The Girl in the Stone Circle

By Karen Hayes

The Girl in the Stone Circle is Karen Hayes’ latest novel.

In an isolated village in Cornwall, strangled by the legends of Bodmin moor, a small community struggle to come to terms with the tragic events that happened in their midst over forty years ago.

A seventeen year old girl, Lizzie, mysteriously disappeared, and some villagers whisper her spirit has been haunting the moors ever since.

When a new vicar, Emma, arrives in the village she begins to challenge these beliefs, questioning the superstitions and belittling the power of the moors.
Until a stranger arrives in town: a man of unknown origin, a man whose only gods are those of the moors. And suddenly Emma’s not so sure.

The two are thrown together, amidst the chaotic but secretive lives of the locals. And as the events of the past, as well as mounting trouble in the village, begin tightening around them, so does the danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Hayes
• Release date: Oct 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301869602

Book preview

Chapter 1

Two identical figures dressed in long black coats, filthy trousers, dark caps and crusty boots walked slowly but relentlessly in the amber light of an early September dawn towards the village of Polrock, on Bodmin Moor. Brothers, their house was on the outskirts, the last habitation before open moorland. They were in their fifties and no one had seen them apart, or wearing anything other than the same hats and dank wool coats.

Jake Carey, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he stepped out of his yellow van, raised a hand in greeting to the brothers but received no more than a cursory look in reply. There was no malevolence in the look, though Jake was parked right outside their house in a lay-by nearly obscured by brambles. There was no curiosity either.

Jake’s van, though dusty, stood stark amongst the foliage of scrub oak, ivy, gorse. Behind the van the brothers’ house bulged from a tangle of nettles and docks, with grass clawing upwards towards the low branches of the fir trees surrounding the place. The house itself was slate, but cracked in spots, and the roof languished under a blanket of moss and the abandoned nests of sparrows.

Jake Carey watched the brothers walk in step down the hill, then grabbed a small canvas rucksack with his passport, some cash and the keys to his van – the only items of value he possessed. On impulse he reached back to grab a towel, not bothering to shut the window, giving the vehicle, his bed and lodgings when he was on the move a taste of the cool Bodmin air stirring up the yellow sky.

There was a cluster of people and animals milling around the common, a long grassy verge sloping down to the river not far from the pub and tiny village shop. Odd for this early hour, Jake thought, even in the country. He saw that the two identical brothers he’d seen leaving their house were there, standing on the sidelines watching as dogs, children, adults with walking sticks and flasks, mingled, apparently waiting for something or someone.

Feeling dishevelled and sleep-ridden, Jake skirted the crowd and headed down the slope to the river. The way down was mottled with gorse and bracken but there was a rough track that the sheep used. Foxgloves signposted the way down, interspersed with brambles.

The river itself was full of surprises, vacillating between shallow water idling over fine sand, and rapids churning mud and stones. Jake found a rock pool nearly hidden by withy trees and stripped off, blanching as the cold water straight from the moor slapped against his big tough body. He stayed in long enough to wash away the sweat of his long drive yesterday and the slumber of the night, then dried himself and dressed, stuffing the towel into his rucksack.

From up on the common came more sounds of people gathering: shouts of greeting, laughter, the barking of dogs. Blackbirds and chaffinches added to the commotion. Instead of going back up the track, Jake Carey sidetracked over a precarious wooden bridge, following a twisty path hemmed in on either side with rampant hedgerows.

It led to the church, squatting on its own in a nest of tombstones. A weathered oak door stood open, as if God was beckoning, but Jake preferred to stay outdoors and breathe the clean air that held a hint of earth and compost.

That was how the Reverend Emma Taylor saw him the first time, rising out of the graveyard like a mossy green giant in his olive shirt and khaki trousers. His hair was thick hay and still wet around the edges, but the reflection of yew and oak leaves, the emerald grass hugging the tombstones, made it look verdant, lush.

For a moment neither of them knew quite what to say. Emma had come out of the hushed sacredness of the church expecting to be greeted by nothing more than birdsong, and here was the tallest, broadest man she had ever seen crackling leaves and branches with his sturdy boots as he took a step towards her. Sorry, didn’t know anyone was in there. He wasn’t sure quite what he was apologizing for, except for the startled look on the woman’s face.

