“What do you think?”
Osborne pursed his lips. “It reminds me of the labyrinth in Greek mythology. I know that sounds mad, but there you are.”
“I don’t think it’s mad at all. The spiral maze was an important symbol in ancient cultures, representing the soul’s journey from life to death to rebirth. And as you said, this place has long been associated with the Celts.”
Osborne stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. “Sounds like you already know it all.”
“Hardly, but you write enough articles about historic sites in Britain, you pick up a few things.”
Osborne seemed to find this an acceptable explanation and they resumed their trek, now cloaked in silence.
At the top, they paused to take in the sights. Isla found herself mesmerized by the view. To the north lay the Mendip Hills and nearby the faint outline of the Wells Cathedral. To the west, the island of Steep Holm in the Bristol Channel. The Black Mountains of Wales loomed hazy far to the southwest. And to the east, Cley Hill, a spot famous for UFO sightings.
“You’re lucky it’s a clear day,” Osborne said. “Can’t see a thing on a foggy day. Course, some tourists prefer it that way. The ‘mists of Avalon’ and all that shite.”
Next they examined St. Michael’s Tower. The roofless structure was all that remained of what was once St. Michael’s Church. Isla found it interesting, but it was not what she was looking for.
“This has been wonderful,” she said to Osborne. “Exactly what I needed for my article.” She wondered how deeply she could probe before the man dismissed her entirely. “Our readers also enjoy the obscure local legends, even the stuff that’s ‘bollocks’ as you called it. Anything like that you can share with me? The stuff that would play with our readers who love a good conspiracy theory or treasure hunt?” She saw Osborne tense a little and hurried on. “I won’t attach your name to it. Just share it as a story I picked up.”
“That would be for the best, I think.” Osborne scratched his chin. “I already mentioned the aliens and all the esoteric stuff. But as far as conspiracies go, there’s always been legends that there’s all sorts of tunnels running underneath the hill and even to parts of Glastonbury. There actually was at least one tunnel back in the 1960s. Used to have jazz concerts there. The birds I used to meet at those.” A faint smile played over his face, his gaze suddenly far away. After a few seconds of reverie, he gave his head a shake. “Anyhow, whatever is supposed to be hidden here, be it the grail or some other artifact, supposedly can be found at the end of one of the secret tunnels.”
Isla nodded, trying to hide her eagerness.
“Legend has it, all the tunnels have collapsed except for one.”
“Any idea where it would be? According to legend, I mean,” she added.
“Common wisdom is, it runs from beneath the Abbey to the tor, which they claim is hollow underneath. Long ago, thirty monks were rumored to have followed the tunnel down to the tor.” He paused. “But only three came out again, two insane and one struck dumb. Like I said, bollocks.”
“Maybe, but it makes for an entertaining story. The readers will love it.”
Osborne let out a huff of breath through his nose, showing exactly what he thought of those readers.
“Our readers also love Arthurian legend,” Isla began, choosing her words with care. “Some of those legends surrounding Glastonbury Tor are well known. But I wonder if, and I’m not quite sure how to put it…”
“Just spit it out. That’s always the best way.”
“Many of our readers would love to believe there’s some historical fact behind those legends. Have there been any discoveries to that end here? Anything at all, no matter how seemingly insignificant, that could lend credence to such a far-fetched theory?”
“Venturing into tabloid territory, are you?” Osborne fished out his pipe and began to pack it again.
“Not at all. I’ll make it clear in my article that these are merely colorful local legends.”
Osborne considered this for the length of time it took him to light up and take a couple of puffs. “The fellow you’d want to ask is Charles Baxter. Man was obsessed with King Arthur. Don’t misunderstand; he was a serious scholar, but he was far too eager to accept nonsense as possibly being true. Always sneaking around after dark with a metal detector. He hinted once or twice that he’d found something. Even claimed he’d explored that tunnel I mentioned.”
Isla’s heart raced. This Baxter fellow was exactly the man she needed to talk to.
Osbourne blew out a puff of smoke. “Of course, he’s dead.”
“That’s too bad.” Isla couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Does he have family in the area?”
“No idea. Anything else I can help you with?”
Isla shook her head. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very kind.”
“No problem. Walk you back to your car?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to spend some time here taking photos for the article.”
Osborne bade her goodbye and headed back down the hill. Isla watched him go. She would, in fact, take a few photographs. After all, there would be an article to write. She needed her job and the credibility it afforded her. But her real work was just beginning.
Chapter 3
Maddock settled into his folding camp chair, propped his feet on a rock, and closed his eyes. The dive had been refreshing, and left him tired, but it was the proverbial “good tired.” The kind that left him relaxed at the end of a solid day’s work.
“Beer?” Bones proffered a bottle of Dos Equis.
“Of course.” Maddock accepted the drink, taking a moment to press its cool surface against his sweaty brow, letting the condensation drip down his face. It was a welcome relief in the humid Florida air.
“It goes in your mouth,” Bones said.
Rolling his eyes, Maddock took a swig, then another. “This was a good idea,” he said. “Thanks for suggesting it.”
“Anything to get you to quit moping around your condo.” Bones began laying a campfire. “As soon as we got back from Scotland you turned into an emo kid.”
“Just got stuff on my mind.” Maddock knew he’d been a hermit for the past several weeks but his friend had not been content to leave him alone. Although he and Angel had recently broken off their engagement, she wasn’t foremost in his mind.
“Give it time. You and my sister will work things out.” When Maddock didn’t reply, Bones turned to look at him. “It is Angel you’re moping about, isn’t it?” His tone said it wasn’t really a question.
“You know it is,” Maddock lied. “We were together for a long time. It’s just weird to be taking time off.”
“I can’t believe that, after all these years, I still haven’t managed to teach you how to live.” Bones lit the fire and sat back, watching the tiny flame grow into a cheery, crackling blaze. “This is a gift, Maddock. You can do anything you want, or anyone you…”
“I get it, Bones.” Maddock took another drink.
“Do you?” Bones reached into the cooler and took out another beer. “I’ll make a deal with you. Take one month and pretend you're somebody else.”
“Like who?”
“Like an ugly version of me.” Bones grinned, took a drink, and let out a deep, protracted belch. “Panama City Beach is just down the road. College chicks galore. Let’s go there, do a little partying, pick up some babes. No consequences.”
“There are always consequences.”
Bones turned and pointed at him. “That right there is what I’m talking about. You’ve been fifty years old since the day we met. Chill out for a few weeks. Live. After that, if you want to go back to being mister risk management, I’ll leave you alone about it.”