The Firehills Read online

  The Firehills

  The

  Firehills

  STEVE ALTON

  Carolrhoda Books, Inc. • Minneapolis

  I would like to thank my wife, Karin, as ever; Dr. David Morfitt, for excellent advice on all things historical; Jack Todhunter, who continues to teach me; my team of volunteer readers—Sharon, Flo, and Anne; and the people of the town of Hastings, for keeping the spirit of Jack-in-the-Green alive.

  Copyright © 2005 by Steve Alton

  Jacket photographs © 2005 Todd Strand/Independent Picture Service All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Carolrhoda Books, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review. Carolrhoda Books, Inc.

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Alton, Steve.

  The Firehills / by Steve Alton.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Charly, a recently initiated Wiccan, and her friend Sam reunite at the Green Man Festival in England, and this time find themselves battling the Sidhe, ancient faeries who are trying to conquer the world. eISBN: 0-8225-6303-7

  [1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Wizards—Fiction. 3. Witches—Fiction. 4. Fairies—

  Fiction. 5. Space and time—Fiction. 6. England—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.A466Fir 2005

  [Fic]—dc22

  2005007507

  Manufactured in the Unites States of America 1 2 3 4 5 6 – BP – 11 10 09 08 07 06

  For Ben

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Legends of a nonhuman race, inhabiting the land since ancient times and possessing magical powers, are common among the Celtic peoples of northern Europe. They were variously known as elves, fairies (or faeries), the Good People, or the Gentry. In Gaelic they were called the Sidhe—pronounced SHEE—which was also the word for wind. For this reason, they were known as the People of the Wind. The Sidhe may be the same race as the Tuatha de Danaan—pronounced THOO-a-hah day DAH-nawn. These people traditionally lived in Ireland before the invasion of the Milesians, a Gaelic tribe from Spain.

  She is of the Tuatha de Danaan who are

  unfading . . . and I am of the Sons of Mil, who are perishable and fade away.

  —Caeilte of the Fianna,

  in The Colloquy of the Ancients

  PROLOGUE

  Sam stood on the worn grass of the playing field, his coat collar turned up and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. High above him, a lone kestrel hung in the wind, a dark speck against the hard blue sky.

  Sam shifted the focus of his mind, and suddenly he was looking down on himself, a hunched figure far below, dark against the green grass. Gazing out through the kestrel’s wild yellow eyes, he felt the play of wind along the surfaces of its wings. Its tail feathers flexed and shifted as it battled to hold its position in the face of the gale. Easing himself into the hot flicker of the bird’s mind, Sam became the kestrel, giving himself over to its fierce instincts as he scanned the grass for signs of prey. The gusting wind sent ripples through the chestnut feathers of his back. In an ecstasy of sky and air, he opened his beak and gave a high, harsh cry. Hanging there against the blue, he thought about how his life had changed since the events of the previous summer. Before that vacation—and his fateful encounter with the bard Amergin—life had been so simple. His greatest challenge had been to finish the latest computer game, his most serious concern how to avoid his parents and their endless museum visits. And then he had awakened Amergin from an ancient sleep and found himself plunged into a world he had never imagined. A world where dark creatures stalked the land, and magic filled the air. Hailed as a long-awaited hero, he stumbled from crisis to crisis, aided by Amergin and Charly, his newfound friends. In the end, though, he had been alone. His strange encounter with the Green Man and the final, desperate battle with the ancient evil of the Malifex had taken place far from any aid. And so it should have ended. Wasn’t that how it happened in books, after all? The bad guy destroyed, the world saved, the hero returned from the field of battle?

  Everything is back to normal. Except . . . something remained. The Green Man was gone, as was his evil twin, the Malifex. Their power was dispersed, back into the land from which they had been born. But something lingered from Sam’s encounter. When he had taken on the Green Man’s powers for that short time, some bond had been formed. If that power was dispersed, then some of it, at least, lingered around Sam and marked him out as different. An outsider—a stranger in his own world. Off in the far distance, a bell rang, and instantly Sam was back in his own body once more. The kestrel, free of his control, wheeled out over the chain-link fence that marked the boundary of the playing field and was soon lost to view. With a sigh, Sam turned and began the walk back to the line of school buildings, gray and unwelcoming in the distance.

  CHAPTER 1

  Megan bustled around her workshop, humming under her breath. An assortment of cardboard boxes stood on the workbenches, shredded paper spilling out of them and on to the floor. She paused before a shelf, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and peered at the line of pottery faces. Tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, she selected three and carried them over to a box, where she nestled them gently among the paper strands. The door clicked open, and Charly burst in, jumping down the steps and giving her mother a brief hug.

  “How’s it going?” Charly asked.

  “Getting there,” replied Megan. “Just a few more of the Green Man plates, then I’m all packed.”

  “Shame.” Charly grinned. “I was going to offer to help. Amergin’s leaping round the living room helping Buffy slay vampires. I thought it might be safer out here.”

  “A holiday will do him good. He’s going square-eyed in front of that TV. Are you looking forward to our little trip?” Megan asked knowingly.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” replied Charly casually.

