"Omega" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farrar Stewart)

2

All over Bell Beacon the small fires were being lit and the scent of woodsmoke hung in the almost motionless air. Moira estimated that there must be at least a hundred covens spread out over the three-hectare plateau which sloped gently southwards from the northern summit. Not over the whole of it, of course; the space around the still unlit Great Fire in the centre had been left well clear for the Ring Dance; and besides, once that was ablaze, too close would be too hot.

The Beacon really was an ideal place for a Sabbat, Moira thought. The little plateau was almost perfectly flat, the short downland' grass was like a lawn and there were no bushes or trees which might catch fire. The slope was too slight for even a candlestick to show a noticeable tilt, yet it was enough to give appropriate dignity to the summit itself, the northern hump a few metres across on which the Great Altar stood.

Bell Beacon rose a good hundred metres above the surrounding countryside, and from its summit in daylight one could look down not only on much of Buckinghamshire in which it stood, but eastwards into Middlesex and southwards across the Thames into Berkshire and Surrey. Yet except at the northern face, which ended the ridge, it was not precipitous and could easily be climbed on foot. On normal summer days cars would drive up here by the long slanting road, but not tonight. Ever since the Beacon had started to be used openly for the local mass Sabbats (Moira, twenty-seven now, had been brought to one of the earliest by her parents as a little girl) custom had established that cars be parked out of sight below Gresham Wood and the footpath used for the last half-kilometre. There were still latecomers winding up it now, in the twilight, and spreading out to find spaces for their own individual coven Circles, calling cheerful 'Blessed be!' greetings to friends as they threaded their way among the Circles already established.

Each Circle was marked by a ring of white cord laid on the grass, of a diameter still referred to by the traditional measure of nine feet but produced – as every efficient High Priestess knew by heart – by a circumferential cord of 8.62 metres. Most covens, like Moira's, kept a special 8.62-metre ring ready spliced for public Festivals. Since the Craft had become open and widespread (the historic Glastonbury Beltane of 1983 was generally accepted as the turning-point) many new conventions had evolved naturally. One of these was that it was selfish, and therefore bad manners, to have an individual Circle larger than nine feet at a mass Festival, however large your coven. In any case, covens which grew beyond the equally traditional thirteen-member maximum, without hiving off, were looked at askance by their neighbours and hints would be dropped; Craft opinion strongly favoured the small, personalized, autonomous group, feeling that oversize covens ran the risk of a change of nature.

Moira and Daniel's coven consisted of five; six if you included four-year-old Diana, who was here tonight, bouncing excitedly at Moira's side and squealing 'Blessed be!' to everyone who passed, friend or stranger. Rosemary and Greg, their next-door neighbours in Staines, had founded the coven with them three years earlier when Moira had decided that, as a wife and mother, it was time for her to hive off from her own mother's group – a decision for which, she knew, Daniel had been secretly eager, though too fond of his mother-in-law to urge it. Too bad that Sally, she of the large heart and the ironic tongue who was their neighbour on the other side, could not be here tonight; but Sally had to admit, regretfully, that at eighty-two, hilltop Sabbats were no longer for her… It was a happy and close-knit coven, of which Moira as High Priestess was proud. Dan had joked once that it worked well because it had its own built-in representatives of the Triple Goddess: fairylike Rosemary as the Maid, tall Moira as the Mother and shrewd Sally as the Crone; and Moira had known that, like so many of Dan's jokes, it was meant seriously.

'Which side does the salt go,. Mummy?' Diana interrupted her thoughts. 'I can't properly remember.'

'You should ask Rosemary that, darling. She's High Priestess tonight.'

'Why, Mummy? You're High Priestess really.'

'Because in a little while they'll light that big bonfire in the middle, and everybody'll go and dance round it. Except for very old people or people with little children who'll stay in their own Circles and watch. Daddy and I will stay with you but Rosemary and Greg will go and do our dancing for us. So it's their special night and they're being High Priestess and High Priest. It's only fair, isn't it?'

'Why can't I dance too? Then we could all go.' 'Next year, maybe. The dancing gets very fast, and you're a bit small for it yet.' 'But I can run like mad.' 'I know you can, darling. But next year you'll be a little taller and stronger.' 'Like the Goddess up there?'

'Not quite that tall,' Moira laughed, looking towards the Demeter-like figure of the Goddess which towered three metres high behind the Great Altar, the very last rays of the setting sun reddening its pure whiteness. It was unmistakably a Howard Frank creation; Frank was the Craft's most gifted sculptor and his work was much in demand, particularly the one-occasion polystyrene figures like this, of astonishing vitality, which he could shape in a day's working when the mood was on him. He never charged for Festival pieces but he never did more than three or four and he made his own decisions as to who should have them. This Midsummer Bell Beacon had been lucky.