Emma felt disoriented, as if she’d stumbled into a different time, or a timeless time. It was not an unfamiliar feeling; she’d had it once or twice before since her recent move to the area. She’d just been admiring yet again the intricate rood screen in the church, and the carved face of the Green Man, that ancient pagan symbol of regeneration, of fertility. There were many in Cornwall, carved into Medieval churches. Strange faces, some with leaves and branches for hair, some with foliage tumbling out of their mouths as if they were the voice of the trees themselves.

They unnerved Emma. Why had they been carved in churches? Those old builders were hedging their bets, she thought. Christianity had taken over but the old pagan beliefs had not died. Sometimes as she prayed in St Michael’s she felt she could see the Green Man carved on the ceiling watching her. Mocking her? Or was it pity.

Shaking her head, she brought herself back to the present, to this man who looked so like the carving in the church. He had to move a low branch of a holly tree to take a step closer and for a moment it gave the illusion of berries and branches growing from his unkempt hair.

The silence was going on too long between them. Emma shook off the disorientation she’d felt since she first saw the man and said, her voice brisk, Are you here to see the church? It’s certainly worth a look. There’s a beautiful rood screen, and a splendid Green Man. People come from all over to see him.

The man nodded. Ah, the ubiquitous Green Man. Our link with nature.

I’m not quite sure what he’s supposed to be; everyone seems to have a different idea. I’ve read so many stories about him. No one quite knows what his origins are. I’ve seen him in several churches and he always seems so enigmatic.

He’s watching over the landscape. And reminding us that we’re part of it. We can’t get away from our earthy roots.

Ah. Emma didn’t know what to say to this. The strangeness of this man, this conversation, was slightly unnerving. It was after all very early, barely light. Hardly a time for a visitor to pop in and admire the rood screen or the Green Man. And he didn’t look like he was there for an early morning prayer, like she was. She’d come to find a few minutes of peace, of contemplation, before the long arduous day ahead.

Well, I mustn’t keep you. You want to have a look at our church. And I must go. The beating of the boundaries will start soon.

Is that what’s going in the village? He ran his fingers through his fractious hair, as if trying to comb it. She noticed he had a reckless look about him, as if he were ready to do anything, and wondered why, now that her surprise had passed, she wasn’t the least bit frightened. St Michael the Archangel had been built, originally, on the site of a Celtic burial ground, and though the village had moved up towards the smoother flatter land above the river, subsequent churches had been built over the same isolated spot. They were quite alone, the two of them.

He was not one of the locals, then, if he didn’t know about the beating of the bounds today. It’s a tradition that’s goes back centuries, the villagers walking around the entire boundaries of the place – twelve miles, I’ve heard. Staking their claim to the land, making sure of it I suppose. She smiled at him, trying to keep her face courteously bland, but he could see it was full of curiosity.

This made him smile too, and the awkwardness eased between them. No, I’m not from around here, just passing through,’ he offered, answering her unasked question. ‘Spent the night in my van not far from the common.

Emma wondered again why she didn’t feel nervous. So many things around here made her anxious, for she’d always lived in cities. Being suddenly thrust in the middle of this wild rambling moorland would take some getting used to. I’d better go, she said. They’ll be starting soon, and I should be there for that. The church is open. I hope you enjoy your visit.

I hadn’t actually planned on seeing the church, to tell the truth. But I could do with a good long walk. The beating of the bounds sounds just the thing.

What was he doing in this isolated place, at this hour of the morning, if not visiting the church? But she said nothing and he followed her out of the churchyard into the lane. Instead of turning right towards the river, she took the narrow road left which curved back around to the village. Cattle meditated in the fields and blackberries fattened in the hedgerows, and in the lane there was a muddy smell of sheep and lanolin. Emma brushed a persistent fly away from her face and tried to think of something to say.

And failed. The man was following her, seemingly content with his own silence. They walked on like this for some time. Birdsong rang out from trees and shrubs.

A house set back in bushes of hydrangea and rhododendrons came upon them unexpectedly as they turned a corner. A wooden plaque read, The Old Rectory. Jake said, The Church owns some fine property.

