Excerpted from Waiting
by Vince Adams
Currently Seeking Representation
Lloyd Wyse
"No more stories for today, boys," said Lloyd Wyse. He leaned heavily on his ash staff as he got up from the barstool at George and Pilgrim's Inn on High Street. The natural light was fading as Lloyd pulled the strap of his old leather satchel over his head and dropped it onto his shoulder. His deeply wrinkled face was framed by a jumble of gray hair, loosely parted in the middle. Combed, it might have reached his shoulders but as was his norm, the hair extended in every direction but down.
"But what became of the Bishop's babies, Mr. Wyse?" Mary asked from behind the bar as she scooped up the heavy coins Lloyd had left for his beer.
"I'd be more concerned about your own babies, Mary." He rolled his eyes to the two beer-sloshing, red-faced young men leaning more against each other than against the iron and leaded glass wall on the far side of the room.
Lloyd walked slowly into the pink light of the setting sun behind thickening clouds – ominous he thought to himself. He hitched the strap higher on his shoulder and took stock of the comings and goings of the local citizenry. All was normal. "Slow and steady," he said to himself as he turned west and started towards St. John's, relying on the staff for balance.
Lloyd kept his head down and hunched over his staff as he walked. He had long ago mastered the art of invisibility on the streets. Unremarkable browns, olives, and grays, earth tones he'd heard people call them, made up most of his wardrobe. He favored baggy pants, shirts, and jackets with a plethora of deep pockets. Lloyd had a bright red scarf at home of long-forgotten origin for special occasions but otherwise, he cloaked himself in the same forgettable ensemble on all his trips to town. His mid-neck beard was shorter than he liked it that day due to an unfortunate stove-top incident involving sausages and distracting thought. It would grow back fast, it always did.
He had caught up on the latest gossip over a pint of Buttcombe Original at The Riflemans Arms on Chilkwell Street before hearing all about adventures in rose care from the Garden Club at the George and Pilgrim's. Nothing out of the ordinary, no unusual visitors to town, a day like any other day.
***
He turned back on to Chilkwell and looked up at the old Abbey ruins. "Oh, what a sight you were in your day, old girl," he muttered to himself. Lloyd paused to rest at Wellhouse and took in the wrought iron gated entrance to the Chalice Well, thought to be a stopping point for the Holy Grail on its journey with Joseph of Arimathea. He allowed himself a knowing smile as the last tourists of the day hurried down the driveway. Then, he hitched up his brown corduroy pants, reseated the strap on his shoulder, and began the slow uphill climb to his small, secluded cottage.
Few knew exactly where Wyse lived, and even fewer remembered when he came to Glastonbury. The young folk simply assumed he'd always been there. Their parents may have recalled the first time seeing Lloyd walk into town with that ash staff, polished at the grip from years of use, but nobody could attest to knowing much about him. He never attended social activities, never seemed to be with relatives, close friends... anyone. But he was always friendly, always willing to listen and counsel, and could be counted on for odd local trivia from nearly all periods of the town's growth. Lloyd would light up with boisterous anecdotes from its days as a lakeside fishing village to the unchallenged seat of British Christendom. He was markedly uninterested in the town's modern manifestation, a trinket capitol for the curious. In other words, he was an anachronism, just one more oddity in a town full of them.
The doddering, standoffish senior is precisely the character Lloyd cultivated. Relationships were an exhausting complication. He was just passing through, or more accurately, these people were just passing through his life. When the old traveler pondered his existence, everything seemed fleeting. Relationships were avoided because anyone he'd ever cared about left him. Only Lloyd remained.
On a straight stretch of road, about a quarter of a mile up Wellhouse Lane, he stopped; a steep ivy-covered wall to his left, a clear view of the shallow slope of the Tor to his right. He waved at a car he recognized and one he didn't before deciding no other vehicles were likely to pass for a minute. Turning to the wall, he brushed away foliage from a doorknob that was otherwise invisible from the road. The old green, ivy-covered door opened inward. Lloyd stepped inside and closed it. A car passing seconds later would never know he'd been there. The entrance faded into the lush roadside greenery, common in the Somerset countryside.
