The Moon Spun Round (19 page)

They’re nearing the pool now, the gurgle of water magnified by the cold air. A twig snaps. The women freeze; Cat goes running on ahead.

‘Who’s there?’ Naomi calls out. Then, over her shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, it’s probably another visitor.’

Sally can’t even breathe. She grabs the back of Naomi’s coat as if that will protect her.

‘Who is it?’ Naomi calls again.

This time a dark figure moves out from the trees, a woman in a long, black coat. ‘Is that you, Naomi?’

‘Claire?’

‘Yes. God, you scared me. Merry meet.’

‘Merry meet. It’s OK, Sally. Come and meet Claire.’ There’s a shift in Naomi’s voice, a subtle edge of eagerness Sally hasn’t heard before.

They all move to the side of the pool and Sally has her first glimpse of the mysterious Claire. She’s short, slightly built, with fine, pale hair cut in a straight bob. Her face, high-boned and deeply shadowed in the moonlight, shows an ingrained tension that unravels any attempt at beauty.

‘I was wondering how I could get you two together.’ Naomi puts an arm around Claire’s shoulder. ‘And this is Sally, our new Guardian.’

‘Hello, Sally, and welcome. I’ve heard quite a lot about you from the others.’ When Claire smiles, her expression softens and a shy, inner light shines from her eyes.

‘Claire, you don’t normally come here in the evening.’ Naomi’s voice is suddenly full of anxiety. ‘Are you all right? Has anything happened?’ She rubs her hand over Claire’s arm.

‘No, no, everything’s fine.’ Claire shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t settle, that’s all. But you’re right, I don’t usually come here in the dark, and now I meet you two. That in itself is significant, don’t you think?’

Naomi turns to Sally. ‘It’s very unusual to actually meet someone here, you know. Three is quite a party.’

‘Well, if it is I still don’t know how I fit into it,’ says Sally. ‘Why does everyone keep calling me the Guardian? What does that mean?’

‘It’s just a tradition,’ says Naomi, ‘nothing to worry about. It’s your land, so you tend the water source, keep it safe.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’

‘Mostly by just being here.’

‘So why does the place need looking after? It was left unattended for twenty years, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but it’s on private property, so it wasn’t disturbed,’ says Naomi. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t completely neglected. We still came here for the water, kept the pool clean and clear. Besides, there are ways of creating a field of protection around an area. But your arrival is important. You do have a special relationship with this land, you know.’

‘Do I?’

‘Of course you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

‘I still don’t get it.’

‘The atmosphere around the cottage and the grounds has changed since you arrived,’ says Claire. ‘There’s always a presence, but I can feel it has grown stronger.’

‘What sort of presence? Do you mean it’s haunted? Oh, God, don’t tell me old Mad Martha is still hanging about?’

‘No, she isn’t, I can assure you.’ For the first time Claire laughs. She could be beautiful, thinks Sally, if she weren’t such a bundle of nerves.

‘Mad Martha’s long gone,’ says Naomi, ‘and Claire would know. She’s a psychic, a sort of medium, only much more.’ She looks at Claire with a possessive pride.

‘Oh, I see. No, I don’t. Well, if it’s not Martha, what is it?’

‘This whole area is one of those special places where the veil is thin,’ says Claire. ‘It’s easy to sense beyond the physical world and be aware of other levels and vibrations. There’s definitely a presence here, perhaps a natural force—some believe it to be a nature spirit that emanates from the water. But what I
feel is all the women who’ve been here and worshipped the Goddess in their own way. So many of them over hundreds of years, and each has left a trace of themselves, a sort of vibration imprinted on the ether. Whatever it is, since you came, Sally, the presence feels more—well, present.’

‘Yes,’ says Naomi, ‘I’d go along with that.’

‘And you’ve already experienced something of it yourself, haven’t you?’ Claire’s voice suddenly sounds stronger, as if she’s more confident. ‘Didn’t you leave something in the water?’

Sally looks from Claire to Naomi. ‘You told her about the moon and my rings?’

