To the best of her knowledge, Vera was twenty-two years old. And by the time she finished tying the laces of her running trainers on this early October morning, she had ten hours and fourteen minutes remaining of the life she knew in a little town called Glastonbury in the southwest of England.
Glastonbury’s highest buildings topped out at three stories. And still, when the air was just right, wind whipped down the High Street as if in a tunnel. You could almost smell that something there was not simply ancient but sacred. Many tourists have driven near to Glastonbury with the aim of passing by, but were drawn in. All it took was coming close enough to town to see the Tor, the mystical hill that rises above the landscape with its singular stone tower just ruins, really perched at the peak.
A passerby aims to pass by, sees the Tor, is drawn in, goes home, and says to the people they love the most, “You have to come and see it, too.” And so, pilgrimages to this place began some 10,000 years ago. To even the slightly attuned spirit, Glastonbury positively hums with sacred energy, a mystery never to be solved and always held like a breath of anticipation.
The only poor soul who would say in skeptical disbelief, “A hill? You want me to come see…. a hill?” simply hasn’t seen it yet or, bless them…