Part Three: Ancestral voices
Chapter 30: The Protest
Conall’s fitful sleep had been disturbed from just after dawn by the passing of vehicles on their way to the circle. Eventually he gave up trying to sleep and checked his phone for the time; it was just gone seven, and there was a text message from Wolf waiting for him: ‘Main event at 10 – meet at the Devil’s Chair at 9’
Con rolled over and turned the gas on under the coffee pot. Before long he heard another vehicle arriving, parking up next to his, and then music and voices. He threw on some clothes, poured a coffee and opened the side door to greet the day.
A camper van had pulled up beside his, and a young couple with a toddler sat on the grass nearby; the woman, with purple and pink highlighted dreadlocks greeted him and asked him if he knew anything about the protest.
‘We’re meeting at the Devil’s Chair at nine, which gives us plenty of time to move down to the excavation on the avenue for when the Chairman arrives. Then Wolf’s going to hand over the petition and we’ll accompany the chairman to the museum.’
At that moment a large grey van bearing the BBC logo drove past.
The young woman frowned. ‘I hope they’re not expecting trouble. It’s a peaceful protest.’
Con shook his head. ‘No – that’s not for our benefit – Wolf said the chairman’s a media whore,’ he chuckled ‘and that the media were bound to be here for the opening of the museum. It’s all word of mouth, you know – the protest; they have no idea anything is going to happen.’
Conall offered them a coffee, but they were fine, and so returned to his camper. He checked his phone to find another message from Wolf.
‘Put the kettle on’ it read.
A few minutes later Wolf’s Yorkshire tones could be discerned outside as he spoke to the couple in the newly arrived van.
‘Well, I’m fookin’ chuffed you’ve made it, Ian,’ he was saying to the man
‘Good to see you Wolf me old mate’ the other replied. Wolf said ‘I meant to catch up in the Spring when I was down in Glasto, but it means a lot you’re here…’
‘You too Wolf.’
He knocked on the window of Con’s van.
‘Come in. Coffee’s done…Bloody Hell!’
Wolf, though it was impossible to see this was Wolf, was standing outside. He was wearing a hood of wolfskin – more properly an entire skin of a wolf, head and all, draped over his shoulders, over a brown woollen cloak, with the wolf’s face leering above his own, which was hidden in shadow; he was bare chested, this, too, aside from its usual tattoos, painted in whorls and spirals of ochre, with the paws of the wolf crossed over it. Around his neck hung a leather circular pouch inscribed with a design of a man between two rearing wolves. In one hand Wolf was clasping a roughly crafted spear, decorated with feathers – the other hand, empty, pulled open the camper door.
‘I think you may need to bring it out – don’t think the wolfskin’s gonna fit in there and I’m not taking it off.’
Con brought the cafetiere over to the stone against which Wolf had decided to sit.
‘So is your intention to maul the chairman or just shit him up?’ he asked.
‘Hehe – didn’t want to look like some sad hippy – think this’ll get me noticed?’
Con snorted. ‘Arrested, maybe.’
‘What were you two up to last night, anyway?’ Wolf said, blowing on his coffee to cool it. ‘Hayden was well pissed off.’
‘Oh well. She hoped he was asleep.’
‘He was awake at midnight chatting with me, and of course she rolls in saying she’d been to the circle with you.’
‘Well, nothing went on; he can fuck right off.’
‘Hehe – that’s what she said to him. They weren’t up when I left, so maybe they’re making it up…’ Wolf winked at Con.
Con shot him a look of distaste but bit his tongue. He thought of her words. ‘I don’t love Hayden. Maybe I’ve never really loved anyone.’
He changed the subject.
‘What time will we have to leave. I need a wash.’
‘Bollocks, man – just stick some ochre on – go as a berserker!’
‘I’d just look dirty. Look, give us five minutes…’
Wolf and Con reached the Devil’s Chair at quarter to nine. The Avenue had been empty, no sign at all that the chairman might be visiting that day, save for a cordon of hazard tape set around the excavation site. The sight that greeted them in the circle was different, however. A group of about twenty people, clearly Wolf’s friends, given their colourful get-up, were sat on and around the Devil’s Chair, while further on, in the carpark of the Red Lion, were a number of vehicles including the BBC van. In the adjoining section of road, individuals could be seen walking backwards and forwards, preparing for the visit – people in suits or visi-vests.
