Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  The drumming sound came from the back of the cave. Megan took a few steps along the edge of the lake, careful of her footing on the damp rock, and held her crystal up. A clear sheet of water flowed from a dark cleft high in the wall into the lake, where it foamed white then gradually stilled. She should wait here for her vision, find a comfortable spot perched on a rock, but something pushed her toward the waterfall. The slippery wet rock demanded her attention. Pebbles lay lodged in crevices and scattered in places along the shore, and among the ordinary grey and black stones gleamed amethyst and quartz, citrine and rubies.

  Megan stopped and listened, thinking perhaps she stumbled into a dragon’s lair after all, regardless that the Lady taught her the dragon forces were the energy streams that made up the universe itself. She heard no scrape of claw on rock, felt no fiery breath on the nape of her neck. She walked on, ever drawn toward the veil of water.

  A flat rock protruded from the cave wall close enough to the waterfall to watch it, but far enough away not to get drenched. Megan groped around on the rock and found small indentions, toe and finger holds. She climbed up and found a flat spot. She sat and leaned her back against the cave wall, tucking her legs beneath her, and gathered herself for a vigil. The light from the crystal tapered down to the size of a candle flame. She laid it beside her and discovered a hollow in the rock that gathered a pool of water. She watched for images in the water, but none came.

  The urge to move toward the waterfall grew stronger, so she took up her crystal and climbed down the other side of the rock, where she found neat steps cut into the wall. Once down, she picked her way across the wet rock to the booming water. The shower drenched her, and she expanded like a wilted flower.

  “Walk through,” the same voice whispered.

  Megan looked around, but found no one. She closed her eyes and saw nothing.

  “Come through the water,” the voice repeated.

  Megan held her breath and stepped through the silver stream, emerging bone-dry on the other side on a green strip of grass lit by an even light. She stood stock still, looking around for the source of the light, but found none. The sky above thinned to a haze, like an even bank of fine clouds that did not part to reveal the sun or moon, but the ambient light revealed a meadow dotted with flowers. Beyond lay a forest of ancient oak and rowan. At the edge of the trees stood a stag, his head heavy with a large rack. He stepped forward, pawed the ground, and turned, flicking a white tail. Megan followed.

  The stag bounded through the trees, making no sound. Megan ran hard to keep up, but he darted down a slope and jumped a stream, and she lost sight of him. The stream ran cold on her feet, which she noticed were now bare. How did she lose her shoes? The moss on the other side cushioned her steps. Through the trees, she saw a sphere of golden light. She walked toward it. Music filled the air, and laughter, the sounds of cutlery on plates. At the edge of the trees, an old man in a cloak waited for her. He took her hand and they walked to the front dais.

  The king—at least he looked like one—sat at the high table, dressed in fine red and gold threaded with gems and glimmering lights. He looked down at them and smiled. Megan felt that the sun just rose.

  “Who has our friend Merlin brought to our table?”

  The host of faeries quieted at the sound of their king’s voice. Heads turned and necks craned as they tried to get a look at her.

  “Megan, one who studies in Avalon but serves the Crystal Matrix.” Merlin’s voice was like sitting in front of a roaring fire; it warmed every part of her. How did he know so much?

  “Welcome, friend Megan.” A plate laden with food appeared on a low table near the dais, along with a golden chalice. Megan was suddenly sitting before it. The mead tasted of honey and magic. The food filled the secret hollows in her soul and soothed her heart.

  “We celebrate the betrothal of my brother,” spoke the King. To his side sat a tall being, his hair as blond as the King’s and his eyes as blue, but his fine brow and chin were haughtier. He could not tear his gaze from the vision beside him. Her skin was alabaster, her lips mulberries, and her fine hair like curling flame. “This night he will endure his trial for her hand.”

  At this, the whole host surged to their feet and raised their chalices of silver and gold bedecked with sparking jewels. The faeries sang their blessing, a sound that made Megan forget why she came.

  The King’s brother stood, receiving their good wishes. At the end of the song, he quaffed the rest of his mead and threw the golden cup behind him. He went down on his knees before the beauty still sitting beside him. “I pledge my troth to you, my beloved. This night I will do great deeds in your name and will return in the morning to claim you for all eternity.”

  She rested her delicate white hands on his head for a moment. He rose, and behind him appeared a host of horses ridden by men and women with golden, red, and coal black hair variously combed and braided, hung with gems and feathers and flying behind them in an imagined wind. Megan wondered if Govannan copied their hairstyle. There were hounds too, their teeth bared, their sky-blue eyes eerie with magic. One great stallion stood riderless. The King’s brother leapt onto the horse’s bare back and blew a great horn. The horde of riders shouted their bloodlust, chilling Megan to the core. She set down her chalice and looked for Merlin, who stood at the edge of the forest, his eyes on her.

  “We ride for glory and the souls of men,” the King’s brother cried. He looked at the woman with flaming curls, waiting for her tribute, but she turned to the King, her head bent. The King leaned over to speak to her, so close to her ear. They laughed together. The brother frowned and called to her, but the Hunt was off in a churning of hooves and braying of hounds. His horse whinnied to follow.

