Heart of the Hill (9 page)

A young man, dressed in skins like the others Holly had seen, stepped from the open doorway of the middle hut. He wore a roughly woven blanket across one shoulder and a bow and quiver full of arrows across his back. In addition he carried a spear in one hand and a dagger in his belt. In his other hand he cradled a small bronze bowl.

A young woman, a baby bound on her back, erupted from the hut and grasped his arm. “No, Arto…the Lady's cup is not worth it. Avalon is no more, so why risk Utha's wrath.”

Arto brushed her gently aside. “I must. The cup was the Lady's sacred sacrifice. Utha should have left it in the lake.”

The woman threw up her hands in a gesture of despair.

Arto rested his hands on her shoulders. “You know Utha did wrong, Gwyn. You are still a believer though the Lady left us. You partook in the ceremonies. We all sipped the white and red waters from this precious bowl.” Arto held the cup in the air to display its fine workmanship and beaded pattern. “We all watched as the Lady cast the cup into the lake. Utha found it by accident and should have left it in its resting place. It belongs to no one but the Lady.”

“And was sacrificed by her to symbolize the final sealing of the Crystal Cave and the casting away of its magic,” came a quavering voice. An old woman, bowed of leg, scarred of face and swathed in woolen blankets, hobbled from the nearest hut.

The girl and Arto bowed in deference.

“Arto is right,” continued the crone. “The cup must be returned. Memory of Avalon must not be desecrated.”

The young woman jutted her chin. “Then cast the cup back into the lake, Arto. Go not to Avalon.”

“I must. The Lady calls in my dreams,” said Arto.

“She bids me take the cup to the Crystal Cave. I do not understand why she needs me there, but I must obey.”

The young woman spread her hands. “The earthly way into the cave is sealed. There remains only one way—through the Portal. That is a way full of dangerous magic. Do not go, Arto. You might never return.”

“Earth Magic will protect Arto. He is a faithful follower of the Lady. The Portal will not hurt him,” insisted the old woman.

“But I will,” roared a voice. A bronze dagger skimmed through the air and buried itself in the wattle wall of the hut, a hair's breadth from Arto's ear. “How dare you steal from a clansman.”

A skin-clad warrior, his face patterned with blue woad, leaped from the reeds on the far side of the encampment. He brandished a second dagger.

The young woman screamed and rushed inside the hut.

“I do not steal. I am returning the sacred cup you stole from its resting place in the lake.” Arto spun on his heels to face Utha, but stumbled on a root rearing through the mud.

He fell to his knees, and the bronze cup was jolted from his grasp. It sailed through the air and into Holly's thicket. Without thought, Holly put out her hands and caught it.

Utha gave a cry of rage and fell upon Arto, who dropped his spear as little use in such close combat. Arto rolled to one side and freed the dagger from his belt.

They fought ferociously, rolling over and over the mud bank, snarling like wild dogs and leaving dark smears of blood in their wake.

Holly watched in horror as the maddened pair rolled closer and closer to her hiding place. Then Utha's enraged face was right before her. His bloodstained knife slashed viciously though the air as he pressed Arto against the bush in which she hid. Arto gave a convulsive jerk and jackknifed to one side, but Utha's thrust continued.

Pain bit into Holly's arm. She sprang back, forcing her body blindly through the thicket, ignoring sharp thorns and the wicked whipping of twigs against her cheeks and limbs. Then there were no more bushes, just the kinder concealment of the reeds. Holly stumbled gratefully among them but too late remembered the marsh. Her feet found no solid ground, and she tumbled dizzily into blackness.

Grass blades tickled the back of her neck, and sunshine warmed her face. Holly opened her eyes and sighed with relief. She was lying in the middle of the lawn. She must have been asleep and dreaming. She sat up. Her clothes were muddy and her arm hurt. She looked down and all relief vanished. She was clutching a small bronze bowl in a hand caked with blood from a throbbing knife slash on her forearm.

A wave of fear washed over Holly. “How the heck am I going to explain this?” she whispered, fighting nausea as she gripped her arm to stop the bleeding.