They stopped at the gate to look at the place which was tall and grey, imperious. Emma said, The Church sold it off years ago. The vicar lives in another parish, but when I take over I’ll have the new vicarage down below, on that long slope going down towards the river that the villagers call the common. That’s where everyone is meeting now.

He didn’t know what surprised him most, the fact that she was a vicar or the troubled tone in her voice. He knew she was a priest by her dog collar, but she seemed far too tentative to be running a parish. Then she surprised him again by taking a deep breath, looking at him squarely, and saying, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself right away. I’m Emma Taylor. In exactly one month I’ll be the new vicar of St Michael the Archangel. Then she grinned. And I shouldn’t say this, but I’m terrified out of my wits. It’s my first big job.

Before Jake could reply to this, or even tell her his name, shouting distracted them. Here Jip, Shep, you leave the buggers be. You lay one bleedin’ paw on the lambs and you’ll be dead dogs.

There was a mournful howling and barking, and some hard swearing. Jake and Emma were in front of the next house down now, a once fine farmhouse with a slate roof and walls of granite stone. In the front yard were bits of forlorn farm machinery, rusted beyond any use. There was a pile of blue plastic fertilizer bags and an abandoned trailer, nettles growing up amongst its rotted wood. A woman was pulling shut the splintered door whilst yelling to the dogs outside. Two lambs, nearly grown, pestered the woman, bumping at her fat knees with their blunt noses, looking for feed. Their uncut tails waggled like puppies. Stop yer leapin about, you two. She gave them a shove, but not cruelly. Get back, y’hear? Bloody dogs, never pay no mind t’nothin. She carried on berating them as she left her place and walked into the road.

The three met in the lane. Embarrassment and animosity tinted the air between them. Jake and Emma felt they had witnessed something private, and indeed the woman was staring at them with the look of someone who had been found naked. Yet she was well clothed for an early September morning, even though there was an unseasonable bite to the sly wind that had quickened since sunrise. She was wearing a wool skirt that touched the rim of her Wellington boots, and several layers of jumpers and cardigans. The top one was torn at both elbows, as was the zip in her skirt. Her white hair sprung out like blowsy clouds from under a brown scarf knotted under her chin, and another scarf, hand knit and chunky, bound her neck over her massive shoulders. She was short and nearly fat, but hard and sturdy as one of the ancient menhirs up on the moor.

Emma tried to speak first, no more than good morning to begin with, but her words were torn away by the sheepdogs leaping and yowling, not in aggression but in frenzied high spirits. Jip, Shep, shut up!

The silence was like the sting of wasps, sudden and shocking. The dogs froze, tails hidden, and the woman’s face had the look of the Green Man in the church: stony, with some intense emotion neither Jake nor Emma could fathom. Neither of them knew what to say.

A magpie broke the quiet, its wings loud as it flapped through the branches of a beech tree to land on a bit of fencing not far down the road. This broke the spell, for the dogs went dementedly after the bird and the woman said, Who the hell are you?

Jake started to speak, to take the brunt off Emma, but the creamy blue of the woman’s eyes, bulbous under pink-framed spectacles, were fixated on the vicar. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded again, her voice overlapping his. A piece of fuse wire hung down from a broken handle of her glasses, which were so old-fashioned as to be almost stylish again.

I’m the Reverend Emma Taylor, the new vicar at St Michael’s. Emma’s voice was steady. And you are . . .?

Lizzie? Her voice was low, sibilant. There was something in it which made Emma shiver. The magpie shrieked at them from a high perch in an oak at the side of the road, where it had flown from the sheepdogs. Agitated by the chase, the dogs began jumping up on the woman.

This distraction seemed to pull her together, for she tugged her eyes away from Emma’s face, shook her head, mumbled, ‘Mistook you for someone else."

Emma looked relieved. She said again, in what Jake would later teasingly call her smiling vicar’s voice, ‘And you are ..?’

At first the woman looked as if she wouldn’t answer but finally blurted, ‘Maddie. Maddie Tremayne.’ Jake noticed the sudden panic in the woman’s voice, as if giving away her name to strangers was like giving away her soul. He took a step forward, to be between her and Emma. And I’m Jake Carey. We’re just off to the beating of the bounds, are you heading that way? He touched Emma’s arm lightly, indicating they move on, but Maddie was blocking their way.

