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~ 30 ~
It was so dark that he couldn't even see the staff in his hand. Being
uncertain of the way, he followed the sounds of those walking some distance
ahead of him, desperately hoping to hear any bit of news concerning what he
sought. He was grateful for his
traveling cloak, and he pulled the cowl low over his face. Even with the blackness of the night,
he felt open and exposed, and an involuntary shudder passed through his body. In the distance, he could see a single flame
before him, wavering, flickering in the cold night air. It seemed to be floating higher than the
ground he walked on, so he surmised that it had been set upon the crest of the
hill, among the monstrous shapes of several ancient trees. In its dim rays he could
see several other shapes gathering about, drawn by a force that beckoned,
terrible and ancient, from the mists of time.
He shook off the thought,
muttering out a quick prayer against evil spirits. He began to climb the hill, his feet often
stumbling in the darkness. He knew
nothing about such things, and he hoped with all he had that he had not walked
into a death-trap. Lord protect me, he whispered into the still air.
As he drew closer, the light
grew brighter, and he began to hear voices from the grove on the crest of the
hill. Holding down a wave of fear, he
stepped past the first tree and joined the cluster of cloaked men around the
torch that had been set in the mossy turf.
The bald faces of irregular boulders poking up through the soil created
a rustic circle in the center of the grove, and within this circle they stood,
speaking in hushed tones. Most were
dressed in traveling cloaks, as he was.
Some had their hoods pulled down from their faces, others kept them up,
adding to the obscure mystery of the place.
His eyes were fixed on the five men he had been following up from the
valley.
He did not venture to speak
to anyone, but merely stood listening, hoping that he would live to see
the dawn. He desperately wanted to flee, to run and leave that place behind forever. But something kept him from doing so, an
inner voice as well as the quiet touch of reason. Only from these men would he find the
information he sought, so stay he must.
After several minutes, one
of the figures stepped forward from the cluster and knelt down in the center of
the ring of stones, his blank eyes staring into the flame of the torch. He began to sing a low, murmuring chant, and
as he sang, it seemed that the darkness grew even deeper around
the perimeter of the torch’s light.
Listening carefully, the watcher thought that the man was merely
humming, but after a while he was able to discern words, words unlike any other
he had ever heard. They were not
Saxon-English, nor any other language he knew.
As the rhythm of the chant
continued, the others formed a semicircle around the leader, who
continued his mystical song. After what
seemed like years of standing there, the song ended and the man began to speak,
but in clear tones, recognizable and distinct.
At the sound of his voice, a terrible feeling began to churn in the pit
of the watcher’s stomach. Would they know he was out of place? Would they be able to see that he didn’t
belong?
“Brothers, both from this
area and from beyond, hear me! At long
last the enemy’s prize is within our reach.
It is very close by indeed, in Northampton. We must rise up now and claim this
relic. Indeed, just as it was revealed
to us years ago, it is by this ancient object that we may fight the Judean God
and force Him from our land.”
A chorus of affirmations
broke out, and another man, much younger, stepped forward. Throwing aside his cloak, he stood in the
light of the torch, his arms outspread. His chest was bare, and on it was branded a
large, three-armed spiral, radiating out and covering his upper chest with its
hypnotic pattern. His eyes were dark,
but they danced with a dangerous fire as he spoke.
“The man who holds this
thing, this robe, is a foolish man. He
dreams of reconquering England for the Saxons. His greed is
power in our hands, my friends. No
longer will we need to make secret sacrifices in the dark. With that one great sacrifice the old gods
will be appeased and we can begin our own march of conquest across the
land. They are hungry for blood, and
they call out with vengeance against this foreign Christ. Let us answer their call, brethren, and bring
this land once again under their rightful reign!”
Several of the others nodded
their agreement to the impassioned speech.
“Long ago this island was claimed in the names of those gods, and their
grip is still strong. They will not give
up their inheritance easily, and neither shall we!”
“You are impetuous,
Michael,” one of the older members chided, clucking his tongue. “Let the elders of this place speak first.”
There were twelve men,
excluding Michael and the watcher, and four of them appeared to be the
visiting Druids. Several of the other
elders shook their heads to show they had nothing to say, but
one stepped forward, accepting the invitation to speak.
The watcher cringed when he heard the blasphemous words. It was a traditional Celtic prayer to God,
extolling the Lordship of Christ. But
when the Druid spoke it, he replaced the name of God with the names of several
pagan gods unfamiliar to the watcher’s ears.
To have the precious name of the Holy One replaced with the titles of
these demons of old shook him to his very core.
When the prayer was done,
the other elders shook their heads as well, declining the invitation to speak,
until finally they came to the watcher, who stood silently, still shrouded by the secrecy of his hooded cloak. His heart beating hard, he shook
his head, praying fervently they would bypass him.
