Memory Of A Falcon

Chapter 2

TWO

LOWER QUINTON, WARWICKSHIRE, 2021 AD

The theme park had been running for more than a year, drawing crowds of visitors. Jake, whose restless character required constant stimulation, grumbled that there was nothing for the development manager to develop. This was only partly true. Grandiose ideas spun like a carousel in his head, but realistically, attempting to achieve any one of them at such a busy time would be counterproductive. Luckily, Liffi was also unsettled, meaning Jake could afford to give himself a holiday to help his partner attain her goals, even if her ideas made him uneasy.

Impressed by her commitment to seeking a site for a pagan temple, he humoured her by plunging into research about modern-day Heathenry. Seeing his willingness to learn, she steered him to the Journal of Contemporary Heathen Thought. He bought the first volume, and despite his initial scepticism, he had to acknowledge his introspective and reflective character was well-suited to the arguments laid out therein.

“Hey, Liffi,” he said, interrupting her reading, “this writer believes Christianity is an alien faith, essentially incompatible with Europeans. He makes a strong argument, too. Is that what you think?”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Christianity is a Hebrew religion. Right from the start the Old Testament proclaims man’s natural impulses and desires are evil and that we’re all sinners, born with the taint of Adam and Eve’s sins. Original Sin, pah! How can it be right, Jake? It leads to a negative view of the body, s*x, and the good things in life. Do you think our forefathers believed that crap? Imposed on them by sword and fire, and thanks to Christian missionaries, the folk tradition of electing the fittest chieftain to lead, replaced by kingship.”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

Her lip curled. “Don’t be patronising. Dig deeper and we’ll resume this conversation.”

She was right, of course. It was presumptuous of him to think half an hour’s reading might compete with her years of deep thought and study. He wondered why he had an instinct to diminish and deride the opposite s*x. Anything to do with his Christian upbringing? He had innate competitiveness, too, which made him want to come out on top in any discussion. Whatever happened he would have to reach her level of preparation on this subject. He delved back into his studies with renewed keenness.

They studied in silence, Jake biting back exuberant proclamations at his discoveries, which he recognised she’d be aware of. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction!

“Jake, I’m off to Yorkshire.”

“Yorkshire! What for?”

Her grin was triumphant. “The East Riding, to be precise. I’ve found it, Jake.” She was breathless with excitement and paused to recover.

Jake stared at her. He had bad memories of that part of England, but he waited while she recomposed herself.

“Oh, I can barely believe it. It’s perfect, Jake. There’s this place on the Yorkshire Wolds Way. It’s called Goodmanham and it’s on a south-facing slope. And listen, it was the site of the high shrine of Anglo-Saxon Northumbria—the temple of Woden!”

Jake gazed at her. This was all stirring something in his memory. As an Anglo-Saxon scholar, he’d read the Venerable Bede. That was it! Of course, Godmund, 627 AD, and the famous story of the pagan priest Coifi. He famously declared to King Edwin, “I have known long since that there is nothing in this religion that we have professed… the more I sought the truth of it, the less I found… this can give us life salvation and eternal happiness… I advise that we burn the useless sanctuary—and who better than me as an example?”

“Isn’t that the temple where Coifi borrowed a stallion and a spear f*******n to him as a priest?” Jake said. “Then he hurled the weapon into the shrine, and seeing the sacrilege went unpunished, had his followers raze it to the ground.”

“The very same,” she said, her excitement still bubbling. “Coifi was a traitor to the gods. That place had been sacred since as early as the Stone Age. Don’t you see, Jake? What better place to recapture our folk tradition? It far predates Christianity, and Heathenry can restore the appropriate religion for those like me who wish to reclaim our ancestry and the land from which our people originated.”

Alarm bells rang in his head, but he couldn’t dampen her ardour. “Hang on a minute! Are you saying you want to reconstruct Woden’s temple on its original site?”

“Yes…er… no, I can’t. The Saxons built a wooden church there, and then later, around 1130 AD, it became a limestone building and it’s still there—All Saints. b****y cheek! They did that everywhere, you know. Taking over Heathen sites for their foreign religion.”

“There’s no way you can demolish the building and stick up a temple to Woden.”

“I’m not stupid, Jake!” She shot him a glance that might have turned him into a pillar of salt had he been looking.

“I thought you said you’d found the perfect place for your temple?”

“I did, and I have! It’s only two miles or so to the northeast of All Saints. There’s a fourteen-acre farmland site for sale, and prices are dropping.” Her voice rose with eagerness, and her lovely face assumed the childlike pleading expression of a little girl begging for a new Barbie doll. “It was two fields before and is now farmed as one. It’s perfect. There’s good access, with a road right next to the confines.”

“You want to build a shrine to Woden there? Have you thought this through, carefully?”

“Of course,” she spat. “But I don’t want to build a temple to Woden.”

“You don’t?” Now he was puzzled, and he could see she enjoyed that from her mocking cornflower-blue eyes and the teasing pause.

“No, I want to erect a temple to Freya. Oh, Jake, say you’ll help. It’s a bargain at six thousand eight-hundred pounds an acre.”

Arithmetic wasn’t Jake’s strongest asset, but a few taps on his phone calculator and he looked up.

“b****y hell, Liffi. That’s about ninety thousand pounds!”

