The Dove, The Dragon & The Flame

The Dove, The Dragon and The Flame

Ireland, 2010.

In his isolated cottage, on the shores of Western Ireland's Lough Corrib, Jack Jamieson sat in his study researching pagan burial sites on the internet. The distant, musical chime of a bell broke his concentration. It wasn’t the first time he’d sensed it. He closed his eyes and waited. It came again, but this time with a strong surge of suppressed frustration which twisted at his insides.

An image of a stretch of green grass, blurry - like looking through a pane of thick,old glass, flickered through his mind. A glint of something white followed the momentary vision and then it was gone. A female voice rattled through his subconscious. Bugger it. He laughed out loud. Whoever she was, he decided, she'd been gifted with a fiery temperament.

“Where are you?” He voiced the question in his mind. His lips only framed the words. “Where are you?” He repeated it a couple of times. Nothing. An answer would have been just a bit too much to hope for.

The Nokia in his pocket started to buzz and the moment was gone. “Damn it.” He pulled the vibrating phone out and stared at the screen. There was no number displayed. He frowned. It’d better be good. “Hey, Al, how’s it hanging? Isn’t that what you Americans say?”

“Sure is, Jack, but without the Irish accent.”

“I take it you’re calling for a reason?”

“Sure am. We’ve registered another tremor running along the ley line in East Anglia. How are you fixed for coming down and checking it out?”

“The last time you asked me that, I came hurtling up the M11 from London like a maniac and it was a false alarm. I’m in Galway at the moment so there’s no way I can get there quick.”

“Shit, Jack, I was hoping we might be able to swing a positive result this time. It’s not strong. Hell, you know we’ve had better and more constant activity around Avebury and Stonehenge. It could fade to nothing before you can get anything out of it, but I think it’s worth you having a look at.” Jack stifled a yawn. He just wasn't in the mood for this conversation.

“There is definitely something going on. You know, this has been one of the test lines for the last two years and it’s been a complete dodo up to now, zero. Now, twice in the last month something's triggered the sensors.” Jack wondered if Al realised he wasn't really listening. “Yeah okay, albeit minor, but it’s activity nonetheless. Why don’t you come down and kick around for a few days?”

“Because I’d be wasting my time. It'll be a fluctuation in the natural surface magnetism.”

“What do you take me for? I’ve ruled that out. I’m one hundred percent sure it’s ectoplasmic movement.” Al had one more stab at trying to convince him. “What do you say if we stick in a visit to that old English pub we went to last time you were here and I buy you a few pints of that disgusting Irish beer you’re so fond of?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Guinness.”

“Yeah right, as long as someone else is drinking it.”

“Americans, you wouldn’t know a pint of good beer if you fell in it.’”

“Two pints and a whiskey chaser?”

“Keep talking, you’ve almost persuaded me. The truth is... Let me check my agenda.” Jack put the phone down on his desk and leafed through his diary. Ten sheets were blank. Mid-July had notes scrawled over the lined pages. He pressed a button on the mobile and put the call on speaker. “Al, apart from a holiday, I’ve nothing much on until the week after next...”

“What no ghost-busting shows or haunted houses to visit?”

“Everybody’s got to earn a living. Talking of which, did you get the grant renewal?”

“Hell no, we bummed out big time, but the good news is we’ve managed to get a private investment which should cover costs for the next five years.”

Jack whistled down the line. “Where’s it come from, or rather should I ask, who’s got that amount of money to throw around?”

“To be honest, I don't know. The board’s being secretive. Whoever it is, they want to remain anonymous.” Most people invested in the future. It’d take someone with a unique perspective on life to invest in the past. Five years is a long time. You can achieve a lot in five years if you had faith in what you did. The investigation was going well, but they were still missing a vital connection. Jack hoped five years would be long enough to find it.

“In the long run, what does it matter? As long as you’ve got the money to carry on it’s irrelevant.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Why worry where it comes from, I’ll just worry about spending it. So when should I expect you, tomorrow?”

“No chance.”

“When then? It’s never lasted for more than a few hours so far and...”

“Exactly,” Jack interrupted. “So there’s no point in me rushing as it’ll be over before I’ve even left Ireland. Look, I’m booked up for a Holistic fair in Peterborough in two weeks time so I’ll be in the area anyway. What do you say to me stretching out the visit and we’ll see if anything happens while I’m there.”

“If it’s the best you can do...”

“It is. When the fair's finished I’ll come up to Cambridge for a week. Can you put me up?”

“Pleasure's all mine. By the way, how's it going with the ancient text translation I faxed you? Any good.”

“The Ancrene Riwle is making fascinating reading.”

