The Girl and the Guardian

Chapter Three

  The Sacred Yew of Iffley

  I cycled in as night was falling. A storm was brewing as I rang the doorbell at the local inn (The Tree, whose brochure promised ‘Room rates include a good old-fashioned English breakfast’). My teeth chattered as I stood on the well-worn stone doorstep in gusts of icy wind. When I was finally ushered in, my glasses fogged up badly, but I hardly noticed as I warmed my hands before the fire, enjoying the heavenly smell of dinner cooking, and sipping a pint of excellent local ale.

  The next morning I was woken by the infernal buzz of a two-stroke engine - directly under my window, it seemed. The storm, which had rattled the old leadlights in my upstairs room for most of the night, had abated, leaving a fresh stillness in the cold air – and leaves, which apparently had to be blown with noisy mechanical urgency into piles for disposal.

  I sat down to breakfast tired and irritable with whoever had used the leafblower and rubbed my nose in the follies of the modern age, but expectant of great discoveries regarding the past. I looked at the old manuscript and the Chartres rubbings once more over a cup of tea. I decided what I would say to the Vicar at Iffley, should he interrupt me at my investigations of his tree. Then, after checking the contents of my knapsack once more, I stepped outside.

  The leaf-blowing, Sabbath-breaking contractor had just finished his task, and I glared pointedly at his departing van before unlocking my bicycle and setting out for Iffley. Signs of storm damage were everywhere. The river Isis (odd name for an English river!) was up, swirling dead branches and other flotsam past the willows along the banks. It was still relatively early in the morning, and only a few cars passed me on the road to the church as I cycled briskly along, humming the Gregorian chant which had fixed itself in my mind, anticipating, fantasising about what I might find at Iffley. Especially I pondered the poem about the doorway into the lost Garden of Eden, and the ‘Key’ that might be a medallion. ‘Could such a momentous thing really be hidden there?’ I wondered.

  As I dismounted in front of the old church, sparrows chirping in the greenery, nothing could have prepared me for the suddenness with which I was propelled into another reality, the ancient forest where coincidences pile up like autumn leaves, assumptions crumble and paths open up to things ‘undreamed of in our poor philosophy.’

  I leaned my bicycle against the churchyard fence and entered the grounds. Not having a permit for any of the poking around which I hoped to do, I attempted to impersonate a casual but respectful sightseer as I strolled down the path to the back of the church where the ancient yew stood. Cold drops from the wet bushes showered me as I passed. I was so engrossed in this impersonation, and resisting the urge to grimace, that I didn’t notice the Vicar standing just around the corner of the church, and I had a rather embarrassing introduction to him, picking myself up from the slippery path where I had fallen at his feet. Looking up into a round, good-natured, elderly face, I apologised for the intrusion, and the expression of slight annoyance turned into a smile.

  ‘Don’t mention it, young man. I was just looking at the storm damage and didn’t hear you coming.’

  ‘The sacred yew,’ I muttered, looking over his shoulder at the tousled treetop.

  ‘You have an appreciation for trees? Well, just look what the storm did last night to the oldest yew in the district!’ He shook his head sadly.

  Together we approached the tree, surrounded by the oldest gravestones of the churchyard, which leaned this way and that, as old gravestones always seem to do. Somewhere high above, a crow cawed. I jumped. There was a distinctly uncanny feeling to the place, and it seemed to emanate from the tree. Almost enveloped by the dark evergreen branches was a worn old headstone topped with the encircled Celtic cross, a carved rose in its centre. ‘The grave of our very own resident Anchorite, Annora,’ said the Vicar, pointing to the moss-covered inscription. In the green shadows beyond was the huge knobbly trunk of the old yew.

  ‘Well, do you notice anything odd about it?’ said the Vicar as we stood facing the trunk, dwarfed by its venerable mass.

  ‘Ah, the bark is flaky, the trunk is very, er… gnarled, almost swollen looking,’ I volunteered shakily, grimacing in spite of myself. For this was the very tree I had intended to surreptitiously investigate! Now I was unaccountably afraid.

  ‘Yes, well it is over fifteen hundred years old, you know – perhaps more. You can never really tell with these trees – the trunks of the oldest ones are always re-growth, leaving behind a hollow interior where the original trunk has finally rotted out. So in a sense, they never die. Hence their sacred reputation as “Trees of Life.”’

  ‘And Death,’ I replied, uneasily.

  ‘Yes. They were much in demand for wood from which the deadly English longbow was crafted; and every part of the tree is poisonous, except for the flesh of the fruit. But look, there’s a crack right there, near the ground. I’d never noticed any sign of cracking in the trunk before. It is only the really old yews that are hollow. It is a sacred tree, of course, consecrated to the Goddess long before this church was built. Yes, don’t look so shocked, I know I’m a Vicar, and we’re not supposed to talk or even know about pagan things, but I believe, ah – what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Christopher,’ I offered.

