GLASTONBURY3

They guide him back to the stone. This time, he moves off in the other direction, following the path immediately below the one he has just trodden.

The sun is sinking now, blazing low across the flatlands and sharpening the colours of the hill. It rises above him, dry earth showing through the carpet of grass. The ground is a scaly cover, protecting the coiled life within.

The effort makes him sweat. He’s grateful for the shade of a small wood. Between the trees, the contours become confused. He’s certain that he sees the cowled figures of monks, guiding him along the true path.

He moves upward, completing circuits that lead him ever closer to the tower then swing downward, teasing him. Through lengthening shadows and deepening shade the winding pathway goes, until at last he stands facing east. The sun has gone to fill another world’s day, leaving dusk to draw darkness over Glastonbury.

The town is hidden by the hill. He looks out across an empty patchwork of fields, scored by tracks, and dotted with occasional buildings and clumps of trees.

A sudden breeze whips across the incline of the hill, ruffling his hair. Silence surrounds him. He feels lonely and apprehensive. He stands at the edge of an abyss, and knows that there is no turning back. They wouldn’t allow it.

He takes a deep breath. The air has turned damp and chilly. He shudders and walks towards a third stone that sits like a hunchback before a narrow entrance. The Tor has opened to him. After centuries of sentience, the gateway to the Land of the Dead draws him in.

As he enters, the ghosts whisper sacred truths. The border between reality and imagination fades. Above and below him, the Glass Mountain spirals into the void. He floats midway between Heaven and Earth, his heart hammering against his chest.

Reflections are multiplied to infinity. Vertigo makes him nauseous. He closes his eyes and is alone with the voices. They tell him about the dragon, and the serpent that surrounds it. He opens his eyes. Fire and venom spread against the curves of the spiral, trying to break through. He opens his mouth to scream, but the voices fill his mind.

This is where the natural energies of the Earth meet with the supernatural power of Death. Gradually shadows become corporeal, detaching themselves from the edges of sight. The spiral castle shifts through the veil of his perception.

He is in a vast cave. A waterfall crashes into a wide subterranean river that flows into darkness. A mist of spray fills the place, and the roar of the falls batters his eardrums. He covers his ears and closes his eyes.
The roar is like the rush of blood through hardened arteries.

He is in a quiet place. The walls and ceiling are smooth, as if the rock has been polished.

Four hooded figures stand before him. Emblazoned across their cloaks is the spiral of the Cretan maze. They reach towards him.

“Come here,” one of them says, his voice as dry as a desert. “We are the guardians of the Grail. Ours is the religion of the Cosmic Mother. The Great Goddess has ruled this place since ancient times. She who now is embodied within the Grail has held the natural order in balance. But now the ebb and flow of life is disturbed. Beyond this place, the energy of the standing stones is building. The paths of the Dragon become corrupted as the ways of the Old Religion are ignored, and man grows more certain that he can rule the world.”

They move towards him. He shrinks away, raising his hands to his face.

“No!” he cries. “I cannot help you. Let me go!”

“But you can.” The dusty voice is reverent. “You must remember when you came here before.”

He closes his eyes and slips into a dream of memory.

As they approached the Vale of Avalon, an expectant hush fell. They peered into the mist, straining for first sight of the Tor rising from the
featureless, waterlogged wasteland that surrounded the channel along which their vessel moved. The journey from Palestine had been long and dangerous.

Philip’s voice startled him. “You’ve come far, Joseph. Do you want to die among the barbarians?”