Under the Green Hill (11 page)

And then Meg shook him, and he was only a boy again, staring at the woods from the Rookery roof.

“Are you all right? You looked like you might tumble over the edge.”

He assured her that he was fine, and wandered off to see what was to be seen on the rest of the roof. But to himself he made a resolution, and swore that no wheedling words or good sense from his sister would sway him. He would do whatever the Fairy Queen desired. He would fight willingly in the fairy war and kill—or die—at her bidding.

After they all agreed not to tell Finn or Dickie about the stairs to the roof (for no real reason other than it seemed right to keep secrets from them), James, Rowan, and Silly went back downstairs to finish the game. Meg decided to stay on the roof. She had some thinking to do, and up there, in the bright sunlight and lively breeze, she could be reasonably sure of being undisturbed.

“The game will go on fine without me,” she said in response to their halfhearted urgings. Indeed, it turned out to be a sorry game of hide-and-seek, for only two of the players ever hid, they were never sought, and no one was found until they all gathered later for lunch.

Finn was supposed to count to one hundred in the library. It was of course his intention to count to ten, slip out, and sneak back down the hall to see where the others had hidden, but, alas, his worst nature was checked so early that, instead of cheating, he never started playing at all. He found Dickie looking quite at home in the library, where he already had five books spread out around him. Before Finn could decide on the most effective way to tease him, he noticed what Dickie was reading. One of the books was entitled
Fairies and Other Queer Folk,
another
Legends of the Little People
. A book so big it was a wonder little Dickie managed to lift it was opened to a stylized illustration of a figure who looked, as much as any flat illustration could, like the hideous fanged woman Finn had seen in the scrying pool. Dickie seemed most interested in an old vellum-bound tome that was opened to a chapter called “Benign Solitary Fairies—Urisks, Pookas, and the Brown Man of the Moors.” On the right-hand page was a sepia sketch of a shaggy man with hooves for feet.

Dickie looked up in some alarm. He'd become so immersed in his studies that he'd nearly forgotten about the existence of anyone else in the Rookery, and certainly never thought he'd be disturbed. He was immediately on guard, and rightly so, for at almost any other time Finn would have fixed on some vulnerability and pounced. Dickie expected to be tormented about avoiding the others, seeking out books, his paleness, his pudginess, his allergies—anything could have become Finn's target, and Dickie made up his mind to endure whatever came as best he could. It would be only a matter of time before Finn grew bored and let him return to his pursuits. Dickie closed the tome he was perusing, but Finn slipped his finger between the leaves and opened it again.

“What have we here?” said Finn.

It was probably surprise that loosened Dickie's tongue over the next few minutes. For Finn, who had always either been malignant or rudely ignored Dickie, was suddenly polite and interested, friendly, and even jocular. It was as though Dickie had really been his friend all along, and he'd teased and tormented him from high spirits, not malice. Finn had a remarkable way of turning course mid-stride. He had the gift of seeming sincere. When he was kind, it seemed that he would always be kind. When he was unpleasant, it seemed he could never behave otherwise. His true nature may have been somewhere between those extremes, perhaps nearer one side than the other. You'd not go too wrong with Finn if you remembered that he was never as bad, or as good, as he might seem at any particular moment. But the same might be said for all of us.

Finn perched on the table beside Dickie and spoke in such a way that one might think he had never disparaged the others for their talk of fairies, never scoffed at the idea fairies might exist. He was interested in what Dickie had uncovered, and Dickie found himself being spoken to as an equal. He opened up—slowly at first, but he grew more voluble as Finn continued to speak kindly. Dickie found himself telling Finn things he shouldn't. At last, almost against his will, he told Finn about Tim Tom.

“And he's here, right in this book!” Dickie said at the tale's end. He pointed to the sketch. “He looked almost exactly like this. It says the Urisks are shy and lonely, and live along rocky riverbanks. They're more common in Scotland, but they're found all over the isles.”

“Amazing!” Finn said. “And the information's all there? Just like a field guide to fairies?”

