Dance of the Stones Page 8

  “Please . . . can we sit inside the Circle, in the sunshine?”

  No one stirred. They stared at her.

  The freckles stood out against Chantel’s white skin, and dark shadows smudged beneath her eyes, but everyone’s gaze was held by the small red mark on her cheek left by the acorn.

  “Where’s the . . . the . . . th th . . . thing?” stammered Owen.

  “In that.” Holly pointed toward the acorn.

  Still no one moved.

  Finally Adam stepped forward and helped Chantel up.

  His arm supported her waist as they walked slowly around the stone and sat down again.

  Holly and Owen joined them.

  “I . . . I . . . I’m so sorry. This was my fault. I . . . I didn’t mean . . . ” Owen stammered.

  Chantel shook her head and gave him a tiny smile. She leaned her back against the stone, closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sunshine with a sign of relief.

  The other three also closed their eyes and leaned back with a sigh. It was better. A feeling of peace, a current of quiet energy, ran around the inside of the Circle. The sunshine warmed them. Their breathing slowed. They listened to the steady heartbeat of the stone and let it heal them.

  * * *

  The high sweet sounds of a penny whistle and singing roused them. One by one the cousins opened their eyes. The music seemed to be coming from the direction of the Avenue.

  At first there was nothing to see. Then a man with long gray hair and a gray beard appeared between the two large entrance stones. He carried a carved wooden staff with an ornate brass top. He turned and looked down the Avenue, raising his arms and the staff in a gesture of welcome.

  Women wearing flowing dresses and wreaths of flowers in their hair, and men with oak leaves garlanding their necks, streamed through the Avenue entrance and milled around in the center of the Circle.

  Gradually a procession formed. Everyone began to dance, weaving in and out between the stones, led by the long-haired girl in a black crop top and swirling skirt, playing the penny whistle.

  A man with a guitar joined the girl, a fiddler followed and several people gathered behind playing small hand drums Holly sat up straight. She recognized the girl as the one they had bumped into with the Bath chair. She nudged Owen.

  He grinned.

  “Is this one of Ava’s dreams?” whispered Adam.

  “No.” Owen leaned over and pinched Adam.

  “Ow.” Adam rubbed his arm. “Guess you’re right.” He looked again at the gathering crowd. “That guy with the beard and stick, he’s the weirdo we saw when we arrived!”

  “And . . . ?” prompted Owen.

  Adam looked blank. Owen pointed to the long-haired penny whistle player. Adam groaned.

  “They’ve got a baby with them,” said Chantel. She’d spotted a woman dipping and swaying behind the penny whistle player. The woman held the child in her arms and presented it to each stone as she danced past.

  Several visitors from the tour buses arrived. Instead of photographing the stones they rushed across the field, cameras pointed at the dancers.

  “The dancers are coming this way.” Holly jumped up. “What if they step on the acorn?” The children looked at each other in horror. They peered around their stone. The acorn still lay on the grass. No one moved to pick it up.

  “We can’t leave it there.” Holly took a deep breath.

  “Owen lend me your hankie.”

  Owen pulled a crumpled and stained square out of his pocket and handed it over.

  “Yuck!” said Holly. “You might have washed it when you washed the rest of your clothes.”

  “I did,” said Owen. “It was in my pocket.”

  Holly ignored him. She dropped the hankie beside the acorn, picked up a twig and nudged the acorn onto the fabric.

  Suddenly they were surrounded by dancers and singers.

  “Blow away the morning dew. The dew, oh the dew . . .” they sang.

  Holly panicked and kicked the acorn out of the way, into a hollow at the base of the stone.

  “Blow away the morning dew. How sweet the winds do blow.”

  “Ah, more children of the stones. How sweet. Come and celebrate Rosie Dawn’s naming day with us,” said the woman with the baby.

  A couple of young men swept Owen off, thrusting a drum into his hands.

  Two teenage girls clasped Holly’s hands and waltzed her around the stone. Crystals flashed from ears and chains around necks.

  “No . . . no . . . ” Holly protested, but a laughing woman placed a wreath on her head and the fiddler struck up a new verse.

