Heart of the Hill (21 page)
In the Crystal Cave, Holly nudged Owen who was still staring at the eternal flame. “My dream's over.”
“I know,” said Owen. “Mine too.”
They smiled at Chantel and waved at Adam. “See ya,” they called together and walked toward the fire. Both faded away as they entered the flames.
“Time to go,” said Adam, holding the staff proudly.
His eyes wandered around the heart of the Crystal Cave. “Wonderful, isn't it?” he breathed. “We've seen âMerlin's Crystal Cave.'” He laughed. “It just doesn't belong to Merlin. It's the Lady's.” He raised his voice, “Thank you, Lady.”
“Thank you, Lady,” echoed Chantel. “But I wish you'd talk to Holly.”
Adam offered his sister his hand.
“You've grown taller,” Chantel said as she tucked her fingers in his.
Together they stepped into the fire.
“We're singing in the rain, just singing in the rainâ¦,” warbled the vigil keepers.
Myrddin, his cloak sheltering Holly and Owen, appeared in the archway, startling everyone.
“Blessings, good people,” he shouted. “Your vigil is rewarded.”
Mr. Smythe gave a shout of relief and pleasure and jumped up to join them.
Myrddin beckoned, turned and walked through the rain to the edge of the Tor. With his back to the tower he raised his arms.
The rain ceased. The darkness lifted like a curtain to reveal a watery dawn sky reflected in the floodwaters that lapped around the base of the Tor.
Osprey rushed to the rim of the Tor. His followers jostled behind. They gave a collective gasp when they saw the view. “The prophesy!” several voices whispered.
“When the Tor an island be,
A child shall wind around the key
And waken me,” chanted Myrddin and Osprey.
Thud!
The white stone fell from the Tor's side.
Chantel and Adam skipped out, laughing. Adam waved the staff in triumph.
Myrddin ran toward him.
Zap!
Lightning struck the tower. Zorianna and Vivienne appeared on the top parapet.
Zorianna dove through the air in a blur.
As Adam passed the staff to Myrddin, Zorianna swooped between them and snatched it from Myrddin's hand. “A Portal door, Vivienne,” she shrieked.
“Oh no, you don't,” yelled Adam furiously. He grabbed her cloak and hung on.
“Damn you, Vivienne,” raged Myrddin as Zorianna and Adam zipped through the tower's arch and disappeared into mist.
“Watch the children, Smythe!” bellowed Myrddin.
His hair and beard flamed and colors swirled in his cloak as he threw a veil of forgetfulness across the vigil keepers and sped through the mist behind Adam and Zorianna.
In Wearyallhill House, Chantel, Owen, Holly and Mr. Smythe sat silently at the breakfast table. In the center, a bowl of scrambled eggs congealed and the rack of toast grew limp and cold.
“We need help. We've got to get Adam back before we go home tomorrow,” said Chantel. “Why don't we make a circle and call for Equus?” She left the table and held out her hands.
Owen sat up. “Or Ava. That's worked before. Why not?”
“It's mindspeak,” said Holly. “I thought we weren't to use it.”
Owen gave a harsh laugh. “That was to protect Myrddin. Zorianna knows all about him now. He's on her tail.” He left the table to join hands with Chantel.
Holly pushed back her chair. “Okay.” She took Chantel's other hand.
They looked at Mr. Smythe.
“You're part of the magic now,” said Holly.
“Indeed I am,” said Mr. Smythe. He completed the circle.
“Light and Dark,” murmured Holly.
“Dark and Light,” whispered Chantel.
“Sun by day,” said Owen.
“Moon by ni ⦔ Mr. Smythe stopped short as for the first time in his life he heard mindspeak.
We hear you, Magic Children. Keep the light in your
hearts.
And on the breath of the breeze that wafted in from the veranda the children and Mr. Smythe heard the cry of a hawk and the faint galloping of hooves.
Holly's shoulders drooped, and she bit her lip. She'd hoped to hear the voice of the Lady.
A clatter and bang came from the hallway.
The circle fragmented as everyone rushed to see what had happened.
The Sunday paper lay in the middle of the floor.
Owen gave it a kick. “I thought it was an answer for us.”
Holly picked the paper up and passed it to Mr. Smythe.
He opened it as they moved back into the breakfast room.
“Actually, it does have a sort of answer,” Mr. Smythe said. His voice sounded odd.
The three Magic Children turned to look at him. He held out the front page.
“MAGICAL RETURN OF GLASTONBURY CUP!” shouted the headline.
“Yes,” yelled Owen, punching the air with his fist.
“The magic continues!”
I will never forget my first glimpse of Glastonbury Tor. My husband, Dave, and I were driving through the flat green pastures of Somerset, England, and suddenly an unusual hill loomed in the distance. I turned to him. “Dave, what's that tower-topped hill?”
He shook his head, concentrating on negotiating around a tractor.
I stared at the hill, and excitement built. “It must be the Tor at Glastonbury... I've always wanted to go there. It's the Isle of Avalon, the heart of the Merlin legends!” As I spoke visions of Merlin, King Arthur, the Crystal Cave and the grail danced in my head. The Tor's magic pull increased. “Dave ⦠I have to go there. I have to climb the Tor.”
