Time's Legacy

  He said nothing. She hesitated, then went on. ‘It was the crystal ball my mother gave me. Not a round shiny thing, like you see in jokes about fortune tellers. No, this is a lump of unpolished rock crystal, dredged out of a mountain or a river somewhere. It is a wild crystal, still encased in its bedrock.’ She smiled at this description. Athena would approve. ‘Somehow it acts as a key. It has switched me on to see and hear and know things I didn’t know before. I only have to think about them and I seem to be there. It is an heirloom. It seems to have been passed down my mother’s family and it has enabled the women in the family to tune in to the unseen.’ She stood up and took a short turn round the room, moving in short agitated steps towards the fireplace and then back to her chair. Throwing herself down again she shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it’s evil. It’s not witchcraft, is it! It sounds as though it is, but I am not conjuring spirits. I can’t be. Those spirits have always been there. They are your family’s ghosts, not mine!’ The words came out as a wail of despair. ‘Ben, my mother left it to me as a sacred trust. I mustn’t get rid of it; I can’t drop it into a lake. I can’t lose it or give it away except to my own daughter.’ She rubbed her hands down her face and looked up again in despair. ‘My mother told me it would destroy my Christian faith.’

  Ben didn’t move, still intent on studying his fingertips. When at last he spoke, it was without looking up at her. ‘This must terrify you, Abi.’

  For a moment she considered. Then she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Not terrify. That’s not the right word. What is happening is odd and disconcerting. Unsettling. But not terrifying.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Do you still believe in the power of prayer?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ She stood up again, pushing her hair back off her face. ‘This hasn’t destroyed my faith in God, just in myself as a priest.’

  ‘Then why don’t we pray together.’ He looked up at last. ‘Sit down and take a moment to compose yourself. Push away your doubts and fears. Still your mind.’

  Behind him a log shifted in the fire. She reached into her pocket for a tissue and sat miserably twisting it between her fingers as she stared down at the carpet. Ben stood up. Stepping forward he removed it gently from her hands and turning, threw it on the fire. Then he went back to his chair. After a moment he began to say the Lord’s Prayer. Abi closed her eyes. When he had finished they both sat quietly for several minutes.

  ‘“My daughter, in time of illness do not be remiss, but pray to the Lord and he will heal you. Keep clear of wrong-doing, amend your ways, And cleanse your heart from all sin.”’

  Ben raised his eyes and looked at her. ‘You know the passage from Ecclesiasticus?’

  She nodded dumbly. ‘Am I committing a sin?’

  ‘Only God can know that. You aren’t happy about what is happening or you wouldn’t have come to me about it, would you. You feel uncomfortable. You are uncertain. I can only suggest you pray. Surround yourself with the love of God. If you feel you shouldn’t be doing this, Abi, stop.’ He fixed his gaze on her. ‘Recite the Breastplate. “Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger”, remember? If the crystal frightens you, hide it. Put it away. Give it to someone to look after it for you. Don’t think about it. Don’t let it have power over you. The fact that it came from your mother is incidental. Don’t allow your loyalty or your grief to sway you into doing something you wouldn’t do normally.’

  Abi was thoughtful. ‘It has passed through generations of women in my family,’ she said after another silence. ‘I wondered if Lydia or Petronilla might be my ancestor.’ As soon as she said the words her eyes flew up to meet his. ‘Oh, my God, Ben! I don’t know why I said that. And it’s ludicrous. Woodley is your family home, not mine.’

  ‘Though your mother came from not far away.’ He smiled. ‘It might be true but I doubt if you can ever prove it.’

  ‘What if the crystal was Mora’s? What if she knows it is telling her story? What if it has come down through her descendents from mother to daughter all those generations?’

  Ben looked sceptical. ‘I hardly think that is likely or even possible. If these people are Romans and druids, you are talking about nearly a couple of thousand years, Abi!’

  ‘But it makes sense of what is happening to me.’ Suddenly she was excited.

  ‘Does it?’ He held her gaze. ‘Are you sure?’

