The Firehills

by Steve Alten

  “I was thinking,” said Charly after a while.

  “Blimey!” said Sam, and there was a brief struggle as Charly attempted to throw him over the railing. Eventually, she continued. “I was thinking, this is probably a bad place to be.”

  “In what way?” asked her mother.

  “Well, we’re right out here, in a kind of dead end. If the . . . What were they called?”

  “The Sidhe,” said a cold voice from behind her. Simultaneously, Charly, Amergin, Sam, and Megan spun around. They found themselves face-to-face with the Host of the Sidhe, with Lord Finnvarr at their head. Strangely, though, it was Finnvarr who looked most surprised.

  “You!” he cried, pointing at Amergin.

  “My Lord Finnvarr,” replied the wizard, inclining his head.

  “But you should be dead!”

  “It’s a long story,” replied Amergin.

  The Lord of the Sidhe fell silent, but a mental argument raged between his mind and those of his lieutenants. You said it was the boy! he raged.

  That is what we believed, my lord. He has the power. But the Bard, the destroyer of our people. . . . You fools!

  You pursue a child, while Amergin of Mil yet walks the earth?

  Take him!

  But, my lord—

  Take him!

  Heavy boots thudded on the planking of the pier as two of the Sidhe strode forward. Amergin raised his hands and began to make a gesture of warding, but the air began to swirl around him. From his feet upward, he began to fray, his shape losing definition and shredding away into the vortex of air. Just before he vanished, he cried out,

  “Sam! The Hollow Hills!” And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  Back in the Aphrodite Guest House, Megan sat in one of the old armchairs in the residents’ lounge, lost in her thoughts, her face pale. Sam paced back and forth, unable to sit still, while Charly looked helplessly from one to the other. Somewhere, she could hear a clatter as Mrs. P. bustled around making tea. After a few minutes, she returned with a tray laden with cups and a steaming teapot. Settling into one of the remaining chairs, she looked at Megan and said, “So, my dear, what happened?”

  Megan was silent for a moment. Then, “It was horrible. He just . . . sort of came apart. And then the rest of them, the Sidhe, they disappeared too. A little whirlwind, starting at their feet, and then they were gone. And last of all, that girl—”

  “I told you about her, Mum. I hate her!”

  “Now, now, dear,” said Mrs. P. “Hate is a strong word. You say”—she returned to Megan—“that he spoke before he vanished?’

  “The Hollow Hills,” said Sam, looking up from the floor.

  “The Hollow Hills?” Mrs. P. jumped to her feet. “Come on, darlings, follow me. And bring your tea.”

  With surprising speed, she led them up the stairs, past the guest rooms, to the highest landing of the house. Here she selected a key from the bunch that hung at her waist and opened the final door.

  “Wow!” said Sam, following her into the room. Mrs. P.’s private quarters were in the attic of the old house, and the room they had entered—a kind of combined study and living room—had windows on three sides. The farthest, in the gable end, overlooked the sea. Light slanted in dusty columns and pooled on the floor—or what was visible of it.

  “Sit yourselves down, dears!” called Mrs. P., bustling over to the bookshelves. She returned with an armful of books and plonked herself in a chair at one of the desks. Humming tunelessly, she leafed through several of the volumes, then cried, “Aha! Here we go!” She began to summarize the text in front of her. “The Sidhe—or Tuatha de Danaan—described in The Book of Leinster as ‘gods and not gods’ . . . blah, blah . . . sidhe is apparently also the Gaelic word for the wind . . . blah . . . here we go—

  “‘The Host of the Air’ or ‘The Host of the Hollow Hills,’

  the inhabitants of the ‘Otherworld,’ who roam the country four times a year, around the four great festivals: Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane, and Lammas. Well, there you have it.” She looked at them over the top of the book. “Beltane is—or was—May Day. That’s why they’re around now.”

  “So,” asked Charly, “what about these Hollow Hills?”

