The Firehills Part 5

"So we just find a likely spot and knock three times, and they'll let us in?" demanded Sam.

"Not just any spot," said Megan patiently. "At one of the Gates, which seem to be a.s.sociated with the four elements-earth, fire, water, and air. Anyway, you're not going, and that's that. I told your parents I'd look after you this weekend. And I will." She stood up. "Come on. There's no use moping around here. I'm sure Amergin will be fine. He's a powerful wizard."

"I'll go and start dinner," said Mrs. P. Sam groaned inwardly. "You'll feel more positive with something tasty inside you."

They filed downstairs, Megan and Charly going to their rooms, Sam and Mrs. P. continuing down to the ground floor. When Mrs. P. had shuffled off to the kitchen, Sam made his way to the residents' lounge. There, he rummaged around briefly in a pile of brochures and leaflets, pulled out a tattered, pink-covered map, and retired to a low coffee table.

Spreading the map out on the table, he began to scrutinize it, pus.h.i.+ng down the stubborn folds. One index finger hunted here and there like a dog on a scent trail. To the north of the pink coastal sprawl of Hastings was the bewildering patchwork of the Weald, a green maze of tiny woods and narrow lanes. No use. No hills. Farther west, the bleak expanse of Pevensey Levels, crisscrossed by a thousand streams and ditches. Still no hill. And then the urban stain of Eastbourne, and just beyond, he found what he was seeking. On the western edge of the town, the South Downs began, a swirling thumbprint of contour lines and, dotted across them, the words he had hoped for: Long Barrow, Tumuli, Earthworks. The names brought a s.h.i.+ver. All his adventures had begun when Charly had told him of the barrow behind her house, high on Brens...o...b.. Hill.

So, if it was barrows he wanted, then this was the place to start. He noted the name of the nearest village-Wilmington. Just then, somebody came silently into the room. Sam saw movement from the corner of his eye and jumped. It was Mr. Macmillan.

"Ah, good evening," he rasped, forcing a smile. "Poring over the map, are we?" He seemed suddenly very interested, peering down with his head on one side, attempting to read the inverted place names.

Sam began to fold the map up. "Just finished, actually,"

he said coldly, putting the map back with the brochures.

"Yes, well," said Mr. Macmillan awkwardly, "jolly good. I'll leave you to it." And with another unconvincing smile, he left.

Sam stared at the door for a while, unnerved by the stranger's visit, but soon his thoughts returned to his dilemma. He couldn't just sit back and leave Amergin to the mercy of the Sidhe. After all, what was the point in being a hero if you didn't . . . well, do heroic things? But what, exactly, was he to do in this particular situation? In the past, he'd usually had Amergin on hand to offer advice, except in his final battle against the Malifex. But now, starting from scratch with only Mrs. P.'s old books and the wizard's final cry to guide him . . . Well, he didn't feel particularly heroic. He was about to give up and go to his room when Charly appeared.

"Well?" she said, flopping down in an old armchair.

"Well what?"

"You're going to do it, right?"

"Do what?"

"That's what I like about you, your sparkling conversation. Rescue Amergin! You're going to rescue Amergin, aren't you?"

"Err . . ." Sam looked uncertain.

"Oh, come on! You know you are. What's the plan?"

Sam smiled. "Haven't really got one yet," he admitted.

"Business as usual, then." Charly grinned at him. Sam made a face.

"We need to find a gate," said Charly decisively, "into the Hollow Hills. Where's the nearest barrow?"

"Wilmington."

"Sorry?"

"Wilmington. Start of the South Downs. Other side of Eastbourne." Sam looked smug.

"I'm impressed! You're getting good at this, nature boy." Charly jumped to her feet. "What are we waiting for, then? Let's go!"

"We can't just go. " Sam sighed. "It's getting late. It'll be dark in a few hours."

"Never stopped us before. Go get some warmer clothes and meet me back here. Come on! Move it!"

Sam looked at the floor for a moment, then grinned up at Charly. "You're a very bad influence, you know that?"

He scrambled to his feet.

"Yeah, and you love it!" Charly called after him as he headed for the stairs.