  She looked away, deflated, and shrugged. ‘I still don’t know what to do.’

  He grinned affably. ‘So, you’re not going to stop?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can. Not because I’m not capable of saying no, but because I’m not always sure when it is going to happen or how or why.’ She stood up. ‘I don’t have to be holding the stone. It has happened more often without it than with! Spontaneously. Without me doing anything to initiate it.’

  ‘Then, whoever she is for now, we must hope she means you well.’

  ‘So, taking all that into account, do you think Kieran is right and I’m some sort of witch?’

  Ben laughed. ‘Is that what is really worrying you? Not that what you are doing might be in some way wrong, but that it might be seen as witchcraft? What is witchcraft, Abi? How do you see witches?’

  ‘Isn’t it more about how he sees them? For him I am the impersonation of the female half of the evil zeitgeist.’

  Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘And do you feel this describes you at all?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then forget witchcraft.’ He stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Go home, Abi. Relax. Rest. Pray. Spend time in St Mary’s. That is what you are here for. Try to resist the urge to conjure spirits. If they come anyway, watch, but stay uninvolved. We will talk again in a day or two.’

  As Abi’s car disappeared out of the gate Janet came into the room. She went over to the log basket and threw a couple of logs onto the fire. ‘Glamorous lady. You didn’t tell me she was beautiful.’

  Ben smiled. ‘I can’t pretend I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Is she much troubled?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes. I need to pray about this.’

  ‘Be careful, Ben.’

  He glanced across at her with a rueful smile. ‘You know, I think this is one for brother Justin if I only knew where to find him.’

  9

  Gaius watched as his brother rode off down the track. Flavius was heading towards the fishing village on the edge of the winter fens to interview one of the men there. A passing trapper, delivering a load of furs, had passed on word that a foreign-looking young man had gone out there to try and cure the old man’s wife. He had failed. Flavius had smiled when he heard the story. ‘Not such a miracle worker, then. But I must follow this up. There can’t be many men of foreign complexion working as healers in this part of the world.’ He had taken Gaius’s best horse, swinging onto the saddle with ease and eyeing the animal’s harness. The bridle was of tooled leather and the bronze bit and headpiece were of the finest workmanship. He smiled grimly, then kicked the animal into a canter.

  Once he was out of sight Gaius turned back inside. ‘Let us hope this poor man he is after has already put many miles between himself and the village!’ he said grimly to his wife. ‘I wouldn’t wish the most vicious criminal a run in with my brother, never mind an innocent healer!’

  Lydia glanced at Petra, who was lying on her couch, her eyes closed. She went over to Gaius and put her hand on his arm. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said softly.

  ‘We are not going to let him chase us out of our home again,’ he said robustly. ‘You are right. This time we make a stand.’ But how? The words remained unspoken between them. Flavius’s ability to cause trouble had always been subtle. There was no knowing which way his attack would come. ‘Never be alone with him,’ he whispered into her hair as he put his arms around her. ‘And never turn your back. Don’t let the children be alone with him either. Tell the servants and the herdsmen. I would rather they stay close to the compou
nd while he is here. Sorcha knows. I could see she had the measure of him.’ He paused and looked round. ‘Where is Romanus?’

  Lydia pulled away from him, suddenly worried. ‘He is obsessed by Flavius. He was watching him mount up this morning, taking in every detail of his clothes and baggage. Surely he wouldn’t have followed him?’ She turned towards the doorway. ‘Sorcha? Where is Romanus?’

  Sorcha appeared. She had been sitting outside with the quern. Her clothes were covered with a large apron, but there was still flour in her hair and on her hands. ‘He went off early. He had a bow with him.’

  ‘Thank the gods!’ Lydia sighed with relief. ‘I was so afraid he might have followed my husband’s brother.’

  Sorcha raised an eyebrow. ‘He will, if not today, then tomorrow. Your man’s brother is already drawing the boy in with his tales and stories of travelling in distant countries. Romanus is fascinated. Life here is dull for him.’ She shrugged. ‘And he’s not made to be a druid, if you forgive me for saying so!’