‘Is he here yet?’ Wolf asked a greying, bearded man in a tie-dye t-shirt and baggy shorts.
‘Yeah. They’ve gone to the tea rooms first, to get ready. The BBC guy said they’re filming him at the excavation site at ten.’
‘Our man on the inside, hehe. The others got wind of anything?’
‘Nah – we blend in with all the other weirdos!’ the man laughed.
‘You still think it’s better to confront him near the excavation?’
The man nodded. ‘The bones are in the museum but you’ll not get in there. But they can hardly stop you walking along the Avenue.’
For the first time to Con Wolf seemed a little unsure.
‘Did he say if they’d be walking?’
The greybeard nodded. ‘They’ll be walking past us here so I guess we just follow them?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Or,’ Con suggested, ‘you go up now and hide behind the stones…’
‘Tempting,’ Wolf said ‘but I’m thinking if anymore turn up we’re not going to be able to hide!’ As he spoke another small group of people were arriving. Con scoured the crowd, looking for Shen. The thought of her lying beside Hayden in bed was making him feel sick. Come on, he thought, willing her to arrive.
After a short while the first of the archaeologists began to appear, making their way through the assembled crowd to the Avenue. A few of the younger ones, hard-hatted and wearing their luminous jackets, stopped to talk with Wolf, who they had talked to in the pub over the last few days. Then a larger group could be seen moving opposite the pub, joining the gaggle of yellow-jackets and suits, all now crowding around someone Con couldn’t quite see. The assembled crowd of a two dozen or so people began to walk towards the stones where Wolf’s band sat on the grass; they passed by without so much of a second look, though one of the two camera crews, a local news channel, halted to take some sweeping shots of the scene, a view improved by the sun breaking out of the light cloud that had been hanging around since dawn.
As they passed, Con caught sight of the man at the focus of the crowd – the chairman, in a smart black suit and hard hat, a small delicate man with the look of a schoolboy in a new blazer, chatting animatedly to a heavily bearded archaeologist.
Con scanned the far reaches of the circle for any sign of Shen, but then Wolf was by his side and as if summoned by some silent command the protestors all stood and gathered around Wolf.
The main body of archaeologists, English Heritage officials and the press had left the circle and could be seen crossing the road that lead to the Avenue. Wolf turned to Con and pressed two fingers against Con’s cheek, dragging them slowly down in a soft, cold, line. Wolf’s fingers were red with ochre.
‘You’re a warrior now, Conall.’ he smiled.
‘It’s time’ he shouted to the gathering, whom Con reckoned to now be easily double that of the official party.
The greybeard from before began to beat a large wooden-framed drum, a beat taken up by others in the group – a slow, steady beat, increasing to a march. And as they walked, in a double line, the drum-beats seemed to echo and increase, joined by a soft chanting and the playing of native flutes.
Con felt ill at ease. He agreed in principal with the protest, but he wasn’t a ‘joiner’, as he put it; happier to sit at the side-lines or to be up front, lecturing, guiding; he wasn’t a follower, and so he felt awkward. And where was Shen?!
The procession moved from the Devil’s Chair, and up the tree-lined bank behind it, from where the archaeologists could be seen gathered about their excavation area beside the stone in the Avenue – their heads now turning to see what the noise was coming over the bank. Con wondered how it looked to them – this raggle-taggle band approaching down the slope of the henge bank and across the road, to a steady, haunting rhythm, accompanied by the otherworldly sound of chanting voices, in words he did not understand.
By the time Wolf’s group had entered the field all activity around the excavation had ceased and all eyes were turned their way – and cameras too. Con could see the chief archaeologist moving around amongst his fellows, red-faced, his interview with the Chairman having been brought to an unexpected and troublesome halt. The younger students seemed to be smiling, amused at the interruption; others just sipped their take-away coffees nonchalantly. And the Chairman looked on with cool detachment, every now and again whispering something to an aide who would rush off in a flap and shout something into a phone.