  “Looking forward to seeing Sam again?”

  “Mu-um!” Charly blushed. “I’m going. I’ll take my chances with Amergin. Give me a shout, and I’ll help you load the car.”

  “Even better,” replied Megan, “send Square-eyes out here to give me a hand.”

  A few minutes later, the workshop door clicked open once more, and Megan glanced round, smiling. A tall, middle-aged man was framed in the doorway, piercing eyes beneath a sweep of graying hair. Closing the door behind him, he dropped lightly down the short flight of steps and strode across the room.

  Megan detected an air of excitement about Amergin as he bent and kissed the top of her head. “Go on,” she said with a sigh, “What now?”

  Amergin’s face broke into a grin. “I have seen a man of the most amazing powers! Superhuman strength, astonishing speed, the ability to see through solid matter! And all this used in the service of justice—”

  “Did he have a red and blue costume?” asked Megan wearily.

  “Yes!” exclaimed the wizard. “That’s the very man!”

  “Superman. That would be Superman.”

  “Fiction?” asked Amergin, looking crestfallen. Megan nodded.

  “I thought as much.” Amergin sighed. “Oh, well. I must return,” he continued, brightening. “Buffy’s on!”

  Ever since Amergin had awakened from his ancient sleep in the burial mound on Brenscombe Hill behind Megan’s farm in Dorset, he had been like a child in a sweetshop. Everything around him was fresh and new, and his keen mind soaked up information from every available source. Te
levision was his great passion. Megan was becoming concerned that he was receiving too much information too soon. The wizard lacked the background knowledge to separate fact from fiction, great drama from soap opera.

  Megan watched his retreating back as he clattered up the steps, already practicing his vampire-slaying moves. She smiled to herself, tucked the strand of hair behind her ear once more, and returned to her packing.

  ‡

  In ones and twos, they made their way along the narrow streets of the town. Without seeming to try, they kept to the shadows. Only rarely did the orange glare of a streetlight fall on pale skin or glint on silver jewelry. The late-night holiday visitors making the circuit of pubs and clubs barely noticed them. Such sights were common. Every town had Goths, groups of surly youths and sullen teenagers, rebelling against conformity by dressing alike—black hair, black clothes, black looks in pale skin. From across the town they came, converging on a small door in an otherwise featureless expanse of brick wall. A dull, rhythmic thudding seemed to come from beneath the flagstones of the pavement. Above the door, a spidery sign in purple neon flickered on and off: The Crypt. Down a winding flight of stairs, past blank-faced security staff they paced, bolder now that they were underground. With a contemptuous push, the final doors swung open, and they plunged gratefully into their element. The noise here was deafening, a relentless pulsing felt in the chest as much as heard, making conversation almost impossible. Smoke and dry ice hung in the air, lit by the staccato flicker of a strobe light. Black-clad figures stood in small groups or huddled around tables, staring into the smoke or down at the stained purple carpet. One or two looked up as the double doors swung open once more and the latest arrivals made their entrance.

  A man and a young woman strode across the room, and many pairs of eyes followed them. The furtive air that had marked them in the streets above was gone now. They walked with their heads high, he with a look of fierce ownership, she with an amused half-smile. He wore black leather pants and a baggy white shirt, collarless and unbuttoned to mid-chest. Its flaring cuffs emerged from the sleeves of a long, flowing black overcoat. She wore what seemed to be a wedding dress, a sweeping creation of silk and lace complete with veil and train but all of it as black as midnight. Collecting drinks from the bar, Finnvarr and Lady Una moved to join a group leaning against a mirrortiled pillar and took up their positions. After exchanging nods with their companions, they stood in apparent silence, faces expressionless once more, seemingly lost in the pounding music. But between their minds, a mental conversation flickered like summer lightning. Welcome, my lord, thought one of the figures against the pillar, staring with apparent boredom at the dance floor. Welcome. Aye, welcome, chorused the others. Finnvarr inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. His consort favored the group with a smirk.

  What news, my lord? inquired a girl with black lips and a mane of purple hair.

  We failed once more, came the mental response, cold and clear. Some power blocks us—I feel it. It is strong, but somehow . . . I cannot see it. It is hidden from me. But how can that be? asked a thin youth with a narrow face and a sneering mouth. No sorcerer remains who could resist us!

  Fool! snapped the Lord of the Sidhe, the look of boredom dropping from his face for a moment. The sneering youth quailed, his eyes downcast. Do you dare to tell me my business? Regaining his composure, he continued. Some great power of the Elder Days lingers on. I feel it hovering on the edge of my reach. Something or someone acts as a focus for that power and blocks our efforts. We will never take up the mantle of the Dark One while ever that power remains. A mortal, my lord? asked another.

  The Lord of the Sidhe shook his head, the mane of black and purple hair twitching around his shoulders. Mortals lack the discipline. Who among them would oppose us?

  These weekend witches with their crystals and trinkets? Real estate agents and housewives, with their suburban covens? No, none remain who truly comprehend the Old Ways. Their kind is gone.

  Then who?

