became the sangreal or the sang real-Holy Blood. You can see the connection. The Church has always been very good at using the religions of other cultures to further its own ends-and I don't mean that in any disrespectful way. But the Graal is one of those symbols I spoke about, representing the ultimate prize, only attainable by the most pure. Something that we constantly strive for, but can never reach. And in all the stories about it, there are always the same elements: the King, a Good Knight, a Maiden, the powers of Life and Death, a Hermit. What is the universe trying to say to us? Well, I could spend ages discussing that with you, but there's no way of truly knowing. It is simply a matter of faith.'
'So it's a big prize-how come you and your crew haven't cherry-picked it?' Laura asked.
'More than anyone, I would say, we're aware of responsibilities. It isn't meant for us.'
'For something that's so unattainable we seem to have broken into the mystery remarkably easily,' Ruth said.
'You haven't got it yet.' There was some quality to his reply that made Ruth shiver. 'Come, let us collect your water.'
He led them from the wellhead along a path to a partly walled area where the water tumbled from a lion- headed fountain. Shavi filled one of the two goblets that stood nearby and tasted it.
'Amazing!' he said. 'I can actually feel it lifting my spirits.'
'I bet you love it when the doc gives you a placebo.' Laura still refused to stand with them.
'Doubting Thomas,' Jim said with a laugh. 'Did you know the Elizabethan magician John Dee announced that he had discovered the elixir vitae-the water of life-at Glastonbury?'
'You seem remarkably at ease with the fact that so much of your religion is based on older beliefs,' Ruth said as Shavi filled a plastic water bottle from the spring. 'Don't you feel it undermines your faith?'
Jim shrugged. 'I can be very pragmatic. But Christianity still speaks to me more clearly than anything else; I can't ignore that. And I suppose, in my heart, I don't see a conflict between the Old Ways and the new. There are always higher levels.'
Once Shavi had taken enough water, they continued along the path past two yew trees to another decorative pool in a sun-drenched lawn area.
'I'm very happy to be here,' Jim continued. 'Glastonbury has always been somewhere special, sacred even, right back to neolithic times. The druids set up a college here to pass on their beliefs and wisdom. What is it about Glastonbury? You see, I believe the power of Christ is here, in the land itself. And I'm sure the pagans recognised the same thing, although they called it something different.'
Ruth wondered how much he knew about the Blue Fire, but she didn't raise the point. 'You said you wanted us to be aware of the risks.'
He nodded, suddenly serious. 'No one has ever followed this to its conclusion, the Grail itself. But we know enough. We know it isn't buried in any physical sense; it's in some place that lies alongside our own world. I can't really explain it any better than that. The ritual you're about to embark on will unlock the door-that has been done before, once, long ago. But after that … Well, we only have the stories to go on.'
'What stories?' Ruth asked. Shavi was listening intently, as if there was no one in the world apart from Jim.
The cleric wandered over to the shade beneath a tree and leaned against the trunk. 'In the third century BC the Celts established a lake village near here. In those days all the lowlands around here were underwater-there really was an Isle of Avalon. One reading has that name coming from the Celtic legend of the demi-god Avalloc or Avallach who ruled the underworld, and this was supposed to be the meeting place of the dead where they passed over to the next level of existence. Our knowledge of the Celtic tradition is limited and confusingcharacters were called by different names in different parts of the Celtic world. Others said the subterranean kingdom of Annwn exists beneath the tor, ruled over by Arawn, the lord of the dead, and anyone who ventures into it encounters demons rather than the land of bliss that greeted those who were invited. Others said the place was the home of Gwynn ap Nud, Lord of the Wild Hunt, which local stories say haunts the hills around Glastonbury.'
Ruth went pale at this information, but he didn't seem to notice.
'The names don't matter. The common thread is that the place you will visit is terribly dangerous. And,' he continued darkly, 'we discovered that for ourselves when we opened the door long ago on that one occasion I mentioned. Never again. So I will ask you now to consider carefully before you continue.'
Shavi stepped forward deferentially. 'I feel we have no choice,' he said gently.
Jim nodded. 'I guessed that would be your answer. Then know this: the part of the message that is missing would have told you the timing is vital. You must take the water up on the tor at first light. And then God help you.'
Chapter Fourteen
Chutch, Veitch and Tom left Jamaica Inn after an early breakfast. The day was bright, with cloud shadows sweeping across the moor beneath the imposing background of Brown Willy, the highest point. But the light had that strained spring quality which threatened inclement weather at the drop of a hat. They could continue their trek, but there were no roads in the direction indicated by the lamp and they knew the going would be treacherous. Instead, they found a local woman who allowed them to cram into her carefully preserved Morris Minor on a shopping trip to Launceston, where they hoped they would be able to pick up another lift.
Although Tom and Veitch could both sense something was wrong, Church hadn't spoken about his encounter in the night. Marianne's revelation had tormented his sleep and on waking he wondered if he would ever sleep peacefully again. On the one hand he felt a great relief from the burden of responsibility in her death; yet the new mysteries that arose in its place were just as frightening in their implications. Who could possibly have killed her?
Despite Launceston buzzing with all the life of a healthy market town, they had to wait until midafternoon before they could find someone who could take them on the next leg of their journey. They bought some heavy Cornish pasties, which they ate in the back of a painter and decorator's van while they made their way slowly through North Cornwall villages which didn't seem to have changed since the fifties; the only sign of modernity was a huge battery of wind turbines, turning eerily in the sea breeze. 'We like the old ways round here,' the driver said between drags on a cigarette. The countryside was green and leafy after the desolation of Bodmin Moor and the closer they got to the coast the stronger the sun became, until it was beating down with all the force of a summer afternoon. Eventually they crested a ridge to see the deep blue sea ahead of them. The road wound down to the coast through an avenue of gnarled, ancient trees where the breeze smelled of salty, wet vegetation. They were dropped off in Boscastle outside the sun-drenched white walls of the Museum of Witchcraft, and although the lantern was still flickering towards the south-west, Church sensed they were near to their destination.
They set off walking along the road which clung precariously to the craggy coast, heavy with the history of smugglers and shipwreckers, and three miles later, as the sun slipped towards the horizon, they found themselves in Tintagel.
'I really should have guessed,' Church said as they rested in the village at the top of the steep track that dropped down to the ancient monument. 'Arthur again. All those references don't make sense.'
Veitch stuffed the last of his bag of chips into his mouth. 'What's this place got to do with King Arthur?'
'Just stupid legends. There was some writer in the twelfth century, Geoffrey of Monmouth, who made these outrageous claims that Tintagel was the birthplace of Arthur and that Merlin took him from here to be fostered in secret. Good for the local tourist trade, not much good for actual history.'
'There are no such things as stupid legends,' Tom interjected coldly.
'I know what you're saying, Tom, but when people believe this kind of stuff it makes an archaeologist's job so much harder.'
'The Folie Tristan said the castle was built by giants and that it used to vanish twice a year, at midsummer and midwinter,' Tom said with a strange smile.
'Exactly.' But Church had the uncomfortable feeling that Tom's comments weren't in support of his own
