The Firehills Part 11

"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 pa.s.sageway 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.

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, cl.u.s.tered 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.

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.

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.

Behind him, twenty or so of his followers dismounted and drew their blades. Those who remained on horseback moved off into the crowd, spreading out around the central stage, forming a circle with Jack at its heart. The crowd scrambled to get out of their way, screaming as the fiery breath of the horses moved among them. The Wiccans on the stage froze with indecision, looking from Mrs. P. to the approaching faeries.

A shriek rang out, high above. Three sleek shapes plummeted toward the earth, wings arched back, talons outstretched. At the last moment, when it seemed they must surely hit the ground, there was a shimmer of air, and there stood Amergin, Sam, and Charly.

"Finnvarr of the Sidhe," called out Amergin, "That power is not yours to take. Leave it be."

Finnvarr threw back his head and laughed. "You? Once more you come to meddle in the fate of my people?" He turned to Amergin. "Have you not caused us enough hurt?"

Amergin shrugged. "What is done is done. But for this moment, I will do what I must to stop you."

"You are alone now, old bard," sneered the Lord of the Sidhe. "The heroes of Mil are long turned to dust, and your time is past. Leave the future to such as these." He gestured around. "Frightened cattle, with their trinkets and superst.i.tions. They deserve to be led."

"Not by such as you," replied Amergin quietly. "Like me, your time is past. Go back to your hills."

"Oh, no." Finnvarr shook his head. "We will hide no more!" And with that, he thrust forward his left hand. A gust of wind, tightly focused, hit Amergin square in the chest, sending him sprawling.

Over by the stage, Megan cried out, "Amergin!" and began to push her way through the crowd toward him. The Faeries who were on foot began to move, some rallying to the side of their lord, some moving toward the stage. Sam decided to take advantage of the confusion and made his way through the crowd, heading for the silent figure of Jack-in-the Green.

Charly, hearing her mother's cry, set off toward her but found her way blocked. "You," she sighed.

"Not pleased to see me, girly?" asked the Lady Una with a smirk. She hit Charly with a blast of air that sent her skidding across the ground. Charly scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to think of a way to defend herself. But she was still very new to her powers. Shape-shifting was an effort, and she had no experience at all of protective magic, never mind spells of attack. She put out a hand before her, trying to picture in her mind the sort of defensive shield she had seen Amergin use. But no sooner had the image formed than she was knocked backward once more. The Lady Una smiled to herself.

Sam pushed his way through the crush, trying to keep Jack in view. But the Sidhe had spotted him. From all sides, tall Faeries were heading in his direction, kicking and elbowing frightened onlookers from their path. Sam glanced back. One Faery was very close, a leaf-shaped bronze dagger drawn in readiness to strike. Turning once more to the stage, Sam gasped as a bulky figure stepped in front of him. "You!" he gasped. "I knew it!"

It was Mr. Macmillan, the sinister guest from the Aphrodite Guest House. Beneath his greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, his face was lit up with fierce glee. But to Sam's confusion, he was wearing the costume of a morris dancer, crisp white linen and silver bells, ribbons at his knees and elbows.

"What-?" began Sam.

"Duck!" shouted Mr. Macmillan and lunged over Sam's shoulder.

Sam felt a gust of wind against his neck and turned, but there was nothing there. Looking back, he found Mr. Macmillan wiping a steel kitchen knife on the leg of his trousers.

Still grinning, Mr. Macmillan said, "It works, then-the iron trick. Now, get going, lad! Save Jack. Save the summer!"

Sam stumbled past, mumbling, "Thanks! Sorry . . ."

Rather too late, he remembered Wayland's athame, tucked in his belt, and drew it.

All around the stage, the Wiccans of southern England were defending Jack. With kitchen knives and iron pokers, with bunches of herbs and wands of rowan wood they beat back the Sidhe. Mrs. P. ran to and fro, shouting out orders, sending her friends and colleagues to block gaps in their defenses, distributing bunches of herbs: vervain and SaintJohn's-wort. Whenever one of the Faery Folk fell to the bite of iron, his pa.s.sing was marked by a gust of wind and a high, thin scream. But weight of numbers was on their side, and slowly they closed in toward the figure of Jack. Amergin and Finnvarr were locked in a battle of their own. Oblivious to the activity by the stage, they thrust and parried, bolts of crackling energy and blasts of air detonating around them. Then something came into the corner of Finnvarr's vision, and he paused. Whirling around, he seized Megan and pressed the blade of his sword to her throat. "This one means something to you, I think," he growled to Amergin. "Let this be a lesson to you, bard.

