The Firehills (7 page)

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.”

Charly and Sam both turned to look at the far-off figure.
It was possible, thought Sam, that what he had taken to be two staffs or spears
could be the uprights of a doorframe. He turned back to the stranger.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“Me? I reckon ’e’s a windsmith.”

“A windsmith?” Charly frowned.

“Used to be a lot o’ windmills round ’ere; still is
one over by Polegate. Used ter be a lot o’ call fer a man as could read the
winds. Windsmith used ter go round, studyin’ the wind, learnin’ its ways,
an’ givin’ advice to them as wanted ter build windmills. Could almost see
the wind, some o’ they old windsmiths.”

“I see,” said Sam, exchanging a glance with Charly
that said,
Let’s get out of here.
“Well, we
better get going. Goodbye.”

The stranger fixed Sam with an odd look, almost pleading.
“Think on it, lad,” he said. “A windsmith, a man as reads the wind or a
man holdin’ open a doorway. Think on it.”

Charly pulled Sam away by the arm. “Come on,” she
hissed. “He’s weird.”

Sam stumbled after her, looking back over his shoulder at
the figure on the bank. He had returned to his sandwich, all signs of his
recent intensity vanished. They continued along the track, warm now in the late
afternoon sun. The pathway looped across the field in a wide curve, taking them
far out of their way before swinging back to the foot of the carved figure.

“Come on,” said Sam, “let’s cut the corner
off—it’ll take forever otherwise.” With that, he set off into the field
of young barley.

“Walk in the tramlines, you idiot!” Charly shouted
after him.

“Eh?” Sam looked puzzled.

“The tramlines—the tractor tracks!” Charly pointed
down to the parallel strips of bare earth left by the wheels of the tractor
that had sown the crop.

“Oh, right.” Sam hopped sideways, looking embarrassed.
As they shuffled side by side through the knee-high barley, a thought occurred
to Sam. He glanced back across the field and saw that the stranger had risen to
his feet. Lost in the haze of distance, he seemed to be staring steadily back
at Sam. In each hand he held a long staff.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Sam.

Charly paused in her tramline and looked back at him.

“What now?”

“What he was trying to tell us!”

“Come on, spill the beans. Time’s passing.”

“The gates into the Hollow Hills are linked to the
elements, according to Mrs. P.’s book—earth, fire, air, and water. And
here”—he gestured up at the hillside ahead—

“we’ve got a windsmith, a man who studies the wind,
OK?

The air? Standing in a doorway.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yup, I’m sure that’s the Gate of Air, where the
Long Man is standing. Come on!” Sam strode off toward the foot of the slope,
the barley hissing against his pants as he walked.

“How are you going to open it?” Charly called after
him.

“Well,” Sam shouted back over his shoulder. “I could
go up and knock three times, like it says in the book, but somehow I don’t
think that’s how Amergin would do it. I think he’d be able to open it from
here.”

Sam stopped in his tramline and raised his arm, fingers
splayed. “Let’s see what I can do!” Eyes closed, he sent out his mind, probing the earth of the hillside. The short
grass and the thin, chalky soil tasted familiar to him, comforting, like
putting on a favorite sweater. He cast about, moving the focus of his
consciousness upward, until he encountered the base of the Long Man. His mind
shied away from something strange, alien. He rolled the new sensation around in
his brain, getting to know it, letting it wash over him. And when he was
comfortable with it, he thrust forward, searching for weaknesses.
Yes,
he thought to himself,
I see.
With a flick of his will, it was done. Opening his eyes, he saw that a
vertical line was shooting through the grass of the hillside, upward from the
giant’s feet. With a deep, subterranean rumbling and the sound of tearing
roots, the earth began to part. But something was wrong. All around him, the
air was starting to shimmer. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stood
up, and his head was buzzing, the pressure building.

“Charly, get back!” he shouted, and then there was a
loud crack, close by. Looking up, he saw a sphere of intense violet light,
hovering just above his head, rotating at incredible speed. With another sharp
snap,
three smaller spheres broke free from it and
drifted off, coming to a halt several meters away. Blue white energy was
crackling to the ground like miniature lightning. The barley around his feet
began to sway. He was at the center of a vortex of energy. He could feel the
currents racing around him, and there was a metallic tang of ozone in the air.
There was another crack, and each of the three smaller spheres spawned three
offspring of its own. They in turn drifted away and took up their stations in
the air, tethered to the ground by lightning.