The Firehills

by Steve Alten

  “Sorry,” said Sam, looking bemused. “It’s something important, then?”

  “Yes. It’s the first step toward becoming a practicing Wiccan. I’ve had to study for ages, all the rituals and responses and things. It’s not even supposed to have happened yet. I’m too young, really. But after what went on last year, with the Malifex and everything, Mrs. P. thought I ought to, well, jump ahead.”

  “Right.” Sam nodded, trying to look suitably impressed. “Well, um, congratulations, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence fell.

  “How’s Amergin?” asked Sam eventually.

  “He’s fine. He’s settling in very well—almost too well.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He’s, I dunno, not very ‘wizardy’ anymore.”

  “Is there such a word as wizardy?” Sam asked with a smile.

  “Is now.” Charly stuck her tongue out. “At first, Mum and he used to spend all their time talking about magic and history and folklore, but after a while, Amergin got more and more interested in, well, modern things. Television, mostly. Now he spends most of his time watching Star Trek and bouncing up and down on the couch.”

  Sam smiled at the mental image.

  “It’s not funny! He thinks most of what he sees is real. Independence Day was on the other week, you know, with the flying saucers invading Earth? He started running round collecting canned food and telling us to go down into the cellar!”

  Sam started to giggle, and the door opened.

  “Amergin!” he shouted, jumping to his feet.

  “Sam, my boy!” replied the wizard, grabbing hold of him and thumping him vigorously on the back. They separated and stood for a moment, grinning foolishly at each other.

  “You look well, my friend,” said Amergin.

  “You look . . . bigger,” replied Sam. “Around the middle.”

  Amergin glanced down. “Hrrrmph, yes. Megan has been looking after me. Come. She told me to collect your luggage and show you to your room.”

  ‡

  The shopping mall was silent. The hordes of daytrippers had returned home, and those tourists who were staying in hotels and guesthouses had not yet emerged to begin their nightly round of pubs and clubs. In the yellow sodium glare of a streetlight, the litter swirled and danced for a moment, and there was Finnvarr, Lord of the Sidhe, striding through the still night. Behind him came the Lady Una, seeming to float on air as the train of her black wedding dress rustled through the discarded burger wrappers. They moved down a long aisle of empty shops, their reflections flickering and dancing in the blank windows, until they came to a bench. The group of black-clad figures barely looked up as they arrived, but their excited thoughts raced from mind to mind.

  What news? demanded Finnvarr.

  We have found him, my lord! Our agents tracked him down and followed him here.

  Here? inquired Finnvarr in surprise. He is here?

  Yes, my lord!

  We followed him. He is here, in the town!

  And you are sure he is the one?

  Yes, my lord. He is only a boy by the reckoning of mortals, but the power is in him.

  Then he has been delivered into our hands. Finnvarr allowed a look of satisfaction to register on his face. We must ensure that he meets with . . . an accident. And then the final obstacle will have been removed from our path.

  ‡

  Sam came down to supper later that evening and edged nervously into the room normally used for breakfast. Charly, Megan, and Amergin were already seated at the table, and the remarkable woman who had opened the front door to him earlier was bustling around, collecting food from a hatch in the wall.

  “Ah, Sam!” she cried when she saw him. “My dear, do come in, do! Sit down, yes, just there. That’s splendid!”

  She smacked down a plate of food in front of him. “Tuck in!” And with that she shuffled off to the kitchen. Sam glanced over to Charly, who was staring down at his plate significantly and then back at him. She pulled her mouth down at the corners, her tongue protruding.

  “Charly!” hissed Megan, “Behave!”

  Sam took a mouthful of what he presumed was cabbage and realized what Charly’s performance was trying to convey. The food was awful. Swallowing with difficulty, he said, “So, what’s the plan for the weekend?”

  “Well,” began Megan, “the Jack-in-the-Green Festival isn’t until Monday, so we have Saturday and Sunday to do whatever we want. It’s up to you, whatever you want to do.”

  “Right, thanks,” said Sam. “So, what happens at this festival, then?”

