gns.thedruidconnection-第1部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　　CHAPTER　ONE
　　　
　　THE　YOUNG　curate　shivered　in　the　cold　and　felt　uneasy。　Something　was　wrong　but　it　was　difficult　to　work　out　exactly　what。　The　atmosphere　for　a　start；　when　he　had　set　out　on　the　quarter…mile　walk　from　his　home　to　the　church；　a　warm　spring　breeze　had　fanned　his　cherubic　features　and　the　setting　sun　had　almost　blinded　him。　Now；　and　it　could　not　be　more　than　twenty　minutes　later；　it　was　almost　dark　and　very　cold。　Getting　colder　by　the　second。
　　
　　The　Reverend　Philip　Owen　felt　slightly　dizzy　as　he　stood　by　the　lychgate　and　tried　to　recollect　his　senses。　The　last　twenty　minutes　seemed　to　have　slipped　away　without　him　noticing。　He　wiped　his　forehead　with　the　back　of　a　flabby　hand；　his　fingers　came　away　wet　and　cold。　His　throat　was　raw　and　dry　as　though　he　had　an　infection　of　some　kind。　He　was　ill；　he　decided；　sickening　for　something。　He　was　trembling　slightly　and　little　shivers　ran　up　and　down　his　spine。　A　chill　perhaps；　or　the　flu。　He　had　always　been　susceptible　to　viruses。　At　31；　and　still　a　bachelor；　he　felt　the　years　closing　in　on　him　。　。　。　just　like　those　deepening　shadows　all　around　him　were　doing　right　now；　obliterating　familiar　surroundings　and　creating　a　previously　unknown　hostile　world。
　　
　　He　tried　to　swallow　and　realised　just　how　painful　his　throat　was。　He　should　return　home　and　go　straight　to　bed。　No；　it　was　better　that　he　prepared　the　church　for　early　munion　now　rather　than　face　a　mad　scramble　in　the　morning。　Indecision；　apprehension　mounting　into　。　。　。　fear！
　　
　　It　was　ridiculous；　Philip　Owen　told　himself。　There　was　nothing　to　be　frightened　of　here；　not　in　the　grounds　of　God's　house。　That　meeting　at　the　church　hall　was　to　blame　for　all　this；　the　way　a　crowd　of　irate　parishioners　had　vented　their　wrath　upon　him。　The　vicar　had　conveniently　found　an　excuse　to　be　absent　and　left　Owen　to　face　the　anger　of　those　whom　he　had　always　thought　to　be　his　friends。　And；　inevitably；　the　bishop　was　unavailable　for　ment。
　　
　　You　couldn't　blame　the　people　though。　The　Church　had　deceived　them；　held　them　in　contempt　over　this　latest　issue。　Philip　Owen　felt　the　guilt　welling　up　inside　him　because　he　was　a　party　to　this　deception。　It　was　dishonest　but　he　hadn't　the　courage　to　tell　the　vicar　so。　It　was　all　so　glib；　like　the　confidence　trick　it　was。
　　
　　The　whole　thing　had　begun　just　after　the　war　when　Sir　Henry　Grayne；　a　resident　of　the　village；　had　bought　ten　acres　of　land　adjoining　the　cemetery　and　then　willed　it　to　St　Monica's　church　in　trust。　Church　land　forever；　a　last　bastion　to　repel　the　spread　of　greedy　jerry…builders；　or　maybe　one　day　it　would　bee　an　extension　to　the　graveyard。　And　this　might　be　needed　before　the　decade　was　out；　the　way　the　village　was　growing；　almost　into　a　sprawling　suburb　of　the　town　itself。　Sir　Henry　Grayne　had　been　a　regular　worshipper　at　St　Monica's。　He　was　a　multimillionaire　even　in　those　days；　his　own　grave　a　monument　to　his　life。　Philip　Owen　felt　a　pang　of　guilt　as　he　remembered　the　huge　marble　headstone；　now　green　with　moss　and　spotted　with　bird　droppings。　