The Chalice by Phil Rickman

new floozie,
a slinky little redhead with a muted Germanic accent who seemed to be called Viper.
She was wearing a loose, white shift and Mort's hand was up one of the sleeves,
carelessly cupping a breast.
       Mort had dark, swarthy skin, high
cheekbones; his hair was pulled back into a tight braid. He looked like he
ought to be wearing a broadsword at his belt.
       'Ain't a piece of street theatre.'
It was as if he'd picked up on Diane's thoughts about play-acting. 'This is the
real thing. The real place. The place.'
           'What's with this quietness shit,' Headlice demanded. 'We're
goin' to our church. We don't have to hide it.'
           Mort sighed. 'This is your first time, init, Headlice? There's
people don't like us being here. We don't want no Stonehenge situation.'
           Even to Diane this seemed a little over-cautious. Stonehenge
was a restricted area and the Tor was not. And this was the middle of November,
not Midsummer's Eve.
           'Also, we don't want local kids tagging along. So we go up in
small groups.'
           Headlice was right: this wasn't how it had been. Paganism was
not against the law, and the whole ethos of the New Age travellers was a kind
of defiant exhibitionism; why else have purple hair, lip-rings, nipple rings
and luminous pentacles on the sides of your bus?
           The vehicles in Don Moulder's bottom field were now in rough,
concentric circles, the night beginning to join them together, like walls. It was
strangely silent; no ghetto-blasters blasting, no children squealing.
           'Idea being that we're up there by nightfall,' Mort said. 'And
no lights. You and Roz first, OK? I'll show you the path.'
           'No problem,' Headlice said. 'Mol's been up loads of times.'
           'Mol ain't coming.' Mort's voice had tightened like his hair.
He'd taken his hand out of Viper's sleeve.
           Headlice stared at him. 'Huh?'
           Mort turned to Diane. 'Don't take this wrong. We got nothing
against you, Molly Fortune, but we ain't forgotten you're a reporter, and Gwyn
don't conduct rituals for the Press. Sorry.'
           'You got to be fuckin' kiddin', man!' Headlice was furious.
'That goes against everything we're up for! Like we're a frickin' secret
society now? I mean, come on, what's paganism about, man? If you, like, worship the sun and the moon and natural
stuff, you do it in the open.'
       Diane wanted to tell him to calm
down, it didn't matter, it wasn't right for her to be part of a pagan ceremony,
certainly not the kind Headlice envisaged. But he straightened up, absurdly like
a little war veteran.
           'Listen, I'm proud of what I am, me.' He prodded Mort in the chest. 'I worship the earth, yeah?
And that hill's not private land, so if nobody can stop us goin' up, what right
got to tell Mol she can't come?'
       Mort's face had darkened. He
snatched Headlice's prodding forefinger, bent it slowly back. Headlice went
white. Mort forced him to his knees, towered over him.
       This is religion, Headlice,' Mort
said. 'It's between us …'
           There was a slight crack from Headlice's finger.
       'And the gods,' Mort said.
           'You fuckin' ...' Headlice shoved his hand between his thighs.
'You've broken it.'
       'I don't think so.'
           'Oh look ...' Diane thought she must be as pale as Headlice.
'You go. To be quite honest ...' Inspiration came. She produced a hopeless sigh.
'It's a pretty stiff climb, and I'm not built... Sometimes I get sort of out of
breath, you know?'
           Rozzie twirled her black beads and dropped a tilted grin that
was sort of, Stupid fat cow, why didn't you say so in the first place?
           'I'll mind the camp,' Diane said. 'See the kids are OK.'
       'Thank you,' Mort said quietly. He
turned and walked down the field, his woman clinging to his arm. When he'd
gone, Diane felt