Winter Solstice

A sudden, late showing by a lacklustre sun coaxed us out of doors. It was already two o clock, but this was our last chance for a proper walk before the crazy onslaught of Christmas began in earnest. Walking the supermarket aisles wasn’t going to be enough exercise, so wrapped up against the midwinter chill, we set off.

Our walk was as familiar as an old friend. We took its comforting route every time the children (Katy and Alex) came home from university, a sweet reminder of the days when as they used to run and skip the footpaths as infants. The four of us strode away from suburbia, into the parkland of a once grand house, now an adult education college. The walk took us uphill towards the Georgian house, past ancient oaks too large to encircle and a few squat sheep intent on nibbling the tough, frosted grass. The lights inside the house made the ballroom look alive, as if the former occupants had decided to throw one last party. The windows were strung with tinsel and I was tempted to detour to the cafe for a hot chocolate and mince pie, maybe after the walk would be better. It was muddy underfoot, but not enough to put us off, and on the horizon adjacent to the house a herd of red deer, dark against the cloudless sky, looked like a Christmas card. There were perhaps forty of them, mainly does, but with a few stags dotted amongst them. The animals seemed to take no notice of us. They were too busy bellowing and calling to each other, their heads thrown back singing songs of dominance and romance. We were close enough to see their breath clouding the air, their thickly coated flanks heaving as they called. We kept quiet, pausing for a few moments while Kate, a fine arts student, took photographs on her camera.

We determined to press on to the Rotunda, an eighteenth century folly of a temple, perched just on the brow of a hill. The low sun illuminated the sand blasted stone, so that it looked newly built, rather than nearly three hundred years old. We had never walked this far before, but today we felt the pull of the place. To reach the folly we had to go through a stretch of woodland. It was much darker here and so quiet we were aware of each sound our footsteps made on the forest floor. We joked that it felt like entering the Forbidden Forest. A sudden thud of hoofs startled us. A dozen deer rushed towards us. We stood as still as we could; there was no time to move. They thundered past, missing us by inches. We held our breath as they passed, aware of their strength and weight and the massive breadth of the stags’ antlers.
“I think we should go back!” I said, fearful as usual.
“We’ll be fine,” my husband Matthew assured me. “They’re not interested in us. And anyway they’ve gone now.”
He was right; there was no sign of them. The woods had returned to silence.
“Let’s get to the folly and have a quick look,“ Kate added. “I think I can get some good shots before the sun drops any further.”

We all agreed and continued onto the Rotunda. It looked as though it had been transplanted from Ancient Rome. A perfect copy of the temple of Vesta, with ten steps leading up to the entrance, and above, a beautiful domed roof, it marked the edge of the parkland. We followed its curve back to the door and counting eighteen columns as we went. The panelled double oak doors were closed.
“It’s a pity it’s locked,” I said. “I've always wanted to have a peek inside.”
“Maybe it isn’t?” wondered Alex.
He turned the round iron handle and the doors opened with a slight push.
“Bonus,” said Alex.

