Under the Green Hill (6 page)

To her astonishment, Bran's entire aspect changed. He bared his teeth in what could only be a smile (though it made him look even more wolfish) and clapped a hand on her shoulder. “So 'e let ye see 'im, did 'e?”

“Who was it? I only saw him for a moment, then he…ran away.”

“Let ye see him from one blink to t'other. Still, it's something.” He seemed to be talking to himself now.

“Yes, but who was he?”

“Him? Oh, he's the brownie of the house. Helps with things now and again, when no one's around. Keeps the servants in line if they get lazy.”

“Is he ill? He was so thin. Don't you feed him enough?”

“Shush!” he said, looking vaguely alarmed. “We don't feed him anything!”

“But…”

He pulled her out of the kitchen into the dark hall, and for a moment she was frightened. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper and bent close to her ear. “Ye don't
feed
a brownie, lass! If a brownie thinks you're
feeding
him, he'll pack up and find another establishment. Ye just leave things out for a brownie—new milk or oatcakes or a raw egg now and again—and he helps himself. But he'd be insulted if you fed him.”

“But why?”

“Just a brownie's way. They all have their ways, some odder'n others.”

“
Who
does?”

“The Good Folk, lass! The fairies! Haven't you been paying attention? That's what all those rules are about!”

“But I thought that was just to keep us safe.”

“It is! It is! You don't know fairy ways. There's dangers here ye couldn't imagine! I told her not to let you come, but she said you were of the blood, that it was your right. And I suppose it is, if the brownie let you see him. I'm surprised, though. They're secretive, gotta get to know ye, t'trust ye. But ye
are
of Phyllida's line.

Guess they knows that well as I do.”

Meg had backed a step away from him, and was looking at him as if he was crazy. But some part of her—maybe it was, as he said, her blood—believed him. And, after all, she had seen the brownie with her own eyes, and the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that the strange little creature was human.

“But why doesn't he have any toes?”

Bran shrugged. “Just the form he takes. He can change into anything, like they all do. They say, when he first moved here—oh, hundreds of years ago—he stubbed his toe on the front stairs. ‘Too much trouble to take away the steps,' he shouted. ‘I'll take away me toes instead!' But I don't know if that's true.”

Meg was silent a while. “Then it's real, what Uncle Ash said—there are fairies here?”

“Aye, and you're lucky to have seen one. But yer not to go looking for them. It'll only stir up trouble, and could be dangerous. And I'd not tell the others what ye saw. They won't believe you. It's safer that way. Fairies usually don't bother the ignorant.

“I'm off,” he said. “Mind ye, remember the rules, and keep an eye on the others. Ye know how serious the rules are now.” He looked stern again. “And don't set foot outside this house tonight. This is one of the troublesome times. Not as bad as Midsummer, but the Good Folk do get about on a festival night.”

When he reached the door, Meg had a sudden panic and ran after him. “Is the…the brownie still in the house?”

“Aye, but he'll be no bother to ye. He's safe. Well, safer than most. G'night!” And he pulled a loden hat (rather like something Robin Hood might wear) down over his head and set out into the gloaming.

Of course, her first impulse was to rush to tell her brothers and sister. But she knew there was something in what Bran had said—they hadn't seen the brownie, and they would think she was either seeing things or just making it up. Would she believe Silly, or Rowan, if they told her they'd seen a creature that wasn't supposed to exist? She herself still half felt that Bran and the Ashes were playing an elaborate joke on them all, or perhaps inventing tales of mysterious, potentially dangerous creatures to keep the children in line. Most of the time, she'd consider herself too sophisticated to fall for something like that. But, then, as she had to keep reminding herself, she'd seen the brownie, and it disappeared the moment she blinked.

Now there was that evening's escapade to consider. Loath as she was to open herself up to mockery, it occurred to her that it might be positively unwise to go out on this particular night. If there were more things like the brownie traipsing about the countryside, she, for one, didn't really want to be out. Making up her mind all at once, she dashed back to the front steps, where the rest were still assembled, speculating on what they'd find that night.

“Rowan, I need to talk to you,” she said, beckoning him away from the others. She could tell he was in a bad mood, and Finn's smirk made the cause clear. No doubt he'd been needling Rowan, who seemed almost ready to snap.

“What is it?” he asked with a twitchy impatience as they moved just out of earshot. Before she could begin, he said, “Finn wanted us to go now, before it gets dark. Said I'm afraid to get caught. Well, I
don't
want to get caught, and it's a good thing we waited, 'cause I just saw that Bran leaving. Maybe everyone isn't gone yet.”