Con strangely began to feel inconspicuous, as if the two lines of ochre on his cheek had rendered him invisible. The drums continued their rhythm as the protestors fanned out, forming a semi-circle around the official group, practically hemming them in against the fence that stood behind the stone. The beat seemed to increase in strength and speed, from a march to a heartbeat, and faster, until Wolf raised his spear and brought it down with a shout and the drums stopped. Protestors and archaeologists stood face to face in silence. Somewhere a crow cawed.
Wolf stepped forward.
The Chairman, to give him credit, stepped forward, too – a full head shorter than Wolf, he nevertheless looked up into that shadowed face with equanimity.
‘May I help?’ he asked, squinting – as Wolf, cunningly, had stood with the sun at his back.
‘We have come today,’ came the voice from under the wolf’s head, ‘to protest against the placement of the bones of our ancestor in the museum. I have a petition here signed by nearly a thousand neo-pagans, witches and druids, demanding that people of our faith, which hold these bones as sacred, be consulted over the new placement of these bones.’
He handed the chairman the print-out of signatures.
The chairman looked at the sheaves of paper, folded them in half and put them at his side.
The cameras, which had hitherto been on the red-painted man in the wolfskin now turned to the smaller man in his pristine tailoring.
‘English heritage,’ the Chairman began ‘is committed to the preservation of Britain’s past; we are dedicated to preserve the sites and artefacts in our custodianship for future generations, for their education and knowledge. I believe that the movement of the West Kennet bones from out of storage to a place where they can be seen and appreciated and studied not just by archaeologists but by the public and yourselves as pagans is a positive step. I shall study your petition; we do have an advisory body that looks into the impact our work has on the beliefs of those who worship at sites such as these. If you wish I can put you in touch with the spokesperson for that body.’
Con watched as the chairman delivered these lines. They hadn’t been rehearsed, like Wolf’s – they seemed to flow from the Chairman naturally, effortlessly. He seemed neither fazed or angry at Wolf’s disruption of his day – no – if anything, Con surmised, he seemed pleased… the cameras, after all, were rolling, and he’d been given the chance to put forward his policy in a suddenly more newsworthy piece of footage.
‘You see these bones are not just those of an ancestor of those who follow your beliefs, ‘ he went on to say, ‘but of many of us here who follow a variety of them; it is with great respect that we are allowing many, many more people to come and see his remains in this brilliantly designed new exhibit…’
Before he could continue with his rhetoric Wolf interrupted him. ‘Respect?’ Wolf said, incredulously. ‘have you any idea what this man believed, or what his wishes would have been, as an individual?’
‘The beliefs of our ancestors have been lost in time,’ the Chairman said, smooth, unflustered, ‘do you think he would have minded knowing all the good that has already come and will continue to do so from this brilliant new display? Analysis of his bones will teach us a great deal about how his people lived; about their health, about his own condition and the society that supported him. How many people will come to the museum and be inspired by seeing him? How many future archaeologists will find their career looking at his bones? How many lecturers, pathologists…pagans will be inspired by visiting him here? And what should we have done – have the bones remain in storage, or buried again where no one could see them, or be inspired by them?’
‘Yes. If that is what he wanted – as I believe it is; this was his land and he wished at last to go into that earth that had long been soaked with the blood of his people. You are taking him away from his family, his people. You are putting him on display like some circus freak. He was probably a priest, a prophet – would you condone digging up some early English Saint and putting his head on display as education? No. because you treat paganism as a second-class religion.’
‘I can assure you that is not the case. We treat all religions with equal respect and all religious imagery and artefacts likewise. There is no evidence saying this man was what you say. We do respect that he was once an individual – and surely by bringing him back home and honouring him by placing him in the museum is better than leaving his remains in some box in a museum storeroom?’
Con was suddenly aware that a white car had pulled up in the Avenue and three police officers had approached.
‘Was an individual?’ Wolf asked, face to face with the Chairman. ‘At which point does one lose that status? Could I dig up the grave of your grandparents and put their bones on display because they are no longer individuals? What makes us such? Is it when we can put a name to a bone? What about, then, the tomb of the Unknown Soldier – can we display his bones without worry, because he has no name? Do that. Put him in a case. Stick his skull on a lunch box or a key ring or a postcard; use him to fill your tills. There are double standards here.’
