Phil Rickman - The Chalice

For ten years or so, the Dinner had been well attended by members of the Trust, two or three of them even staying on for a few days afterwards. This had pleased Verity, who found life in general rather dreary when the holiday season was over and Mrs Green, the cook, and Tracy, the maid, had disappeared for the winter.

But, as age and infirmity eroded the Trust, fewer and fewer chairs had been required around the dining table. Most of the original trustees had been, after all, the Colonel's contemporaries, fellow officers and associates. The new, younger ones – including the Colonel's son, Oliver, were apparently less concerned with the more eccentric traditions and, indeed, were keen to modernise the administration of the Trust.

Major Shepherd had been adamant that the Abbot's Dinner must not be allowed to lapse… even when, last year, he and Verity had found themselves alone at the huge table, the silver candlestick between them, the Major speaking the words he claimed not to understand. And now it had come to this.

'My dear, none of us is getting any younger,' the Major had admitted on the telephone this morning. 'Except, perhaps, for you, Verity.' She could imagine the tired twinkle in his faded grey eyes. 'You never seem to change.'

Which she decided to take as a compliment to her vegan lifestyle and her beloved Bach Flower Remedies.

'I shall be seventy next year, Major. But…' She'd thought it a timely moment to remind him. '… I have absolutely no notion of retirement, you understand. I wouldn't know where to put myself.'

'Perish the thought.' And he'd gone on, somewhat hesitantly, to raise the question of the Abbot's Dinner, which she was convinced would have to be abandoned.

'I do realise, my dear, you must have been finding it increasingly something of a trial. And perhaps a little… well, sinister?'

'Oh, no. Major…'

Oh, yes, Major. Sadly.

'So obviously, I wouldn't dream of asking you to go through the whole ceremony on your own tonight.'

Verity had been so relieved that she had had to cover the mouthpiece to muffle her sigh. She would go out tonight. In the absence of a scheduled Cauldron meeting, she could perhaps invite herself to Dame Wanda's charming townhouse for the evening. Or see if there was an interesting talk at the Assembly Rooms. Or even a potentially tedious talk – there would at least be people there and tea to share.

'But perhaps,' Major Shepherd had said at the end of a particularly painful wheeze, 'I could prevail upon you…'

'Oh. That is, you don't have to prevail. Major.' Verity's brightness had begun to dissipate.

'… to light the Abbot's candle?'

'Oh.'

'And perhaps…'

Verity had closed her eyes.

'… short prayer?'

'I…'

'I'm so sorry, Verity. We'll be there with you in spirit. George Pixhill too, I'm sure.'

'In spirit. Yes.'

I do not…

Now she brought out the silver polish, laid an oilcloth over the long, oak dining table and began to work on the candlestick. Her throat was parched, her chest tight.

But she had her duty. She polished and polished, until the candlestick shone in the dark air like the moon.

The Abbot was used to fine things.

It would be four hundred and fifty six years since he was hanged on the Tor.

'It knows we're coming.' Headlice was aglow with the excitement of being a pagan at what he said was the greatest Pagan temple in Britain. 'Look at it… it knows, man.'

The Tor was temporarily free of cloud but losing definition in the darkening sky. You could no longer make out the ridges which ringed the hill and were supposed to be the remains of a prehistoric ritual maze.

It did look ever so mysterious now, with not a house in sight and no other visible hills. Diane, too, felt herself wanting to go up. But on her own. She didn't care to be part of a so-called pagan ritual. They'd come a long way for this; things could get rather, well, orgiastic.

Once, she'd said to Headlice,. Why did you want to be a Pagan? What does it mean to you? Headlice had mumbled something about his childhood near Manchester, being made to go to church and all the hypocritical bastards in their Sunday suits and the women in their stupid hats. How he'd grown up despising Christianity as a meaningless social ritual. Headlice said the difference with the old gods was that they had balls.

'But what will we actually do, when we get there?'

Headlice shrugged. 'All down to Gwyn.'

Everything seemed to be down to Gwyn. Gwyn the Shaman. She hadn't seen him since their arrival. He had his own van. Very dirty on the outside, but newer than the rest. He kept himself apart from the others. Even the travellers, it seemed, had their aristocracy, and Gwyn was the adept, the man with the Knowledge. Since he'd joined the convoy in East Anglia the mood had been somehow less frivolous. Some people had even left.

'Aw,' Headlice said at last, 'most likely we'll just light a fire. Take our clothes off, you know? Under the shining goddess of the moon. Let the energy flow through us and, like, see what develops.'

Oh gosh. Don't like the sound of that!

'Er…' She hesitated. '… you know you're not allowed to do that? I mean, light fires. It's National Trust property.'

Not a very Molly thing to say.

Headlice stared at her and started to laugh. That means it belongs to the people, you daft bat.'

A naked toddler sprang up giggling from the grass, bottom smeared with her own faeces. Diane tried not to notice. She looked away, across Moulder's field with its new covering of beaten-up vehicles painted with wild spray-colours. It was supposed to have all the spontaneity of a medieval country fayre, but it looked sad and dingy, like a derelict urban scrapyard.

Headlice said, 'Be fuckin' great.'

The tower poked the streaky sky, a stubby cigar waiting to be lit.

'Won't be no bother about fires, Mol. Who's gonna try and stop us?'

Another kind of unease was forming around her like a thermal glow. To Headlice, paganism, with its loose talk of 'old gods' and 'old ways', was just a sort of alternative social ritual. But Glastonbury Tor was not the place for play acting.

She saw Don Moulder leaning over his gate, watching them. He was waiting for his money.

'And keep it to yourself, Mr Moulder. About me, I mean.'

'I won't say another word. Miss Diane.'

Don Moulder's currant eyes were pressed into a face like a slab of red Cheddar.

Don was a sort of born-again Christian with Jesus stickers on the back window of his tractor. It meant he never quite lied. So he'd probably told someone already.

Three hundred and fifty pounds changed hands. This left less than two hundred in the pocket sewn inside Diane's Oxfam moonskirt.

The travellers didn't know she was paying for the land; it would have been against their code. They thought Don Moulder was Molly's uncle. He raised an eyebrow at that.

And then said, 'Hippies.' Dumping the word like a trailer-load of slurry. 'Gonner be pretty bloody popular, ain't I, lettin' the hippies on my land. What I'm sayin' is, I'm not sure three hundred covers it, all the goodwill I'm losin', look.'

Don Moulder held all the cards; it cost her an extra fifty.

When she'd first encountered them, the travellers had been camping up on the moor – illegally, but there weren't enough of them to quality for instant arrest under the Act.

The news editor, an awful inverted snob who thought that overfed, upper-crust Diane needed exposure to the lower strata of society, had sent her to do a story on them, hoping, no doubt, that they would refuse to talk to her and she'd come back with her tail between her legs and he could smirk.

Determined that this would not happen, Diane had toned down her accent, adding a little Somerset burr which she thought at the time was rather good, actually. She'd even passed their very obvious test: accepting a mug of tea made from brown water scooped from a ditch.