GLASTONBURY1

GLASTONBURY
Trevor Denyer
(Copyright: Trevor Denyer 2000)

Sitting in the pub garden supping a pint, he studies the leaflets. He tries to take in the details. The ungraspable myths.

It is hot and humid on the Tor. As he climbs the steeper southern side, a couple of elderly ladies pass him on the narrow path.

“I’ve achieved a lifelong ambition,” one of them says. “To climb to the top of Glastonbury Tor.”

He watches as they descend, brittle boned yet fulfilled at last. The hill swamps them with its power.

At the summit a few people rest on the grassy slopes. They lie, cross like - arms outstretched - soaking up atmosphere. The pinnacle of St. Michael reaches towards the blue sky. All around the Isle, the flatlands slumber in heat haze, stretching away to ill-defined horizons. There is an eerie silence here. It’s the silence of age - expectant and waiting for change.

He enters the tower and gazes upward, past ancient stones to the square blaze of light at the top. It’s cool inside as he sits on one of the tomb shaped seats. Sweat turns cold against his skin. It runs in small rivulets from his armpits. He stares at the flagstones of the floor and imagines a King returning.

There’s a soft voice in his mind, whispering promise. He is contented here, and mindful of pre-history. It’s as if he’s found the centre of a desolate engine. Across the land the standing stones vibrate, ignored by the tide of humanity. They have no concept of ancient devices.

Outside once more, he searches for the line of St. Michael: to the Northeast through Avebury, and Southwest to the Mount. The places are too distant to see beneath the haze, yet he senses the presence of the dragon and the serpent. They doze through the hot afternoon. Their breath is magic on the air.

Again the whispered secrets come. “Thread the maze,” they say. “Find the Land of the Dead.”

In the Abbey grounds the monks live on. The sound of prayer and sanctity echoes down the ages. The weight of history is heavy here. He thinks he sees them, but when he turns, they merge into the ruins. Only their memories remain.
‘HIC IACET SEPULTUS INCLITUS REX ARTURIUS IN INSULA AVALONIA’
(‘HERE LIES BURIED THE RENOWNED KING ARTHUR IN THE ISLE OF AVALON’)

They dug deeper, inspired by what they’d found - breathless and excited by what they dared to hope for.

Deep within the pre-Dunstan earth they found his bones, buried with Guinevere in a hollow log. They felt the spirits rise from the grave and fill them with hope.

Lifting the bones from the sacred ground, they enshrined the lovers in a tomb worthy of a King and Queen. Important people travelled far to worship in the Lady Chapel, paying homage to the casket.

But the miracle had passed, and only bones remained.

Evening has come. It’s time to thread the maze. He stands by the lower marker stone. The Tor rises before him, the lines of its terraces etched by shadows as the sun sinks behind it.

He’s read the leaflets that offer arguments as to the validity of various myths and legends. He smiles at the thought of all those informed, logical ideas and conclusions. He stands there, feeling the presence of the dead. They will guide him along the sacred path.

He begins the climb, finding the second marker stone. He touches it - feels the vibrations, tingling through his fingers. The dead urge him on, impatient now that they have brought him this far.

He moves away, beginning the circuit along the left-hand path. There are isolated houses and clumps of bushes below; landmarks confirming the route. The path follows the ridges of the Tor. They are not always clear, but certainty drives him on. The ghosts remember, for they have gone before him, following the coils of the sleeping serpent.

Eventually he arrives at a point just above the second marker stone. He senses the pleasure of his invisible companions. He has completed the first circuit.