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esus； those awful features； eyes that saw and understood 。 。 。 and gloated！
The curate wilted beneath its baleful stare； the cavity of a mouth seeming to grin down at him。 'Hurry； for the Wicker Man is hungry and the gods must be appeased before they wreak their vengeance upon those who serve them。'
The Oke Priests dragged him with a new haste； pulling him so close to the effigy that he could no longer meet those terrible eyes。 He almost fell but was pulled upright。 He tried to scream； an incoherent sound that brought jeers from his captors like nightmarish echoes of his own voice。 He wanted to faint； prayed for unconsciousness that would merge painlessly into death so that when he awoke he would find himself in the heaven about which he had preached so emphatically to his congregations。 Instead he remained in this living hell which only needed the fires to be lit。
The straw man had no rear； a kind of half silhouette so that the interior could be reached by means of a short； crude ladder made from stout branches tied together。 An empty shell； an Adam waiting to be given life。 Somehow Owen's feet found the rungs； the druids' hands moving him like a robot； supporting him so that he did not fall。 Now he was inside the thing； his paralysed arms being thrust into the Wicker Man's sleeves； a tight fit that held him upright even though his legs sagged and refused to bear his weight。
Oh God； the stench； it was the foul； nauseating odour of uncleaned stables； the acrid smell of excreta and urine。 He tried to hold his breath but could not； retched and vomited so that the spew ran down his cassock。 Choking； gasping for breath and drawing in putrefaction； the stink of sheer evil！
He had resigned himself to death； praying not for deliverance but that he might be spared pain。 'Oh Lord； I am weak and frail 。。。 let me pass over into Thy 。 。 。 '
For the first time he realised that he could see out of this claustrophobic； suffocating prison； that his head fitted snugly into that of the straw man as though these ancient Oke Priests had decided upon their victim beforehand and made it to measure。 Through the nostrils he could breathe the cold damp air of a bygone morning； through the eyeslits he could see the gathering of cloaked figures standing a few yards away； that tall Arch Druid gazing up at him； the death…like features twisted into a mask of sheer hatred。
'Blasphemer； traitor；' the other's words hung in the still atmosphere。 'May your death appease the wrath of the old ones。 And may those who join you in this sacrilege and treachery be warned by your own fate。'
One of the priests stepped forward and handed a burning crackling branch to their leader。 A hiss of eagerness came from the watchers。 'Burn the false one； O Aida！'
That was when Philip Owen discovered that his vocal chords were working again。 A sharp intake of breath and he realised that his speech had returned。 He did not scream。 Indeed； he was beyond the terror barrier。 Instead he spoke with a voice that had no more than a slight quaver in it as though he was addressing the congregation at Matins。 Slightly condescending； avoiding the temptation to blaspheme and ask God to forgive them for they knew not what they did。 They knew all right and nothing on earth was going to stop them from burning him alive！
Tell me； O priests of an old religion； why you do this to me。 Kill me if you will but at least explain to me why I am to die。 Surely you would not spill innocent blood。'
'Innocence？' The one called Aldastared up with shocked disbelief； holding the flaming brand at arms1 length so that the billowing； pungent smoke did not envelop him。 'You are not innocent； blasphemer。 You have been tried and found guilty by the Oke Priests and there can be no reversal of their findings。'
'But what have I done？ In the name of God； tell me！'
'In the name of the old ones； at the risk of trying their patience； I will tell you。' Alda moved nearer； an expression of annoyance at this unnecessary delay on his stretched countenance。 'Your new religion replaced our ancient one； which we accepted because the new race demanded it。 But we； the Oke Priests； were not dead。 We lived on in this place； tolerated your Church because your God was merely a symbol of our gods。 But now 。 。 。 now greed has prevailed and this sacred land is to be used for worship no more； desecrated and made into a place for those who walk with sin to live upon！ Deny that if though wilt； O false priest。'
The Reverend Philip Owen swallowed； experienced a sudden rush of guilt。 The old man； whoever he was； spoke the truth。 To deny it would be to lie in the eyes of his own God as well as their gods。
The Bishop 。 。 。 the vicar；' the curate found himself blustering like a guilty schoolboy discovered in an empty mon room with a cigarette smouldering in an ashtray。 Protests only confirmed his guilt in the eyes of his captors。
'You plead for mercy but your pleas are in vain；' Alda snarled and in one movement tossed the blazing branch amongst the brushwood around the Wicker Man's feet。 'The guilt of your fellows is also your guilt。 Now you die and so will they if they do not heed this warning！'
Philip Owen closed his eyes； heard the crackling and spitting of dry kindling； smelled the woody smoke drifting up from beneath him。 He coughed； retched； tasted bile； looked out again through those eyeholes and saw the gathering half hidden by the swirling smoke。 A noise reached his ears； a monotonous chanting sound like some kind of tuneless psalm。
One last determined effort at self…survival； but his muscles refused to respond。 It was as though his whole body had been drugged； leaving only his mind free to suffer the tortures of fire。 A brief moment of sheer panic and after that he did not fight against the inevitable again。 It was being unbearably hot in here and no longer could he see outside。 His eyes streamed and smarted but he was unable to close them。
