The Firehills Read online

  “That should hold off some of the others,” shouted Amergin, and he set off along a narrow passageway. Charly cast a concerned eye over the white-faced Sam, then turned to follow the bard.

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  The procession picked its way up the entrance track to the castle and paused at the ticket office. The papiermâché giants—the knight, the black-clad Morrigan, old Hannah Clarke the witch—were manhandled to the ground and reverently passed through the entrance. Once inside, they were hefted aloft once more and the procession moved on. A thrill passed through the crowd as the first drummers and morris dancers appeared inside the castle wall. Jack was coming.

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  On the summit of West Hill, under the blank-eyed gaze of the guesthouses, was a wide, grassy, open space known as the Ladies Parlor. Once it had hosted tournaments for the nearby castle and resounded to the clash of jousting knights. Now it was the preserve of dog walkers and kite flyers. The wind, wet from the sea, hissed through the short grass, bowling stray candy wrappers across the expanse of green. Scattered leaves and pieces of paper swirled, dancing together in the air. A pattern began to emerge, a stately rotation of debris, scraps of litter tracing the edges of a wide vortex.

  The pace of the wind increased, lashing the grass in a broad circle, dust and twigs spiraling faster around a point in the center of the Ladies Parlor. And then they came. From the heart of the whirlwind rode the Host of the Sidhe, clad in the full panoply of war. The hoofs of their horses sounded like thunder on the hard turf, and the thin gray light glinted on jeweled bridles as Finnvarr, King of the Host of the Air, led his people to war. By his side, the Lady Una shook her long black hair free in the sea wind and laughed, high and cruel. In response, her steed tossed its head and snorted, fire jetting from its nostrils. The shouts of tourists in the distance, converging on the castle for the festival, mingled with the crying of the gulls. Finnvarr reined in his horse and paused for a moment, looking back at the assembled throng, the last of their race. Then turning his gaze to the castle entrance, he cried out in the ancient tongue of the Tuatha de Danaan—a battle cry from the old days, before the coming of the Milesians—and the Host rode on.

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  Sam and Charly followed Amergin through a complex maze of tunnels. They were leaving behind the realm of the Sidhe. The passageways here had been little modified, merely cleared of the worst obstacles. Often they were forced to crawl on hands and knees or squeeze themselves through cracks in the dripping rock. When they paused to tackle a particularly tricky scramble over fallen boulders, Charly said, “On my way in here, I turned into a bat.”

  “What do you mean, turned into? ” Sam asked with a smirk on his face. Charly ignored him.

  “I turned into a bat,” she continued, “and it was much easier. You can get through tiny gaps, and you can see everything. Well, sort of see . . . or hear . . .” She trailed off.

  “Hm-m-m,” pondered Amergin. “It’s not a bad idea, but I fear it would not serve us now. To find an exit from the Hollow Hills, we will need our human senses. No, I fear we must stay as we were born, though it grieves me to move so slowly.” He paused, holding up a hand. Charly and Sam heard the approaching sound of voices, harsh and cruel. The goblins, being smaller than humans and accustomed to their subterranean home, could move more rapidly. They had passed the obstacle of the fallen cu sith and were drawing near.

  “Come,” continued Amergin. He stooped, cupping his hands together, the fingers interlaced. Charly placed one foot into Amergin’s firm grip and felt herself hoisted upward. Scrambling onto the top of a slab of fallen rock, she gazed back into the threatening darkness as Sam and Amergin joined her. Then they were off once more, slipping and stumbling on weary legs through the broken landscape.

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  Most of the procession had dispersed into the castle grounds, to the craft stalls and refreshment tent, leaving Jack and his followers to pick their way up the slope of grass at the rear of the amphitheater. Here they paused, resting high above the revelers, while morris dancers took their turn upon the stage below.

