The Moon Spun Round (52 page)

Ayden climbs out of his van, unsteady on his feet, limbs a little shaky, but his thoughts are unbearably clear and focused. He has driven across the central green and parked beneath the old oak tree, tyres gouging twin tracks across the grass. It’s late. The village is silent, the air still and heavy with moisture. The
tree overhead splatters him with droplets of water as he moves to the back of the vehicle, pausing for a moment to look up through the branches. A small moon, like a thin rind of lemon, is caught in the criss-cross of black twigs. For a moment he can imagine what it would have been like to have lived here as a boy, to have climbed that tree, played on the green with the other lads, thrown stones into the pond and fished for tadpoles. Perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps not. But he liked Hallowfield right from the first. It felt somehow…familiar. Still, no time for that now. Behind the van he bends down, unsteady on his haunches. The duct tape sticks to his trembling fingers.

He’s glad to get back into the vehicle again. He’s not bothered by the cold and damp, but there’s no point in attracting unwanted attention. The bottle of Scotch in the glove compartment is still two-thirds full. He picks it up, then decides to have a cigarette first. His last one. How many times has he said that? The lighter flares briefly in the dark.

The thing is, he doesn’t really understand how it all went wrong. He had it all going for him—the business, the car. Oh, it was good, that car. It said everything. And there was Claire. What had she got to complain about? Gave her a decent home, didn’t he? More than most women got. And then that old bag turning up. Shouting at him, something about her daughter. He didn’t mean to hit her—well, not that hard, anyway. After that, everything seemed to fall apart. Bloody women, that’s what it always comes down to. He stubs out the remains of the cigarette. He wasn’t enjoying it anyway. Unscrews the top of the bottle. A long swig, neat, biting the back of his throat—he can feel it burning all the way down. Then he turns the ignition key.

Cat pauses to sniff the air before she enters the trees. She can sense the faintest flicker of energy, like a static charge. The ground is stirring in its winter sleep. Too early yet to feel the full flood of new life, but it won’t be long now; no, not long. She also smells traces of tiny creatures that have snuffled their way through dead leaves and loam. But that must wait until later. It’s a long way to morning and there’ll be good hunting before the night is over. For the moment there’s other business to attend to.

She moves back and tallies the women as they pass by her along the path, falling in beside Sally. Sally is her special lady now. There were many before her. Or were they with the other cats, her forebears? Her own memories, or those she carries encoded in her blood? It’s difficult to separate out the past from the present. She knows there is always one, a Guardian. Like Martha. Cat
can remember Martha. Or was that something her mother told her? No matter, it’s all the same.

She tastes the air again. Not long now until spring and Ostara, the festival of the newborn. There will be lambs in the fields and newly hatched chicks. Then comes Beltane, the eve of May Day, when the young people dance and crown their queen. The Summer Solstice, the noon of the year and the longest day. The year turns again through Lammas, the festival of fire and the feast of Artemis, when women will bake bread from the first grains of the harvest. Then—best of all for cats—Harvest Home, with the store houses groaning full, and mice and voles quivering in the bare stubble. Yes, the great wheel will turn, year upon year, and Cat will work the seasons with her lady, Sally.

Ayden is waiting for something to happen, some significant change to occur. He can feel the alcohol surging through his bloodstream, a familiar sensation, especially recently. There’s a smell, of course, like being in a traffic jam on a hot day. Nothing more than that. A slight headache maybe, perhaps a vague feeling of nausea. At least he can think clearly. Sort of. Though he still can’t figure out why it all went wrong.

Through the windscreen he watches the branches swaying as his body slumps sideways. From this angle he can see the moon again, like a silver fish caught in a net. Like when his dad took him fishing when he was a youngster. He was good to him, his father. A bit heavy-handed sometimes, and not that his mother was much help. But it didn’t do him any harm, did it? Not in the long run. At least his father kept his mother in check. That’s how it should be. He takes another pull on the bottle and watches the moon struggle against the mesh. He’s not aware of the car drawing up across the road.

