When the Earth Cracked: Mysterious Marsh, #3

When the Earth Cracked

1700 years separate violent events that decide the destiny of a young lawyer

M. L. EATON

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Ancient Lore

Now buried in the ancient lore,

beneath the skies where seagulls soar,

the spirits still reach out to man,

just as they’ve done since time began.

They know we're grounded in our past

by mysteries so deeply cast

into our instincts — resting there,

though we are largely unaware.

We share so much with ghosts of old,

their purpose strong, their spirits bold.

Our ancestry is with us still

and, hauntingly, invades our will.

So in those times when we feel doubt,

instead of searching all about,

we might just let their spirits guide

and listen to their voice inside.

© Douglas Paul 2016

The Book of Common Man

270 AD

‘What lies behind us and what lies before us

Are small matters compared to what lies within us.’

Ralph Waldo Emerson

- 1 -

A RESTIVE FEELING ruffled the air that morning in early spring, a strange uneasiness. As the young sun fingered the greening bushes, beckoning pale leaves from the safety of ancient branches, birdsong poured its liquid melody into the heavens from every direction. Gaius, long awake, was engrossed in his early morning ablutions, aware less of the morning chorus than of an unusual troubled churning of his stomach.

Suddenly, as if a pall had been thrown over the world, the light changed, becoming porous and observable like a film on old wine. The birdsong stopped abruptly.

Stillness.

Hush.

Silence.

A sense of expectancy. The motionless silence almost tangible.

‘Is this how it is at the end of days?’ Gaius pondered.

He shook his head, wondering at himself. Then a shudder ran through the earth and from somewhere close by came the soft ting, ting, of a bell pushed by a wind. The wind brushed by, chilling his cheek, and was gone.

1977 AD

‘In her starry shade of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learn the language of another world.’

Lord Byron

- 2 -

HEY! COME AND look at this!

Bruce’s shout echoed incongruously in the tranquil peace of the small, well-kept country church.

I had been quietly contemplating the simple altar in the North chapel dedicated to St Katherine, but, on hearing this too-loud summons, I hastened to the west porch where my husband was surveying a large, unlovely lump of rough-cut stone.

What? I asked, not a little annoyed at having my reflections interrupted.

He smiled: the apparently guileless gentleness was unusual. Normally, being a straight-speaking Australian with a sense of humour, his smile was more of an easy, wide grin. Bruce was tall and handsome, with shining, wavy russet hair and large eyes of a fascinating shade of blue. Sometimes, as now, the realisation that he was my husband still made my heart race.

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in the direction of the stone.

Take a look at this. It’s a real treasure.

I see a big block of stone. Probably Kentish ragstone. I had no idea what sort of stone it was but I always liked to sound knowledgeable to impress Bruce. Not that it always worked. So what?

Bruce’s smile widened into the more familiar grin.

Notice anything else about it?

No, I said flatly, irritated by his know-it-all demeanour.

Sure?

’Course I’m sure. You must come and …. Why are you looking at me like that?

Are you really sure you don’t want to have another look?

I noticed something white in his hand. I pounced, grabbing the piece of paper. A brief tearing sound … and I found myself holding most of a small white pamphlet, the corner of which remained between Bruce’s finger and thumb.

What’s this? I asked.

Bruce exclaimed in disgust, quickly pocketing the scraps of paper.

"How destructive you are! Now, if I’d done that, you would have been telling me off for hours."

But I wasn’t listening, too fascinated to react to Bruce’s teasing.

But this is amazing, Bruce! How did it get here? And what’s it doing in a Christian church, anyway?

Bruce touched the end of my nose with his finger, his playful way of stopping my words in mid-flow.

Now, Haze, he said, his eyes alight with laughter. I suggest you read that pamphlet and you might find out.

But it says here…

What a pity you tore it. It’s the last one.

… It’s a Roman altar!

And I paid a whole pound for it!

Bruce! Did you hear me? It’s a Roman altar.

To the bull god, Mithras. Yes, I know. But I bet no-one else has paid a whole pound for such a measly little pamphlet.

I punched his arm. Stop whining on about paying a pound for a pamphlet, you pinch-penny, and listen …

Pinch-penny? I’ll give you pinch penny! And with the words he bent his knees, grabbed me round mine and flung me into a fireman’s lift over his shoulder. Next, holding my legs in a firm grip with one hand, he started tickling me with the other.

