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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727884855 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2015 |
| Series: | A West Country Mystery , #1 |
| Edition description: | First World Publication |
| Pages: | 208 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Wounded Thorn
By Fay Sampson
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 Fay SampsonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7278-8485-5
CHAPTER 1
'You can see why they call it Wearyall Hill,' Hilary panted. 'I seem to remember David and me galloping up here when we were younger.'
They were following the path of beaten grass up the steep hillside. Hawthorn bushes foaming with blossom starred the green slope.
'It's not so bad if you take it steadily.' Veronica laughed. 'Someone told me to take smaller steps going uphill. But you just charge at everything, regardless of your age.'
'You needn't rub it in that I'm the wrong side of sixty now, and you're not. If it is the wrong side. I've often thought about that triple goddess thing: Maiden, Mother, Crone. You know, I quite fancy the Crone stage. Not having to bother what you look like, no squalling brats around your ankles, the licence to say what you want and to hell with what anybody thinks about you.'
They paused for breath as they reached the ridge. From here they would turn right. The spine of the hill would take them more gently to the summit. Hilary looked around her with appreciation. The ground fell away steeply on either side. To her left lay the little town of Glastonbury, the grey pillars of its ruined abbey standing out amid the contrasting redbrick houses. On their right was the broad farmland of the Somerset Levels. And, unmistakably piercing the skyline, the dramatic cone of Glastonbury Tor, surmounted by its solitary tower.
Hilary breathed a sigh of contentment. 'Glastonbury, Canterbury, Lindisfarne. Probably the three holiest places in England. Where it all began.'
'Do you think Joseph of Arimathea really did plant his staff here on this hill two thousand years ago?' Veronica asked. 'And it took root and flowered to become the Glastonbury Thorn?'
'Hmm. Well, you can take your pick from two legends. Either he brought the Christ child here, on a trading expedition. Or he came here after the crucifixion, bringing the Grail that caught Christ's blood.'
Veronica sang softly, 'And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green? Mind you, they could both be true, couldn't they? If Joseph was used to trading here, it might explain why he would bring the Grail here, when it grew too dangerous to stay in Palestine.'
'Hmm. I normally take these kind of legends with a pinch of salt. But there's an odd thing. Did you know that the Glastonbury Thorn isn't native to Britain? Apparently it's a species from the Middle East. It really could have come from Palestine. Makes you think, doesn't it?'
They set off again, along the steadily rising path, striding more easily now.
'Is that it up ahead? With the metal cage around it?' Veronica asked. 'Oh, the poor thing!'
'You do know some vandal cut it down?' Hilary asked.
'Yes, but I read that it had put out new shoots from the stump. And they planted another young one as well.'
Ahead of them, to the side of the path, stood not one but two wire cages. The first appeared to be empty, save for a wooden post. In the other stood an old tree — or rather, the ruin of one. Someone had hacked it off above head height. Every branch had been sawn through, where it sprang from the trunk.
But its nakedness had been transformed. Both cage and tree were hung about with multicoloured ribbons, medallions, and strips of paper bearing prayers.
'The Glastonbury Thorn,' Hilary said, stopping in front of it. 'I wish I knew who did that to it. Someone with a chainsaw and a grudge? Or some exhibitionist who wanted to see his handiwork splashed over the papers and TV?'
Veronica reached out a hand through the cage and stroked the bark. 'And to think it may have stood here since Joseph of Arimathea brought it from Palestine.'
'Hmm,' said Hilary more sceptically. 'Don't forget, these trees don't live for ever. From what I've heard, this one was planted by the council in 1951 for the Festival of Britain. The earlier one here was hacked down by the Puritans in the Civil War. But the faithful saved bits of it and planted them all over the town. This was grafted from one of those.' She bent closer to examine it. The old gnarled wood was spattered gold with lichen. The lower part was almost obscured by a rampant growth of nettles.