This night seems exceptionally dark. The grass is damp and the cuffs of Sally’s jeans are soon wet, clinging coldly to her legs. She’s aware that Cat has joined them, as she often does.

The others move ahead of her, separate, each contained within her own cocoon of light. They lift their feet high and place them down carefully on the slippery earth. What was that Claire said? Something about all those women down through the years taking this same route to the pool and its spring. A procession through time. Women like Mad Martha and her predecessors. And
herself. Sally is beginning to understand now, who she is and why she’s here. She and her cat. Perhaps, one day, people will think she’s crazy too. She smiles. Well, a little eccentric maybe.

They step into the trees, sensing the path more than seeing it. In Sally’s mind she has an image of seaweed, surging and billowing with the tide. Each separate ribbon-like leaf swaying and swirling to its own dance, each following the rhythm of its body and the pull of the moon in its blood, yet all seeming to move as one. Ahead of her, Naomi turns to follow the bank of the stream, dipping her head beneath the branches. Claire is close behind her, reaching out a hand, almost touching. Their relationship? Well, who knows? Claire needs time to heal. At least that’s what they have now, time, and Naomi is content to wait and see.

Then there’s Fran, with Abbie following close on her heels. What will happen to Abbie and George? A rift, yes, and it will never heal completely because that would mean Abbie recanting—and pray the Goddess she won’t do that. But with any luck it will scar over. They will each shift to accommodate the changes. Their relationship is built on the solid rock of history and is able to survive the infliction of one small scar. Unlike Fran and Edward, whose marriage was based on the shifting sands of mismatched beliefs. Amazing it stood up as long as it did.

Constable Farrow has been working late. Just when he thinks he’s nearly home, he spots a vehicle parked under the tree on the village green. Damn. Cars aren’t allowed on there; they should know that by now. The parish council will be in his ear if the grass is damaged again. Probably a courting couple or, more likely, some kids messing about. He’s tempted to turn a blind eye, but it won’t take a moment to tell them to move on. He pulls into the kerb, cuts the engine and tries to make out the writing on the side of the van. Then he reaches for his mobile phone and punches in a number. Minutes pass while he’s passed from one officer to another. Eventually Inspector Rankin comes on the line. It takes a moment to explain the situation. Rankin, unreadable as ever, merely asks what the occupant is doing.

‘Well, he’s not doing anything, sir, just sitting in his van, under the oak tree.’ Farrow begins to feel like a right fool. Perhaps he should have gone straight home to bed.

‘Now there’s a coincidence. Just the man I wanted a word with. Are you sure it’s him, Constable?’

‘Well, I’m sure it’s his van, sir, and there’s definitely someone in it, but I can’t swear who. Too dark and too far away.’

‘Right. You stay there and keep an eye on him. Don’t make any approach. If he moves, follow him discreetly and keep in touch with me. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’

Oh, bugger, thinks Farrow. So much for an early night. I’ll be knackered in the morning.

Cat shadows the women along the edge of the stream, then into the clearing by the pool where she knows there’s a certain tree whose overhanging branches will give a cat’s-eye view of what is to follow. Sure-footed, despite the dew-slippery bark, she leaps upwards. By the time the women have set down their lanterns, she’s nestled into the fork of two thick branches. She watches from her perch above their heads as they empty pockets of fruit and flowers, more candles and those fiery sticks.

The ritual begins. They each take their appropriate place. Cat’s senses are on full alert, ears pricked to catch every sound, whiskers trembling to sense each shift and change in the atmosphere. She can sense their thoughts settle and focus as the Naomi woman begins to build the ring that surrounds them, forming it from the energy flowing through her hands. Cat is able to discern it, strong and binding, encompassing her within their sacred space. Candles are lit, more words and chanting now, all slow and deliberate, like a stately dance. Each sound and movement releases more of the energy, forming currents and eddies that rise to where Cat is balanced overhead, bathing her in its vital force. Soon she will observe pinpricks of white fire darting between the branches, then balls of swirling blue and purple will rise from the women’s bodies, bursting like bubbles of light. Blissful, Cat begins to purr, her eyes closing to narrow slits through which she gazes at the curled feather of a moon.