  There is a flower in our garden

  That’s called the Marigay,

  And if thou shalt not when thou can,

  Thou canst not when thou may.

  Oh, blow away the morning dew . . .

  The air rang with song.

  The girls tugged her along as they headed for the next stone.

  Holly gave up and danced doggedly between them.

  Only Adam stood his ground. Or tried to. “Stop it,” he yelled in fury. “Can’t you see my sister’s broken her leg?”

  A garlanded youth pushed the Bath chair to Chantel’s side. Gentle hands lifted her in. She was showered with rose petals and pushed around the stones.

  “Come on, Adam,” she shouted, her head poking out around the hood. “Join in. It’s a Circle Dance.”

  “No way,” yelled Adam over the music. No one heard him. The crush of dancers absorbed the Bath chair. He lost sight of it.

  Adam clenched his fists. “Everyone in England’s mad,” he muttered.

  “Relax, son.” A hand patted his shoulder. Adam swung around and came face to face with the bearded man holding the staff.

  “Leave your anger outside the Circle, especially today.”

  “Who are you, and what’s so great about today?” said Adam.

  “It’s a day of happiness, a child’s naming day. I’m performing the ceremony.” The man stuck out his hand. “Dave, Keeper of the Stones.”

  Adam looked blank.

  “Dave the Druid.”

  Adam took off at a run, back to the refuge of Manor Cottage.

  The dancers, musicians and celebrants tripped through the gate and across the village street to the next section of the Great Circle.

  A peaceful silence fell.

  A hawk circled above, swooped and landed on the ground near the stone that marked the wraith’s cell. She scratched in the grass at the stone’s base. Grasping the acorn in her beak, she took to the air. Circling low over the big barn in the museum complex, the hawk got her bearings and flapped off across the Circle toward Savernake Forest.

  In the woods behind the barn lurked a youth with a slingshot. He had spent the afternoon picking off rooks, but a hawk was better prey.

  He aimed and let fly, just as the bird’s course took her above the dancers.

  The stone hit her on the breastbone.

  Ava gasped. The acorn fell from her beak and her wings lost their rhythm. She fought the pain, forcing her wings to tilt and turn her body. She half-glided, half-fell from the sky onto the roof of the barn.

  As it neared the ground, the acorn glanced off the shoulder of the long-haired girl playing the penny whistle.

  “Ouch,” said the girl. She stomped on the nut and carried on, failing to notice the faint mist that rose from the shards and surrounded her body.

  * * *

  “Does this happen often, Auntie Lynne?”

  Adam and his aunt stood at the garden gate of Manor Cottage, looking over the field.

  The naming day celebration had moved to their side of the Circle. A large audience of visitors and villagers had gathered to watch. Like Holly, Owen and Chantel, many onlookers had joined in.

  Lynne chuckled. “People often use the Circle for weddings and christenings…What did you say they were calling this?”

  “A naming day for Rosie Dawn.” Adam’s voice was full of revulsion.<
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  Lynne patted his shoulder. “Don’t be prejudiced. It’s not your thing, but how nice that people are still using the Circle for celebration. That’s probably what it was built for.”

  She shaded her eyes to watch two men in the middle of the field. They carried a tall pole that they wedged upright in a wooden stand. One loosened a string, and a profusion of colorful ribbons showered down from the top.

  “Lovely, a Maypole dance!” said Lynne. “I’m going for my camera.” She ran inside and reappeared a few minutes later, the camera dangling from her hand.

  “Coming, Adam?”

  Adam shook his head but opened the gate for her. He watched as Lynne ran across the field to record the festivities. She passed by the long-haired girl who had stopped playing her whistle and was rubbing her forehead as though she had a headache.

  The fiddle struck up a new tune.

  Haste to the Maypole, haste away,

  For ’tis now our holiday.

  Voices soared as dancers grabbed the ribbons and wove in and out, under and over, forming a colorful braid down the pole.

  “Excuse me. Yoohoo.” The voice came from nearby. “Aye, kid . . . It’s you I’m talking to.”