'I'm glad it's warm,' Diana said. 'I don't like robes.'

'Me neither,' Moira agreed, enjoying the feel of the grass under her bare skin. This part of the Thames Valley was predominantly Gardnerian territory, and the Gardnerians (and their Alexandrian offshoots, though the two had tended to re-merge) had clung to their 'skyclad' tradition " of ritual nudity even for public Festivals, weather permitting; so most of the covens on this mild Midsummer night were, like Moira and Dan's, skyclad. The individual Circle fires helped, of course; they had become an established part of the public Festival tradition, encouraged no doubt by the British climate. Moira could just remember the public controversy that had raged and quickly died away over those early skyclad Festivals. The police (in Warwickshire somewhere, wasn't it?) had made a much-headlined test case of one Midsummer Festival in 1985, arresting a dozen people and charging them with causing a breach of the peace. But since the peace, on that occasion, had only been disturbed by a handful of hecklers who (as the defence had delightedly proved) had travelled all the way from London for the purpose – and since nude bathing had been unofficially tolerated on many British beaches since the end of the 1970s – the bench had dismissed the charges. There had been no more arrests and few Festivals nowadays attracted more than a sprinkling of voyeurs, whom the covens ignored.

Here and there on the plateau Moira could make out robed covens, presumably Celtic Traditionals; but in these ecumenical days they would be as welcome as the rest. The Craft was too jealous of coven autonomy for anyone to try to impose uniformity. There had been one attempt, in 1989, to summon a National Convention for such a purpose. It had been heavily attended and the floor had defeated the conveners on every point, except for a few proposals to make voluntary communication between covens smoother – which meant little in practice because inter-coven links were and had remained mainly local and almost entirely spontaneous.

Ad hoc meetings of High Priestesses and High Priests in various areas provided what little organization was needed for public Festivals, which were the only occasion – eight a year – when large numbers of covens gathered together. Each Yule the same ad hoc caucus would choose the local Sabbat Maiden for the following year's eight Festivals. This choice was really a two-year appointment, because each Sabbat Maiden became the following year's Sabbat Queen, leader of the whole mass ritual. Her consort Priest needed no choosing; her own working partner automatically took the role.

Now the sun had set. It shouldn't be long before the

Queen, the Maiden and their Priests made their ceremonial appearance.

Moira, from habit, glanced around her own Circle to make sure that all was in order; then reminded herself that tonight was Rosemary's honour. North, east, south and west candles burned in the little glass lanterns kept for outdoor use. By the north candle, a picnic hamper with a cloth over it served as an altar, with the ritual tools and two more candle-lanterns arranged on the cloth. When the ritual part of the Sabbat was over, the ceremonial objects would be packed away and the altar-cloth folded, and the hamper would surrender its food and drink. Then the feast would begin, and the coming and going of friends

A hush falling on the plateau made Moira look up.

All eyes were turned to a small tent near the Great Altar

– the only enclosed structure in the whole Great Circle. Moira's Circle was about twenty metres from the tent, so she could see clearly the two men who had emerged and now stood flanking the doorway, in the light of the many fires and candles and of the nearly full moon which was already bright.

She knew them both. Nigel Pickering from Cookham, robed in dark red, High Priest of Mary Andrews, this year's Sabbat Maiden. (Even though the covens were skyclad, custom laid down that the Four always at least began the Sabbat in ceremonial vestments.) Nigel, as the Maiden's Priest, would have little to do but escort her, he would come into his own next year. John Hassell from Chertsey, splendid in gold kilt and pectoral, High Priest and husband of Joy Hassell, the Sabbat Queen; Moira felt a tremor of excited pride, for John and Joy were close friends of theirs – in fact she and Dan had conducted their Handfasting and had a slightly parental feeling for them, even though the Hassells were barely their juniors.

Somebody struck a single brazen note on a big cymbal and the assembly stood, in their hundreds, facing the Great Altar. Diana whimpered to see and Dan lifted her on to his shoulders.

The Sabbat Queen appeared between the two Priests to a whisper of awed approval from the watchers. She certainly looked a representative of the Goddess, Moira thought lovingly. Stately in blue and silver, her long fair hair crowned with the crescent moon, moving with calm dignity barefoot on the grass while her sun-girt Priest fell into step beside her.

Then the Sabbat Maid, in a simple tunic of leaf green, her hair short, dark and curly, a complete contrast to the Queen. Again the brief whisper from the assembled covens, but this time, perhaps more simply affectionate, appropriate to the Maiden.