Sir　Henry　had　invested　a　moderate　sum　of　money　for　the　stone　to　be　cleaned　and　maintained　regularly　but　nobody　had　touched　it　for　the　past　five　years。　Why？　Vicar　Mannering　had　been　reticent　when　Philip　had　introduced　the　subject　a　few　weeks　back；　murmured　some　excuse　about　the　cost　of　labour　these　days。　The　curate　had　been　going　to　ask　about　the　church　roof　too；　but　his　courage　had　failed　him。　Sir　Henry　had　set　up　a　trust　for　that　too；　so　why　had　Vicar　Mannering　launched　a　restoration　fund　to　try　and　save　its　sagging　timbers？
　　
　　Oh；　the　reason　was　obvious。　One　didn't　really　have　to　ask。　The　Henry　Grayne　Trust　money　had　been　used　to　support　Mannering's　own　church；　St　Peter's；　the　'mother'　church。　The　trustees　were　as　much　to　blame　as　the　vicar　but　there　was　no　doubt　that　the　money　had　all　gone。　The　Reverend　Mannering　would　supply　an　explanation　if　anybody　had　the　courage　to　ask　outright：　'The　Church　of　God　is　all　one　and　the　funds　were　needed　to　support　the　mother　church　because　without　a　mother　church　St　Monica's　would　have　to　be　closed　down。'　Bishop　Boyce　would　back　him　up　and；　in　the　end；　lesser　mortals　would　be　shouted　down。
　　
　　Owen　felt　the　blood　coursing　through　his　veins；　anger　that　started　his　temples　throbbing　and　an　ache　to　begin　behind　his　eyes。　Perhaps　he　wasn't　well　after　all。　But　the　clerical　leeches　weren't　satisfied　with　just　the　misappropriation　of　Grayne's　grave　and　roof　money；　Now　they　saw　an　opportunity　to　grab　the　lot。　What　use　was　that　land　to　anybody？　A　pittance　from　the　grazing　rights　and　they　weren't　yet　ready　to　consecrate　it。　So　why　not　sell　it　while　there　was　a　boom　in　building　land？
　　
　　Owen　clenched　his　hands　until　his　fingernails　gouged　his　palms。　There　had　to　be　some　corruption　somewhere　otherwise　Bishop　Boyce　would　never　have　obtained　outline　planning　permission　for　a　hundred　houses　on　that　tract。　It　wasn't　until　they　were　ready　to　put　the　land　up　for　sale　to　the　highest　bidder　that　the　villagers　became　aware　of　what　was　going　on。
　　
　　The　young　curate　gulped；　felt　his　stomach　muscles　contracting。　Suddenly　he　was　the　meat　in　the　sandwich；　the　buffer　between　Boyce；　Mannering　and　the　residents　of　the　village。　The　villagers　had　rallied　in　their　united　protest；　directed　their　venom　at　Owen；　and　he　couldn't　e　up　with　the　answers。　At　one　stage　he　thought　they　were　going　to　physically　attack　him　as　their　fury　reached　its　pitch。　He　wanted　to　blame　the　bishop　and　the　vicar　but　his　own　courage　had　failed　him　and　his　stammerings　had　been　drowned　by　their　abuse；　their　threats。
　　
　　Now　he　was　back　here　in　the　darkness；　almost　relishing　the　task　of　preparing　for　munion　because　he　wanted　to　be　alone　with　。　。　。　Oh　God；　no；　he　didn't　want　to　be　alone　here　any　longer！
　　
　　So　dark；　so　cold；　the　whispering　of　the　breeze　through　the　tall　yew　trees　a　venomous　hiss；　clammy　fingers　seeming　to　reach　out　of　the　blackness　and　touch　his　sweating　flesh。　He　cowered；　flung　up　his　hands　to　cover　his　eyes　and　prayed　that　when　he　took　them　away　he　would　see　the　spring　sunlight；　feel　the　gentle　warmth　of　an　April　evening　and　find　that　it　had　all　been　a　fevered　hallucination。
