The Firehills (11 page)

“I am Epona,” said the voice, and Charly gasped.
Epona! A name from her earliest dreams. Although her initiation had come upon
her unexpectedly and rather earlier than was usual, Charly had been a good
student. She had read her
Book of Shadows,
handed
down to her by her mother, and many of the other classical texts on the
mysteries of Wicca. Many of these dealt with the various aspects of the Great
Goddess, the many names by which the one mother goddess had been known in the
cultures of the ages, Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and so on. One of Charly’s
favorites had always been Epona. She was a horsegoddess of the ancient Celts, a
goddess of the Underworld but also of healing and the harvest. She was the only
Celtic goddess to have been worshipped in ancient Rome, having been adopted by
the Roman cavalry, who discovered her as they fought their way through western
Europe. To Charly, brought up on a farm, she had always seemed the ideal
goddess, wild and young, a friend to the farmer and to the rider.

“Come,” said Epona, “ride with me.” She whistled
and was answered by a high whinny. A thunder of hoofbeats and a white stallion
appeared. It stamped to a halt before them, the breath gusting from its
nostrils, blue white clouds in the moonlight. Epona mounted and beckoned for
Charly to join her. The raven had flown as the horse approached, drifting silently into the night on soot-black
wings. Reaching out for the offered hand, Charly experienced a swirling
sensation and found herself on the horse’s back, clinging to Epona’s waist.

With a mighty kick, the horse took flight, cantering up
the slope. As they picked their way through the bushes, the thorns scraping
Charly’s legs, she saw that they were heading for the fire on the hill’s
summit. The sound of chanting grew louder. At the foot of the beacon, Epona
reined in the horse. It pranced sideways for a moment, reluctant to end its
flight. The raven circled them once, then flopped to the ground, hopping out of
the reach of stray hooves. Charly looked out over the sea.

“I heard the words of the old ritual, child,” said
Epona.

“You are yet young.”

“I–I know. I’m sorry,” stuttered Charly. “I was
desperate.”

“What is it you seek?”

Charly thought for a moment. “Power.”

Epona threw back her head and laughed, a wild sound. The
horse reared, and Charly clung to the goddess.

“Power? You are a child. What need have you for
power?”

“A friend of mine is in trouble. I need to help him,” replied Charly sharply.

Epona laughed once more. “Come,” she said and with
another blur of sensation, Charly found herself on the ground once more, Epona
by her side. Looking around, she saw that the horse was gone. Only the raven
remained, and with three flaps of its glossy wings, it returned to Epona’s
shoulder.

The goddess took Charly by the hand and led her to the
foot of the beacon. They stood side by side, the great fire roaring above them,
the sparks streaming away inland on the wind. Before her the land dropped away,
and still Charly had the impression of two worlds, one layered upon the other.
Dimly, she could still make out the blazing flowers of the gorse, in the
Firehills of her own time. But over them lay another landscape, one much older.
As she had noticed before, the sea was much farther away than she remembered.
How many centuries, she wondered, would it take for the waves to erode that
much land?

Charly saw that Epona was beckoning and moved to follow
her. It was difficult to walk. Her doubled vision caused her to stumble as she
struggled to keep up with the horse goddess. Cresting the ridge, she paused.
Below her, in the lee of the hill, was a hollow. The sound of drums and
chanting was coming from a group of huddled figures, their shadows flickering
in the light from the beacon. Charly moved closer. As she drew near, the
figures were revealed as men in rough clothes of linen and leather, heavy
cloaks of animal skin drawn close about them. They bent over something hidden
from Charly, some chanting, some beating wide, shallow drums of tanned hide.

“Come closer,” said Epona, beckoning. “Do not be
afraid.”

Sam awoke scratching. He had spent the night on a rough
mattress stuffed with straw, in the single room that Wayland shared with his
son. Rolling his shirt up, Sam examined the rash that dotted his stomach and chest. He
hoped this was from the prickling of the straw, but he suspected that some kind
of insect had been involved. After a breakfast of fresh eggs and more coarse
bread, Wayland said, “Now then, lad. Let’s see ’ow she’s farin’.”

He set off toward the smithy.