  Adam leaned out over the gate.

  A man and woman, obviously part of the naming day celebrations, pushed a wheelbarrow containing coils of bright green garden hose.

  They stopped and the woman brushed back long tendrils of hair from her face. “This is Manor Cottage, isn’t it?” she said breathlessly.

  Adam nodded.

  The man pointed to the hose. “The Prendergasts said we could hook up to their water tap.”

  Adam looked nonplussed. He shrugged.

  “Hold the gate then, mate.” The couple maneuvered the wheelbarrow through.

  Adam watched as they attached the hose to a tap in the back wall and started wheeling the barrow back, uncoiling as they went.

  Adam couldn’t help but be curious. “What do you need water for?”

  “So everyone can toast Rosie Dawn.” The woman smiled. “There’s a lot of people out there. You’re welcome to join us.”

  Adam shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, but couldn’t resist another comment. “I thought toasts were done with wine.”

  The couple chuckled.

  “Water’s the wine of the gods . . . a gift from the earth,” said the man.

  “Especially Avebury water,” added the woman. “This is the ancients’ magical water. Water from the stream that doesn’t run.”

  Bemused, Adam watched as they ran the hose to the center of the field, where a woman had spread a white linen cloth on the ground. In the middle stood a large silver goblet. Beside it she had placed an empty punch bowl and a basket full of paper cups.

  “They’re all mad . . . totally mad,” said Adam to himself.

  He took refuge in the cottage, shutting the door firmly on the revelries.

  * * *

  It was no use. Adam couldn’t settle. The strains of the embarrassing pageantry were loud and clear. He decided to go to the museum, but couldn’t remember where Holly had left the tickets. After a short search he gave up and left a note on the kitchen table. Gone biking. Will stay in reach of village. He extracted one of the bikes from the stable and wheeled it outside.

  The village street was deserted. All the visitors were watching the ceremony. The only person around was Mrs. Bates, the owner of the antique shop. She sat beside her door, enjoying the sunshine. “That Bath chair still going strong?” she called out.

  “Yup.” Adam wheeled the bike across the road and chatted with her while buckling on his helmet.

  “Well, young fellow, not joining in the dancing?”

  Adam pulled a face and shook his head.

  Mrs. Bates chuckled. “Aw, they’re all right, that lot. Don’t do no harm. Clean up after themselves and bring a lot of custom our way.”

  Adam’s eyes widened. “There’s no one here.”

  Mrs. Bates rubbed her hands together. “Wait until that lot’s finished. Everyone’ll be in a feel-good mood and ready to spend a few pennies.”

  “Who are they? Do they often come here.”

  “New Agers, that’s who.” Mrs. Bates took a roll of mints from her pocket, popped one in her mouth and offered the roll to Adam.

  They sucked companionably.

  “They come on what they call the old feast days.” Mrs. Bates ticked them off on her fingers. “Winter Solstice, Summer Solstice, Lammas, Beltane, Imbolc, Candlemas, full moon, can’t remember them all. Then there’s naming ceremonies and bonding ceremonies, seems like every month there’s something big. What is it today?”

  “A naming ceremony,” said Adam.

  Mrs. Bates chuckled. “What’s the poor kid called this time?”

  Adam grinned. “Rosie Dawn.”

  “Hmmm, not bad . . . she’ll be plain old Rosie at school. Last one was called Micklemas. Bet the poor lad’s Mickey Mouse for the rest of his days.”

  Adam guffawed, then decided to ask about something he didn’t understand. “They’re getting water from the Prendergasts’ for a toast.”

  Mrs. Bates gave a nod. “That’s what they usually do. Got to have the four elements, see.”

  “The four elements?” Adam was suddenly alert.

  “Earth, air, fire and water. Can’t do rituals without them. Been used for thousands of years.”

  Adam tucked the information away. Wait till the others heard! What else did Mrs. Bates know? he wondered. “What’s so special about the water? They said it was magic water, from the stream that doesn’t run.”