Never become too attached to mortals. They are so very . . . breakable." And with that he began to edge toward the stage, the blade against Megan's neck and one of her arms wrenched painfully up her back. Amergin looked on in despair.

Charly too was taking a beating. She had hit her head against an ancient cobblestone and was having trouble focusing her eyes. And while she struggled to rally her senses, Una laid into her again and again. One particularly well-aimed gust of air hit her in the stomach and dropped her to the ground, gasping for breath. She fell back, panting, staring upward. The Lady Una came into view, standing above her with the familiar smirk on her face. Something crystallized within Charly. It was the old, instinctive hatred for Una, the cold loathing that had gripped Charly as she stood in the line for the East Hill Cliff Railway. Keeping her face carefully neutral, she thought, Right, lady-there's more than one way to tackle this. If magic didn't work, there were older, simpler ways. Charly groaned and rolled her head from side to side, but she continued to watch Una through slitted eyes. As the Faery Queen leaned closer, Charly brought her knees up to her chest and kicked out with all her strength, catching Una in the pit of the stomach. The breath hissed out of her, and she staggered backward, sitting down with a heavy thud. Charly sprang to her feet and brushed herself down, muttering, "See how you like it!" Then, as Una fought to regain her breath, Charly closed her eyes and centered herself. Casting her mind back to that night on the Firehills, she tried to recall how it had felt when she had carried out the ritual of Drawing Down the Moon. There was no time to go through the words of the ceremony now. She would have to try to capture the essence. She struggled. So much had happened since then. Una was on her feet again, a look of white-hot fury on her face. And then it came to Charly-the smell of coconut, the fragrance of a million gorse flowers pouring their scent into the night sky.

As if the memory of that smell had unlocked a door, the sensation of heightened awareness came over her again, every nerve in her body attuned to its surroundings. She could see, hear, smell, feel everything so intensely it was almost painful. And with this sensation came a slowing down of time. Una was drawing back one hand, preparing to strike at Charly with the power of the gale. But she moved as if in slow motion. Charly had plenty of time to turn toward the central stage, where Sam had spotted her. He cried out, a long, low drone of sound, and raised a languid arm. Something left his hand and drifted through the air toward her. She reached up and plucked the athame from its lazy arc, then turned to Una. From the palm of the Faery's upturned hand, a vortex of air was spreading, shimmering ripples spiraling out toward her. Casually, Charly threw up a shield, a shimmering web of green force that deflected the blast of air with ease. With an effort of will, she returned time to its normal speed. Calmly, she faced her enemy. She was Charly, but she was also Epona, horse G.o.ddess of the Celts, and she was armed with iron. It was time to fight back.

Sam looked around. Charly seemed to be doing fine now that she had his athame, but he was in a rather worse predicament. The Sidhe were converging on him from all sides, despite the best efforts of the Wiccans. Suddenly, there was a tug at his elbow. He looked down into the wrinkled face of Mrs. P.

"Go to Jack, lovey," she pleaded. "Set free the summer."

"But-" began Sam, gesturing at the advancing faeries.

"Don't worry about them. We'll take care of them."

And as Sam scrambled to the edge of the stage, Mrs. P. made her stand against the Host.

Finnvarr had reached the edge of the stage now, the frightened Wiccans backing away from the cold threat of the blade against Megan's neck. With difficulty, he scrambled up, dragging Megan behind him. Close by, Sam too climbed up onto the stage. The Sidhe were almost upon him, and he had given up his one weapon. Still, if he had to give the athame to anybody, he was glad it was Charly. She seemed to be holding her own now against Una, and somehow that gave him strength.

