Phil Rickman - The Chalice

'And then' – the thought came out of nowhere – 'somebody puts a new road through it.'

Woolly rose to his feet, picked up the wooden bridge, threw it into the air and caught it in triumph.

'It's about covert secularisation, J.M. The State's always done it, because government – even the Vatican when they ran things – is anti-spirit. The State is about, like, rules and money. Spiritual values, they get in the way. But, shit, there ain't time to go into the politics of all that. You just got look at the effects of this conflict on the ground – on the landscape.'

'When the Normans conquered England,' Powys said, 'and they wanted to establish a physical power base, they built their castles…'

'On ancient sacred burial mounds. You got it, J.M. Course, when Christianity came they built their churches on mounds and inside stone circles, too, but that's OK, 'cause it's still spiritual. But the number of Norman military strongholds built on pagan mounds is staggering. And it goes on. Where do the Army do their training – bloody Salisbury Plain. So all the countryside around Stonehenge is churned up by flaming tanks and splattered with Nissen huts and stuff. Then they ban free festivals at Stonehenge and that screws it for the genuine pagans and Druids who can't find sanctuary there anymore.'

'Leaving Glastonbury Tor.'

'Leaving the Tor. Where Archer Ffitch and Griff Daniel and the G-l crew propose to have 'restricted access'. They strangle the power-centre, pump the St Michael Line full of diesel fumes, negative emotions, road-rage, fatal crashes…'

The mention of fatal crashes seemed to drain the energy out of Woolly, as rapidly as if he'd been shot. He sat down.

'Is this paranoia, J.M.? I can show you the maps, how that road will be visible, to some extent, from every significant church, every ancient sacred site from Burrowbridge Mump to Solsbury Hill, where it meets up with that other evil little bypass. You won't be able to stand on any holy hill or in any St Michael churchyard without hearing the roar of transcontinental juggernauts. It's horrifying, like I say, the worst thing to happen to this town since 1539.'

There was a thump inside Powys's head, as it all landed on him like a big, thick book from a very high shelf.

Sam brought the book up from the shop. 'This the one?'

Juanita nodded. 'Pop it down on the table. You'll have to flip through the pages for me.'

It was one of those Glastonbury-in-old-photos books. Not really Carey and Frayne subject-matter, with its sepia line-ups of long-dead councillors and women in big hats.

'Stop,' Juanita said. 'No, sorry, carry on. Skip this section. Hold it… there.'

Sam swallowed. Juanita extended, with some pain, a discoloured, lumpy forefinger.

Sam looked up from the book.

'Oh, Jesus God,' he said. 'He's younger, but-'

'But that's him?'

Sam nodded. His face looked as blurred and lost and scared and overwhelmed as one of the small boys in knee-length shorts on the very edge of the photograph.

The caption underneath said:

October 1954: Children from St Benedicts C of E Primary School receive their prizes from the vice-chairman of the school governors, Col George Pixhill.

She awoke to the voice of Ceridwen.

The last transition for a woman can be a wonderful and fulfilling time…also a time of disillusion and decay, constantly chilled by the draught of death…

The moan of distress brought Powys rushing in. He saw her head twisting on the pillow in a dark swirl of hair, before she woke, big brown eyes full of dread and not recognising him at first.

Arnold whined, his outsize ears pricked up.

'Um, Joe Powys,' Powys reminded her. He'd spent the night under cushions and a rug on the living room sofa.

Juanita blinked at him. 'Is she…?'

Powys shook his head. 'Sorry. No sign.'

The winter morning hung in the window like a damp rag. Juanita's head sank back. 'What are we going to do?'

On the wall opposite the bed was a Battle duskscape, the red light reduced to a thin line. Powys thought of the St Michael Line, a ghostly ribbon linking the high places.

And interlacing last night's feverish dreams.

While Arnold had stayed, watchful, in Juanita's bedroom.

'Maybe you could call her father,' Powys said.

'Like he'd tell me if she was there?'

'He might.'

'If she isn't there,' Juanita said, 'I don't think it would be good if he knew she was missing. I also suggested to Sam that we should keep quiet about what he saw – the road. Until we find Diane.' Gloomily, she contemplated her face in the dressing-table mirror. 'What's Woolly's state of mind?'

'Not good. Somebody smashed up his shop window last night, while he was out.'

'No.' Her face crumpling in pain. 'In Benedict Street? What's happening to people?'

'Glastonbury First vigilantes. Woolly reckons. Or maybe just ordinary citizens appalled that they voted for a man who caused the death of an innocent child after hallucinating a black bus in the rush hour.'

'What do you think he saw?'

'Well,' Powys said. 'If Sam Daniel, who you say is a confirmed unbeliever in anything, is categoric about seeing Pixhill's ghost then, um, anything's possible. Isn't it?'

He held up the Daily Press.

Christmas Tree Horror

Most of the front page was filled by a panoramic picture of the fallen tree half smothering the lorry. There was also a smiling mother-and-baby photo from the Cotton family album.

And one of a crazy man staring into the camera with eyes which were wide and glazed. He looked like a junkie or an absconder from some high-security psychiatric hospital. There was a grim-faced policeman on either side. The caption read: 'I'm shattered' ~ Councillor Edward Woolaston minutes after the horror.

'He says he's leaving town. Doesn't want to make his friends uncomfortable.'

'He can't do that,' Juanita said firmly. 'I'll call him. We need Woolly.'

He sighed. 'There's something else.'

Along the bottom of the front page, it said:

MP moves on Tor Ban – page three.

'It seems', Powys said, his voice flat, 'that your ailing Member of Parliament, Sir Laurence Bowkett, is tabling a Private Member's Bill.'

He turned to page three and read:

'''The Glastonbury Tor (limitation of Access) Bill is tabled with the full support of the local branches of the National Farmers' Union and the Country Landowners' Association. It is also understood to have considerable support inside the executive of the National Trust, which owns the Tor.'''

'Oh my God.' Juanita slumped. 'This could be passed. It could be law It could be law next year.'

She turned to Powys. 'I wasn't taking this in very well last night. Woolly sees it as some kind of Government conspiracy?'

'More of a cosmic conspiracy, I think. The establishment becoming a tool for the forces of evil. Because of their economic tunnel-vision, governments are particularly susceptible.'

'To the forces of evil as symbolised by…'

'The Dark Chalice. If the Holy Grail is the symbol of harmony and light and the healing power of the spirit, the Dark Chalice – the anti-Grail – represents hatred and division, greed and corruption and… well, you get the idea.'

'And was there a Dark Chalice? Is there anything in British mythology corresponding with that?'

'Um… I reckon Pixhill invented it. He wanted a symbol. Something easily understood. Maybe it's taken on a life of its own. If Diane's seen it-'

Juanita sat up. ' Where?'

'Sam, I think I got dis bug. Feel rotten, all bunged up, so it don't look like I'll be id for a couple of days. Sorry boss.'