  ‘Ah, a good Christian name! – I believe, Christopher, there is an old wisdom that we need to find out about again, a wisdom in the bones of the Earth and the sacred trees that were planted in reverence for Her…’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘Mother Earth, of course.’

  ‘Yes, how very interesting. Could you perhaps tell me more about this tree?’ I was keen to know how much he knew – or guessed.

  ‘Well, just between you and me, I believe ancient trees like this are keys to the renewal of reverence for the divine in nature, Mother Earth as we call her. They hold an energy… have you felt it?’

  ‘Well, um…’ I grimaced and shuffled nervously under his keen glance. I was especially taken aback by his mention of keys. Perhaps this was all the graffiti had meant? Perhaps the Vicar himself had written it? As for his question about the energy of trees, I had felt something sometimes, standing in the shade of a great oak or elm.

  ‘What’s your background?’ the Vicar asked while I still nervously pondered. ‘Are you a religious man?’

  I blushed and muttered something about being a ‘nominal Anglican’ and a student of the traditions and history of the Knights Templar. I noticed him start and look at me sharply. He took a deep breath, and replied, ‘Well, well, that is very interesting, very – how should I say – coincidental. The Knights Templar, eh? Now, about that crack… oh, by the way, what did you say brought you here? You were not, I think, coming to the ten o’clock service?’

  ‘Ah – I was considering it… That is to say, if I had time…’

  He looked at me sceptically. ‘I can’t lie to a priest,’ I thought self-reprovingly.

  ‘Well, actually, I came especially about this tree, Father. I wanted to examine it… not to hurt it of course, in any way…’

  At that moment he noticed the crowbar protruding from my rucksack.

  ‘Of course not, my son, of course not… but look here, you and I are on the same side, I think. Now, would you lend me that crowbar you happen to have in your rucksack?’ He put out a large gnarled hand, smiling, with just a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Ah, yes, yes of course,’ I stammered, grimacing in spite of myself, squirming inwardly with embarrassment. ‘Here you are.’

  What happened next is etched in my memory. The Vicar approached the uncanny tree, stepping over a fallen branch that was singed, perhaps from a lightning strike in the storm. As the crowbar touched the crack, it widened of its own accord. The crowbar sprang from his hand and thudded into the wet grass. Everything was deathly still. I noticed the quiet – even the birds had stopped chirping. The Vicar reeled back and stood there, wide-eyed and gasping. I let out a whoop that was half terror, half elation.
Fascinated, I approached the gap. It was just wide enough to admit my head and shoulders sideways. I peered in cautiously, deathly afraid the gap might close over my head. In the icy darkness I smelt fresh sap (from the cracking of the trunk) over a deep musty smell of old earth and rotted leaves.

  Unable to stand the suspense a second longer I withdrew my head and stepped back. Yet this was the moment I had been dreaming of, never fully believing it could happen. An obscure story in a dusty book, hardly believed, was turning into reality. This surely was the very tree out of which the Templar Knight had appeared!

  ‘You have an idea what is down there, don’t you?’ said the Vicar, recovering his composure and looking penetratingly at me.

  My glasses started to fog up. Trembling, I babbled, ‘Ah well, yes, Father, perhaps I do… Sorry, I should have come clean. I’m not very good with people, living people you know… I live so much in the past, for the past really, if you understand… trying to bring it back to life… everything was so much more… real, I suppose. No TV, no motorways and pylons and noisy leaf-blowers and lawn-mowers, you know, that sort of thing – I mean, really, leaf-blowers! The world has gone mad Father, really it has! I wish I could have had the chance to be, say, one of the Knights Templar, Guardians of the Grail. Of course it was no picnic then either, defending the faith, life and death struggles, thinking you would fall off the edge of the World if you sailed too far… but it was real, Father, and the beauty of it all – yes I suppose that’s it, the World was just more beautiful and natural then – even the weapons were simple and beautiful… "Bring me my sword; bring me my chariot of fire…”’

  As I quoted Blake’s poem I swung my arm around wildly, imagining, exalting. I paused, looking at the Vicar, embarrassed again, and went to lean my arm against the tree. But the gap had grown. My hand met with empty air, and losing balance I toppled headfirst into the blackness! I fell, grabbing frantically for something to break my fall. Slippery roots slapped over my hands. I grabbed at them and was spun right way up again, but the roots slipped painfully through my fingers and I fell further into the blackness. I landed with a thud, mercifully on soft ground, but my legs gave way with the force of the fall and my face hit the piled-up mould of rotten wood from the insides of the tree high above me.

  ‘Are you all right, son?’ the Vicar’s voice echoed down.

  I picked myself up, rubbed my muddy hands on my trousers, wiped the mould from my face and moved my limbs. I was shaking, but amazed and relieved to find I was still in one piece. I took out a handkerchief and tried to clean my glasses.

