The Firehills (3 page)

“We need to assemble a coven,” Megan pointed out,
“if we’re going to do this properly.”

“Not necessary,” said Mrs. P. “We can do it just as
well with three.”

“I could help . . .” began Amergin.

“This,” said Mrs. P. pointedly, “is women’s
business. Now come along. No time like the present.”

“Where are we going?” demanded Charly, struggling to
keep up with Mrs. P. as she strode out of the house.

“The Firehills,” the old woman called back over her
shoulder. “It’s a favorite place of mine for this sort of thing.” She was
carrying a large and mysteriously lumpy backpack and had a very businesslike
air about her. Charly looked to her mother but received only a rather worried
smile.

They scrambled into Megan’s car, and she raced off into
the twilight, down to the seafront, past the net shops, and then climbing up
once more, heading inland. Leaving the last houses behind, they emerged onto
the windswept ridge high above town.

Under Mrs. P.’s direction, Megan parked the car at an
overlook, and they clambered out. Off beyond the lights of Hastings, the sun
was setting and the air was growing cool. They crossed the narrow road and
marched down a rough track that dwindled eventually to a footpath. Charly soon
lost all sense of direction and concentrated instead on the retreating backs of
her mother and Mrs. P. They passed under trees, slipping and stumbling in the
shadows, and finally emerged onto a hillside. The trees gave way to scattered
bushes of gorse, jet black in the fading light. At the foot of the slope, the
gray of the wild grassland was replaced by a different color, a vast expanse of
pearl, tinged with the last light of the dying sun: the sea. Charly could hear
its voice against an unseen shore, the eternal sigh and hiss of the ocean.

Mrs. P. had stopped and was looking around. She walked a
few steps and stopped once more.

“What is she doing?” Charly whispered to her mother.

“Looking for somewhere suitable,” replied Megan.

“For the ritual?”

“Yes, dear. For the ritual.”

“But don’t we need a full coven for the Initiation
Ritual?”

“Ideally, yes. As I tried to point out to her. But in
exceptional circumstances, it can be performed with fewer. Fortunately, we have
representatives of the three aspects of the Great Goddess—Mother, Maiden, and
. . .Wise Woman.”

“Crone,” said Mrs. P., coming to join them. “Say it,
I don’t mind. I’ve worked long and hard to earn the right to be called
crone, nothing to be ashamed of. Maiden, Mother, and Crone: the Three in One.
And here is the perfect setting. These, my dear”—she gestured around
them—“are the Firehills, a very special place.”

“Why are they called that?” asked Charly.

“Well,” replied the old woman, “one theory is that
it’s because of all the gorse.” She pointed at the dark mounds of the
bushes. “Nearly all year, they’re covered in flowers, and it makes the
place look like it’s on fire. A very pretty theory, if a little fanciful.”

“What’s your theory?” Charly knew Mrs. P. too well
to think she wouldn’t have one.

“One of the ways of controlling scrub like this is to
burn it every few years.” She smiled. “I know, not as romantic, sorry. Come
on.”

“We won’t do it sky clad,” said Mrs. P., taking her
place, “it’s a bit chilly.”

Charly was relieved. Sky clad meant in the nude, and the
evening was cool now that the sun was down. They had meditated for a while,
each of them sitting with their own thoughts as the sun dropped into the sea
out beyond Hastings. Now Mrs. P. had brought them together in a grassy clearing
among the gorse bushes. The bright yellow flowers were still visible in the
twilight, and their faint scent of coconut hung on the still air.

Mrs. P. took a wand from her backpack, a short length of
wood bound with silver bands and with a piece of crystal at the end. Holding it
before her, she walked clockwise around Charly and said:

Blessed be those within this circle;

Cleanse heart and mind,

That only truth be spoken,

Truth only be heard.

She fell silent for a space of thirteen heartbeats and
then continued.

“A seeker is among us . . .” and here she spoke
Charly’s secret name, the name she had chosen for herself and by which she
would be known within the ranks of her coven

“proven by magic, who doth aspire to join with those who
follow the way of the ancient craft.”

