Under the Green Hill

by Laura L. Sullivan

  She almost put the bow down, but gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt and clung to it. She remembered what Gul had told her about the one who made the bow, the Hunter. When an arrow hits home, his is the hand that launches it, but when the arrow misses, his is the hand that knocks it aside. Maybe there’s a way around this, she thought. Maybe there doesn’t have to be any blood on these arrows except mine. But she didn’t know how.

  The bowstring sang with an urgent pitch when she plucked it, and the leopard wood was warm to her touch. She shouldered the Hunter’s Bow and scampered downstairs, pausing only to listen to the low sounds of Lemman’s singing that came through Rowan’s door.

  The Rookery was dark and almost deserted, with most of the servants already in Gladysmere; those few who remained were busy in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the lemon and ginger cakes that would be eaten after the Midsummer fires. Meg ran through the long, bare entrance hall to the front door. She flung it open, then slammed it shut again with a terrible scream. The servants, chatting over their work, didn’t hear her. Nor did Finn, upstairs. But Dickie, on brief hiatus from his studies, was in the garden kitchen in search of sustenance, and he came running. (He’d changed for the better since coming to the Rookery—a few weeks earlier, that scream would have sent him running in the opposite direction.)

  He found Meg still standing before the closed and bolted door, pale and panting. She jumped when he took her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “There’s something out there!” she said, looking as if she needed to sit down.

  “What kind of something?” Dickie asked.

  “I…I don’t know. It was…it was…” That was just the trouble—she couldn’t say what it was. It was horrible, she knew that much. Beyond that, she had no way to define it. When she opened the door, it had lurched toward her, making a sound like a slab of meat hitting the ground. But it didn’t seem to have a proper shape, or perhaps its shape changed too fluidly to be identified. At first it seemed like a jellyfish, then a cloud, then a wet sheep without legs. It was like a cold, damp blanket about to envelop her, and then like a tentacled octopus, slimy, and as heavy as the ocean’s depths. Even behind the closed door, it hovered in her memory, an amorphous form that threatened to overwhelm her by its frightful ambiguity. She was unaccountably terrified, with a tremulous, instinctive fear that went beyond the creature’s appearance.

  Dickie looked out the window, and to Meg’s surprise didn’t seem at all put out by what he saw.

  “Couldn’t you see it?” Meg asked. “Is it gone?”

  “No, it’s still there. Oh, look, now it’s like a drowned dog! I never thought I’d see one!” Meg stared at him incredulously. Was this Dickie, or some apparition? “It’s one of the Frittenings. They call it Boneless in some places, in others merely It. I’ve read all about them, but I never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to see one. Don’t be afraid. That’s what it wants. It can’t do anything to you. It doesn’t have a real body, or any powers other than changing form. But sometimes people die of fright when they look at it. It’s kind of silly, really. Nothing scary in a soggy ball of yarn. Oh, that’s better! Now it’s more like a bloody side of beef. Oops, back to jellyfish again.”

  Timidly, Meg peeked out the window beside him. The thing was still there, changing shape furiously as she looked at it. She was a little less frightened, but, “I can’t go out there, Dickie!”

  “Why should you have to? It’ll get bored and go away, eventually. Come up to the library, and I’ll read you what they say about it in Shetland—”

  “You don’t understand. I have to go out. I have to get to the Green Hill and—” She stopped short, and he looked at her quizzically. Oh well, she thought. What harm can it do to tell him now? She explained the matter in three sentences, and was stunned to find that Dickie seemed to know all about the Midsummer War.

  “And Rowan was chosen? That’s odd. How’d you get him out of it? Oh, I see. That’s the Hunter’s Bow, then? My! I thought that was only a legend. What are you going to do about the eggs?”

  Meg cut him off. “I need to go now. I have to get there—”

  “Just after the sun sets, I know. Well, you don’t have much time. Go on, then.”

  “I can’t go out there…not with that thing looking at me.”

  “Don’t be afraid of it. I told you, it can’t hurt you, only scare you. I’ll go out, too. Will that make it easier?” Who was this strange new Dickie, so casually brave?

  “Will you come with me all the way?” she pleaded. “I think there might be other…things…that want to stop me.”