  ‘I… I think so, Father,’ I replied, spitting out bits of musty earth, eager to talk to keep the connection with him, and not to dwell on the fact that I was now inside the haunted tree. ‘Just a few scratches I think… My eyes are adjusting to the darkness… I say! I think it’s an old well!’

  ‘Well, well, now, that is interesting!’ he boomed back, chuckling at his own pun. I cackled back nervously. The Vicar then proceeded to ‘fill me in’, he at the top of the well, I at the bottom, both of us passionate about the meaning of this discovery and (almost) oblivious to the oddness of the setting for telling a tale. ‘Perhaps I should mention the fact that I was half expecting someone like you to turn up today, son. You see, a woman recently came in great secrecy to show me something. She claimed to be a descendant of Annora the Anchoress…’

  ‘The one buried under this tree?’ I interrupted, shuddering.

  ‘The same. She lived in a cell built into the wall of the church here, centuries ago. This woman (who would not tell me her name) showed me Annora’s secret diary. It tells of a knight – a Templar, no less – who appeared out of the tree and entrusted a sacred treasure to her. Soon afterward he was arrested and tortured, but eventually he was released. – shall I go on, or are you getting cold down there?’

  ‘Go on, go on!’ I called back. I had to know.

  ‘Well, Annora claimed to be a guardian of the mystery of the holy tree. She wrote that one evening at full moon the knight appeared again, old and decrepit, but wearing full armour, and asked for the treasure back. He then requested the last rites. She performed these for him, out here under the tree in the moonlight. He told her many wonders which he had seen in his long life, swearing her and her descendants to secrecy until the “time of the prophecy”. Then he made a strange sign with his hand, and died in her arms. The tree opened up and received the body of the knight, still holding the treasure, a talisman of some kind, which he called the ‘Ouvron.’ A French word I gather. He told her it must be buried with him until the proper time, for it was perilous.

  ‘I didn’t know what to make of it, but listen to this! Annora goes on to say that just before he died, the knight prophesied and said:

  When storm will see the yew branch downed

  And the holy tree doth open up the ground,

  The doorway to Eden once more shall be found.’

  ‘Really, Father?’ I called back. ‘How remarkable. So that means somewhere in here is…’

  A prickly feeling came over the back of my neck. I wished I had the little pocket torch I had brought along in case I needed to peer into any cracks in the tree. I had not imagined being inside it…

  Above was a halo of daylight, framed by the gaping crack in the tree. In front of me was the unmistakable curved drystone wall of the well, damp but surprisingly clean. Not even a spiderweb. It had been pitch dark in here for perhaps eight hundred years, ever since the tree grew right over the well and blocked out the sunlight. Except, that is, when a crack opened up and took the dead knight down…

  No way out of here but back up, I thought, a little uncomfortably. What if the crack closes again? But I had to go on. ‘Father, I’ll have a quick look around now if you don’t mind.

  ‘No hurry, son! I’ll pull you up when you’re ready.’

  Now fully accustomed to the dark, I gazed into the shadows to my right. I froze: I was looking straight into the grinning face of a large human skeleton. It was faintly, eerily, illuminated from above by a cold white light that seemed now to come from quite another England, the old England where magic was real and nothing was certain, neither life nor death, nor good or evil. I shuddered and shrank away. But my intense curiosity got hold of me again, and I reached out my shaking hand and touched his.

  I now felt differently about the skeleton; I felt somehow that I knew the man he used to be. He was no longer a stranger to me, even though so long dead. He was wearing the remains of a chainmail suit. I had little doubt that he was the Templar who had appeared out of the tree and returned there to die; perhaps none other than that lost Templar Knight, Gondemare the Seafarer! If so, was he holding it, the Ouvron? If the account of Annora the Anchoress was true, he should be…

  ‘Eureka! I think!’ I yelled in ecstasy – very unscholarly – and began shouting and whooping.

  ‘What the devil’s happening down there?’ yelled the Vicar from above, and I came to my senses again.

  ‘My apologies, Father. There appears to be a rather important… er… artefact here. That is to say, your Anchoress was telling the truth… it is definitely some sort of well, dry of course, half filled with debris… we’ll have to sift through it… a dig, father, oh yes there will have to be a dig in here… we must be restrained… don’t want to disturb any evidence… but THIS IS FANTASTIC!’ I reverted to shouting. Then a shred of practicality returned: ‘You don’t have a rope anywhere handy, do you Father?’

  ‘What have you found, dammit, what have you found?’ yelled the Vicar impatiently.

  ‘Only a knight Templar, father! And I think he’s holding something…’

  ‘What, what is he holding?’ I felt panicky. I needed to know I could get out quickly if my nerves failed. I heard my father’s voice – ‘…we have grave doubts, given your history…’

  ‘Can you throw me down a rope, father!’