  Merlin called for Megan, and she ran to him. He stepped into the shadow of the trees and Megan followed right behind him, but already he was lost. Farther in, she saw the stag standing next to an ancient oak waiting for her. She went after him, through the forest to the edge of the waterfall. She hesitated then turned to the stag. “My question.”

  “That is all for now,” said the voice.

  Megan stepped through the veil of water and found herself once again beside the lake with the jeweled vaulted ceiling. She retraced her steps, pausing at the rock shelf and wondering if she should seek more answers, but she knew her quest, at least on this night, was over. She passed the lake and followed the stream of White Spring down its path. The rock turned to dirt laced with roots again, and soon the lighter black of the cave mouth showed the hard crystal stars.

  Megan walked out of the cave into the night air. The Seven Sisters crowned the midnight sky, but something was different. The cry of a pack of hunting hounds sounded from a distance. A deep shiver pebbled Megan’s flesh. She pulled her cloak tight around her and sat, waiting for the Lady to come for her at dawn.

  * * * *

  The old Megan brushed her tears away—no time to mourn the losses now—and dug into the pocket of her smock. She reached her hand out to Caitir, who started as if from a doze. Did she sleep through the story? Megan wondered, a spike of irritation starting her pulse racing again.

  Caitir cupped her palm and Megan let it go—her sacred charge, her lifeline to the past…and the future. The crystal lay in Caitir’s palm, gleaming softly in the firelight. Megan sat back and let out a long breath. She passed the key. Her purpose was fulfilled, and yet she still felt the inner pressure, the sense of urgency. She looked up at her daughter, who sat with the crystal in her hand but her eyes on her mother’s face, her gaze full of questions and worry.

  “Tonight.” Megan glanced out the one window in the hut; she had it put in herself after she became Lady in her own right. “In just a few hours, you will go into the Hallowed Hill and find your own fate. This stone will guide you.”

  * * * *

  Anne woke in the predawn grey. She sat up and lo
oked for the dog in her place at the bottom of the bed, but she was gone, somehow; Anne did not open the door for her, she knew that. The dog had the same eyes and the same markings as the hounds of the Wild Hunt. Did Anne’s mind just reach for that familiar image to represent the dogs in her dream, or was it something more? Shivering, she lay back down and pulled the duvet over her head. She would call Garth when the sun was up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Garth arrived at Anne’s house late the next morning and suggested they go up to the meditation room in case more hypnosis was called for. Anne hoped they wouldn’t have to resort to that; she needed to spend some time in this world. Once upstairs and settled on cushions, she told him about her dream.

  Garth sat in his customary silence until she thought he would never respond. At last he said, “Megan saw the Wild Hunt ride out, but that doesn’t match what the Morgen said to you. What were her exact words?”

  “You must return what Megan let loose.”

  Garth shook his head. “Are you certain she took nothing with her?”

  Anne nodded. “Except what she ate and drank.”

  “A foolhardy stunt, that.”

  “I remember the stories caution against eating or drinking anything in faeryland, but the Lady of Avalon seemed to think that was—” She stopped. She was about to say, “ignorant superstition,” which was exactly the impression she picked up, but clearly Garth believed it.

  He pressed on. “I was always taught not to accept gifts, eat, or drink in faery, although I was sorely tempted at times. It seems…” He scratched his beard and looked out the window at the Tor, which today was dotted with cattle. “…unsociable. Taking in faery food or drink is believed to attune you to their world too closely or even trap you there.”

  “Like Persephone eating the pomegranate seed,” Anne said.

  “Something like that.” Garth glanced at her then turned his gaze back to the slope of the Tor. “One is likely to lose touch with our time while there. They could come back months, even years later. There are some reports of centuries passing.” The yearning in his voice was unmistakable.

  “You’ve been in faeryland?” Anne asked. “I thought they were just—”

  “Faery tales?” His eyes sparkled.

  Anne laughed. “What are they then?”

  “Ancestral legends, wisdom teachings. Stories of humans going into faeryland have been told for centuries, as well as the other way around. Lancelot came from faery.”

  “No, France,” Anne said.

  It was Garth’s turn to laugh. “If you look carefully at the various versions, you’ll see that in the early Arthurian romances, Lancelot is said to have come from the land of faery. It’s the oldest triangle—a man and a faery vying for the love of a female.” He studied her a moment. “I think it’s time you learn your own tradition. Egypt is fine and all, but you are a Celt, after all.”

  “According to my family, we’re originally from Israel, and the family went into Egypt when—” She stopped and looked at him carefully. “Did Cynthia tell you?”

  “All that bunk about the bloodline?” Garth dismissed the idea with a wave of his broad hand.

  “Bunk? Thomas showed me the research.” At the scowl on his face, Anne hurried on. “I didn’t believe it at first either. I thought they were all nuts, but Thomas showed me ancient scrolls and all those books.”

  “Plantard forged those records of the Priory of Sion. It’s well documented. He duped Baigent, Leigh, and Lincoln. He renewed some old medieval scam for money.” Garth pointed a huge index finger at her. “You, my dear, are a descendant of the Le Clairs, who came here with William the Conqueror, but your branch of the family married into the Brythonic tribes. You carry the old blood.”

