Death in the Cotswolds by Rebecca Tope Read Free Book Online Page B

affection warmed the atmosphere every time they entered a room.
    We began by sharing thoughts and insights concerning Samhain. Pamela started us off, in her light chatty voice, looking round at us in turn, face all bright and enthusiastic. ‘I don’t know where thiscame from,’ she said, ‘but I suddenly noticed that in French, sex and death sound the same. L’amour and la mort . Isn’t that amazing! It sparked off a brilliant meditation, where I wove the symbol of Cupid’s arrow with an arrow of death, and then I pondered the changes that both bring to us. The transformations. But I couldn’t bring them together—’ she looked at us again. ‘I can’t find a way to unite sex and death meaningfully.’
    I watched the others’ reactions to this, wanting to jump in with some clever summary, but finding my tongue paralysed. Surely I’d known about l’amour and la mort? Didn’t everybody? Try as I might, I couldn’t recall ever having been aware of it until that moment.
    ‘There’s “the little death”,’ Kenneth put in hesitantly. ‘You know – it’s what they say about orgasm.’
    A frisson ran round the circle. We were all wary of overt references to sexual matters, myself included. We would make jokes and indulge in innuendo sometimes, but despite the image of pagans as free spirits indulging in all sorts of hedonism, our particular group shied away from it most of the time. When it did intrude itself we were generally very solemn about it, searching for deeper meanings and links with nature. Pamela and Kenneth were careful not to flaunt the physical side of their relationship in public, which I thought wassweet of them. Besides, they were both in their late thirties and not at all inclined to giddiness. On top of that, Kenneth had some peculiar bone condition, which meant they broke easily. He habitually moved carefully, avoiding any risk of knocks or falls. I had never heard anyone make the obvious jokes about what it might be like to have sex with him, but I’m sure it was in all our minds.
    ‘But that’s only men, isn’t it,’ said Ursula, the granny of the group at forty-five, with a mild stare at Kenneth through her bifocals.
    I interposed. ‘We’re following a wrong path here. For a start l’amour means love not sex. I think we ought to concentrate on the importance of Samhain as a time of cleansing and preparation for winter. We clean our houses, and our minds. We put away the pleasures and indiscretions of the hot seasons, and turn to serious matters of survival.’ The language came naturally to me, the words dropping into my mind like those of an experienced priest’s prayers. It delighted me to give these homilies at our moots, to keep everyone’s attention where it ought to be. It made me feel that I’d tapped into the true meaning of life, constantly stressing the rootedness of all living creatures in the realities of the soil. A pity, then, that the great mass of human society so obstinately ignored or resisted my doctrine.
    Even, sometimes, my own fellow pagans.‘Survival,’ Pamela echoed in a tone that suggested a whiff of scorn.
    I faced her squarely. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There’s no need to struggle any more, to find enough food for the winter, to keep warm, to protect our livestock. That’s true. And – ’ I glared at her ‘ – and it’s the reason we so often sound mad to most people. Most people think it doesn’t matter any more what season it is, what the weather’s doing, how we relate to other species. They think all that’s old-fashioned and obsolete.’ I sighed. ‘And they become diminished, their spirits withering, as a result.’
    Pamela wriggled rebelliously. ‘I wasn’t thinking that at all, actually. I was thinking about what we need to survive these days. Like money.’
    An inhalation of breath from Kenneth drew everyone’s attention. ‘Pam,’ he said, sounding weary and apprehensive.
    ‘Well it’s right, though, isn’t it?