JANE ROUTLEY
Jane Routley was born in Melbourne in 1962. She graduated from Monash University with a Bachelor of Arts (hons) in South East Asian history and studied Librarianship and later professional writing at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology.
Her first job as a librarian was running an occult library for the Theosophical Society. She went on to become a cataloguer — or, as she says, “One of those people who work out the little numbers that go on the back of library books”. In 1992 she abandoned “this exciting career” to go and live first in Germany, where she wrote the novel Mage Heart and then in Denmark where she wrote the novel Fire Angels and is currently working on the third book in this trilogy. She still dreams of living in Australia, especially during the European winter.
In the quiet, bucolic story that follows, Routley takes us for a walk into the English countryside ... and into magic.
* * * *
All the way there in the car, Gina’s head was filled with the strains of Brian Ferry’s “Avalon” — the haunting sounds of female voices singing in the distance — and with visions of women dancing serenely in eternity in silk dresses with hooded falcons on their wrists.
“And so to Avalon went the four little Aussies,” she thought dreamily. She luxuriated in the sense of magic.
But when they got to Glastonbury Tor, the place where Avalon was said to have once been, there was no magic.
Near the stile at the bottom of the Tor a notice board was covered with horrible pictures of sheep that had been worried to death by dogs. The women’s voices in Gina’s head turned off with a loud click at the gory photographs.
“Please keep your dogs on a lead,” the sign said. “This is private property. Please respect the safety of the sheep.”
As they followed the long line of people up the path to where St Michael’s Tower stood on the top like a finger pointing at the sky, it was clear that the other visitors ignored the sign and let their dogs run at will.
Glastonbury Tor was more a kingdom of sheep than a kingdom of faerie. Sheep were all over the sides of the hill — great woolly bundles like cartoon clouds standing on ridiculous skinny legs. The grass was grey and nibbled to hard stubble, just as it would have been at home in Australia. Narrow paths made by sheep feet spiralled all up the hill side. The sheep ignored the tourists and their dogs unless they got too close, at which time they would skitter away like nervous fat people, to start grazing again a few yards away. Gina couldn’t help feeling sorry for them surrounded by annoying people and dangerous dogs and wanting only the peace to grow fat and woolly. And it looked as if someone had been bothering them more seriously too, for many of them had stripes of blue or green paint on their backs. Some vegetarian protest perhaps. There were plenty of New Age types among those climbing the Tor.
It was a remarkably pleasant day for spring in England with golden sun and a mild blue sky and only a hint of chill in the wind that buffeted them as they climbed.
Unfortunately everyone else thought so too. There were so many cars parked at the bottom, so many climbers up the paths and so many people milling round the tower at the top that it was impossible to even take a picture without other people in it, let alone to get some sense of atmosphere. The place reminded Gina of nothing more than the old graffiti and urine-stained tower at home in the Maranoa gardens in Melbourne. She tried to recapture the haunting singing in her mind, but it was blotted out by the intensely ordinary laughter and chattering of those around.
With resignation, the four of them made their best attempts to take people-free pictures of the tower and sat down inside the tower eating Mars Bars and reading the plaque commemorating the Bishop executed there by Henry the Eighth.
But Gary as usual had a plan to chase away mundanity.
“You remember me telling you that Glastonbury Tor is supposed to be an invisible three-dimensional maze that leads to Avalon,” he said. “I went on-line a couple of days ago to see if I could find out any more and look what I downloaded.”
He pulled some paper out of his bag and passed several sheets each to Meg, Gina and Alan.
“This,” he continued, “is from a web site call the Celtic Twilight Travel Zone. Some loony has done a computer-generated list of all known paths up Glastonbury Tor. I thought we could have a go at finding the way to Avalon.”
“But there must be hundreds of paths,” protested Alan.
Gary grinned. “I thought just one or two. You know ... in the spirit of random chance. It seemed like the right thing to do here. Kinda symbolic. I mean, you never know ...”
Gina laughed. “Geez Gazza. What an idea! You’re such a dag,” she drawled in her broadest Strine.
“Well I think its a great idea,” said Meg, squeezing Gary’s arm.