Put me down, I gasped between giggles. This is a church. You’re not supposed to tickle people in church. It’s a desecration.

Is it? He stopped tickling me for a moment and I kicked him. Not enough to hurt, just sufficient to show that I was not giving in. Really?

His free hand pinched the tender spot above my knee.

Rea…ally! Stop …it!

Now I would have thought that giggling in church was more of a sin than merely tickling someone. But since you’re laughing and I’m tickling … and neither of us seems able to stop … perhaps we’d better head on out.

Just as we reached it, the heavy church door swung wide.

Bruce quickly pulled my skirt over my legs and lowered me to my feet. Aware of a sudden silence, I looked up to see his face flaming with embarrassment. His eyes were cast downwards and, for once, he was speechless. I turned round slowly, wondering if I had any shreds of dignity left, and found myself facing a tall, stout lady who was standing in the doorway to the church porch. Her arms were as full of flowers as her face was with bewilderment. Her mouth described a perfect O.

A stem of cherry blossom fell to the floor.

Bending to pick it up gave me the opportunity I needed to recover my composure.

What beautiful flowers!

I’m glad you think so.

She smiled, and suddenly the whole atmosphere changed. We do the flower arranging on a Saturday, she went on, "but it’s usually a rather torrid affair. It’s good to hear people laughing in the church. So uplifting! Like a breath of fresh air. Practically everyone who visits the church whispers, or mutters in a gloomy sort of way. I’m sure God never expected us to be so serious all the time. It must be so boring for him. Don’t you think so, Charles?"

Indeed, you know I do. The words were uttered in a deep masculine voice as, much to my amazement, from behind the stout lady stepped a diminutive man clad in clerical black but for his gleaming white dog-collar. The Reverend smiled at me.

Hello, Hazel, he said warmly.

A blush ripped up in a tide from my chest. My capacity for speech temporarily deserted me, but I had the presence of mind to secrete the pamphlet in my skirt pocket.

G’day, Reverend, Bruce said, embarrassment broadening his generally slight Australian accent. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hazel’s husband, Bruce Dawkins.

He held out his hand to the man of the cloth who shook it firmly.

Charles Davenport, he introduced himself. And this is my dear wife, Ermintrude.

By the time the stout lady had deposited her armful of flowers, shaken Bruce’s hand and exchanged pleasantries with him, I had recovered sufficiently to remember my manners.

Hello Charles, I managed, shaking his hand and then his wife’s. And a pleasure to meet you, Ermintrude.

Please call me Trudy, the Vicar’s wife smiled encouragingly. Ermintrude is such a mouthful and makes me sound a hundred years old.

Ermintrude is a lovely, old fashioned, Anglo-Saxon name, her husband admonished with a smile that only just prevented him from sounding pompous. He turned to me. It means ‘universal strength’ and my dear Trudy is my right arm in all matters, especially parochial.

His dear Trudy humphed a little and then laughed. I think Bruce is the one with the strength, my dear. She winked at me and I felt my cheeks redden again.

Charles is a friend of Tom’s, I explained to Bruce. Tom and his wife, Joan, were great friends of ours. Tom was the local dentist in Rype-in-the-Marsh, the town where we lived, and one of the kindest men I had ever met.

Ah! said Bruce, who had ceased to be amazed at the number of people I knew in the locality. After all, I had lived there all my life, and he had only been in England a few years.

Funnily enough, said Charles, I was speaking to Tom only yesterday about a problem I have. Actually, he suggested I contact you about it.

How kind of him! I said, groaning inwardly. I presume it’s a legal problem of some sort, then?

He must have seen my reluctance. Nothing that won’t keep, my dear. He gave me your phone number. I’ll ring up and make an appointment to see you in your professional capacity. I gather you and Bruce are enjoying some time off, and I don’t want to intrude.

Thanks. That’s very good of you. I smiled, much relieved. Glancing at Bruce, I caught the flicker of an eyelid and a quick glance at his watch.

Do you have time to come back to the Vicarage for a cup of tea? Trudy asked. I’ll stick these flowers in a pail of water. They’ll be fine for an hour or so.

No, no, we won’t interrupt your flower arranging. I can see you have a lot to do.

We must get back to your mother’s, Bruce said.

