We’d gutted a rabbit on the central stone the day Father Juniper came to exorcise the children. Blood and entrails smeared a rock. It didn’t look great. We saw him lumbering up the field towards us, an enormous wooden crucifix over his shoulder. The hem of his brown robe was dampened by grass, his sandals snagged dandelions, his string of beads swung with every step. A squat woman followed dressed for weekend hiking; determined boots, no-nonsense shorts, furious hair. I want to give her a whistle and a map around her neck, though I’m not sure my memory isn’t embellishing. But you get the picture. A low centre of gravity. Eyes looking for a fight. He wiped his brow and lent his cross against a stone. She took up a wide leg stance. “We’ve come to cast out the devil.” The sun shone, it was a beautiful day, the stones were nearly finished, one lay on its side, a hole already dug. On such a day the view from the hill stretches to Chanctonbury Ring, The Weald a sea of green, it can look as if the last thousand years of people hasn’t happened. Buzzards wheeled the sky, smoke drifted from the campfire, the hot tub like a rocket bubbled with children. There was a crowd of us gathered that weekend for the final stone, the yurts enormous and flapping, dogs grinning, pagans, engineers, hippies, Wiccans and druids many naked from the waist up smoked roll-ups, put the kettle on, washed cups. I’m sure we offered them tea before they got to work, and I’m sure they refused. I heard later that they’d gone to every house in the surrounding area, offering to bless and protect from the evil worship on the hill. In my neighbour’s house a glass table had shattered when he’d walked in the door, and when we went to the wedding site, my soon-to-be ex-husband and I to say our goodbyes, we found that the altar had been smashed. My soon-to-be ex-husband. The end was coming. Tomorrow we’d put in the last stone.
The Literary Obsessive champions independent artists. To receive new posts and support my work, become a free or paid subscriber.