  Anne wished for the thousandth time that she could talk to Thomas. “What did Cynthia believe?”

  “We agreed to disagree.” Garth smiled at a private memory, then focused on her. “The point is you don’t understand the cosmology of your own people.”

  “Would you teach me?”

  He reached out to the coaster on the low table, but found no mug.

  “Want some tea?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Anne smiled at the incongruity of that delicate word coming from the mountain of a man lounging on Cynthia’s silk cushions. She ran down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She rustled up some egg salad sandwiches while she waited for the water to boil, then poured it into the pot and took everything upstairs.

  “Excellent.” Garth consumed two sandwich wedges in one bite and washed them down with half a mug of tea. “Now, about the Celtic cosmos.” He rubbed his hands together and looked around, then pulled out a sketchpad wedged between the table and the wall.

  Anne let out a little exclamation of surprise. “I still haven’t found everything. Do you know where the key to the cellar door is?”

  “You have them all.”

  “Except for—” Anne began, but Garth shushed her.

  He drew a diagram with three circles connected by the trunk of a tree. “I’ll forgo the branches and leaves. Basically, there are four worlds—Earth, moon, sun, and stars. You could say the lunar world includes the moon and the Earth. It’s where we humans live with the animals and plants. The solar world includes the planets, but also spiritual beings, those the Christians call angels, and humans who have perfected themselves. In the stellar world we find the stars, obviously, and the divine beings.”

  Anne pointed to his drawing. “This looks like the tree of life in Kabbala.”

  Garth snorted. “You don’t think Odin hung on a Jewish tree, do you?”

  “He’s from the Norse tradition,” Anne said. “He’s not Celtic.”

  “Ever notice the Green Man has a vine through his mouth?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He hangs on the tree as well. You’ll find this same diagram in most traditions because this is an accurate depiction of the created universe.”

  “Created?”

  Garth gave her a sharp look. “The highest plane of existence might be called uncreated. It’s the unmanifest pure consciousness, what we’d call God now, or Ceugant in Welsh…at least after the Romans. It’s what those people who taught that meditation in the sixties called the transcendent.”

  Anne pointed to the drawing. “I don’t see any faeries.”

  He gave her an approving nod. “That’s because the lunar realm is divided into three levels. The moon, of course, then the surface of the Earth, where we live now, Tolkien’s Middle Earth or Abred in Welsh. Then there’s the underworld, which is the home of the faeries, elementals, and underworld deities. The Welsh word is Annwn. The Christians say this world is evil, but that’s nonsense, of course. Some of the high fae do live in the stellar world, at least in my experience.” He ate another sandwich, licked his large fingers, then stopped and looked at Anne like a little boy. “Excuse me.”

  “I forgot to bring the –” She stopped herself from saying “napkins,” remembering that meant something quite different here in England, but she couldn’t find the right word. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”

  Garth’s laugh was as hearty as Merlin’s was in her dream. “When your Megan walked through the waterfall, she went into faeryland, into the underworld.”

  Anne nodded. “You’re saying this is a real place?”

  “Yes. This spot…” He thumped the floor with his index finger. “…is a place where the worlds are close together. It’s easy to slip through, because of the energy of the Tor and the twin springs.”

  “Now what? We don’t know what Megan let loose, but we’ve balanced White Spring.”

  “Not quite,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last night I sensed something like a door ajar between dimensions. The alignment still needs work.”r />
  “What about the spring? How’s the water?”

  “An excellent question. Let’s go see.” He jumped to his feet, graceful for all his bulk.

  They walked down to White Spring. Besides the vagrant Anne noticed earlier, a small knot of people milled around. Joanne stood with a circle of women holding hands in the middle of the flagstone patio. “Blessed be,” they chanted in unison, then broke up the circle.

  Joanne approached Garth. “Bridget has heard our prayers.” She pointed to the pipe, which gushed water. One man filled his gallon jugs while several waited in line behind him.

  “Congratulations.” Garth seemed entirely genuine, but Anne knew he led the ceremony that freed the water…perhaps it was a combination. “Tell me, do you feel the spring is healed entirely?” He leaned his head down to her, one adept to another. “Did you pick up anything during your ceremony?”

  “The goddess withdrew her abundance because of the violence against women in the world. We pledged to redouble our efforts. Our group is taking up a collection to send to the rape victims in the Congo, and we want to help with shelters for battered women in the UK. How much can we put you down for?”

  Garth nodded his approval. “I’ll write you a check when I get home.”

  Joanne glared at Anne, who said, “I’d be happy to contribute to such a worthy cause.”

  “You think White Spring was healed, then?” Garth asked.

  “If we continue to be vigilant, yes.”

  “Excellent.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Good work.”

  Bran sat next to the door, inconspicuous in his well-worn trousers and flannel shirt, but his brown eyes held such a bright spark that Anne marveled no one deferred to him. With a nod, Garth invited him to walk with them. They turned up the path to the Tor. “What is your assessment, Master Bran?”

  Bran waited until they passed the houses to their left before answering. “That one’s a wee bit daft is my assessment, Master Garth.”

  The two guffawed shamelessly.