“Well, I don't know if everything in the book's accurate,” Dickie confessed. “But this part sure seems to be. This other one talks about water fairies, and this one is all about charms and spells for keeping fairies away.”

“Is there anything about charms for
finding
fairies?”

“I don't know. I've only just started to read. Almost all of the books in here seem to be about fairies, in one way or another. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Well, I can't read many of them. Just these and a few more are modern, and written in English. A lot of them are in Latin, and I just know a little bit of that.”

“More'n I know. Where'd you learn Latin?”

“My father taught it to me. My mother…my mother was a classics professor at Arcadia. She spoke Greek and Latin. He learned Latin, too, and it was like their secret language, before…”

“Your mother died, didn't she?” Finn asked softly.

“When I was very young. I hardly remember her. But my father taught me some Latin. He doesn't like me to speak it, though. I think it hurts him too much to be reminded of her.” Dickie blinked three times, very fast, then went on. “The rest of the books…I don't even know what language they're written in. Old English, maybe? Gaelic? Nothing I've ever seen, and I certainly can't read 'em. I have a feeling the real secrets might be in those books. These…well, they're interesting, but they seem like just folklore, things people have passed on as stories. Not real knowledge, if you know what I mean. But I don't know if I need to bother looking everything up. The Ashes seem like they know all about fairies. I can just ask them. Meg said I shouldn't, 'cause then they'd know we were out. But I'm not stupid—I don't have to let them know we were out last night.”

“You told Meg about the—what was it?—the Urisk?”

“Yeah, and she believed me, too, just like you do. I'm so glad you—”

But Finn interrupted him. “Then did she tell you what she and the others saw last night?”

“What they saw? No. She didn't mention anything. You mean after we got separated? She said they just found their way home.”

“She didn't tell you about the fairies on horseback? Or the hundreds that gathered at the foot of the Green Hill?” He affected a look of utter amazement. “Of all the rotten, selfish…Well,
I
won't keep any secrets from you, Dickie.
I'll
tell you all about what I saw last night.” And with some embellishment, he revealed to Dickie what he'd seen in Jenny Greenteeth's pond.

“They didn't tell me, either,” Finn said bitterly. “They want to keep it all to themselves. You should have seen the fairies. The ones on horses looked like kings and queens, all decked in jewels. And the others, why, they were as strange a sight as your Tim Tom, if not stranger. I saw them as plain as day in the pool, though I couldn't hear what they were saying. But the fairies probably told them wonderful things, and gave them gifts, and those rotten Morgans want to keep it all to themselves! Isn't that just like them? We're staying here together, we're all strangers in this place—you'd think they'd want us to know, too. But no. The Morgans, and the Ashes, are all in a conspiracy to keep things secret from us.”

Dickie looked horribly hurt, which was just what Finn intended. Dickie had thought Meg, of all the people here, was his friend. He'd told Meg his secret, and she hadn't reciprocated. Probably laughed at him the moment she left the room, and told the others as soon as she could. Everyone laughed at poor Dickie.

“I wouldn't even bother to ask the Ashes, if I were you,” Finn said. “They obviously don't want us to know anything.
We're
not part of the family. Well, if they don't want us to know, they shouldn't have invited us here!” Which, of course, they hadn't.

He had Dickie right where he wanted him now, and he struck home. “But we can get the better of them! We can find the fairies on our own. Why, there's probably enough information here in these books to tell us all we need to know. You can do the research, can't you? You can translate the Latin. I know you can. And together”—for a lonely boy, that was a marvelous word—“together, we'll show those Morgans! They can't treat us like this! We'll teach them to try to keep secrets from Finn Fachan and Dickie!”

Dickie found Finn's voice and arguments irresistibly compelling. It was hard for him to think badly of the Morgans…but much easier now that Finn was egging him on.

“I'll do it!” he said, eyes aglow with a new fervor. “I'll learn everything there is to know about the fairies, and we'll find them. And we won't tell those Morgans anything, not a single thing. I'll treat them just like they treated me…I mean, us.”

They spoke of their schemes for a while, and Finn thumbed through some of the books. But he didn't have the patience for serious research, and thought it best to leave the work to Dickie, while he reaped the rewards himself.

