She passed a schoolyard with a school building beyond it. Through an open window she heard the sound of young voices chanting. It sounded suspiciously like times tables, although it was in Welsh, of course. Beyond the school were the last buildings in the village—two chapels. They stood across the street, mirror images of each other in solid gray stone. Each of them had a notice board outside, announcing them to be Capel Bethel and Capel Beulah. Each notice board had a biblical text on it. One said, “Whoever asketh, receiveth,” while the other stated, “Not everyone who says Lord, Lord will enter into the kingdom.”
Emmy smiled to herself as she walked past. They really were clueless up here in the boonies. Presumably they hadn’t even realized that the two biblical passages contradicted each other.
The hotel he told her about dominated the crown of the pass. It was, as he described it, a hideous giant chalet, complete with gingerbread trim and geraniums in boxes—completely out of place on a bleak Welsh mountainside. The discreet stone sign had the words “Everest Inn” carved in gold letters. The car park beyond was dotted with expensive cars so that the Jag didn’t look out of place. She walked up to the car and got in.
He looked up expectantly. “Well?”
She pushed back her hair and a big smile spread across her face. “We hit pay dirt in one. She’ll be just perfect.”
Chapter 3
Excerpt from the book The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon
Who Are the Druids?
To many outsiders the word Druid conjures up a white-robed, bearded gentleman offering a sacrifice on Midsummer Night at Stone Henge. However, this picture does not represent the truth. Stone Henge was built long before the first Celts set foot in Britain and there have always existed Druid priestesses as well as priests. And while Druids did offer sacrifices, they were not blood hungry.
Who then were the Druids? In the golden age of Celtic spirituality, they were a priestly ruling class, advising warlords, predicting the future. They were the keepers of the ritual but far more than priests. They were involved in politics as well as sacrificial ritual, prophesy, and control of the supernatural world. They were the teachers, the keepers of the oral tradition. They were the philosophers, shamans, physicians, and judges. They were feared and venerated.
Julius Caesar wrote of them, “They have the right to pass judgment and to decide rewards and punishments.”
We know from ancient writings that Druids underwent a twenty-year course of study before they became fully fledged priests.
There were three subcasts to the order of Druids:
Bards who were the poets, singers, musicians, genealogists, and historians;
Ovates, who were the diviners and read the omens;
Druids, who were the priests and judges.
Caesar also wrote: “they know much about the stars and celestial motions and about the essential nature of things, and the powers and authority of the immortal gods, and these things they teach to their pupils.”
In many ways they were similar to the Hindu Brahmins and the Chaldean astronomers of Babylon. They were then, as they are now, the bridges between the two worlds—seen and unseen.
“Please don’t cry, Mrs. Williams.” Constable Evan Evans reached out awkwardly and patted his landlady’s large shoulder. This gesture only made the generously built woman sob into her handkerchief even more loudly.
“I feel like I’m losing a son,” she said. “The son I never had, you were.”
“It’s not like I’m going far. Just across the street, isn’t it? And you’ll be able to see me every day. I might even drop in for a cup of tea and a chat.”
“But it won’t be the same.”
“Come on now.” He put a tentative arm around as much of her shoulders as he could reach. “It’s time I moved on, isn’t it? I can’t go on being spoiled by you all my life. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.”
Mrs. Williams made a supreme effort to collect herself. A big shuddering sigh went through her body. “I suppose so,” she said. “I knew it would have to come someday.”
“Believe me, I’m not completely thrilled about it either,” Evan said. He bent to pick up a cardboard box of possessions from the floor of his room. “Cooking for myself after eating your good food for over a year—that’s going to take some getting used to. I’ll probably be as thin as a rake within a month.”
“You could come back here for your dinner anytime you wanted. You know that,” Mrs. Williams said.
“I know.” He smiled at her fondly. “But that’s not the point, is it? Bronwen won’t make any commitment until I’ve had a taste of living on my own.” He hoisted the box onto one shoulder and started down the stairs. “She’s perfectly right, of course. I went from my mother’s cooking to yours. I’ve never really lived alone before. How can I hope to be a husband and father someday if I don’t know how to look after myself?’
“So you’ve made up your mind? You’re thinking of marrying Bronwen Price and settling down then, is it?” Mrs. Williams’s tears were forgotten. She hurried down the stairs behind him. “We all knew you were courting her, of course, but …”
“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “I’ve turned thirty, haven’t I? About time I settled down.”
“You could do worse, I suppose,” Mrs. Williams said grudgingly.
“Worse? I don’t think I could do much better. She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”
“I won’t deny that. A nice-enough girl. Sensible too. But a little too serious, if you ask me. A man needs some fun in his life. He needs to go dancing from time to time. Let his hair down a little after a hard day’s work.”
“Are you saying I should be dating Betsy then?” He knew perfectly well what she was hinting. She had dropped the same hint, none too subtly, at regular intervals since he moved in.
“Betsy Edwards? Betsy-the-Bar? Escob annwyl! Indeed, I am not suggesting a thing like that. Betsy’s too flighty to make any man a decent wife. What you need is someone who is a good homemaker and knows how to have fun too.”
She reached around Evan to open the front door for him. A swirl of cold wind flapped the pages of a book on top of the pile. “Now, I know you haven’t liked to ask out our Sharon while you were living with me. I can understand that. A young man likes some privacy in his romantic dealings. He can’t go courting when the girl’s grandmother is supervising. But now you’ll be living on your own, why don’t you take her out—with my blessing? Then you’ll see—a lovely little cook, Sharon’s turning out to be, and a lovely little dancer too.”
Evan was glad his back was turned to his landlady so that she missed the involuntary wince. Sharon, Mrs. Williams’s granddaughter, giggled like a schoolgirl at everything he said, and she was too enthusiastic, all over him, constantly pawing at him. It was like fending off a Saint Bernard puppy.
“I’m sure she’ll make some man very happy, Mrs. Williams,” he said, “but you know me. I’m a quiet sort of bloke. I don’t go in much for dancing and that kind of thing. Bronwen suits me quite nicely, thank you.”
He stepped out into the blustery day, holding onto the objects on top of the pile that the wind threatened to snatch away. It was supposed to be spring, he thought gloomily, and yet there was another dusting of snow on top of Mount Snowdon last night. He glanced up at the mountain as he crossed the street, but the peak was hidden under a heavy blanket of dark cloud. On the other side of the street was a long row of terraced gray stone cottages, typical of any mining village. Evan put down the box outside the door of number 28. The only thing that distinguished it from numbers 26 and 30 was that it had a red front door. Such splashes of outlandish color were frowned upon in rural Wales. The last inhabitant, a widow called Mrs. Howells, had always been considered flighty on account of the red front door. She hadn’t shown any other signs of exhibitionism during her fifteen years of tenure, but the local women were still apt to speak of her as “Mrs. Howells Number Twenty-eight, you know, the flighty one with the red door.”