She bit her lip. ‘I shall miss you.’ Her voice cracked with misery.

He smiled and reached across to touch her face with a gentle hand. ‘And I you, Mora of the druids. And I you.’

Abi smiled to herself as she sat on the bench. The sun was shining and it was warm here in the shelter of the trees. Her fingers were stroking the crystal as it rested on her knee. There was so much affection between Yeshua and Mora, affection and genuine understanding each of the other. Affection, perhaps even love.

She closed her eyes against the sunlight, aware that she was back in the present day yet reluctant to open her eyes and return to the world. It was several seconds before she became aware that she was not alone. Her eyes flew open.

Justin was sitting on a rock close to the edge of the pool near her, watching her in silence. She felt herself grow tense. ‘How long have you been there?’

‘Not long.’

‘Are Cal and Mat back?’ She was, she realised suddenly, uncomfortable at being alone with him.

He shook his head. ‘I would hardly be here if they were. I came over on the off chance of catching you alone. We didn’t make a very good start yesterday, did we. As you know, I think it would be better if we talk by ourselves.’ He rose from his seat and came over to stand in front of her. ‘May I see it?’ He held his hand out for the crystal.

She hesitated.

‘I won’t harm it.’

She held it out reluctantly. Their hands brushed as he took it from her. He turned to face the sun, and scrutinised it carefully, turning it this way and that, watching the light reflect from the faces of the crystal. ‘This is a lovely thing.’ He cupped his hands around it and held it against his chest. ‘It has a nice feel. I can sense your mother. It has brought you close.’

‘What about the past?’ She felt very uncomfortable, seeing it in his hands like that, almost as though she was feeling him touching her. Getting up she went to stand near the ancient stone arch, leaving several feet between them.

He closed his eyes in silence. ‘When you want it to talk to you,’ he said at last, his voice very soft, ‘all you have to do is listen. It has much to tell.’

‘That much I already know.’ She couldn’t keep the tartness out of her voice. He opened his eyes and glanced at her. To her surprise she saw amusement there. ‘Then you have cracked the code on your own.’ He held it out to her and dropped it into her cupped hands. ‘You were right. You don’t need me.’

He turned and began to walk back towards the house. She stared after him. ‘I know how to listen,’ she said. ‘But I want to talk to her!’ The words erupted out of her without thought. ‘And I don’t know how.’

He stopped.

‘Please, show me how to get through to her.’

Mora walked slowly up the hill following the long serpentine route which generations of priests and priestesses, the servants of many gods, had trodden, her eyes on the grass below her sandals. She was thinking. About Yeshua and Cynan. Cynan, the young man to whom she had been betrothed almost since she was born, her companion and fellow student, and colleague. One day they would be arch druid and druidess of this school, and in years to come their children would succeed them. She pictured his kind, gentle face, his green, thoughtful eyes, the smile which hovered from time to time around his mouth, the calm serious expression he habitually wore. Then she thought about Yeshua. Taller than Cynan, with a darker, more olive skin, brown hair, deep brown eyes. His hands. Why was it she always thought about his hands; she was always watching them. His long strong fingers, gentle and artistic, always moving except when he was at prayer when at last they were still. He spent so much time at prayer; sometimes she watched him, seeing him go so far away from her where she could never follow and she had surprised herself at the occasional sudden resentment she felt at whatever, whoever, it was that took him so far from her. And now he was going. She had known the moment would come, but had hoped against hope that he would change his mind and stay. Just a while longer. Over winter, perhaps, and then perhaps another spring. But she knew he wouldn’t. Part of his charm was his certainty. And an equal part was his doubt. And now, when he looked deep into her eyes and told her he was going, she realised that more than anything or anyone she loved him and that if he asked her she would give up everything to follow him. She stopped in her tracks and looked up at the summit of the Tor above her in the sunlight. The great menhir which had stood there for thousands of years caught the light, white and almost luminous. It marked the place of greatest power, the concentration of the forces of earth and sky, of storm and wind, of star and sun. It was the place where one could speak directly to the gods. And the place, she sensed, where she could speak most easily to the woman who was following her around the island, trying so hard to contact her from another plane of existence beyond the mists. She looked round. She was there now. She could sense her reaching out. A priestess as she was, an initiate in all probability, somehow lost in the otherworld. On an impulse Mora stepped off the path and found herself a sheltered spot to sit down out of the wind. At once, in the silence, below the shoulder of the hill she heard her calling.