The first look of anger flashed across the Chairman’s face, but it was momentary, and a politician’s smile soon replaced it.
‘No decisions on these matters will be decided today. As I have said I shall look at this petition and pass it on to the spokesperson for pagan affairs; I doubt very much if things will change but I promise you it will be looked into. We have no desire to isolate or insult any individual or group in our policies; however in cases such as these it may be the benefits of our policy for future generations outweighs the perceived harm inflicted on a few individuals. But I will look into this seriously; had I been approached before now I would have had time to formulate an answer. But if you’d excuse me I have a busy day ahead and there are people here who have worked very hard on this site to share their knowledge with the public, and I wish to thank them and to celebrate today with them, for it is a great achievement and our knowledge of the past has been illuminated much by it, which I’m sure you appreciate.’
And with that he turned.
Con, who had been standing a few feet behind Wolf, looked at the floor uneasily.
As the Chairman turned away one of the Police Officers walked up to Con and asked him to step down and disband the group.
‘Is it illegal to gather here, at a public place?’ Con asked, brows knitted.
‘We don’t want any trouble…’ the officer said.
Wolf, removing the wolf-skin from his head, leaned in close ‘We’re a peaceful gathering; what are we doing wrong?’
‘Just tell your friends to disband; any further gatherings or disruptions to the day will be judged as a disturbance of the peace and will be dealt with firmly.’
His eyes flashing Wolf leaned in close – eye to eye with the Officer.
I am the land; that is all that I am he sung loudly; the Officer winced but maintained eye contact.
I am the land that is all that I am
And then other voices joined in.
I am the land, that is all that I am;
I am the land that is all around me!
Wolf smiled and turned away from the policemen and opened his arms wide to the crowd.
‘Our views have been expressed; the petition handed over – thank you for your support, friends of the ancestors! Now if you’d like to join me in the Red Lion!’
Wolf was laughing, but Con felt subdued. Is this all he had wanted to achieve? The Chairman had been unmoved; like Hayden two nights before he had made a number of good points – but Wolf had been right - had this been a relic of any other religious group then perhaps the Chairman would have very much been treading on eggshells, wary of causing offence. Con could sense Wolf’s frustration. Paganism was not given the same regard as other religions, despite the Chairman’s lip-service. And what of the ancestors wish? Wolf, again, was right – he would have wanted to be with his people. Yet the Chairman had put over his argument well, perhaps too well; this would appear on the news as a colourful disturbance that might liven up a slightly prosaic report on the head of an organisation visiting a newly uncovered burial and a set of bones in a refurbished museum - hardly stirring stuff. Wolf’s protest had moved the story up a few items but not in such way as to help Wolf’s cause. Having said that, as the group began to dissipate, the call for a morning pint being a strong lure, the local news team broke from the Chairman’s group to halt Wolf in his tracks.
But Conall didn’t hear what he was saying, for over the rise of the bank of the circle, walking in the opposite direction to those leaving the protest, he could see Shen – he raised a hand to get Wolf’s attention but the latter was in full flow, and Con left, moving quickly between the protestors who were in no hurry. In a few moments he was within hailing distance, and he found himself suddenly dizzy with happiness. To think that just a few hours before they’d been in the circle, alone, and that he’d backed away from her – not knowing how she felt – and now, having been sick with worry all morning that she had been avoiding him, just see her approaching, to see her smile - an unchecked open smile - was wonderful.
‘Con – God, I’m sorry – I fell back asleep – I… did I miss much?’
Con smiled.
‘Hard to say – you’ll probably see it on the local news later. I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected. He handed over the petition and the chairman said he’d look at it.’
‘Well that’s good then.’
‘But he kind of said it was unlikely. I don’t think the bones are going to be repatriated. I think Wolf will be disappointed.’
‘Poor Wolf. But everything happens for a reason. I’m sure him being here has been for a reason. It’ll be strange when he goes – I’ve quite liked having him around.’
I wonder if she’ll think the same of me, Con thought.
‘When’s he going?’
‘Tomorrow – so one last night at the pub with him, if you’re up to it?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘I’ll need a drink by then.’ She said.
‘Hayden?’
She looked at him sidelong.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Not going well?’
‘No.’