'I thought you said that new shoots were springing from the stump. I can't see anything, can you?'
Veronica walked around the ruined tree, studying it. 'No, you're right. There's nothing that looks like a green leaf to me.'
Hilary felt an unexpected pang of dismay. 'I was going to say all sorts of things like: "Hope springs eternal" and "You can't keep nature down". A symbol of Resurrection. But there's nothing, is there?'
'Do you think the shoots died? Or has the vandal been back? They never caught him, did they? Does he keep on destroying it?'
Hilary straightened up. 'There's that other cage. The one we walked straight past. That must be where they planted the replacement.'
Both women moved back to study it. This metal cage had been pushed sideways, so that it hung at a drunken angle. The protective wire netting around its base had been torn aside. There was nothing inside but the wooden post and the black collar that had once supported a young tree.
'It's gone too,' said Hilary bleakly. 'There's nothing left.'
She straightened up and surveyed the scene around them. The little town of Glastonbury, the striking landmark of the Tor. A centre of pilgrimage for thousands of years.
'The sacred heart of England, but there's evil even here.'
'Who does it?' Veronica said, coming to join her. 'Is it some pagan who wants to attack the Christian myths about the tree? Or a Christian who thinks the tree is pagan, with all these ribbons and stuff?'
'Or a mindless vandal, who'll destroy anything people value.'
Veronica stood looking down at the town.
'There's so much else holy that draws people to Glastonbury. The Abbey, King Arthur's grave, the Chalice Well, the Tor. Do you suppose any of that is under threat too? Is there someone here who'd like to destroy more of what we care about?'
Hilary came to join her. 'Nothing feels as safe as it used to. Or perhaps it's just me. It really never was a safe world. You know I said that the thorn tree really may have come from Palestine? Touching the bark just now — feeling it dead — I try not to think about David in that hospital in Gaza, but I can't help worrying.'
'It's not the first time he's gone out to help, is it? It's only for a month. He'll be fine.'
An expression of consternation came over Hilary's face. 'Oh, Veronica, I'm sorry! Here am I, worrying because my husband might be in danger, while yours ...'
Veronica smiled, a little sadly. 'It's all right. It's been six months now. I still miss him terribly, but I'm learning to cope. And it was a kind idea of yours for us to come away here and take our minds off it.'
'And now I'm rubbing it in. Typical.'
'No. We came here years ago, Andrew and I. Visited the Abbey ruins, climbed the Tor. It's good to remember happier times.'
Hilary stood in silence for a while. Andrew had died so suddenly. A ruptured blood vessel. There had been no time for Veronica to prepare herself, to say goodbye. It had been Hilary's suggestion that the two of them should come to Glastonbury, to set aside their grief and worry in this most sacred of English towns.
'I sometimes think we take too much for granted. The things we care about. Even here there are people who would attack them, for reasons we probably can't even guess.'
As she turned back to the ravaged tree, something caught her eye. The glint of metal in the afternoon sun. She bent closer to look.
'Idiot!'
Someone had pushed a coin into a crevice of the gnarled bark.
'Look at that! It's not just vandals. Some devotee thinks this tree is precious, but they've done their best to kill it all the same.'
She lowered her knapsack and delved into it to find a Swiss army knife. Using one of the blades, she carefully prised the metal out of the bark.
'Two pounds! Expensive poison.'
She stood looking down at the stained coin in her hand. Then she grinned. 'Well, no point in throwing it away.' She slipped it into her purse.
'Come on, then. This should go some way towards a slice of gateau. Let's drown our sorrows with a pot of tea and some sinful cream cakes. We'll enjoy the rest of Glastonbury while we have it.'
They started to walk down the hill.
Presently, Veronica said, 'That character who destroyed the Holy Thorn ... Do you really think he, or someone like him, might target something else?'
CHAPTER 2'Do you know,' Veronica said, gently stirring her Earl Grey teabag, 'I've never been to the Chalice Well. Andrew and I always meant to, but what with the Abbey and the Tor and the Thorn on Wearyall Hill, we never quite got around to it.'
