Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  It hit him then. It was like walking into a temple, but there were houses, roads, vehicles, people walking…a chaos of activity, and it seemed few recognized the power pouring from the place in front of him. He saw the hill and its slopping terraced sides. It was the work of Atlantis, a sign of his old home. On top of this great portal stood a tower, a lone finger pointing to the sky. Tears ran down Govannan’s face. His friend patted him on the back and talked some more, then took him by the hand and led him past a stone wall and around a corner.

  A knot of people gathered on a small terrace. They spilled out into the street. His friend walked up to a large metal box, lifted the lid, and started poking through what looked like garbage. Govannan followed the power of the portal to a squat stone building where the people milled around. It seemed they did recognize the energy after all, they just didn’t know what to do with it. He made his way through the crowd over to a wall reinforcing a hillside and searched until he found a place where the ground peeked through. Placing his hands flat on the earth, he closed his eyes and the portal opened his sight. Glorious crystals and geodes filled the hill, long points shot up from the ground or hung from the ceiling above a flat body of water. Something was wrong, the energy was blocked. Some being in a deeper frequency set up a wall to stop…what? Govannan allowed his consciousness to sink deeper. Yes, there it was, a loop. That fool Cagliostro created a time loop. He wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t this the fallen time? Didn’t consciousness wane? He could close it after he went back home. He’d do it tonight, while the town slept.

  Relieved, Govannan settled down with his back against the stone of the building and closed his eyes. Someone put a warm blanket over him. He looked up into the smiling face of a woman with long brown hair. She spoke with his new friend for a while, pulled a blanket out of her pack for him, then left them alone. The crowd began to thin as the sun set, and his friend made a makeshift shelter for them. He unrolled some bedding and patted one side, offering it to Govannan. He lay down beside the man and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but just when he thought the coast was clear, another knot of people would arrive. He’d sleep a while he decided, and wake up deep in the night so he could do his work unimpeded.

  Govannan dreamed that he sat at a long table with a host of laughing beings, that he ate the most delicious food he ever tasted and drank wine that had captured starlight. A dark-haired man who lived among them took out a harp and sang a song that mended for a time the gaping wound that was his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Caitir listened to the last of her mother’s story, which she heard many times before—how they sailed through a world dark with volcanic ash and found the village in Avalon destroyed by high waves. Miraculously, the vigil hut survived, and the stand of yews. Many of Megan’s friends were washed out to sea, yet the Lady of Avalon survived, but was changed, already tuning to the other world and sometimes blind to this one. When the skies cleared, they realized the Earth had tilted. The stars were askew in the heavens. They rebuilt the village, and soon discovered that the seasons were more pronounced, the summers hot and wet, the winters so cold as to freeze the rain and bring snow instead. Even later they learned that they aged more quickly. Their minds became a jumble, and it took much more effort to do the spiritual work that before came like breath. Worst was that Megan never saw Govannan again.

  Caitir also listened to her mother’s lungs filling with fluid. Megan coughed and coughed, but got no relief. Fever replaced chills. She would not live through the night. Her mother would be gone by the time Caitir returned from this final initiation that would prepare her to take Megan’s place as the Keeper of the Key. She fought back tears. She would miss Megan’s crotchety old ways, miss watching her own children climb on their grandmother’s lap, heedless of her rank.

  Megan took another ragged breath, then said, “The time has come. Go to the sentinels, sing the song that I have taught you, and the Tor will open for you.” These last words filled Megan’s withered face with a luminous awe.

  Caitir leaned forward and took her mother in her arms. Truly, she was as light as a bird. “Thank you for—” Her voice broke.

  “For what? I have done what any mother would do. You know this yourself.”

  Caitir nodded, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders heaving with her sobs.

  Megan patted her just as she did when she was a child and sobbed her eyes out when she would find a dead bird or scrape her knee. “There, there, child. I will be as close as a thought.” Suddenly, the frail form straightened and her voice deepened. “Go now.”