Good. He thought.
Chapter 30: The Protest
Conall’s fitful sleep had been disturbed from just after dawn by the passing of vehicles on their way to the circle. Eventually he gave up trying to sleep and checked his phone for the time; it was just gone seven, and there was a text message from Wolf waiting for him: ‘Main event at 10 – meet at the Devil’s Chair at 9’
Con rolled over and turned the gas on under the coffee pot. Before long he heard another vehicle arriving, parking up next to his, and then music and voices. He threw on some clothes, poured a coffee and opened the side door to greet the day.
A camper van had pulled up beside his, and a young couple with a toddler sat on the grass nearby; the woman, with purple and pink highlighted dreadlocks greeted him and asked him if he knew anything about the protest.
‘We’re meeting at the Devil’s Chair at nine, which gives us plenty of time to move down to the excavation on the avenue for when the Chairman arrives. Then Wolf’s going to hand over the petition and we’ll accompany the chairman to the museum.’
At that moment a large grey van bearing the BBC logo drove past.
The young woman frowned. ‘I hope they’re not expecting trouble. It’s a peaceful protest.’
Con shook his head. ‘No – that’s not for our benefit – Wolf said the chairman’s a media whore,’ he chuckled ‘and that the media were bound to be here for the opening of the museum. It’s all word of mouth, you know – the protest; they have no idea anything is going to happen.’
Conall offered them a coffee, but they were fine, and so returned to his camper. He checked his phone to find another message from Wolf.
‘Put the kettle on’ it read.
A few minutes later Wolf’s Yorkshire tones could be discerned outside as he spoke to the couple in the newly arrived van.
‘Well, I’m fookin’ chuffed you’ve made it, Ian,’ he was saying to the man
‘Good to see you Wolf me old mate’ the other replied. Wolf said ‘I meant to catch up in the Spring when I was down in Glasto, but it means a lot you’re here…’
‘You too Wolf.’
He knocked on the window of Con’s van.
‘Come in. Coffee’s done…Bloody Hell!’
Wolf, though it was impossible to see this was Wolf, was standing outside. He was wearing a hood of wolfskin – more properly an entire skin of a wolf, head and all, draped over his shoulders, over a brown woollen cloak, with the wolf’s face leering above his own, which was hidden in shadow; he was bare chested, this, too, aside from its usual tattoos, painted in whorls and spirals of ochre, with the paws of the wolf crossed over it. Around his neck hung a leather circular pouch inscribed with a design of a man between two rearing wolves. In one hand Wolf was clasping a roughly crafted spear, decorated with feathers – the other hand, empty, pulled open the camper door.
‘I think you may need to bring it out – don’t think the wolfskin’s gonna fit in there and I’m not taking it off.’
Con brought the cafetiere over to the stone against which Wolf had decided to sit.
‘So is your intention to maul the chairman or just shit him up?’ he asked.
‘Hehe – didn’t want to look like some sad hippy – think this’ll get me noticed?’
Con snorted. ‘Arrested, maybe.’
‘What were you two up to last night, anyway?’ Wolf said, blowing on his coffee to cool it. ‘Hayden was well pissed off.’
‘Oh well. She hoped he was asleep.’
‘He was awake at midnight chatting with me, and of course she rolls in saying she’d been to the circle with you.’
‘Well, nothing went on; he can fuck right off.’
‘Hehe – that’s what she said to him. They weren’t up when I left, so maybe they’re making it up…’ Wolf winked at Con.
Con shot him a look of distaste but bit his tongue. He thought of her words. ‘I don’t love Hayden. Maybe I’ve never really loved anyone.’
He changed the subject.
‘What time will we have to leave. I need a wash.’
‘Bollocks, man – just stick some ochre on – go as a berserker!’
‘I’d just look dirty. Look, give us five minutes…’
Wolf and Con reached the Devil’s Chair at quarter to nine. The Avenue had been empty, no sign at all that the chairman might be visiting that day, save for a cordon of hazard tape set around the excavation site. The sight that greeted them in the circle was different, however. A group of about twenty people, clearly Wolf’s friends, given their colourful get-up, were sat on and around the Devil’s Chair, while further on, in the carpark of the Red Lion, were a number of vehicles including the BBC van. In the adjoining section of road, individuals could be seen walking backwards and forwards, preparing for the visit – people in suits or visi-vests.
