Free Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time by Judith Schara Page A
Authors: Judith Schara
meaning from the grave goods—those precious items buried with the dead—or to find some meaning in the way the remains were buried or cremated.
There were no absolute answers. The rituals and what people believed thousands of years ago remained hidden, unless, of course, it was written down. But there was no holy bible for prehistoric England. In fact, there was no real writing until the Romans came.
Germaine stared up at Maiden Castle. An early morning mist hung like a pale, thin shroud over the top. Sacred land and bone rattles. Secret burials. A young man trying to kill himself. Death seemed all around this place.
She felt sad and jumpy. She wanted to get away from the crowd of angry people and stop thinking about the tragic young man, who couldn’t stand his own memories of killing.
Memory ...it was as powerful a force as life.
She trailed along in Aubrey’s wake through the crowd until they reached the gate, neatly cordoned off with blue-and-white police tape and guarded by military police. Aubrey handed over a small backpack for the necessary inspection. He placed it with a thud on the hood of the MP’s jeep. They opened it and pulled out a large book and several others. Aubrey fanned his face with his hat. His white hair puffed out like thistle down in the morning breeze.
“It’s for us, my dear,” he said to her questioning look. “Sir Mortimer’s book on the first excavations at Maiden Castle in the late 1930’s.”
Germaine picked it up. It was heavy. She raised one eyebrow at Aubrey.
“We might need it,” he said, rather sheepishly. “I had to beg the director of the Dorset Museum to lend me his copy. It’s a first edition and costs a fortune to buy now—over ₤200, if you can even find it. They don’t publish this kind of book any more, or very rarely. All the maps and diagrams are in exquisite detail on fold-out papers. Old Sir Mortimer noted everything he found—every burial site, building or artifact, and, especially, all the storage pits.
“You’ll see,” he said. “There are hundreds of pits all over the site. The storage pits are what we are most likely to run into—they’re everywhere.”
Germaine looked at Aubrey’s flushed face and placed the books back into the pack, hefting it over one shoulder. “I’ll carry it,” she said in a firm voice. “You’re the guide today.”
The gate was at the west entrance to the hillfort where English Heritage had erected a big sign with an aerial view of Maiden Castle. It showed several complicated earthen ramparts circling around the hillfort. Yesterday, from afar, she had thought it looked familiar, but this aerial view seemed strange.
Only one barricade and a ditch – there is only one, the thought raced through her mind. She shook her head. She must be confusing it with other hillforts. There were obviously several ramparts. The picture showed a large grassy area at the top of them.
“There’s an old Roman temple site about there.” Aubrey pointed to a place on the sign. “It’s close to where the dig is. There was a small Celtic hut site behind the temple. That’s what they blew up. It’s completely gone.”
A ghost of a thought—something about the Celtic hut—flitted through Germaine’s mind and she drew a quick breath. Her heart fell.
Somehow, she knew that had been a sacred site.
She was anxious to get to work. They started up the path, a long, upward slope, steep and still muddy from yesterday’s storm. Moist heat rose from the wet path as the morning air warmed. Aubrey sweated and fanned himself with his hat. Germaine kept an anxious eye on him—the hike was a challenge for an overweight, over seventy year old.
Dressed for work, Germaine wore light-weight hiking boots and her favorite long khaki pants with lots of pockets. Each pocket held something she had learned over the years was essential—a small notebook, a pencil, her own special trowel, lip balm and a tube of her favorite sunscreen. The
There were no absolute answers. The rituals and what people believed thousands of years ago remained hidden, unless, of course, it was written down. But there was no holy bible for prehistoric England. In fact, there was no real writing until the Romans came.
Germaine stared up at Maiden Castle. An early morning mist hung like a pale, thin shroud over the top. Sacred land and bone rattles. Secret burials. A young man trying to kill himself. Death seemed all around this place.
She felt sad and jumpy. She wanted to get away from the crowd of angry people and stop thinking about the tragic young man, who couldn’t stand his own memories of killing.
Memory ...it was as powerful a force as life.
She trailed along in Aubrey’s wake through the crowd until they reached the gate, neatly cordoned off with blue-and-white police tape and guarded by military police. Aubrey handed over a small backpack for the necessary inspection. He placed it with a thud on the hood of the MP’s jeep. They opened it and pulled out a large book and several others. Aubrey fanned his face with his hat. His white hair puffed out like thistle down in the morning breeze.
“It’s for us, my dear,” he said to her questioning look. “Sir Mortimer’s book on the first excavations at Maiden Castle in the late 1930’s.”
Germaine picked it up. It was heavy. She raised one eyebrow at Aubrey.
“We might need it,” he said, rather sheepishly. “I had to beg the director of the Dorset Museum to lend me his copy. It’s a first edition and costs a fortune to buy now—over ₤200, if you can even find it. They don’t publish this kind of book any more, or very rarely. All the maps and diagrams are in exquisite detail on fold-out papers. Old Sir Mortimer noted everything he found—every burial site, building or artifact, and, especially, all the storage pits.
“You’ll see,” he said. “There are hundreds of pits all over the site. The storage pits are what we are most likely to run into—they’re everywhere.”
Germaine looked at Aubrey’s flushed face and placed the books back into the pack, hefting it over one shoulder. “I’ll carry it,” she said in a firm voice. “You’re the guide today.”
The gate was at the west entrance to the hillfort where English Heritage had erected a big sign with an aerial view of Maiden Castle. It showed several complicated earthen ramparts circling around the hillfort. Yesterday, from afar, she had thought it looked familiar, but this aerial view seemed strange.
Only one barricade and a ditch – there is only one, the thought raced through her mind. She shook her head. She must be confusing it with other hillforts. There were obviously several ramparts. The picture showed a large grassy area at the top of them.
“There’s an old Roman temple site about there.” Aubrey pointed to a place on the sign. “It’s close to where the dig is. There was a small Celtic hut site behind the temple. That’s what they blew up. It’s completely gone.”
A ghost of a thought—something about the Celtic hut—flitted through Germaine’s mind and she drew a quick breath. Her heart fell.
Somehow, she knew that had been a sacred site.
She was anxious to get to work. They started up the path, a long, upward slope, steep and still muddy from yesterday’s storm. Moist heat rose from the wet path as the morning air warmed. Aubrey sweated and fanned himself with his hat. Germaine kept an anxious eye on him—the hike was a challenge for an overweight, over seventy year old.
Dressed for work, Germaine wore light-weight hiking boots and her favorite long khaki pants with lots of pockets. Each pocket held something she had learned over the years was essential—a small notebook, a pencil, her own special trowel, lip balm and a tube of her favorite sunscreen. The