Beating of the bounds? You, a stranger? Her attention was now centred on Jake.

Visitors are always welcome, Emma said quickly." Jake was trying to ease her away but Maddie Tremayne stayed cemented in front of them. There was bewilderment behind the spectacles now, and a wary distress. Sweat was covering her lined face despite the cool wind. There was something both pathetic and menacing about her, an uneasy combination.

We’d better get on, we’ll be late, Jake said. But even as he spoke, Maddie began trembling, her limbs and lips uncontrollable, her face distorted. The vicar gave a small cry and instinctively ran to her to help, but Maddie pushed her, hard. Though Emma was sturdy herself, she was far slimmer than the older woman, and the shock of it sent her flying.

Get away from me. Don’t you dare lay a hand on me!

Jake went to Emma first, though Maddie was gasping for breath against the gatepost to her house, shivering and sweating. Emma had fallen into the hedgerow at the side of the road but was already getting up, stunned but unharmed. Maddie cried again, her voice stronger this time, Get her away, y’hear? She turned to Jake pleadingly.

Emma was fumbling in the pockets of her cotton jacket. She had on jeans and a rust-coloured jumper and was wearing hiking boots that looked brand new. Jake thought irrelevantly that she’d have blisters on her feet if she were planning on doing the whole walk.

She found her mobile, switched it on. Maddie shouted, What the devil are you doing?

Phoning a doctor. Her voice was cool, professional. Jake wondered why she was so worried about her new job as vicar; she sounded as if she’d handled crises all her life.

But Maddie had got a grip on herself and was moving again, quick as a fox, towards the other woman. You do that and I’ll kill you, understand?

Emma dropped the phone. Jake grabbed Maddie, pulled her back. One of the dogs took the mobile and ran off with it, the other yapping in frustration behind him. Maddie muttered, I ain’t having a doctor, is that clear? Nothing wrong with me. I had a turn, nothing to call a doctor for. Her voice was calmer but her breathing still erratic. She made no move to call back her dogs.

Jake studied her for a few seconds. The trembling had eased and she did look less ill than she had moments ago. He said to Emma, You go on down, I’ll stay with her a minute, make sure she’s all right. He tried a smile. And I’ll have a go at finding your phone, too.

Don’t worry about that. Are you sure I shouldn’t . . .?

The woman interrupted her. If she’s thinking of calling the quack I’ll not see him, so tell her not to waste her time. And tell her to leave me alone, y’hear me? Get her away from me!

Emma, taken aback, nodded to Jake and went on down the lane towards the grassland. When she was out of sight, Maddie leaned against the gate again, though the quaking had stopped altogether. She looked relieved, though Jake couldn’t figure out why. There was nothing threatening about Emma. On the contrary, her physical appearance was reassuring: a confident body, neither fat nor thin; red-brown hair cut short, rough and thick like the healthy fur of an animal in winter; and a smile far too wide and lopsided for her narrow face and deep-set eyes. The smile should have been detracting, but instead made her look quirky.

And endearingly so, Jake thought as he turned again towards Maddie, wondering if he could leave her now, wanting suddenly to get back to the village, catch up with Emma. This made him remember her phone. It took some time to find it, hidden in some brambles at the roadside where the dog had dropped it. He picked it up, saw it looked unharmed, and stuck it in the rucksack still slung over his shoulders.

When he looked at Maddie again she was walking down the lane towards the common.

Look, are you okay? He caught up with her, adjusted his step to hers.

Fine. Her voice was curt.

Can I help in any way? Get someone? Shouldn’t you sit down for a bit? She was still the colour of sour milk, an odd white, like a dying lily.

She stopped, faced him as well as she could, with his height and her lack of it. "I said, I’m fine. And if you’re planning on stopping in this village then you better learn quick: Maddie Tremayne needs help from nobody. I let folk be, and they let me be. Understand?"

Jake Carey, who hadn’t planned on stopping in Polrock more than a day or two, suddenly, impulsively, changed his mind. He flapped a smile quick as a hummingbird’s wings down at Maddie. Understood. I’ll be off then. See you again.