‘Is he here yet?’ Wolf asked a greying, bearded man in a tie-dye t-shirt and baggy shorts.
‘Yeah. They’ve gone to the tea rooms first, to get ready. The BBC guy said they’re filming him at the excavation site at ten.’
‘Our man on the inside, hehe. The others got wind of anything?’
‘Nah – we blend in with all the other weirdos!’ the man laughed.
‘You still think it’s better to confront him near the excavation?’
The man nodded. ‘The bones are in the museum but you’ll not get in there. But they can hardly stop you walking along the Avenue.’
For the first time to Con Wolf seemed a little unsure.
‘Did he say if they’d be walking?’
The greybeard nodded. ‘They’ll be walking past us here so I guess we just follow them?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Or,’ Con suggested, ‘you go up now and hide behind the stones…’
‘Tempting,’ Wolf said ‘but I’m thinking if anymore turn up we’re not going to be able to hide!’ As he spoke another small group of people were arriving. Con scoured the crowd, looking for Shen. The thought of her lying beside Hayden in bed was making him feel sick. Come on, he thought, willing her to arrive.
After a short while the first of the archaeologists began to appear, making their way through the assembled crowd to the Avenue. A few of the younger ones, hard-hatted and wearing their luminous jackets, stopped to talk with Wolf, who they had talked to in the pub over the last few days. Then a larger group could be seen moving opposite the pub, joining the gaggle of yellow-jackets and suits, all now crowding around someone Con couldn’t quite see. The assembled crowd of a two dozen or so people began to walk towards the stones where Wolf’s band sat on the grass; they passed by without so much of a second look, though one of the two camera crews, a local news channel, halted to take some sweeping shots of the scene, a view improved by the sun breaking out of the light cloud that had been hanging around since dawn.
As they passed, Con caught sight of the man at the focus of the crowd – the chairman, in a smart black suit and hard hat, a small delicate man with the look of a schoolboy in a new blazer, chatting animatedly to a heavily bearded archaeologist.
Con scanned the far reaches of the circle for any sign of Shen, but then Wolf was by his side and as if summoned by some silent command the protestors all stood and gathered around Wolf.
The main body of archaeologists, English Heritage officials and the press had left the circle and could be seen crossing the road that lead to the Avenue. Wolf turned to Con and pressed two fingers against Con’s cheek, dragging them slowly down in a soft, cold, line. Wolf’s fingers were red with ochre.
‘You’re a warrior now, Conall.’ he smiled.
‘It’s time’ he shouted to the gathering, whom Con reckoned to now be easily double that of the official party.
The greybeard from before began to beat a large wooden-framed drum, a beat taken up by others in the group – a slow, steady beat, increasing to a march. And as they walked, in a double line, the drum-beats seemed to echo and increase, joined by a soft chanting and the playing of native flutes.
Con felt ill at ease. He agreed in principal with the protest, but he wasn’t a ‘joiner’, as he put it; happier to sit at the side-lines or to be up front, lecturing, guiding; he wasn’t a follower, and so he felt awkward. And where was Shen?!
The procession moved from the Devil’s Chair, and up the tree-lined bank behind it, from where the archaeologists could be seen gathered about their excavation area beside the stone in the Avenue – their heads now turning to see what the noise was coming over the bank. Con wondered how it looked to them – this raggle-taggle band approaching down the slope of the henge bank and across the road, to a steady, haunting rhythm, accompanied by the otherworldly sound of chanting voices, in words he did not understand.
By the time Wolf’s group had entered the field all activity around the excavation had ceased and all eyes were turned their way – and cameras too. Con could see the chief archaeologist moving around amongst his fellows, red-faced, his interview with the Chairman having been brought to an unexpected and troublesome halt. The younger students seemed to be smiling, amused at the interruption; others just sipped their take-away coffees nonchalantly. And the Chairman looked on with cool detachment, every now and again whispering something to an aide who would rush off in a flap and shout something into a phone.