Lloyd put his bag on the small table by the door, flipped on the overhead light, and glanced around for anything that appeared out of place. The tells he'd placed and checked every day for the thirty-odd years he'd been back to this home all seemed intact. His cottage was small, but he didn't need much. A life of constant motion forced Lloyd to live with just the basics. The decor in his cottage could best be described as modern forest. Old yet solid wood furniture with down-stuffed cushions contrasted a state-of-the-art sound system, Bluetooth speakers, and a laptop computer on his otherwise empty desk. Lloyd pulled an iPhone out of the left front pocket of his baggy cords, scrolled down through emails from lawyers and scholars, and confirmed that nothing required immediate attention. He swiped over to his Pandora app and sent instrumental jazz to his speakers, letting the music wash over him. Revived and at peace, he walked to the back wall, which sported the only window on the ground floor. It was a porthole-like opening with thick and murky old glass from which one could just make out the blurry splash of color from the roses lining his garden patio. He wrestled with what he expected to be the toughest decision of the day; go out back to check for weeds and critter damage or take a nap. The nap was certainly winning that battle.
Tucked off to the right of the small kitchenette was a low doorway to darkness. Stepping through, Lloyd began the climb up a circular staircase. He didn't need any light. He knew every step and turn by heart. At the beginning of the second revolution, a glow from his bedroom window facing the Tor offered a break from the blackness. His bedroom was small and wedge-shaped with a twin bed, dresser, and night table. The last piece of furniture in the room towered over the rest. Standing floor to ceiling and covering the small wall at the narrow portion of the wedge was a wardrobe with massive doors and large brass rings. A small iron hook was fastened near the top of the right-side panel. A dark gray cloak hung from it.
Lloyd placed his staff in a brass can, sorely undersized for the task it had been conscripted to, and leaned on the dresser to pull off his boots. From that spot, he had a clear view of the Tor, silhouetted against the rapidly darkening storm clouds rolling in from the east. He could see a handful of hikers, oblivious to the encroaching rain, climbing the same winding path he'd walked countless times over his years in this place. The old man's thoughts then carried him over the crest to a small neighborhood directly across from him. While his home was nearly invisible to all but the few that knew to look for it, the Pelling's cottage was bright, open, and welcoming to all neighbors and visitors. He was due for a visit to check on Peter's technology and discuss plans to transition Colin's responsibility to his eager, maybe over-eager, son. Jennifer would have been his first choice he thought, as he laid his weary body down on the bed. He understood her need to wander, to grow into more, but not everyone had the luxury of choosing their destiny. One could argue that he did select his, but after all the years, it didn't feel that way.
He stretched to full length, taller than his stooped posture would suggest. Ah, Memory Foam! What a great idea... if only he could relieve some of the memories he carried to this mattress as he slept. He chuckled... No Lloyd, this is your burden to bear. A burden that felt less relevant year by year, in an era that no longer had any use for old wizards.
Jacquie Mattson
The newspaper headlines and British television were starting to reflect the panic of the populace. Nick Stearns, the CEO of British Energy, a top provider of gas and electric in the UK, was strangled in his sleep by his wife, Stephanie. The most recent Mrs. Stearns was his third wife and twenty-five years his junior. Mr. Stearns' past wives came forward with shocking stories about his treatment of them during their marriage, earning a bit of empathy for Stephanie Stearns. The alleged murderer was found in a near-comatose state, lying in bed beside her dead husband when the housekeeper arrived at their Surrey home. The parallels to the other recent murders by wives, girlfriends, and daughters could not be ignored. The Nick Stearns murder was added to a growing list that was stumping Scotland Yard. That list was recently updated to include two members of parliament that same week. The Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre (JTAC) of MI5, the United Kingdom's domestic intelligence service had been brought in to support the Yard's efforts.
Jacquie Mattson turned her back to husband Reggie at the coat check as they stepped into The Coral Grotto in Covent Garden, the newest of hip new restaurants emerging into the spotlight this year. As the thin cashmere cape with fox fur trim at the collar and cuffs slid off her otherwise bare shoulders, all eyes except Reggie's were transfixed. Most heads turned, both male and female, to notice the statuesque blond as she entered, and not because she was the wife of a leading industrialist with regular coverage in the fashion section. There were more than a few under-table kicks, arm grabs and sharp discreet words from wives to husbands as Mrs. Mattson slowly smoothed out her blue off-shoulder, mid-thigh dress and turned to the maitre d'.
"Mr. Mattson, your guests have arrived and have been seated. Their drink orders have been filled, and your requested bottle of Moet and Chandon is chilling tableside." The Mattson's were led to a round table with a light gray cover. Two of the four chairs were occupied by gentlemen in conservative suits. Both stood as the newcomers approached.
