The Magus of Hay(120)

‘We talking about the church?’

‘You know it? And the surroundings?’

‘I was there this afternoon.’

‘It’ll be very clear in your mind, then. Go there now. Go on… you’re safe. It’s one of yours.’

‘Not entirely.’

‘Humour me.’

She found she didn’t have to try too hard. As she stood by the hedge at the side of the paddock, she was, at the same time, below St Mary’s Church, following the stream past the waterfall, across the bridge. Then she was in the alley between the almshouses, emerging opposite the entrance to Forest Road, the end of the Gospel Pass, highway of saints, up to another St Mary church, high in the Black Mountains, where the statue of the Virgin raised her crumbling hands to bring down the…

‘… sheer power of medieval Christianity, Merrily. In a time when the Church was illuminated by miracles and magic. The blessing and guardianship of the Holy Mother.’

Claudia’s voice coming across the twilit field, with a slight echo. Seeming to pick up your unspoken thoughts. The tricks these people played. Merrily said nothing. Found she was holding the pectoral cross in her pocket, sliding her fingers through its chain. Well aware of how the modern Church had let all that dissipate.

‘So here’s Peter, at the confluence,’ Claudia said. ‘Where streams feeding the Dulas brook rush past another significant Mary church.’

‘Cusop Church. That one.’

Out of the corner of her right eye, she could see it: solid, short tower, enclosed, like the others, by yew trees, one said to be nearly two thousand years old.



‘Where was he?’ Merrily asked softly. ‘Where exactly was Peter Rector?’

‘In the engine room,’ Claudia said. ‘And the engine was comprised of people. Living and dead.’





53

Right-hand path


IT WAS LIKE something was preventing them getting close to the truth, erecting barriers.

Kapoor had an old VHS recorder for transferring vintage cricket tapes to DVD, but his only hope of finding a Betamax recorder was getting hold of the guy who repaired his kit.

An anorak, who never threw anything away, who worked out of a shop in Brecon, long closed for the night. And whose name was Jones. And who was unknown to Gwyn Arthur.

Kapoor had started ringing people in the phone book called Jones. It could take a while.

Meanwhile, the videotape sat on the console table that used to be an altar. Upstairs, the hole in the wall made Thorogood Pagan Books part of the Castle.

Robin had a little black book full of pagan contacts. Just didn’t carry it around with him, so he’d had to borrow Gwyn Arthur Jones’s laptop to track down George Webster, last heard of in Manchester and linked to a Wiccan group operating in the Pennines.

George was, presumably, still editor of Witches’ Rune, formerly a quarterly magazine, now only a website which, like most goddamn websites, didn’t go out of its way to reveal home numbers. However, the single number given was one for advertisements and subscriptions which, unless Witches’ Rune had acquired actual staff, was worth a shot.

Answering machine.



Shit.

‘This is Robin Thorogood,’ Robin said, ‘George, if that’s you, for the Goddess’s sake, call me the hell back, willya? This is urgent.’

He hit end call, turned to Jones.

‘George thinks urgent is against the flow and therefore not a pagan concept, so we can only hope he comes back tonight.’

Jones pulled up one of the cane chairs he and Betty had brought from upstairs.

‘If you do get a number for someone linked to the Order, I’d be grateful if you’d speak to them yourself. I can brief you on what to ask but I doubt I’d be able to master the jargon or manage not to sound like an old policeman.’

‘And you think I talk Nazi?’ Robin’s phone rang; he lit up the screen. ‘Jeez, there is a goddess. Hold on…’ He listened, grinned. ‘Yeah… will do, George.’ Lowered the phone. ‘I’m calling him back directly. Times are hard at Witches’ Rune. Like everyplace, but at least George can lay a curse on the bank.’

He called back.

‘George, I guess you’re about to start a significant ritual so I won’t mess around.’

George’s voice was cold.

‘What makes you think that?’

Because your whole freaking life’s a ritual, George.

‘Forget it. George, listen up, I need help to trace a guy who ran a… well, a Left-Hand Path group operating on the Welsh border. This bookshop we’re running, someone wants me to try and get hold of some of their original literature. Normally, I’d politely decline, but we only just started up and I don’t want to get a reputation for being unhelpful.’