Charly and the Lady Una fought back and forth, oblivious to events at the center of the arena. Charly had mastered her defensive shield now, and she had begun to take the fight to Una, firing bolt after bolt of energy at the Queen of the Sidhe. Also, to distract her opponent, she shifted shape, from deer to boar to hare, flickering through a kaleidoscope of animal forms. Una was weakening, her long black hair in disarray, her clothes dirty and torn. Finally, she felt cold stone against her back. She was cornered, pressed into the junction of two ancient remnants of the castle walls. But then there was a cry, high and despairing. It sounded like the boy, Sam.

Charly turned from her opponent, distracted by the scream, and Una seized her opportunity. A series of rapid blows slammed into Charly, and she fell, tripping over a low stone wall and landing heavily. Una pounced, launching herself at Charly with hands clawed, long red fingernails hooked like talons. At the last moment, Charly brought up the athame. It took Una full in the throat. With her eyes screwed tight, Charly felt a blast of warm air wash over her and heard a long, furious scream that trailed away as if into the far distance. She opened her eyes, and Una was gone. Struggling to her feet, she turned to look at the stage. Finnvarr flung Megan from him, sending her stumbling over the edge of the low platform, and raced toward Jack. Sam, who had been closer, was there already, standing before the towering cone of foliage and ribbon, one hand outstretched to pluck the first leaf that would free the summer. Finnvarr moaned as he ran, a long, low desperate sound, and lunged with his sword.

Sam's eyes widened with surprise as something cold entered his back, pushing impossibly through and out. There was an unpleasant sc.r.a.pe of metal on bone as the blade was withdrawn but no real pain. Not yet. The pain would come, he was sure. For the moment, though, there was just surprise and a feeling of loss. The world was slipping away, a world that he had once felt so connected to, such a part of. In slow motion, Sam sank to his knees. There seemed to be a wall in front of him, a green wall. He reached out for support, but part of the wall came away in his hand. He hit the boards of the stage, slumping sideways, and just as he slipped out of consciousness, he saw that he was holding a sprig of green.

Finnvarr turned to the horrified crowd, sword raised in triumph. Turning on his heel, he spun, the sword hissing horizontally through the air. Effortlessly, it severed the crowned apex of Jack-in-the-Green from its conical body, narrowly missing the cowering head of the man inside the green framework. With a flutter of leaves and ribbons, the severed crown rolled across the boards and dropped into the crowd.

"Jack is dead!" Finnvarr cried in triumph. "Attis is gone, his power dispersed. The legacy of his dark brother, the Malifex, is ours to claim. Life and death, the cycle of the seasons, they are ours now. Your dominion in this land is over, mortals!"

Sam, in a dark place far away, felt something stir behind him. No, not behind him, for he was turned in upon himself, his senses at an end. Behind his mind, then, something moved-a familiar presence. He thought he heard a chuckle, deep and musical, and perhaps, far off, the sound of pipes and horns. He felt a tingling sensation, reminding him of the flesh that he had so recently left behind. Perhaps it was like the ghostly itches that people felt in limbs that they had lost, old nerves firing from habit. But there it was again, in his fingers, spreading into the palm of his hand. The darkness that had been closing in on Sam receded a little as his curiosity was aroused. There was a definite sensation, spreading up his arm now. Perhaps I'm not dead after all, he thought, and with the thought came a further rush of sensation, washing up his arm and into his damaged chest. He opened one eye a crack and peered down the length of his arm, lying limply on the boards of the stage. From fingertips to shoulder, it was covered in green leaves. Sam closed his eyes once more, and in his mind hunting horns were blowing.

Finnvarr pointed to Amergin and shouted, "Bring him here! Bring me the Milesian!" Tall faeries converged on Amergin and seized him by the arms, dragging him toward the stage. Megan tried to pull them off, but they slapped her away as if she were an insect. Amergin was thrown down at Finnvarr's feet.

"Now," began the Lord of the Sidhe, "the time has come for retribution. My first use for the freed power of the Malifex will be to rip the living soul from the last survivor of the race that stole my home and destroyed my people."

"And you're quite sure you have that power?" asked Amergin quietly.

"Of course, fool. The power of the Green Man is ended, the balance destroyed. Nothing stands in my way now."

"I wouldn't be so sure," replied the bard, staring over Finnvarr's shoulder.