Ah your dear mother! exclaimed Charles. Such a gracious, charming lady! How is she? And your father? They were so welcoming when I …

No time for reminiscences now, dear, Trudy interrupted her husband. You can do that when you next meet. You were saying, Bruce?

Bruce grinned at her. "Just that we have to get back soon. We’ve left the parents-in-law in charge of our daughter and the dog."

You have a daughter? How lovely! How old is she? What’s her name? Ermintrude’s interest was gratifying, and since I could never resist an opportunity to wax lyrical about my ten-month old daughter, Jessica, I soon found myself chatting away to her. Bruce and Charles walked back towards the West porch, heads together.

In truth, although I was enjoying the now-rare pleasure of having Bruce all to myself for the afternoon, I never felt completely comfortable when I was apart from Jessica, even though I had left her in the tender care of my mother and our collie-cross dog, Poppadum, Jessie’s devoted protector.

The terrifying events of the previous summer were never far from my mind. I’d been asked to help out at my old firm while one of the partners was on holiday. As a direct result, Jessica, who was only a few weeks old at the time, and I had become entangled in an unforeseeable and dangerous chain of events.

The more anxious I became, the more I chattered.

"I really wanted to give up work to be a stay-at-home mother, I said, But our Bank manager, Mr Stone, suggested that I start my own legal practice. And he was so kind about recommending me to clients, I couldn’t resist."

I made Trudy laugh when I told her how he had found a baby minder for Jessica while I was still pregnant. Marigold and I are the best of friends. And Jessica adores her.

I recounted that Mr Stone had promised to find me a secretary, an office and practically everything else I might need, but admitted that I was still working from a table set up in the big bedroom I shared with Bruce.

But working from home does have a few problems, I confided. "Poppadum barks at every single person who comes to the door. She absolutely hates the postman. I have to rush to the door to collect the letters before she gets there. If I don’t, she attacks them. Pulls them through the letterbox and chews them!"

I expect she thinks she’s protecting you.

I know. She’s the best of dogs, but it can be very annoying if she swallows part of a letter.

Bruce reappeared. Haze-darl, we need to get going.

Do forgive me. Once I start talking about Jessica I never know when to stop.

Trudy smiled the knowing mother-talking-about-baby smile. We were having a lovely chat, getting to know each other.

I smiled at Trudy, and turned to Charles. Goodbye for now, Charles. Do give me a ring if you think I can help with your problem.

Charles took my outstretched hand and squeezed it. I will. But not until Monday. Now you two must be on your way. Enjoy the rest of your day together.

Bruce and I had not intended to visit the church at Stone-in-Oxney that beautiful day in early April. We’d come upon it unexpectedly after passing through the small village and driving up a steep, narrow, twisting lane.

The weatherworn stone building stood on a mound of long-cut grass amongst tall grey headstones. Something about the place called to us both, so we’d parked the car and decided to explore the churchyard.

To the left of the main entrance, a brick path led to the church’s square south porch, yellow patches of lichen softening the appearance of its grey stone. To the right, a small picket gate opened onto a grassy path which wound round the side of the old thirteenth century building. The little gate beckoned to us, squeaking a greeting as Bruce swung it open. Like the abundant verges of the lanes, the churchyard was liberally sprinkled with clumps of pale yellow primroses. Above them waved the taller mauve sprays of milkmaids, while the white faces of windflowers, intermingling with their floral cousins, spread across the whole vista, dancing in a gentle breeze as if to show off their lacy green undergarments. Hiding here and there, a dusting of violets gossiped together, their bashful faces embracing the ground.

Now, hand in hand, Bruce and I retraced our steps, and, as we rounded the east end of the church, an incomparable panorama opened before us.

Along the churchyard boundary, ash trees had been planted at least a century previously. Their great, brown branches, flecked with new, pale green leaves, framed a magnificent view across Romney Marsh. Flat, grass-green fields spread out before us, intersected by dark lines of reed-edged dykes that shimmered in the hazy spring sunshine. Through this peaceful scene wove narrow, sand-coloured lanes. In the meadows, young lambs leapt and gambolled together, their new fleeces gleaming white in the sun. Every now and then, a mob of them would join in a chorus of hungry bleating. By mutual but silent consent, we stopped and watched, smiling, as the young creatures dashed to their mothers’ sides, butting at the ewes’ udders before diving underneath. Short white tails wagged wildly as the lambs filled their bellies.