  “That’s right enough. Go and take a look-see. Interesting river, the Kennet. It’s running now, but come back in the winter months and there’ll be nought there. Yon stream bed’ll be dry as a bone.”

  Adam raised his eyebrows.

  Mrs. Bates pointed. “Ride down to the bottom of the street, but when the road stops, go through the footpath between the hedges and ride along until you reach the wooden bridge. Take a look-see. That’ll be the magic River Kennet.”

  “Okay . . . thanks,” said Adam.

  * * *

  The stream wasn’t far. Adam rode beyond the museum buildings, past the church and manor, then between two laurel hedges taller than himself. Suddenly he was on the bridge.

  He stopped, propped the bike against the wooden parapet and leaned over.

  The Kennet sparkled and danced under the bridge like any other stream. He tried to figure it out. In a dry summer the stream was running, so why wouldn’t it run in the winter when there was rain?

  He scratched his head. This needed thought.

  A grin spread across Adam’s face. He’d solved something from Owen’s dream. He was one up on the others! He’d found out about the four elements. It wasn’t mistletoe; it was earth, air, fire and water. Not only that, he knew what was meant by “water from the stream that didn’t run.”

  8.

  THE NIGHT OF DESTRUCTION

  “Where’s Adam?” asked Owen.

  Adam entered the kitchen just as Holly picked up the note from the kitchen table and waved it under Owen’s nose.

  “I’m back,” Adam announced.

  “You missed out,” said Chantel.

  Adam snorted.

  “No really,” Chantel insisted. “The naming ceremony was great.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. A few stray rose petals still dotted her hair. “I wish I’d had a naming day like that.” She sighed longingly. “Rosie Dawn’s a beautiful name.”

  “You’re no judge,” said Adam. “You called a doll Marshmallow.”“So? I was three. And she was soft and squishy,” said Chantel defensively as everyone laughed.

  Holly’s wreath had slipped over one eye. She pulled it off and wound it artistically around a candlestick. “It was fun. They blessed the baby and showered her with rose petals. The man with the staff, Dave . . . ”

  “Dave the Druid,” interrupted Adam, laughing rudely.
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br />   “Dave the Druid,” said Holly equably, “called in the four directions as witnesses and we all toasted the baby with drinks of water.”

  “It was beautiful,” said Chantel dreamily, “and there’s going to be dancing and music all day.”

  Adam rolled his eyes.

  Lynne placed her camera on the counter. “Life certainly isn’t dull in this village. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “Food!” came the cry.

  They all busied themselves making sandwiches.

  * * *

  Holly pulled the passes out of her pocket. “Are we going to the museum this afternoon?” she mumbled with her mouth full.

  Her mother coughed warningly.

  Holly swallowed. “Well? Are we?”

  “Sure,” said Adam.

  The others looked at him in surprise.

  “You’re in a good mood,” observed Owen. He rinsed his plate and leaned it up to dry.

  Adam followed suit. “Got something to tell you . . . about your dream,” he said.

  Both boys slipped out to the patio.

  “What’s the big secret?” Holly and Chantel had followed close behind.

  “Keep your voices down! I’ve found out the answer to Owen’s dream. When the shaman talked about water from the stream that didn’t run.”

  Everyone looked expectantly at Adam.

  “Well, there really is one!”

  “What, a stream that doesn’t run?” echoed Owen.

  “Yup. It’s just outside the village. The River Kennet runs in the summer but dries up in the winter.”

  “No. You’ve got it the wrong way round,” said Holly. “Streams dry up in the summer and run in the winter.”

  “Not the Kennet,” said Adam triumphantly. “I guess that’s why it’s supposed to be magic. Go see. It’s running now, but Mrs. Bates says it doesn’t run in the winter.”

  “Weird.” Holly furrowed her brow. “There must be an explanation.”

  Adam shrugged. “Sure, there must. But in ancient times it would seem like magic, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Owen.

  “That’s not all. There should be four elements in a ritual and I know what they are, earth, air, fire and water. Mrs. Bates told me.” Adam glanced uneasily at Holly. “She didn’t say anything about mistletoe, though.”