“Hell, you call that stuff fascinating! Nun's prayers or vows of abstinence or whatever.”

Jack laughed. Al was too much. “Vows of enclosure actually. Though to be honest there's something about it which has me foxed. Can't quite put my finger on it."

“No doubt, given time, you will. Hey Jack, I've got a sensor going off, I'm hanging up, buddy. Catch you later.”

“ Bye,” Jack said, but Al had already gone.

Restless and in need of some fresh air, Jack wandered from the house and into the garden. How was he going to find the woman? The question played on his mind. He’d never had such a strong telepathic connection with anyone and especially someone he didn’t know. It was unusual to say the least. If he was honest, he’d have to calculate the odds of meeting her in person as practically zero.

He crossed the large expanse of well-trimmed lawn to where a bed of white roses hung, heavy-headed in full bloom. Placing the tumbler of whiskey down on the grass at his feet, he leant over and with gentle precision, plucked a blown specimen from one of the bushes.

“A little bit of magic for you, whoever you may be.” The petals were loose on the stem. He pulled them off and let them sit in the palm of his left hand. He closed his eyes and murmured the words of an ancient Celtic spell. Then in one soft, exhaled breath, blew the rose petals from his hand. The velvet flakes floated down in a soft shower to rest on the dark, upturned earth of the flower-bed. He picked up the whiskey, took a drink, and then went back into the house to continue the research he’d been doing before Al had called.

The village of Thorney, England, 2010.

Brigitte froze. Something soft had brushed against her cheek. Cobwebs? She shuddered. As if blown in on a gentle summer breeze, the aroma of roses seeped into the store cupboard.

She'd come to the back of the shop on the pretext of looking for some more stock. Any excuse to get away from her latest customer, the village gossip. The smell wasn't air-conditioner. The last one she'd bought had been the economy pine variety and it was still in the cupboard under the sink, unused. The pressure on her shoulder was tentative and a current of static electricity crept across her scalp. She was out of the store cupboard and back in the shop before the customer had even noticed she'd gone.

She forced a smile and mouthed some words of meaningless chatter. Anything to encourage a sale. If she had to listen to any more moans about arthritic hips or varicose veins, she'd crack up. It'd all been a waste of time.

“Bye and thank you,” she called out to the departing woman's back when the door of the boutique swung open. The antique brass bell hanging from the frame tinkled as a blast of cold air entered. Brigitte shivered. The for nothing she muttered under her breath when the door thudded closed did nothing to appease her mood.

She started to refold the shirts spread out across the counter and pack them away. The finicky woman had come in, spent almost an hour inspecting six shirts and in the end bought nothing. Fed-up, she slapped the lid down on the last box. One by one she stacked them back in the glass display cabinet and tried not to think about nipping outside for a quick cigarette.

Half an hour passed. She ate biscuit after biscuit. Plain bored with her repetitive, routine existence. So much for giving up smoking. It was difficult to keep her mind off her next hypnosis appointment with Paul. Now, on top of everything else, he wanted her to start past life regression.

Dispirited, Brigitte walked across the shop's small square of black and white tiled floor to the door and stared out of the thick, old glass at the village green. She turned the small, plastic sign over to read closed. Bugger it. Another day, of thinking there had to be more to life than selling clothes, had turned into a day of thinking just how much longer she could keep the business going.

The tinny ring of the bell clattered as she left. After closing and locking the door behind her, Brigitte stood outside on the pavement. With a shrug, she shouldered the strap of her handbag before turning her coat collar up against the chill. It was a typical British summer day, cloudy and miserable. The clock on the church tower chimed once. Five-thirty and not a soul in sight. She crossed the village green, heading for the Abbey grounds and the short-cut home.

A narrow, tree-lined pathway cut between the moss-covered headstones of the old graveyard. It was a peaceful walk and one Brigitte took often. She'd never have admitted it, but she was quite at home in the cemetery. The crunch of the gravel beneath her feet startled a roosting blackbird from its perch. It swooped down low over her head. Brigitte ducked just in time as a white liquid missile splatted on the yellow stones at the side of her feet. “Too slow, you missed me!” She laughed out loud. It might just be her lucky day, even if it didn't feel like it.

A few steps further on she bent her head to pass beneath the sweeping branches of a towering Yew. Its berry-laden fronds brushed against her hair. The strangest sensation of calmness and belonging overwhelmed her. She was tempted to sit awhile on the bench under the shadow of the tree, but after only biscuits for lunch, her empty stomach was rumbling, so she kept walking.

