Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXIV

The priests had walked in solemn procession to the sacred place in the circle of trees on the ridge above the marsh. Nion was not senior among them – he was young – but his royal blood gave him a certain precedence as they made their way, robed and solemn, to their appointed places in the circle.

Nion glanced round. The faces of his teachers, his friends, his colleagues, were taut, their thoughts turned inwards, their bodies bathed and dedicated to their purpose. He grimaced, trying to turn his own mind to prayer and meditation. The choosing of the sacrifice was a ceremony he had taken part in only once before. On that occasion the sacred bread had been baked on the flame and broken as laid down by tradition centuries old. The scorched piece, the piece which belonged to the gods, had been chosen by an old druid of four score summers or more – a man dedicated and ready for whatever the gods decreed. But even he, when he drew out the burned portion and knew that he was to die, had betrayed for a brief moment a flash of terror, before he had bowed his head in acceptance.

The ceremony was strictly ordained. The man was honoured by his colleagues, crowned with gold. In the hours that remained he would bid farewell to his family, order his affairs and at the last divest himself of all his raiment, bathe in waters sanctified with herbs and spices, then, drinking the sacred, drugged wine of death he would kneel willingly for the sacrifice: the garotte if his death was dedicated to the gods of the earth, the rope if to the gods of the sky, and the third death, the death by water if to the gods of the rivers and seas.

Now Nion watched, his head covered, as were those of the others, as the bakestone was blessed and heated. His mouth was dry with apprehension, even though the choice was preordained. He stole a glance at the oldest druid there, a man as frail as a windblown reed, his bald pate beneath the linen veil wrinkled as an old, dead leaf. Almost certainly he would be chosen, the bread passed in such a way that his would be the burned piece. How did he feel, knowing that by the next dawn he would be dead?

Nion closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on prayer, but at noon he was to meet Claudia. His body, strong, vigorous, lusty, quivered at the thought. Sternly he reprimanded himself, and brought his thoughts back to the scene before him.

The bread was cooking now, the fragrance sharp on the morning air. His nostrils picked up the acrid smell of scorching and he swallowed nervously, his eyes going once more automatically to the old man who had blanched to an unhealthy shade of buttermilk.

He watched, arms folded beneath his cloak, as the bread was allowed to cool and broken into small pieces – twenty-one, seven times three – one for each of them, and put into the basket. Slowly it was carried round the circle. Slowly. Slowly. One by one the hands went in. The choice was made. The hands came out. One by one the faces relaxed into relief and the portion was eaten. The old one’s turn came. He put in his hand, shaking visibly, and withdrew it. Nion saw him turn the fragment over and over in disbelief. Then his face relaxed into a toothless smile. So, the gods had rejected an old, frail man. In the face of the threat from Rome such a sacrifice was not enough.

Nion’s stomach knotted sharply in fear. He noticed suddenly that several men were watching him surreptitiously from beneath their headdresses.

The woven bowl was coming closer. His hands were sweating. Only five more portions remained. Then it was before him, held in the hands of the archdruid who had baked the bread and taken the first piece himself. For a moment Nion hesitated. He raised his eyes to the other man’s face and read his fate even before he had put his hand in the basket.

The bread fragment he took was crumbling, still warm from the bakestone, and it was burned black.

The tide was high at six in the morning and the wind was from the north-east, crossing the Urals, dripping ice across the continents, whipping the sea into angry peaks of foam.

Tossing in her bed, Alison was dreaming uneasily. All around her the cold wet earth was pressing down, clogging her nostrils, crumbling into her eyes, filling her ears so she could no longer hear, weighing her into the damp sedge. Hiding her. Hiding the truth. The truth which must be told. With a cry of panic she sat up, untangling herself from the duvet. She stared round the room. It was pitch dark and she could hear the rain pouring down in the garden outside. When it grew light there would be a puddle on the windowsill.

Still dazed by her dream, she stood up and reached for her clothes. There was something she had to do; something urgent. The pounding behind her eyes was insistent, like the beat of the tide upon the shore, driving her, pushing her against her will. Opening the door she stood for a moment on the landing, listening. The house was silent. Her parents slept at the far end in a bedroom which looked out across the woods. Next to her, Greg and beyond him, Patrick, always slept like the dead until they were awakened. She shivered violently. Today was a day for awakening the dead.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing she hauled on her waterproof jacket and forcing her feet into her boots she opened the door and peered out into the icy morning. The wind was roaring in from the north-east full in her face as she pulled the door shut with difficulty behind her and set off in the darkness towards the track through the woods. All she knew was that she had to get to the grave; she had to get there before the tide washed it away.

She had to save it.