Before she could take more than a couple of steps, he was away down the road, his hand reaching behind him to check that Emma’s phone was still safe in his rucksack.

The brothers Jake had met coming out of their house were still standing on the top of the common when he rounded the corner past the pub, the Twisted Oak, into the village centre. Emma was nowhere in sight in the crowd of well over a hundred. Men with sheepdogs were sniffing the air importantly, discussing the possibility of rain, while the woman tried to restrain over-excited children. Some nodded absent-mindedly to the brothers, but most ignored them, except for a spindly man of middle age who broke away from his group and strolled up to the brothers purposefully. He began talking quickly, his voice low but harsh. Jake Carey was just close enough to hear, despite the sound of the river down below, and the animal noises of sheep and cattle and moorland ponies grazing on the grassy slope.

What the hell are you out and about for? You got no business at the beating of the bounds. The man’s scraggy face was sumptuous in the early light.

Our village too, Fernley Pollard.

The brother who spoke was a bit taller than the other, and broader in the face, but other than that, there was not much between them. Their faces were charcoal etchings, sketched with the grime of years, and their lips were less flesh than cracks and crevices. Yet they had strong teeth, big and grey as boulders.

Fernley said, Get on back to that shithole you live in and leave us decent folk be.

The brothers’ faces, which had remained expressionless since Jake Carey had first seen them leave their house, changed, but barely perceptibly, like the grass on the moorland before a storm, quivering though the air had not yet altered. Yet there was stubbornness there too, and defiance.

Our time’s come, Fernley. You ain’t gonna stop us no more.

The non-speaking brother nodded. They both had eyes rimmed with soot, and long black lashes grown smudgy through lack of bathwater, or maybe tears. It made them look exotic from a distance, like medieval troubadours from lands nobody had heard of.

Those eyes had never left Fernley’s face during this talk, and seeing insolence in them, or else his own fear, he raised a clenched fist towards the mouth of the smaller brother. Instinctively Jake Carey stepped forward, placing the bulk of him between the brothers and their attacker. Fernley’s fist fell uselessly against Jake’s chest at the same time as a woman cried, Fernley, what’re you doing? Leave them alone!

Her voice was quiet but sharp, and she looked around furtively to see if any of the others on the common had been watching. The only one was an Anglican priest, a man with white hair and a fine nose, which he wrinkled distastefully on approaching.

Jake Carey, still standing between the brothers and Fernley Pollard, was not quite sure whether the distaste was for the rancid odour rising like dew from the former, or the un-God-like swearing of the latter, who was cursing Jake soundly for interfering. Who the hell are you? And what the fuck are you doing? His hand had fallen reluctantly back down at his side, but his fingers kept twitching. His body strained upward, heels lifted, shoulders raised, but he was still a foot shorter than Jake.

The clergyman said, Well, well, what appears to be the trouble here, Fernley? Hello, Brenda. I don’t think your husband heard me; he seems to be rather distraught about something. His voice had the dry rustle of dead leaves.

Fernley, noticing the priest at last, looked at his hand, as if surprised to see it had clenched again into a fist. Hello, Miles. He lifted his head and nodded, but the politeness was forced. I was just telling these two that perhaps they should go home, spruce themselves up a bit, before joining the rest of us at the beating of the bounds.

The woman, Brenda, was pulling at his arm. C’mon, Fernley, we’ll be starting soon, you need to see to things. Bye for now, Vicar. Going to be a nice day for it, I think. She unfurled her lips in a smile of appeasement at him, acknowledging Jake Carey by a tilt of her chin, in which there was hidden a faint gratitude.

The vicar, watching them go, said nothing until they were out of hearing then turned to the brothers. I should keep clear of Fernley. No good will come of hounding him now. What’s done is done. His voice was so mild it could have been the thin wind coming off the moorland.

They looked at him blandly and turned their backs, began their steady walk amongst the still swelling crowd. The vicar turned to Jake, who was trying to edge away unostentatiously. I don’t think we’ve met, have we? I’m the Reverend Miles Parkinson. The vicar of St Michael the Archangel. Or should I say, the retiring vicar. He held out his hand.

