The Chalice

FOUR

For the first time, Pel Grainger had his partner with him, the psychotherapist and sociologist Eloise Castell, a slender; blonde with a mid-European accent who never seemed to smile. Verity had seen her at gatherings of The Cauldron, but they had not spoken.

Shivering, despite her body-warmer, Verity followed the two of them up the garden under a hard sky which sporadically spat out sharp, grey fragments of itself. Verity felt an ominous tug on her hip with every step. It could not simply be arthritis; it had come too suddenly.

It felt like Colonel Pixhill's ghost. Urging her to stop them, bring these foolish people back.

But Dr Grainger was jovial and bulging with confidence. He hadn't even knocked at the door; she'd just seen them both walking briskly through the garden gate.

'See, just because people can't drink this water. Verity,' Dr Grainger called back cheerfully, 'that is no reason to seal the well.'

Against the weather, he wore a thick black cloak like the ones church ministers wore for winter funerals.

'But surely,' Verity ventured, hurrying to keep up, 'if anyone was ill, they could then sue us for some enormous amount.'

'Not if there's a sign specifically warning them not to drink. Hell, you seal off an old well, you're blocking an ancient energy flow. Water – and darkness – must not, not ever, be stifled.'

The garden, extending now to little more than three-quarters of an acre, was well tended by Verity close to the house, a small area of lawn which she kept mown and its hedges neatly trimmed. Then it narrowed, a rockery began and so did the wilderness.

'Do be careful, Dr Grainger. Unfortunately, there are thistles and nettles. We did once have a part-time gardener. But when the well had to be sealed and people no longer came to it…'

'You know. Verity, the more I think about this, the more incredible… See, it's clear from the name that this house was built in this location, all those centuries ago, precisely because of the well. No wonder it lost its identity, turned in on itself. You have a scythe or something?'

'I'm sorry, no.'

'That an old spade over there? Would you pass it to me? Thanks.'

He began to slash at the brambles, laying bare what used be a narrow path. Verity, who hadn't been to this end of the garden in many years, seemed to remember there once being cobblestones.

Ms Castell made no attempt to assist – indeed seemed uninterested in what her partner was doing. She paid no heed to Verity either, but gazed beyond the boundary of Meadwell's land to where Glastonbury Tor hung above them, its base bristling with trees, its church tower black as a roosting crow.

Dr Grainger, his back to Verity, looked disturbingly Neanderthal as he swung the spade like an axe, smashing through a clump of tall thistles. Verity clutched her body warmer to her throat. She saw that Ms Castell was watching her now, with a crooked little smile. I don't like you, Verity thought suddenly. She was not one to make snap decisions about people and wondered if this was another warning communicated to her by the Colonel.

Dr Grainger let out a small yip. 'Hey, I think we found it.' He stepped back. 'Goddam, is this a crime or is this a crime?'

They had emerged into a circle of concrete surrounded by a low wall, bramble-barbed and overhung with twisted brittle bushes, most of them clearly dead or dying.

'Yeah,' said Dr Grainger, 'I feel it. All is cool.'

At the centre of the circle was a raised concrete plinth about four feet in diameter. He stabbed at it; the spade rang dully on the concrete.

Chalice Well, where the Holy Grail was said to have lain, was at the top of a lovely garden by the foot of Chalice Hill, which flanked the Tor. Below the well were circular pools of red-brown water. It was owned by the Chalice Well Trust, and on summer days people would pay an entrance fee and sit or lie on the grass, eyes closed, in meditation.

Verity had always wanted to think the Meadwell had been like this once, a place of ancient peace.

It looked harsh and desolate now, and, in truth, she had never seen it otherwise. When she'd arrived to take up the post of housekeeper, the Meadwell had already been partially scaled and Colonel Pixhill never spoke of it.

'You have a pickaxe someplace?'

'Oh!' Verity stumbled, feeling a sudden, intense glow of pain at her hip. Almost immediately it began to fade. 'Dr Grainger, I really don't think…'

'Hmmm. There may be too much light. There a metal cover under here? Like with the Chalice Well?'

'I believe so, but…'

'Yeah,' he said thoughtfully. 'See, you hit it with harsh sunlight after all these years, the shock could completely negate the effect. Am I right here, Eloise?'

Ms Castell stood back. 'I sink the well should certainly be in shadow when the cover is raised. The emanations will be powerful after all these years of confinement.'

'And the energy goes kind of… whoosh. Whereas we seed a gentle, subtle… mingling.'

He made sinuous, snaking movements with his hands. Verity felt herself begin to tremble.

Ms Castell said, 'Maybe first we put over it a tent. To subdue the light, ya?'

Verity grasped the stump of a dead tree to steady herself.

'Dr Grainger, are you a Christian?'

