“There were legends that in the old days Druids lived on the Tor and sang the eternal song. Constantly rotating people twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, they kept the song alive, which supposedly kept the Tor alive. I asked Brynn about the Tor.
“He told me ‘In the old days the Tor was surrounded by water. The land around us is actually below sea level and this was an island. It was called Avalon.’ ‘That is a place of myth,’ I argued. ‘Not real.’ ‘Do you feel the Earth beneath you? Is that not real?’ Brynn didn’t wait for an answer from me. ‘This was Avalon. Many feet, belonging to people much more famous than you, have stood in this place and felt the ground under them. Arthur was here on his deathbed. Arthur was brought here after his last fight, the Battle of Camlann. Merlin came here many times.’
“Brynn told me more as we stood there,” Mualama said. “He told me that before Arthur and Merlin there were others who had been on Avalon. He listed names I had heard of only in legend: Bron, the Fisher-King, who he said ruled from atop the Tor long before Arthur. And before Bron, Joseph of Arimathea came there from the Holy Land. He even told me there were some who believe the Christ-child came with Joseph during one of his early trips to trade tin.”
“Ah!” Yakov could not control his reaction.
Mualama looked at the Russian. “I am only telling you what I heard and saw.”
“Go on,” Yakov said. “It is just that every time I think I have heard so much I cannot be shocked, I hear something more.”
“I know how you feel,” Mualama said. “Brynn led the way and we slid between broken stone into the ruined abbey, to the remains of the high tower. We stood in the center, the night sky visible directly overhead. Brynn held a hand up, muttering some words that I could not hear. Then he knelt, placing his ring on the stone floor. A large block, six feet long by three wide, dropped down two feet, then slid sideways, disappearing, revealing stairs etched out of the Tor itself, descending into the depths.
“I felt a sense of dread looking into the hole, as if a woolen blanket had been draped over my soul. For the first time in many years, I wondered if I really wanted to know more of the truth, if ignorance might indeed be bliss. What little I did know already weighed heavy on my heart.
“Brynn did not wait on me. He headed down and quickly faded into darkness. My boots echoed on the stone steps. The air was dank and chilly. I could tell from the walls that as we descended we were moving back through time. No one knew exactly when the current Tower had been built, but most agreed it was sometime in the fourth century.
“The stones that lined the stairs were perfectly cut. These stones gave way to the solid rock at the heart of the Tor. The walls were smooth, the tunnel sliced out of hard rock as easily as I could cut butter at the dinner table. Looking down, I could see that the steps were worn very slightly in the center, from generations of Brynn’s walking up and down them, I imagined. Still we went down, the path ahead dimly lit from Brynn’s and my lights, darkness beyond.
“Brynn had come to a halt on a landing. The stairs did another ninety-degree turn and continued down, but he was facing the stone wall. He placed his ring on it, and another doorway appeared. He waved me to go inside. I stepped through. Brynn followed, the door sliding shut behind them. It was dry inside, but still chilly.
“I gasped as I looked about. I was in a large cavern, about two hundred meters long by a hundred wide. It was brilliantly lit as the small amount of light from our lanterns reflected from the brilliant crystals that lined the walls, ceiling, and floor. Brynn set down his light.
“I asked him where we were. He told me ‘This place has gone by many names over many generations. Some call it Merlin’s tomb. Others say it is the antechamber to the Otherworld.’
“I asked him what he called it, and he simply replied home.
“I followed. In the very center of the cavern was a large crystal, over two meters tall. We didn’t go that way, though. Brynn turned to the right and walked along the wall. He then opened a door, cleverly hidden between two pillars of crystal to reveal a level tunnel cut through the stone.
“We went along it for almost a kilometer before Brynn stopped. He placed his ring against the wall and a door suddenly appeared. The stone slid up. This time Brynn led the way in.
“We were in a small chamber, about ten meters long by five wide. The center of the room was full of wooden desks crammed tightly together. The entire wall on the right was fronted with what appeared to be wine racks, except instead of bottles, the small openings held rolls of parchment. I had seen a similar thing at an old monastery in France — a scriptorium — a room where monks painstakingly copied texts by hand before the days of the printing press, to ensure that copies survived.
“He told me the scrolls were the records and reports of our order, the tale of the wedjat. We were underneath the town, where the new Abbey was built. In the old days this was secreted under water.
“I stared dumbfounded, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. Not even in my wildest dreams had I imagined such a treasure trove.
“Brynn waved a hand at the wall. ‘They are in various tongues and from many times. I have looked at some and there are few I can read.’
“I moved toward the scrolls, drawn as if by a powerful magnet that was linked to my heart and mind. There was only one other time in my life when I had felt such a way — the first time I laid eyes on my wife.
“Brynn and I sat and talked for a while and he told me what he knew. His line of Watchers didn’t watch. They recorded reports from Watchers all over the world as they arrived. He told me that the task was now computerized. His job was to maintain the old records and allow other Watchers access to them.
“From him I learned that for millennia the wedjat was exiled from Glastonbury Tor. As he spoke, I eagerly went to the first racks. There was a rolled parchment in the upper, leftmost opening. Carefully I pulled it out. I took it to a desk and unrolled the first piece. It was covered in markings, much like the Egyptian hieroglyphics, but different in many ways. I know now they were High Runes.
“Brynn told me to look below the first sheet. I lifted the parchment and underneath was another page, written in Celtic. He told me it was the translation, done in the Dark Ages by his predecessors.
“I ran my fingers lightly across the first lines. I could feel the age of the paper and thought of the men who had labored here in this cave, translating the story of the history from High Rune to Celtic. I asked him to tell me of the wedjat, of the early Watchers.
“The wedjat were the priests of Atlantis. They served the Airlia, worshipped them as Gods. They worshipped the Airlia in a temple where no man was allowed. A pyramid, blood red in hue, capped the peak of the temple. Inside, upon a table in the center, was the Ark which held the Grail, worshipped as the bringer of eternal life, health, and knowledge.”
“This red pyramid,” Turcotte interrupted. “I haven’t heard of this. The guardian computers I’ve seen are all gold.” He glanced at Yakov. “Have you?”
Yakov shook his large head. “No. Perhaps that is the master guardian?”
“Perhaps,” Mualama acknowledged. “The priests of the wedjat were not allowed to touch the red pyramid or even view it, never mind touch the Grail. The Ark remained closed to them. The leader of the Airlia, Aspasia, promised the wedjat that if they obeyed and were faithful, the day would come when all that the Grail could provide would be man’s. Foremost among them would be eternal life. Immortality, the ultimate gift of the Gods, lay inside the Ark, vested in the Grail. You can imagine how that brought obedience.”