The Four made their way to the Great Altar where two huge candles were already alight, strong-flamed enough to burn without lanterns in this almost still air. The Maiden picked up a torch, lit it from one of the candle-flames and presented it to the High Priest. John held it aloft, pacing slowly to the piled oak branches in the centre clearing and then plunged it into the kindling at the foot of the pile.

Within seconds the Sabbat Fire blazed skywards, borne aloft by a roar of triumph from hundreds of throats. Moira hugged Daniel happily, and Diana, squealing anew, drummed her heels on his chest. That "fire, Moira rejoiced, would be seen for miles, like it was in the old days, marking, honouring, reinforcing the cycle of the year… This was really something to be part of, this reborn brotherhood; no grovelling self-abasement, no exploited hysteria – just this proud communal delight, this willing communion with the rhythms of nature, this joy before the Goddess.

She realized suddenly that she had drifted off into formless-thought, into an involuntary firelit meditation, when she felt Daniel turning beside her. She pulled herself together, smiling; minutes must have passed. The solar High Priest was already in position behind the Great Altar, silhouetted and almost dwarfed against the white statue of the Goddess. The Sabbat Queen, sword in hand, was already on her way round the perimeter, casting the Great Circle, while the covens turned with her, each in its own little Circle. This took time, for the Great Circle was a good half-kilometre round but no one was impatient; everyone was mentally backing Joy, willing the 'meeting-place of love and joy and truth' into being.

Down the slanting road, perhaps a kilometre away, a motor-cycle revved up briefly. Moira felt and shared the flicker of annoyance around her; then silence fell again and the interruption was forgotten.

Now the Sabbat Queen was once more before the Altar, facing the High Priest across it. Her voice rang out in the night: 'Great One of Heaven, Power of the Sun, we invoke thee in thine ancient names – Michael, Balin, Arthur, Lugh, Herne; come again as of old into this thy land. Lift up thy shining spear of light to protect us. Put to flight the powers of darkness. Give us fair woodlands and green fields, blossoming orchards and ripening corn. Bring us to stand upon thy hill of vision, and show us the lovely realms of the Gods.'

She swept her hand towards him in the invoking Pentagram and he walked forward round the Altar to join her. The Maiden bowed before them and handed the High Priest a gilded lance. Together, the Four moved towards the central fire, halting before it at the big iron Cauldron which swung, full of water, from a flower-wreathed tripod. The High Priest held up the glittering lance, point downwards, and lowered it into the Cauldron, calling out in a voice resonant with authority: 'The Spear to the Cauldron, the Lance to the Grail, Spirit to Flesh, Man to Woman, Sun to Earth!'

The silence was absolute as he laid the lance on the ground beside the Cauldron. The Sabbat Queen, smiling, spread her arms wide and high, summoning the covens: 'Dance ye about the Cauldron of Cerridwen, the Goddess, and be ye blessed with the touch of this consecrated water; even as the Sun, the Lord of Life, ariseth in his strength in the sign of the Waters of Life.'

It was the signal; before her voice had ceased, the tide was moving inwards, hundreds of firelit bodies, laughing and calling to each other, weaving between the Circles like shore-foam around rocks, inwards, inwards to the central blaze, linking hands as they reached it, man to woman, woman to man; already the Ring Dance wheeled clockwise round the Midsummer Fire, High Priest, Maiden, and Maiden's Priest leading, till the inward tide ceased flowing and all were in the circling ring, and the head joined the tail, the High Priest catching the last woman's hand to close it. By the Cauldron the Sabbat Queen still stood, sprinkling water on the passing dancers with an aspergill of heather twigs. She had shed her robe and was one of them now, skyclad and laughing like the rest.

Only a scattering of old people and baby-minders were left in the honeycomb of coven Circles, gazing inwards at the dancers, identifying with them. Moira and Daniel squatted with Diana between them, their backs warmed by their own little fire which Dan had just replenished.

'Are you sure you don't want to join them, darling?' Moira asked him. 'I'll stay with Diana. We'll be all right.'

Dan said simply: 'Not without you,' in a voice that left no room for discussion. Moira nodded, glowing with love for him. Not alone. Never alone…

‘Who are those people, Daddy?' ‘What people, love?'

'Over there.' The child pointed behind them, at the edge of the plateau and they turned to look.

'My God!' Dan said. 'Bloody cheek!'

There were perhaps thirty of them, in ordinary clothes, just outside the Great Circle, busy unfurling a banner between two poles; they must have crept up the western slope unnoticed while all eyes were turned inwards. As Dan and Moira watched the banner spread to its full length.

GODDESS WORSHIP IS SATAN WORSHIP

Moira clenched her fists in a moment of blind fury, then unclenched them, deliberately taking a deep breath before she spoke. 'Don't worry, Dan. The cops will move them. They don't like this kind of trouble.'

