The Moon Spun Round (53 page)

Sally is aware of Cat up above her somewhere. She is supposed to be concentrating on holding the Cup steady. It is her task to fill it from the pool. The freezing water splashes her hands and she wipes them down her coat. The candle flames illuminate their circle but throw everything beyond into darker contrast. The other women are black shadows against a blacker screen. Sally looks around, at the silhouetted figures, the six women. No. Five. There should
be five of us here. But for one moment she thought she saw…

Ayden looks up at the moon. It seems to be moving, or is it the tree? A trick of the light. Or a trick of the dark? The branches are moving, swaying. Wind must have got up. There was no wind earlier, when he parked the car. How long ago was that? He feels vaguely dizzy. Could be the Scotch. He’d like another drink, but his arm is suddenly too heavy and weak to lift.

The moon is still there, caught in the branches. And there are dark shadows, large, solid shadows. Were they there before? They look almost human. Could be women. Women hanging there from the branches, their skirts long and heavy, arms and feet dangling like dead wood. He tries to think what they are doing there.

There was something about the churchyard, a vague memory of men dragging the women by their wrists. Ropes—yes, lengths of rope. ‘Fetch more ropes!’ someone shouted. A man passing coils of it through his hands, yanking tight a knot. The oak tree. But no, Ayden’s thoughts slip away from him, like fish. Yes, they were good times, fishing with his dad. If only he didn’t feel so tired.

He still hasn’t noticed the car parked across the road. And he’s too drowsy now to have any awareness of the second car pulling in behind it. Important to stay awake, though he can’t remember why. The women in the tree, they look asleep. Very asleep. Perhaps it’s time for him to sleep, too…

Cat is aware that the energies are changing. As the invocation is made to the Goddess, she feels a shifting of level or pitch, as if something is happening within the minds of the women. It’s Naomi who speaks the words, but they all follow with their thoughts. And when Naomi tries to explain what has happened, they each know within themselves what went wrong and why. How they confused justice with revenge, how they allowed their own personal bitterness to cloud the glass.

‘Sweet Lady, please be tolerant with us. We ask again:
For the life that was lost and sorrow heavy borne, let Truth be known and Justice be done
. Only this time let it be
your
justice, not
ours
. Let Ayden’s fate be his own, to follow as the Goddess wills. So mote it be.’

As it draws up behind him, Farrow sees that there are four men in the unmarked vehicle. He climbs out of his own car and walks back to join them.

Rankin winds down his window. ‘Well, what’s he been doing?’

‘Nothing, sir, as far as I could see. Just sitting there.’

‘Right then, here we go. Oh, and Farrow—well done.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Farrow stands back as the driver wrenches the wheel and the black saloon mounts the pavement and crosses onto the grass. Oh, bloody hell, more tyre tracks on the green. He’ll never hear the last of this.

As the car cuts across the front of the van and slams to a stop, all four doors open at once and the officers jump out. They realize immediately that the engine of the van is running. Rankin stands by the driver’s door while Hobson locates the length of rubber tubing taped to the exhaust. He shouts across to Rankin, who yanks the door open and catches Ayden’s weight as his body tumbles towards the ground. The big man grasps him by the shoulders of his coat and pulls him upright, coughing and gasping.

‘Can you hear me, Drayton?’

‘What?’

Shouting over his shoulder, ‘Yes, he’s conscious. Someone call the medics.’ Then turning back to Ayden, ‘Drayton? Can you understand what I’m saying?’

‘What’s going on? Claire…I want Claire.’ He’s sniffing and trying to wipe his face on his coat sleeve.

‘Do you know me? Detective Inspector Rankin?’

Ayden nods. ‘Yeah, what of it?’ His body, empty now of all resistance, is slumped against the van. His shoulders shudder and tears begin to dribble down his chin.

‘Ayden Drayton, I’m arresting you for the murder of Ruth Clifton. You’re not obliged to say anything but…’

Less than half a mile away, in a dark patch of bare trees, Ayden’s wife is reaching out to take the Cup from Sally’s hands. Claire looks into the Cup Bearer’s eyes as she raises the rim to her mouth and drinks deeply.

‘Blessed be,’ whispers Sally.

‘And blessed be thee,’ Claire replies.

Sally turns to the next daughter. And it’s at this moment, as she steps around the circle, that all the barriers between self and other fall away, and Sally feels the Goddess alive within her. Ah yes, now I understand: I am one with
everything and everything is one with me. All women are part of me and I am all women.

And so the Cup is passed from hand to hand, from generation to generation.

On a branch, high above Sally’s head, Cat looks up at the moon and seems to smile. She closes a single eye. Anyone not familiar with the ways of a cat would, understandably, mistake it for a wink.

For assistance with technical information I wish to thank:
Jim Moore, horse owner and trainer; Megan Gaukrodger, veterinarian;
Ron Barber, solicitor; Jean Berrigan, practice nurse and alternative therapist;
Dr Ken McFarlane; and the Gisborne Fire Service.

Thanks, as always, to the Poverty Bay Pen Pushers for their ongoing support and encouragement.
And, of course, my husband, Brendon.
(And I must not forget the cats.)

ELENOR GILL was born in England, and now lives and writes in Gisborne. An accomplished Celtic musician with a lifetime interest in folk music and the paranormal, this is her third novel. Her earlier books,
In the Shadow of Trees
and
Miriam’s Talisman
, have been published to critical acclaim.

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