The ritual took its course, the ancient words familiar to
Charly from her studies. At the correct points, she gave the appropriate
responses to Mrs. P.’s questions.

“Do you seek the Way

That stretches beyond Life and Death?”

“I do.”

“Will you serve the Goddess

And reverence the God?”

“I will.”

“Will you guard that which is shown you

From the unworthy?”

“I will.”

Finally, Mrs. P. made the sign of the five-pointed
pentacle with her wand and said, “In the name of the Lady and those
covenanted to her, I place this threefold charge upon you: to know the Goddess
and the God; to love the Goddess and Her Consort; and, through knowledge of the
Way, to serve the Goddess and the Horned One. Do you”—and again she used
Charly’s secret name—“freely accept the charge?”

“I do.”

“So be it. Blessed be and welcome, dear friend.”

After Charly had embraced her mother and Mrs. P., she
stepped back, grinning. “So, is that it, then?” she asked.

“I’m initiated?”

Megan dabbed away a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Yes, sweetie. You’ve taken your first step along the
Path. I’m so proud—” Her voice broke and she looked away.

“Mu-um,” sighed Charly, looking embarrassed.

“Come on,” said Mrs. P. “We should be getting back.
It’s nearly dark, and your friend Sam will be arriving soon.”

Closing the door of her room, Charly flopped down on the
creaky old bed and threw open her case. Rummaging frantically, she found her hairbrush and ran over to the
mirror. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and her mother’s
voice shouted, “Charly! He’s here!”

Charly yanked open the door with surprising speed and
looking slightly flushed, stumbled out. Megan looked her up and down. “Your
hair looks nice,” she said with one eyebrow raised.

“Mu-um!” groaned Charly, but one hand moved
involuntarily to her newly plaited braid. Together, they clattered down the
stairs and into the lobby.

“Sam!” cried Megan as she spied a familiar figure at
the small reception desk. She gave him a peck on the cheek before turning to
his father. “Paul. Good to see you again.”

They shook hands, Sam’s father glancing around
sheepishly.

“Er, thanks for having him, Megan. Hope he won’t be
any trouble.” He cast a sharp look in Sam’s direction.

“Look, I’d better be off. I’ll pick him up on
Monday, OK?

Around seven?”

“That will be fine. We’ll see you then.”

With a look of obvious relief, Sam’s father headed for
the door. He liked Megan and Charly, but the whole subject of last year’s
holiday in Dorset made him intensely uncomfortable. Try as he might, he
couldn’t remember anything after the first couple of days. He and his wife
had come to an unspoken agreement. The subject of Dorset was not discussed.
Frowning, he jumped back into the car and drove away.

In the street outside the guesthouse, a dust devil sprang
up. Candy wrappers and cigarette ends danced briefly in the air and then, as if invisible strings had been
severed, dropped to the ground.

“So,” began Megan, “how are you?” She took a step
back and looked Sam up and down. Sam, remembering her ability to read auras,
felt nervous.

“Yes,” he stammered, “good. I’m fine. How are
you?” he finished with a forced smile.

“We’re fine. Aren’t we, Charly?”

Charly was lurking somewhere behind her mother and had
turned slightly pink.

“Hi, Sam,” she said, trying to look uninterested.

“Well,” continued Megan, “you two must have a lot of
catching up to do. I’ll be off. I’ll send Amergin down.”

And with that, she clattered back up the stairs. Silence
descended.

“So,” began Charly after a while, “you’re OK,
then?”

“Mmm. Yeah. You?”

“Good.”

Silence returned once more.

“Look,” said Charly, “there’s a little sort of
lounge thing just over here. Let’s go and sit in there. You can take your bag
up to the room later.” With that, she turned and marched off through a nearby
doorway.

With a sigh, Sam put down his bag and followed. He found
Charly curled in an old armchair, a hideous thing with bowed wooden legs and
tattered floral fabric. She had her mother’s way of sitting, legs tucked
beneath her, very self-contained and still. She watched him as he lowered himself gingerly onto a sagging sofa. To avoid her
gaze, Sam looked around the room. The walls bore a bold floral pattern in gold
and burgundy, though much of this was mercifully hidden by a mosaic of old
prints in illmatched frames. Local scenes rubbed shoulders with gilded
paintings of saints and lurid pictures of women dancing in stone circles. Sam
even saw the face of the Green Man, over in one corner, his ancient amber eyes
gazing out from a mask of foliage.