“No,” Meg said, “he was the last one. The last
person
in the house,” she amended.

“Rowan, I have to tell you something. We shouldn't go out tonight.” And with great hesitation, and in a very small voice, she proceeded to tell him what she'd seen, and what Bran told her.

She looked to Rowan expecting to find some sympathy, some understanding—even if he didn't believe her, if she made it clear she didn't think they should go out, she hoped to find some measure of support from him. But no—he was looking strangely like Finn, mocking and almost unpleasant.

“Don't tell me you've started to believe that hogwash!” he said, loudly enough for the others to hear. They all turned to stare. “If you're afraid to go out, just say so.”

“I'm not afraid…not very.” She heard Finn laugh.

“I'm not!” she almost screamed, feeling tears of rage spring to her eyes. “But we don't know what could happen. There could be anything out tonight!”

The only one who looked worried was Dickie. The others openly scoffed.

In the end, she agreed to go, partly to look after James, who still swore he'd escape on his own if he wasn't allowed to go, and partly, though she was afraid, from curiosity to see if there really was anything to what Bran said. She was too old to believe in monsters, and didn't think there was anything actually male volent out there. If they went to the Red Hill, they'd be near all the villagers, and what could happen to them in a crowd, even if it was nighttime? But she was sorely disappointed in Rowan.

Dusk came more swiftly than they'd expected; once the sun sank behind the trees, it was very nearly black at the Rookery.

“We should have set out sooner,” Meg said. But the others (even James) only looked at her scornfully. She had become the official old lady of the party.

They moved with some stealth until even the highest windows of the Rookery were hidden behind the trees. The others looked over their shoulders for any servant who might betray them; Meg searched each window for the gaunt yellow face of the brownie. When they rounded the bend on the road to Gladysmere, they began to walk more freely…all except Meg, who searched each tree and hedgerow for the things she feared (but didn't really believe) might be there. But aside from the low drone of crickets bidding one another good evening, the night was still, and Silly's strident laughter was the only startling sound.

Gul Ghillie sat on the arch of the bridge, swinging his feet and tossing flat oval stones into the trickle below. When he spied them he waved, and called out with a lilting halloo that sent little shivers along Meg's bare arms (she had forgotten the jackets after all). He greeted them with a smile, but there was still an appraising air about him as he looked the assemblage over.

“Ah, so ye
all
decided to come,” he said, spitting off the side of the bridge. “No matter—there's room enough in the woods for the lot of you.”

“Woods?” Meg asked as they gathered around him. “I thought we were going to the Red Hill.”

“Aye, the Red Hill. That's where the fires are.” And, for reasons Meg couldn't fathom, he winked at her.

Gul Ghillie set off with an almost skipping walk, as though the world was too jolly for a more conventional pace. While the children hastened to keep up with him, he began an engaging monologue about the history of Gladysmere.

“There was this sword, y'see? Forged from a hunk of iron that fell out of the sky. Sword out o' legend, wielded by a king who meant to unite all the folk in these parts. This was, oh, thousands of years ago, even before Phyllida Ash's ancestors became the Guardians. But this king was met with strife. His dearest friend betrayed him, and he was slain by his son. In the end, the sword was thrown into the lake down the way.”

“That's not the history of Gladysmere!” Rowan said. “That's the story of King Arthur!”

“Dunno any Arthur,” Gul Ghillie said amicably. “This feller's name was Aelred or some such. That's the story they tell around here. Who's this Arthur fellow?” And he and Rowan walked abreast, comparing their versions of the legend as they had heard it.

The town, crouching in heavy shadow, was as still as a graveyard. Not a single soul roamed the cobbled central street, and no light shone in any of the windows. The loneliness, the emptiness were almost worse to Meg than if there'd been murderers or ghouls haunting the lanes. She preferred a danger she could see to this disturbing feeling that something might jump out at her at any moment. She told herself not to be silly, that they were all perfectly safe in this, surely the quietest part of England. Still, as the silent houses looked down at her with their lifeless windows, she wished she were safe at home in bed.

“Is everyone at the May Day party?” Meg called up to Gul Ghillie, who was walking some distance ahead.

“Aye, not a one would miss it. Wouldn't care to be left in a house with nary a fire. Babes at the breast go, and grandmothers so ancient no one knows from one minute to the next if they're quick or dead.”

“And they told us it wasn't for children!” Silly said.