'Me neither. Right, that's settled.'
They walked up the High Street, past St John the Baptist's church.
'Hang on a minute,' Hilary said.
Two large trees stood in the front corners of the churchyard. Half hidden behind the lefthand one was a flowering hawthorn tree. Hilary marched through the gates towards it.
'There is hope, after all.'
A wooden notice bore the information: A Glastonbury Holy Thorn.
'I told you the townspeople had sneaked cuttings of it when the Puritans cut it down. This was one of them. Apparently, it still flowers in spring and midwinter.'
'There's something magical about that. Is this the one they cut blossoms from to send to the Queen at Christmas?'
'That's right. Looks healthy, doesn't it? Not like that poor wreck on the Tor.'
'Let's hope it stays that way.'
Their route led them on through the town. For all the Christian history for which Glastonbury was famous, the shops they passed offered an eccentric mix of New Age wares and alternative religions. Crystal pendants alternated with seated Buddhas. Placards announced aromatherapy and deep soul cleansing.
At the end of the High Street they took the road that led towards the Tor. The traffic was busy, but when they turned in at the gatehouse of the Chalice Well gardens a noticeable peace fell. They walked up the cobbled path to the ticket office. The gate into the gardens was patterned with two overlapping circles, making a figure of eight.
'The Vesica Piscis,' Veronica read from the leaflet. 'It symbolizes a union of heaven and earth, or spirit and matter.'
'Hmm.' Hilary pushed the gate open and stepped into the gardens. She looked round, shrewdly appraising.
'It's like so much else at Glastonbury. The Christian myth is really strong — and by "myth" I don't mean it's false, but the deep story running underneath everything. The red spring, coloured by Christ's blood from the Grail. And there's all this other stuff — New Age paganism, Goddess worship, Kabbalah, you name it.'
'Many Paths, One Source,' Veronica read.
'What they mean is, whatever you care to believe in, you'll find something to attract you in the gift shop.'
'Don't be so cynical,' Veronica reproved her. 'These gardens are rather lovely. There's a real atmosphere of ... peace.'
Hilary shot an apologetic look sideways. 'Sorry. You're right. I sound like a hardened old sceptic, don't I? Go ahead. I'll follow you.'
Veronica led the way. They came to the first pool, in the open sunshine. It was shaped again like the Vesica Piscis figure of eight. Water tumbled into the pool down a series of fluted cups, banked by flower beds. The water was a brownish red, staining the stones it flowed over. On benches around it people sat, drinking in the peace.
Veronica and Hilary sat down too, meditating companionably.
After a while, Veronica rose. She drifted past flower beds, touching the blossoms lightly as she passed, or bending to drink in their fragrance. Following behind, Hilary watched her. Whatever she had said about the Chalice Well, the gardens were doing her friend good. There was, she had to admit, a sense of healing.
They went up the steps to a rectangular pool, which invited visitors to bathe in the therapeutic waters. Again, the water tumbled through red-stained channels.
Giant yew trees stood sentinel before a higher gateway.
It led them to a spout of water issuing from a lion's head in the wall. Two circular stones, golden red, stood beneath it. Glasses set on the upper one invited the passer-by to drink. Hilary reached out a finger to investigate the red-slicked stone.
'A chalybeate spring. Iron. I suppose it's not surprising that people should jump to mystical conclusions about where the colour came from. Don't they say it was Christ's blood which Joseph of Arimathea collected in the chalice he used at the Last Supper?'
'Or rust from the nails with which he was crucified.'
They both drank from the water.
'It's refreshing,' Veronica said. 'A little bit metallic. They say you only need a few sips.'
'The iron might actually do us good.'
Hilary strode on uphill, past another Glastonbury Thorn, in the direction of the Chalice Well. When she reached the circular enclosure, she paused. She hadn't been sure what to expect. A stream gushing out of the hillside? Or bubbling up out of the ground?
