Solomon Key

Chapter 2

Isla Mulheron smoothed her auburn hair and checked her makeup in the mirror before climbing out of the car. It wasn’t that she cared what the man she was meeting thought of her appearance, but she thought it best to maintain a professional air about her at all times. Some of these older men treated women, young women in particular, as adorable idiots. She would not tolerate that.

A stocky, gray-haired man waited for her at the foot of Glastonbury Tor. He stood there, gazing off into the distance, puffing away at a Calabash pipe. She’d never seen one of the pipes outside of a Sherlock Holmes film. Smiling, she headed in his direction.

“Mister Osborne? I’m Isla Mulheron.” Osborne was a local amateur historian whom she’d tracked down online.

They shook hands, Osborne frowning a little. “You sounded older when we spoke on the phone.”

She wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that, so she ignored it. “Thank you for meeting me. I’m eager to learn about the history and legends surrounding the tor.” That was almost the truth. Extensive research had led her to this place. Now she was hoping to learn something new — nuggets of local history that might have escaped the attention of scholars.

Osborne took another puff of his pipe. The breeze carried a vanilla-scented cloud of blue smoke Isla’s way. The aroma brought back bittersweet memories of her father.

“You said you work for Scottish Adventure magazine?”

“That’s right.”

He scowled, took another puff. “Glastonbury’s not in Scotland,” he finally said.

God. Was he going to be such a condescending bawbag for their entire meeting? She forced herself to keep smiling. “Our readers travel all over Britain, so a site with such a long and colorful history will be of great interest to them.”

Osborne nodded slowly. “Let’s get on with it then.”

Isla found she didn’t need to ask many questions. She merely turned on her recorder and feigned interest as Osborne droned on about the legends surrounding Glastonbury Tor. Located in the English county of Somerset, the tall, conical hill stood conspicuously in the midst of the surrounding flatlands of the Summerland Meadows. Surmounted by St. Michael’s Tower, the tor was the most prominent feature in all the surrounding countryside. It had been given many nicknames over the years: Magic Mountain, Faeries’ Glass Hill, Spiral Castle, Grail Castle, and Land of the Dead.

“There’s been a lot of legends about the tor over the years,” Osborne said. “People call it a magic mountain, claim there’s some sort of magnetic power point here because of the ley lines or some such, which made it a landing spot for UFOs. Some say there was a castle here that hid the Holy Grail. Others called it the Isle of Avalon, said it marked the entrance to the underworld. There’s also older history here. It’s an important site to the Celts. Druids even held fertility rituals here.”

Isla shifted uncomfortably. A small voice in the back of her mind said the man could see right through her, knew the real reason she was interested in the tor and its history. But that was absurd. She actually was writing a piece for the magazine. Her ulterior motives were known only to a few.

“Has there been any investigation into the more exotic claims?” she asked.

Osborne chuckled. “How do you investigate the absurd? But yes, there’s been people out here from time to time. They bring odd-looking equipment that’s supposed to measure magnetism and the like. It’s all bollocks.”

Isla sensed this was the wrong time to ask probing questions. If the man decided she was only interested in conspiracy theories, she’d lose whatever credibility she might have with him.

“One man swore there was once a crystal castle here.” Osborne laughed.

Isla’s heart leaped at the mention of a crystal castle. Perhaps she was on the right track.

“I understand the Celtic name of the Tor was Ynys Wydryn, or Ynys Gutrin, meaning ‘Isle of Glass.’ Perhaps that’s where the legend comes from?”

Osborne raised his eyebrows and looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. Clearly she had risen in his estimation. “That is correct. Come on. I’ve got lots more to show you.”

He guided her to the Chalice Well, a natural spring said to have been in use for more than two thousand years. Surrounded by manicured gardens, the well, also known as Red Spring, was said to possess healing properties. A popular site among Neopagans, the well was strongly associated with the sacred feminine, with the Tor representing the masculine. All around she saw the trappings of both Christian and Pagan symbolism in the design of the gardens, from the well lid carved with interlocking circles bisected by a sword, down to the seven bowls of the vesica piscis, a shape formed by interlocking circles. Here there were layers upon layers of intrigue, enough to keep a conspiracy theorist busy for a lifetime.

“It’s iron oxide deposits what gives the water the reddish tint,” Osborne said. “Of course, the storytellers say it’s thanks to Joseph of Arimathea. Depending on which story you hear, he either put the Holy Grail in here with drops of the blood of Christ in it, or he dropped in some nails from the crucifixion. Either way, it’s…”

“Bollocks,” Isla finished for him.

Osborne flashed a crooked smile. “There’s a clear spring nearby called the White Spring. They’ve built a waterworks over it, but it’s open to visitors.”

“I think I’d like to see the tor if that’s all right.”

