The Firehills (4 page)

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.

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?”

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?”