'What?' The question seemed to throw him.

'I'm sorry, it's just that the type of clothing you habitually wear makes you seem rather like a priest, so I…'

'Well.' He gave it some thought, pursing his little round lips. 'I guess I think of myself as a scientist first. My life's a search for understanding. I don't like to be too much in awe. And also there's the tenebral conflict. 'Out of the darkness and into the light. I can't buy that. Christianity makes too many naive assumptions, I guess. That answer your question?'

'Yes. I'm sorry.' Verity turned back to the old house crouching in the shadows of the grey morning, 'I don't think I can let you do this.'

Dr Grainger froze, the spade in mid-air. 'Whaaat?'

'I cannot let you expose the Meadwell.'

'Verity?' He peered at her as though he thought she might have been replaced by someone else and he hadn't noticed.

'I'm very sorry, Dr Grainger.' She rose up in her tiny shoes. 'The Colonel would not wish it.'

'The Colonel?' Dr Grainger was hall-grinning in amazement. 'We are talking here about Pixhill? The late Pixhill?'

'I sink,' said Ms Castell in her somehow unconvincing mid-European murmur, 'zat Colonel Pixhill felt himself to be in a defensive position as regards the world in general. He wanted to close himself in, to seal up all points or access. The well permits water from the hill, maybe from under the Tor, to enter his domain, and so

…' She shrugged.

All around lay rubble and uprooted dead bushes, their whitened branches like bones. Verity was beset by the disturbing sensation of Dr Grainger and Ms Castell hacking into Colonel Pixhill's grave. How dare this woman speculate about the Colonel's state of mind?

'Please leave.'

Dr Grainger kicked away a slab of concrete dislodged by his spade.

'I don't think so,' he said. 'This is important to me now.'

Juanita's head twisted on the pillow. Her hair felt damp on her neck. She could hardly focus on the thin red line slicing Jim's painting in half on the wall opposite the bed.

'I'm going to call a doctor,' Powys said He sounded scared. That made it worse She was frightened for Diane and he was scared for her.

'No. Have you got that? You know what a doctor would say. And I'm not. I'm not going back. Just been overdoing it, I need a rest. And the worry…'

A glass of still spring water stood on the bedside table, a red and white striped straw in it. She tried to sit up and take a sip. She fell back.

Powys held the glass for her 'I'm not leaving you like this.'

'You've got to.' She tried to smile 'Besides, you know how badly you want to know about the missing Pixhill stuff

'It'll wait.'

'It won't wait. None of this will wait.'

'OK, if you won't see a doctor, what about Banks?'

'I'd rather die, if you don't mind.'

'Christ, Juanita… '

'He's an old woman. He'll fuss around. OK, OK, call him. He's in the index.'

She closed her eyes. Patches of grey and black coalescing.

Last transition… disillusion and decay… draught of death.

'Hey… will you look at this?' Dr Grainger squatted down. 'It's iron and there's some kind of a symbol here, if I can just…'

'Get out,' Verity said icily.

'… get this slab of concrete out the way… Come check this out, Eloise. You know how the lid of the Chalice Well has these interlinked circles symbolising the conjoining worlds? See, what we're looking at here…'

Verity flew at him.

The way Stella, the little cat, had flown at her from the cupboard on the night of the Abbot's Dinner. Unfortunately, she didn't have the claws for it; her housework blunted nails raked ineffectually- at his tight black shirt. She felt a wrench from her hip and stumbled.

'Verity, for Chrissakes, what the fuck is the matter with you? The spade fell back into the beaten-down bushes behind Dr Grainger. Verity was aware of Eloise Castell drifting mildly away, watching the struggle with that same supercilious, unconcerned smile on her thin face.

'Please go!' Verity was on her knees in the dirt. 'Please leave at once.'

'Verity c'mon, listen to me.' Grainger put his hands on her shoulders, holding her away from him, holding her down. 'Hear me out.'

'I don't want to know. I'm grateful for all your help. With the darkness. Please send me a bill.'

Her hip was aching abominably now but he wouldn't let her rise.

'Verity, listen up My studies are entering a new phase extending naturally into the psychic ecology of caves and tunnels, and ancient wells are an aspect of the subterranean tenebral network I had neglected to consider. Until Eloise here made some connections for me. Now, if you think that the, ah, ambulant shade of Colonel Pixhill is gonna be offended, then we'll respect that. We'll replace the covering. Later. After we check it out.'

He was very strong. Verity couldn't move.

Ms Castell was kicking at the crumbled concrete with her cowboy boots. 'Pel, ve are vasting time. Maybe I fetch Oliver.'

'Verity,' Dr Grainger persisted with his well-honed soothing intensity, 'nobody appreciates more than I do the kinda stress you've been under. What the-?'