  Caitir scrambled up and pulled her cloak around her. She looked once more, but all she saw was the Morgen, the eyes filmed over, the face imperious. Her own mother vanished.

  Outside, the smell of flowers filled the late spring night air. She walked, head down, to White Spring where she bent and washed the tears from her face with the sacred water. She stayed there, gathering her intention for this ceremony. She would begin a long line of women for whom the golden era was only a fable, not a memory. Then Caitir stood, squared her shoulders and walked into the mouth of the cave.

  * * * *

  A claw grabbed Govannan’s shoulder and hauled him away from the golden world he went to in his dream. He opened his eyes to Cagliostro’s face contorted with rage. “How dare you? How dare you try to get away from me?”

  Govannan understood him, which meant he brought the translation crystal.

  “Do you know how long I’ve searched? Do you know how difficult it was to find the Fire Stone, to learn to use it? All for what, you ungrateful son of a bitch?”

  Govannan stared up into the eyes of the man who hauled him through time, destroying his home in the process, and who now tracked him down when he was on the verge of escape. What he saw chilled him to the bone. Cagliostro’s glazed eyes looked through him without seeing him, gazing into a world the man’s fevered imagination concocted. His mind had come unhinged, and his madness set loose a deeper, darker power, an instinctual intelligence.

  “Stand up. You’re coming with me.” Cagliostro reached down and jerked Govannan up with an unnatural strength unleashed by his madness.

  “Don’t hurt me, man.” Govannan whirled around to see Mueller pulling his new friend out of his nest of blankets. “Don’t hurt me.” The vagrant crouched, his hands protecting his head.

  Govannan cursed himself for delaying. He should have gone ahead. Even with people around, he should have opened the portal and gone home to Atlantis, to Megan. Now it was too late.

  “Inside,” Cagliostro commanded.

  Govannan shook the door. “It’s locked.”

  “You can talk,” said the astonished vagrant.

  “Shut up,” Cagliostro snarled. He grabbed the handle and jerked the door off its frame.

  Govannan stared. What happened to this man?

  Mueller pointed his beloved piece of metal at them both. “Inside.”

  The vagrant raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me, man. I don’t want to die. Please.”

  “I said shut up.” Cagliostro’s tone sealed the man’s mouth.

  They walked into the darkness of the well house, stumbling down a short flight of stairs onto a flagstone floor. Cagliostro switched on some kind of torch and shone it around. Stone walls, aqueducts, and black wrought iron steps flashed out of the dark.

  The raw power of the place beat like the wild heart of a stag, opening Govannan’s shriveled senses like a morning glory in the first rays of the sun. He threw his head back, his mane of hair slapping his shoulders.

  “You must take me to the city. I have to find her.”

  “Who?”

  Cagliostro groaned. “The woman with the red hair.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Govannan said evenly.

  A howl of agony rose from Cagliostr
o. “Now.” He walked to the back wall and pointed. “Here.”

  “What do you want?” Govannan repeated, but Cagliostro turned to Mueller. “It’s here.” Mueller took out a pickaxe and swung it at the wall.

  “Man, what are you doing?” the vagrant yelled.

  A few more swings opened a hole in the wall large enough for them to crawl through.

  Yes, thought Govannan. Yes. Deeper. We must go deeper.

  “Stay here,” Cagliostro said to Mueller. “Don’t let anybody in.”

  “What about me—” The vagrant turned white when he saw Cagliostro’s expression.

  “Watch him. Kill him if he gets in the way.”

  * * * *

  Something woke Anne. She listened, but heard nothing except the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall downstairs. Michael slept, his breath deep and even. An eerie light filled the bedroom. Terrified to look, more terrified not to, she sat up. They were everywhere—hounds, white with red spots, red ears, red paws, and those uncanny blue eyes, eyes that were lit tonight with an otherworldly glow.