Mattson leaned over the table to shake hands, "Dick, Frank, thank you for joining me tonight. I am confident this will be the beginning of a profitable endeavor for all of us." Both Dick and Frank nodded as Mattson spoke, but their eyes wandered to the stunning woman to his right.
Noticing their interest and accustomed to this reaction, he feigned surprise, "Oh my apologies, please let me introduce my beautiful wife, Jacqueline." He stepped to the side and with a slow slide of his right hand onto her bottom, he encouraged her to step forward. Both men stepped around the table to offer an embrace versus a handshake. Both lingered a bit too long, in the hold and in their eye contact. Most women would feel uncomfortable, but Jacquie took it in stride.
Mattson suggested that Dick and Frank sit to his right and left, respectively, thus positioning his wife in between them and opposite him. As the waiter silently stepped up, Reggie directed him to pour each a glass of Moet. He kicked off the conversation by toasting their health, and "Of course to the lovely Jacqueline," the guests added. Jacquie dropped her eyes demurely and accepted their well-wishes. "Please gentlemen, you can call her Jacquie. She prides herself on her close relationship with my most important business partners, don't you dear?" His eyes bore into his wife's and held the gaze until she broke it. She bestowed a warm smile on each of the guests with a nod.
The conversation turned to business and other than being the object of poorly disguised glances at her cleavage, Jacquie was forgotten. Consequently, neither Frank nor Dick was clear on the actual sequence of events but other witnesses in the restaurant later told authorities and reporters that seven gunshots in rapid succession were the first indication that anything was out of the ordinary at the swank eatery.
As she listened to Reggie drone on and on about Middle Eastern contacts, the value of air versus ground transport and payment cutouts on the mainland, Jacquie's face slowly lost all expression. All sounds in the restaurant faded away and the color drained from all but her husband's face and striped red and blue tie. She intuitively noticed when Dick's eyes left her chest, as she always did, and used that gap to slide her hand into her over-sized clutch purse. Wrapping her hand around the matte black Glock G43 sub-compact pistol, she pulled it up, rested her right hand on the table, braced it with her left and emptied all seven rounds into her husband's chest, resulting in an impressively tight grouping to the left of his tie. With a final pull of the trigger and a hollow metallic click of the hammer on an empty chamber, Jacquie rested the handgun on the table, picked up her glass and took a small sip. 'Reggie says it won't do to gulp expensive champagne' was the last thought in her head as Frank, ex-Army infantry, tackled her to the ground.
The Stone
The eternal nature of stone has held man's fascination from the earliest civilizations. Possibly to balance the transience of human life, rocks, more than any other object in nature, have been endowed with spiritual properties and powers.
Mountains, the largest of stones, were central to a multitude of belief systems, including Christianity. Noah's Ark came to rest on Mount Ararat, Abraham ascended Mount Moriah to sacrifice his son and Moses went to Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. He came down from the mountain with the Law engraved in stone. God himself, is often called The Rock and Jesus refers to Peter as the rock on which he'll build his church.
Before many of those rocks secured their place in world history and legend, one man would turn the experience of a single stone into a phenomenon that would change the world... twice.
***
Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham, was the second-born twin following his brother, Esau. Jacob tricked his father into granting him Esau's birthright, albeit fairly traded for a meal years before, thus making Jacob the head of the clan. Esau bitterly regretted what he perceived as betrayal and Jacob was forced to flee for his life to the land of Haran. On his journey, a half day's walk north of Jerusalem, he stopped for the night in the village of Luz. Finding meager lodging, he was directed to sleep on a straw-covered floor with nothing but a worn black stone to rest his head on. When his head touched the rock in that traveler's hostel, Jacob experienced visions of the one true God, the path to Heaven and the continuation of the clan of Abraham as the foundation of a lasting society dedicated to the worship of God. Jacob knew that he was in a holy place and that the stone was his connection to the almighty. He declared that the stone would be the pillar of a new nation of God, Israel, and renamed the town Bethel, God's House. The year was 1,900 BC.
The stone accompanied Jacob's family, the House of Israel, as they traveled the countryside. Jacob fathered twelve sons, each of which, in turn, founded the twelve tribes of Israel. Jacob’s youngest son Benjamin’s people were called the Benjamites and were the final stewards of the Stone of Destiny as it had come to be known. The stone found its way to Jerusalem and by its reputation and power, had overseen the crowning of the Kings of Israel for over 1,000 years.