'Psychic ecology, eh?' The bushes parted. A man stood there. Subterranean psychic network. Wow.'

The man wandered down from the bushes, a black and white dog at his heels.

'Sorry, I was just passing, couldn't help overhearing. Any chance you could decode this impenetrable jargon for me.

Dr Grainger's grip on Verity's shoulders eased. She scrambled up.

'You see… I may be wrong here, but it sounded like… you know… complete bollocks.'

He stepped down to the Meadwell plinth He was quite a young man, although his hair was grey. The dog did not follow him. It stopped at the edge of the bushes and growled. It had only three legs. The young man smiled.

'Bugger me, it's Pel Grainger, isn't it? Sorry, Doctor Grainger. That would be, I think, an honorary postal doctorate from somewhere like the University of Nerdsville, Indiana, right?'

'Who the fuck are you?' Dr Grainger picked up the spade.

'I'm the, um, earth-mysteries correspondent of The Avalonian. I'll be reviewing your book.' The young man shook his head. 'Serious bullshit, Pel, but you don't need me to tell you that.'

'You better watch your mouth…'

'Or you'll attack me with the spade?'

'Pel,' said Ms Castell. 'We go.'

Dr Grainger started forward.

'Pel,' snapped Ms Castell.

Dr Grainger snarled and hurled the spade to the ground.

Grainger and his partner walked back to the garden and down the path to the gate. Neither of them looked back.

Powys pushed some slabs of concrete back over the well cover with his shoe, waiting until they were off the premises before stepping down into a clump of dead thistles, stark as brown pylons.

He was glad to be away from Pixhill's well. As for Arnold – he wouldn't go near it.

'Thank you.' The little woman, Verity Endicott, smiled hesitantly. 'Thank you for your help.'

'It was a pleasure,' Powys said honestly.

'Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps?'

'I would love a cup of tea. I, um, I was coming to see you. I knocked on the front door, but everybody seemed to be up here, so

… He grinned apologetically, 'I slipped over into the field, came round the back way.'

He followed her back towards the house. 'You seem to be acquainted with Dr Grainger's work,' Miss Endicott said.

'A little.'

The doorway of Meadwell was like a fissure in an ancient tree. She vanished into it like an elf. He followed her.

Arnold didn't. Arnold shuffled around on the path, looking uncomfortable.

'OK,' Powys said. 'What's wrong?'

Arnold's first peculiar reaction had been when they turned into the Meadwell drive. Two yew trees meeting overhead, gnarled, full-bellied trees knotted with parasites.

And Arnold had started to pant. When the house came into view, with its weathered stone, mullioned windows and leafless creepers like torn fishing nets on the rocks, the dog had begun to whine. He'd been OK once they got into the field, but he wouldn't go near the well.

Dowser's dog. Arnold used to go out with Henry. Dogs like to please. Sniff out drugs or dead bodies. Arnold was attuned to less physical items. Well, all dogs were psychic to an extent; just that Arnold had learned to tell you what most dogs would be surprised you didn't already know about.

'We'll discuss this later,' Powys told him, then picked him up, and carried him into the house. 'You don't mind dogs, Miss Endicott?'

'I love all animals.' A note of sadness there.

They entered the darkest room you could imagine in daylight. Stone walls like a castle. Corners which disappeared into black shadow. He made out a huge inglenook like the maw of hell. A long, oak table. He stopped. This would just have to be the table where they'd laid out Colonel Pixhill.

'Please sit down,' Miss Endicott said. 'I'm sorry, I don't even know your name.'

'Powys.' He put Arnold down on the flagstones, 'Joe M. Powys.'

At that, Miss Endicott seemed to freeze. Her woodland mammal's eyes were startled and then confused. He saw that the skin around the eyes was doughy, suggesting exhaustion. Her dry, puckered lips formed the word Powys.

But only a thin ribbon of breath emerged. At that moment, Powys could almost swear the shadows in the room were moving. How could shadows move without light? He could never live here; he'd be constantly walking into the darkest comers just to reassure himself there was nothing there that really moved, always scared that there would be something – grisly shadow-teeth closing on his fingers.

'Powys?' said Miss Endicott. Her small eyes coming slowly to life, like the valves in an old radio.

As Arnold screamed.

It was a sound Powys had never heard from Arnold, nor from any dog. 'Hey.' He bent down and grabbed at him. Arnold's head came up, his ears flat, his eyes bulging with fear and a kind of fever; when Powys reached for him he lunged and snapped, his teeth clicking together in the air, once, like a mousetrap.

And then skittered away, his three sets of claws scraping frantically at the flags until he reached the oak door and began to hurl himself at it, as if he wanted to smash his own skull, break his own neck.