Osborne led her along the steep path leading to the top of the tor. As they climbed, he pointed out the many terraces, now overgrown with lush, green grass.

“No one can agree what these are,” he said. “Some say it’s just for defense of whatever might have been built up at the top. Others think it was once a spiral path that led to the top.”

“What do you think?”

Osborne pursed his lips. “It reminds me of the labyrinth in Greek mythology. I know that sounds mad, but there you are.”

“I don’t think it’s mad at all. The spiral maze was an important symbol in ancient cultures, representing the soul’s journey from life to death to rebirth. And as you said, this place has long been associated with the Celts.”

Osborne stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. “Sounds like you already know it all.”

“Hardly, but you write enough articles about historic sites in Britain, you pick up a few things.”

Osborne seemed to find this an acceptable explanation and they resumed their trek, now cloaked in silence.

At the top, they paused to take in the sights. Isla found herself mesmerized by the view. To the north lay the Mendip Hills and nearby the faint outline of the Wells Cathedral. To the west, the island of Steep Holm in the Bristol Channel. The Black Mountains of Wales loomed hazy far to the southwest. And to the east, Cley Hill, a spot famous for UFO sightings.

“You’re lucky it’s a clear day,” Osborne said. “Can’t see a thing on a foggy day. Course, some tourists prefer it that way. The ‘mists of Avalon’ and all that shite.”

Next they examined St. Michael’s Tower. The roofless structure was all that remained of what was once St. Michael’s Church. Isla found it interesting, but it was not what she was looking for.

“This has been wonderful,” she said to Osborne. “Exactly what I needed for my article.” She wondered how deeply she could probe before the man dismissed her entirely. “Our readers also enjoy the obscure local legends, even the stuff that’s ‘bollocks’ as you called it. Anything like that you can share with me? The stuff that would play with our readers who love a good conspiracy theory or treasure hunt?” She saw Osborne tense a little and hurried on. “I won’t attach your name to it. Just share it as a story I picked up.”

“That would be for the best, I think.” Osborne scratched his chin. “I already mentioned the aliens and all the esoteric stuff. But as far as conspiracies go, there’s always been legends that there’s all sorts of tunnels running underneath the hill and even to parts of Glastonbury. There actually was at least one tunnel back in the 1960s. Used to have jazz concerts there. The birds I used to meet at those.” A faint smile played over his face, his gaze suddenly far away. After a few seconds of reverie, he gave his head a shake. “Anyhow, whatever is supposed to be hidden here, be it the grail or some other artifact, supposedly can be found at the end of one of the secret tunnels.”

Isla nodded, trying to hide her eagerness.

“Legend has it, all the tunnels have collapsed except for one.”

“Any idea where it would be? According to legend, I mean,” she added.

“Common wisdom is, it runs from beneath the Abbey to the tor, which they claim is hollow underneath. Long ago, thirty monks were rumored to have followed the tunnel down to the tor.” He paused. “But only three came out again, two insane and one struck dumb. Like I said, bollocks.”

“Maybe, but it makes for an entertaining story. The readers will love it.”

Osborne let out a huff of breath through his nose, showing exactly what he thought of those readers.

“Our readers also love Arthurian legend,” Isla began, choosing her words with care. “Some of those legends surrounding Glastonbury Tor are well known. But I wonder if, and I’m not quite sure how to put it…”

“Just spit it out. That’s always the best way.”

“Many of our readers would love to believe there’s some historical fact behind those legends. Have there been any discoveries to that end here? Anything at all, no matter how seemingly insignificant, that could lend credence to such a far-fetched theory?”

“Venturing into tabloid territory, are you?” Osborne fished out his pipe and began to pack it again.

“Not at all. I’ll make it clear in my article that these are merely colorful local legends.”

Osborne considered this for the length of time it took him to light up and take a couple of puffs. “The fellow you’d want to ask is Charles Baxter. Man was obsessed with King Arthur. Don’t misunderstand; he was a serious scholar, but he was far too eager to accept nonsense as possibly being true. Always sneaking around after dark with a metal detector. He hinted once or twice that he’d found something. Even claimed he’d explored that tunnel I mentioned.”

Isla’s heart raced. This Baxter fellow was exactly the man she needed to talk to.

Osbourne blew out a puff of smoke. “Of course, he’s dead.”

“That’s too bad.” Isla couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Does he have family in the area?”

“No idea. Anything else I can help you with?”

Isla shook her head. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very kind.”

“No problem. Walk you back to your car?”

“Thanks, but I’m going to spend some time here taking photos for the article.”

Osborne bade her goodbye and headed back down the hill. Isla watched him go. She would, in fact, take a few photographs. After all, there would be an article to write. She needed her job and the credibility it afforded her. But her real work was just beginning.