In the year 625 BC, the prophet Jeremiah, a direct descendant of Benjamin, prophesied that Jerusalem and all of Israel would be laid waste as the people had strayed too far from God's message. He was imprisoned for these words, but as the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar II was on the verge of overwhelming Jerusalem's defenses in 589 BC, Jeremiah was released and given Jacob's stone to spirit westward, far from the destruction that would surely overtake Israel.
Jeremiah fled to the seashore with his scribe and friend, Baruch. Accompanying them was Tephi, a princess of Israel, the daughter of King Zedekiah. They boarded a nondescript merchant ship, one of three that would escort the stone. Jeremiah followed the Mediterranean Sea routes of the tin trade, having seen in a vision a place so remote that the Stone of Destiny would never fall into the hands of Babylonians. As he understood the prophecy, from this far away land, the stone might someday serve to bring new Israelites into the family of God. Jeremiah stopped in Egypt and Spain to collect supplies before rounding Iberia and setting course for the northern islands.
In the sixth century BC, the Cornubia area of Britain (now Cornwall) was well known across the civilized world, including the Mediterranean, for its tin mining. From the tin ports of Cornwall, the stone could be moved safely north and hidden in the upper reaches of the known world. That it arrived in Britain around 586 BC is accepted by scholars of the stone to be true. After this, the story of the stone becomes murkier.
Exhausted from months on the sea, Jeremiah, Baruch, and the princess Tephi stared with wonder at the strange men waiting port side as their lead vessel drifted slowly to the stone jetty. The gray skies and endless mist sent chilled shivers to their core. While Jeremiah felt no fear because he was traveling with the guidance and protection of the God of Israel, his fellow passengers felt anxious upon seeing the motionless figures looking out from the shore. These men were covered in filthy skins hiding all semblance of human form. Their eyes glowed from the darkness of their hoods, more yellow than white. As the small and square striped sail was furled, oars, eight per side, were lowered into the water to gently guide the ship to debarkation. Securing the vessel to a rough-hewn stone bulwark, Jeremiah stepped forward to be met by an emissary of the locals, although he bore no sign or mark of leadership. Finally settling on Greek as the most common language, the two ambassadors, one from the cradle of civilization and the other representing a far more primitive culture, appeared to reach an understanding. Jeremiah walked back to his ship.
"The stone's fate is no longer in our hands," Jeremiah told his shocked contingent. They had battled both man and sea to bring the stone to this port, a mere stopping point on their journey north where the stone would wait until the tribes of Israel could retrieve it or start anew in a free land, absent of threat. Jeremiah ordered the Stone of Destiny to be brought ashore and loaded onto a battered cart. Pulled by bony oxen, it bounced and rocked, seemingly on the verge of constant collapse, past circular mud and thatch huts until it was out of sight. The traveling companions' shock only grew when three more carts were pulled alongside the pier, each containing stones of assorted sizes, colors and shapes. Jeremiah directed the cart bearing a massive roughly cut, gray stone to the ship. It overhung the cart, front and rear, by the length physically supported and so broad, a man couldn't wrap his arms fully around it. He called Tephi to his side. "The Lord's plan for you, dear daughter, is to accompany this stone to the land of the Irish three days north. You will present it as the Stone of Destiny to their leaders and, for this, you will be welcomed as a queen and live your life in comfort as the mother of a growing nation of great culture." Princess Tephi simply nodded and turned back to the ship. This stone would be the Lia Fail and oversee the coronation of kings in Ireland for a millennium from its resting place on the Hill of Tara.
A second ship of the fleet was called to the pier. Jeremiah directed a black stone, of lesser shine and color than the Stone of Destiny, to this vessel and bade the captain to return it to Iberia. The Spanish learned of the fleet's mission while resupplying there, and Jeremiah learned that the import of their cargo and a description of the stone had leaked out. His caravan fled before they could be overwhelmed by thieves. Jeremiah sought to placate further pursuit attempts by sending a decoy back. That vessel shipwrecked off the coast of Cadiz losing the stone to the sea. Survivors made it to shore though to propagate the story and quench rising passions to capture the Stone of Destiny for Iberia.