Her voice was reproachful as if Gina had insulted Gary which hadn’t been Gina’s intention at all. It was just that the idea was pure Gary. Weird and kind of dumb but nice as well. He had been planning this trip for weeks. No doubt he would have similar little tasks for them to perform wherever they went.
“Of course it’s great,” Gina said now to smooth things over. “Let’s do it.”
“Right!” said Gary, who to her relief didn’t seem at all annoyed. He wasn’t one to bother with extraneous emotions when he had a project underway. “You take the north side, I’ll take the east, Alan can take the west and Meg’ll take the south. Just do one or two paths. You see they’ve recommended the ten most likely ways up each side. And if by any chance you do find Avalon, don’t get so carried away with the feasting and dancing that you forget to come back and get the rest of us.” He wagged his finger in mock admonishment. “Remember how quickly time passes in these faerie worlds. Right! We meet back here at 4.00 pm.
Then suddenly something black crashed into Meg’s back, knocking her to the ground. Meg shrieked in fright and papers scattered everywhere. A small black sheep staggered back from Meg, re-balanced itself and galloped away off round the tower.
“Ah shit!” yowled Meg. “I’m covered in mud. Fucking sheep! I hate sheep. They shouldn’t be allowed. Damn.”
Meg favoured a kind of Victorian hippie look. Today’s burgundy velveteen dress was certain to show the mud badly. Gary flapped around her, picking her up and brushing down her skirt and back. Gina and Alan picked up the dropped papers. Gina was certain this episode would put an end to the whole expedition, but to her surprise Meg was quickly mollified and ready to go on. She and Gary set off together down the hill and Alan and Gina climbed down the other side.
“Pretty strong words for a vegetarian,” said Alan once they were out of earshot of the other two.
“Yes,” said Gina and left it at that. She wasn’t about to get into back-stabbing Meg this early in the trip, though no doubt her resolution would fail soon enough.
No-one could know Meg for five seconds without her vegetarianism smashing its way into their consciousness. Gina’s first experience of her had been pretty typical. At the house warming party Gina and Gary had thrown at their shared flat in Palmers Green, Meg had shown up drunk as the proverbial skunk and told Gina she wouldn’t shake hands “because I don’t shake hands with cannibals”. She had then proceeded to persecute a blind workmate of Gina’s all evening about the slavery of his guide dog (a cheerful Labrador with the habits of a vacuum cleaner who was only too delighted to be anywhere food was) and to stub out her cigarettes in the pepperoni pizza as a protest. On the other hand, Meg had a striking fragile beauty and Gary had been very taken with her.
Gary and Gina had met a few years before at the Tolkien Society back home at Melbourne University and a shared interest in all things Arthurian caused them to become firm friends. Gina could never understand why such a nice man as Gary had such ghastly girlfriends. Perhaps it was inevitable that you didn’t like your male friend’s partners. Whatever! She hadn’t bargained on Gary’s asking Meg along on their Easter tour of Arthurian sites and she wasn’t looking forward to sharing a room with her. She had a sinking feeling that Meg was going to be the ghastliest girlfriend of all.
At the bottom of the hill Alan and Gina separated and Gina picked a set of instructions from her sheet.
They were easy to follow as long as you knew the directions of the compass. They were also pretty inexact. They simply described the number of steps you took in a given direction. On the other hand directions in fairy stories always consisted of seven steps here and three steps there. Perhaps vagueness was part of the formula. Following the instructions she climbed up round the hill a couple of times in a satisfyingly anticlockwise direction. Widdershins. Widdershins was the way you always reached magical kingdoms. These people had at least done that much homework.
To her amusement she discovered that she was following a series of sheep tracks. This really was a kingdom of sheep. Who knew, perhaps the sheep in their wanderings occasionally stumbled upon the maze and into Avalon. The idea tickled her sense of humour and she laughed out loud. Sheep heaven. A dogless, touristless place of juicy grass. Brilliant!
“What’s so funny,” said a voice. Alan was sitting on a nearby bench.
“What are you doing, you slacker,” she cried. “Get back to work there.”
“I’ve finished one path,” he said. “I’m having a break. Its a hard climb. Want a drink?”
She marked her place with a rock and went to sit down beside him.
“Quite nice out here, isn’t it. The sun’s almost warm for England,” he said, passing her a bottle of bitter lemon.