‘How could I? You only just told me yourself. Most of us leave gifts from time to time. It’s a very ancient custom. Some part of you must have known that.’

‘No,’ Claire cuts in, ‘it was more than a gift. You were getting rid of something, weren’t you? Letting go of the past?’

‘Yes, I was.’ Sally is stunned. ‘How could you know that?’

But Claire doesn’t hear Sally. She continues to talk as if listening to another voice. ‘And that other time, you don’t have to feel guilty about what happened. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know what you were doing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Something about a rocking chair and a clock. Somebody died.’

‘Yes…Yes, that’s right. But I don’t remember…’

‘You will. You’ll remember when you’re ready. But not yet.’

Naomi puts a hand on Sally’s arm. ‘And what about you, Claire? What
are
you doing here? There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, you’re right, there is.’ Claire shivers, pulling her coat tightly around her neck. Her hand is small, the fingers long and trembling. ‘I’ve been sensing it for some time. Something’s going to happen. I don’t know what. The changes we have been feeling may not all be down to Sally. I think there may be other things going on. I can feel it coming closer, but when I try to tune in with it I just feel blocked.’

‘I know what you mean. I think I’ve felt it too. I don’t understand what it is either, only that it’s not good.’

‘What’s that saying?’ says Sally. ‘“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” Now you’re really scaring me.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. We didn’t mean to upset you, did we, Claire? Take no notice. That’s the trouble with us occult freaks, we’re so used to this sort of talk that we forget sometimes and put the wind up people.’

‘Absolutely. You feel so much like one of us that I…I’m sorry.’

‘Now, come on, lighten up. This is a special occasion, the three of us here
together.’ Naomi kneels down by the pool. The moon is high enough now to be reflected in the water, a small silver bubble in a deep subterranean sky, undulating with the movement of the surface. She pulls off her gloves, dipping her hands in the water and touching them to her face.

Claire moves to stand behind her, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Would it help if you said something? To the moon, I mean.’

‘An invocation to the Goddess? Yes, it does seem right, a sort of welcome. Would you mind, Sally?’

‘What, like a prayer? No, I wouldn’t mind.’

But she does feel slightly self-conscious as Naomi gets to her feet and she and Claire stand either side of her. The three link hands and Naomi looks up to the moon.

Sally is unsure what she feels—embarrassed, uncomfortable? Yes, but maybe also some sense of reverence and respect. For a long time they stand motionless, still holding hands, silence wrapped around them, until there’s a rustling in the undergrowth and Cat emerges to break the spell.

Sally shakes herself, suddenly aware of how cold she is. What am I doing? she thinks. I should be at a wine bar or a club, going home in a taxi, driving down Oxford Street. Anywhere but here, in this lost corner of Suffolk. I’m standing in a dank wood, surrounded by open fields and I’m freezing. I’m holding hands with two of the weirdest women I’ve ever met and I’m offering up prayers to the moon. How did I get myself into this? But she says nothing, and when Naomi squeezes her hand and asks if she’s OK, she turns and smiles at her.

They make their way back to the garden and the front of the house, Cat leading the way, Sally following Claire, watching the tension gather in her shoulders as she approaches the path. They have to wait for Naomi, who stops to examine bits of leaves and twigs and gets left behind.

‘Do you want to come in? Have some coffee or a drink?’

‘Thanks, but no,’ says Claire. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘And I’ll walk with you,’ says Naomi. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll only go as far as the corner of your street. He won’t see us.’

Sally realizes that, until now, no one has mentioned Claire’s husband Ayden, or that he has been to her home.

‘All right, then, thanks,’ says Claire. ‘And thank you, too, Sally. We’ll see each other again soon.’

‘Yes, goodnight,’ says Naomi and breathes a kiss on Sally’s cheek. ‘And blessed be.’

‘Blessed be,’ Sally says in return, then wonders at herself all over again.

F
IVE DAYS TO
C
HRISTMAS
and this evening there will be a new moon. Sally is supposed to be working on a layout for a veterinary practice to use in the local press and the Yellow Pages. It is an important commission that could bring in lots more work, but she has put the project off until tomorrow. Not that she actually believes this theory about beginning something on a new moon; besides, she has other things to do this morning.