  “I thought you lived near here?” Charly asked.

  “It’s more than an hour away!”

  “Ignore her, dear,” suggested Megan. “Jack-in-theGreen is another name for the Green Man. He has lots of names, Jack, Attis, Puck, the Horned God, even Robin Hood. Anyway, the festival takes place in the old castle, up on the cliffs above town. It celebrates the end of winter when Jack-in-the-Green, as a sort of nature spirit, is sacrificed to release the summer. The whole thing reaches a climax when the Green Man—Jack—makes his way up to the castle, accompanied by his bogies—”

  “Urgh!”

  “Sam! It’s short for bogeymen. They’re traditional figures who form part of the procession. They guard Jack and guide him. Some of them are dressed all in green, with leaves in their hair, and some are dressed as chimney sweeps. It was the sweeps who started the tradition, you see.” Megan continued, “Anyway, at the climax, the Green Man is dismembered—”

  “Uuurgh!” repeated Sam.

  “—and the pieces of foliage are thrown to the crowd, to set free the summer. If you catch a piece, you’re supposed to keep it and burn it on the first bonfire of autumn. But most important for us, there are stalls around the castle grounds, and we rent one every year to sell my pottery to unsuspecting tourists.” Megan finished with a smile.

  “Sounds like . . . fun,” Sam finished lamely.

  “I would have thought,” said Charly with a wry face,

  “that you would be interested in anything to do with the Green Man, after what happened last year.”

  Sam glared at her. “Well, excuse me, but this isn’t some sort of hobby.” He stood up. “I think I’ll turn in. I’ll see you all at breakfast.” With that, he strode from the room. After a moment’s silence, Charly said, “Don’t look at me. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “I know, dear,” said her mother with a sigh. “Sam’s obviously still affected by what he went through.”

  “There is something about him,” mused Amergin. He glanced at Megan. “Something lingers . . .”

  “I know what you mean. We’ll see how he is tomorrow.”

  Megan stood up. “Come on. We’d better turn in too.”

  ‡

  In his room, Sam sat on the single bed and stared out the window. The moon, close to full, rode high in a sky of patchy clouds, and its silver light danced on the sea far below. Looking along the coast, he could make out the silhouette of the pier, a dark stripe cutting through the moon’s reflected path. Hearing an unearthly screech, he glanced up and saw a lone seagull returning to its roost on some high rooftop. Suddenly, he was suspended far above the town, riding the sea wind with the tang of salt in his nostrils. And with a shake of his head, he was back in his room, a slump-shouldered figure in a pool of moonlight. With a sigh, he fell back onto the threadbare quilt and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 2

  The screaming of seagulls awoke Sam from an uneasy sleep. Hundreds of them appeared to be roosting outside his window. The day had dawned bright and clear, with the promise of sunshine. Sam washed and dressed quickly, eager for breakfast. Taking the stairs two at a time, he burst into the dining room to be met by Mrs. Powell, who was setting the tables. A couple Sam had not seen before were seated in the corner, chatting quietly.

  “Merry meet, my dear,” said Mrs. P., smiling up at him. Even at this early hour, her piercing eyes were rimmed with
heavy purple eye shadow and thick mascara. “Sit down, do! The full works?”

  Sam looked puzzled for a moment.

  “Eggs, bacon, fried bread, mushrooms?”

  “Oh, right. Yes please, Mrs. Powell.”

  “Call me Mrs. P., my dear—everybody does.” And she wandered back into the kitchen. Sam gazed around the dining room, taking in the nicotine-stained ceiling and the threadbare carpet. The door behind him opened, and Sam turned around quickly, expecting Charly. He found himself staring into the cold, glassy eyes of a gentleman in a black suit. After a moment’s confusion, Sam managed a weak smile, and the man grunted in return before taking himself off to a table in the corner.

  After a minute or two, the dining room door opened once more and Charly came in, followed soon after by Megan and Amergin. Over tea and toast, they discussed the day ahead.

  “I thought we could have a look at the museum out on Bohemia Road,” began Megan. “It’s supposed to have a very good display of Native American artifacts.”

