twenty-six

brice

I got off the train at Paddington and headed straight to the crematorium. It was Friday morning, the day of the funeral. Brice and Wolfsbane were waiting for me. We couldn’t go in, of course; the funerals ran in strict order, like movie showings. Ours was scheduled for two p.m., but Brice had wanted us to show up early; I couldn’t blame him for that. We found the appropriate chapel, then sat on a bench in the sun to run through the ritual.

This celebration of Alys’s life had to include everyone who knew her, not just her pagan friends. The family on both sides would be cautious if not downright hostile to a solely pagan affair, and we’d worked round that. Pagans like to celebrate in a circle, wearing ritual gear that focuses their intent and holding hands in a natural, open space, some sort of sacred site. The very shape of a circle suggests that no one is in charge in quite the same way as the minister who stands in front of a congregation. We hoped we’d come up with a harmonizing of both worlds.

By the time we’d finalized things I’d begun to feel less terrified. Brice took off, so that he could be in the official car that would move slowly behind the hearse bearing Alys’s coffin.

“We’ve got two hours,” said Wolfsbane. “I’m going to book in at the hotel and grab something to eat. You coming?”

“I’m not staying the night.”

“What? Aren’t you stopping over until the scattering of the ashes? It’s all on Brice, Sabbie. Take advantage.”

“Things are awful for Rey at the moment. I want to get back
for him.”

When Wolfsbane had left, I wandered the huge site, past row upon row of gravestones and marble monuments and beech trees in full, bright green leaf. I gazed up at chapels with gargoyles and ornate finials and walked between scented palettes of colour—gold of calendula, pink of pelargoniums, and brilliant scarlet of salvia, all in their individual beds. I sat for sometime at the edge of a lily pond, the trickle of the waterfall calming me.

Scooting off for an overnight stay had been perfect for both Rey and me. We’d found a family-run hotel in a tiny village on the north coast of Devon. We’d soaked up the sun—not brilliantly hot but not breezy either. We’d eaten great food, walked on the beach, and browsed round craft shops. Rey had bought me a bronze cast of fighting hares. We’d promised each other things … when all this is over … when Rey was reinstated … We’d talked about a life together. Rey had got close to agreeing that he might give up his bedsit. Going to Devon had felt like a crossing; like leaving one shore and reaching a better land.

This morning he’d had his “meeting”—the interview with the team investigating his status. I longed to check how things were with him, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Maybe the meeting was prolonged. Protracted.

In the ladies loo behind the café, I tried smiling at myself as I stuck on a bit of makeup and tugged a wide-toothed comb through my hair. My funeral clothes were a brown skirt that hung to my calves, a black top, and a charcoal grey jacket which I’d purchased for the occasion from one of the charity shops in Bridgwater, knowing I’d never wear it again. Hanging on the wardrobe door at home, I’d been worried; every item had clashed. Brice had asked us all to wear something with strong colour; ties for men, scarves for women. I’d chosen a floaty cerise and tan scarf which had the surprising effect of pulling the mix of colours together.

I sat in the café garden, in earshot of the fountain, picking at sponge cake. The sun was weak today, with a haze that felt slightly teary. Good weather for a summer funeral.

I’d almost finished my tea when Ricky came out of the café carrying a tray of drinks and eats. Freaky and Yew followed behind. They veered towards my table, Yew picking up further bistro chairs on his way through. We made a full round of hellos, during which I stacked my dishes to give the diners more elbow room.

“You’re conducting the service, aren’t you?” said Yew, once I’d settled between them all.

I nodded, slightly mute. Freaky laid a hand on my shoulder. “All will be well, my dear friend.” He started powering through his Danish pastry.

“Do you happen to know who else is coming?” I asked. “Juke?”

“No.” Ricky was staring down at his hands, not touching his food or drink.

“I guess he’s already pulled too many sickies.”

“Stef and Esme have commitments,” Freaky said. “Ahem. I saw our friend Anagarika in the George and Pilgrim. I got the feeling he knew he wasn’t welcome, but he did have an excuse. Another workshop—Labyrinth Healing.” Freaky moved into a passable Australian accent: “The full, advanced, practitioner training, cobber!”

