Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart, Chris Bullock Read Free Book Online Page B

wine, and sat in the chair opposite Liz. “So tell me.”
    Liz gazed at the fire as though gathering her thoughts. “To begin with, Imbolc marks the halfway point between winter and spring. In the secular calendar, it’s known as Groundhog Day; in the liturgical calendar, it’s Candlemas. You may remember going to Candlemas services when you were a child. Like most Christian festivals, Candlemas has pagan roots. Irish Celts identified this day with Brigit, or Brid, a pagan deity who became a Christian saint, until she was decanonized in the 1960s.”
    â€œAh yes, I remember Mum complaining about that, years afterwards,” Arthur said.
    Liz gave him a sharp look. “Quite rightly, too. It was a time when many women felt shut out of the Christian tradition. That’s why some of us turned to Wicca, with its strong goddesses. For Wiccans, Brigit is the triple goddess, the goddess of poetry, midwifery, and fire.”
    Arthur found himself getting irritated. “What does this have to do with Mum’s death?”
    â€œI’m coming to that. I’m trying to explain how your mother, good Christian that she was, came to be celebrating what began as a pagan festival. Brigit became linked with the Imbolc festival through her association with midwifery. Imbolc is the Feast of Milk as well as fire, because it occurs about the time ewes begin lactating before lambing.”
    Arthur shuffled restlessly. “When I first arrived, there was talk about a sheep being ritually mutilated. Was that part of your Imbolc ritual?”
    â€œThat had nothing to do with us.” Liz’s tea cup rattled as she put it back into the saucer, and her face was flushed. “As Wiccans, we accept that things die. That is the cycle of nature, and we are part of it. We celebrate birth, and know that everything will pass away in nature’s own time. We do not hasten death. But when I heard about the sacrifice of the sheep, so soon after your mother’s death . . .”
    Arthur wondered if Liz was slightly unbalanced. When she talked about Wicca, she seemed to have entered another world. “What are you suggesting?”
    Liz shook her head, as though shaking off a dream, or a nightmare, and turned to face him. The flush had faded from her cheeks, accentuating the circles under her dark eyes. “Nothing, Arthur. If Geoff said she died of a heart attack, I’m sure she did.”
    â€œIt sure as hell wasn’t witchcraft.” He peered at her troubled face, remembering the little bottles he’d seen on his mum’s bedside table and in the medicine cabinet. “Wait a minute. Mum was taking some of your potions after her stroke. What were you giving her?”
    â€œNothing that would harm her. From time to time Ethel complained about feeling fatigued, nauseous, and dizzy. She had bouts of acute indigestion. These can all be symptoms of heart disease in women, but the tests Geoff sent her for didn’t reveal anything. As you know, she insisted on drinking from that old well across the road. I suspected she was suffering from lead poisoning. There’s a lot of lead in the water round here.”
    â€œYes, I remember. My dad took me for a walk up by Bradwell once and pointed out where the open pit lead seams were. Couldn’t you or Geoff do anything?”
    â€œGeoff didn’t take my idea seriously. You know how stubborn your mum was. She wouldn’t get her mineral levels tested. I gave her a tincture of ginger root to help the nausea and milk thistle to detoxify the liver. It wasn’t enough.” Liz clasped the silver pendant she always wore, the Celtic knot twisting and doubling back on itself.
    For a moment the Celtic knot looked to Arthur’s eyes like a basket of writhing serpents. “Nothing that would harm her?”
    Liz held his gaze. “Not if taken as directed, by the person it’s prescribed for. Like any medicines, some herbal