She struggled to her feet, shut her eyes and swayed dizzily. This wasn't right. She'd had a dream, hadn't she?

How come she was so muddy? How could she get hurt in a dream? How was it possible to bring something back?

She opened her eyes and stared down at the bronze bowl. “You shouldn't be here,” she whispered. She knew the myths and legends. This was trouble. No one should ever bring back things from the past.

Holly stumbled across the lawn to the farmhouse hoping she could get to the bathroom before anyone noticed her.

She slipped into the house by the back door.

Late that evening, the cousins gathered in Holly's bedroom and gazed down at the bronze cup hidden in a drawer, under Holly's socks.

“Crikey,” whispered Owen. He stuck out a finger and poked it. “Is it magic? Do we rub it or anything?”

“You mean like rubbing a magic lamp? Don't be daft. This isn't a Walt Disney film,” said Holly crossly.

“Hey, keep your voice down,” Owen reminded her.

Holly and Owen, Adam and Chantel held their breaths and listened, but no adults called. They relaxed.

“Can I hold it?” asked Adam.

“I suppose so,” said Holly uneasily. “Nothing happened when I held it. But how are we going to get it back?”

Adam eased the bronze bowl from its nest.

“It's fantastic,” Chantel whispered.

Adam grunted agreement. He turned the bowl and gazed at it. “Just think … it's thousands of years old… it's beautifully made. Look at the beads decorating the rim, and its shape is perfect. It just fits.” He cupped the bowl in both hands and mimed lifting it to his lips. It fit into his palms as though it belonged there. “Oh … it's been mended.” His finger had discovered a rough spot. He turned the bowl and showed the others. A tiny square of bronze patched a crack in the bottom, so skillfully riveted that it was almost invisible.

“Don't mess with it,” said Holly, jerking the cup out of his hands. She thrust it back in the drawer.

“Hey, you don't have to snatch,” said Adam. He frowned. That wasn't like Holly.

“It's the Lady's cup, a sacred object from the past. It must go back,” Holly's voice was fretful. She shuddered. “But I don't want to get sucked through the labyrinth again.” She cradled her throbbing arm, now bound and hidden under a long-sleeved T-shirt. “The Portal was creepy. Besides, who knows what door I'd get next time? I might never return.” She looked at the others.

“What should we do?”

“Take the bowl to Glastonbury, “ said Adam promptly.

“Give it to Myrddin.”

Holly gave a sigh of relief. “Yes. He can send it back. He's the magician.” She shut the drawer with a bang and winced as the muscles in her arm flexed.

“You should go to the doctor,” said Owen uneasily. “You've a pretty big gash. And there wasn't much antiseptic cream left in the bathroom cupboard.”

Holly shook her head. “And say what? It's obviously a knife wound. It's way too big for a bramble slash, and all heck will break loose if the adults think we were playing around with knives.”

“Okay, okay, it's your arm,” said Owen, but he and Adam exchanged uneasy glances.

Chantel's visit to the hospital early next morning went without incident. Though her leg looked wasted and thin after being in a cast for six weeks, she was pronounced fit and just had to promise to exercise carefully until the muscles strengthened.

“See…I won't slow you down anymore!” Chantel crowed as she burst through the farmhouse door, limping a little but without her crutches.

Adam sighed. Now his nosy little sister would be into everything again.

“When are we leaving for Glastonbury?” asked Chantel eagerly.

“In an hour,” he said shortly.

Lynne used her foot to push open the girls' bedroom door. Her arms were piled high with folded clothes.

Holly looked up. “Brilliant, Mum. I need those.” She tried to take the clothes, and her sore arm gave way.

Everything cascaded to the floor.

Lynne surveyed the mess. “What a waste of time.”

Holly gave a strained laugh. “Relax, Mum. You know Owen and Adam are just going to shove things in knapsacks any old way.” She separated the clothes she recognized as hers and Chantel's and stuck her head into the corridor. “Owen, Adam,” she called. “Your stuff's here.” She nudged the pile into the middle of the corridor with her foot.

Lynne threw up her hands in despair. “Leave room for rain capes. The weather report's prophesying wet days.” She disappeared downstairs shaking her head.