“Maybe he’ll drop out of sight forever,” joked Yew. “Right into the Hollow Hill.”

“Right down to Australia, with any luck,” Freaky replied.

“We did that,” said Ricky. There was a micro-pause, as we turned to him. “What my mum used to say, when we dug holes in the sand on holiday. Fall through to Australia.”

The three of us chuckled. The spiky energy round him suggested he got uncomfortable at funerals and there was already an unwritten consensus between us that we needed to prevent Ricky from bursting into tears. “Anyway, you can’t dig holes into the Tor. I mean, you shouldn’t,” he added, into the silence. “Although the upper crust is rock, quite hard, so it would be tricky.”

“You’d need more than a seaside spade, then,” I quipped.

“Yeah,” said Yew. “Internally is the silt and clay. Plenty of chance for digging. If you could get there.”

“I walk with my companion-at-arms into the Hollow Hill.” I looked at all three of them as I quoted from Morgan le Fay’s last email. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition. I wondered if Juke would have reacted—if Rey’s theories about him would hold out—then remembered that Rey didn’t have theories, except that the emails meant Brice was losing his mind.

My phone beeped—the alarm I’d set as reminder. I needed to get in place for the start of the funeral. “I’ve got to go, guys. See you outside the crematorium.”

The chapel Brice had chosen was of ultra-modern architecture, big and white, speaking of man’s accomplishments, rather than nature’s beauty. Wolfsbane and I gathered everyone—the mourners, I guess they were called—together a short way off, where sun filtered through leafy trees. We encouraged them into a rough, tightly-packed circle and had them hold hands. The turnout was huge. I looked round the circle, taking in over two hundred flinted expressions, and it hit me like a fist—we were here to support them.

Wolfsbane stood directly across the circle, opposite me. Close by was Brice, flanked by his family and close friends. Yew stared ahead, well under control. Freaky had his eyes closed. Ricky’s shoulders jerked constantly. Shell slipped in next to him, as if finding a space, and I saw her secret squeeze of his hand.

Wolfsbane lifted his voice, and it rang as I’d never heard before. “We will begin by bringing peace into our circle.”

“For without peace,” I continued, trying to let my voice carry, “we cannot accomplish the work we are here to do.”

Those words set us both rolling. We brought power into the circle in the way I would do in my therapy room—we could take that core of power into the crematorium—we could even keep it going until Alys’s ashes had been scattered. Yew lit incense in a heavy cauldron and placed it in the centre, where it billowed fragrant smoke. Freaky had brought spring water from Glastonbury and he walked the perimeter of our circle with it, sprinkling it in consecration. We asked everyone to take three deep breaths, while we visualized a circle of light that would keep us safe.

We explained the significance of the yew tree, which grew widely in churchyards round London. Yew had brought a basket of branches, and I’d got Shell to frantically pull them apart before we’d assembled in a circle, so there’d be enough for everyone. She took the basket around and people chose a sprig to take with them as a commemoration.

Then I handed out nightlights. Luckily, we’d brought giant Ikea bags of candles so there were plenty. I lit mine with Wolfsbane’s power lighter that would burn in a force-ten storm. There was no wind, which was lucky, because our plan was that each person would light their candle from the flame of the person next to them, so allowing the little lights to grow bright one by one round the circle.

As Shell touched her burning wick against Ricky’s nightlight, he finally let his emotions out. He pressed the back of his free hand to his eyes as if that would hold in the tears.

Under the protection of the tree canopy the flames grew strong on their wicks, outlining our circle shape. We’d tried to think through the practicalities; we wanted everyone to carry their tiny lights in a snaking line towards the crematorium before the wax became molten. We weren’t allowed to be a fire risk, so we left them—two hundred and more flickering lights—beside the floral offerings in the courtyard.

Wolfsbane led the company in behind the coffin, which was carried by Brice, Alys’s brother, and four of her workmates. Yew walked behind, the smoke rising from his cauldron of burning resins. Freaky brought his chalice of spring water. I came last, to catch late-comers.

