It was just like the Bishop to find some task for me to accomplish while on my holiday! I mentioned that I was going to take a driving holiday up along the coast and look at the wilder scenery in that lightly inhabited part of the country. His face lit up, and he said that it had come to his attention that the church owned some property in some little village or hamlet called Andras Hill but hadn’t had a parish there since the mid 1600s. Could I stop there for a day, look around and see if it was something we could sell or salvage? I looked up the village. Way off the beaten path, population probably around 200. It is definitely on the coast, likely to be “wilder scenery” - where the mountains meet the sea sort of thing. So I agreed to make a side trip to check it out.

Against all expectations, it seemed like that village of Andras Hill (who was Andra?) has a pub with a couple of rooms, so I’d booked two nights at the Lonely Gull. This place is so out of the way that I assumed I would get there in the evening, take a day looking at the church property, and leave the following day. For reference, the landlady is Catherine Carniss (assuming I understood her accent properly).

Andras Hill is what you’d expect from a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. A cluster of houses surrounding a church, a pub and the Village Shop. It was evening when I arrived, so hard to tell, but the church looked in surprisingly good shape. There were 15-20 locals in the pub when I walked in. Of course, every conversation stopped and everyone looked at me, but at least they seemed curious rather than hostile. The middle-aged woman at the bar asked if I was Jonathan Cary, said my room was ready, and the locals resumed their conversations. As she walked down the narrow hallway, she said that she had passed the word that someone was staying for two nights, just so that people would not be surprised. I asked if there were more people than normal just to see if I had horns. She laughed and said that it was the pretty normal crowd; no one had satellite telly so the pub was the social centre for everyone. As she gave me the room key, she glanced at my collar and asked if I had come to look at the church. I admitted I had, and she responded with a hmm. That news will probably get passed around before I get my dinner.

Eventually I came back to the main room after setting out my clothes to get a shepherd’s pie and pint. (Even churchmen take a pint in the local, although I didn’t expect to have to buy any rounds for the room.) There were a few glances my way, but no one came over to my small table for an interrogation session. I had just gotten the pie when the door opened and a young couple came in, obviously very happy. The lad shouted they’d been up the hill and gotten the blessing. There was a great huzzah from the room. A few heads cocked over my direction and the lad nodded his head as if having received some message. I should not have worn my collar.

I got a second pint and asked the landlady what “the blessing” was about. She smiled and said the two have been courting for some time and the families and village elders have now all agreed. That surprised me.

“In this day and age do young people need permission to marry?”

Mrs (?) Carniss said, “It’s not permission. It’s everyone approving and giving the couple advice.”

I guess sort of like marriage counselling by the village elders since they have no minister. Maybe the last village elder the couple were expected to talk to was “up the hill”.

I went out before breakfast to look at the church. It was in remarkable shape, considering. You could see where it has been repaired recently. Even the grounds are kept up. I walked around and took a number of pictures for the Bishop. The cemetery was a surprise. The last burial had been the last vicar in July 1643. The door was unlocked and again, everything looks well cared for. I took more pictures. Of course, we don’t have the number of priests necessary to station someone in such a small isolated location, but they certainly seem to want to be ministered to. I thought maybe I should offer to hold services in the morning before I leave.

I went back to the Gull for breakfast and commented on the surprisingly good condition of the church. Mrs Carniss remarked

“The village was tasked long ago with keeping the church in good condition for its absent landlord, and now here you are.”

She looked directly at me and said “What are you going to do with it?”

I admitted I didn’t know. People seemed to want it, but our resources are stretched too thin to staff it. I then offered to hold services, but she responded with a chuckle.

“It’s your church, not ours. We just take care of it for you.”

??? Do they feel abandoned by the church?

I asked about the lack of graves in the churchyard. She said that there is another cemetery up the hill where everyone is buried. At least I haven’t stumbled into some horror movie about immortal beings or The Wicker Man. Time to look at any parish records in the church.

The vestry had a record book showing births, deaths and marriages until June 1, 1643. There were also notes for sermons or drafts of letters to the Bishop or, I don’t really know what. The handwriting style was different back then and I found reading difficult. There was something about a devil on the hillside seducing the flock and the Bishop needs to get the army to pull down the “Stones” and throw them into the sea. Is there a henge somewhere in the vicinity? If so, the English Heritage people would love to know - this could be an archaeological site. Back to Mrs Carniss.

There was no one at the Gull, but on a hunch I stopped in at the Village Store next door. She was chatting with another woman, back to me, when the other woman saw me, raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to indicate to Mrs Carniss that I was there.

I said “I don’t mean to interrupt, but do either of you know if there are any ancient sites in the area I might look at? I’m just sightseeing, and they happen to be an interest of mine.”

They looked at each other in that sort of wordless communication that two old friends and card players might have, then both turned to me and said “No”.

I was beginning to have the feeling this is one of those rural villages where there is something English Heritage would love to know about but the locals do not want any outsiders invading their turf.

What I really wanted to find right now is a teenager. They usually want to leave the small town and go somewhere there is more excitement and they’re willing to complain about life in the sticks. The only problem being that teenagers in a place like this are working with their parents on the farm or the fishing boat in the middle of the day. What to do? I thank the ladies and step back out into the sun. Well, not really sun, more light overcast at the moment. We might get sun later.

