The Chalice

The Thorn. Another descendant of the staff of Joseph of Arimathea. This one was like the kind of tree a child draws, with its thin, grooved trunk and its clouded mesh of branches.

'I've seen the one on Wearyall Hill,' Powys said. 'Which is the actual?'

'They all are,' Banks said. 'Wearyall Hill was where the first one grew, but there's been a greater continuity of Holy Thorns here. This is the one most people see. For most visitors, this is the Holy Thorn. The one that flowers at Christmas. Should he flowering now '

The Thorn wasn't in flower yet, although Powys could see what looked like buds.

Juanita said, 'Are you sure about this, Matthew? I mean, I don't know much about these things, but it looks as if it might flower.'

'Of course I'm sure,' Matthew Banks said harshly 'It's dying.'

Juanita put out an inexperienced hand. The tree was like a curled-up hedgehog; you couldn't get inside it. She'd discovered, a little surprised, that she was crying quietly. It was only a tree, for God's sake. And whatever had happened here, it hardly compared with the arboreal massacre found by Sam Daniel.

'It was a bad summer,' Banks said. 'Phenomenally dry, into August. And then…'

'The Blight?'

'Which went on until the end of November. And then winter came in with a crunch. The strange part is, I examined the tree less than a week ago and it was thriving.

'I'd stand by that. It was ready to flower, as I say.'

'But if it wasn't lack of water?' Powys said.

'There is lack of water.' Banks bent, snapped off a twig easily between finger and thumb. 'Look. Feel it. Embrittled. Parched inside. This doesn't happen overnight.'

'No.' Cold on the outside, Juanita thought as Powys accepted the twig. Parched and arid inside. Like me.

Damn it, this wasn't the Holy Oak. It wasn't the Holy Giant Redwood. It wasn't even much of a myth: an old guy shoves his stick in the ground and it turns into the kind of arboreal runt that gardeners rip up and feed into the shredder. And yet that was why…

'There's a poetic truth about this little tree,' she said.

'Yes,' Powys said.

'You know what Pixhill said.'

'Oh please,' Banks snapped. 'Must we bring that man into this?'

'Pixhill had a dream, right?' Powys tossed the twig to the foot of the tree. 'Or claimed he had. Anyway, he goes all apocalyptic. Dreamt I saw the Dark Chalice in the sky again, and the Meadwell was spewing black water from Hades and…'

'Stop it!' Banks shouted. 'Merciful God, are things not bad enough? Must we talk like this?'

'Must we…?' Juanita stared at him in despair. 'Did it ever occur to you, Matthew, that not talking like this is what's allowed this situation to develop? You've all been so airy-fairy, peace and love, open up the healing forces of nature, that you haven't noticed it growing.'

Matthew Banks recoiled.

'Until it's everywhere.'

But he obviously didn't want to face anything apocalyptic. Not what Glastonbury mysticism was about.

'In Avalon of the Heart,' Powys said, 'Dion Fortune described the Thorn as our first Christmas tree. I like that.'

Juanita's eyes widened, 'I know what you're thinking. Do I?'

'I can't say that I do.' Banks was obviously feeling himself being pushed from centre-stage. 'What are you saying?'

'He's thinking about the other Christmas tree'

'Oh, this is stupid.' Banks backed away from them.

'I don't think it is, Matthew. There's a malaise in this town.'

Powys said, 'I dreamt I saw the Dark Chalice in the sky again, and the Meadwell was spewing black water from Hades and…'

'And I saw that Joseph's Holy Thorn', Juanita said, 'had withered in the earth and…'

'Stop it! Pixhill was a paranoid, sick old man.'

'… and the Feet which walked in ancient times,' Juanita was amazed she could remember this stuff, 'had walked again in the winter-hardened fields of Avalon. But this time…'

Banks walked away in anguish, his head bowed like a monk's.

'… this time,' Powys said, 'they left tiny left cloven prints. Jesus, Arnold…'

Juanita saw the dowser's dog whimpering and backing away from the murdered Thorn. Powys picked him up Looking, Juanita thought, more concerned at the dog's reaction than anything.

'All I wanted', said Banks, when they caught him up, 'was for Diane to withdraw my article. Not to initiate a witchhunt. I wish I'd known this when I saw her last night '

'Matthew, when did you see her?'

'Must have been before eight because Safeway was still open. Oh, and then I saw her again. With Jenna Gray.'

Juanita's hands began to throb; the gloves felt too tight.

Powys said. 'Where was this, Mr Banks?'

'From my… my friend's window.'

'You mean Mr Seward? What were they doing? Where did they go? This is very important, Matthew.'

'Well, I think they got out of a car. I wasn't paying much attention. Juanita, do you… do you think I should inform the Bishop?'

'What?' Juanita was making let's-get-out-of-here eye movements at Powys.

'About the Thorn. Should I tell him about the Thorn?'

'Well, his mob owns the Abbey. What do you think, Powys?'

'Whatever,' Powys said. 'Unless I've misunderstood the guy, he'll probably just send one of his minions to the nearest nursery for another one.'

The bloody idiot,' Juanita said when they parted from Banks at the Gatehouse. 'How could she do this?'

The sleet was coming harder, looking thicker and whiter. A Christmassy crust was forming on the sawn up sections of tree behind the barricades around the market cross.

'Banks has this intermittent thing going with an antiquarian bookseller called Godwin Seward. Seward's flat is more or less opposite Wanda Carlisle's house.'

'Where The Cauldron meets,' Powys said. 'But let's not jump to conclusions.'

'You sound like Banks. If I want to jump to conclusions…'

'How confident are you about facing this woman'' He looked at her hands.

'I'm not afraid.'

'I never thought you were. That's not what I meant, just think a slanging match at this stage…'

'All I want is Diane out of there. At this stage.'

'Obviously,' Powys said. 'But what if she doesn't want to come?'

THREE

The Solstice Tree

Hello, are you awake?

'I think so. A little.'

Comfortable?

'I think so.'

Let me moisten your lips.

It felt sweet on her lips. Her head felt very heavy. So did her eyelids, and yet they fell softly, like petals.

'It's very dark. I thought it was morning.'

Don't worry. Let me tell you a story. Yes? About a baby? Whose mother died when she was born?

'That's me. It's my story,' Diane whispered. She had to whisper. It was dark and she didn't want to waken the other patients.

That's right. Your mother died when you were born. She was actually dying when you were born.

'She fell downstairs.'

No, my dear, she was pushed downstairs. Everybody knows that.

'I don't understand.'

She did see you. She opened her eyes and saw you before she died. Did you know that?

'No.'

Lie back, now. Your lips are very dry. Drink some of this. Put your head back.

'Which hospital is this? Your uniform…'

Head back now… open your mouth… there. Relax. You're going to be fine.

'Did you know my mother?'

Like you, I didn't meet her until she was dying. I was your age then. Perhaps a little younger. I was an assistant midwife at the Belvedere. There were two of us. We put you in your mother's arms.

'Oh.'

She died holding you.

Diane knew she was crying.

Didn't you know that?

'No, I… it's so beautiful.'

She bleeds. We have put you in your mother's arms as she bleeds. Do you remember? Her arms around you. And she bleeds and bleeds. And her arms grow cold.