  The female who visited Anne before stepped forward and licked her hand. The hound walked through the bedroom and out into the hall, the rest of the pack flowing around her. They glided down the steps, moving like ghosts. The female stopped and looked back at her, then whined one eerie note.

  Anne shook Michael, but he slept as one under a spell. The hounds were here to help, she knew. She’d have to go alone. Anne jumped up and threw on the clothes she left at the foot of the bed, then followed the female. The pack waited in the downstairs hallway, their red tongues lolling from their open mouths. When the third step squeaked under her weight, they flowed into the kitchen, then turned and poured down the basement steps, their nails making no sound on the wood.

  Anne followed, oddly calm. She knew already what she would find. She walked to the back of the basement, ducked her head, and entered the tunnel. The ancient oak door stood open. A faint light glowed from inside. The pack streamed through the open door, the female waiting for Anne. Her heart pounding, she followed.

  * * * *

  Megan’s chest rattled with each painful breath. Suddenly a light formed in the middle of the room, so bright it should hurt her eyes, but she found it soothing. She struggled to raise her head and call the healer, but the room was empty. Was she out of her body already? Was this the other world beckoning her? She saw him then, Govannan as he had been, his shoulders roped with muscle, his hair braided with shells and beads. He reached his hand out to her. Her long dead lover came for her.

  “Get up, silly. It’s time.”

  “Govannan.” Megan sat up. “Is that you?” Somehow she rose from her bed and staggered forward, but he was gone. She pushed the door open, panting with the effort, and called his name into the dark night. He didn’t answer.

  A light flashed amongst the trees. She stumbled toward it, but when she arrived at the spot where it had been, it was gone. It reappeared farther into the forest. She leaned against an old oak, panting until she could move again. Megan struggled through the woods, the light leading her, until she came to White Spring. She fell to the ground. “Govannan,” she called, but her voice was only a wisp of sound. She lay there, her body half in the stream.

  I’ll catch my death, she thought, and started to laugh. She did that already. Megan took a sip of the sacred liquid of the spring and splashed her face. The water sang in her frail body, giving her the energy to rise again.

  The light glowed inside the mouth of the cave. This was Caitir’s night, the eve of Beltane. The Crystal Cave belonged to her daughter tonight.

  A dark-haired man stepped from the light, his hand outstretched, the same man who led her to the table of the faery court the night she sought her first vision here as a young girl. “Come,” he said. She found she could walk easily.

  * * * *

  Garth sat bolt upright in bed. He only just got to sleep after hours of meetings, followed by meditation with Bran and his group. It was happening, now. His body, mind, and spirit sang with power. He had to get into the Tor. He threw on his clothes and rushed down the hill to Anne’s house. The front door was locked. He tried his key, but it no longer fit. Right, she changed the locks after the burglary. Garth pounded on the door, the stained glass with the red and white roses rattling in its frame. After a minute, the light in the hallway came on and Michael appeared, his hair sticking up from sleep, his eyes squinting. “She’s gone. Anne’s gone,” he moaned.

  Garth went straight to the kitchen where they found the door to the basement open. “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  “They’ve come for her.”

  “The Illuminati?”

  Garth shook his head. “Follow me.”

  The two rushed down the stairs and Garth headed to the back of the basement. At the end of the small tunnel, the rounded oak door stood open.

  Michael stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Garth.

  “The ceremony has begun. Let’s go.” He ducked through the low entrance with Michael on his heels.

  Garth never used this entrance to the cave before. A few feet in, the tight tunnel opened up. A few more steps and they came to a spiral staircase leading downwards. He started down and Michael followed with no hesitation. The stairs took them to a larger tunnel, the remnants of an ancient cave. A stream bed, still damp, led deeper into the hill. They followed it to a fork and heard voices coming from the left.

