hadn't thought about them; yet tonight, she realized, the only uniforms in sight were the usual St John's men and women around their ambulance, fifty metres along the ridge.
'But why?' Moira wondered.
'Perhaps they've decided it's not worth it. After all, they never have anything to do. . . . Jesus! They're coming in!'
The demonstrators, banner aloft, had marched into the Great Circle, trampling straight through the little Circles towards the Cauldron, chanting in unison: 'Goddess worship is Satan worship! Goddess worship is Satan worship! Goddess worship is Satan worship!'
Some of the older people not in the Dance were running forward, trying to stop them. But the demonstrators were young, clothed and booted, and swept the elderly skyclad bodies easily aside. The younger baby-minding fathers, like Dan, hesitated, torn between repelling the intruders and standing guard over their children. Moira grabbed at Dan's arm, restraining him; he shrugged helplessly and acquiesced.
But now the dancers'had heard the chanting and had turned, incredulous anger in their faces. The demonstrators did not pause; they headed straight for the Sabbat Queen, who was clearly their target.
The chanting changed. 'Witch whore! Witch whore! Witch whore!'
That final blasphemy broke the Ring. The dancers swept down on the invaders, boots or no boots. The banner swayed and fell in a mass of clothed and unclothed bodies.
Diana was sobbing now. Moira hugged her fiercely, cried out: 'Dan! Look! The Altar!'
As she pointed, the white statue of the Goddess tottered and fell. More intruders, unnoticed till now, were tearing the fragile polystyrene into great lumps, scattering them about the smashed Altar.
Moira screamed.
It was then that the unbelievable happened. The ground beneath them, the whole of Bell Beacon, moved, throwing attackers and defenders alike off their feet. It only lasted for a few seconds, but in those seconds the hill groaned like a giant in pain. Then it was still.
There was a moment, after the turmoil, of silence, the silence of utter shock.
One of the demonstrators, a wild-eyed woman, was the first on her feet. 'It's the wrath of God!' she yelled. 'The wrath of God, smiting the witches 1'
Naked bodies sprang up to drag her down and the fight was on again; then, above the screaming and the shouting and the tears came the sound of the motor-cycles roaring up the long slanting road.
Moira and Dan stood stunned, no longer able to take it all in. Even Diana, clutched between them, was soundless and trembling.
The motor-cyclists, a dozen helmete d, visored, anonymous monsters, charged on to the plateau, sweeping into a circle round the melee, herding it inward towards the fire like armoured sheepdogs.
Dan shook Moira out of her paralysis, shouting at her over the din: 'Clothes! Quick!'
Suddenly and desperately active, Moira swept the little altar bare and tore open the hamper-lid, flinging out sweaters, jeans, plimsolls from underneath the pathetic provisions for the feast that would never be eaten. Rosemary and Greg ran up and joined them; how they had dodged through the cordon of bikes, Moira had no time to wonder.
Throwing clothes on to Diana and herself, she heard Greg shout to Daniel, 'Got to get the girls out of this!' Dan nodded, grimly.
Clothed, Greg started trying to pack the hamper, but Daniel waved him off it. 'Leave it - no time!' By unspoken instinct, the four of them grabbed the ritual tools in then-hands and stuck their athames, the black-handled knives which are each witch's personal symbol, into their belts.
Then they were running, Diana held in Dan's arms.
The motor-cylists were tightening and loosening their ring, teasing the crowd inside it. The Cauldron lay beyond the ring, toppled and abandoned. Greg, in the lead, saw that that was the clearest path, and made for it. But as he reached it, he halted in his tracks, staring down.
Moira followed his look, and screamed again.
Naked and dead, the gilded
'But why?' Moira wondered.
'Perhaps they've decided it's not worth it. After all, they never have anything to do. . . . Jesus! They're coming in!'
The demonstrators, banner aloft, had marched into the Great Circle, trampling straight through the little Circles towards the Cauldron, chanting in unison: 'Goddess worship is Satan worship! Goddess worship is Satan worship! Goddess worship is Satan worship!'
Some of the older people not in the Dance were running forward, trying to stop them. But the demonstrators were young, clothed and booted, and swept the elderly skyclad bodies easily aside. The younger baby-minding fathers, like Dan, hesitated, torn between repelling the intruders and standing guard over their children. Moira grabbed at Dan's arm, restraining him; he shrugged helplessly and acquiesced.
But now the dancers'had heard the chanting and had turned, incredulous anger in their faces. The demonstrators did not pause; they headed straight for the Sabbat Queen, who was clearly their target.
The chanting changed. 'Witch whore! Witch whore! Witch whore!'
That final blasphemy broke the Ring. The dancers swept down on the invaders, boots or no boots. The banner swayed and fell in a mass of clothed and unclothed bodies.
Diana was sobbing now. Moira hugged her fiercely, cried out: 'Dan! Look! The Altar!'
As she pointed, the white statue of the Goddess tottered and fell. More intruders, unnoticed till now, were tearing the fragile polystyrene into great lumps, scattering them about the smashed Altar.
Moira screamed.
It was then that the unbelievable happened. The ground beneath them, the whole of Bell Beacon, moved, throwing attackers and defenders alike off their feet. It only lasted for a few seconds, but in those seconds the hill groaned like a giant in pain. Then it was still.
There was a moment, after the turmoil, of silence, the silence of utter shock.
One of the demonstrators, a wild-eyed woman, was the first on her feet. 'It's the wrath of God!' she yelled. 'The wrath of God, smiting the witches 1'
Naked bodies sprang up to drag her down and the fight was on again; then, above the screaming and the shouting and the tears came the sound of the motor-cycles roaring up the long slanting road.
Moira and Dan stood stunned, no longer able to take it all in. Even Diana, clutched between them, was soundless and trembling.
The motor-cyclists, a dozen helmete d, visored, anonymous monsters, charged on to the plateau, sweeping into a circle round the melee, herding it inward towards the fire like armoured sheepdogs.
Dan shook Moira out of her paralysis, shouting at her over the din: 'Clothes! Quick!'
Suddenly and desperately active, Moira swept the little altar bare and tore open the hamper-lid, flinging out sweaters, jeans, plimsolls from underneath the pathetic provisions for the feast that would never be eaten. Rosemary and Greg ran up and joined them; how they had dodged through the cordon of bikes, Moira had no time to wonder.
Throwing clothes on to Diana and herself, she heard Greg shout to Daniel, 'Got to get the girls out of this!' Dan nodded, grimly.
Clothed, Greg started trying to pack the hamper, but Daniel waved him off it. 'Leave it - no time!' By unspoken instinct, the four of them grabbed the ritual tools in then-hands and stuck their athames, the black-handled knives which are each witch's personal symbol, into their belts.
Then they were running, Diana held in Dan's arms.
The motor-cylists were tightening and loosening their ring, teasing the crowd inside it. The Cauldron lay beyond the ring, toppled and abandoned. Greg, in the lead, saw that that was the clearest path, and made for it. But as he reached it, he halted in his tracks, staring down.
Moira followed his look, and screamed again.
Naked and dead, the gilded
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