Finnvarr turned. Something was rising from the boards of the stage. Indeed, part of it seemed to be made of the boards, the wood blending seamlessly with the leaves that covered its legs. Dense foliage cloaked the arms and torso, but Finnvarr could just make out enough of the face to recognize Sam.

"No!" he cried. "No. It can't be. I killed you."

Leaves spilled out of Sam's mouth and nostrils, and the last traces of his face were hidden. He continued to grow, until he towered over the Lord of the Sidhe.

"No!" repeated Finnvarr. "I will not allow this! I have come too far!" He pulled back one hand, summoning all his power to hurl at the figure of the Green Man. "Rally to me!" he shouted, and the remnants of the Host came running to his side, summoning their own powers to bolster his. Sam looked down at them, felt the force gathering within them, the ancient might of the wind, strong enough to level forests and wear mountains down to sand. Even he could not face such a blast and survive. He needed a weapon to replace the athame. He cast about with his mind, sending a tendril of thought down into the soil. He did not have far to look, for the bones of the earth were close to the surface here. He soon tasted rock and sent his thoughts down through it, searching, testing. And there he found it-the familiar blood-tang of iron. He drew the sensation into himself, let it flow through him, until his veins pulsed with a stream of molten metal. He remembered his time with Wayland and the smith's quiet patience as he heated and reheated the iron, tempering it until it was hard but not brittle, flexible yet strong. And when he felt that he had captured that balance within him, that he was tempered like steel, he struck. The remaining Host of the Sidhe had gathered their power, channeling it through Finnvarr. He stood, eyes ablaze, arms spread wide to summon the whirlwind that would blast the Green Man, Attis, the May King, from the face of the land. His hair streamed out behind him in the gathering storm, and he cried out his triumph. But before Finnvarr could strike, a wave of force exploded from Sam, the concentrated essence of iron, expanding out through the crowd. Spheres of energy popped into existence around his head, hissing and spitting. A vortex of force began to spin around him. Part of his mind recognized it-the crop circle power. As Amergin had said, the land was overflowing with energy, the dispersed power of the Malifex seeking an outlet. Sam opened himself to it, let it flow through him, mingling it with the taste of the blood-metal. The humans in the crowd flinched as the halo of steel blue light washed over them, and they felt nothing. But as it touched the Host of the Sidhe, they were snuffed out like flames, their forms fraying into smoke, out over the castle walls. For a few moments, their screams rent the air and then faded away, until all that could be heard was the high keening of the gulls.

Sam looked around at the devastation, the frightened faces of the crowd, the exhausted Wiccans gazing up at him. Their expressions frightened him-grat.i.tude and hope, yes, but something else. Then it dawned on him. It was worship. As if he were some kind of G.o.d. Panic gripped him. He was only Sam, he didn't want this, had never asked for it. He looked at the sea of faces and tried to think what he could do for them. Then it came to him. There was something that remained unfinished, and it was within his power to finish it. After a moment, he raised one hand, gesturing at the sky, and then sank into the earth without a trace.

Above the castle, the clouds parted, driven inland by a fresh breeze from the sea. The sun broke through, pouring its warmth onto the upturned faces among the ancient rocks.

Summer had come.

They found Mrs. P. at the foot of the stage, as they were ushering the confused tourists out of the arena. Charly spotted her first and cried out for her mother. But she knew, even before Megan arrived and checked for a pulse. Amergin and Mr. Macmillan helped to carry her body, and a solemn procession of Wiccans accompanied them as they made their way out of the castle and down into the Old Town.

EPILOGUE.

They had to tell Sam's parents, in the end, when his father arrived at the Aphrodite Guest House and found he was missing. There followed a period that would always remain a blur in Charly's mind, a time of tears and shouting, confusion and worry. Sam's parents refused to believe the tales of shape-changing and battles against the ancient Sidhe and called the police. But there were too many witnesses to the strange events in the castle, and the authorities soon found themselves out of their depth. The police tried to hush up the whole business, issuing vague statements about ma.s.s hysteria and rampaging teenage delinquents. Sam's parents were told to wait-their son would show up when he was good and ready. *

Charly, Megan, and Amergin stayed on at the Aphrodite for several weeks, wrapping up Mrs. P.'s affairs, arranging for her funeral. A special ceremony was held, a Wiccan celebration of her life. Megan and Charly cried a great deal, even though they knew Mrs. P. would have been disappointed in them. Charly was welcomed into the Hastings Wiccan community, taking part in their rites and learning the discipline that, as a new initiate, she had lacked.