Jake Carey. He took the man’s boneless old hand, shook it.

Miles said, Here for the day, for the beating of the bounds? He didn’t seem to need an answer, for he went right on without even looking at Jake. The villagers wouldn’t miss it, of course, but it’s amazing how many others come. People from Bodmin, Launceston, other towns. Even Truro. And the tourists now, of course, not to mention the second-homers. All out to see a bit of local tradition.

He excused himself then as someone called to say they were about to begin.

At the other end of the common Jake saw Emma, surrounded by people at the head of the walkers. There were other folk he had met too: the strange woman Maddie Tremayne who was standing alone, a look of both fierceness and an odd expression of angry grief. Fernley Pollard, the man who had tried to hit one of the brothers, was spluttering something to his wife Brenda as she tried to hush him, gazing apprehensively at others who were watching.

Jake stood watching, taking it all in. Yes, he’d stop here for a while. It was time he settled, even if it turned out to be no more than a week or two. It might as well be Cornwall as anywhere else.

Chapter 2

Lizzie Tremayne

This morning I woke just before dawn and heard one lone bird singing so far away I thought I was dreaming. And then a pallid light seeped into the darkness, fresh as butter, and I knew it would spread across the night sky and I could breathe easy again. The night was over.

I went to the window and saw the sunrise, the colour of heather and gorse, and though I tried to defuse them they exploded inside me. It was the sky out there, that peculiar shade of yellow iced with lavender, the kind I’ve only seen up on the moor and only on certain days, rare days.

Alex. I try not to think of Alex, but today his name and face floats in front of me, a cloud of regret and longing. It is time now that I write about Alex, and about all the other events of that autumn. It is time now, to tell everything, and to tell it truthfully.

The sky was the same colour that morning it began. It was the first of September, 1967, the day of my 17th birthday. I woke up happy, I remember that, despite Mother. She had forgotten the day, and so had Father. It was only Maddie who said, before I could open my eyes, Happy birthday, Lizzie. I woke up quickly, thanked her; we smiled at each other. It’s odd how I remember that smile, for I have forgotten other things about Maddie. But for a moment we were true sisters, connected not just by blood and birth but by love and compassion.

She didn’t say anything more nor did I. It never occurred to us to embrace, to kiss; the Tremayne family didn’t do such things. The only time I was touched by Mother or Father was in anger. It was the same with Maddie, though I believe I got the brunt of their rage. Maddie, though slow, even a bit simple, was accommodating: she did what she was told. I didn’t, not always. Perhaps because I was three years younger, perhaps I was just more determined. Father, when he bothered to speak to us, said I was mean-spirited, defiant. Mother, having grown up in the Old Rectory, the rector’s daughter and still a churchgoer, said the Devil was in me. Both had their ways of punishing it out of me.

But they were in an amiable mood that morning, for it was the day of the beating of the bounds. Like all the other villagers, Mother and Father set great store by this tradition, feeling it their duty to once again establish the boundaries of Polrock, just as their parents and grandparents had. It only happened every three years, sometimes four, so it was a lively event and well attended, though the walk was well over ten miles.

No one said anything about my birthday and I didn’t remind them, nor did Maddie. We always kept quiet; we knew from long experience that the less we called attention to ourselves at home, the better.

The common was crowded when we got there. Mother and Father disappeared into the mob and Maddie wandered off, leaving me free to mingle on my own. I knew nearly everyone there, though there weren’t many I wanted to say more than good morning to. I wasn’t arrogant nor a snob, though I was called that and worse. Because I went into the 6th form, against the parents’ wishes, and had determined to go to university, the villagers said I was too uppity, above myself. Old Mrs Pollard even asked Mother if I thought I was too good for her son Fernley. Their farm bordered ours, and Fernley had been pestering me for a year. To get engaged, he said, though all he wanted to do was to have sex with me, like he had with most of the girls in the village. Not that he was so special. On the contrary, he had a calculating face, shiftless eyes, and a way of using any means he could to get what he wanted.

Mother was furious, when Mrs Pollard confronted her. You’ve interfered enough, she hollered, so that Maddie and I could hear her from the kitchen as they sat talking in the parlour. "How can someone like you accuse my daughter of putting on airs, with