“For England,” she agreed.
He seemed a nice guy, Alan. He was a workmate of Gary’s — a tall skinny guy with curly hair and blue eyes. Quite cute, really. More importantly he was weird enough to understand Gary and Gina’s keenness for the matter of Britain, while at the same time exuding a kind of good natured practicality which had already shown itself in his handling of road maps.
“Isn’t that the little black sheep that knocked Meg over?” he said now. “Look. That guy’s been chasing it.”
The black sheep was grazing nonchalantly on the grass. A thickset man in old corduroy trousers and a tweedy coat was moving carefully towards it. Just as he got close enough to make a lunge for it, the sheep jumped forwards and skittered quickly away. There was something unusual about this sheep’s skittering, however. It peered back at the man and “baaed” derisively at him; almost as if it were teasing him. As they sat watching, man and sheep continued like this all around the base of the hill. Once the man lost his balance and came down arms flailing with a slow comic slide into a muddy patch. It was like watching something out of the Three Stooges. Gina had to giggle.
“That most dangerous of all things — the clever sheep,” quoted Alan.
“Do you think we should tell someone the sheep are being bothered?” asked Gina as the comic duo disappeared round the hill.
“That’s probably the farmer chasing it. Its a ram, see and he won’t want it mating with his ewes. Otherwise he’ll wind up with a lot of small spotty lambs next season.”
“You know something about sheep then?” asked Gina.
“Ah yes, you’re talking to the original farm boy here. I’m from Hamilton. You know — where men are men and sheep outnumber people a thousand to one. I grew up on a sheep farm eating lamb chops with my mother’s milk. Don’t tell Meg though.”
“So why do all those sheep have coloured stripes on their backs? I thought it was some kind of joke but they all seem to have them.”
“You civilians may think its a joke but to us farming folk its a very serious and delicate matter. This is a breeding flock and when the farmer puts rams in with these ewes, he wants to know which ewe is likely to be pregnant. So he paints the belly of the ram with this coloured paint and when the sheep mate, it leaves a coloured stripe on the ewes back. Then you can tell which ewes have been mounted. And with the different colours you can find out if each ram is doing his duty. Otherwise they’re not much use to keep.”
“So if they happen not to be in the mood one season, its off to the slaughterhouse with them?”
“That’s right. Enough to give anyone performance anxiety.”
“Not much of a life being a sheep.”
“Well they don’t want much. Though if I were these sheep, I’d be dreaming of a field with nicer grass which didn’t have all these tourists tromping through with their dogs.”
* * * *
Climbing about on the hill all afternoon seemed to have brought Meg and Gary closer then ever. At dinner that evening, the two of them decided to climb the Tor by moonlight when surely there’d be fewer people there.
“Better chance of reaching Avalon by moonlight,” joked Gary.
Gina could tell they were reluctant for her and Alan to come with them so the two of them stayed behind in the little vegetarian cafe where they’d eaten dinner. Gina’s dread of sharing a room with Meg disappeared under the greater worry that one day soon Gary would invite Meg to move into their comfortable flat with them. She could picture how it would be — a flat strewn with velveteen gowns and antique corsets, with Meg sitting cross-legged in a cloud of cigarette smoke, laying down the law on political correctness like some kind of Buddha of the Bushfire. She had a feeling that Meg’s arrival would have to mean Gina’s departure.
She did her best to hide her depression from Alan, although the desultory conversation they had about Melbourne and the skinny girl in a black beret who droned out Leonard Cohen songs didn’t help at all.
* * * *
It had been hard to find a place to stay in Glastonbury. Their B-and-B was run by a little old lady who reminded them all of elderly aunts back in Australia, but the accommodation itself would have shamed any elderly aunt of Gina’s. The grimy little room was decorated with little signs saying things like “No showers after breakfast” and “No extra tea bags will be given”. Gina stood beside the shower for 10 minutes before deciding it was not going to warm up and performing a quick wash all over with a face cloth and chilly water. The bed, decorated with a mauve counterpane, sagged. To her horror the sheets were made of ancient badly-pilled nylon. Her fine hair cracked and danced as she slid gingerly between the covers. Surely that long dark hair beneath the pillow was not one of hers. It didn’t bear thinking about.