  It slowly dawned on Amergin that Megan was waiting for a response.

  “Ahh, yes,” he began tentatively. “That sounds very . . . very . . . interesting. And I hear that on the seafront there is a miniature railway.” He gave Megan a hopeful look.

  “Amergin,” she sighed. “A miniature railway? Really?

  You used to be so interested in folklore.”

  “I am, my dear, I am.” He paused. “But I’ve never been on a miniature railway.”

  “What about our guest?” Megan turned her attention to Sam.

  “Uh, sorry.” Sam looked uncomfortable. “Not really into museums.”

  “Sam gets all twitchy if he has to learn anything,”

  explained Charly.

  Sam was about to protest, but Megan said with forced cheerfulness, “Fair enough. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, after all.”

  “Why don’t I show you around the town?” suggested Charly. “The old wrinklies can amuse themselves.”

  Sam began, “Well—”

  “Good idea,” Megan interrupted. “You two go off and have fun. I’ll take Amergin for a donkey ride and some cotton candy.” She favored the wizard with a particularly sour look. Sam didn’t relish being in Amergin’s shoes. Mercifully, the silence was broken at that point by Mrs. P., who bustled in with Sam’s breakfast and began to take orders from the others. Sam listened with interest as she greeted the sinister figure at the corner table. Pretending to take an interest in the decor of the room once more, he turned casually until he could watch out of the corner of his eye.

  “Morning, Mr. Macmillan,” chirped Mrs. P. The man replied, too softly for Sam to hear. He was hunch shouldered, his black suit rumpled up in folds behind his neck, and his jet-black hair was parted severely down the middle. He had plastered it down onto his scalp with some kind of hair oil, but two strands—one from either side—

  curled free onto his forehead. They made Sam think of horns. He was smiling to himself at this thought when he realized that Mr. Macmillan was staring back, glittering eyes like pebbles of jet beneath bushy eyebrows. Turning slightly pink, Sam looked away.

  Charly chose that point to elbow him in the ribs, making him jump and gasp for breath. “Come on,” she urged, “eat up. We’ve got places to go.”

  Sam noticed that she had opted for cereal and gazed down at his plate, where a barely cooked egg quivered in a sea of fat. He chased the food around for a few minutes and breathed a sigh of relief when Megan leaned forward and said softly, “It’s OK. Leave it. I’ll make excuses.”

  With a smile, Sam stood and followed Charly. Megan called after them, “Let’s meet for lunch. How about fish and chips?”

  With the memory of his abandoned breakfast fresh in his mind, Sam nodded vigorously.

  “OK,” agreed Charly. “What about the Mermaid? One o’clock?”

  “We’ll see you there,” replied Megan. “Don’t get into any trouble.”

  Sam and Charly looked at each other, shrugged, and hurried out into the spring sunshine.

  ‡

  In a dead-end alleyway behind a row of shops, at the foot of a line of green plastic dumpsters, a single sheet of newspaper flopped and fluttered like an injured bird, though the day was still. It made a last lazy circle in the air and then, as if at the end of its strength, slumped to the ground. It came to rest against the toe of a black leather motorcycle boot. The rays of the morning sun glinted on a row of chrome buckles as the wearer of the boot kicked the newspaper away and strode out of the alley into the bustle of the street beyond. From all over the town they came in silence, stepping out of alleys and doorways into the waking world. With pierced ears and dyed hair, leather and studs, the ancient host of the Sidhe took to the streets and caused no stir. To the tourists and townsfolk, they were one more thread in the tapestry of Hastings: bikers and Goths, morris dancers and New Age travelers. All the world seemed to converge on the town on May Bank Holiday. Old ladies sniffed and tutted at the piercings and peroxide and returned to their bingo games.

  ‡

  Charly and Sam clattered down the front steps of the Aphrodite Guest House and along a narrow path through the wild garden. A creaking iron gate opened out into a lane that led down steeply between two rows of tall houses. The blue sky was dotted with the white wings of seagulls. Their shrieking filled the air. Watching them, a frown crossed Sam’s face, and he stopped for a moment.

