Nomi raised her eyebrows. “Single? I’ll remember that.”
“Hey, I’m single too,” Bones said. “And you don’t have to worry about me getting all emo about my exes. Hell, I forget about a girl as soon as I…” The look in Nomi’s eye cut him off in midsentence.
“So what brings the two of you to Caesar’s Spring? Are you the thrill-seeking type that likes dangerous dives?”
“Maybe a little bit. Mostly we just enjoy diving. When we heard about a new place, we couldn’t resist being the first to explore the passageways. Of course, we didn’t get here first,” Maddock said, grinning.
Mischief sparkled in Nomi’s eyes. “Sorry to beat you to it. So, what do the two of you do when you aren’t diving?”
“Actually, we’re pretty much always diving,” Bones said. “We’re marine archaeologists.”
Maddock didn’t miss a slight narrowing of Nomi’s eyes. “Treasure hunters?” she asked.
“Yep. Pretty good ones too,” Bones said. “Tell you what. We’re staying at the campground just off the main road. If you want to drop by later, I’ll buy you a beer and tell you all about it.”
Nomi’s smile was forced. “Maybe.”
“So,” Maddock began, “what brings you to the spring? Are you also a treasure hunter?”
“No,” Nomi said quickly. “I just heard about this place and fancied a dive, same as you.” She pushed herself up and clambered out of the water. “I really have to go. But thank you again.” She stripped off her fins and hurried away.
They watched her go, Bones clearly admiring the way she moved. When she disappeared from sight, he turned to Maddock.
“That was weird. What do you think?”
“I think,” Maddock began, “she’s hiding something. But what that something is I have no idea.”
Chapter 2
Isla Mulheron smoothed her auburn hair and checked her makeup in the mirror before climbing out of the car. It wasn’t that she cared what the man she was meeting thought of her appearance, but she thought it best to maintain a professional air about her at all times. Some of these older men treated women, young women in particular, as adorable idiots. She would not tolerate that.
A stocky, gray-haired man waited for her at the foot of Glastonbury Tor. He stood there, gazing off into the distance, puffing away at a Calabash pipe. She’d never seen one of the pipes outside of a Sherlock Holmes film. Smiling, she headed in his direction.
“Mister Osborne? I’m Isla Mulheron.” Osborne was a local amateur historian whom she’d tracked down online.
They shook hands, Osborne frowning a little. “You sounded older when we spoke on the phone.”
She wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that, so she ignored it. “Thank you for meeting me. I’m eager to learn about the history and legends surrounding the tor.” That was almost the truth. Extensive research had led her to this place. Now she was hoping to learn something new — nuggets of local history that might have escaped the attention of scholars.
Osborne took another puff of his pipe. The breeze carried a vanilla-scented cloud of blue smoke Isla’s way. The aroma brought back bittersweet memories of her father.
“You said you work for Scottish Adventure magazine?”
“That’s right.”
He scowled, took another puff. “Glastonbury’s not in Scotland,” he finally said.
God. Was he going to be such a condescending bawbag for their entire meeting? She forced herself to keep smiling. “Our readers travel all over Britain, so a site with such a long and colorful history will be of great interest to them.”
Osborne nodded slowly. “Let’s get on with it then.”
Isla found she didn’t need to ask many questions. She merely turned on her recorder and feigned interest as Osborne droned on about the legends surrounding Glastonbury Tor. Located in the English county of Somerset, the tall, conical hill stood conspicuously in the midst of the surrounding flatlands of the Summerland Meadows. Surmounted by St. Michael’s Tower, the tor was the most prominent feature in all the surrounding countryside. It had been given many nicknames over the years: Magic Mountain, Faeries’ Glass Hill, Spiral Castle, Grail Castle, and Land of the Dead.
“There’s been a lot of legends about the tor over the years,” Osborne said. “People call it a magic mountain, claim there’s some sort of magnetic power point here because of the ley lines or some such, which made it a landing spot for UFOs. Some say there was a castle here that hid the Holy Grail. Others called it the Isle of Avalon, said it marked the entrance to the underworld. There’s also older history here. It’s an important site to the Celts. Druids even held fertility rituals here.”
Isla shifted uncomfortably. A small voice in the back of her mind said the man could see right through her, knew the real reason she was interested in the tor and its history. But that was absurd. She actually was writing a piece for the magazine. Her ulterior motives were known only to a few.
“Has there been any investigation into the more exotic claims?” she asked.
Osborne chuckled. “How do you investigate the absurd? But yes, there’s been people out here from time to time. They bring odd-looking equipment that’s supposed to measure magnetism and the like. It’s all bollocks.”
Isla sensed this was the wrong time to ask probing questions. If the man decided she was only interested in conspiracy theories, she’d lose whatever credibility she might have with him.
“One man swore there was once a crystal castle here.” Osborne laughed.
Isla’s heart leaped at the mention of a crystal castle. Perhaps she was on the right track.
“I understand the Celtic name of the Tor was Ynys Wydryn, or Ynys Gutrin, meaning ‘Isle of Glass.’ Perhaps that’s where the legend comes from?”
Osborne raised his eyebrows and looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. Clearly she had risen in his estimation. “That is correct. Come on. I’ve got lots more to show you.”
He guided her to the Chalice Well, a natural spring said to have been in use for more than two thousand years. Surrounded by manicured gardens, the well, also known as Red Spring, was said to possess healing properties. A popular site among Neopagans, the well was strongly associated with the sacred feminine, with the Tor representing the masculine. All around she saw the trappings of both Christian and Pagan symbolism in the design of the gardens, from the well lid carved with interlocking circles bisected by a sword, down to the seven bowls of the vesica piscis, a shape formed by interlocking circles. Here there were layers upon layers of intrigue, enough to keep a conspiracy theorist busy for a lifetime.
“It’s iron oxide deposits what gives the water the reddish tint,” Osborne said. “Of course, the storytellers say it’s thanks to Joseph of Arimathea. Depending on which story you hear, he either put the Holy Grail in here with drops of the blood of Christ in it, or he dropped in some nails from the crucifixion. Either way, it’s…”
“Bollocks,” Isla finished for him.
Osborne flashed a crooked smile. “There’s a clear spring nearby called the White Spring. They’ve built a waterworks over it, but it’s open to visitors.”
“I think I’d like to see the tor if that’s all right.”
Osborne led her along the steep path leading to the top of the tor. As they climbed, he pointed out the many terraces, now overgrown with lush, green grass.
“No one can agree what these are,” he said. “Some say it’s just for defense of whatever might have been built up at the top. Others think it was once a spiral path that led to the top.”