“Well, you're still strangers, see,” Gul explained. “Even though you're the Lady's kin, they'd want a proper introduction, in good bright daylight, before they'd let you go to the Beltane fires. Townsfolk, I mean. They're used to one another, used to things being a certain way.”

“Shouldn't we stay away, then, if they don't want us there?” Meg had visions of their being hauled home in disgrace. That would be almost as bad as facing unknown fairies.

Gul stopped. They were on the edge of the town, just before the grassy field known as the Commons, where on other days wooly sheep would graze, and girls herding geese would meet to exchange gossip. But on that night it was as dead as Gladysmere—even the livestock were elsewhere.

“You're afraid,” Gul said to Meg in a low voice. If Finn had said it, he would have been trying to hurt her; if Rowan had said it, he'd be trying to embarrass her into a better show of bravery. But this strange brown boy with the keen, darting eyes that seemed to see so much more than anyone else, spoke the dreadful words with a flat kind of sympathy that surprised her.

“I'm not!” she insisted, tensing her lips to be absolutely sure they didn't tremble.

“Well, if you are, you know a sight more than the others!” he said. Rowan laughed and started boldly across the starlit Commons, but Gul held her gaze a moment longer. “There's naught to fear tonight,” he whispered to her. “This night's a merry time for all who love the land—man and Good Folk alike.” For a moment he seemed very old, very wise, and there was something in his aspect that reminded her of Bran. Then he was a boy again, running after Rowan to take the lead himself as they trooped across the deserted field and passed through a little grove of old, nearly barren apple trees.

The land began to rise, almost imperceptibly at first, so that their legs felt the strain of the grade before their brains had sorted things out. It grew more rugged, too, with rocks and roots reaching up to knock their toes and grab their ankles. They could hear life ahead of them, singing and laughter and a low crackling sound like armies of mice marching through dry leaves, which Meg didn't recognize until she saw the first glow of the bonfires through the trees. Gul made them stop near a thicket of brambles that had flowered but not yet fruited, then moved the spiny curtain of leaves aside to reveal a broad, gently sloping hill swarming with people. At the crest burned three fires, and their flickering crimson licked light to the farthest reaches of the clearing. All around the hill, the woods were dark and dense.

Finn started toward the hill, but Gul pulled him back. “Are ye daft? Didn't I say you're not welcome there? You've come to see what it's all about, not take a part. Do you think they won't know you don't belong if they see you?”

Indeed, though the strolling or dancing forms moved occasionally into deeper shadow, the top of the hill was well lit. Even at this distance, Meg could make out Phyllida Ash near the center of the group, her hair shining like moonlight. And there was the cook, throwing her stout body about in a lively jig as around her men clinked their glasses and sloshed amber liquid onto the ground. An assortment of woodwinds played a melody that sounded like wind moving swiftly through rocky crevices, and a verse reached them:

Yet all seemed merry and gay, with no fear of what Bran had intimated lurking anywhere around them. It was a grand sight to watch, almost as good as being a participant. Had she been in the thick of things, Meg might have felt uneasy, wondering if she dared to dance, worrying that people thought her out of her element. But watching it from the foot of the slope, hearing the music and seeing so many throngs of happy people, filled her with a vicarious sort of pleasure. It was like giving someone a particularly lovely gift, she thought, one you'd like to have yourself. It was almost better to see them enjoying it than it would be to enjoy it yourself.

Hidden in the brush, the children tried to make sense of the assorted peregrinations on the Red Hill. At first they thought it was like one of their parents' cocktail parties, where people milled at will in their own pursuits of pleasure, here and there, as they fancied. The more they watched, though, the more it seemed that there was an order to it all, that everyone was gradually moving to some preordained place, for some purpose that would be unfolded. The younger people were nearest the fires, along with the fair girl still perched in her blossomy bower. They adjusted themselves in a way that made Meg think of a prelude to a square dance, and seemed to Rowan like the starting positions of some obscure sport. As it happened, it was both.

“They're about to start the Love Chase,” Gul Ghillie said. “Oi, Finn, flatten yourself a bit!” Finn had started to crawl forward, and was craning his neck to get a better look at the May Queen, who was descending from her litter to stand very close to the fire.

“What's that?” Meg asked. But even Gul Ghillie seemed to have become spellbound, and he didn't answer, only looked intently up the Red Hill.