　　
　　It　was　as　though　some　powerful　invisible　force　grabbed　his　wrists；　dragged　his　hands　away　from　his　eyes；　screamed　with　an　icy　gush　of　arctic　wind　'Look！'　Oh；　merciful　God　it　could　not　be。　This　was　all　a　sick　nightmare　inspired　by　the　illness　which　had　e　upon　him　with　the　speed　of　a　ravaging　plague。
　　
　　Philip　Owen　could　see　but　it　was　not　fully　light。　There　was　a　kind　of　greyness　as　though　the　night　had　given　way　to　dawn　and　a　malodorous　mist　swirled　across　the　cemetery　turning　the　tombstone　into　hideous；　unrecognisable　shapes　…　that　moved！
　　
　　He　wanted　to　run　but　his　feet　were　firmly　fixed　to　the　ground　as　though　he　stood　on　steel　plating　wearing　magnetic　boots。　He　tried　to　close　his　eyes　to　shut　everything　out　but　his　lids　refused　to　lower。　A　scream　was　in　his　mind　but　his　vocal　chords　were　paralysed　like　the　rest　of　his　body。
　　
　　They　were　people；　at　least　they　had　a　vague　semblance　of　human　shape；　came　at　him　out　of　the　fog；　reached　for　him　with　fingers　that　were　deathly　cold　as　they　stroked　his　flesh　in　the　same　way　they　had　done　under　the　cover　of　darkness。　A　dozen　of　them　at　least；　possibly　more　beyond　his　range　of　vision。　A　motley　crowd　who　wore　capacious　caps　made　from　some　kind　of　loose　furry　hide；　the　reddish　brown　fur　congealed　in　places　as　though　the　unfortunate　animal　had　been　carelessly　flayed　and　the　spilled　blood　had　not　been　wiped　off。　Faces　that　were　still　hidden　in　shadow　above　long　belted　gowns　falling　to　filthy　sandalled　feet；　each　one　of　the　pany　carrying　a　staff　cut　from　a　growing　tree；　foliage　still　adhering　to　the　wood。　Even　in　his　fear　Owen　recognised　the　oak　leaves；　green　and　strong　as　though　they　still　flourished　out　of　the　severed　branches。
　　
　　'Traitor；　you　gaze　upon　the　Oke　Priests　whose　faces　shall　remain　hidden。'
　　
　　Philip　Owen　wished　that　he　could　faint；　even　death　would　have　been　wele　to　spare　him　from　this　unholy　gathering。　They　were　touching　him；　fingering　him　with　a　malevolence　that　had　his　blood　pounding　in　his　ears；　the　touch　of　death　upon　his　trembling　flesh！
　　
　　He　tried　to　pray　but　familiar；　oft…recited　lines　eluded　his　crazed　brain。　The　mist　eddied　and　cleared　slightly；　enough　to　give　him　an　even　more　terrible　view。　The　lychgate；　the　cemetery　。　。　。　even　the　church　was　gone！　Just　open　heathland　with　this　grove　of　twisted　oaks；　their　trunks　and　boughs　entwined　with　mistletoe。　And　beyond　this；　barren　heath　stretched　as　far　as　the　eye　could　see。　No　houses；　no　untidy　conurbation　that　swamped　the　village！
　　
　　The　curate　moaned　in　terror；　a　wheeze　that　died　in　his　throat。　The　throng　were　falling　back；　making　way　for　a　tall；　imposing　figure　that　strode　through　the　oakgrove。　Now　there　was　a　murmur　of　fear　from　the　watchers；　humbling　themselves　and　falling　to　their　knees。
　　
　　'Praise　be　to　Alda　whose　power　is　only　surpassed　by　the　gods　themselves！'
　　
　　The　tall　figure　halted　only　a　yard　or　so　from　Philip　Owen。　The　curate　wanted　to　shrink　away　but　movement　was　still　denied　him。　His　e