Con strangely began to feel inconspicuous, as if the two lines of ochre on his cheek had rendered him invisible. The drums continued their rhythm as the protestors fanned out, forming a semi-circle around the official group, practically hemming them in against the fence that stood behind the stone. The beat seemed to increase in strength and speed, from a march to a heartbeat, and faster, until Wolf raised his spear and brought it down with a shout and the drums stopped. Protestors and archaeologists stood face to face in silence. Somewhere a crow cawed.
Wolf stepped forward.
The Chairman, to give him credit, stepped forward, too – a full head shorter than Wolf, he nevertheless looked up into that shadowed face with equanimity.
‘May I help?’ he asked, squinting – as Wolf, cunningly, had stood with the sun at his back.
‘We have come today,’ came the voice from under the wolf’s head, ‘to protest against the placement of the bones of our ancestor in the museum. I have a petition here signed by nearly a thousand neo-pagans, witches and druids, demanding that people of our faith, which hold these bones as sacred, be consulted over the new placement of these bones.’
He handed the chairman the print-out of signatures.
The chairman looked at the sheaves of paper, folded them in half and put them at his side.
The cameras, which had hitherto been on the red-painted man in the wolfskin now turned to the smaller man in his pristine tailoring.
‘English heritage,’ the Chairman began ‘is committed to the preservation of Britain’s past; we are dedicated to preserve the sites and artefacts in our custodianship for future generations, for their education and knowledge. I believe that the movement of the West Kennet bones from out of storage to a place where they can be seen and appreciated and studied not just by archaeologists but by the public and yourselves as pagans is a positive step. I shall study your petition; we do have an advisory body that looks into the impact our work has on the beliefs of those who worship at sites such as these. If you wish I can put you in touch with the spokesperson for that body.’
Con watched as the chairman delivered these lines. They hadn’t been rehearsed, like Wolf’s – they seemed to flow from the Chairman naturally, effortlessly. He seemed neither fazed or angry at Wolf’s disruption of his day – no – if anything, Con surmised, he seemed pleased… the cameras, after all, were rolling, and he’d been given the chance to put forward his policy in a suddenly more newsworthy piece of footage.
‘You see these bones are not just those of an ancestor of those who follow your beliefs, ‘ he went on to say, ‘but of many of us here who follow a variety of them; it is with great respect that we are allowing many, many more people to come and see his remains in this brilliantly designed new exhibit…’
Before he could continue with his rhetoric Wolf interrupted him. ‘Respect?’ Wolf said, incredulously. ‘have you any idea what this man believed, or what his wishes would have been, as an individual?’
‘The beliefs of our ancestors have been lost in time,’ the Chairman said, smooth, unflustered, ‘do you think he would have minded knowing all the good that has already come and will continue to do so from this brilliant new display? Analysis of his bones will teach us a great deal about how his people lived; about their health, about his own condition and the society that supported him. How many people will come to the museum and be inspired by seeing him? How many future archaeologists will find their career looking at his bones? How many lecturers, pathologists…pagans will be inspired by visiting him here? And what should we have done – have the bones remain in storage, or buried again where no one could see them, or be inspired by them?’
‘Yes. If that is what he wanted – as I believe it is; this was his land and he wished at last to go into that earth that had long been soaked with the blood of his people. You are taking him away from his family, his people. You are putting him on display like some circus freak. He was probably a priest, a prophet – would you condone digging up some early English Saint and putting his head on display as education? No. because you treat paganism as a second-class religion.’
‘I can assure you that is not the case. We treat all religions with equal respect and all religious imagery and artefacts likewise. There is no evidence saying this man was what you say. We do respect that he was once an individual – and surely by bringing him back home and honouring him by placing him in the museum is better than leaving his remains in some box in a museum storeroom?’
Con was suddenly aware that a white car had pulled up in the Avenue and three police officers had approached.
‘Was an individual?’ Wolf asked, face to face with the Chairman. ‘At which point does one lose that status? Could I dig up the grave of your grandparents and put their bones on display because they are no longer individuals? What makes us such? Is it when we can put a name to a bone? What about, then, the tomb of the Unknown Soldier – can we display his bones without worry, because he has no name? Do that. Put him in a case. Stick his skull on a lunch box or a key ring or a postcard; use him to fill your tills. There are double standards here.’