At first it really did resemble a stately dance, or perhaps a pantomime. If the participants spoke, their words were too hushed to reach the interlopers. The May Queen was surrounded by a bevy of girls her own age, who seemed to be adjusting her clothes and setting new flowers in her hair. Then they parted, and the girl stood alone for a moment in the shifting orange of the three fires. She looked much smaller than she had in her regal and flowery throne, held high above her admirers, and Meg wondered if she felt frightened.

Two women came from the crowds of older people that were assembled farther down on the slope. One—who might have been the girl's mother, for she, too, was fair and had the same rough, cheerful prettiness—reached her first, and took her in her arms in a swift, fierce embrace before turning abruptly and almost running away, without looking back. The second woman was Phyllida Ash, and over her bright garments she had draped a dark veil that covered her from her head to the hem of her skirt.

She seemed more shadow than flesh, so dark was she among the bright young folk who swayed as firelight played on their bare limbs. They all seemed to draw away from her, except for the May Queen, who stood very still when Phyllida touched her forehead and then placed a switch of wood and a hunting horn into her hands. This was fashioned from the curved black horn of a bull, charged over with red scrolling, and suspended from a strap of leather. The May Queen placed it to her lips, as Meg and the others strained forward to get a better view.

Meg wasn't at all sure what was happening—everything seemed so strange and solemn, as though the smallest actions held meanings as deep as the earth's very foundations. She was no longer frightened, but she felt as if something profound was happening right before her, and she didn't quite have the wit to understand it.

The May Queen blew the horn…and all that emerged was a shrill squeak that tapered off into a rude noise. Much to Meg's relief, the May Queen laughed, high and floating, and Phyllida's veil fell back to reveal her own mirth. The spell seemed to dissolve, and they were no longer players in an esoteric mystery, but only revelers gathered in celebration.

“So it has begun!” Phyllida Ash cried out across the hill, and the May Queen, plainly smiling even at a distance, looped the horn across her shoulders and set off at a run down the hill. When she was nearly at the base, a score of the young men (and a few not so young) set off after her.

“Is this the Love Chase?” Meg asked.

“Aye, hush!” Gul hissed, pressing himself lower against the earth.

The boys in pursuit clearly didn't push themselves to their full speed. The May Queen ran lightly but not too quickly across the dewing grass, and the boys loped some distance behind while she completed a circuit of Red Hill. Their path brought them within a few feet of where the children hid, but the brambles were thick, and the participants so intent on their task that the children were in no danger.

When she was making a second lap, the boys closed in upon the May Queen, but to Meg's astonishment the girl turned as she ran and struck out at the nearest of them with the switch Phyllida Ash had given her. The branch was light and supple, capable of inflicting no real damage, but she seemed to be lashing at them with all of her strength, and when runners passed by again, Meg saw that most of the boys were bleeding from slashes along their cheeks and throats. Only two were unscathed, a strapping, handsome fellow not yet twenty, whom the May Queen seemed deliberately to spare, and a man with an auburn beard, older than the rest, his sleeves rolled up on sinewy arms, who appeared to avoid her blows by skill rather than her favor.

These two took the lead, and the chase became more earnest. The May Queen's feet moved more fleetly, and the two men jostled with each other to take the lead. The May Queen veered a bit to come nearer the younger one, but the red-bearded man's foot snaked out, sending his competitor into a headlong sprawl. The older man leaped over his opponent and made a grab for the May Queen. She gave a little scream, though she seemed no more than startled, and stumbled over her long skirts. But before she fell, the victor scooped her up with a triumphant yell, like a red deer's call, and bore her to the crest of the Red Hill.

Cheers rose from the crowd, and all—save perhaps the boy who had come so close—looked well pleased at the outcome. The May Queen (who by now looked quite disheveled—hardly any flowers were left in her hair) panted at her champion's side, and was allowed to rest a moment before he led her to one of the fires.

“They're not going to…No! She'll catch on fire!” Meg dug her fingers into the earth as the couple, holding hands, took three running steps and jumped through the fire. More cheers rang out, clapping and ululating cries, and—lo!—there they were, leaping through the second fire, laughing and apparently unhurt. The flames had died down a bit, burning only knee-high, but they still looked viciously hot to Meg, who watched in awe as the couple crossed the third fire.

Then the rest of the company followed suit. Most jumped with a partner, holding hands and taking it at a run, and not a few balked at the last moment and, to the jeers of the others, had to try again. Mothers leaped the flames with children held close in their arms, and a very old man crossed perched on his grandson's shoulders, whooping and waving his cane like a sword.