One of Jeremiah's accolades was tasked with accompanying the final stone. This coarse reddish block, roughly the size of the Stone of Destiny, was sent north by land. That stone went to Scotland where it lay in hiding for a future deception foreseen by the wizards and priests of this growing Celtic culture who had begun preparing for this moment more than 2,000 years prior.
***
In the dark, pre-historic time we now call the Neolithic Age, man was coming to terms with his surroundings and the understanding that great powers were shaping the world. Men needed to co-exist with these powers, serve them if need be, if there was hope to gain an advantage by their favor. Certain men and women were found to be sensitive to the desires of the great powers, the gods. These early priests saw that the gods needed sacrifice in both life and deeds; blood and stone. In the late Neolithic and early Bronze Age, across modern Europe, stone circles were erected to honor the gods and provide a suitable place for blood sacrifice. The sacrificial altar was always at the center of these circles, where the gods' attention and energy were focused. In south-central Britain, a place we now call Salisbury, an unprecedentedly massive stone ring was constructed to reign over all others. Each stone was precisely placed after decades of computations to align with important positions of the sun and stars. The learned holy men, the Druids, were preparing for an important event.
Construction of this unparalleled testament to the power of the gods was completed in 1900 BC, precisely the year that Jacob rested his head on a smooth black stone over 3,000 miles to the east. After this, the druids waited.
1,300 years hence, in 586 BC, their wait was over. A fleet of three ships arrived in the ports of Cornwall bearing the talisman that was to finally complete the promise of the stone henge. The druids, who had reached an unheralded level of sophistication in astrology, medicine, mathematics, and obfuscation, met the ships when they docked. They prophesied a complicated misdirection plan, long in preparation and immediately put into action. The druids transported Jacob's stone inland to their temple at Stonehenge, nearly two-hundred miles from the seaport at Newquay. It was a treacherous and slow journey since it would be another five hundred years before the Romans established a network of paved roads.
All preparations for the Samhain ritual were complete by the time the stone arrived. Ardgal, still an initiate, having only completed fourteen years of his twenty-year training program, was part of a team responsible for removing all common folk from the valley. Ardgal assured them that failure to comply would result in a painful death. Sacrifices would be called on that night and interlopers would be the first to bleed for the entertainment of the gods. Ardgal's sector was on the western portion of the ceremonial grounds, so he was the first to see the procession of men, carts, and beasts followed by scavenger fowl scrounging the offal of the caravan. He knew that the final piece of the temple was arriving from the west but wasn't senior enough to be told more. All orders, plans, and rituals were passed on verbally as the druidic order had strict rules about capturing their secrets in writing. Punishment for violation of this rule was death. Therefore, only those that needed to know what was happening that night knew. The rest simply did what they were told.
While still shrouded in mystery to Ardgal and most of the one hundred druids in attendance that chilled autumn afternoon, the Stone of Destiny was placed at the center of the henge. As Ardgal and his fellow priests fasted for ten days, slaves, beasts, and virgins were sacrificed on the smooth, black stone such that the red speckles inherent in its surface were indistinguishable from the spattered blood. All manner of depravity was called upon to ensure they had the full attention of the gods, as gods were easily distracted and particularly difficult to gather for a single holy event. Ardgal and his companions were further tasked with keeping the multitude of torches and fires crackling and snapping despite the wind whipping across the fields and through the stones. There was a forest of torches burning such that it appeared the entire valley was bathed in sunlight. In those gray nether moments of the tenth day, when it wasn't yet morning but certainly was no longer night, Ardgal felt a palpable change in the energy around the temple. The wind had stopped, and the remaining beasts began to howl and wail. All light outside the circle extinguished without intervention and the reflections off the sarsens, the towering vertical stones, concentrated on the black stone resting on the central altar. Ardgal watched motionless as an unnatural wind began to circle inside the henge, reaching such a ferocity that all remaining fire was put out. Numerous torches were blown to the ground. Then, all was still.
The druids hesitated in awe and confusion. Ardgal didn't know what the night would bring. He didn't think even the high druids knew what to expect, when and if anything happened. But he did have his orders so within minutes, the crack of flint on stone was heard. Ardgal and his companions, responsible for the fires, began re-igniting the torches left standing. As the altar was illuminated by the renewed fire, Ardgal could make out a change inside the stones. Slowly, the form of a man became visible. He was lying with his head resting on the same stone that inspired Jacob to embrace the God of the Israelites.
Myrddin Emrys had come to Britain.