

Sammy, Going Equipped for Burglary is the charge, coppers find you with bolt cutters. You'll go down for three months and when you come out nobody respectable's going to give you any more work.

'Get off my back, Hughie!'

Sam was about to slide down the bank towards the big barn when he smelled something.

Smoke. Burning.

Well, he wasn't daft. If Pennard was hosting a top-people's barbecue over the next rise, he wanted to know about it.

He scrambled back up the slope, holding on to bushes, torch in his pocket. Slowing up the nearer he got to the top, trying not to breathe too loudly.

The hill was longer than it looked. Must have been two, three hundred yards. Scrambling to the top, he nearly toppled into empty air.

He dropped flat, didn't move, kept very quiet for two minutes, the acrid smell everywhere now. Peered over the unexpectedly abrupt edge – almost like a big slice had been taken out of the hill.

It had. That was precisely what had happened. You could make it out now: a big, wide trench. JCB job.

What we got here then, Sammy?

No sign of flames. No sounds, not even an owl. He was well out of sight of Bowermead Hall and, presumably, Rankin's farm. He pulled a torch from his jacket pocket, a Maglite, big beam. Snapped it on, stared in disbelief.

Shit on toast!

At first, Sam didn't understand. Used to be all woodland here. Lovely woods. Used to sneak in here as kids. It was legendary for conkers. Giant horse-chestnut trees. Also beech and sycamore and huge, thick oaks.

Now, for as far as the torch beam would stretch, it was a sea of stumps. And fallen tree trunks whose branches and winter foliage had been cut off, piled together and burned.

Burned. It was horrible. A massacre. When he switched off the torch he could detect glimmerings of red, the damped down smouldering of bonfires.

I don't get it. I don't get it, Hughie.

Come on, Sammy, where's your brain gone? It's the road! The sensitive Glastonbury stretch of the Bath-Taunton fucking Relief Road! It's happening now. Here. In secret.

Sam felt like one of-those poor bloody trees, all the sap in him drying up, everything crashing to earth around him. This was some of the finest broadleaf woodland in Somerset. A wildlife paradise, with badger sets and all kinds of birds and wild orchids.

Scorched earth, now. He scrambled down, stood in the deep, wide trench, flashed his torch from one side to the other. It was massive, surely twice as wide as a dual carriageway. But then, they had to allow for the banks, the verges and the hard shoulder.

It made some sense when you thought about it. If Pennard had sold a chunk of his precious land for the road, what he didn't want was a few hundred eco-guerrillas camping out on the site and living in the trees to prevent them being axed. This was a pre-emptive strike.

He shone his torch ahead of him. The beam faded out before the road did. When he looked up, he could see the Tor again, looking shadowy and majestic… and dead straight ahead.

The full horror of the plan, the awesome scale of it made him go cold. He'd never liked the idea, but he'd figured he could live with it Not quite the stab to the heart it was to Woolly and those guys.

But suddenly he wanted to cry aloud. This was England, Ancient England. He could hear the traffic already, he could smell exhaust and diesel fumes. See the articulated lorries and holiday coaches and the flash gits in their Porsches, all the men like Archer Ffitch, all the women like Charlotte.

The hounds began to howl in their kennels. Heard him, maybe. So what? He was going to let this out, what they'd done – illegally, no doubt – and it would damage Pennard and Archer a whole lot more than just sabbing their hunt,

The howling went on. It dawned on Sam that this was no ordinary howling. He began to feel uncomfortable. Exposed. He moved away along the trench, walking quickly along the ruts, dodging the remains of bonfires, the hounds going at it all the time like the Wild Hunt of bloody Gwyn ap Nudd. It was creepy, like moving through an open wound, like he was stumbling into a bleak and ravaged future. Up on the banks, exposed, bare saplings were writhing and rattling.

Unexpectedly, he saw Glastonbury Tor again. It was a shock; it was so close, and sheer like a castle, the road aimed straight at it. It couldn't be, of course, because the published plan showed the route giving the Tor quite a wide berth; it just looked like it the way this section was aligned, like it would cut directly through the middle of the hill, under the tower.

The howling stopped. There was a great stillness. An icy stillness. Sam had that feeling of being watched. Of someone rearing up behind him.

He spun round irritably, and all the breath went out of him.

There was a man standing, staring silently up at Glastonbury Tor. An elderly, straight backed man in an overcoat.

He held a pipe in his mouth. Sam smelled the tobacco, just briefly. The old man's face was pale and hazy and fibrous, like soiled cotton-wool; there was a ridged scar under one eye.

Least it wasn't Pennard. Sam tried to laugh with relief, tried to speak to the old guy, but he couldn't find the breath.

The man turned very slowly to face him. Sam saw that he wore very long, dark trousers. So long that they covered up the shoes. In fact he couldn't see where the trousers ended.

This was because the old man was hovering about six inches above the rutted track. His rigid arm was pointing at the Tor. His jaw fell open, revealing no teeth, only a black void, and his eyes were like white gas.

The old man's scream was silent.

Unlike Sam's.

It must have been halfway down Benedict Street, where Woolly lived and worked, that Diane got a bad feeling. It said, Go back.

She stopped and frowned. She seemed to spend most of her life responding to feelings, waiting for signals and beacons on the horizon. Never seemed to think for herself. Never seemed to reason

So she walked on. This had, after all, been one of her favourite places in all the world. Ever such a little shop, in a tiny square, at the end of a short alley off Benedict Street, and all it said over the door was: WOOLLY'S.

As a child of about eleven or twelve, she used to persuade Rankin to bring her into town to visit a friend. He didn't, of course, know who the friend was.

She'd spend hours watching Woolly in his workshop in the back. He was with a lady called Maria then. The business hadn't been going long, and they were mostly working on specialist jobs, recreating medieval string instruments for folk groups. Woolly was a fan of people like The Incredible String Band and Amazing Blondel who Diane was a bit too young to remember, but on their record sleeves they wore colourful, medieval patchwork clothes and Woolly said they came from a gentler time and she believed that. It always sounded like a different dimension. Like Middle Earth, everybody wearing floppy clothes and laughing a lot, light as butterflies.