Glastonbury had always been a place of power, a pivot point in the ancient battle between the light and the dark. If that delicate balance were disturbed, Garnet knew, not even the Goddess could foresee the consequences.
Glastonbury did strange things to people—as Nick Carlisle well knew. He’d come here for the Festival, part of his plan to take a few months off, see a bit of the world, after leaving Durham with a First in Philosophy and Theology. On a mild evening in late June he had rounded a bend in the Shepton Mallet road and seen the great conical hump of the Tor rising above the plain, St. Michael’s Tower on its summit standing squarely against the blood red western sky.
That had been more than a year ago, and he was still here, working in a New-Age bookshop across from the Abbey for little more than minimum wage, living in a caravan in a farmer’s field in Compton Dundon.
He often came to the George & Pilgrims for a pint after work. A fine thing, when a pub did duty as his home away from home, but then his caravan didn’t count for much—a place to put the faded jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts that made up his meager wardrobe, along with the books he’d brought with him from Durham. The small fridge smelled of sour milk, and the two-ring gas cooker was as temperamental as his mother.
The thought of his mum made him grimace. Elizabeth Carlisle had raised her son alone from his infancy, and in the process had managed to make quite a successful career for herself penning North-country Aga sagas. She had managed her son’s life as efficiently as she did her characters, and had then pronounced herself affronted when he refused to feel grateful.
He had left home, sure that his true path would present itself as soon as he escaped his mother’s orbit. But freedom had not turned out to be the panacea he’d expected: he had no more idea what he wanted to do with his life than he had a year ago. He only knew that something held him in Glastonbury, and yet he burned with a restless and unfulfilled energy.
From his corner table, he surveyed the pub’s clientele as he sipped his beer. There was an unusual yuppie element this evening, young men sporting designer suits accompanied by polished girls in skimpy clothes. Nick could almost feel the rumble of displeasure among the regulars, clustered at the bar in instinctive solidarity.
But it was the man sitting alone at the bar’s end who caught his attention. He was notable not only for his large size and fair hair, but also because his face was familiar. Nick had seen him often in Magdalene Street—he must work near the bookshop—and once or twice they had exchanged a friendly nod. Tonight he sat hunched over his drink, his usually amiable countenance set in a scowl.
Intrigued, Nick saw that he seemed to be writing or sketching on a pad, and that every few moments he raised visibly trembling fingers to brush a lock of hair from his forehead.
When Nick made his way to the bar for a refill, the blond man was staring fixedly at his beer glass, his pen poised over the paper. Nick glanced at the pad. It held neat architectural drawings and figures, and, scrawled haphazardly across the largest sketch, a few lines in what looked to be Latin. It is for my sins Glaston suffered … he translated silently.
“You’re a Classics scholar?” Nick said aloud, surprised.
“What?” The man blinked owlishly at him. For a moment Nick wondered if he were drunk, but he’d been nursing the same drink since Nick had noticed him.
Nick tapped the sketchpad. “This. I don’t often see anyone writing in Latin.”
Glancing down, the man paled. “Oh, Christ. Not again.”
“Sorry?”
“No, no. It’s quite all right.” The man shook his head and seemed to make a great effort to focus on Nick. “Jack Montfort. I’ve seen you, haven’t I? You work in the bookshop.”
“Nick Carlisle.”
“My office is just upstairs from your shop.” Montfort gestured at Nick’s empty glass. “What are you drinking?”
Montfort bought two more pints, then turned back to Nick. Now he seemed eager to talk. “Working at the bookshop—I suppose you read a good bit?”
“Like a kid in a sweet shop. The manager’s a good egg, turns a blind eye. And I try not to dog-ear the merchandise.”
“I have to admit I’ve never been in the place. Interesting stuff, is it?”
“Some of it’s absolute crap,” Nick replied with a grin. “UFO’s. Crop circles—everyone knows that’s a hoax. But some of it … well, you have to wonder.… Odd things do seem to happen in Glastonbury.”
“You could say that,” Montfort muttered into his beer, his scowl returning. Then he seemed to try to shake off his preoccupation. “You’re not from around here, are you? Do I detect a hint of Yorkshire?”
“It’s Northumberland, actually. I came for the Festival last year—” Nick shrugged, “and I’m still here.”
“Ah, the rock festival at Pilton. Bane and blessing of the locals, depending on whether it affords an opportunity for commerce or just clogs every road for miles round.”
“You’re from Glastonbury, then?”
“Born and bred. I came back last year to take care of my parents’ affairs, and I’m still here. Like you.
“Never made the Pilton Festival, though,” he continued. “I had my sights set on the bright lights of London in those days. I suppose I missed something memorable.”
“Mud.” Nick grinned. “Oceans of it. And slogging about in some farmer’s field, being bitten by midges, drinking bad beer and queuing for hours to use the toilets. Still …”
“There was something,” Montfort prompted.
“Yeah. I’d like to have seen it in its heyday, the early seventies, you know? Glastonbury Fayre, they called it. That must have been awesome. And even that didn’t compare to the original Glastonbury Festival—in terms of quality, not quantity.”
“Original festival?” Montfort repeated blankly.
“Started in 1914 by the composer Rutland Boughton,” Nick answered. “Boughton was extremely talented—his opera, The Immortal Hour, still holds the record for the longest running operatic production. All sorts of luminaries were involved in the Festivaclass="underline" Shaw, Edward Elgar, Vaughn Williams, D.H. Lawrence. And Glastonbury had its own contributors to the cultural revival, people like Frederick Bligh Bond and Alice Buckton.… And then there was the business of Bond’s friend, Dr. John Goodchild, and the finding of the ‘Grail’ in Bride’s Well. That caused a few ripples.…” Aware that he was babbling, Nick paused and drank the foam off his pint.
Looking up, he saw that Montfort was staring at him. Nick flushed. “Sorry. I get a bit carried away some—”
“You know about Bligh Bond?”
The intensity in Montfort’s voice took Nick by surprise. “Well, it’s a fascinating story, isn’t it? Bond’s knowledge was prodigious, regardless of his methods; his excavations at the Abbey were proof of that.”
“It’s his methods that were in question, not his results.”
“I suppose one can’t blame the Church for being a bit uncomfortable with the idea that Bond had received his digging instructions from monks dead five centuries or more.”
“Uncomfortable?” Montfort snorted. “They fired him. He never worked successfully as an architect again, and if I remember rightly, died in poverty. If the man had had an ounce of bloody sense, he’d have kept his mouth shut.”
“He felt he had to share it, though, didn’t he? I’d say Bond was honest to a fault. And I don’t think he ever actually claimed he’d made contact with spirits. He thought he might have merely accessed some part of his own subconscious.”
“Do you believe it’s possible, whatever the source?”
“Bond’s not the only case. There have been well-documented instances where people have known things about the past that couldn’t be accounted for otherwise.” Glancing at the paper Montfort had partially covered with his hand, Nick felt a fizz of excitement. “But you’re not talking hypothetically, are you?”