The first look of anger flashed across the Chairman’s face, but it was momentary, and a politician’s smile soon replaced it.
‘No decisions on these matters will be decided today. As I have said I shall look at this petition and pass it on to the spokesperson for pagan affairs; I doubt very much if things will change but I promise you it will be looked into. We have no desire to isolate or insult any individual or group in our policies; however in cases such as these it may be the benefits of our policy for future generations outweighs the perceived harm inflicted on a few individuals. But I will look into this seriously; had I been approached before now I would have had time to formulate an answer. But if you’d excuse me I have a busy day ahead and there are people here who have worked very hard on this site to share their knowledge with the public, and I wish to thank them and to celebrate today with them, for it is a great achievement and our knowledge of the past has been illuminated much by it, which I’m sure you appreciate.’
And with that he turned.
Con, who had been standing a few feet behind Wolf, looked at the floor uneasily.
As the Chairman turned away one of the Police Officers walked up to Con and asked him to step down and disband the group.
‘Is it illegal to gather here, at a public place?’ Con asked, brows knitted.
‘We don’t want any trouble…’ the officer said.
Wolf, removing the wolf-skin from his head, leaned in close ‘We’re a peaceful gathering; what are we doing wrong?’
‘Just tell your friends to disband; any further gatherings or disruptions to the day will be judged as a disturbance of the peace and will be dealt with firmly.’
His eyes flashing Wolf leaned in close – eye to eye with the Officer.
I am the land; that is all that I am he sung loudly; the Officer winced but maintained eye contact.
I am the land that is all that I am
And then other voices joined in.
I am the land, that is all that I am;
I am the land that is all around me!
Wolf smiled and turned away from the policemen and opened his arms wide to the crowd.
‘Our views have been expressed; the petition handed over – thank you for your support, friends of the ancestors! Now if you’d like to join me in the Red Lion!’
Wolf was laughing, but Con felt subdued. Is this all he had wanted to achieve? The Chairman had been unmoved; like Hayden two nights before he had made a number of good points – but Wolf had been right - had this been a relic of any other religious group then perhaps the Chairman would have very much been treading on eggshells, wary of causing offence. Con could sense Wolf’s frustration. Paganism was not given the same regard as other religions, despite the Chairman’s lip-service. And what of the ancestors wish? Wolf, again, was right – he would have wanted to be with his people. Yet the Chairman had put over his argument well, perhaps too well; this would appear on the news as a colourful disturbance that might liven up a slightly prosaic report on the head of an organisation visiting a newly uncovered burial and a set of bones in a refurbished museum - hardly stirring stuff. Wolf’s protest had moved the story up a few items but not in such way as to help Wolf’s cause. Having said that, as the group began to dissipate, the call for a morning pint being a strong lure, the local news team broke from the Chairman’s group to halt Wolf in his tracks.
But Conall didn’t hear what he was saying, for over the rise of the bank of the circle, walking in the opposite direction to those leaving the protest, he could see Shen – he raised a hand to get Wolf’s attention but the latter was in full flow, and Con left, moving quickly between the protestors who were in no hurry. In a few moments he was within hailing distance, and he found himself suddenly dizzy with happiness. To think that just a few hours before they’d been in the circle, alone, and that he’d backed away from her – not knowing how she felt – and now, having been sick with worry all morning that she had been avoiding him, just see her approaching, to see her smile - an unchecked open smile - was wonderful.
‘Con – God, I’m sorry – I fell back asleep – I… did I miss much?’
Con smiled.
‘Hard to say – you’ll probably see it on the local news later. I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected. He handed over the petition and the chairman said he’d look at it.’
‘Well that’s good then.’
‘But he kind of said it was unlikely. I don’t think the bones are going to be repatriated. I think Wolf will be disappointed.’
‘Poor Wolf. But everything happens for a reason. I’m sure him being here has been for a reason. It’ll be strange when he goes – I’ve quite liked having him around.’
I wonder if she’ll think the same of me, Con thought.
‘When’s he going?’
‘Tomorrow – so one last night at the pub with him, if you’re up to it?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘I’ll need a drink by then.’ She said.
‘Hayden?’
She looked at him sidelong.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Not going well?’
‘No.’
Good. He thought.