life itself.”
By now, Rachel was as interested as Adam. Honeyman was prone to long, rambling explanations, and his anecdotes were often accompanied by an alarming twitch, prolonged periods of scratching or an explosive cough. But the ancient history, the romance of the circle and the fact that it was somehow female, fired her imagination. Honeyman estimated that the circle had been cut out maybe a thousandyears before Christ, which would make it late Bronze Age. He told them that small artefacts in gold and silver discovered near by supported this, and that people had probably been leaving “gifts” at the circle since it began.
“Why would they bury their best stuff, though?” Adam wanted to know.
“To placate the gods mostly … and to ensure a good harvest of crops. And I suppose it’s worked, ‘cos all the crops flourish round Triskellion. We never have a bad year. Mind you, some say it might have been a burial place … or that it might have been a spot for human sacrifices.” Jacob treated them to his grin once more, warming to his theme as he drew a yellow finger across his neck in a grisly way.
Rachel and Adam exchanged nervous glances. The beating of the Bacon brothers was all too fresh in their memory for them to be in the least bit fascinated by the idea of human sacrifice.
“I could tell you where to see some of the artefacts if you like,” Honeyman said. “But how about some lunch first?”
Adam was about to leap at the offer, but then Rachel noticed the large vat of brownish liquid that was bubbling on top of the sooty wood-burning stove, and the pair of rabbits that hung from a hook above the dirty sink.
“We’re not very hungry,” she said.
I t smelled musty inside the church: damp and dark and rich.
Earthy
.
Adam pulled a face, as though recoiling from a carton of milk gone bad. “What did the bee man say was in here?” He tried his best to replicate Jacob Honeyman’s low croak. “‘Treasures beyond belief’?”
“Yeah, but you have to remember he’s crazy,” Rachel said.
“He’s nice, though.” Adam stepped further inside. “And funny…”
Adam’s first instinct about Honeyman had been right, Rachel thought. Despite a slightly off-putting appearance, the beekeeper had seemed trustworthy and unthreatening. There had been a warmth about him, and his hut, though messy and ramshackle, had felt welcoming and secure.
The previous afternoon, having had his offer of lunch turned down, Honeyman had taken the twins to the smallholding behind his house and shown them the rows of beehives he kept. He had put his hand deep into a hive andbrought it out covered with bees. The bees had buzzed and writhed round his wrist like a living gauntlet. He had lifted the hand to his stubbly face, where a column of bees had peeled off from the rest and crawled over his lips, nose and eyelids. Rachel and Adam had stared, their mouths gaping in astonishment, as the bees moved all over the strange man without stinging him. Honeyman had grinned, delighted at their astonishment. He was, he announced proudly, the fifteenth generation of apiarist, or beekeeper, on this very site.
Honeyman had sent them off with a jar of cloudy, brownish honey, a large chunk of honeycomb suspended in the golden liquid. He had also given Adam the coin he had dug up that morning.
“For good luck,” he’d said.
It was a hot and sticky Sunday afternoon and the cool inside the church was welcome. Bright sunshine streamed through the stained glass window at the far end of the small church and the twins had to shield their eyes from the dazzling beams of coloured light.
Rachel was not surprised to see the Triskellion symbol, picked out in rich red, blue and gold. Beneath the circular section of the window, Rachel could make out two figures: a knight in armour and a maiden, each one in a separate pane, a shooting star brightening the night sky behind them.
“Hey, Rach. Look at this…”
Rachel clambered between
By now, Rachel was as interested as Adam. Honeyman was prone to long, rambling explanations, and his anecdotes were often accompanied by an alarming twitch, prolonged periods of scratching or an explosive cough. But the ancient history, the romance of the circle and the fact that it was somehow female, fired her imagination. Honeyman estimated that the circle had been cut out maybe a thousandyears before Christ, which would make it late Bronze Age. He told them that small artefacts in gold and silver discovered near by supported this, and that people had probably been leaving “gifts” at the circle since it began.
“Why would they bury their best stuff, though?” Adam wanted to know.
“To placate the gods mostly … and to ensure a good harvest of crops. And I suppose it’s worked, ‘cos all the crops flourish round Triskellion. We never have a bad year. Mind you, some say it might have been a burial place … or that it might have been a spot for human sacrifices.” Jacob treated them to his grin once more, warming to his theme as he drew a yellow finger across his neck in a grisly way.
Rachel and Adam exchanged nervous glances. The beating of the Bacon brothers was all too fresh in their memory for them to be in the least bit fascinated by the idea of human sacrifice.
“I could tell you where to see some of the artefacts if you like,” Honeyman said. “But how about some lunch first?”
Adam was about to leap at the offer, but then Rachel noticed the large vat of brownish liquid that was bubbling on top of the sooty wood-burning stove, and the pair of rabbits that hung from a hook above the dirty sink.
“We’re not very hungry,” she said.
I t smelled musty inside the church: damp and dark and rich.
Earthy
.
Adam pulled a face, as though recoiling from a carton of milk gone bad. “What did the bee man say was in here?” He tried his best to replicate Jacob Honeyman’s low croak. “‘Treasures beyond belief’?”
“Yeah, but you have to remember he’s crazy,” Rachel said.
“He’s nice, though.” Adam stepped further inside. “And funny…”
Adam’s first instinct about Honeyman had been right, Rachel thought. Despite a slightly off-putting appearance, the beekeeper had seemed trustworthy and unthreatening. There had been a warmth about him, and his hut, though messy and ramshackle, had felt welcoming and secure.
The previous afternoon, having had his offer of lunch turned down, Honeyman had taken the twins to the smallholding behind his house and shown them the rows of beehives he kept. He had put his hand deep into a hive andbrought it out covered with bees. The bees had buzzed and writhed round his wrist like a living gauntlet. He had lifted the hand to his stubbly face, where a column of bees had peeled off from the rest and crawled over his lips, nose and eyelids. Rachel and Adam had stared, their mouths gaping in astonishment, as the bees moved all over the strange man without stinging him. Honeyman had grinned, delighted at their astonishment. He was, he announced proudly, the fifteenth generation of apiarist, or beekeeper, on this very site.
Honeyman had sent them off with a jar of cloudy, brownish honey, a large chunk of honeycomb suspended in the golden liquid. He had also given Adam the coin he had dug up that morning.
“For good luck,” he’d said.
It was a hot and sticky Sunday afternoon and the cool inside the church was welcome. Bright sunshine streamed through the stained glass window at the far end of the small church and the twins had to shield their eyes from the dazzling beams of coloured light.
Rachel was not surprised to see the Triskellion symbol, picked out in rich red, blue and gold. Beneath the circular section of the window, Rachel could make out two figures: a knight in armour and a maiden, each one in a separate pane, a shooting star brightening the night sky behind them.
“Hey, Rach. Look at this…”
Rachel clambered between
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