  * * * *

  Cagliostro’s torch revealed packed dirt walls interlaced with roots. Deeper in, the soil gave way to black rock. A faint light glowed at the end of the tunnel, calling to them, and he moved toward it without any need for coercion, drawn by a promise, a hope, a memory just now surfacing. The light inside the cave brightened. Cagliostro let his torch slip from his hand. They entered a large chamber. In the middle knelt a woman. Her long red hair fell in lustrous waves down her back.

  A strangled cry sprang from Cagliostro and he ran forward. “I’ve found you.” He reached for her, but she recoiled.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here on this sacred night?”

  “Don’t you remember me?” Cagliostro grabbed her arm.

  “You have violated the sanctuary of the Lady of Avalon.”

  Cagliostro looked into her face, then snarled with rage. “What have you done with her?” He grabbed her arm. He pulled a knife and held it at her throat. “I asked you a question.”

  “Let my daughter go.”

  They all looked to find an old woman standing in the entrance, her long, crooked finger pointing at Cagliostro, her eyes filming over, a nimbus of power surrounding her.

  Govannan took a step toward her. “Be careful. He’s dangerous.”

  Her eyes cleared. She stared. “Govannan?” The hope in her voice tore their hearts.

  There was something about that voice…Govannan looked at her more closely.

  “Nobody move.” Cagliostro moved the knife closer to the woman’s throat. A thin line of red appeared. “Where is she?”

  “Who has brought this weapon of iron into my domain?” This voice touched something deep in everyone’s mind. All eyes turned to a tall blond being standing where a wall had been before. Behind him thronged a host of laughing beings, their clothes rich in velvet and silk, their hair adorned with flowers, ribbons, and gemstones. Some carried bows and arrows, others horns, and others harps. Behind them stretched a green lawn, and farther in the distance a forest of trees the like of which could never be seen on Earth.

  A pack of white hounds with red ears and tails streamed from the entrance to the chamber up to the blond figure, their tails a blur. They howled, a sound that brought dread to every human present. A woman came running after them and stopped dead when she saw the host of faeries, her eyes wide. Two
men ran in behind her. One called her name, and she went and stood between them.

  All gaped at the spectacle before them, but not the old woman. Even in the presence of the fae, she tottered closer to Govannan. With each step, she grew stronger and younger. “My love. What happened to you? You disappeared, and then—” Tears flowed down her face.

  The faery host listened, their faces and eyes intent.

  Govannan’s heart gave a lurch. “Megan?” He took a faltering step toward her. “How did you—”

  She drew closer still. “You disappeared. Was it because of him?” She pointed at Cagliostro, who stared at her. “Was it this man who stole you from me and ripped a hole in time itself?”

  “Yes,” Govannan said. “What has happened to you?”

  “Father?” The red-haired woman held by Cagliostro leaned toward him, heedless of the knife. She looked at Megan. “Is this my father?”

  The tall blond faery turned his attention back to Cagliostro. “Brother?”

  Cagliostro looked as if he were a gong that was struck. He blinked.

  “Do you not know me, brother?”

  Cagliostro stared, dumbfounded.

  “Do you not know yourself?”

  Cagliostro began to change. His chin seemed longer, his ears took on a slant, and his eyes cleared. “Gwyn,” he said.

  “Gwyn ap Nudd.” Garth stepped forward. “The Lord of the Faeries. It is an honor to be in your presence.”

  Gwyn swung his magnificent head around and smiled at Garth. “My friend, who has guarded this place. It is I who am honored.”

  Megan pointed at the being who had been Cagliostro. “I saw you ride out with the Wild Hunt.”

  The white and red hounds swarmed around Cagliostro and licked his hands. Laughter floated from behind the faery host, the smell of flowers wafted through the air, and the sound of bells. The host parted and a light appeared amongst them. A shape formed in the light and the most beautiful faery of them all stepped forward, her skin alabaster, her lips mulberries, and her hair red curls the color of flame. She held out a delicate hand and called him by name. “Gwythr ap Greidawl.”