  Lydia glanced at her husband who was bending over Petra, feeling her forehead with his hand. ‘We hoped he would follow his father into some form of trade, but he is so taken with Mora and Cynan. He sees their way of life as glamorous and serving the gods.’

  ‘And so it is, for those who are born to it!’ Sorcha’s mouth turned down. Lydia hid a sympathetic smile. Everyone for miles knew that the girl had set her cap at a handsome young bard from the college, but his parents had ordered him to turn her down because she did not come from the druid caste. A shame because the girl was intelligent and attractive and would make some man a good wife. She deserved better than being tied to a trapper or a shepherd and there were few farmers around who were not already married.

  Mora arrived with Cynan as the sun stood high in the sky. Romanus still hadn’t returned and Cynan waited outside, watching Sorcha at her tasks while Mora went in to talk to Petra. The two young women sat by the smoky fire watching Lydia at her loom for a few minutes, then Mora took Petra’s hands in hers and began to examine the swollen joints. ‘These are no better?’

  Petra shook her head. She was biting her lips with pain as Mora gently straightened the fingers. ‘I have brought you a new medicine. I am trying a slightly different combination of herbs, and I have brought you some ointment to rub into your hands and wrists and to put on your aching legs.’ She was talking softly. ‘I had hoped to bring a colleague with me. A young healer from the far side of the Roman Empire who has come here to study and teach. He has worked miracles with some of our patients.”’ She looked up and smiled. ‘He is praying for you.’ Her smile faded. ‘What is wrong?’

  Petra shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ Her face was full of anxiety. ‘It’s just, my uncle has come from Caesarea and he is hunting down a young man whom he wants to question. He says he might be a traitor to the Emperor. Caesarea is on the far side of the Empire. It couldn’t be the same man. Could it?’

  Mora shook her head. ‘I hardly think so. Yeshua is a gentle, kind man. I told you, he’s a healer and a teacher. Besides he has been travelling the world. It is a long time since he was in his own country.’ She pulled a small pottery jar of ointment out of her bag, unstoppered it and began to work it gently into Petra’s hands.

  Petra groaned with pleasure. ‘It gives me so much relief.’

  Mora nodded. ‘The medicines are blessed by our own mother goddess and I have used water brought from the sacred hot spring of the goddess Sul to blend the ingredients. You must keep your hands warm. Do you still wear your fur mittens?’

  Petra nodded.

  ‘Go out on dry days in the sunshine, just for a few minutes if you can. The air will bless you and make you feel better. But on wet cold days stay in by the fire.’ She frowned. ‘Do you eat well?’

  Petra smiled. ‘I have little appetite.’ She looked up as her mother tucked her shuttle into the weft and web of her weaving, making the loom weights rattle, and walked towards them. ‘How is she, Mora?’

  Mora looked up. ‘She will be better. In my experience this aching of the bones often gets less as girls grow older. I am hoping it will start to ease soon. If it doesn’t, I have another medicine I could try. It is very strong, though. I’d rather not use it if possible.’ She laid her hand on Petra’s forehead.

  Behind them Cynan ducked in through the door. ‘Sorcha is making some bannocks. She asked me to find out how many we would like. We are to have them with honey and blackberries.’ He smiled at Mora, then sat down next to Petra. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better.’ She looked at him wanly. ‘You promised one day you would take me out in your canoe. I will hold you to that one nice sunny day. Mora thinks the air will do me good.’

  ‘Any time.’ The young man smiled at her kindly. ‘So, who’s hungry?’

  When they left, Lydia looked at her daughter. ‘We will not mention this friend of Mora’s to anyone. I doubt if he is the same man, but if he is, I don’t feel inclined to help your uncle in his search.’

  Petra nodded. ‘He brings such anger and cruelty with him. I can see it in his eyes. I want him to go away, Mama, if he makes you unhappy.’