To the north-east, a distant smudge of bluish-grey marked the ridge of the ancient sea shore and I pointed out to Bruce the remains of the old Roman fort of Lympne — pronounced 'Lim' by the locals — which rose in a series of angles along the skyline.

Where did you go with Charles? I asked.

"I think you can guess, can’t you? I wanted to learn about the Roman altar. And since you were in full flow to Trudy, I seized the opportunity to ask Charles about it. Not that he was reluctant. There’s only so much baby talk even a besotted father like me can take — and Charles and Ermintrude have no children."

"I wasn't only talking about Jessica," I began defensively, but he interrupted me.

It's amazing how that altar ended up here in Stone-in-Oxney, Haze. Can you believe that it was used as a mounting block for a long time? That's probably why it looks so worn.

"A mounting block? For mounting horses? Why on earth?"

Some self-righteous religious bigot in the early eighteenth century. Need I say more? It was too pagan in origin, apparently. Never mind that it was nearly two thousand years old.

I sat down on a wooden bench conveniently placed nearby and tried to imagine some of the events the altar must have witnessed. An impossible task. I patted the place next to me.

Sit down, darling, and tell me more. We're not in any real hurry, are we?

None at all. He seated himself and draped an arm around my shoulders. Unless you’re desperate to get back to Jessica?

Not at the moment. She'll be fine with Mum. Maybe all that chatting to Trudy released the pressure. I snuggled into his side and sighed. I just want to have you all to myself for a bit longer. Look at that wonderful view. You can see all the way to Hythe.

Aware of the long rolling drop to the Marsh in front of us, and with the young sun filtering through the trees to warm us, it was easy to fall into a reverie imagining the same scene two thousand years before.

Instead of grass and gambolling lambs, water would have covered the whole of the vast area between the place where we were sitting and the old shoreline. In those days, the high ground on which the church stood was an island, known as the Isle of Oxney, set in the middle of a watery expanse where several rivers met and discharged into the sea.

Returning to the present, I noticed that Bruce's eyes were closed and his lips curved in a half-smile. These days, now that we had Jessica and I was working from home, accompanied by Poppadum, it was unusual for us to have the opportunity to relax together like this.

Bruce must have felt me looking at him because he opened his eyes, yawned, and sighed with content.

Charles thinks that the whole village may have been named after the Roman altar, he said, removing his arm from around my shoulders.

That's interesting.

Bruce grinned. Yes, I thought you’d be intrigued, he teased. Apparently the altar was discovered under the floor of the North Chapel. And there’s a tale that a flat stone, now used as a plinth for the side-altar, marked the opening to a crypt.

I jumped to my feet and started along the path. Bruce followed, grumbling that he never knew what I would do next. As he turned the corner of the church rather too sharply, he nearly bumped into me.

I thought so! This church is built on an old pagan site. Look, you can see the ancient mound. Maybe it was a sacred grove! I know there was some sort of directive by a Pope to 'christianise' pagan shrines, rather than to destroy them. I suppose he thought imposing conversion was easier, cheaper and more effective than establishing a new site.

You may well be right, Haze. Bruce looked thoughtful. But you might not …. Surely, the first Christian building on the site would have been made of timber? This great stone edifice must need a lot more support. Perhaps the mound was made to support it?

I’m sure it's an ancient site. I can feel it. Can't you?

"Nope. Can't feel anything but the sun and the breeze and the call of nature. But that's a very urgent call. He looked around for somewhere to relieve himself. There's a bush over there. I could go behind it."

I grabbed his arm before he could move, horrified at the very thought. Whether pagan, Christian, or both, this was definitely a sacred site. So strong was the energy emanating from the ground that I could feel it pulsing through my feet. My head was spinning, too.

Not here! I hissed. There's a pub down the road. You can use their lavatory. And then we can continue our discussion over a pint.

"Great idea, darl. I thought the threat of embarrassment would get you moving.

Less than five minutes later we reached the Bull in Clover Free House. Bruce made a dive for the gents’ lavatory and I ordered a pint of bitter for him and half a pint for me. The barman offered to bring the drinks out to the garden.

Thank you, but no need. My husband will collect them, I said, pocketing the change from the pound note that Bruce had pressed into my hand, along with another piece of paper.

