A Crown of Lights

IT WAS DAWN.

Max led Robin out, through his own house, through the mingled aromas of incense and marijuana, out through the kitchen, past the Rayburn on which sat the remains of a pot of fragrant stew tended last night by Alexandra, past sleeping people in sleeping bags.

Robin, as if sleepwalking, his mind disconnected.

He followed Max across the cold yard, in between the oily pools, past the barn, five cars as well as the Winnebagos parked in front of it now, including the Subaru Justy. There was an intermittent sleet.

‘I thought it was meant to be cold and sharp and fine.’

‘Give it time,’ said Max.

In fact, the sky was not so dark: there was a curdled-milk moon under thin cloud and a pale, muddy glow in the east. It was February, and the blackest night of Celtic winter was supposed to be over.

The fuck it was over. Robin stared, for the first time with resentment, at the church: big and bare. The tower was lamp black. The sky in the north and west was burnt umber.

Robin had spent the night in his studio, but had hardly slept. He hadn’t shaved for two days. He didn’t want to be here any more, not without Betty. Without Betty there could be no light.

A short while ago, he’d been aroused from a miserable doze by a tapping on the door, and there was big, beardy, flutey-voiced Max, and he said, ‘Oh, Robin, I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but we have to discuss tonight.’

‘Max, how many ways can I say this? If there was no tonight, I would not be awfully gutted.’

Max was nodding solemnly, the asshole. ‘I understand. I do understand, Robin. I would give anything to have Betty back, but if she has a problem with all this, it’s perhaps as well she stays away, and she probably knows that.’

‘Oh, that’s what you think, is it?’

Betty had to be someplace close. She couldn’t have gone far, unless she’d called for a cab. And then where? Back to Shrewsbury? Back to her parents in Yorkshire, who’d barely spoken to her since she gave up her career for the Craft? Maybe she was staying with the widow Wilshire.

He’d thought she would at least’ve phoned. He’d had the phone and the answering machine in his studio all night, but all he heard were good wishes from supporters he didn’t know, threats from enemies he didn’t know, offers from media people – even one call from some private TV production company suggesting the Thorogoods might like to discuss the possibility of a docusoap series about the day-to-day lives of witches. What did these guys think their average day was like, for Chrissakes – they had breakfast in their ceremonial robes, went down to the shops hand in hand, skyclad, then sang ‘The Witches’ Rune’ together in the tub before having tantric sex in front of an open fire?

Max was bleating on, ‘... would have been a problem with numbers but, as usually happens when something is meant, it’s been solved.’

‘Solved?’ Robin said vaguely.

‘I want you to come and meet someone.’

A Tilley lamp stood on one of the old tombstones in what had been the chancel, about where the Christian altar was originally located. Presumably the Reverend Penney had hurled the altar in the creek with the rest of the stuff – or had he baulked at that?

When Max and Robin walked into the nave, George Webster was saying to someone, ‘Yeah, I see your point. The problem is, this whole building, being Christian, is oriented on the east. We can either go with that or we can just pretend the building isn’t here at all and work with the site geophysically. You know what I mean?’

‘So which do you think, George?’ A man’s voice, smooth. ‘You’re the geomancer.’

‘I think there’s got to be a compromise somewhere.’

‘No,’ the man said firmly. ‘Oh no, no compromise. We either use their altar and change the current, or we build our own to the north and work, as you say, with the site.’

‘Ah... Ned.’ Max sounded like a hesitant owl. ‘I’ve brought Robin Thorogood.’

Ned Bain, pagan publisher, king-witch in all but title, came out into the lamplight. Robin had never seen him before. His face looked white in the gaseous Tilley light, but it was strong and lean and kind of genial. His hair was tight and curly. He had on a dark suit with a dark shirt underneath, kind of priesty – like church priesty.

‘Hi.’ He gripped Robin’s arm.

‘Hello.’

‘I do like your name. It evokes Robin Goodfellow, the hobgoblin. Is it your given name?’

‘Sure.’

‘Someone’s prescience? And I very much like your work.’

‘Well, uh... thanks.’ Despite the temperature, Robin’s arm felt warm all the way to the shoulder, even after Bain let it go.

‘This place inspires you?’

‘I guess.’

‘It should do. It’s an important site. It’s an axis.’ Bain’s voice was one peg down from smooth and refined, maybe a tad camp, but not enough to deter the ladies, Robin guessed. He felt faintly uncomfortable about the heat in his arm.

‘Listen, Robin, I’m grateful for what you’re doing. I know this has got to be a strain. I mean physically, psychically, domestically.’

‘Uh... yeah, domestically, sure.’

‘But I can’t tell you how important it is, mate.’ Bain was standing on the tombstone next to the lamp, casual, on someone’s grave. His eyes found Robin’s. Couldn’t see those eyes but they’d found him and they held him. ‘This is our religion. We are the religion of the British Isles. All these church sites are our sites.’

‘Right. Uh, I’ve been kind of out of it... You just drive over here or were you here last night?’

‘No, I was in a hotel last night. I think you were already crowded enough, weren’t you? I drove over this morning. I wanted to watch the sun rise here. And to see the place in the dark. I’m sorry, I should’ve asked your permission.’

‘Uh, no, that’s...’

Max said, ‘The point is, we have to get this right. Old Hindwell’s a crucial test case, and if we’re seen to back down before this man Ellis, it’ll set the Craft back years... decades, even.’

Robin glanced at George. George was looking up over the walls of the nave towards the moon. Robin guessed George had told Ned Bain all about Betty walking out and Robin coming to pieces. He’d been set up for a pep talk. Trouble was, it was working. Bain had magnetism, even in the dark – maybe especially in the dark. Also he had a certain instant gravitas: when Max talked, you thought bullshit; but if Ned laid something on you, you were inclined to accept its importance.

‘You’ve done Imbolc before, of course, Robin?’

‘Sure.’

‘It is very appropriate.’ Ned picked up the Tilley lamp by its wire handle. He looked like a modern, clean-shaven Christ out of Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World. ‘It’s the first fire festival of the year. The kindling in the forest of winter.’

‘Like, the winter of Christianity?’

‘Well perceived,’ Bain said very softly. Robin felt stupidly flattered. ‘It is the winter of Christianity.’

‘And Ned’s devised a rite reflecting that,’ George said.

‘Didn’t take many modifications. Which shows how essentially right it is.’ Ned Bain raised the lamp so that there was a core of light in the centre of what had been the chancel. ‘For instance, when we chant, “Thus we