  “Are you OK?” asked Charly, looking back in concern.

  “Hmmm? Oh, yeah. Fine,” replied Sam. “Come on, show me the sights.”

  They passed the parish church of Saint Clement’s, squat and sturdy, its tiny graveyard long since full. A neat fence held back a tide of buildings, red brick or black and white timbered, that peered down on the ancient gravestones. Turning a corner, they emerged into High Street, quiet despite its name. The business of the town had moved away, down to the gift shops and arcades of the seafront, leaving behind bric-a-brac shops and restaurants. Charly dragged Sam to a shop that sold crystals and fossils, jabbering away and pointing out her favorite specimens in the window. After a while, it dawned on her that she was doing all the talking, and she stopped.

  Fixing him with a steady look she had learned from her mother, Charly asked, “What is it?”

  “Uh?” Sam snapped out of his daydream. “What?”

  “‘Uh?’” mimicked Charly. “You! That’s what! You’ve got a face like a wet hen. What is it?”

  “Nothing,” replied Sam, irritated.

  “Oh, yeah?” Charly raised one eyebrow.

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  “This is going to be a long, long weekend if all you’re going to do is grunt.”

  “Look, just leave me alone, will you?” shouted Sam. He turned and stamped off down the sidewalk, then realized he had no idea where he was going. With a sheepish smile, he turned around. Charly was standing with her hands on her hips, one eyebrow still raised.

  “Sorry?” tried Sam.

  The eyebrow remained raised.

  “That was a bit over the top, wasn’t it?”

  Charly nodded. “Come on.” She took him by the elbow and led him across the street to a tiny park by the church. Sitting him down on a bench she said, “Right. Tell Charly all about it.”

  Sam smiled despite himself and sat down next to her. Leaning forward, hands clasped together, Sam tried to order his thoughts. He was no good at talking about his feelings and preferred to keep everything locked away inside. He was also very bad at talking to girls, though it somehow seemed easier with Charly.

  “You know last year, when it was all over,” he began, referring to his final battle with the Malifex, in the circle of Stonehenge, “and I came back to Woolgarston Farm?”

  Charly merely nodded, giving him the space he needed.

  “You were already there. But I left you in the woods. On Dartmoor.”

  Charly said nothing.

  “How did you get back?”

&nb
sp; Charly thought for a moment, then said, “A girl’s got to have some secrets.” It sounded lame, even to her. Sam was quiet for a while. Then he said, “I knew you’d say something like that.” He paused again. “I haven’t—”

  His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat. “I haven’t been the same, since I got back.”

  Again, Charly left a silence for him to fill.

  “He’s still here, somewhere.” Sam tapped one finger in the center of his forehead.

  “The Green Man?”

  Sam nodded. “He never quite went away. It’s like . . . you know the feeling you sometimes get, like someone’s watching you? And when you turn round, really quickly, you almost see who it is, but not quite? It’s like that. It’s as if he’s behind me but in my head. Does that make any sense?” He turned sharply to Charly.

  She nodded.

  “And it makes me different,” he finished.

  They sat in silence again, apart from the unceasing cries of the gulls and the far-off bustle of the town.

  “I’m having trouble at school,” Sam continued. “They can tell that I’m different. They bullied me at first, but I scare them, and they leave me alone now.”

  “What about your games?” asked Charly. “You told me you used to swap computer games and stuff. What happened to that?”

  Sam looked Charly in the eyes for several seconds, then said, “Do you think, after you have faced the Malifex and his servants and defeated them, that there is a single game left worth playing?” He sounded suddenly very grown up, and Charly understood exactly what he meant by “different.”

  “I guess not,” she replied sheepishly.

  Sam stared at the ground for a moment, then turned to Charly with a tight smile. “Sorry, but you did ask.”

  “Mmmm, yes, I did, didn’t I? Come on.” Charly decided it was better to drop the subject and jumped to her feet. “Let’s go and explore!”