  Down on her stall, Megan could bear it no longer. Ignoring the waiting customers, she fled into the crowd. To one side of the castle, behind a stall selling cards and Tshirts, was an area where the giants had been abandoned. They looked strangely forlorn, propped against the pitted stonework, their time of glory over. It was here that she found Mrs. P.

  The old lady was gazing at the pale paper features of the Morrigan, black hair and black dress contrasting sharply with her white skin. Without looking around, she said, “I used to look like her once, my sweet. You may find that hard to believe now.” She turned to smile at Megan. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “They’re close now,” she continued. “I can feel them.”

  Megan reached out and touched Mrs. P.’s arm, and suddenly they were hugging, the old woman’s head buried against Megan’s chest. When she finally looked up, Megan barely recognized her. Mrs. P. seemed to have aged a decade in a matter of seconds.

  Mrs. P. sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m just a foolish old woman. Age is supposed to bring wisdom, but some days I think it only brings rheumatism and a tendency to forget where you left things.”

  “It’s going to be fine,” said Megan, squeezing Mrs. P.’s shoulders.

  “Of course it is, lovey. Of course it is. Come on. We must get ready.”

  Megan gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile, turned, and headed back into the crowd.

  Mrs. P. watched her for a moment, then muttered under her breath, “Lady, grant me the strength to leave them behind.” And then she set off, a tiny figure beneath the towering giants.

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  The Host of the Sidhe crossed the road, their horses oblivious to the screeching of car brakes and the screams of fleeing tourists. Faces stern and pale, they made their way along the narrow track that led to the castle entrance. Up ahead, at the entrance to the castle, King Finnvarr saw an obstacle: the low, wooden ticket office that spanned the narrow gap in the stone walls. He reined in his horse and stared for a moment. Then he raised one hand in the air, palm upward and fingers clawed. The wind began to gust, swirling savagely in the confined space. Gradually, the ragged gusts gathered into a whirlwind, a screaming funnel of air that tracked slowly across the ground, clouds of dust billowing at its feet. With a horrifying inevitability, it smashed into the ticket office. There was a rending sound, a shattering of glass, and a chorus of screams. Chunks of timber flew out into the track, one clattering to a halt at the feet of Finnvarr’s horse.

  Finnvarr lowered his hand and the twister dispersed. Paper leaflets advertising local attractions fluttered to the ground like autumn leaves. Finnvarr tapped his heels against his mount’s flanks, and the Host of the Sidhe moved on.

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  The goblins were close now, the scrambling sound of their feet and hands like a rising tide in the narrow tunnel. Charly, Amergin, and Sam were battered and weary, the palms of their hands scraped raw by the rock, their shins bruised and aching.

  “We’re nearly there,” gasped Amergin. “I can feel the outer world drawing close. Sam, you must use your power.”

  Sam stared at his feet, panting helplessly.

  “Sam? Come on! We need your power.” Charly shook him by the shoulder. His head wobbled up, and he looked at her blankly.

  “Power?”

  “You are a Walker Between Worlds, my friend,” said Amergin kindly. “Come—find us a doorway.”

  Behind them, goblins and bugganes began to spill through a narrow gap between two stalagmites. A crude bronze knife struck the rock by Charly’s face, showering her with dust. She helped Amergin to push Sam into the lead. He stumbled forward, hands groping blindly along the walls of the passage. And then he collided with something: a blank wall of stone.

  “It’s a dead end,” he mumbled and then louder, “It’s a dead end!”

  “Come on, Sam,” hissed Charly. “You’re the hero—do something!”

  “
I’m not.” He sighed, “I . . . I don’t know how.”

  The nearest goblins saw that they had halted and soon realized why. Knowing that they had their prey cornered, they slowed. Despite their vast numbers, they were wary, edging forward, tittering and hissing with anticipation.

  “Charly,” said Amergin, “we must help him. Take his shoulder.” He placed one hand on Sam’s shoulder, gesturing for Charly to do the same. Leaning close to Sam, he said quietly, “Sam, my friend, only you can do this, but we can help. Take our strength. Find us a way.”