Inside the huge room, two of Alys’s friends started with an acoustic version—guitar and vocals—of the Led Zeppelin ballad “Stairway to Heaven.” They were good, but what was most affecting was the passion coming from them. They were good despite being torn to pieces.

The rest of the funeral was a celebration of Alys’s life. Several people stood to read poems and Shell did her eulogy in a sweet and simple manner. There was a slideshow of pictures from Alys’s birth to the day before she died—arriving at Stonedown, looking happy and expectant. Like me, Brice had captured her on his phone dancing on the Tor, but thought those too poignant to include.

Brice spoke last, without notes, a tribute that was also a love letter. Finally, the coffin began its macabre journey, accompanied by Queen’s “Who Wants to Live Forever.” Apparently Alys had loved ’70s and ’80s rock music since being introduced to it by her father. The lyrics set almost everyone off, apart from Brice, who had remained stony-faced throughout, and Ricky, who’d continue to weep steadily from the start. Alys’s mother buried her face in her hand, her sobs echoing around the building. The slow disappearance of the coffin made it all too real. Ricky lurched to his feet. Tears were streaking his powdered face. His fingers chained his hands together as he reached both arms out towards the coffin.

“It never should have been,” he cried out. “Surely this is against nature and reason, unless all is illusion!”

His words rang around the building, and an awful stillness settled, as if no one dared move. Finally, Shell got him back into his seat.

Brice registered his presence for the first time.

The wake was held in a function room just outside the crematorium gates. The congregation walked through the grounds, some pacing out the distance, eager to grab a drink, others as befitted the act of mourning. Some veered off, taking a wander through the grounds. The idea of finding a place for meditation was an attractive one, but my urgent need was to switch my phone back on. There were no missed calls. I dialed Rey’s number, my mouth drying in anticipation of his answering. I didn’t know what news he would give me, how he would sound after the grilling by his superiors. I didn’t even get his message box. A sharp needle of concern drove through me. He’d switched the phone off. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. I pushed the phone into my pocket and went into the reception.

Everyone wanted to talk to me and Wolfs. Our rite had gone down well with people—some surprised, some a little relieved at its relevance for them. Having shaken his hand on the way into the reception, I didn’t manage to speak to Brice in the crush. I saw him, though, standing with various groups of people, stoic and impassive, bone-dry eyes and a firm-set mouth which opened to speak as little as possible.

A table laden with finger food and hot and cold drinks stood against a long wall. Finally I made for the queue. Yew was ahead of me. We began filling our paper plates with savouries, Yew for the second time around, I fancied.

“It’s been a terrible summer,” I said.

“Like a portent. Death on the Tor as the sun rose at the zenith of its powers.” He dug out a piece of quiche and put it straight into his mouth. “A distressing symbol,” he managed, through the pastry.

I grabbed my moment; there was something I needed to clear up. “Yew; can you remember what you did directly after Alys’s body was airlifted to hospital?”

“We took the lads into Glastonbury and tried to find somewhere that was open that early in the morning. You’d’ve thought plenty of places would have been keen to feed the hordes coming off the Tor, but no damn place bothered. I ended up talking the manager of the Crown into cooking a hotel breakfast.”

“Who was there?”

“In the end, it was just me.” Yew gave me the cautious look again. “I gave Wolfsbane back the cash, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, I was wondering where the others had got to.”

“Freaky went back to his caravan to crash out. Anag might have gone to his digs until it was time for retail therapy.” Yew let off a crack of a laugh. “Everyone was shattered twice over. Juke and Ricky wanted to get their heads down too.”

“Their beds were back at Stonedown.”

“That’d be it, then, yeah?”

“Yeah. That’ll be it.” I fell into silence, as I cast my mind back. Ricky had come downstairs from the boys’ bedroom, at perhaps half-ten or eleven. Juke had not arrived back until almost one with Anag, but I’d never asked either of them if they’d met on the High Street, or on the way back. It was annoying that neither of them were here so I could check that out.