Mora! Mora? Are you there?

Mora closed her eyes and waited, opening herself to whatever came.

She was not expecting it to be a man.

He was walking uncertainly up the serpent path, dressed in strange clothes, his hair, short like a Roman’s, blowing around his head. His eyes were fixed on the top of the Tor and he had walked right past her without seeing her when somehow he sensed her presence and stopped. She saw the look of puzzlement on his face, then fear, as he scanned the hillside. Then she saw him shiver. Crouching down she kept still, willing him not to see her, drawing down the cloak of mist which her father had taught her to use if ever she felt herself in danger, wrapping it around herself. All he would see now would be a patch of nothing on the hillside, a place where the morning mist had lingered in a hollow between the gorse bushes.

‘Hello?’ He was very near her, and she saw him shake his head as if clearing a buzzing in his ears. He was looking straight at her now. He had bright, searching brown eyes; not warm brown, like Yeshua, but hard, the colour of hazelnuts, his hair was reddish and his complexion florid. He could sense her there. She cowered down, not moving, like a small animal freezing before a weasel.

‘Bloody place!’ She heard his words clearly. They meant nothing to her. He turned away from her at last and looked back up towards the summit before him. It was a steep climb to the top from here and he was already out of breath. She could hear him panting, almost feel the beat of the blood in his ears. Then at last he was back on the path and once more following it towards the top. He had cut across the serpent path. He was following some track she hadn’t noticed before. There were steps in it, a well trodden way. She frowned, still not daring to move. Once he was out of sight she would retrace her steps towards the bottom of the hill. She had no desire to be up there with a stranger in that sacred place. Now her fear was receding and her senses were once more working, she could feel his anger and his fury as tangible streaks across the air around her. Why would he go up there if he was so afraid? She glanced up towards the menhir and frowned. For a fraction of a second she could see what he could see, the man from the other world. A tall square tower on the place where the ancient stone had stood. Then it was gone, a grey shimmer in the sunlight, no more.

Kier had driven back overnight. He shouldn’t have come. The bishop had expressly forbidden it but he couldn’t keep away. Ever since his interview he had tried to put Abi and her affairs out of his mind but his conscience wouldn’t rest. She was in danger. Of that he was sure. It wasn’t her fault, but her natural psychic ability had driven her into the arms of the worst possible situation. David Paxman still didn’t understand how stupid it was to send her down here, to Glastonbury! Of all the places on earth he could have sent her, this was the last he should have chosen.

He completed the final scramble to the top of the Tor and stood looking round, trying to regain his breath. After the interview with the bishop and then the long tiring drive through heavy traffic his head was spinning and he felt tense and unhappy. After he had parked the car he sat for a long time wondering what to do next. He wasn’t sure what had made him head for the Tor. It seemed the perfect place to clear his head. High. Windy. Full of sunlight. There were several people up there when he arrived on top. The usual eclectic mix. Dog walkers. Hippies. He turned down his mouth, glancing at three young women in white robes. They were giggling and he suspected it was out of extreme embarrassment as they realised how silly they looked. A couple of ramblers. He eyed their state of the art rambling poles and heavy laced boots with extreme disfavour. Did they think this was the Matterhorn? There were a couple of earnest men. He classified them as probably academic, but who could tell. They might be astrologers on a day out from Mars. He snorted to himself. The day was clear. He could see for miles. He went and stood, his back to the wall of the tower, hands in pockets, feeling his hair being swept back by the sharp cold wind, then he frowned. How strange that on a day like today, there were still patches of mist on the lower slopes of the hill. He moved round to look down at the path he had followed upwards, seeing small groups of people slowly wending their way up and down. No mist. Not anywhere. It must have dispersed in the wind.