  “Oh…all right,” he said, with a scholar’s characteristic antipathy for the real world.

  Dickie was right. Boneless hovered around them as they left the Rookery, and did its best to look disturbing, but when they showed no signs of being afraid, it grew disheartened and evaporated into a mist. By her side, Dickie babbled excitedly. “I really get to see the Green Hill? Wow, and the Midsummer War. You know, some say that it goes back to fertility rituals, but I think it really…” He found he had to save his breath for running. Meg set a fast pace, and he was hard-pressed to keep up with her.

  The Black Prince’s spies were in a tizzy that Meg Morgan seemed to be going in Rowan’s place. While some little monsters darted off to try to warn their master before the war began, others set about interfering with her progress. Malicious stray sods tried to turn her around, but fortunately Dickie knew a charm against their trickery. All you have to do is turn a piece of your clothing inside out and they can’t misdirect you.

  On they went, past leering fairies who didn’t quite dare attack, and into the woods. The moon was just full and, having risen a few hours ago, was waiting in the east to take the sun’s place. In the west, the molten orb was sitting on the horizon—the Seelie Court would be gathering now, Meg thought as she pushed onward. In a few minutes, the Host would follow.

  The evening was bright with the strange and shifting light that comes when two opposing heavenly bodies compete in the same sky, and Meg had no trouble seeing where to go. In fact, she rather wished she couldn’t see quite so clearly, for the things that dogged their steps were getting worse, and she feared that at any moment they might spring on her. At least they kept her mind somewhat off what lay ahead of her in the next few hours. If she’d had a calm and uneventful stroll to the Green Hill, all the way there she’d have pictured Bran’s death…and have tried with limited success not to picture her own.

  Her hand stayed tight on the Hunter’s Bow, though she did not draw it. Not only did she want to save her arrows for more dire need, but she guessed (rightly) that physical weapons would have little effect on fairies. Dickie seemed strangely unconcerned, and only exclaimed occasionally that one was a Jack-in-Irons (wearing a fashionable ensemble of chains and shrunken heads) and another a Redcap, who liked occasionally to redye his chapeau with fresh blood. To the one Dickie stuck out his tongue, to the other made an odd gesture, and both seemed utterly cowed. Dickie was as pleased as anything that his studies were serving him so well—so pleased, in fact, that he did not warn Meg in time to keep them both from stumbling into an oak coppice.

  Oaks are the quintessential magic tree, long associated with old gods and the fairies. They live such a prodigiously long time that they are bound to be wiser than most other beings, and their roots are so firmly anchored in the earth that they have enormous strength, both physical and spiritual. Even the simplest peasant knows that “Fairy folks is in old oaks.” Most oaks are benevolent enough, taking little interest in the affairs of others…until they are crossed. An angry oak makes a dangerous foe.

  In the heart of Gladysmere Woods, there once lived a great oak, a mighty behemoth who had stood his ground since before the first Guardian had taken the land. He considered the forest his kingdom, and under the span of his canopy had cleared a vast shady spot where he held court to squirrels and birds while the other, lesser trees bowed around him. Then, one da
y, two drunken friends challenged each other to a contest—ten pounds lay on the outcome—as to who could first chop through half of the mighty oak of Gladysmere Woods.

  Everyone in the county knew the great tree’s reputation, and no others would dare harm it. But these fellows, for some reason, decided that the great old oak was the only fit challenge for them, so they set out to the solitary tree, drove a stake in the place they thought was the middle, and began to hack at the trunk with their axes.

  It was a fool’s mission, in more ways than one. They kept on all through the day, and made little headway through the dense wood. But a bet is a very important thing, and after going home to sleep their weariness off, they returned the next morning to hew and hack at the old oak. It took them three days to fell it, and in the end there was no winner, for the tree had its revenge. When only a narrow wedge of wood in the center was left holding the giant upright, the men crowded close, each trying to strike the winning blow. But felling trees is no sport for intimacy. In his fervor, one of the woodsmen miscalculated, and the stroke that went through the last of the trunk also went through a great deal of his friend’s leg. As he fell to his knees to aid his dying friend, the tree toppled and crushed them both.