He laughed and turned toward it at the next junction. We approached, cross-country, through narrow winding lanes and suddenly there we were in Wellhouse Lane, captured by the magic of Glastonbury.
Glastonbury is fascinating. It's a small modern community surrounding a centuries-old town center and the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, all overshadowed by the even more ancient Tor.
The abbey, destroyed by the army of King Henry viii, is the heart of England's Christianity, for tradition says it was founded by Joseph of Arimathea. It is said that Joseph stuck his staff in the ground where the first English church was to be built and that it immediately rooted and became the blessed thorn that flowers at Christmastide. The thorn and its several offshoots around the city really do bloom in midwinter. Several flowering twigs are gathered early each Christmas morning and rushed to Queen Elizabeth ii to grace her breakfast table.
But stories of magical staffs becoming trees have roots in religions far older than Christianity, and the legends of the Tor, of Avalon and of the figures we currently call Merlin and Arthur originated several centuries before the birth of Christ.
This is the folklore I used as a basis of my fantasy story.
We climbed the Tor that first afternoon, using the path Chantel and Mr. Smythe take in my story. As we approached the tower, I saw the figure of a knight silhouetted in the center of the arch. The hairs rose at the back of my neck. As we drew closer I realized it was a modern-day pilgrim dressed in tight jeans and a tunic top, hands clasped over a walking staff, meditating over the heart of the hill.
We left the pilgrim to her meditations and circled the top plateau, marveling at the view. While Dave explored some of the spiral terraces, I sat in the sunshine, my back against the crumbling walls of the tower, absorbing the myths and the magical atmosphere. Some time later, as we left the Tor, the pilgrim joined us on the path, and we gave her a ride into the center of Glastonbury. She spoke of the current lore of the Tor, of her belief in secret tunnels and caves deep inside the hill, their entrance lost or hidden. She told of the power of the waters of the Red and White Springs and the beauty spot that had been their source, now destroyed by Glastonbury's water-supply building. She also described a local historian's discovery of the spiral labyrinth carved up the Tor's sides.
Since then we have visited Glastonbury several times. The last time we stayed at Wearyallhill House, which I use as Myrddin's house in my story, and walked into the city over Wearyall Hill, past a blessed thorn decked with bright ribbons and fluttering paper appeals. We drank from both the Red and White Springs and visited the Lake Village exhibit on the second floor of the Elizabethan building known as the Tribunal Hall.
There I felt a magical pull again. As I looked at the artifacts excavated from a lake village site, one drew my eyes. It was a bronze bowl, just big enough to cup easily in the palm of one's hands. It was beautifully made, showing finer workmanship that anything else in the exhibit. It was well loved, having been carefully mended with a tiny beaten bronze patch held on with minute rivets, as finely crafted as the original bowl. It was obviously far more than a household object. What if ...? What if this small but magnificent bowl was really an important ceremonial object? What if it was the forerunner of the stories of the grail?
Further research took us to the site of the reconstructed Lake Village. The interpretation depicted a lake settlement of around 200 bc where an original of Arthur, assuming he was a real person, may well have grown up. It was a far cry from the current image of Arthur popularized by books, film and television. This image is based on many later figures whose tales have become incorporated into the legend.
We sat in smoky circular huts and learned to scrape hides, spin raw wool and weave willow branches into wattle mats. Such mats were used to cover the timbers forming the ancient tracks through the marsh, used over thousands of years in the days when the Tor rose from a shallow lake.
I learned to draw the spiral labyrinth, an ancient symbol found not only in England, but also carved on rocks in Ireland, France and Greece. But the Tor is the only hill to my knowledge where the labyrinth takes the form of a path up its side.
I wish I had been able to enter the heart of the hill. I found the oval white stone said to be the entrance, sunk into the Tor, just below the tower. It remained immovable, so I did the next best thing. Dave and I visited the caves of nearby Cheddar Gorge and walked through caverns filled with stalagmites and stalactites and marveled at the amazing formations flowing down the walls, created by millions of years of mineral-laden water dripping through the rock above.
The result of this fascinating research is
Heart of the Hill
, the third book in the Summer of Magic Quartet, a four-book fantasy story set among real landscapes in the heart of England.
As I did in Book One,
The White Horse Talisman
, and in Book Two,
Dance of the Stones
, I have woven historical objects, ancient history and some of England's rich folklore into
Heart of the Hill
. But the children, Chantel, Adam, Holly and Owen, all the other characters and the entire adventure are figments of my imagination.
The children's fantastic adventures do not end here.
Watch for the final book in the Summer of Magic Quartet when Chantel, Holly and Owen chase after Adam and confront the Dark Being on an island hidden from view behind a cloud of mist known as Mannanin's Cloak.
Book Four,
Behind the Sorcerer's Cloak,
will be published in fall, 2006.
Andrea Spalding
Pender Island, BC
April 2005
There are always people to thank in the creation of a book. This book was completed under unusual circumstances.
Special recognition is due to Bob Tyrrell and Maggie de Vries whose patience, support and encouragement while waiting for the manuscript made it possible. I also received special support from Deborah Allison and Marion EhrenbergâI could not have carried on without them. Artist Martin Springett offered friendship and encouragement and provided a wonderful cover design that inspired me during the last chapters, and my agent, Melanie Colbert, lifted my spirits during the difficult days with encouraging phone calls.
