The Firehills Part 4

"Oh, dear," whispered Charly to Sam, "He's off again."

"What is it, Amergin?" asked Sam.

"There is one race, my friend," began Amergin, "who has the power to command the wind. The Hosts of the Air. They are known by some as the Faery Folk, by others-"

"Fairies!" spluttered Sam, almost choking on a chip.

"These weren't fairies. No wings, for a start."

Amergin chose to ignore him. "They are an ancient race, cold and cruel. The Sidhe they were once, in ancient Ireland, and before that, the Tuatha de Danaan."

"I know that name," said Charly thoughtfully. "You've mentioned them before."

"Aye, child, for my path and theirs have crossed."

Amergin fell silent, lost in thought.

"There's a story coming," Sam whispered to Charly.

"Get comfortable." She kicked him under the table.

"Long ago," began Amergin, "as I have told, I came to the land you know as Ireland with my people, the Sons of Mil. And we saw that the land was fair and desired it. But a race dwelled there before us-the Children of the G.o.ddess Dana, the Tuatha de Danaan."

"So what did you do?" asked Charly.

"We took their land from them," Amergin replied simply. "We slew them and took their land from them. And those we did not slay, we drove underground. Into the Hollow Hills."

"Where's that?" asked Sam.

"The Hollow Hills are . . ." Amergin trailed off.

"Here . . . and not here."

"Right. That's cleared that up."

"Sam!" hissed Charly.

"The Hollow Hills," continued the wizard, glaring at Sam, "are a realm separate from ours, touching upon it in some places but in others far removed. There are gates, doorways into the hills, but once a man enters, he can never know where-or when-he will emerge."

"So," began Sam, "these fairies-the Sidhe-you and your tribe took their land from them, right?"

Amergin nodded.

"And you killed most of them and drove the rest underground somewhere?"

Amergin nodded again, looking unhappy.

"And you're the last survivor of the Milesians, the sons of Mil, yes?"

Another nod.

"So why are they chasing Charly and me? If they've got an axe to grind with anyone, shouldn't it be with you?"

"It may be," replied the wizard thoughtfully, "that they are trying to get to me through you."

"Well," said Charly, "could you arrange to have them chase you next time?"

"I think," replied Amergin, '"that we should all stay very close together for a while."

Their meal finished, they made their way back through the crowded streets toward the town center. Charly felt insecure, even in the presence of her mother and Amergin. The pavements seemed crammed with hostile faces.

Meandering through the streets of the Old Town, peering into the windows of old bookshops, they eventually spilled out onto the seafront once more, with its amus.e.m.e.nt arcades and souvenir shops. Caught up in the crowds, they walked on, under the foot of West Hill.

Above them loomed the ruins of the castle, where the festival would be held. It seemed to cling precariously to the rock, jagged and broken. Finally, they came to the newer part of town.

"I know," said Megan, pointing across the road, "let's go to the pier."

"I thought," replied Amergin rather huffily, "that you didn't approve of such things."

"It's industrial archaeology," said Megan, grinning, "a triumph of Victorian architecture."

They found a pedestrian crossing and shuffled with the crowd across the busy seafront. The pier launched itself out to sea from a wide plaza, ringed by stalls selling ice cream and seafood and dotted here and there with jugglers. Pa.s.sing through a narrow gate, they found themselves out over the sea. The restless motion of the waves was visible through cracks in the old planks beneath their feet. They strolled on, with the sea breeze in their faces, past fortune-tellers and hot dog stands, past the old ballroom, to the farthest end of the pier. Here they stopped and leaned against the railings in a comfortable silence, gazing out to sea.

"I was thinking," said Charly after a while.

"Blimey!" said Sam, and there was a brief struggle as Charly attempted to throw him over the railing. Eventually, she continued. "I was thinking, this is probably a bad place to be."

"In what way?" asked her mother.

"Well, we're right out here, in a kind of dead end. If the . . . What were they called?"

"The Sidhe," said a cold voice from behind her. Simultaneously, Charly, Amergin, Sam, and Megan spun around. They found themselves face-to-face with the Host of the Sidhe, with Lord Finnvarr at their head. Strangely, though, it was Finnvarr who looked most surprised.

"You!" he cried, pointing at Amergin.

"My Lord Finnvarr," replied the wizard, inclining his head.

"But you should be dead!"

"It's a long story," replied Amergin.

The Lord of the Sidhe fell silent, but a mental argument raged between his mind and those of his lieutenants. You said it was the boy! he raged.

That is what we believed, my lord. He has the power. But the Bard, the destroyer of our people. . . . You fools!

You pursue a child, while Amergin of Mil yet walks the earth?

Take him!

But, my lord- Take him!

Heavy boots thudded on the planking of the pier as two of the Sidhe strode forward. Amergin raised his hands and began to make a gesture of warding, but the air began to swirl around him. From his feet upward, he began to fray, his shape losing definition and shredding away into the vortex of air. Just before he vanished, he cried out, "Sam! The Hollow Hills!" And then he was gone.

CHAPTER 3.

Back in the Aphrodite Guest House, Megan sat in one of the old armchairs in the residents' lounge, lost in her thoughts, her face pale. Sam paced back and forth, unable to sit still, while Charly looked helplessly from one to the other. Somewhere, she could hear a clatter as Mrs. P. bustled around making tea. After a few minutes, she returned with a tray laden with cups and a steaming teapot. Settling into one of the remaining chairs, she looked at Megan and said, "So, my dear, what happened?"

