Jenni Mills - The Buried Circle

THE

BURIED

CIRCLE

Jenni Mills

In memory of my father, Robert Mills, who flew

1916-78

and my mother, Sheila Mills, who danced

1921-2007

I sought for ghosts and sped

Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing

Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.

Percy Bysshe Shelley,

Hymn To Intellectual Beauty

Time wounds all heels.

Groucho Marx, John Lennon,

and others, including Margaret Robinson

Part One- Memory Crystals PART ONE Memory Crystals ‘History, archaeology, it’s all moonshine, really. We’re only guessing.’ Dr Martin Ekwall, interviewed on BBC Wiltshire Sound 1942 ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he says. The Insect King. ‘It’s only a mask.’ Eyes like a fly, elephant’s trunk that’s long, rubbery… ‘It’s only a mask,’ he says again. ‘I know it’s a mask,’ I says, braver than I feel. But there’s masks and masks. I’ve seen masks. I’ve seen what happens in the moonlight in the Manor gardens. ‘Frannie…’ It’s only a whisper, so I’m not sure if it came out of his mouth or out of my head. He’s at me now, pressing himself against me, and I’m feeling all the bits of him, long gropy fingers and the hard poky bits. There’s a glow in the sky, something burning near the railway yards, searchlights over Swindon, the banshee howl of the warning, and the anti-aircraft batteries have started up. ‘Take it off,’ he says. ‘The mask?’ ‘Your flicking robe.’ At least, I think he says robe. ‘Coat.’ ‘Whichever.’ ‘A bit nippy for that.’ I’m trying to keep it calm, trying to be funny, pretend I’m in control, because this isn’t what I meant to happen. He gives me a push, quite hard, and I’m up against the stone. It’s cold against my back, like moonlight, and scratching at me like fingers through the thin material of my coat. There’s really nowhere to go now. I would be afraid, but I won’t let myself. You can’t let them have everything. You can’t let them have your fear. You got to keep a bit of yourself. I’m going to put my bit where it’s safe, a long way away from here. Beech trees, black against a silver sky. Somewhere else the real moonlight is pouring down. Bombers’ moon. A killing moon. Planes like fat blowflies trekking high above the Marlborough Downs. I take myself away, as far as I can, trying not to feel the burning down there, fingers, hands, other things, feels like there’s lots of them all at once, wanting a piece. A voice whispering again, Frannie, Frannie . It’s terrible dark. There’s a smell of rubber, thick and choking. Hard to breathe. An awful slick, oily smell of rubber…

Chapter 1 - Lammas, 2005

Chapter 2 - Autumn Equinox

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part Two - Imbolc

Chapter 5 - Candlemas

Chapter 6 - 1938

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - 1938

Chapter 9

Chapter 10 - 1938

Chapter 11

Part Three - Equal Night

Chapter 12 - 1938

Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - 1938

Chapter 15

Chapter 16 - 1938

Chapter 17

Chapter 18 - 1938

Chapter 19

Chapter 20 - 1938

Chapter 21

Chapter 22 - 1938

Chapter 23

Chapter 24 - September 1938

Part Four - Fire Festival

Chapter 25 - 1939

Chapter 26

Chapter 27 - 1940–1941

Chapter 28

Part Five - Earth Magic

Chapter 29 - 1941

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32 - 1941

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37 - 1941

Chapter 38

Chapter 39 - 1941–2

Part Six - The Sun Stands Still

Chapter 40 - 1942

Chapter 41 - Solstice

Chapter 42 - 1942

Chapter 43 - 1942

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Part Seven - Killing Moon

Chapter 47 - 29 August 1942

Chapter 48

Chapter 49 - 29 August 1942

Chapter 50

Chapter 51 - 29 August 1942

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56 - 29 August 1942

Chapter 57

Part Eight - Sunwise

Chapter 58 - Lammas, 2006

Chapter 59 - January 1945

Author’s Note

Also by Jenni Mills

Copyright

About the Publisher

‘History, archaeology, it’s all moonshine, really. We’re only guessing.’

Dr Martin Ekwall,

interviewed on BBC Wiltshire Sound

1942

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he says. The Insect King. ‘It’s only a mask.’

Eyes like a fly, elephant’s trunk that’s long, rubbery…

‘It’s only a mask,’ he says again.

‘I know it’s a mask,’ I says, braver than I feel. But there’s masks and masks. I’ve seen masks. I’ve seen what happens in the moonlight in the Manor gardens.

‘Frannie…’ It’s only a whisper, so I’m not sure if it came out of his mouth or out of my head. He’s at me now, pressing himself against me, and I’m feeling all the bits of him, long gropy fingers and the hard poky bits. There’s a glow in the sky, something burning near the railway yards, searchlights over Swindon, the banshee howl of the warning, and the anti-aircraft batteries have started up.

‘Take it off,’ he says.

‘The mask?’

‘Your flicking robe.’ At least, I think he says robe.

‘Coat.’

‘Whichever.’

‘A bit nippy for that.’ I’m trying to keep it calm, trying to be funny, pretend I’m in control, because this isn’t what I meant to happen. He gives me a push, quite hard, and I’m up against the stone. It’s cold against my back, like moonlight, and scratching at me like fingers through the thin material of my coat. There’s really nowhere to go now.

I would be afraid, but I won’t let myself. You can’t let them have everything. You can’t let them have your fear. You got to keep a bit of yourself. I’m going to put my bit where it’s safe, a long way away from here.

Beech trees, black against a silver sky. Somewhere else the real moonlight is pouring down. Bombers’ moon. A killing moon. Planes like fat blowflies trekking high above the Marlborough Downs. I take myself away, as far as I can, trying not to feel the burning down there, fingers, hands, other things, feels like there’s lots of them all at once, wanting a piece.

A voice whispering again, Frannie, Frannie . It’s terrible dark. There’s a smell of rubber, thick and choking. Hard to breathe. An awful slick, oily smell of rubber…

‘I don’t want to do it,’ I said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. The shots will be fantastic. You’ll love it. Unless you’d like us to use someone else on the series?’

The usual blackmail. If you’re experienced enough to do the job, you can say no. If you’re not quite twenty-five, and desperate to claw a foothold in television, you’ll do anything. I made one last pathetic attempt to get him to change his mind. ‘Seriously, Steve, I’ve never filmed like this before. I’m not properly trained. If this was the BBC, the hazard-assessment form would have it flagged up as a major risk.’

‘There’s a harness, Indy. You’ll be strapped in.’

‘My legs’ll be dangling.’

‘What’s happened to your balls?’

‘My balls, if I had any, would be dangling too.’

So, my legs are dangling. My non-existent testicles are dangling. My bum, perched on the edge of the open helicopter door, has gone entirely numb. Below me is–well, if I were a proper cameraman I’d be better at judging these things, but I’d say a good six or seven hundred feet of nothing. Below that is hard Wiltshire chalk, with a skimpy dressing of ripening barley. The helicopter’s shadow races across it, a tiny black insect dwarfed by the bigger shadows of the clouds.