  Even then the oak did not wholly perish. The tree that had withstood the centuries had fallen, to be prey to creeping slime molds and pill bugs, true, but the roots entrenched so firmly in the earth had a life of their own. From all around the stump of the fallen oak came up tender new shoots, deceptively slender and supple, but with the wisdom of the ages in their fresh young sap. And as it grew, the coppice seethed with a hatred of men, the creatures who had brought down but could not fully quell the majesty of the forest monarch.

  Meg and Dickie found themselves caught in the midst of the oaks before they knew it. Now the young trees were thick as a man’s leg, with a tangle of grasping branches. Meg and Dickie struggled to free themselves, but the tree limbs held them tight, catching in their hair and fouling their clothes. Meg heard a rattling voice, like the wind through dry leaves, say, Cold iron. Cold iron on my bones. Iron teeth tear my flesh. Vile little legged grubs bring iron once again. Strangle them before they bite. Break them before they cut with their cold, cruel iron. Meg felt branches like rough hands close around her throat, and she tried to pull away, snapping brittle twig fingers all around her. But the branches held her fast, pressing ever tighter where the blood flowed on either side of her throat, and she felt her vision dim.

  Then, from somewhere in the darkness that was closing in on her, she heard Dickie’s voice, clear and confident, say, “Take off anything metal, Meg!” She tore off her belt with its steel buckle, and felt the wooden grip loosen somewhat. She managed to reach up to her hair and unfasten the silver clip that held her dark hair back. She could breathe now, and the blood was flowing freely to her brain once again, but she still couldn’t pull out of the oak coppice. Dickie was free, and shouted to her from beyond the vengeful oaks to cast off whatever metal remained. With much regret, she slipped a little gold ring, a gift from her mother, off her pinkie, and let it fall to the leaf-littered ground. The oak arms released her, and in fact almost shoved her from the coppice. Go, little grubs, and cut no wood.

  On they ran through the forest. The sun was gone now, tucked into bed behind the world, but still sending its last benediction of rays into Gladysmere Woods. Meg had only a few minutes to reach the Green Hill. She thought she was close, but it was hard to tell in the confusing light of silver moonshadow and golden-pink sunset. They passed the winding deer trail, and the bluebell meadow—the Green Hill should be near. She stopped a moment, catching her breath and getting her bearings. “This way…I think,” she said to Dickie. Then her blood ran cold, chillier even than it had at the first sight of Boneless.

  From behind her came a cry like someone being tortured. No, not someone—hundreds of someones, like a field full of fallen soldiers dying in the mud. She turned, and beheld that most dreaded of all the Host, the Nuckelavee.

  To say that the Nuckelavee is like a centaur would give you the wrong impression. Centaurs have the body of a horse and the torso and head of a man—and so does the Nuckelavee. But centaurs are warlike and wise like kings of old, their man half sturdy and regal, their horse haunches strong, their coats glossy and rich in chestnuts and dapple grays. A great many of them are as handsome as any man you’re likely to meet, and even the rougher sort are still pleasant enough to look at. Not so the Nuckelavee.

  The Nuckelavee makes his home near the coasts, and rises out of the sea foam to bring blight and destruction. He is hideous to gaze upon, for he has no skin either on the horse half or the man. The Nuckelavee paused before Meg and Dickie, stamping its great mildewed hooves, and then began to approach the paralyzed pair like a walking anatomy lesson. Black blood coursed through its veins, and its exposed muscles were raw and red. White sinews and thick tendons twisted over its naked flesh as it moved. Behind it, vines withered and flowers bowed their heads and died, for the Nuckelavee spreads poison in its wake. A vile stench permeated the wood, and all living things with legs or wings fled.

  Had she been the proper Seelie champion, bound and declared like Rowan, the Nuckelavee couldn’t have touched her. It was against the rules (and how rulebound the fairies are!) to molest or hinder the designated champion. But she was as yet unofficial, and until the moment when Rowan failed to appear and she stood in his place, she was as fair game as any mortal who walked the earth. The dread Nuckelavee had traveled many miles from his salty home on the southern strand to serve his court, and he was hungry to rend and tear. He paced nearer and nearer, and Meg, with nerveless fingers, finally managed to draw her bow.