“You can afford it, Jake,” she cajoled. “You do love me, don’t you?”

In that moment, he didn’t. But her feminine wiles conquered his resistance faster than a Saxon arrow. She leaned towards him, flipped back her braid and gave him a coy smile. He knew what she was doing, but still wanted to rip off her clothes.

Instead, with feigned coldness, he repeated, “Have you thought this through, carefully?”

“What are you getting at, exactly?”

“If you go ahead, there’ll be all sorts of problems.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s start with planning permission. What happens when Joe Clerk opens your file and reads, for a pagan temple?”

“I’ve thought about that. It’s a minor obstacle. Far worse will be the Church protests. I’ve thought about those, too.”

“Oh, you have, have you?”

“Yes, that’s where the famous Jake Conley comes in.”

“Me? How?”

She resumed her cajoling posturing. “Well, my love, you have powerful contacts and a track record. We’ll sell the temple as a tourist attraction, just like the Red Horse Park, but without the amusements. I’ll even introduce dragonflies, if you want. We’ll build it up as a reconstruction, a revival of heritage. Even the Church can’t object to that.”

“Mmm. It might work. But we both know that you want to practise Heathen rites. You said so yourself.”

“I know I did, and I stand by what I said.”

“Do you think for a minute the clergy will tolerate that?”

“Ordinarily they wouldn’t, but if I dress it up as a heritage revival for tourists—like re-enactment—they won’t be able to do anything. We can carry out a charade until we’re strong enough, numerous enough to stand up to the Church. Anglicanism’s hardly a flourishing institution nowadays, is it?”

“True. You’re beginning to convince me, even if you need one last push.” He leered at her.

Her lips were on his in a flash, and she knew she’d won, whereas he repressed more alarm bells in favour of frantic grappling.

The next day, Jake was standing in a land agent’s office in Market Weighton, face to face with a chubby-cheeked pleasant man who introduced himself as the head of Project Management and Cost Consultancy. Jake glanced at the proffered business card and was impressed by the string of letters after his name—BSc, MSc, MRICS, MAPM. He didn’t understand the last two but was intuitively sure that the consultant was as intelligent as his qualifications suggested. It was a pleasant surprise to find someone so competent in a small market town. Also, the man was charming. His friendly eyes edged by laughter wrinkles, while his receding hair was immaculately groomed. Above all, his manner conveyed that nothing was too much trouble. Nor should it be, Jake thought. After all, money talked. Also, he was avuncular and indulgent with Liffi’s bubbling enthusiasm.

Initially surprised by the nature of the request but flattered to be in the presence of the famous ideator of the Red Horse Vale Theme Park, the consultant talked about his architecture, planning and development teams. People, costs, timescales and quality considerations—nothing seemed to stand in the way of Liffi’s scheme. Gradually, the agent warmed to the idea of a tourist attraction involving re-enactment.

He pointed to the large-scale map on his wall. “The property is here.” He indicated a minor road near Goodmanham, in a flash of a showy cufflink. “And here…” He paused for effect. “Hard by is the Wolds Way. It runs from Hessle, near the Humber Bridge, up here, just past your land, and on…” he stood on tiptoe and reached the east coast, “to end here, eighty miles later, in Filey. Best fish and chips in Yorkshire.” He turned away from the map and beamed at Liffi. “You see, miss… er… madam, the potential for your idea is huge. There’s a Wolds Way Action Group. The footpath has been in existence since 1982, and they’ve removed all the stiles and are widening the kissing gates for wheelchair access. They’ve also installed the top ten experiences on the walk, ranging from a deserted medieval village, to a red kite sanctuary at Londesborough Park. How difficult do you think it would be to insert your temple into that little lot? You might consider creating accommodation for the hikers. You have space. But let’s talk time, money, and quality. We can create a 3D rendering of the temple as soon as the plans are ready. By the way, do you have a prototype design?”

Jake glanced wide-eyed with raised forehead at Liffi, but she surprised him by pulling out a glossy archaeological magazine from her big yellow handbag. She flicked through the pages, put it on the agent’s desk and pointed.

“Yeavering!” she said, with a flourish of her hand. “It was an Anglo-Saxon complex—”

“Yes, I know,” the consultant said, also surprising Jake. “In the Cheviots, Northumberland. Is there a ground plan of the temple? Ah, yes, here it is. Building D2, wooden construction. It says here, The only known example of such a site in England.”

“They found a pit full of oxen skulls next to it.” Liffi wore a malicious smirk. “But we’ll be offering no sacrifices.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” The consultant relaxed his taut shoulders. “What do you say, should we take a drive over there to check out the site?”

“Ooh, yes!” She almost bounced to the door.

Jake trudged up the rear. He had something of a hollow feeling he couldn’t quite interpret.

As he gazed across the valley bottom where the field was located, up to the rise where the footpath ran, he felt the familiar ache in his forehead—the usual supernatural indication he received whenever he was pressed to do something he didn’t want to. With a sinking feeling, he realised he would have to acquiesce to Liffi’s plans.

Handshakes, promises of contracts, and all the usual procedures, with an exchange of phone numbers, and the day’s business was done.

In the car, a jubilant Liffi begged to drive over for another look at her temple site. She wanted to pray there but didn’t think Jake was quite ready to accept that.

She also vowed to Freya that she’d convert him to Heathenry.