Free The Chalice by Phil Rickman

strode across the
field towards the Tor.

 
    EIGHT
    Only in Glastonbury
     
    Towers. Everywhere in
Glastonbury you were overlooked by towers.
           Juanita hurried across High Street. As an established tradesperson,
she was permitted a reserved space on the central car park below the fortified
Norman tower of St John's.
           Like St Michaels on the Tor, over half a mile away, the town's
principal church had its own colour chart of moods. In the sunshine of late
afternoon, it could be mellow, sometimes almost golden with its four-cornered
Gothic crown. But on a dull day it faded to grey and was outshone by the
rusty-red tiles on the roofs of the shops and houses packed around it.
           And at night it brooded behind its walls and railings. When
you looked up, you could no longer make out the four crosses supporting the
weather vanes on the highest pinnacles and there was not that sense of the
sacred which Glastonbury Abbey always seemed to retain in its ruins, day or
night.
           There was also a sort of concrete, walled apron where groups
of young pilgrims gathered to smoke or chant to bongos and tablas. Which seemed
fairly innocent during the day but could be rather menacing after dark
           It was also a good place to get yourself mugged, so Juanita
very nearly screamed when a shadow moved.
           'Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. Did I scare you?'
           'Not at all.' Juanita put a hand to her chest and swallowed.
'Jesus, Verity.'
           The little woman wore a quilted body warmer and elflike velvet
hat. She carried a shopping bag, even though almost nothing was open.
           'Nothing will happen to you here, Juanita. It's a very warm
and spiritual spot. And so egalitarian .
And the young people know that, and they neither threaten us nor feel threatened.'
           'Right,' Juanita said uncertainly. Sometimes you wandered into
the church itself and it would be full of young New Age types of indeterminate
religion, hugging each other and smiling at everyone. And OK, nobody had actually
been mugged in the area recently.
           Except, of course, by Verity, who prowled the streets like a
small cat because she was lonely when the tourist season was over and there was
nobody to stay with her.
           'Well, I'm just going to pick up Jim Battle,' Juanita explained,
because Verity would keep you talking here for bloody ever. It was rather sad,
really, this middle-class, New Age bag lady. 'Going to the pub.'
           'I must go too, Juanita,' Verity said surprisingly and actually
hefted her shopping bag and half turned. But then she dropped the bait neatly
behind her. 'I can't put it off forever.'
           Oh God. 'Put what off, Verity?' Juanita was trying not sound
over-patient.
           'Silly of me, I know. But it's the Abbot's night, you see.'
           'Ab …? Oh. Whiting.' Juanita didn't want to hear this at all.
Some thoughts were just too damned creepy to carry around with you through
darkened streets.
           'Poor man,' Verity said. 'He comes for comfort, and there's
nothing we can do. They'll still hang him tomorrow.'
       Juanita shuddered, couldn't help
it. When you knew the circumstances, it wasn't very funny. Verity managed Meadwell,
Glastonbury's gloomiest guest house. Abbot Whiting
was said to have spent his last night there before he was executed in the
king's name. And then they took the Abbey apart and Avalon's dark age began.
Every year the Pixhill Trust held a formal dinner in the Abbot's honour.
           'I wonder', Verity said wistfully, 'if he will ever be at
peace.'
           'Well, who knows, Verity. But there's not a lot you can do
about it, is there? Look, I have to …'
           People say that when there is spiritual unity in the town
again, when the Christians and the pagans come together in harmony...'
           'Verity,' Juanita said gently, 'old Whiting was a