  “No,” Dickie whispered, and now at last, at this ultimate horror, he was trembling.

  “You can’t hurt it. And don’t run. It will hunt down whatever flies from it.” He gulped, and took a deep, steadying breath. “You have to get to the Green Hill, Meg,” he said, resignation plain in his tone. “If Rowan doesn’t go, and no one shows up to take his place, the Host wins by default, and Rowan will still die at dawn without ever having raised his sword. Wait until I’m gone, Meg. Wait until I lead it away.”

  “Dickie, no!” It was too late. His short legs took off as fast as they were able, and his wheezing breath came hard. He wouldn’t have had a chance, except that the Nuckelavee hesitated, looking at Meg. There was the one he was meant to stop. But she did not move, and the lure of fleeing prey was too much for him. With a scream he reared, his bare, bloody muscles bunching and dripping, and galloped after Dickie. When both were out of sight, Meg ran in the opposite direction. Within a scant few paces, she burst through a curtain of brambles and stood disheveled, arms scratched and bleeding, her dark hair wild, before the silk-garbed, bejeweled, and shining nobles of the two fairy courts. Pale in the moonlight loomed the Green Hill. The sun’s last rays had faded, and night held the land.

  “The Time Is Come but Not the Man”

  Phyllida stood directly before Meg, but she did not see her. Her gaze rested on the Green Hill crest, where a lone figure rose, dark, even in the strong light of the full fat-cheeked moon. Behind Phyllida, arrayed in order of age, were her family and Meg’s. Lysander, seeming sturdy for all that he leaned heavily on his knobbly staff, looked as though he would like to move closer to his wife, to comfort her, as he was permitted to do in every other circumstance. But she was the Lady of the Rookery, the Guardian, and he only her consort. This task of bearing witness to the most dreaded scene she must endure alone. Near Lysander, Silly Morgan held her little brother against her hip, with his soft, round cheek pressed against hers. Could it be that Silly had finally come to realize the grave purpose behind all this pomp?

  Indeed, the gathering was as magnificent as any festival. To the right of the Morgans, the Seelie Court waited, mounted or on foot. There at their fore was the queen—magically, impossibly fair, though even within this fairness, to Meg’s clear-seeing eyes, there was a sickle sharpness
, and a tension like that of a harrier as it hovers before a strike. Gul Ghillie—the Seelie prince—rode a stallion of steel gray, and both man and beast were armored in shining overlaid plates like a carp’s pale scales. They tinkled when the horse stamped his foot anxiously. He, too, knew that there was a delay, an absence. The other members of the Seelie Court, from the proud lords and ladies with swords or long, cruel knives at their hips, to the assorted hobs and sprites and grotesques behind them (some with weapons just as fell, some with rolling pins or skillets or thorny sticks to strike the foe), were in an unmoving phalanx, waiting for their prince and general to sound the call to the fray.

  But it was the Host, as challengers, that had the first word, and the Black Prince rode at the fore of his snarling and fair company—for you must not forget that some of the most malignant fairies are also the most enticing.

  “So,” he began, his voice rich and languid, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, “another seven years have passed, another teind to be offered. I come to do battle, Seelie swine!” He drew his weapon magnificently and held it aloft. “I come to claim what is mine—my kingdom…and my queen.” He bowed insolently from horseback. “My champion stands ready on the Green Hill. Bran is his name. I think you are acquainted with him.” The prince sneered. “He fights for me now!” He pulled hard on the reins and dug his heels into his steed’s flanks to make him rear.

  The Seelie prince’s horse took a step forward without apparent urging, and his rider spoke. “Life, once begun, has no end. Conflict, when it is joined, will never cease. All things change, but all things endure. We have diminished, as the world has diminished. Once, gold fire burned hotter than it does now, and silver ice was colder. Still, since fairies and humans marched together into this land, we have maintained the rites of the dying year. And every seventh year, when the rule of these courts is decided, two humans meet in battle. One will stand at dawn to greet the shortening days. One will give his blood to the earth, to the Green Hill at the center of the world. Which is honored more, and which can, in truth, claim the longest life?”