Ten minutes later, they let themselves quietly out of the front door and walked swiftly down the garden path. Charly had raided the kitchen on the way out, and they gulped down sandwiches as they walked. Just before the iron gate, they paused, and Charly turned to Sam. " Well," she asked, "how shall we travel?"

Sam looked thoughtful. "We need something fast, and we need to navigate. I know. Let's try this." He closed his eyes.

Charly concentrated. Since her own tentative experiment with shape-s.h.i.+fting, she had been intrigued by the idea. She tried desperately to memorize the sensation as the world seemed to s.h.i.+mmer and recede, and then all concentration was lost as she tumbled toward the ground. She gave a flick of her wings and saw the bricks of the path blur and drop away as she swooped high into the air. Ahead, she could see Sam, a dark-brown speck wheeling against the blue sky. His wings were incredibly long and narrow compared to the size of his body, a shape made with speed in mind. With dazzling agility, the two swifts chased each other around the chimneys of the guesthouse, screaming like the d.a.m.ned, and then with a flick of those rapier wings, Sam was off, arrowing into the west.

They kept the sea to their left at first, arcing and swooping through the sky, reveling in the sensation of flight. The feeling of speed was breathtaking. It was quite unlike anything Charly had ever experienced before, and she wanted it, craved the power for her own. After a while, Sam tilted his wings and slid down a hill of air, heading inland. Charly followed and found that they were descending over the Pevensey Levels, a vast, flat expanse of gra.s.sland, carved into a checkerboard by countless waterways. They chased the reflection of the sun as it sparked and glittered in the ditches, skimming so low that their wing tips drew lines of ripples on the surface of the water. And then Sam wheeled to the south once more, leaving the Levels behind as he circled the hazy smudge of traffic fumes that marked the town of Eastbourne.

Dropping lower, they sped over rooftops and roads and saw, stretching out before them like a rumpled green carpet, the beginning of the Downs. Sam spotted what he was seeking, descended farther, and circled twice, giving Charly a chance to catch up. Then, as they slowed and approached the ground, the world tumbled again, and Charly found herself in her own body once more. Breathless with excitement, she grinned at Sam.

"You do know how to show a girl a good time!" she gasped. Sam smiled back. "Come on," he replied. "This way."

They were in a field dotted with the lazy black-andwhite shapes of cattle. Over to their left, behind an ageworn stone wall, were the ruins of an old priory. Sam led them to a fence, and they scrambled over.

"Wow!" exclaimed Charly, gesturing ahead. "Look at that!"

"Yeah," replied Sam casually, "cool, isn't he?"

Across the road, the bulk of the Downs rose up above the village, and on the slope, dazzling white against the green, was the carved outline of a man. He stood with his legs apart and his arms raised to shoulder height, and in each hand, he appeared to be holding a tall staff.

"Were you expecting this?" asked Charly.

"Well, it says 'Long Man' on the map," explained Sam.

"And there was a leaflet about him back at Mrs. P.'s. Come on-that's Windover Hill. There are barrows and things all over the hilltop, up above him."

They crossed the narrow road and climbed a stile over a fence. A footpath, tightly hemmed between the road and the edge of a cornfield, led along the bottom of the hill before eventually swinging in a series of curves toward the slope that bore the chalk figure.

At the corner where the path left the road at right angles and headed off across the fields, they came upon a man, sitting on a gra.s.sy bank in the sun, biting into a huge sandwich. Two long walking sticks lay by his side.

"Art'noon," he said, around a mouthful of bread and cheese. "Off to look at the Green Man?"

Sam looked startled. "Why do you call him that?"

he asked.

The man gave Sam a searching look. "Well," he drawled, in a thick accent that reminded Sam of Somerset or Cornwall, "'E's white now, see, that's account of 'im bein' made o' concrete. But 'e used to be made o' chalk. Cut inter the chalk of the 'ill, so ter speak. An' sometimes, see, the villagers 'ud forget to go an' cut un, an' 'e'd get overgrown. An' then they'd call un the Green Man."

"I see," Sam said thoughtfully. "Any idea who he's meant to be?"