Megan was silent for a moment. Then, "It was horrible. He just . . . sort of came apart. And then the rest of them, the Sidhe, they disappeared too. A little whirlwind, starting at their feet, and then they were gone. And last of all, that girl-"

"I told you about her, Mum. I hate her!"

"Now, now, dear," said Mrs. P. "Hate is a strong word. You say"-she returned to Megan-"that he spoke before he vanished?'

"The Hollow Hills," said Sam, looking up from the floor.

"The Hollow Hills?" Mrs. P. jumped to her feet. "Come on, darlings, follow me. And bring your tea."

With surprising speed, she led them up the stairs, past the guest rooms, to the highest landing of the house. Here she selected a key from the bunch that hung at her waist and opened the final door.

"Wow!" said Sam, following her into the room. Mrs. P.'s private quarters were in the attic of the old house, and the room they had entered-a kind of combined study and living room-had windows on three sides. The farthest, in the gable end, overlooked the sea. Light slanted in dusty columns and pooled on the floor-or what was visible of it.

"Sit yourselves down, dears!" called Mrs. P., bustling over to the bookshelves. She returned with an armful of books and plonked herself in a chair at one of the desks. Humming tunelessly, she leafed through several of the volumes, then cried, "Aha! Here we go!" She began to summarize the text in front of her. "The Sidhe-or Tuatha de Danaan-described in The Book of Leinster as 'G.o.ds and not G.o.ds' . . . blah, blah . . . sidhe is apparently also the Gaelic word for the wind . . . blah . . . here we go- "'The Host of the Air' or 'The Host of the Hollow Hills,'

the inhabitants of the 'Otherworld,' who roam the country four times a year, around the four great festivals: Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane, and Lammas. Well, there you have it." She looked at them over the top of the book. "Beltane is-or was-May Day. That's why they're around now."

"So," asked Charly, "what about these Hollow Hills?"

"Well," replied Mrs. P., "the Hollow Hills were once thought to be barrows-you know, burial chambers?"

Sam and Charly nodded. They were very familiar with barrows from their adventure the previous year in Dorset.

"But that word comes from the Old English word beorh, which makes no distinction between artificial mounds and natural hills. So there seems to be some confusion. It was once thought that tales of fairies taking people into the Hollow Hills referred to barrows, which are obviously hollow, because they're tombs, but this"-she tapped the page-"suggests that the ancient accounts might have been referring to actual hills-a kind of mystical Otherworld inside the hills of Britain. There's even a suggestion here that they might be bigger on the inside than they are on the outside, if you see what I mean."

"And what about the Sidhe?" asked Megan. "Is there any more information about them? We know where they came from, but who are they?"

"There are mentions of various kings of the Faery Folk, or the Gentry, as they are sometimes known. Where are we? Yes, here-the most powerful of the kings appears to be Finnbheara, or Finnvarr, of Cnoc Meadha in County Galway. His bride is the Lady Una-"

"That's her!" exclaimed Charly. "The girl in the leather jacket. That's her. I know it is!"

Mrs. P. looked over her book. "What makes you say that, dear?"

Charly frowned. "I don't know. I just . . . suddenly knew, when you said her name."

"Mmmmm . . . Anyway," continued Mrs. P., "the Tuatha de Danaan were defeated by the Milesians-that's Amergin's mob-and largely disappeared. But then they begin to crop up in legend; the Faery Folk, dwelling within hills from which music and feasting can be heard; traveling the land on horseback or in the form of whirlwinds. Apparently, when country folk see leaves whirling in the road, they still bless themselves, thinking that the Sidhe are pa.s.sing by."

"So," sighed Megan, "it's clear what they want-revenge."

"If, as you tell me, Amergin is the last survivor of the Milesians, then yes," agreed the old woman. "It seems likely."

"I'm going to rescue him," said Sam, suddenly.

"No, you're not," replied Megan, just as quickly.

"Why not?"

"It's too dangerous."

"But I defeated the Malifex! How dangerous can it be?"

"Oooh!" exclaimed Charly. "Hark at Action Man!"

"We're talking about an entire race or what's left of them," agreed Megan.

"So what do we do?" demanded Sam. "Sit here and hope he gets out on his own?"

"But we don't even know where they've taken him,"

said Megan. "He could be anywhere." She looked close to tears.

"The Hollow Hills!" exclaimed Sam. "Where else are they going to take him? Mrs. P.?" He turned to the old woman. "Does it say how to get in?"

"Sorry, dear?" Mrs. P. looked up from her book.

"How to get into the Hollow Hills? Does it tell you in the book?"

Mrs. P. looked thoughtful. "There was something," she began and jumped up, returning to her bookshelves.

"Where was it? Ah, yes . . . here. William Lambarde." She held up an ancient, leather-bound book. "A Perambulation of Suss.e.x, published in 1578. I've always been intrigued by this. Where is it? Here we go." She cleared her throat and began to read aloud in strange, old-fas.h.i.+oned English: "He who woulde be a Walker Betweene Worlds, and consorte with Fayries, must take hym to those hilles which men term Barowes, being hollowe, and knocke thrice, and the hill shall open unto hym. To the Wyse, these gaytes be signified by the elementes, being the Gates of Air, Fyre, Yerth, and Water."

There was silence.

Eventually, Sam said, "And that helps, does it?"

"It's a start," Mrs. P. replied with a sniff.

"What's yerth? " asked Charly.

"Earth, sweety," explained Mrs. P.