  I do not know. But I will find out. Send out word to our brethren: Continue the search. Leave no stone unturned. Whoever—or whatever—stands in our way will be found. And then I will crush them. This land will fall beneath the dominion of the Sidhe.

  The mental conversation died away, leaving no trace on the blank faces. Only the girl in the black wedding dress allowed herself a smile, as the strobe lights flickered and stabbed through the smoke.

  ‡

  Charly skipped through the small herb garden that separated the workshop from the bulk of the cottage. Though she would never admit it to her mother, she was excited about their trip, and it was largely the prospect of seeing Sam again. Every year, Megan went to Hastings on the southeast coast to sell her pottery at the Jack-in-theGreen Festival, held in the ruined castle. This year, knowing that Sam and his parents lived close by, Megan had suggested that perhaps Sam might like to join them in Hastings for a few days. After all, Jack-in-the-Green was another name for the Green Man. Sam should be keen to see the festival for himself.

  Charly had groaned and squirmed, but inside she was hoping and praying that Sam’s parents would agree. When a letter had arrived thanking Megan for her kind offer, Charly had taken herself off to her favorite spot—a cluster of prehistoric burial mounds on the hill behind the farm—and in the thin spring sunshine danced her thanks to the Goddess. The weeks had passed in painful slow motion, but gradually the days lengthened, and April blossomed into May. And now the weekend was finally here. Charly let herself into the house, avoided the lunging figure of Amergin as he battled the undead from his perch on the sofa, and headed for her room to pack.

  ‡

  They set off very early the next morning. It was a long journey, and Megan would have to do all the driving. Amergin had expressed a desire to learn, but both Megan and Charly thought it would be wise to wait. The wizard was still too fascinated by everything he saw around him to be capable of keeping his eyes on the road. Amergin sat in the front passenger seat, and as they made their way eastward, he traced their progress on a series of large and unwieldy maps, chattering excitedly.

  Just before midday, Megan spotted something that made her brake suddenly and swerve off the road into a field entrance. Off to the south was a gently sloping hillside of spring barley—fresh green and waving in the wind. Megan jumped out of the car and stood on the shoulder of the road, gazing out across the field. Charly and Amergin clambered out to join her.

  “A crop circle!” exclaimed Charly.

  “Mmm,” said her mother, “odd.”

  “It’s wicked!” replied Charly. She loved crop circles, and this was a particularly fine example, a huge central circle of flattened stems, throwing off spiral arms of smaller circles, decreasing in size as they swirled away into the field.

  “Yes. Yes, it’s nice,” agreed Megan, “but it’s the wrong time of year.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It just seems a bit early. Crop circles usually appear closer to harvesttime, when the crop’s nearly ripe, though I’ve heard of circles in canola as early as May before. I don’t know. They seem to be getting more and more frequent these days. It’s probably all the hoaxers.”

  “Ladies, forgive me,” interrupted Amergin, “but what is this thing?” He gestured across the road.

  “Oh, sorry, dear,” replied Megan. “It’s a crop circle. They’ve been turning up more and more often in recent years. Some of them are almost certainly hoaxes, people shuffling around in the dark with planks and bits of string, but some of them—I don’t know. Some of them look too good to be fakes.”

  “I see.” Amergin looked troubled. “And has anyone seen what creates these . . . these circles? Have there been any tales of lights or strange energies?”

  “Well, there are reports of UFOs being seen near circles, you know, flying saucers?” Charly explained. Amergin nodded.

  Charly continued. “And people have reported radio waves and balls of light and all sorts of thi
ngs inside the circles.”

  “This is grave,” muttered the wizard, “grave indeed,” and fell silent.

  They ate their packed lunches there on the roadside, gazing out at the huge spiral stamped on the landscape. Then with reluctance they climbed back into the stuffy car.

  ‡

  “Yonder lies the Camp of Goosehill!” exclaimed Amergin, thrusting out one finger and knocking the rearview mirror out of alignment for the eighth time. “A fine town in its time, before the shadow of the Malifex fell upon it. It dates, you see”—he screwed himself round in his seat to address Charly—“from the days when the Malifex sought to speed the destruction of the Old Forest by teaching men the secrets of iron.”

  “Mmmm,” sighed Charly, staring out of the window.

  “Nice.” At first, she had been excited by Amergin’s tales. They reminded her of that breathless summer with Sam, when they had battled the evil of the Malifex and her own powers had first begun to stir. But Goosehill was only the latest in a long series of hill forts, Roman villas, and ancient tombs that had attracted Amergin’s eager interest since their journey had resumed after lunch. Now Charly just wanted the journey to be over. The holiday traffic was slow, and the sun beat down through the window. Charly continued to stare across the fields to the distant blue bulk of the South Downs, which had loomed on the horizon to their right for some time now. They reminded her of the ridge of hills behind their cottage, back at Woolgarston Farm, but these were much bigger and somehow more threatening. Their northern flank was scarred by deep clefts and gullies, like a row of clenched fists, and a dark blanket of trees clung to the steep slopes. Charly shivered and settled deeper into the back seat.