Sam arrived to find the smith lifting the bundle of
sackcloth from the cold ashes of the forge and peeling back the layers. The
clay had baked solid, and the cloth crackled, shedding clouds of dust as he
revealed the contents. Sam reached out and touched the smooth surface. The iron
was black and cold now, a dull spike of dark metal marked with the imprint of
Wayland’s hammer.

“C’mon, boy,” said Wayland. He began to build a fire
in the center of the forge, heaping charcoal over a pyramid of dry sticks. Sam
helped him, and soon they were both covered in black dust, grinning at each
other with dazzling eyes and teeth. Wayland struck a spark into a tuft of dry
moss, blew on it until a glow bathed his face, and fed it into a gap in the
pile of firewood. After more blowing, a tiny flame sprang into life. While Sam
watched the fire, the smith worked on the blade with files, grinding and
shaping, adding the beginnings of a sharp edge. The metal was soft, easily
worked, and quickly took shape under Wayland’s expert hands.

The fire blazed for a while, lighting up the dark smithy,
then began to settle. With a brittle tinkling, the charcoal collapsed into the
embers of the wood and the flames subsided. When the hearth was glowing gently,
Wayland added more charcoal and said, “Right, lad. Get on they bellows.”

Sam hauled on the bellows handle until the charcoal
roared, and Wayland returned the blade to the fire. “Need to ’arden it
now,” he told Sam. “Get pumpin’.”

Charly gasped, her hand to her mouth. As she drew closer
to the circle, she saw that the men were bent over a shallow pit in the earth.
Within lay a body, a tall man of middle years, a dusting of gray in his hair.
His arms were folded across his chest, and beneath his hands was the pommel of
a long sword. He was strewn with the petals of wildflowers, and items of
jewelry had been placed about him. Around his neck was a chain of bronze links,
and in his hair, clasped to his brow, was a circlet in the form of galloping
horses.

“They pray to me now, at the time of death,” said
Epona, “for the Underworld is mine. You say you seek power. This is power.”
She gestured at the chanting circle. “The worship of men.”

“But that doesn’t help me,” protested Charly.
“Nobody worships me. I’m just a kid.”

“No, my child,” replied Epona, “for you drew down
the moon. The Goddess is within you now. Take up your power.”

She led Charly by the hand into the center of the
circle.
They seemed to pass through the bodies of the men like smoke and found
themselves standing by the graveside. The drumming and the relentless
drone of
voices crowded in on Charly. The two worlds, the ancient and the
present day,
swirled around her on black wings. She saw images, visions in the
streaming sparks from the beacon fire—births, deaths, the galloping of
white horses on green
fields, harvests of golden wheat, bright swords against the sky. The
eye of the
moon, high above now, seemed to pierce her, nailing her to the spot.
She
couldn’t breathe. And then, when she thought she would burst, Epona
reached
out and touched one finger to her forehead.

Suddenly, Charly was at the center of a shaft of light, a
pillar of cold radiance that lanced upward into the night sky. She seemed to
expand, until she filled the whole world, and the white light spilled out of
her, from her eyes, from her mouth. Clenching her fists, Charly drew the
radiance into herself, until it formed a white-hot core deep inside. She threw
back her head and laughed, high and wild.

“Run with me,” said Epona. And Charly ran.

Together, they left the circle of shadowy figures and the
blazing beacon and ran along the hill’s crest. With the speed of horses, they
tore across the night, and the cold light of the moon spilled from Charly so
that she seemed like a vessel of glass, lit from within. As she ran, her hair
streaming behind her, Charly caught glimpses of another figure, half-seen,
always on the edge of vision.

“Mother,” she called to Epona, “who runs with us?”

“It is my consort, the Horned God. The one you call the
Green Man.”

Charly turned her head and caught an impression of
antlers, a face of leaves and a familiar pair of amber eyes.

“Come,” cried Epona and plunged on into the night. For an eternity, they seemed to run without tiring, along
the high ridge. Charly grinned as she ran, exhilarated by the speed, burning
within with the power of the Moon Goddess. No longer would she envy Sam his
power. This night was hers, had come from her alone. She had her own path to
tread now.