It was only as Finn left that Dickie felt his first twinge of misgiving. Standing at the door, Finn smiled at him. But it wasn't the affable smile he'd put on before. This was much more reminiscent of the old malicious Finn. Such a smile might a cat bestow upon a mouse with a limp. Not the most challenging prey, the cat thinks, but still useful for diversion in its own way. He slipped out the door, and Dickie, reminding himself of the Morgans' treachery, continued his studies.

Alone on the Rookery rooftop, Meg chewed thoughtfully on her lip. She had intended to do some real thinking, but if you've ever tried this you know the closest you ever get is daydreaming. Thinking happens on its own when you least expect it—you get good ideas when you really need them, not when you're just looking for them. Up in the clear air, caressed by sunlight, Meg found it hard to concentrate on any one idea for more than a few minutes, and eventually she gave up entirely and just stared over the grounds.

She didn't know anything about Rowan's resolution, or she might have found that thinking came a little more easily. Had she known he was going to fight—or, as she would have put it, get himself killed—in the fairy war, she'd have stopped at nothing to prevent him. She'd write to Mother and tell her…Well, she couldn't very well tell her the truth. She could say there was fever in England, in the countryside. She could say the Rookery had burned down, or that Silly had gone mad, or that James had broken fifteen bones, or anything that would get them all home.

But since she knew nothing about Rowan's thoughts, her musings were far less serious. She was still worried—oh, plenty worried, for that was a part of her nature. She didn't believe denying the Fairy Queen would prove all that easy. Yet, however hard, it would be done, and then…why, then they were left with a land full of fairies, beautiful and dangerous. Though she tried to do the sort of thinking that results in conclusions, she found that conclusions were impossible, and she contented herself with merely thinking
about
the fairies, which kept her occupied for quite some time.

She perched so quietly, for so long, that at last even the skittish young rooks returned to their favorite roosts, and the birds talked among themselves. Sometimes one would cock its head and fix her with a bright black eye, to make sure she didn't have food, but after a while they forgot she was there, and when, close to two o'clock, she suddenly leaped to her feet with an exclamation, even the staid elder birds took flight.

Meg was sitting at one end of the U. To her left were the trees that hid the Green Hill, and to her right, just below her, was the garden. The part near the house was quite civilized, with the kitchen herbs laid out in geometric beds that seemed designed to be viewed from above. As it sprawled away from the center of the U, the garden grew wild. There was still order to it, for it had been laid out by a skilled hand. But though the herbs were tended daily, the other shrubs and trees were left largely to their own devices.

There, where the garden was so thick and wooly that it could scarcely be called a garden at all, walked that familiar chestnut head. So Rowan didn't feel like staying in the game, either, Meg mused. She leaned over the parapet to call out to him, but some force stayed her, and instead she watched him from her eyrie. He took a few steps, then paused as if looking for something, or perhaps waiting for someone, then moved on a little bit more. Something about his attitude suggested he was talking, but no words reached her on the roof. He disappeared under the solemn branches of a yew, and she waited for him to emerge. But instead of seeing the top of his head come out, she saw the top of another head join him, a dark-brown blur that moved so swiftly she could not be entirely sure it was a man and not a dog. Again she almost called out to him, but thought it better to wait and see. A few minutes passed, and she saw a movement under the thinner branches at the yew's border. The brown head came out again, and this time it looked unerringly up at her. It was Gul Ghillie, and he waved at the astonished Meg before scampering away—or perhaps disappearing—into the greenery.

She was struck with a gripping dread, a dismay so crushing, so powerful, that if she thought she had any chance of surviving she would have leaped from the roof to get to Rowan a bit faster. She ran to the door and rushed down the secret stairs at such a frantic pace that it was probably only their narrowness that saved her from a serious fall—she scraped against the walls as she went, and they steadied her. Through the furs she thrust herself, out of the bedroom, and down more stairs, until she came to the garden kitchen. The housemaids stared at her, and Jack, the lazy, arrogant errand boy who was always chatting up the girls, said, “Coo!”