Read Online Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time by Judith Schara - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judith Schara
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room looked like someone’s home. It was an old style room with no pretensions to modern life. She felt at ease here. Yes, after the work at Maiden Castle concluded, she might stay a while and work on the book. Pleased with the thought, she mentally arranged a desk in front of the window.
Then the smell of bacon cooking wafted in through the open window. It was irresistible. Instantly hungry, she dressed and hurried downstairs.
No other guests were in the small dining room as she sat and looked at the menu. A charming pen-and-ink drawing of the bed and breakfast was on the front of the menu. The hillfort still dominated the surrounding countryside, as it had in the distant past. It seemed everything was named after the great hill. The road in front of the farm was called Maiden Castle Road, as was the quaint Bed and Breakfast itself—even the menu offered Maiden Castle Pancakes. She smiled. That was way too much of a good thing.
In the spirit of the morning, she ordered the namesake pancakes and a pot of English tea—Yorkshire Gold, her favorite. Lace-curtained French doors led from the dark paneled dining room onto a pale-green pasture, each spike of grass glistening fresh in the sun. It was bucolic and peaceful after crowded London and the events of the past few months. Germaine breathed a deep sigh of contentment.
The cheery waitress brought her the pancakes and tea and switched on the television—the telly as the Brits called it—in the corner of the room.
“Hope you don’t mind, miss. I want to see what’s happening up there at the castle. We were the ones who called the police when that bomb went off. We heard it here first.” She spoke in a pleasing country style, warm and friendly, and Germaine nodded yes, in spite of misgivings.
With a twinge of apprehension, she looked at the television perched high on an old chest, next to a pile of napkins and a neat row of salt and pepper shakers. She felt a gut level reaction and wished she didn’t have to hear about the explosion, and maybe a death. Aubrey said someone was seriously injured.
Rabbit ears antennae balanced on top of the old, black and white television. The waitress fussed with them as a snowy picture emerged, and then cleared to a live newscast from the car park at Maiden Castle.
The small screen filled with a close-up of a man’s face. One eye was terribly bruised and the other swollen and closed. There was a long gash across his forehead. As the camera moved back, she saw one arm was in a sling and he wore a dirt-stained robe. In the background white-robed Druids were chanting. Someone held a microphone up to his mouth.
Germaine put down her teacup. She tried to look away, but couldn’t—her eyes were drawn to the battered man’s image.
“Two nights ago, Jemmy Aston was almost killed by an explosion on Maiden Castle,” the announcer said. “He is in intensive care now and the doctors are not very optimistic. This is his brother, Mick Aston, the new Grand Druid of the Ancient Order of British Druids . Can you tell us why you and Jemmy were up there?”
Aston nodded and answered in a slow hesitant way, his voice a monotone.
“Merlin, our old Grand Druid, died, and we wanted to bury him up there. It’s a sacred place ... you know? Jemmy tried to help out ... said he could make the digging go faster with some kind of explosive he used in the SAS.” His voice cracked with emotion. “But something went wrong ... I think he tried to kill himself.”
The camera quickly panned the Druids behind him and then came back to Mick Aston’s ravaged face. There was a look of desperation in his eyes. He raised his voice.
“He’s my baby brother, the sweetest lad that ever lived. I took care of him since he was born.” He gave a little sob. “Iraq screwed him up. He killed too many people—he told me that! He didn’t want to remember. The bloody army taught him how to kill. It’s their fault! We only wanted to bury our friend Merlin up
Then the smell of bacon cooking wafted in through the open window. It was irresistible. Instantly hungry, she dressed and hurried downstairs.
No other guests were in the small dining room as she sat and looked at the menu. A charming pen-and-ink drawing of the bed and breakfast was on the front of the menu. The hillfort still dominated the surrounding countryside, as it had in the distant past. It seemed everything was named after the great hill. The road in front of the farm was called Maiden Castle Road, as was the quaint Bed and Breakfast itself—even the menu offered Maiden Castle Pancakes. She smiled. That was way too much of a good thing.
In the spirit of the morning, she ordered the namesake pancakes and a pot of English tea—Yorkshire Gold, her favorite. Lace-curtained French doors led from the dark paneled dining room onto a pale-green pasture, each spike of grass glistening fresh in the sun. It was bucolic and peaceful after crowded London and the events of the past few months. Germaine breathed a deep sigh of contentment.
The cheery waitress brought her the pancakes and tea and switched on the television—the telly as the Brits called it—in the corner of the room.
“Hope you don’t mind, miss. I want to see what’s happening up there at the castle. We were the ones who called the police when that bomb went off. We heard it here first.” She spoke in a pleasing country style, warm and friendly, and Germaine nodded yes, in spite of misgivings.
With a twinge of apprehension, she looked at the television perched high on an old chest, next to a pile of napkins and a neat row of salt and pepper shakers. She felt a gut level reaction and wished she didn’t have to hear about the explosion, and maybe a death. Aubrey said someone was seriously injured.
Rabbit ears antennae balanced on top of the old, black and white television. The waitress fussed with them as a snowy picture emerged, and then cleared to a live newscast from the car park at Maiden Castle.
The small screen filled with a close-up of a man’s face. One eye was terribly bruised and the other swollen and closed. There was a long gash across his forehead. As the camera moved back, she saw one arm was in a sling and he wore a dirt-stained robe. In the background white-robed Druids were chanting. Someone held a microphone up to his mouth.
Germaine put down her teacup. She tried to look away, but couldn’t—her eyes were drawn to the battered man’s image.
“Two nights ago, Jemmy Aston was almost killed by an explosion on Maiden Castle,” the announcer said. “He is in intensive care now and the doctors are not very optimistic. This is his brother, Mick Aston, the new Grand Druid of the Ancient Order of British Druids . Can you tell us why you and Jemmy were up there?”
Aston nodded and answered in a slow hesitant way, his voice a monotone.
“Merlin, our old Grand Druid, died, and we wanted to bury him up there. It’s a sacred place ... you know? Jemmy tried to help out ... said he could make the digging go faster with some kind of explosive he used in the SAS.” His voice cracked with emotion. “But something went wrong ... I think he tried to kill himself.”
The camera quickly panned the Druids behind him and then came back to Mick Aston’s ravaged face. There was a look of desperation in his eyes. He raised his voice.
“He’s my baby brother, the sweetest lad that ever lived. I took care of him since he was born.” He gave a little sob. “Iraq screwed him up. He killed too many people—he told me that! He didn’t want to remember. The bloody army taught him how to kill. It’s their fault! We only wanted to bury our friend Merlin up
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