Sally is having difficulty in locating Fran’s charity shop, even though it’s in the same row of Victorian terraced villas as Naomi’s workshop. She thinks she must have driven past it, then notices the pile of old shoes and handbags in the front window. Closer inspection reveals the word
Open
crayoned on a piece of torn cardboard and stuck on the knocker, with a twirl of gold tinsel and a sprig of holly as an afterthought. When she steps through the door, the first thing that strikes her is the smell; in fact she’s nearly knocked out by it. Musty, dusty, mildewy—that particular aroma that hangs about the bulk storage of second-hand clothes, no matter how meticulously they are cleaned and aired. Racks and shelves and heaps of cast-offs, don’t-need-any-mores and got-no-further-use-fors. The token gesture to Christmas on the door is the only festive note in a place that generates an aura of permanent depression. Fran looks up from the glass cabinet that doubles as a counter, where she’s sorting through a pile of price tickets. She welcomes Sally with a smile.

‘Reporting to headquarters, eh?’

‘I tried the vicarage but there was no answer, so I thought I might find you here.’

‘Good thinking. Wednesday, Friday and Saturday mornings. Claire does the afternoons. Can I sell you something? I do a nice line in pink plastic handbags.’ She holds an example out for Sally’s inspection.

‘God, no. Do people actually buy those things?’

‘Well, somebody paid good money for it once. But as it’s you, I’ll let it go for five pence.’

‘I’ll think about it. What I came to tell you was I’ve delivered all four of my parcels and I’ve browbeaten three of the old dears into coming to the pantomime. Mrs Jeffries pleaded a bad hip, so I thought we might show a little compassion and let her off.’

‘Ah, well done, that woman. Now, there’s the kiddies’ party on Saturday.’

‘Now, whoa there, I’m no good with kids. I’m not sure I even like them. No, I absolutely put my foot down on that one.’

‘Pity. But I bet you’re a wiz at wrapping parcels for Santa’s sack. I’ll let you off the party if you give a hand Friday afternoon. Two-thirty in the village hall? Tea and homemade mince pies?’

‘Oh, I suppose so.’

‘And while we’re on the subject of Christmas, as the wife of the Reverend Cunningham, it’s my duty to remind you that the church doors are open to all on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.’

‘Well, I don’t actually…I mean it’s not something…’

‘No, don’t blame you. A couple of holly wreaths and a new set of candles are hardly going to draw a record crowd. He hauls the same old nativity scene out of the vestry every year, and every year something else gets damaged. We’ve got a three-legged donkey now, Mary’s nose is broken, and the shepherds look like they’ve been in a drunken brawl. Besides, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to spend Christmas in that icebox if they didn’t have to. Still, had to ask. But you are coming to Naomi’s Yule celebration tomorrow, aren’t you?’

‘I said I would, but I’m not sure exactly what it is I’ve been invited to.’

‘Winter Solstice. What the pagans used to celebrate before it got hijacked by the Church and renamed Christmas.’

‘So what will we be celebrating?’

‘The return of the sun. It’s the shortest day, you know, longest night—what they call the dark tide of the year—so from now on the days start to lengthen. Unfortunately, the coldest part of winter is still ahead of us. Good time for a feast.’

‘So it’s a traditional sort of thing?’

‘Goes back centuries. In the old days, of course, food would be carefully rationed. They couldn’t afford to go on feeding all the animals, so the oldest
geese and cattle were slaughtered and they ate anything perishable before it went off. Plus the high lords were supposed to give handouts to the poor,
noblesse oblige
and all that. Those old druids knew a thing or two. They certainly had a sound grasp of economics.’

‘Yes, I suppose businesses still need Christmas to get them through the winter season.’

‘It would be a long, dreary haul for everyone without it. Our ancestors also understood a lot about human psychology. Seasonal affective disorder we call it now. Depression brought on by lack of sunlight. So they organized a good old knees-up, brought greenery into the houses, danced, sang, gorged themselves sick, and got more than a little drunk.’