Free The Chalice by Phil Rickman Page A

Benedictine
monk with no documented pagan leanings.'
           'But he was a Catholic ,
my dear. Therefore a follower of the Goddess Mary. In destroying the Abbeys, Henry VIII was …'
           'Yeah, I know. It was a sexist, male-domination trip.'
       Propaganda from The Cauldron, the
town's fastest-growing goddess group. It was almost a New-Age Women's Institute
these days with even people like Verity going to the Outer Circle meetings and
lectures. And fashionable since the arrival of the actress, Dame Wanda
Carlisle, who was apparently discovering the goddess in herself. They kept
urging Juanita to join, but it seemed to have an underlying political agenda.
Anyway, the idea of an outfit led by someone calling herself Ceridwen after the
Celtic harridan goddess...
           'You want to be careful there, Verity. That woman's on a power-trip.'
           Verity smiled nervously; although Juanita saw only the gleam
of her tiny teeth, she could imagine all the cracks in the walnut face of
someone who seemed to have been born to be sixty and sprightly. Verity, surely,
was no latent pagan; she could be observed every Sunday toddling along to both
morning and evening services at St John's.
           'Power,' Verity said. 'Yes. The power to heal and to help
people find their way. The Church is embracing spiritual healing again. The
Bishop is talking to the alternative worshippers .Glastonbury is becoming whole again. So they say.'
           'Do they?" Juanita was slightly incredulous. 'Jesus.'
       'If we could help the Abbot find
eternal peace after nearly five centuries, wouldn't that be wonderful?'
           'Terrific. But if I were you I think I'd just go to sleep and
try not to think about it.'
           'Oh no! It's my duty to
receive the Abbot. Who, thank God, I do not ... See .. .'
           'Yes. Well.' Juanita eased herself away. 'Just you look after
yourself, Verity.'
     
    She was glad when she'd crossed
the shadowed car park and was safely behind the wheel of the Volvo. If Verity
was a little unravelled, she was at least in the right place for it.
           Dear God, Juanita
thought, I used to revel in all this, the
excitement of it. A spiritual Las Vegas. The thrill of metaphysical stakes.
           A lot had changed Or maybe it was just her. Her agitation
threshold had lowered for a start. She worried.
           About growing old alone. About the business. About whether
selling mystical books was a good and worthy profession any more in a town
where mysticism had become a tourist commodity. About Jim Battle, who ate and drank
unwisely and what would happen if he ever collapsed with a heart attack over
his easel in a little cottage even Hansel and Gretel wouldn't have discovered.
       About whether this
fourteen-year-old car would start.
           'Come ... on !'
           The Volvo did, though without much enthusiasm, and Juanita was
able to get into some serious worrying. About Diane.
           Dotty. Confused. Mixed-up. That's all.
       That's all ?
           She edged past the rear entrance of The George and Pilgrims
and round into High Street. Followed all the way by Lord Pennard's voice down a
telephone nearly ten years ago. A cold voice, a voice honed by Gillette.
       You,
Mrs Carey. I hold you entirely responsible.
       No. She wasn't having that. This
town was a positive bazaar of the mystical. If it hadn't been Carey and Frayne
it would have been some other bookshop.
       Diane had looked so utterly
forlorn, shuffling in that first day, another teenage waif appealing for a holiday
job. If you could have fat waifs.
What was she supposed to say? Be
gone with you, you overprivileged hussy?
           You didn't know she was
maladjusted? Don't tell me you close your ears to the local gossip, Mrs Carey.
       Juanita drove past the venerable facade
of The George and Pilgrims, where