But most often she liked to wander on her own, much as she had done back home in Dorset, after her father had left. Megan worried but recognized it as her daughter's way of working things through.

Charly's favorite place was the Firehills.

And it was there, one evening toward the end of her stay, that Sam came to her. He rose out of the ground beside her, wild and wary, his hair a tangle of leaves and a fierce, amber light in his eyes. He shied away as she moved toward him, his shape flickering through a series of halfglimpsed animal forms.

"It's OK," she said softly, standing very still. And then, "I've missed you."

Sam paced back and forth like a caged animal, his eyes darting to Charly's face, then flickering away. Then he stopped, shoulders hunched, eyes closed, and whispered, "Help me."

She went to him and held him close, waiting until the sobs subsided. When she thought that he might be ready to speak, she asked, "Where have you been? We've been worried sick."

"Everywhere," replied Sam. "I've been everywhere. I've traveled the length and breadth of the land, I've been everything-birds, fish, insects . . ." His voice trailed off.

"I don't know what to do," he finished in a whisper.

"Sam, what's happened to you? I can't help you if I don't know."

Sam sank to the ground, and Charly sat by his side. After a while, he began. "It's him-the Green Man again. Do you understand how the festival works?"

Charly shook her head.

"Jack-in-the-Green's just a bloke in a costume, right?

Just somebody inside a framework, covered in leaves. So why were the Sidhe so keen to destroy him?"

Charly remained silent, letting Sam work through what he had to say.

"Because, when enough people believe in something, that thing has a power. And for a moment, at the end of the ritual, when everybody is waiting for the summer to be released, that framework of leaves becomes something else. It becomes Jack, Attis, the Green Man." He paused. "And I was there, at that moment. I plucked the first leaf, and something happened to me. Probably because of what happened before, because there was a bit of the Green Man inside me already, I don't know. Charly"-he turned to her, amber eyes raw with hurt-"I'm him. The Green Man. I'm him now, completely. Not just a part of him tucked away somewhere at the back of my mind. I'm him, and he's me."

He turned away once more, gazing out over the golden hillside.

"I saw the way they looked at me when the Sidhe had gone. I'm not their G.o.d. I'm just a kid. And I don't know what to do."

Charly threw back her head and chuckled. "Poor old Sam," she said with a sigh and clambered to her feet.

"What's the matter?" she demanded. "Afraid to be different?"

She called up the spirit of the G.o.ddess, feeling the power of her other mother, Epona the Huntress, flow into her. She grew taller, darker, and the light of a moon that had not yet risen shone from her. "We're all different, kid. Deal with it."

Sam stared at Charly, barely recognizing her. He was torn between wonder and hurt-wonder at what she had become, hurt that she wouldn't take him seriously. Charly continued. "The thing is, we don't have to deal with it alone."

Sam scowled, but he knew how futile it was to argue with Charly.

"We were never meant to be like everyone else," Charly continued. "You must see that? Everything changed when you woke Amergin and set us on this path. Neither of us can go back to how things were. And it will be hard. Of course, it will. It's always difficult to be different. But we'll get through it, because that's what we do. Don't we?"

Sam stared at the ground, lost in thought. Was it really as simple as Charly said? It was all right for her. She had always been the strong one, through all their adventures. Whereas he was blown along by fate, desperately trying to keep his feet as the tide of events swirled around him. And now he was lost. That was it-lost to himself. His face, when he had glimpsed it in still pools, was familiar, but inside, the landscape of his life had changed. He was neither boy nor man nor G.o.d but a little of each. And to survive, he would have to find a balance. He would have help. Amergin and Megan were wise, and Charly-something had happened to Charly too. She would understand what he was going through. He looked up at her then and nodded, smiling despite himself. She held out her hand and hauled him to his feet.

"Now, come on. We've got a lot to talk about," said Charly, and hand in hand, Horse G.o.ddess and Horned G.o.d, they walked down through the Firehills toward the sea.