Triskellion by Will Peterson Page A

the rows of rickety wooden pews, and found Adam in a small chapel off to one side.
    “This is co-ool,” Adam whispered.
    Rachel looked over her brother’s shoulder. She felt a small chill run through her as she saw, in an alcove, the stone effigy of a knight. The figure lay flat, as though asleep, head resting on a carved pillow. It was sculpted from a cream-coloured stone, worn smooth in some places, chipped in others and obviously very old. The feet were long and narrow and on its head the figure wore a pointed helmet. The body was all but concealed by a long shield, on which was carved the Triskellion symbol.
    “Guess it must be King Arthur, or Sir Lancelot or someone,” Adam hazarded.
    Rachel was transfixed by the figure. She held her breath, her head throbbing as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing, of what she had already seen on the stained glass window. This was the same knight and the same maiden she had seen in her vision. But how could that be possible? She had never even heard of this church before, yet this morning she had been dreaming about exactly these two figures.
    Jet lag? No, Rachel thought, not this time. This vision had been something else…
    “May I help you?”
    The sharp, precise tone made Rachel and Adam start. They had not heard the door open behind them. They turned to see a spindly man dressed in a long black cassock and dog collar, his alarmingly thin appearance perfectly matching his reedy voice.
    “I see you’ve found our crusader…”
    Adam stared, transfixed by the man’s large Adam’s apple, which bobbed up and down as he spoke.
    “Crusader?” asked Rachel, genuinely interested. She recognized the vicar as the man who had sailed past them on his bike the day before. She looked down at the leaflet she’d picked up at the entrance:
The Church of St. Augustine, Triskellion. C. 1073. Vicar: The Rev. J. Stone, BA
.
    “Yes,” said Reverend Stone. “We think this is the tomb of our very own crusader, most likely Sir Richard de Waverley.”
    “Is it old? I mean, like …
how
old?” Even as he asked, Adam remembered that nothing in this village seemed younger than a few hundred years, including his grandmother.
    “Around eight hundred years,” the vicar said.
    “So is his, um, skeleton and stuff actually in there?”
    Rachel was embarrassed by her brother’s need for graphic information. “Adam.”
    Reverend Stone held up his hand. “It’s quite all right. I admire a questioning mind, and we’re all fascinated by the gory details. Sadly though, on this occasion, there are none. Sir Richard’s remains were probably buried where he fell, somewhere out in the Middle East.” He pointed down at the carving. “We call this our crusader tomb, but it’s really just a memorial, I’m afraid.”
    Adam looked disappointed. “Mr Honeyman told us there were some artefacts to see?”
    “Artefacts? Oh yes, there certainly are. Follow me.” Thereverend turned and hurried away, fumbling with a large bunch of keys; marching across the tiles and brasses worn smooth by centuries of worshippers.
    Rachel and Adam watched as he opened the door to a small, whitewashed room at the side of the church. Faded maps on the wall outlined the parish boundary, and at the far end of the room were two glass-topped, mahogany display cases.
    Reverend Stone ushered Rachel forward to look. In the first case were a variety of small relics.
    “These are mostly Saxon. A couple of the rings are gold, but otherwise the pins and all the other bits and bobs are bronze.” Reverend Stone extended a twig-like finger, pointing to the second display case. “But
this
is our pièce de résistance. This is why everything is kept under lock and key.”
    Rachel and Adam pressed their faces close to the glass. Laid out by itself on a piece of green felt was what looked, at first glance, like a curved, golden blade. Rachel stared at the crescent of metal. It was instantly familiar to her and yet not a shape