Soon ensconced at a table in the flower filled garden, I delighted in the scent of the primroses and narcissi that edged the emerald lawn. Behind the yellow flowers, bright ranks of early pink and red tulips were thrown into sharp relief by the dark green yew hedge beyond.

I smoothed out the piece of paper that I presumed Charles had given Bruce, but which I’d unintentionally crumpled in my hand. The typewriting was inexpert, but the contents were intriguing.

‘In Britain, the legendary King Lucius was reported by Geoffrey of Monmouth, a chronicler whose writings were not always accurate, to have deliberately converted all the old Roman temples to churches.

‘The historical actuality is nowhere more forthrightly discussed than in the famous letter from Pope Gregory 1 to Mellitus, who was about to join Augustine of Kent among the Anglo-Saxons of that part of the world:

So when almighty God has led you to the most reverend man our brother Bishop Augustine, tell him what I have long gone over in my mind concerning the matter of the English: that is, that the shrines of idols amongst that people should be destroyed as little as possible, but that the idols themselves that are inside them should be destroyed. Let blessed water be made and sprinkled in these shrines, let altars be constructed and relics placed there: since if the shrines are well built it is necessary that they should be converted from the worship of demons to the service of the true God, so that as long as that people do not see their very shrines being destroyed they may put out error from their hearts and in knowledge and adoration of the true God they may gather at their accustomed places more readily.

‘Several Roman pagan sites in Britain may have been converted to Christian use in the 4th century, such as the Temple of Claudius in Roman Colchester and two of the seven Romano-Celtic Temples in the town, all of which underwent restructuring in the 300s AD and around which have been found early Christian symbols.

‘The British Isles and other areas of Northern Europe that were formerly Druidic are still densely punctuated by holy wells and holy springs that are now attributed to some local saint. In Britain, and many other parts of Europe, trees were also sometimes seen as sacred or the home of tree-spirits.

‘When Britain was Christianised this resulted in a change of the landscape. In some instances sacred groves were destroyed to discourage belief in tree spirits. One of the most famous of these ancient holy trees was Thor's Oak which was deliberately desecrated and destroyed by a Christian missionary named Winfrid (later canonised as Saint Boniface).’

Your beer, Madam.

Bruce grinned as he put the two foaming tankards on the rickety table and pulled up a slightly less unstable chair.

I looked up sharply.

This is fascinating. Have you read it?

Nope. But I will now. If you’ll be so kind.

He put out a hand and I gave him the paper with a sigh, lapsing into silence as he began to read. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scented air. A perfect day. How lovely it was to be so free, and so happy in each other’s company. Our teasing of each other masked a deep affection that had grown out of the first flush of love. Not that we had ceased to be in love with each other, but this was something more, something special. And it had come to us following the birth of Jessica when we were trusted with something infinitely precious. Parenthood.

I reached across the table and took his large, capable hand in mine. Opening it, I traced the lines on his palm. I measured my small one against it. His fingers intertwined with mine.

Penny for them?

Just that I love your hands. And you, of course.

He pulled me to him and grazed my lips with his. I reckon we're a pretty darn unusual couple, he said. "Me, so tall clever and handsome, and you, so ugly!"

"Now, now, you know you're hideous! I laughed. I’m the attractive one. After all, I'm curvaceous all over — even my hair curls."

- 3 -

FROM THE MOMENT I had tripped over the doorstep into the lounge bar of the Royal Oak and deposited myself neatly into the arms of a tall, russet-haired stranger, Bruce and I had always been able to laugh together. Actually, that's not true. At the time, I’d been struck dumb. But my father had stepped into the breach: chuckling, congratulating Bruce on his superior fielding skills and buying him a pint, all before I’d stopped blushing.

Normally, I lived fifty miles away in East Sussex, but that weekend I’d come home to visit my parents in Kent. Dad had insisted that he and I should drop into the pub for a quick drink while my mother prepared her traditional roast beef for Sunday lunch. Little did she — or I — expect that we would return from the Royal Oak with two charming young men in tow. Bruce, obviously hungry for a home-cooked meal, had almost drooled when my father had invited him to join us. I was almost drooling when I looked at him, so I was very disappointed when he excused himself because he was waiting for a friend.

Bring him too, Dad had invited with a wave of the hand. Betty always cooks enough to feed the five thousand.

Bruce's friend had chosen that moment to walk into the bar.

"Hello, hello, what's