  “Quickly!” shouted Charly. A boggart, bigger and bolder than the rest, was shuffling toward them with a sideways gait, ready to turn and run, but with a glint of bloodlust in its eyes. It made lunging motions with a dagger as it came, hissing through yellow teeth. Sam shut his eyes, sending his thoughts out into the rock. He tried to recall what it had felt like when he had found his way into the ancient Weald, spilling out onto the sunny grass of the South Downs with the mighty forest stretched out before him. But all he could remember was a feeling of fear, of overwhelming need. The stone beneath his hand felt like stone, nothing more—just the old familiar crystal tang of ancient bedrock. Suddenly, Charly screamed. The boggart had reached her and grabbed her by the arm. Frantically, she tried to beat it off while still clinging with one hand to Sam’s shoulder. “Sam,” she sobbed. “Now!”

  For a split second, Sam turned and saw the leering face of the boggart bearing down on Charly, the bronze dagger raised to strike. He closed his eyes, turned back to the rock, and pushed.

  He stumbled, lost his footing, and fell, rolling forward. He felt the comforting hands on his shoulders wrenched free, but then something solid rose up and struck him on the temple, and he sank into oblivion.

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  Up on the high slope within the castle yard, Jack’s followers began to drum. With looks of intense purpose, they fell into a particular rhythm, throbbing and somehow primeval. Drummers all around the castle heard the rhythm and synchronized with it, until the whole green bowl of the ancient site seemed to pulsate to the sound. It could be felt in the chest, in the time-worn stone walls, in the old bones of the West Hill itself.

  Then Jack began to move. Slowly, with great dignity, the towering green figure made its way down the winding path in the castle grounds to the central stage, and there he took up his position. Surrounded by his followers, he dominated the crowd, ancient and enigmatic, a faceless green cone of vegetation, ribbons fluttering in the breeze. The pounding of the drums rose to a crescendo and abruptly ceased. Silence fell. A single female voice, high and pure, was raised in song, bidding farewell to the winter, yearning for the summer that would soon be set free by the ritual destruction of Jack-in-the-Green. But something was wrong. Screams could be heard from outside the castle walls and a crashing sound, the shattering of glass. The crowd around the stage began to exchange worried looks. Some of the tourists smiled, thinking that this was part of the day’s entertainment, some sort of historical reenactment.

  The screaming outside grew more intense, and a cloud of dust could be seen at the entrance. Then the ticket office exploded, sending fragments of wood into the air. The crowd panicked, but there was nowhere to run. The only way in or out was through the ticket office. A few people set off in that direction anyway, despite the screams coming from its shattered remains. But they soon halted in their tracks. For out of the dust came figures from a dream—the Faery Folk, riding abroad in the mortal world, fire flickering around the mouths of their horses. Silence fell, broken by sobs. Side by side, King Finnvarr and the Lady Una rode into the castle grounds.

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  Charly opened her eyes. “It hasn’t worked!” she cried in dismay. They were clearly still in the caves. She was at the foot of a wall of rock, in some kind of narrow crevice.

  There was one improvement, though—light was shining down on her. Her eyes tracked upward, and she screamed. Above her head, jammed into a narrow chimney of rock, was a skeleton. It was suspended, face down, in some sort of iron cage, tattered scraps of clothing and pale bones hanging above her. She jumped to her feet and scuttled backward, tripping over Sam’s inert body. He groaned, shaking his head. Putting a hand to his temple, he felt something wet and a dull ache.

  “We’re still in the caves!” shouted Charly, to nobody in particular. “It hasn’t worked, and now we’re going to be too late!”

  Sam peered back into the recess from which Charly had emerged and found Amergin sitting up, rubbing his head.

  “Come on,” said Sam, “Charly says we’re still in the caves. We’d better get going before those . . . things catch up.”