He saw one of the elder’s
brows furrow, but thankfully Michael did not see the reaction, and began once
again on his tirade. “My brothers, we
must find a way to call upon the voices of the gods! They will tell us what we must do to retrieve
this robe. We have the power to force it
out, but a display of our power might not be needed yet.”
One of the resident elders
nodded. “The boy is right. We need a sacrifice.”
Another nodded. “I have already told our friend in the
village. He is bringing what we
require. He should be here soon.” At this, the entire company fell silent and
stood relatively motionless for what seemed like hours. All the while, the watcher was praying
fervently, hoping against all hopes that he would come out of the grove once
again alive. He had heard what he needed
to know: they knew where the robe was, but they did not have it. Not yet, anyway.
After some time, they heard
the dull, thudding hoofbeats of a large, plodding animal. The watcher looked up to see a small white
bull, without anyone leading it, walking up into the grove. His eyes narrowed with surprise. White bulls were rare, and rather expensive. That
denoted either that these Druids were men of some considerable wealth or this
night was a most special occasion for them.
The elder who had quoted the
twisted Celtic prayer took the bull and led it by the horns into the center of
the ring of stones. The animal had been
perfectly calm until it entered the circle.
When it stepped within the ring, it began to breathe heavily and froth
at the mouth. Its large, dark eyes moved
back and forth quickly, as if it were a beast gone mad. It let out a long, terrified call that
resounded mournfully over the little hillock.
Acting quickly, another elder stepped up with a large, toothed knife and
ran it swiftly through the animal’s throat.
The watcher closed his eyes so that he would not see the poor animal as it died, thrashing about on
the ground until at last it stopped, its massive muscles quivering. The Druids formed a circle
around the fresh carcass, and one elder knelt down beside it. The watcher did not see everything that
followed, for he had his eyes shut tightly in prayer.
The elder who was kneeling
on the ground was muttering something, soft and low. After this gentle drone had continued for
several minutes, though, his voice became hoarse, and picked up speed and
volume. At the end he was nearly
shouting, so much so that he sounded like he was in severe physical pain.
Abruptly, the sound stopped,
and the watcher heard him slump back against the ground. Silence descended for a few moments, and just
as the observer felt it was safe to open his eyes again, the elder let out a
hideous shriek, an unearthly wail unlike anything he had ever heard. He tried not to shudder at the sound of it,
tried to restrain the fear that welled up within him.
The scream ended as suddenly
as it had come, and the observer heard the forms of the other Druids moving
again, so he opened his eyes. The elder
was now in a sitting position, his eyes haunted, staring at something off in
the distance.
“What did you see?” Michael
asked, eager to hear.
“No!” a voice came out of
the man’s throat, but it did not sound like his own.
It was a deeper voice, and darker.
“No!” the otherworldly voice repeated through
its immobilized mouthpiece. “Fight, my
children, fight with everything you have!
We can still win!”
The voice ceased abruptly,
sending the elder’s head back with a sickening snap as if someone had delivered
a blow to his chin. He breathed heavily
for a few moments, then looked back up at his friends. His eyes were clear again.
“I’ve had a vision,” he said
quietly, clearing his throat.
“What was it?” one of the
others prodded.
The elder shook his
head. “Terrible,” he moaned. “The gods are afraid,
so afraid. Our sacrifice can no longer
reach their power. There was a war in my
mind, two spirits doing battle. The
Masters told me that they could win, but…” his expression was downcast. “It wasn’t true. Something else was here, in this circle,
something that blocked them out, terrified them. It was something so huge and fearsome that I
could not bear to look on it. In my
vision it consumed the land, conquering it in a fire that burned brighter than
any I have ever seen.”
“It was the power of the
gods you saw then, was it not? Their
power, retaking England!”
Michael proclaimed, his eyes dancing wildly.
“No,” the elder croaked
hoarsely, his eyes hollow at the memory.
“It was something far older and far greater, something that they could
not contain. It silenced them,” he began
to break into tears, “and now our hope is dead.”
“But the robe,” Michael
protested, his face livid. “They said
that the robe would give them victory.”
The elder shook his
head. “It would be a battle won,
brother, but the war is already lost. We
have been struggling against an enemy that cannot be overcome, and we thought
that we were winning. Guilty
presumption! Our fault has found its
mark, and the old gods shall not return to their places of power. There is a new power, an old power, a power
beyond reckoning. And it will win.”
“No!” Michael screamed. “It’s not over yet, it can't be! I will find the robe, and turn the tide of
this battle once and for all!” With
that, he turned and dashed out of the grove, away from the ring of stones and
the rejected sacrifice.
One of the other elders
turned to the one on the ground. “He's
right. We cannot just do nothing. All we’ve worked for, everything these past
years…it cannot fail now. This land is
claimed in the names of the old gods of England!”
The elder on the ground
sighed, disheartened. “And yet it still
bears the name of the One who made it,” he said hoarsely, “and He wants it back.”