We crowded the entrance, gazing into the room, almost afraid to step inside. The interior looked like a still life painting. The floor was paved with black and white tiles, the ceiling vaulted. Candelabra illuminated the scene, revealing a round table, dressed with a starched white tablecloth, porcelain plates, ornate flower arrangements and cutlery polished to a shine. Dishes filled to overflowing with delicious food and jugs brimmed with wine. Twelve chairs were pushed back, as if the guests had left, or were just about to arrive.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “This is supposed to be locked unless there’s a guided tour and garden tours are finished for winter.”
“Perhaps someone has hired it,” Kate wondered. “It would make a fantastic photo shoot. I say we go in. Dad, what do you think?”
Mathew gave a shrugged agreement.
“I don't think it would do any harm. Just don't break anything kids.”
Alex rolled his eyes and stepped into the Rotunda. “I get it. Look, don't touch.”
“Well remembered son.”
The chill of winter seemed to stop at the doors. Inside felt as warm as a summer afternoon, yet there was no sign of any heaters.
“You know, I thought the food might be fake,” said Kate, beginning to take photos, “but it definitely looks real, so do the flowers.”
“They smell gorgeous too,”I added.
Kate began to take shots of the room, circling the table as she worked. Zooming in on the flowers, she leant in to rearrange a rose, her fingertips grasping the stem. The whole flower crumbled into dust.
“Oh my God, did you see that? They must be really old.”
“They don't smell old.” I said. I reached to touch the soft rose petals and watched them crumble under my fingers.
“OK, the look don't touch rule is lifted. Let's all choose something to touch.”
I tentatively touched a goblet. It collapsed into a pile of golden dust.
“Freaky!” said Alex touching a knife and turning it to ash. Mathew picked up an apple and gazed at the green particles left on his palm. Despite the warmth of the room, I felt a chill run up my spine.
“This is getting a bit weird.” I looked at Mathew.
“I have no explanation. OK. Let's leave and maybe watch for a bit.”

We backed out of the Rotunda, closing the door softly before descending the steps. The sun was very low now, spreading a red and golden glow across the horizon. The air was bitterly cold. Yet around the Rotunda the grass had a Spring like hue and was dotted with daffodils.
Watching us nearby were the same dozen deer who had rushed past earlier. We crept past silently, not wanting to alarm them. After a few metres, we stopped near a large chestnut tree. The deer had disappeared, but stepping onto the bottom step of the folly were a man and woman. Both had auburn hair and headdresses adorned with deer antlers and flowers. She wore a corseted floor length dress, that shimmered and rustled as she walked up the steps. He wore a full-skirted knee-length coat, the frills of his shirt visible beyond the cuffs of the coat. His knee breeches, stockings and heeled shoes were unmistakedly eighteenth century.The door was open again and we could see more people seated around the table, all dressed the same way. We could hear their voices, but not the words.
“Come on,” whispered Mathew. “Let's get a closer look.”

We tiptoed back towards the Rotunda, aware of every leaf and twig that crunched beneath our feet. We reached the first step. The doors swung shut. No amount of pulling would open them. The woods were silent and slipping into darkness. Around the Rotunda, the grass was sprinkled with frost. We waited for what seemed like hours, the cold creeping along my arms and into my feet.
“Maybe we imagined it?” Alex said. “Like a sort of mass hysteria?”
He searched my face for answers.
“I don't think so, but I really have no idea.”
“We didn't imagine it,” said Kate pointing.
A few feet away was a silk evening glove. She bent to pick it up, but Matthew grabbed her arm.
“If you touch it, it could disappear,” he warned.
“OK, I'll take some photos first, just in case,” she said. “And maybe if I leave my gloves on it’ll make a difference.”
Bending to touch it, the silk glove under her own wool one transformed to gossamer.
“Damn,” whispered Alex.
“Bloody weird. Let’s go home,” said Matthew.“I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m having a hot toddy when we get back and it’s not just to warm me up.”
Reluctantly we left the Rotunda to its secrets and hurried home in the twilight.

Somehow, I don’t think any of us were surprised when Kate’s photographs of the inside of the Rotunda and the glove came out blank. We decided that perhaps the day had been significant. My imagination churned up thoughts of disappearances, rituals, even murder. But I could find nothing in the local archives or history books that shed any light on the matter, only sketchy facts about the construction and later disrepair of the Rotunda. Repeated walks that year revealed nothing unusual.

When the next Winter solstice returned, this time on a mild, cloudy afternoon, we repeated the walk, leaving at exactly the same time, even wearing the same clothes (Kate's idea). We found all of the gates to the Parkland were padlocked. We stood for a while, watching the deer on the hill and listening to them calling to each through the woods. As I turned to go, I thought I could see a welcoming glow coming from the Rotunda, but perhaps it was just a trick of the light.