Phil Rickman - The Chalice

The garden, extending now to little more than three-quarters of an acre, was well tended by Verity close to the house, a small area of lawn which she kept mown and its hedges neatly trimmed. Then it narrowed, a rockery began and so did the wilderness.

'Do be careful, Dr Grainger. Unfortunately, there are thistles and nettles. We did once have a part-time gardener. But when the well had to be sealed and people no longer came to it…'

'You know. Verity, the more I think about this, the more incredible… See, it's clear from the name that this house was built in this location, all those centuries ago, precisely because of the well. No wonder it lost its identity, turned in on itself. You have a scythe or something?'

'I'm sorry, no.'

'That an old spade over there? Would you pass it to me? Thanks.'

He began to slash at the brambles, laying bare what used be a narrow path. Verity, who hadn't been to this end of the garden in many years, seemed to remember there once being cobblestones.

Ms Castell made no attempt to assist – indeed seemed uninterested in what her partner was doing. She paid no heed to Verity either, but gazed beyond the boundary of Meadwell's land to where Glastonbury Tor hung above them, its base bristling with trees, its church tower black as a roosting crow.

Dr Grainger, his back to Verity, looked disturbingly Neanderthal as he swung the spade like an axe, smashing through a clump of tall thistles. Verity clutched her body warmer to her throat. She saw that Ms Castell was watching her now, with a crooked little smile. I don't like you, Verity thought suddenly. She was not one to make snap decisions about people and wondered if this was another warning communicated to her by the Colonel.

Dr Grainger let out a small yip. 'Hey, I think we found it.' He stepped back. 'Goddam, is this a crime or is this a crime?'

They had emerged into a circle of concrete surrounded by a low wall, bramble-barbed and overhung with twisted brittle bushes, most of them clearly dead or dying.

'Yeah,' said Dr Grainger, 'I feel it. All is cool.'

At the centre of the circle was a raised concrete plinth about four feet in diameter. He stabbed at it; the spade rang dully on the concrete.

Chalice Well, where the Holy Grail was said to have lain, was at the top of a lovely garden by the foot of Chalice Hill, which flanked the Tor. Below the well were circular pools of red-brown water. It was owned by the Chalice Well Trust, and on summer days people would pay an entrance fee and sit or lie on the grass, eyes closed, in meditation.

Verity had always wanted to think the Meadwell had been like this once, a place of ancient peace.

It looked harsh and desolate now, and, in truth, she had never seen it otherwise. When she'd arrived to take up the post of housekeeper, the Meadwell had already been partially scaled and Colonel Pixhill never spoke of it.

'You have a pickaxe someplace?'

'Oh!' Verity stumbled, feeling a sudden, intense glow of pain at her hip. Almost immediately it began to fade. 'Dr Grainger, I really don't think…'

'Hmmm. There may be too much light. There a metal cover under here? Like with the Chalice Well?'

'I believe so, but…'

'Yeah,' he said thoughtfully. 'See, you hit it with harsh sunlight after all these years, the shock could completely negate the effect. Am I right here, Eloise?'

Ms Castell stood back. 'I sink the well should certainly be in shadow when the cover is raised. The emanations will be powerful after all these years of confinement.'

'And the energy goes kind of… whoosh. Whereas we seed a gentle, subtle… mingling.'

He made sinuous, snaking movements with his hands. Verity felt herself begin to tremble.

Ms Castell said, 'Maybe first we put over it a tent. To subdue the light, ya?'

Verity grasped the stump of a dead tree to steady herself.

'Dr Grainger, are you a Christian?'

'What?' The question seemed to throw him.

'I'm sorry, it's just that the type of clothing you habitually wear makes you seem rather like a priest, so I…'

'Well.' He gave it some thought, pursing his little round lips. 'I guess I think of myself as a scientist first. My life's a search for understanding. I don't like to be too much in awe. And also there's the tenebral conflict. 'Out of the darkness and into the light. I can't buy that. Christianity makes too many naive assumptions, I guess. That answer your question?'

'Yes. I'm sorry.' Verity turned back to the old house crouching in the shadows of the grey morning, 'I don't think I can let you do this.'

Dr Grainger froze, the spade in mid-air. 'Whaaat?'

'I cannot let you expose the Meadwell.'

'Verity?' He peered at her as though he thought she might have been replaced by someone else and he hadn't noticed.

'I'm very sorry, Dr Grainger.' She rose up in her tiny shoes. 'The Colonel would not wish it.'

'The Colonel?' Dr Grainger was hall-grinning in amazement. 'We are talking here about Pixhill? The late Pixhill?'

'I sink,' said Ms Castell in her somehow unconvincing mid-European murmur, 'zat Colonel Pixhill felt himself to be in a defensive position as regards the world in general. He wanted to close himself in, to seal up all points or access. The well permits water from the hill, maybe from under the Tor, to enter his domain, and so

…' She shrugged.

All around lay rubble and uprooted dead bushes, their whitened branches like bones. Verity was beset by the disturbing sensation of Dr Grainger and Ms Castell hacking into Colonel Pixhill's grave. How dare this woman speculate about the Colonel's state of mind?

'Please leave.'

Dr Grainger kicked away a slab of concrete dislodged by his spade.

'I don't think so,' he said. 'This is important to me now.'

Juanita's head twisted on the pillow. Her hair felt damp on her neck. She could hardly focus on the thin red line slicing Jim's painting in half on the wall opposite the bed.

'I'm going to call a doctor,' Powys said He sounded scared. That made it worse She was frightened for Diane and he was scared for her.

'No. Have you got that? You know what a doctor would say. And I'm not. I'm not going back. Just been overdoing it, I need a rest. And the worry…'

A glass of still spring water stood on the bedside table, a red and white striped straw in it. She tried to sit up and take a sip. She fell back.

Powys held the glass for her 'I'm not leaving you like this.'

'You've got to.' She tried to smile 'Besides, you know how badly you want to know about the missing Pixhill stuff

'It'll wait.'

'It won't wait. None of this will wait.'

'OK, if you won't see a doctor, what about Banks?'

'I'd rather die, if you don't mind.'

'Christ, Juanita… '

'He's an old woman. He'll fuss around. OK, OK, call him. He's in the index.'

She closed her eyes. Patches of grey and black coalescing.

Last transition… disillusion and decay… draught of death.

'Hey… will you look at this?' Dr Grainger squatted down. 'It's iron and there's some kind of a symbol here, if I can just…'

'Get out,' Verity said icily.

'… get this slab of concrete out the way… Come check this out, Eloise. You know how the lid of the Chalice Well has these interlinked circles symbolising the conjoining worlds? See, what we're looking at here…'

Verity flew at him.

The way Stella, the little cat, had flown at her from the cupboard on the night of the Abbot's Dinner. Unfortunately, she didn't have the claws for it; her housework blunted nails raked ineffectually- at his tight black shirt. She felt a wrench from her hip and stumbled.

'Verity, for Chrissakes, what the fuck is the matter with you? The spade fell back into the beaten-down bushes behind Dr Grainger. Verity was aware of Eloise Castell drifting mildly away, watching the struggle with that same supercilious, unconcerned smile on her thin face.