Read Online The Chalice by Phil Rickman - Free Book Online Page B

dressed and the glint of the rings in the ears, I'd've … I
don't know. They were just so quiet. Not
a buggering word between them. And you're looking at - what? - over a hundred of
them. Yes. I suppose I could quite easily have missed Diane.'
           There was a moment's silence.
           'I don't like the sound of this, Jim.'
           That's why I called you. Do you think I should phone the
police in Street?'
           'What, and have the camp raided and Diane herded into a Black
Maria? No, let's play it by ear. I'll get the car. Pick you up at the bottom of
your track in about ten minutes?'
           'Right ho,' Jim said, relieved. 'Just ... just be careful. Don't
stop for anybody.'
           'Jim.'
           'Yes?'
           'You sound scared.'
       'Oh. No, no. Just out of breath.'
     
    Diane stood on the deck of
the bus, nervously nibbling another carob bar. It was quiet again now. The
strange children had finished spraying the bus and gone. Was it supposed to be
a joke? She was ashamed at having let the girl menace her like that.
           The air was cooling. She drew her woollen shawl across her
lower arms, dragged it tight around her, arms folded in the wool. She sat down
in one of the slimy vinyl seats. She'd wait about an hour and then creep
quietly away to the van, drive up to Don Moulder's farm and then down Wellhouse
Lane into the town.
           All the buses and vans were still as wooden huts and drained of
their colours. It could have been a scene from centuries ago. The circle of
vehicles, which might just as well be carts, looked almost romantically tribal
when their squalid aspects were submerged in shadows.
           When she'd joined the convoy it was all so noisy and jolly, with
a real sense of community. It was a kind of fun paganism more concerned with
stone circles and earth forces and ley-lines and spreading good vibes. They
were like a travelling circus. And yes, you really could imagine a new spirit
of freedom being born and nurtured in an encampment of latterday gypsies dismissed
by just about everybody as a bunch of dirty scavengers. There really had been a
glimmer of ancient light here.
           The smell on the bus was of sweat, grease and oil with an
underlying cannabis sweetness. A misty wafer of moon rose in the grimy glass.
This was the only ancient light now.
           And yet, as the thought passed through her mind, there was
another glimmer, some yards away. Diane froze and then, very quietly, stood up
and peered through the window into Don Moulder's field.
           The Tor, half a mile away, was still visible, the tower entwined
in strands of moon-touched cloud. A tall figure was gazing over the fields towards
the sacred hill. Gwyn the shaman. He was still here. He must be waiting until
they were all in position on the Tor before making his ceremonial entrance.
           The shaman was the tribal witch doctor. The man who interceded
with the spirits. Bearded Gwyn, with his aloofness and his whispered
prophecies, seemed disturbingly like the real thing. It was when Gwyn had
joined that the atmosphere had begun to change. The gradual shedding of the
happier, noisier, more casual pilgrims, leaving the quieter, more committed
ones.
       And Diane. And Headlice.
           She held her breath, moved back a little from the window. She
could see that Gwyn wore ... a robe or a long overcoat. His arm, the one
nearest to her, was reaching up into the mist, his hand ...
           His hand was curled around one end of the spectral sickly moon.
           Diane gasped. Gwyn stood tall and still, a god with the moon
in his hand. Or so it seemed.
           Until, with a feeling of deep dread, she became aware that the
wan glimmer was from the blade of a real sickle.
           Gwyn lowered the blade, in a slow and ceremonial fashion. She
watched the curved sliver of light swinging by his side as he