  ‘He’s holding a rope?’

  ‘Rope, send me down a ROPE!’
>
  ‘Oh, rope! Of course… I’ll go and look for some.’

  ‘Hurry, father!’

  ‘Keep calm! Patience is a virtue, my son. Back in five minutes.’ I heard him muttering, ‘Maybe in the vestry… no, I’ll have to go back to the Vicarage …’ I groaned.

  There was now deep silence except for my breathing, mist streaming from my mouth over the quiet little tomb where I now knelt, letting my gaze fall again upon the stupendous find – the Knight, my lost Knight Templar!

  But moods can shift quickly in such places, in such company. And now that I was alone, a horror of that place rushed over me, as I looked into the empty sockets of his eyes. He leaned against the stone lining of the ancient well, staring sightless or with some other sight more penetrating, clutching at my soul with icy fear… I shrank back, wondered how long five minutes would feel like down here, trapped with a dead man. Could I remain composed for that long? Assuming he finds a rope at all… Doubts and fears began to fill my mind: ‘Will I be a gibbering madman by the time he returns? Maybe he’s in league with the Athmadites! Maybe he’ll bring them, and they’ll block the entrance, or come down and torture me for information!’ I had read about these men in a Templar manuscript the night before. It said:

  There are those who hide in the shadows, and seek for evil ends the Secret Door to the lost Eden. They must not find it! They are known as the Athmadites, and walk among us in secret.

  Then I remembered my own quest, and the fierce curiosity that had brought me to Iffley overcame my horror, and I reached out for the skeleton’s hand again. This time it was unmistakable: it was clutching something. I made the sign of the cross (just in case), muttered a little prayer of apology to the dead, and to all the gods, goddesses, guardians, and ghosts that may be watching me now, and then pulled back the bony chain-mailed fingers – crack, crack, one by one they yielded, horribly breaking in my own grip, my cold but living fingers overcoming the knight’s icy dead ones. ‘Thief, thief!’ screamed a voice in my head, but now heedless of caution I eagerly caught the precious thing which dropped from his dead fingers: a heavy, gleaming silver disk, about two and a half inches across, carved with the same disturbing pentacle image as the Chartres inscription, but very much more disturbing in the dark alone with a skeleton, and much more clearly portrayed – and with other details: The central pentacle sat over a carved starfish shape – an island, I guessed from the wavy lines like water around it – and between its five points grew five trees – or the branches of one central tree. The island and the water surrounding it were as it were encapsulated in a golden amber or glass, so that they seemed remote, untouchable, bathed in a light that spoke to me of the Golden Age and of lost paradises.

  Each of the points of the central pentacle touched the point of a smaller pentacle set inside a disk. These five small disks were linked by concentric circular lines around the circumference of the main disk. The lines were deeply scored, giving almost (I thought) the appearance of cooling fins. It was a decidedly magical-looking artefact. Turning it over in my shaking hand, I saw that the smooth back was contoured to look like an apple, with the stalk at the top pierced to make a hanging hole.

  Turning the disk over again, I saw that the pentagonal pyramid in the centre of the pentacle had five letters carved into it, in an alphabet I did not recognise. I speculated that it represented the point of a crystal.

  Around the outside of the disk I noticed five images engraved between the five smaller disks: a sun and crescent moon; a double-ended crystal; a comet; a many-armed spiral (perhaps a galaxy, I thought); and a sword.

  The Ouvron! Something so secret it was not even a rumour; unguessed, unknown to any but me… I had a sudden, chilling thought: perhaps descendants of the shadowy Athmadites still roamed the Earth. I now had very good reason to believe the Templar warning. It was proven by the heavy silver and amber disk I held in my trembling hand…

  Looking up, all I could see was a dim glow like moonlight filtering through the groping roots hanging down like witches’ hair over the dead knight and me. I looked back down, trying not to look at the sockets of his eyes. Cold thrills of fear began to run down my back as I waited. My mind raced through labyrinths of childhood fears, of ghosts, of haunted trees that groped and held one fast, night-flying owls in overgrown churchyards full of old graves – just like the one above me now – spiders, crawling, creeping over me, coming at me from behind… The back of my neck bristled. I had to look. I wheeled around, and breathed a sigh of relief – nothing there but the dripping, glistening stones of the wall.

  Just then I heard a thudding as of heavy feet above, growing louder. I felt a sudden chill, a premonition of evil: ‘This isn’t the Vicar, it is someone else. They’re looking for me!’

  As the footsteps approached, I heard an eerie creaking from the tree above, and the dim light shrank to nothing, leaving me blinking at whirling after-images. The Tree had closed! I was in utter darkness, hidden from that threatening presence above, but trapped, buried alive, with a skeleton for company.

  Chapter Four

  The Ouvron