"Well, 'e's like one o' they candles, see?"

"Er, no," replied Charly, "not really."

"One o' they pictures, looks like a candlestick, then- all of a sudden-ye sees it's two faces, two blokes lookin' at each other. Most folks, tourists an' the like"-he pulled a face-"sees a bloke 'oldin' two sticks. But there's some as sees a chap standin' in a doorway."

Charly and Sam both turned to look at the far-off figure. It was possible, thought Sam, that what he had taken to be two staffs or spears could be the uprights of a doorframe. He turned back to the stranger.

"And what do you think?" he asked.

"Me? I reckon 'e's a windsmith."

"A windsmith?" Charly frowned.

"Used to be a lot o' windmills round 'ere; still is one over by Polegate. Used ter be a lot o' call fer a man as could read the winds. Windsmith used ter go round, studyin' the wind, learnin' its ways, an' givin' advice to them as wanted ter build windmills. Could almost see the wind, some o' they old windsmiths."

"I see," said Sam, exchanging a glance with Charly that said, Let's get out of here. "Well, we better get going. Goodbye."

The stranger fixed Sam with an odd look, almost pleading. "Think on it, lad," he said. "A windsmith, a man as reads the wind or a man holdin' open a doorway. Think on it."

Charly pulled Sam away by the arm. "Come on," she hissed. "He's weird."

Sam stumbled after her, looking back over his shoulder at the figure on the bank. He had returned to his sandwich, all signs of his recent intensity vanished. They continued along the track, warm now in the late afternoon sun. The pathway looped across the field in a wide curve, taking them far out of their way before swinging back to the foot of the carved figure.

"Come on," said Sam, "let's cut the corner off-it'll take forever otherwise." With that, he set off into the field of young barley.

"Walk in the tramlines, you idiot!" Charly shouted after him.

"Eh?" Sam looked puzzled.

"The tramlines-the tractor tracks!" Charly pointed down to the parallel strips of bare earth left by the wheels of the tractor that had sown the crop.

"Oh, right." Sam hopped sideways, looking embarra.s.sed. As they shuffled side by side through the knee-high barley, a thought occurred to Sam. He glanced back across the field and saw that the stranger had risen to his feet. Lost in the haze of distance, he seemed to be staring steadily back at Sam. In each hand he held a long staff.

"That's it!" exclaimed Sam.

Charly paused in her tramline and looked back at him.

"What now?"

"What he was trying to tell us!"

"Come on, spill the beans. Time's pa.s.sing."

"The gates into the Hollow Hills are linked to the elements, according to Mrs. P.'s book-earth, fire, air, and water. And here"-he gestured up at the hillside ahead- "we've got a windsmith, a man who studies the wind, OK?

The air? Standing in a doorway."

"You mean . . . ?"

"Yup, I'm sure that's the Gate of Air, where the Long Man is standing. Come on!" Sam strode off toward the foot of the slope, the barley hissing against his pants as he walked.

"How are you going to open it?" Charly called after him.

"Well," Sam shouted back over his shoulder. "I could go up and knock three times, like it says in the book, but somehow I don't think that's how Amergin would do it. I think he'd be able to open it from here."

Sam stopped in his tramline and raised his arm, fingers splayed. "Let's see what I can do!" Eyes closed, he sent out his mind, probing the earth of the hillside. The short gra.s.s and the thin, chalky soil tasted familiar to him, comforting, like putting on a favorite sweater. He cast about, moving the focus of his consciousness upward, until he encountered the base of the Long Man. His mind s.h.i.+ed away from something strange, alien. He rolled the new sensation around in his brain, getting to know it, letting it wash over him. And when he was comfortable with it, he thrust forward, searching for weaknesses. Yes, he thought to himself, I see. With a flick of his will, it was done. Opening his eyes, he saw that a vertical line was shooting through the gra.s.s of the hillside, upward from the giant's feet. With a deep, subterranean rumbling and the sound of tearing roots, the earth began to part. But something was wrong. All around him, the air was starting to s.h.i.+mmer. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stood up, and his head was buzzing, the pressure building.