After a time that Charly could not measure, the bushes
grew thicker and tall trees began to dot the slope. Epona paused, waiting for
Charly to catch up. As she drew to a halt, the goddess placed her hands on
Charly’s shoulders and smiled.

“We are one now, you and I.”

“My thanks, Mother,” said Charly. Then she added, “I
seek a doorway, an entrance to the Underworld.”

“There is a gate such as you seek,” continued Epona,
“It is called the Gate of Water. Follow.”

Epona plunged down the slope, leaving the ridge behind and
picking her way through the thickening trees. Soon they were in dark woodland,
full of strange shadows and movements in the undergrowth.

After a time, Epona led Charly down a steep slope into a
narrow valley. Trees arched over from either side, blotting out the stars, but
the light of the moon followed them. At the bottom of the valley, splashing and
murmuring over rocks, was a tiny stream of cold, clear water. Together, Epona
and her daughter followed the flow upward, picking their way slowly through the
overhanging branches. At last, they came to a small pool in a bay of rock,
where ferns clung to the crevices and water dripped from the moss, a thousand
bright droplets.

“The Gate of Water,” said Epona, standing aside.
Charly stepped forward. Before her was a blank face of stone, higher than her
head, draped with greenery. The source of the stream was somewhere in the rock
above her. Water poured down from the leaves of the ferns like strings of glass
beads, and its music was all around her.

“Trust,” said Epona, “and the gate will open unto
you. But take heed, daughter. Those who journey in the Underworld are ever in
peril. You have run well on this, your first night of power. But my protection
was upon you, and the elder things of the world would not draw near. I will not
always be by your side. Fare well, daughter, and blessed be.”

“Thank you,” replied Charly, feeling awkward. The
light that burned within her was fading, and the impression of existing in two
worlds at once was drifting away. She gazed at the wall of layered stone. When
she looked back, Epona was gone.

Charly stepped forward into the shallow pool at the foot
of the waterfall, gasping at the icy bite of the water. She stretched out one
hand, meaning to test the weeddraped rock but then decided against it. Trust,
Epona had said. Closing her eyes, she strode forward, flinched in expectation,
but the anticipated collision never came. Instead, she stumbled, tried to
regain her footing, and sprawled headlong into dry dust.

Sam worked until the sweat poured from him, maintaining a
steady rhythm that kept the metal glowing red. Just when he thought he was at
the end of his endurance, Wayland took the blade in a pair of tongs and plunged it
into a barrel of water. Steam billowed up with a great
whoosh,
and the smith bent close, peering intently at
the metal. When he was satisfied, he took it out and returned with it to the
forge.

“Right, lad. Now it’s ’ard, we needs to temper
it.” He put the metal back in the coals and let it heat up to a dull glow,
cooler than the fiery red that Sam had maintained before, then plunged it once
more into the water barrel. He repeated this several times, until at last he
seemed happy. Taking the cooled metal from the water, he held it up to his
face, squinted along its length with one eye closed, and smiled. “Aye,
lad,” he said, “that’ll do.”

“Can I see?” asked Sam, but at that moment, they heard
noises outside.

“Stay ’ere,” warned Wayland. “I’ll go an’ see
what’s amiss.”

He stamped out of the forge, and Sam heard muffled voices
outside. He listened for a while, trying to gauge the mood of the conversation.
As far as he could tell, everything seemed friendly, so he ventured to the
doorway. Wayland was in discussion with a man on a horse, a tall, blond-haired
stranger with a haughty expression. Catching sight of Sam, the man said, “And
who do we have here, smith?”

“Oh, ’tis just my lad, sir,” replied Wayland, “as
helps me around the place. Get ’ee back indoors, boy.” Sam turned to go.

“No,” said the stranger. “Come here, child.” To
Wayland, he said, “I’ve seen your boy, smith. He dresses as you do. This child is different. Come here.”

Reluctantly, Sam moved forward.

“What is your name, child?”

Sam looked at Wayland for guidance, but the smith’s face
remained impassive.

“Sam,” he replied.

“Sam,” repeated the stranger thoughtfully. “Your
name is as strange as your attire, boy. You will come with me. My king will
wish to see you.” He beckoned for Sam to approach his horse.