  He pulled Amergin to his feet, and together they set off after Charly. Crossing the floor of a broad, smooth-floored chamber, they heard an urgent hiss and ran toward its source. They found Charly by the door of a side chamber. She waved for them to slow down and to stay quiet, then gestured into the open doorway. Sam tiptoed forward and peered around the edge of the opening. He jerked his head back, eyes wide with surprise. There were people in the small room, definitely human, bent over something as if deep in concentration. Charly followed him. She frowned for a moment, then chuckled.

  “It’s OK,” she said loudly, “come and see.” And she strode into the room. When Sam and Amergin caught up with her, she was kicking one of the figures in the seat of its pants.

  “What are they?” asked Sam. “Pirates?”

  “Smugglers,” replied Charly, leaning on one of the wax dummies, a man in a baggy white shirt and leather waistcoat.

  “Smugglers? But . . . Oh, the Smugglers Caves.”

  “Can somebody tell me what’s going on?” asked Amergin forlornly.

  “We’re in the Smugglers Caves,” explained Charly. “It’s a tourist attraction, exhibits of what the place looked like when these caves were used by smugglers to store their contraband. It’s just by the—”

  “The castle entrance!” exclaimed Sam. “We’re right by the castle! Come on!”

  Minutes later, the ticket attendant of the Smugglers Caves looked up from her newspaper as three ragged, dusty figures, one with blood on his face, hurtled up the long passageway and out through the exit. As the turnstile clicked to a halt, she sat in bewilderment. She was sure that the last few visitors had left about fifteen minutes earlier.

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  As the Host of the Sidhe rode into the castle grounds, Megan, Mrs. P., and their fellow Wiccans had moved into position. Pushing through the frightened crowd, they formed a circle around the center stage, backs to the towering figure of Jack-in-the-Green. To their credit, his bogies had stayed by his side, clustered together on the stage, shooting fearful glances around the amphitheater. Mrs. P. went to them and spoke with their leader, who nodded several times, his mouth set in a grim line. Then she returned to the circle of Wiccans. Megan, meanwhile, had gone in search of the girl who had sung the song that welcomed the coming summer. She found her, pale-faced and shaking, over by a blue-and-white striped pavilion. After a few seconds of intense discussion, Megan led her by the hand back to the stage.

  Sam, Charly, and Amergin ran up the sloping track that led from the Smugglers Caves and clattered up a flight of steps onto the windy summit of West Hill. In front of them was the green expanse of the Ladies Parlor. To their left, unseen, was the entrance to the castle. Screams carried to them on the breeze.

  “Come,” said Amergin. “We may yet be in time.” With that, he disappeared, and in his place was a bird of prey, steely blue gray above, palest buff below, flecked with dark markings. With a swirling feeling of dislocation, Sam and Charly found themselves transformed, and together the three merlins took to the sky.

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  The frightened crowd pulled back as Lord Finnvarr walked his horse forward toward the stage. Behind him came the Lady Una and the rest of the Host, the hoofs of their mounts clicking softly on the ancient stones. By the stage, Megan whispered, “Now—sing!” and the young woman began her song once more
, her voice quavering at first but growing in strength. Into the silence she poured the words, a challenge to the forces of winter, a hymn of praise to the coming May King.

  Finnvarr smiled.

  High above the castle, Amergin paused in his flight, hovering for a moment on the wind from the sea. One obsidian eye took in the scene below. With a fierce cry, he folded back his wings and plunged, arrowing down toward the circle of stones below. Close behind him came Sam and Charly.

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  The song ended, and the time had come to release the summer. “Now!” shouted Mrs. P., gesturing to her fellow Wiccans. They moved toward the figure of Jack, to take apart his body, leaf and branch, and distribute them to the crowd.

  Finnvarr swung one leg over his horse’s broad back and dropped to the ground. The slap of his boots on the hard earth rang out in the silence. Striding toward the stage, he called out, “No, old woman! Not this time. This time, the job falls to me.” And he drew a long, bronze sword from a black leather scabbard at his hip.