I walked the perimeter of the village on the uphill side and noticed a path. It is clearly a footpath, not like a path that sheep and cows might use with farmers going up to their pastures. Hmm. On a hunch, I went back to my room and put on some hiking boots. I then came back to the path and started up. After twenty minutes or so, I stopped and looked around. The scenery was gorgeous. The path seemed in the same condition this far up the hillside as it was down at the village. There was no branching, no indication that it is coming to an end. I was beginning to wonder if this will lead over a pass to a neighbouring village. I didn’t have any food or water with me, so I did the sensible thing and returned. Mrs Carniss was back in the Gull and I asked for a flask of water and a sandwich to take away. I mentioned that I saw a path leading up the hill and wondered where it went. She responded that it goes up the mountain to a pass, then leads to a hamlet in the upper meadows of the next valley. I told her that as I’ve seen the church, I’m going to take a bit of a ramble up the path. She told me to mind that I start back soon enough to get here before dark, then muttered something that sounded like “This should be interesting.”

After two hours I had topped two crests. I couldn’t see the village from there and there was still no end in sight. Three hours in and I’d crossed another crest. I was beginning to see the wisdom in starting back. Fortunately this far north this late in summer the days are pretty long. Then I saw what I’d been looking for - a stone circle on a level place on the hillside. Twelve or thirteen stones, all surprisingly still standing, each of them at least nine feet tall. I took out my camera and start shooting.

In the middle of the circle is a huge black stone, possibly basalt, buried in the earth. There was no telling how big it is under the grass. As I passed between two of the standing stones to approach it more closely, there is suddenly the feeling that I was not alone and the unseen presence is everywhere. I gingerly stepped back out of the circle, but the presence didn’t go away. The ranting about the devil on the hillside suddenly started to make sense.

“He thought I was competition.” It wasn’t words, just thoughts suddenly appearing in my mind.

“Were you?” I said.

There was a mental shrug. “I suppose when you preach subjugation to a single mystery with threats of punishment instead of understanding and future rewards for obedience without any way to verify them, any other mystery is competition. It wasn’t competition, except in his own mind. Then again, he also wanted to be a hero.”

“What does wanting to be a hero have to do with competition?”

“Many people want to be the heros of their own stories. You can be a hero by saving someone or something. You can be a hero by winning a conflict and beating the other side. The more tribal you are, the more you think in terms of winning a conflict as the path to being a hero. So you create conflict even if there isn’t any, just so you can “beat” the other side and be the hero for your side.”

“What did you do to him?”

There was a mental laugh. “Nothing. The simple fact of my existence was sufficient. I don’t feel a need to be the hero of a conflict.”

“What are you?”

“Just another being who cares for a place. A small god, if you like.”

“What do you mean by ‘small god’?”

“’God’ apparently has different meanings to different humans. Some think it might mean any immortal entity. For others, it can only mean a creator. They tie themselves in knots about whether there can be only one or whether creator must mean “creator of the universe” sorts of things. I would limit it to immortal entities which are self-sustaining and have the ability to transcend parallel realities. I’m certainly not ’God’ as you think of ’God’ - first cause and all that. By the way, those pictures won’t develop.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want them to.”

“Oh. What are you going to do with me?”

“What should I do with you?”

“The villagers know about you.”

“Yes.”

“If I tell the Bishop, the village and hills will be swarming with scientists.”

“For a few days, but they won’t find anything, and your reputation will suffer. At most, they would put a historical marker on the stones.”

“You can hide the hillside or the stones?”

“I could, or I could simply not manifest.”

“Why did you make yourself known to me?”

“Because I was interested in how your church might have developed over the centuries and thought it would be interesting to see your mind. I can tell that many of your colleagues haven’t changed all that much.”

“You can read my mind?”

“Yes”

“Would pulling down the stones have banished you?”

There was a silent laugh.

“No. Why would it? They’re just a marker. The Celtic villagers put up the stones because I would talk to them here. The stones don’t do anything.”

I suddenly wondered about the young couple from the night before. “Did you give your blessing to a young couple yesterday?”

“Yes. They will be good for each other and the village.”

“Mind reading sounds advantageous to marriage counseling.”

There was a chuckle. “It is, but even more important is helping them see their own minds. You can’t ’tell’ young people something. The hormones get in the way.”

“Oh. Do you have a name?”

“You can call me Anthracyda. You might think about starting back. Although you can get back while it is still light, it will start getting colder and your jacket is a bit thin.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing. You’re beginning to realise that having outsiders trampling all over will upset the village and since they won’t be able to find this hillside, there’s no offsetting benefit. You can come back alone if you like and want to talk.”

“Do you know God?”

There was another chuckle. “No more than you do.”

As I started back down the hill, I realised that there were multiple ways to interpret that last statement, depending on how much I really knew God. Or if I even did.

The voice was right. It was beginning to get cold when I got back to the Gull. Mrs Carniss looked up from polishing a glass and said, “You’ve talked, then.”

“Yes”

“Be glad it’s not a vengeful god.”

That didn’t sound good. But what could the church have done to such an entity?

Oh. Not to the entity. To a village that the entity cared for. Like killing someone’s puppy.

Yes indeed. It was right. I’m not telling the Bishop.

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