"Charly, get back!" he shouted, and then there was a loud crack, close by. Looking up, he saw a sphere of intense violet light, hovering just above his head, rotating at incredible speed. With another sharp snap, three smaller spheres broke free from it and drifted off, coming to a halt several meters away. Blue white energy was crackling to the ground like miniature lightning. The barley around his feet began to sway. He was at the center of a vortex of energy. He could feel the currents racing around him, and there was a metallic tang of ozone in the air. There was another crack, and each of the three smaller spheres sp.a.w.ned three offspring of its own. They in turn drifted away and took up their stations in the air, tethered to the ground by lightning.

Sam was swaying on his feet now, at the center of a radiating pattern of intense purple white light. He felt as if all the molecules in his body were under the influence of some alien gravity, a strange tide that sent them flowing in circles within him. His vision began to sparkle around the edges, narrowing gradually as though the world was receding. Just before he blacked out, he saw every stalk of barley in a circle around him suddenly soften like hot wax and droop to the ground. And then his mind fled. He opened his eyes to find Charly shaking him. "Come on!" she said. "It's closing!"

Sam pushed himself up on his elbows. He was lying at the center of a perfect circle of fallen barley, every stem lying flat and neat. Around the perimeter, equally s.p.a.ced, were three smaller circles. Beyond those, he could just make out others, decreasing in size as they spiraled away.

"Hurry!"

He looked in the direction Charly was pointing. In the hillside behind her, vast doors of white chalk stood open, monumental slabs of white rock fringed with the torn roots of gra.s.s. But already they were beginning to close. The ground vibrated beneath him as the doors swung through their slow arcs.

Scrambling to his feet, he shouted, "Come on, then!" and began to run. Charly set off after him. They were still some distance from the gateway, with a long slope of gra.s.sland between them and the lip of the opening. The doors were past the vertical now, their speed increasing as gravity took hold. It dawned on Sam that they were never going to make it, not at this speed. With his head down and his arms pistoning by his sides, he accelerated, his breath rasping in his throat.

Charly was dropping farther behind. Try as she might, she was not as fast as Sam, and it was clear that even he was not going to make it to the opening in time. The huge doors were nearly closed now, a gap of perhaps five meters between them. She was about to give up when Sam suddenly seemed to vanish. Then she spotted him, a small, brown shape against the green of the hillside. He had turned himself into a hare.

No, she gasped to herself, Sam, no. I can't! She tried to form the shape of a hare in her mind, to capture the particular feeling that accompanied transformation, but her thoughts were in chaos. The more frantic she became, the more impossible it was to hold a shape in her mind's eye. Sam was close to the threshold, long ears pressed back along his spine and powerful hind legs pumping. The gap was only as wide as his human arms could have stretched now, but he was so near. With a final kick from his back feet, he launched himself through the closing gap. Skidding to a halt in the darkness, he heard a vast, hollow boom as the mighty doors slammed shut, and he thought, Yes! Made it! And then he realized Charly was still outside, and there was nothing he could do. If he tried to open the doors again, he risked triggering another discharge of energy like the one that had created the crop circle. He reverted to his human form and sagged back onto the dry dirt floor, eyes pressed tight against the darkness.

Outside, on the short-cropped turf of the hillside, Charly buried her face in her hands, gave in to the frustration and the anger, and let the tears come.

CHAPTER 4.

Amergin struggled to raise his chin from his chest; a face swam into focus before him-high cheekbones, pale, flawless skin. He's awake. Amergin heard the voice in his mind. The face withdrew into the gray blur.

Amergin mac Mil, came a deeper voice. I am most surprised to see you again. And little has surprised me for centuries. The wizard raised his head once more and tried to focus. Off in the gloom, he could make out, with difficulty, a seated figure. "Finnvarr?" he croaked.

Aye, Finnbheara, Lord of the Sidhe, came a lighter voice, high and proud in Amergin's head. A figure broke free of the shadows and came toward him. The clicking of footsteps echoed off unseen walls. A pale face framed in dark hair loomed into his field of vision. You look tired, old man.

"And the Lady Una." Amergin sighed. "Lovely as ever."