'Have you noticed something?' Dan said. 'There aren't any cops.'

Moira frowned, puzzled. She hadn't noticed it but it was true. The handful of police outside the Great Circle, amiable or bored, exchanging the odd joke or accepting the odd chicken-leg during the feast if the Sergeant wasn't looking, had become such an accepted part of the Festival scene that she simply hadn't thought about them; yet tonight, she realized, the only uniforms in sight were the usual St John's men and women around their ambulance, fifty metres along the ridge.

'But why?' Moira wondered.

'Perhaps they've decided it's not worth it. After all, they never have anything to do… Jesus! They're coming in!'

The demonstrators, banner aloft, had marched into the Great Circle, trampling straight through the little Circles towards the Cauldron, chanting in unison: 'Goddess worship is Satan worship! Goddess worship is Satan worship! Goddess worship is Satan worship!'

Some of the older people not in the Dance were running forward, trying to stop them. But the demonstrators were young, clothed and booted, and swept the elderly skyclad bodies easily aside. The younger baby-minding fathers, like Dan, hesitated, torn between repelling the intruders and standing guard over their children. Moira grabbed at Dan's arm, restraining him; he shrugged helplessly and acquiesced.

But now the dancers'had heard the chanting and had turned, incredulous anger in their faces. The demonstrators did not pause; they headed straight for the Sabbat Queen, who was clearly their target.

The chanting changed. 'Witch whore! Witch whore! Witch whore!'

That final blasphemy broke the Ring. The dancers swept down on the invaders, boots or no boots. The banner swayed and fell in a mass of clothed and unclothed bodies.

Diana was sobbing now. Moira hugged her fiercely, cried out: 'Dan! Look! The Altar!'

As she pointed, the white statue of the Goddess tottered and fell. More intruders, unnoticed till now, were tearing the fragile polystyrene into great lumps, scattering them about the smashed Altar.

Moira screamed.

It was then that the unbelievable happened. The ground beneath them, the whole of Bell Beacon, moved, throwing attackers and defenders alike off their feet. It only lasted for a few seconds, but in those seconds the hill groaned like a giant in pain. Then it was still.

There was a moment, after the turmoil, of silence, the silence of utter shock.

One of the demonstrators, a wild-eyed woman, was the first on her feet. 'It's the wrath of God!' she yelled. 'The wrath of God, smiting the witches1'

Naked bodies sprang up to drag her down and the fight was on again; then, above the screaming and the shouting and the tears came the sound of the motor-cycles roaring up the long slanting road.

Moira and Dan stood stunned, no longer able to take it all in. Even Diana, clutched between them, was soundless and trembling.

The motor-cyclists, a dozen helmeted, visored, anonymous monsters, charged on to the plateau, sweeping into a circle round the melee, herding it inward towards the fire like armoured sheepdogs.

Dan shook Moira out of her paralysis, shouting at her over the din: 'Clothes! Quick!'

Suddenly and desperately active, Moira swept the little altar bare and tore open the hamper-lid, flinging out sweaters, jeans, plimsolls from underneath the pathetic provisions for the feast that would never be eaten. Rosemary and Greg ran up and joined them; how they had dodged through the cordon of bikes, Moira had no time to wonder.

Throwing clothes on to Diana and herself, she heard Greg shout to Daniel, 'Got to get the girls out of this!' Dan nodded, grimly.

Clothed, Greg started trying to pack the hamper, but Daniel waved him off it. 'Leave it – no time!' By unspoken instinct, the four of them grabbed the ritual tools in then-hands and stuck their athames, the black-handled knives which are each witch's personal symbol, into their belts.

Then they were running, Diana held in Dan's arms.

The motor-cylists were tightening and loosening their ring, teasing the crowd inside it. The Cauldron lay beyond the ring, toppled and abandoned. Greg, in the lead, saw that that was the clearest path, and made for it. But as he reached it, he halted in his tracks, staring down.

Moira followed his look, and screamed again.

Naked and dead, the gilded iron Lance of Light impaling her belly, lay the Sabbat Queen, staring upwards; their lovely Joy, their friend.

Dan pulled Moira away, roughly. Through her tears, she saw John, berserk in his torn golden kilt, a burning log in his hand, leap crazily between two motor-cycles and run to his dead wife. Standing over her, he flung the log at the engine of a passing cycle.

Machine and rider burst into flame, colliding with the next, which swerved aside and then fell. The hemmed-in crowd saw, and copied; all at once the hunters became the hunted, trying to escape a shower of blazing missiles.

Dan almost swept Moira off her feet, hustling her over the edge of the plateau away from the horror.

There was one more earth tremor as the five of them stumbled down the path towards their car. But it was slight, and stunned by all that had happened, they barely noticed it.