She almost wished she was out on the fresh clean hillside with the sheep and Meg and Gary and the full moon rising above the Tor. Almost. But it was cold even here in the room and so she simply lay there feeling grubby and uncomfortable.
When she had been in Australia, Britain had always seemed like a marvelous place full of history and beauty. All young Australians went there at some time in their lives, following some ancestral call. It was part of their natural life-cycle, coming between finishing school and beginning marriage and home buying. When they came back they all said how great it had been. Now Gina suspected they had been lying.
“Perhaps my expectations were too high,” thought Gina. She had expected magic, not this cold, grey, grubby country, where the plumbing was bad and the food was often nasty. And there were people everywhere crowding in on you. She lay there feeling the lumpy sheets against her cringing skin and thinking longingly of warm, spacious Australia with its pure, white light and its lean, clean gums. If Gary had come crashing into the room that moment proclaiming that he’d found the path to Avalon, Gina would probably have refused to go, for fear of another disappointment, and opted for a ticket home instead.
* * * *
Footsteps creaking past her door roused her from a fitful doze. She saw that the sky was paler outside and gratefully got out of her nasty bed. Outside she found Alan coming back from the bathroom with his wash bag.
“It’s 6.00,” he said. “I’m just going up to the Tor to see if I can get some shots without people in them. Want to come?”
She was glad to get out of the B-and-B and into the fresh cold air, but it was not a good morning for photos. The whole town was cloaked in grey mist and you could see nothing but grey cloud from the Tor. Even at that time of morning, a couple was out walking unleashed dogs up the hill.
“Look,” said Alan. “There’s our friend, the black sheep.”
The sheep had got themselves into an enormous line and were filing round the hill, delicately picking along the sheep paths on their spindly legs, zigzagging first uphill, then down. Over thirty of them moved purposefully along as if intent on reaching some special feed. In the lead the little black ram skipped along gaily, every now and then jumping into the air like a new born lamb. The file disappeared and reappeared out of the mist three times during Alan and Gina’s climb.
When the two of them reached the top of the Tor, the couple walking their dogs went back down the hill past them, and suddenly they were completely alone.
Gina’s feet echoed hollowly on the stone floor of the tower. She leaned against the doorway. Outside the world blurred gently into cold white mist. The blades of grass were silvered with ice. She could almost imagine Arthur’s death barge floating out of the mist with the hooded queens in attendance. A fey sense of wonder shivered along her spine. Celtic magic sang its siren song faintly beyond the edges of reality.
“Avalon,” she whispered softly, “Isle of apples, Isle of glass, where legend blends to faerie.”
Beside her, Alan sighed. She sensed that he too felt the magic.
There was a crunching of grass and suddenly the line of sheep filed out of the mist and across the hilltop before them. The moment of magic shattered under the precise patter of their little cloven feet.
They looked at each other ruefully and Alan laughed.
“Sheep! From the sublime to the ridiculous. Come on. Let’s go back. Or we’ll be missing our English Breakfast.”
He took her hand companionably and they went down the hill together.
“Does anyone know why they file along like that?” she asked. The sheep seemed to have done a complete circle round the hill top and were now coming round the slope towards them. The little black sheep was still gambolling in the lead.
“They say...”
Suddenly the two of them stopped stock still with amazement.
The black sheep had given a little jump and disappeared into mid-air like someone going through a door. It had been close and clearly visible. There was no chance of a mistake.
The sheep behind it jumped too and disappeared, and the one after that as well. As the two watched every single sheep in the file completely vanished one by one leaving only the empty hillside and a distant silken susurration of magic behind them.
* * * *
AFTERWORD
“To Avalon” was written as a direct result of a visit to Glastonbury Tor on Easter Sunday 1996. My preconceptions about the Tor and my actual experiences of it as crowded and sheep filled were very like those I have attributed to Gina in the story. There were even photographs of mauled sheep on the stile. I’m not sure of the exact origin of the legend that Glastonbury Tor is a three-dimensional maze into Paradise/Fairyland, but I know a number of people told me about it before I went. As I wandered about the Tor thinking about this legend and my experiences as an Australian traveller in Britain, this story began to percolate in my brain.
— Jane Routley