I looked for somewhere to plonk with my plate. Shell was sitting against the wall, pretending not to be alone in a crowd, eyeing Wolfsbane, who was holding court with Freaky and a group of London bankers in silk ties and Italian suits. I went over to her.

“Hi. Ricky not with you?”

“No.” She pushed her empty plate under her chair and brushed the crumbs from her lap. “Not sure where he is.”

“Ricky is pretty full-on. A little too sensitive for his own good?”

“Everything affects him so deeply. Crying like that went down like a balloon running out of gas with Brice. Truth is, he’s hugely intelligent. Lot brighter than I’ll ever be. Big brain. But, emotionally, he’s a mess …” She chewed at her lower lip. “I think he’s in love with Alys.”

“They hardly spoke in the time he knew her. He danced with her for a bit on the Tor, but …”

“I mean, he fell in love after—with the dead Alys. I can’t help wondering if he took up with me because I knew her. That I’m his link.” She looked around the room, searching for Ricky, but also keeping an eye on Wolfs. “I think being in love with a dead woman is affecting him. The stuff he says gets weirder every day. The point of philosophy is to explain the unexplainable, isn’t it?”

“Well, I guess …”

“At times I can’t follow Ricky at all. He goes off on long, wandering sentences. Maybe he’s flunking his essays because of that.”

“He’s not doing well at uni?”

“What worries me is that it’s happened before. This degree is his second attempt. And he’s working hard. He shuts himself away to study.” She gave a sharp smile. “On the other hand … when we’re together … he’s shocking fun. Risky. Intense.”

I bit into a falafel and rose my eyebrows at her.

“He’s up for anything. Wolfsbane wouldn’t even do the labyrinth walk with me. Ricky’s promised and I cannot wait.” She got up from her seat. “Guess I’d better find him. We’re going to take off soon, preferably without explaining ourselves to Wolfsie.”

“You haven’t told him yet?” I don’t know why I was so surprised. It would be a difficult thing to do, and there might be element of Shell hedging her bets. Wolfsbane was a catch in a lot ways, but then, Ricky was a smooch.

Shell wandered off and I left by the rear door, where a small courtyard gave me a chance to phone Rey. I gulped the cool air in for a few moments, before dialling the number. His phone was still off. I was torturing myself. I scratched at my eyes then stopped, not wanting them to look red.

Across the paving, a figure was crouched in the shadow of some bushes, hunched almost double. Hands were busy in the soil as if they were trying to bury something. The figure looked up briefly, with a whoosh of gelled hair, and I knew who this was.

I hunkered beside him. His fingernails were rimmed with black from the digging, but he hadn’t made much of a hole—the soil was baked and full of shrub roots. “What’re you doing, Ricky, digging for Australia?”

He looked at me in a slanted fashion. “I truly don’t understand death. I know I should, as a philosopher, but I don’t … can’t.”

“I think it’s too early. We all need a bit of healing space, first.”

“Plato says that Socrates believed death was the liberation of the soul.”

“Are you worried about Alys’s soul, Ricky? Is that what you were trying to say at the funeral?”

“I think Alys was intrinsically good, don’t you? Like she wasn’t ignorant of The Good. That’s what came off her. She wasn’t within the shadows of the cave.”

“What cave?”

“Plato’s cave. It’s one of his most famous metaphors.”

“I’ve think you told me about that.” I tried a grin. “I’ve forgotten.”

“Why should you remember?” He was wearing his usual vampiric clothes—they were perfectly funereal, after all—but now they were smeared with dirt and he ineffectively brushed at his black-clad knees. “Plato describes prisoners living in a cave and seeing only the shadows on the wall, never seeing the sun that creates them. The sun is symbolic of goodness, you see. The Good. The darkness of the cave is an analogy of lack of goodness. What Plato’s trying to say is that lack of virtue is only associated with ignorance.”

“Okay …” I was pricking up my ears at Ricky’s story. Caves featured in my shamanic work lately.

“One day, a man escapes from the cave and sees the world, the sun. Once you’ve seen the sun, you could never return to evil. That’s part of my dissertation. Was a part, anyway.” His eyes had no shine in them.