'Yea； though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death； I will fear no evil 。。。 * He wondered if he spoke aloud but it was impossible to tell because that chanting outside had risen to a deafening crescendo。 A shout； a word or a name that was recognisable： 'Edda 。 。 。 Edda 。 。 。 Edda
Now he was clinging to a frail thread of life； fighting to stay conscious even though he yearned for the peace of death。 Screaming because his feet were beginning to smoulder； smelling his own roasting flesh and being unable to vomit。
Then leaping flames and indescribable agony； the smoky orange blackness enveloping him as his cassock caught fire and inferno roared its wrath like an enraged dragon。
And somewhere； far away； the Oke Priests were still chanting。
'Edda 。 。 。 Edda 。 。 。 Edda ； 。 ； '
CHAPTER TWO
BISHOP BOYCE wanted to vomit at the first opportunity。 Vicar Mannering had done so openly in St Monica's churchyard and the gathering of police officers had not even seemed to notice。 Yet； Boyce told himself； it might be all right for a mere vicar to spew in public； his plexion a greenish hue； but it was not being for a bishop； the head of the diocese。 He gulped； tasted the sharp acrid tang of bile in his throat； and determined not to look again at that charred； virtually unrecognisable thing that lay in an area of scorched grass between two tombstones。 The one on the right； that once…impressive monument to Sir Henry Grayne； looked as though somebody had attempted to remove the lush growth of moss from the marble with a blowtorch。 They had only succeeded in rendering it to a blackened stump like a giant decayed tooth。
'You're sure this is 。 。 。 ' the Detective Inspector almost said； '〃was〃 。。。 the Reverend Owen？'
'It's the curate； all right/ Boyce turned away； took a deep breath and hoped that he wouldn't throw up。 'I recognise the skull formation 。 。 。 also that ring he's wearing。' The former was a lie； no； more of a guess。 The latter was true。 At least； Owen always wore a signet ring。
'Well； we'll have to leave the CID chaps to scour this churchyard。' The police officer stroked a neat pencil moustache and was only too willing to retire to the local station and mence his written report。 Anything to get away from that！
'I suppose 。 。 。 * Boyce drew a deep breath and was well aware how his heart was pounding inside his fleshy chest； 'I suppose you've no idea 。 。 。 I mean； how could a body just bee incinerated like that？'
'I've no idea；' Detective Inspector Groome spoke abruptly。 'There does not appear to have been any fire except that which consumed the body。 Although the undergrowth and that adjoining tomb are scorched； they aren't burned。^
'Perhaps he was struck by lightning；' Boyce offered； habitually extending his tongue and licking a small wart which grew on his thick lower lip。
'There was no storm last night。'
'A thunderbolt then。'
'Or the Hammer of Thor；' the policeman said sarcastically as he turned away。 'These boys will e up with the answer in due course； Bishop。 In the meantime I've got work to do。 I'll be in touch with you。'
Bishop Boyce stood there in the lychgate and waited for his posure to return。 He was badly shaken but he hoped the others had not noticed it。 Certainly Mannering hadn't。 If there had been foul play then it was beyond his own ken。 And that was what really worried him。
Bishop Boyce stood six feet； four…and…a…half inches in his stockinged feet。 He'd gained a Blue at Oxford for rugby and had boxed well in those far off days when his huge body had been rippling muscle。 Now； at fifty； that muscle had turned to fat； and the small eyes which were almost buried in the fleshy sockets demanded that glasses be worn； rimless ones that gave him a sort of owlish appearance。 His dark hair had silvered and was thinning outwards from the crown。 During his appearances at cathedral services his capacious robes hid the full extent of his expanding stomach； and rarely was he to be seen publicly except on diocesan business。 He liked to think that people described him as 'a big man'。 Size was imposing； authoritative； it dominated lesser men。
Once back in his limousine； his chauffeur having been instructed to return to the palace； Boyce pulled a cigar out of his leather case； expertly bit off the end and spat it through the partly open window with no small degree of accuracy。 He drew the rich havana smoke down into his lungs and expelled it slowly。 He wouldn't throw up now。 Owen was dispensable； as was any mediocre curate。 Young men were queuing up to join the Church； professing to having received a 'calling' because jobs were scarce。 So they kidded the Church to let them kid the people。 Bloody fools； it was a career just like industry or banking。 If you were clever enough you got to the top and then other opportunities opened up to you 。 。 。 like that tract of Sand adjoining St Monica's churchyard。 That fool Owen might have had the courtesy to get himself burned up somewhere else。 The last thing the bishop wanted was for the police to start nosing around too much just there。
Back at the palace he moved swiftly in spite of his bulk； strode down the long carpeted corridor to his study with an ease reminiscent of his athletic days at university。 By the time he reached his desk； lifted the telephone receiver off its cradle and began to dial； his body was damp with sweat but that had nothing to do with his recent exertions。
The call was answered almost immediately at the other end； a girl's voice informing him that he was connected to the offices of the county council。
'Get me the Planning Officer' he barked； and waited again； drumming his fingers nervously on the desktop。
'Stone speaking。' Clipped tones that reminded him of that inspector in the cemetery。 Damn it； the police were getting on his nerves。
'Boyce here。' Impatient； chewing on the soggy butt of that cigar which had gone out on the journey back here。
'Bishop； why 。 。 。 '
'Look； I'll have to be…brie