A Finer End

“Perhaps if they thought that the survival of their society depended on it. The word enchantment is derived from ‘chant.’ The ancients believed that music was the strongest magic, that it kept man in tune with the cosmos and in harmony with one another. Music was almost always the province of the priesthood, and in some cultures, it was considered so powerful that music that deviated from the prescribed rituals was strictly forbidden.

“A twelve-part chant was part of Celtic magic as well,” Simon continued, “and the two traditions may have blended together over time, increasing in significance and importance.”

Standing, Jack went to warm his hands at the fire. “If you’re right, how could we possibly restore something like that? I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea where to begin.”

“There might have been a written record,” Simon said thoughtfully. “That could be where your family comes into it.”

They had been able to trace Montforts as far back as the thirteenth century, but had not been able to find a link between that Montfort—a Glastonbury wool merchant—and Edmund, twelfth-century monk of the Abbey. When they’d questioned Edmund directly, he’d merely said, “Blood helps the link, sometimes … oftentimes it obscures.…” Over the months, Simon had become aware of distinct personality traits apparent in their otherworldly correspondent, and this was Edmund at his cagiest.

Jack rocked on his heels, a mannerism that should have been clumsy on so large a man, but was not. “Do you seriously think something like that could have survived intact all these years?”

“Abbey deeds were found in a parish church fairly recently.” Simon made an effort to keep his voice calm. To discover an untouched fragment of the past, hold it in his hands—

“But say we did find this chant, then what would we do? We couldn’t sing it ourselves—”

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse here,” Simon soothed. “We may not even be on the right track. It is interesting, though, that most of us—including your Anglican friend—have a strong interest in church music.”

“Winnie! Bloody hell! I’m supposed to be at the Vicarage for dinner in a quarter of an hour. I completely forgot. And Winnie’s invited the Archdeacon and her husband, and her brother—a peacemaking attempt of sorts—so there’ll be hell to pay if I’m late. I’d better fly.” With that, he grabbed his coat from the peg by the door, and was gone.

Simon followed him to the porch and stood for a time, ignoring the cold, gazing up at the patch of starlit sky visible through a gap in the foliage above his garden. Did Jack Montfort have any idea of the significance of what they’d just learned? Or of its inherent possibilities?

Perhaps, decided Simon, it was just as well he did not. They had gone beyond parlor games now, and it was time to test allegiances. He went inside for his car keys, and set out to pay a visit.

It seemed to Faith that every day it got harder to walk up the bloody hill. The steep incline of Wellhouse Lane was made more treacherous by the slimy mat of dead leaves coating the tarmac, and if she fell she’d be as helpless as an overturned tortoise. The baby’s feet were lodged firmly in her diaphragm, and the pressure of its head on her sciatic nerve sent pain shooting down her thigh—at least that was what Garnet had told her, and Garnet would know.

Faith stopped, panting, pressing her palm into the small of her back and wiggling feet already swollen from a day of standing behind the café’s counter. She could hear the trickle of water beneath her feet. These hills were honeycombed with water—it ran in the culverts laid under the tarmac; it leached from the verges and sprang from every nook and cranny.

Woodsmoke lay heavy on the still, damp air. Garnet would have the stove lit, and Faith imagined the smoke rising from the chimney, spilling down the hillside like a cloak, hiding everything beneath it from mortal sight. But then she had been thinking strange things of late, and her dreams were stranger still.

It was odd that the nearer she came to having her baby, the more she missed her own mother. Often now, she dreamed she heard her mother’s voice calling her name—sometimes she even felt her mum’s hand on her brow, stroking back her hair—and then she would wake in the silent, cold room, the only living presence the calico cat curled on the foot of her bed.

Stepping carefully on the slippery tarmac, she began the uphill trudge again. To her left rose the massive cone of the Tor, blotting out the sky. When she had first come to live with Garnet, she’d liked to climb up to the head of the spring above the farmhouse and gaze out over the Levels, imagining centuries past and the land below her covered with water, Glastonbury an island in the Summer Sea.