The rusting gate she passed through, to leave the old tombs behind, creaked as it swung closed. Across the way a single, naked light bulb, glowed bright through the leaded window of the library. There was life somewhere in the village even if it was only bookworms.

A wide, main road spliced the village in two. There wasn't much need to press the button on the pedestrian crossing, traffic was practically non-existent-but she did it anyway, just to make it peep. Since the by-pass had been built, Thorney had become a ghost town. She crossed over and strolled through The Roses empty car-park and ran smack-bang into Mrs. Baines walking her dog. So much for it being her lucky day.

“Afternoon, Brigitte.”

“Hello, Madge. Taking Sam for a walk?” She bent to pat the head of the black Labrador. It growled and curled its flabby lip to show her a row of yellowing teeth.

“That's enough, Sam.” With the reddened, work-gnarled hand of an ex-land worker, the elderly woman pulled hard on the animal's lead to check it. The dog sat down on its haunches, but its hackles stayed half raised. The short hairs bristled as if it'd just had an electric shock.

“I don't think Sam's over keen on my perfume. I put a cheap one on this morning. Looks like he's got expensive taste.”

“What's got into him? He wouldn't hurt a fly.” Madge was holding on to him tight. Sam looked ready to spring for Brigitte's throat. It seemed a good idea to take a step back. She did and quick.

“He usually licks me to death. Maybe he's feeling off-colour.”

“No, he can't be. He had his six-monthly check-up at the vet's yesterday. Dr Jones said he was in excellent health for a ten year old.” The old biddy rummaged in the pocket of her shooting jacket, pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lit it. It dangled from the corner of her mouth. Brigitte couldn't take her eyes off it.

“Is he as old as that? I hadn't realized.”

“He's not getting any younger you know.” The cigarette-end bobbled as Madge spoke. Brigitte wanted one. So much for hypnosis. “Look at his nose. It's covered in white hairs just like my head.”

Brigitte didn't want to look at the dog so she looked at Mrs. Baines instead, who was squinting through a cloud of smoke. Her cap of white hair was tinged nicotine-yellow at the front. Brigitte changed her mind about asking Madge if she had a spare fag. It'd put her right off. There was a rumble of thunder in the close proximity which had nothing to do with the overcast weather. It emanated from deep within the broad chest of the animal that was staring at her, unblinking.

“It could be his rheumatism,” She whittled on. “Mine plays up when there's a storm coming.”

“Do you think it's going to rain?” Brigitte kicked herself for asking. Now she'd never get away.

Old Mrs. Baines turned and looked toward the trees in the Abbey graveyard. “Could be. The birds nested low this year. Sign of a poor summer that.”

“I've just come from the cemetery and didn't even notice.”

“Oh,that's it then.” Mrs Baines nodded. “You've got company."

“No, I'm not expecting anybody.”

Mrs. Baines took a step closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You've got company.” It gave Brigitte the willies.

“I haven't.” She was starting to think Madge had been in the pub for a lunchtime session and was seeing double.

“You have.”

“Oh.” She gave up. She wasn't in the mood for arguing and especially when she didn't know what she was arguing about.

“Sam senses these things.”

“Really?” Brigitte had lost the plot of the conversation.

“He's psychotic. We never go in there anymore. It makes him play up.” Brigitte had to agree. Sam was still snarling. “I'll go and let him chase some sticks in the park. That'll take his mind off it. Otherwise he'll be dreaming all night and I won't get a wink of sleep. While I think on, does that dry food the vet recommends make your dog fart as well?”

“I haven't got a dog.”

“Whose dog was that I saw your daughter walking then? It worried me a bit seeing it trotting along behind her like that without a lead on. Was going to say something but... well, my old legs would never have caught them up. The road's not busy, but accidents still happen you know. I nearly got knocked off my bike last week.”

“We haven't got a dog, well, not that I know of anyway.” Brigitte crossed her fingers and hoped she wasn't in for a surprise when she got home. It wouldn't be the first time.

“Maybe it was a stray. Shame, bigger than Sam it was. A bit like an Irish wolfhound.” Oh no, she wouldn't have minded so much if it'd been the size of a Chihuahua. She could cope with a rat. She knew she'd had one in the shop last week. Brigitte realized her mind was wandering.

“I'd better be getting off, Madge, or I'll be late getting dinner ready for the girls.”

“Aye, time soon goes, me duck.” The old lady pulled at the dog, but it was glued to the spot. Its eyes hadn't left Brigitte for a minute. “You get off first. I'll get him moving once you've gone.” Brigitte walked off and left them standing there. She wondered if the dog's eyes were glowing red like the beast in the Hound of the Baskerville's. She didn't turn round to look. She didn't want to know.