The Chalice

'He died in – what – sixty-five?'

'Sixty-three,' Powys said.

'Lived in North Wales, his later years, with this woman who'd been his secretary or something, right? And you were born…?'

'Wrexham. In theory, he could have been my father, but I don't think he was up to it by then. My mother used to talk about an Uncle Jack who was a famous author, but in those days close friends of your parents were always aunties and uncles. And Jack was a common name then.'

'You remember ever seeing the old guy when you were a kid?'

Powys shook his head.

'You never ask about him, when you grew up?'

'Once. Not long before my mother died. I asked her about this Uncle lack, the famous author. I said – because I'd heard of Cowper Powys by then – was he, by any chance, possessed of a middle name beginning with C?'

Ben put down the marmalade. 'And she said?'

'She said, Uncle Jack? What Uncle Jack?'

'Shit. But you could find out.'

'Maybe. Who would it help?'

'Listen.' Ben glanced at the bookshelf, lowered his voice. 'Suppose he wants you to.'

'What?'

'Establish the link.'

'Get lost," said Powys. 'You're leaping to conclusions. A book falls off the shelf…'

'Halfway across the room. And the dog howling.'

'These things happen. Best thing is not to react.'

'Stone me,' Ben hissed at his toast in frustration.

'It was only a book. Nobody got hurt.'

'Not just a book, Powys. Not just a book. OK, what else we got? Glastonbury. When were you last in Glastonbury?'

'Never been.'

Ben put down his knife in astonishment.

'You've never been to Glastonbury? The world centre for earth mysteries? Glastonbury Tor and all the UFOs? Healing rays? The Abbey ruins? The St Michael Line?'

'The St Michael Line's spurious.'

'You've never been to Glastonbury?'

'Well, you know…' Powys stood up and started gathering plates together. He seemed uncomfortable about this, 'I read the Romance the first time when I was quite young. Much of it I didn't understand.'

'Isn't it all about sex?'

'Yeh, it is really. Mysticism and sex, and how they can both screw you up. It didn't make me want to go to Glastonbury, made me want to avoid it. It's a powerful book, though. Tells you a lot about JCP, things you might not want to know if there's a possibility you were related.'

'He had some runny ideas.'

'But where did he get them?' Powys said. 'Did he force his ideas on Glastonbury or did it force them on him?'

'Strange place. But good fun. We sell a lot of books there.'

'As you would.'

'Don't knock it, it's all har…'

Ben stopped himself and looked up at the shelf. Had it moved, just a fraction of a centimetre?

'Keep on saying it,' Powys said. 'Maybe that's best.'

No more than an hour after Ben had gone back to London, the phone rang, and it was Fay.

She'd said she was coming over this weekend, from Hereford. She was supposed to have come last weekend, but the bloke who owned Offa's Dyke Radio had apparently arrived in town and she had to stick around for meetings.

Powys had thought this was an excuse and that there was something else in the air she wasn't telling him about.

Fay said now, 'Joe…'

And when she said Joe, he knew it was going to be heavy. Most of the time she called him Powys; people did, it was a better name than Joe, had more resonance: whisper it and it sounded as if you were calling the cat.

'Joe,' Fay said, 'it's… I've been offered a job.'

At the BBC World Service. London wanted Fay back. There was what they called a six month attachment for a features producer. Six-month attachments at the BBC were hard to come by these days, now it was run like ICI.

She said, what did he think?

He said – what was he supposed to say? – that he thought she ought to take it. He was about to say he was likely to be down in London himself soon, seeing this publisher, and maybe they could…

Or maybe they shouldn't.

Joe Powys was feeling very alone. Fay was the only person who understood. Their relationship had involved a lot of comforting each other, of saying, Listen, you're not out of your mind. And, in the end, the reassurances had themselves served as reminders of how bad it had been and reminders were useful, except for those invoking books thrown from shelves.

Fay said they'd see each other properly, and Arnold and everything, before she went.

'Well good God, you're only going to London..

'Ah,' said Fay.

It wasn't just London. The World Service was planning some kind of trans Global Christmas linkup under the working title Peace on Earth. Fay would be involved in producing the European end. From Brussels and places.

'Ah,' Powys said.

'And then there's a few other things. Paris. Amsterdam. Back in March.' Fay said. 'Probably.'

'Sounds brilliant,' he said, hoping she'd think the hoarseness was on the line. 'Do it. Don't look back.'

But, she said, what about him?

Fine, he said. Really. And he told her about the book.

The book that Ben Corby was passing on to this guy Frayne at Harvey-Calder.

Not the book which came off the shelf, sailed halfway across the room and smashed the lamp.

'That's wonderful, Powys,' Fay said. 'So you could be back in business, then.' And there was a silence, and then the conversation became rather weepy.

Later that morning, Powys went for a walk with Arnold. They climbed to the top of the hill behind the longhouse, Arnold indignant at being carried part of the way. From here, you could see along Offa's Dyke, the earthwork which used to mark the boundary between England and Wales but was only an approximation these days. The dyke itself was not exactly the Great Wall of China and probably never had been. It was just a symbol of an old division.

In The Old Golden Land, Powys had argued that borders were very sensitive places, where the veil – yes that veil – was especially thin. It was a place where you might expect to have extraordinary experiences.

So what was he still doing here?

'Hiding,' he said aloud. 'Hiding out.'

But had something found him?

He had Arnold's ball in his jacket pocket, and Arnold knew it. Usually, Arnold would race about after it, proving he'd never really needed four legs anyway. Today he stuck close to Powys.

It was Fay who'd rescued Arnold from the dog pound after Henry Kettle, the dowser, died in the car crash. Fay was small, like a terrier. She'd held on as long as she could. Now, in taking the London job, she had, in theory, cut Powys loose as well. He'd told Ben he was still here because it was Arnold's home, and Ben had said that was a wonderfully New Age thing to say.

But it wasn't really true.

He looked back down at the cottage. Mrs Whitney next door was hanging out towels on her washing line. Mrs Whitney had known Fay wasn't coming back; he could tell by her expression.

'Let's go, Arnie. Home.'

Home?

When they got back to the cottage, Arnold stood in the doorway and growled. Powys made his senses go dead and uncaring, or, at least, that was the message he sent to himself. It's nothing, it doesn't matter, it's irrelevant.

The big black book lay in the centre of the hearth this time, its spine split.

Part Three

On Wearyall Hill, the long, low spur jutting out into the marshes, the first firm ground between Avalon and the sea in those days, Joseph set foot on English land, and he drove his staff into the warm, red, Westland soil as he took possession of our islands for the spiritual kingdom of his Lord, a realm not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.