  Lydia sighed. ‘He will go soon.’ She wasn’t sure how, but one way or another she was going to have to make sure Flavius moved on otherwise he would destroy their family. But she was not going to help him by sacrificing some innocent stranger to him. Her mouth set with determination. On several occasions Flavius had come very near to ruining her life. It was not going to happen again.

  Abi sat staring down at the rock crystal ball which lay in her lap. She was sitting on the bench near the ruins, feeling the warm autumnal sun on her face, her hair stirring slightly in the gentle wind. Her vision gone, she was staring out across the garden towards the orchards. From here she couldn’t see the Tor. Her stomach was churning; her brain was making connections which filled her with dismay.

  ‘Caesarea. The Roman province of Judea. A wandering healer. A teacher. A man with gentle eyes. A Jew. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t!’

  She was frowning with concentration, thinking back to her studies when she was at theological college and before that, to her history degree. As far as she could remember they had been told that there had been numbers of itinerant teachers and healers and miracle workers wandering around the Holy Land at the time of Jesus. He had in a sense at first been one of many. One of the great unsolved mysteries of his story was what had he done and where had he been in the ‘missing years’ between his childhood and the start of his ministry. Of course she had heard the legends. Who hadn’t? The story that Joseph of Arimathaea had come to the West Country and that maybe he had brought the boy Jesus with him. There were other stories too. Some of these claimed that Jesus had travelled elsewhere in those hidden years, when no-one knows where he was. She remembered her tutor’s smile as he had recounted some of the most outrageous claims. The legends that he had gone to India or Tibet. And come back to the Glastonbury he had visited as a child, to study with the druids.

  As if!

  Nonsense!

  She found she was holding the ball so tightly that her fingers had gone white; her hands were sweating. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears for a moment: This will destroy your faith. That’s what it did for me.

  Why? Even if this was – Jesus – her mind balked at even framing the word, why had this story destroyed her faith?

  Because it would prove that he was just an ordinary young man travelling in his gap year? That he wasn’t the son of God? Because the Serpent Stone had lifted him off the altar and put him on a windy hillside and given him muddy feet and all too human emotions?

  But he had to have been somewhere. Why not here?

  She shook her head slowly.

  No, this was ridiculous. She was inventing the whole thing. She had allowed herself to be overwhelmed with all that had been happening to her and now, being here in Glastonbury, her brain was working overtime to slot everything into a convenient mould. The stone. Her m
other. Her mother’s death. Her faith and the strange things that had happened in Cambridge. It all had to be part of some brain fever. She didn’t need counselling so much as hospitalisation and some hefty doses of anti-psychotic drugs.

  She put the stone down beside her on the wooden slats of the bench and rubbed her hands up and down on her jeans with a shiver. She had to stop this. Now. It had gone far enough. Cal was making lunch. In ten minutes she would come to the kitchen door and call her. She must stand up, go back in and that would be that. No more. Put away the stone. Hide it. Bury it. Throw it into the pond. Go back to Ben and ask him – ask him what? She stood up and leaving the stone on the bench walked over to the ruins, pushing her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. She should pray. But how could she pray now when that young man’s face would come to her, between her prayers and Jesus Christ?

  This will destroy your faith.

  She stared down the garden towards the orchard. The old apple trees, lichen-covered and bent, their branches knotted and thickened like arthritic limbs, were starting to shed their leaves, but there were still apples on them, small knobbly apples of some ancient species. She watched a blackbird pecking at one. It stopped as she spotted it and flew off startled to perch on the top of the tree. A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention and she turned. Mora was standing near her, watching her.

  ‘No!’ She stepped back. ‘No! This is not happening!’

  The blackbird flew squawking its alarm and disappeared over the hedge. Mora had gone.

  ‘Abi!’ Cal’s voice echoed down the garden. ‘Lunch!’

  It wasn’t until she was sitting opposite Cal at the kitchen table that she realised she had left the Serpent Stone on the bench.

  Mat looked at his brother and raised an eyebrow. ‘So, how do you think Abi is getting on?’ They were sitting at a corner table in the Black Lion, each with a pint and a ploughman’s before them.