When he looked back to Charly, she was still studying him.

“How are you really?” she asked. “You look . . .
different.”

Sam looked down at the violent colors of the carpet. When
he looked up, there was a sad smile on his face.

“I think that’s about the right word—
different.”
He sighed. “I’m OK, really. It’s
just been a bit strange, adjusting.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” Sam’s eyes flashed. “Can you really?”

“OK! Don’t get so worked up! Just trying to be
sympathetic.”

“Sorry.” Sam looked sheepish. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Very well, in fact.” Charly smiled.

“What? Why are you looking so smug?”

“I’ve just been initiated.”

Sam looked blank. “Oh. Initiated, huh? Well, that must
be . . . nice.”

“You haven’t got a clue what that means, have you?” snapped Charly in irritation. “Sam, you’re so lame
sometimes!”

“Sorry,” said Sam, looking bemused. “It’s
something important, then?”

“Yes. It’s the first step toward becoming a practicing
Wiccan. I’ve had to study for ages, all the rituals and responses and things.
It’s not even supposed to have happened yet. I’m too young, really. But
after what went on last year, with the Malifex and everything, Mrs. P. thought
I ought to, well, jump ahead.”

“Right.” Sam nodded, trying to look suitably
impressed. “Well, um, congratulations, then.”

“Thank you.”

Silence fell.

“How’s Amergin?” asked Sam eventually.

“He’s fine. He’s settling in very well—almost too
well.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s, I dunno, not very ‘wizardy’ anymore.”

“Is there such a word as wizardy?” Sam asked with a
smile.

“Is now.” Charly stuck her tongue out. “At first,
Mum and he used to spend all their time talking about magic and history and
folklore, but after a while, Amergin got more and more interested in, well,
modern
things. Television, mostly. Now he spends
most of his time watching Star Trek and bouncing up and down on the couch.”

Sam smiled at the mental image.

“It’s not funny! He thinks most of what he sees is
real.
Independence Day
was on the other week, you
know, with the flying saucers invading Earth? He started running round
collecting canned food and telling us to go down into the cellar!”

Sam started to giggle, and the door opened.

“Amergin!” he shouted, jumping to his feet.

“Sam, my boy!” replied the wizard, grabbing hold of
him and thumping him vigorously on the back. They separated and stood for a
moment, grinning foolishly at each other.

“You look well, my friend,” said Amergin.

“You look . . . bigger,” replied Sam. “Around the
middle.”

Amergin glanced down. “Hrrrmph, yes. Megan has been
looking after me. Come. She told me to collect your luggage and show you to
your room.”

The shopping mall was silent. The hordes of daytrippers
had returned home, and those tourists who were staying in hotels and
guesthouses had not yet emerged to begin their nightly round of pubs and clubs.
In the yellow sodium glare of a streetlight, the litter swirled and danced for
a moment, and there was Finnvarr, Lord of the Sidhe, striding through the still
night. Behind him came the Lady Una, seeming to float on air as the train of
her black wedding dress rustled through the discarded burger wrappers. They
moved down a long aisle of empty shops, their reflections flickering and
dancing in the blank windows, until they came to a bench. The group of
black-clad figures barely looked up as they arrived, but their excited thoughts
raced from mind to mind.

What news?
demanded Finnvarr.

We have found him, my lord! Our
agents tracked him down
and followed him here.

Here?
inquired Finnvarr in
surprise.
He is here?

Yes, my lord!

We followed him. He is here, in the
town!

And you are sure he is the one?

Yes, my lord. He is only a boy by the
reckoning of mortals,
but the power is in him.

Then he has been delivered into our
hands.
Finnvarr allowed a look of satisfaction to register on his face.
We
must ensure that he meets
with . . . an accident. And then the
final obstacle
will have been removed from our path.