The Firehills (17 page)

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.