“You’re … worried about your dissertation? Your degree?”

“I’ve had some setbacks.” He scooped up a loose handful of soil and let it run through his fingers as if from a salt cellar.

“I remember being a student. It’s all setbacks. You probably need to talk to your professor.”

I heard him sob, once, in the back of his throat. “It’s more than that. It’s … I’m in a spot of bother.” He slumped down further onto the earth. His eyes weren’t focusing. His face was drawn. His drooping body reminded me of a piece of beefsteak that had been bludgeoned flat. “Socrates wasn’t afraid to die. He took the hemlock gladly.”

“I think I know that story. He was found guilty of corrupting the minds of the young, wasn’t he?” I saw him look at me and added, “Wrongly, of course. Then condemned to death.”

“He was willing to die. Yet Cebes asks, if philosophers are so willing to die, why is it wrong for them to kill themselves?”

“And did that question get answered?”

“Yes. Socrates’s initial answer is that the gods are our guardians, and that they will be angry if one of their possessions kills itself without permission.”

“I don’t believe that I’m a possession of a god or goddess,” I said. “Yet, it’s a lovely idea that they are guardians. I feel that, when I walk between worlds.”

“Was he right?” He put his hands across his face, leaving streaks of soil on his cheeks. “If there is some lovely place to go, why stay here, where things are awful all the time?”

“Honestly, everyone goes through these stages in life.” I didn’t want to confess that Shell had told me about his essay marks. “How has the shamanic journeying been going? You might find your answers there.”

He nodded, silent, as if he was reliving some of his journeys. “My sea eagle comes to me. He says we have a task ahead of us.”

“You have years ahead of you.” I encircled Ricky’s hunched shoulders with my arms and rocked him for a moment. “What d’you say we go in?”

He shrank into himself again, hiding his face with his long, soiled fingers.

“Shell’s worrying about you. She’s in there now, Ricky, wondering where you are. Please come and talk to her.”

“Everyone who loves me, leaves me.” His voice was muffled against his palms.

“Babette didn’t mean to leave you.”

I regretted saying this the instant the words left my mouth, for he leaned forward so that his face was only centimetres from mine. “Did you locate her, Sabbie? Did you get any ideas at all?”

I couldn’t look at him. I desperately wanted to shift away, but my back was lodged against a rhododendron and its branches were already poking into my spine.

“I’m so sorry, Ricky. I don’t know for sure, but I think she’s gone. I keep seeing her in the forest—your forest. I think she’s always been there. I think her bones still are … in some lovely glade, buried deep.”

He gave a deep, almost animal, sob. He swung up from the bushes and turned on one heel of his shiny boots. He hurried towards the cemetery grounds and disappeared into the long shadows of the trees. I watched him go, feeling guilty that I’d raised the central reason for his sadness.

And in a rush, I wanted Rey so much it was a force, pushing against me, pushing me over. He’d been through something foul today. I should have been waiting outside; waiting to hug him and lead him away. Now he didn’t want to speak to anyone. He’d probably bought a bottle of whisky on the way home. I ached to put my arms around him.

I went inside and wound my way to the far end of the room, where Brice was talking to Shell. “I have to go. I’m sorry not to stay longer, Brice.”

“I do understand.” He gave a single, controlled nod. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“I’ve just seen Ricky. He’s in a bit of a state. He’s gone into the cemetery woodlands for a walk on his own. I think today was the last straw.”

“I’d best go and find him,” said Shell. “We have plans.”

I moved round the room hugging my goodbyes, Brice hovering beside me, eventually escorting me towards the door.

“Well done,” I said. “This must be the hardest day of your life.”

“It’s not over yet. We have to come back and bury the ashes in the Memorial Garden.”

“Yes. I’m sorry I’m not staying.”

“You’ve been great, getting here. And bringing some of the others.” He managed a thin, grim, smile.

“Has there been any more emails?”

“There won’t be any more.”

“How … how d’you mean?”

“I have a new email address. And I’m keeping a careful note of who knows it.”