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Iwalk an earthen pathway, an ancient labyrinth pattern winding around a steep hillside. The landscape of rural England is spread out below, mist muting colors of emerald and serpentine. At the crest of the hill stands a stone tower, the Glastonbury Tor. The Tor dates from the 1360's and is the last remaining structure of the Christian Church of St. Michael. The hill itself is linked to the legends of King Arthur and in Celtic tales is said to be the domain of the Faery King Gwyn ap Nudd. I reach the base of the Tor and lay my hand on stone. The cold surface speaks to me of many winters, the rough texture tells of centuries of wind and rain. At some hour in the past this stone was placed by a hand not so different from my own. In the heart of the Tor I gaze up at a square of silver sky in the open roof. Wind rushes through the arched doorways, swirling around me and pulling my hair straight up like smoke through a chimney. My voice is drawn up as well, pouring out of my body, rising up toward the mysterious, infinite heavens.