The reality was neither. Within a circle of low walls, a vertical shaft was protected by a grating. Plants showed a vivid green below the rim. The well cover was thrown back, to reveal that same pattern of interlacing circles, this time pierced by a lance. The cobbled pavement around it was studded with ammonites.
But standing in front of it was a figure Hilary had least expected to see: a small woman covered by a blue burka, which hid everything but her eyes. Hilary stopped dead in surprise.
Hands emerged from within the blue cloth. From under the folds of her burka the woman drew a notebook. She looked at the well in front of her and the surrounding stonework and flower beds. She made rapid notes and sketches. Then she turned, almost bumping into Veronica and Hilary behind her. For a moment, the eyes in the slit of her veil looked startled.
'Sorry! Didn't hear you coming.'
The voice did not have the accent Hilary had anticipated. It bore the strong nasal twang that could only come from Birmingham. The eyes that regarded them through the narrow opening were blue.
She swept her skirts aside as she moved around them and hurried off down the path, brushing purple alliums and yellow tulips as she passed.
'Well!' Hilary let out a long breath. 'I didn't expect that.'
Veronica was only half-listening. She knelt down beside the well and dipped her fingers through the grille. 'It's too far down to reach, but they say the spring is warm.'
'Another indication of the mystical. Like the hot springs at Bath. Hot red water. Got to be a supernatural explanation. But tell me, what's a devout Muslim woman doing at a Christian and New Age shrine?'
'The same as we are?' Veronica sat back on her heels and smiled up at her. 'Satisfying her curiosity about one of the foremost sacred sites of Glastonbury? Enjoying the peace and beauty of the gardens? Why not?'
'Hmm,' Hilary snorted again. 'I'm not sure it fits. Whatever it was that brought her here, she was keen to make notes about it.'
'Perhaps she's a writer. Collecting ideas for an article.'
Hilary turned her head and watched the shapeless figure of the woman disappearing back down the path to the entrance.
Veronica knelt for a while before the spring. Hilary seated herself on the low wall.
Presently they took a more meandering way back to the exit, pausing in a meadow facing Glastonbury Tor. They found a bench and let the peace of the late afternoon sink into them.
As they rejoined the path, Hilary scanned the scattering of visitors still coming towards the well: foreign tourists, a family party, people she judged from their ethnic clothing and esoteric pendants to be New Age devotees, more conventionally dressed women about their own age, who seemed as interested in the planting of the flowers and shrubs as the sacred significance of the site.
'Oh, no!' she groaned. 'Spare us.'
Prancing along the path came a motley figure who would not have looked out of place on the fringes of a Morris dance. His multicoloured clothes hung in tatters. His battered tall black hat nodded with feathers. He wore a jester's shoes with up-curled toes. There were tattoos on his hands and his face was smudged with soot. He danced towards them to the sound of bells held between his fingers and his palms.
When he was a few paces away he swept off his hat and bowed deeply. Mockingly? Hilary wondered.
'So you're here to be blessed by the sacred spring? How does it make you feel? Rejuvenated? Uplifted? Did you see visions in the healing pool on your way here? Have you drunk the water yet? You really should. You can feel the power washing through you. The blood of Christ or the milk of the Goddess. Who's to say?'
'Thank you,' Hilary interrupted firmly. 'We've done everything we need to. Now, if you'll excuse us, we're on our way to the exit.'
'Don't forget the shop. They have, if I may be so immodest as to mention it, a book of mine. Dancing with the Divine. Rupert Honeydew at your service.' He flourished the feathered hat again.
'I'm sure we'll see it.' Hilary was aware that Veronica at her side was stifling giggles. 'Now, if you wouldn't mind ...'
Rupert Honeydew stood aside with exaggerated politeness.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Wounded Thorn by Fay Sampson. Copyright © 2015 Fay Sampson. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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