  “Well,” replied Mrs. P., “the Hollow Hills were once thought to be barrows—you know, burial chambers?”

  Sam and Charly nodded. They were very familiar with barrows from their adventure the previous year in Dorset.

  “But that word comes from the Old English word beorh, which makes no distinction between artificial mounds and natural hills. So there seems to be some confusion. It was once thought that tales of fairies taking people into the Hollow Hills referred to barrows, which are obviously hollow, because they’re tombs, but this”—she tapped the page—“suggests that the ancient accounts might have been referring to actual hills—a kind of mystical Otherworld inside the hills of Britain. There’s even a suggestion here that they might be bigger on the inside than they are on the outside, if you see what I mean.”

  “And what about the Sidhe?” asked Megan. “Is there any more information about them? We know where they came from, but who are they?”

  “There are mentions of various kings of the Faery Folk, or the Gentry, as they are sometimes known. Where are we? Yes, here—the most powerful of the kings appears to be Finnbheara, or Finnvarr, of Cnoc Meadha in County Galway. His bride is the Lady Una—”

  “That’s her!” exclaimed Charly. “The girl in the leather jacket. That’s her. I know it is!”

  Mrs. P. looked over her book. “What makes you say that, dear?”

  Charly frowned. “I don’t know. I just . . . suddenly knew, when you said her name.”

  “Mmmmm . . . Anyway,” continued Mrs. P., “the Tuatha de Danaan were defeated by the Milesians—that’s Amergin’s mob—and largely disappeared. But then they begin to crop up in legend; the Faery Folk, dwelling within hills from which music and feasting can be heard; traveling the land on horseback or in the form of whirlwinds. Apparently, when country folk see leaves whirling in the road, they still bless themselves, thinking that the Sidhe are passing by.”

  “So,” sighed Megan, “it’s clear what they want—revenge.”

  “If, as you tell me, Amergin is the last survivor of the Milesians, then yes,” agreed the old woman. “It seems likely.”

  “I’m going to rescue him,” said Sam, suddenly.

  “No, you’re not,” replied Megan, just as quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “But I defeated the Malifex! How dangerous can it be?”

  “Oooh!” exclaimed Charly. “Hark at Action Man!”

  “We’re talking about an entire race or what’s left of them,” agreed Megan.

  “So what do we do?” demanded Sam. “Sit here and hope he gets out on his own?”

  “But we don’t even know where they’ve taken him,”

  said Megan. “He could be anywhere.” She looked close to tears.

  “The Hollow Hills!” exclaimed Sam. “Where else are they going to take him? Mrs. P.?” He turned to the old woman. “Does it say how to get in?”

  “Sorry, dear?” Mrs. P. looked up from her book.

  “How to get into the Hollow Hills? Does it tell you in the book?”

  Mrs. P. looked thoughtful. “There was something,” she began and jumped up, returning to her bookshelves.

  “Where was it? Ah, yes . . . here. William Lambarde.” She held up an ancient, leather-bound book. “A Perambulation of Sussex, published in 1578. I’ve always been intrigued by this. Where is it? Here we go.” She cleared her throat and began to read aloud in strange, old-fashioned English:

  “He who woulde be a Walker Betweene Worlds, and consorte with Fayries, must take hym to those hilles which men term Barowes, being hollowe, and knocke thrice, and the hill shall open unto hym. To the Wyse, these gaytes be signified by the elementes, being the Gates of Air, Fyre, Yerth, and
Water.”

  There was silence.

  Eventually, Sam said, “And that helps, does it?”

  “It’s a start,” Mrs. P. replied with a sniff.

  “What’s yerth? ” asked Charly.

  “Earth, sweety,” explained Mrs. P.

  “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 associated 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, pushing 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 shiver. All his adventures had begun when Charly had told him of the barrow behind her house, high on Brenscombe 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-shifting, she had been intrigued by the idea. She tried desperately to memorize the sensation as the world seemed to shimmer 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 damned, 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 grassland, 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 grassy 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.”