Under the Green Hill (5 page)

“But why ants in particular?” Meg asked.

Lysander was silent for a time, much as Phyllida had been when Finn asked her about Bran's relation to her. Then he said, “Because ants are really fairies who have grown very old.”

Finn gave an explosive laugh, but Lysander ignored him and continued quite seriously. “Fairies never really die, you see. They can all change shape, some more fluidly than others, but every time they change back to their real form, they become a fraction smaller than before. Oh, not much, just a tiny, minuscule bit. But over hundreds of years it adds up. Eventually, all fairies become ants, and then they get smaller and smaller—I don't know what happens to them in the end. But, then, I don't know what will happen to me in the end, either. Who does?”

Finn had, through great effort, managed to put on a serious face, but the corners of his lips were twitching. “Oh, are there fairies around here?” he asked, clenching his fists to keep from laughing.

“Of course there are, boy!” Lysander said proudly. “There are more fairies here than any other place in England!”

“More crazies is more like it!” Finn said when they'd been herded to the front steps to await the Beltane procession. “If my father only knew what kind of place he sent me to. Fairies!” He shifted his voice to a falsetto. “Oh, I think I see one flitting in the pansies! Look at the little wings!”

“Fairies aren't like that,” Dickie said timidly from behind Rowan's shoulder. “I've read about them. They're not little and dainty. They can be dangerous.”

“Has Mr. Sniffles read his fairy tales? Then you can keep me safe from the big, bad fairies. What a place! I get stuck with not only you pack of wimps, but a pair of insane old fools who believe in fairies.” All the same, Finn looked as if he was having a good time. He was only bored when there was no one to insult and nothing to criticize. The Rookery was providing him with plenty of fodder for amusement.

“I don't think they really believe in fairies,” Meg said, somewhat uncertainly. “She said there are a lot of traditions here. Probably centuries ago people believed in fairies, and they still stick to the old habits, even if they don't believe them anymore. So the people in the village would get upset if they saw us killing ants. It's like black cats and spilling salt. She just wanted to help us avoid trouble.”

“You know,” Finn mused, looking down the road, where they could just hear the faint tinkle of bells, “it probably would never have occurred to me to kill ants. I'm glad she told me. Why, I reckon I probably stepped on a dozen fairy geezers on the way out here.”

Meg pulled James into her lap to keep him from falling down the stone stairs, and began to talk to Dickie. The sounds of merriment were growing louder, jolly high-pitched jingles like bells tied to a horse's equipage, and resonating peals like portable church bells. The road curved sharply just before the Rookery, and they couldn't see what was coming at them from their perch at the top of the steps. Now they could hear laughter and singing, and a strange reedy piping—an elusive melody they couldn't quite catch. There were clomps of horses' feet, and sounds like dancing on the hard-packed dirt road. Cartwheels creaked, and from the festive tumult rose a girl's joyous laugh and a sudden chant of masculine voices.

The party sounded as if it was right on top of them, yet they could still see nothing. For one wild moment Meg thought that the troupe must be invisible—surely, with all that gay sound seeming so close, the cavalcade must be right in front of them, a ghost parade, joyous and unseen. She shivered at the thought. But then, from around the corner, came a boy who looked about her own age, dressed in green and brown, dancing and leaping with wild abandon. He saw them, and stopped almost mid-leap with a look of great surprise, then ran back around the corner toward the advancing parade.

“What was that about?” He looked as though he was afraid of being seen…or perhaps only unwilling to be seen by them.

Phyllida and Lysander came out behind them just as the first riders (as if on command) rounded the bend on piebald horses with flowers braided in their manes and tails. Earlier in the day, the Ashes had worn clothes that, though somewhat rustic, didn't seem all that different from something one of their professor parents might wear. But now Phyllida wore a flowing skirt of vivid spring green and yellow, and a gauzy top covered with a light jacket that was formed of a loosely woven multitude of crocheted flowers. A garland of ivy and foxglove perched atop her silver curls, and she carried a sort of jester's bauble festooned with flowers and tiny beaten silver bells. Lysander wore a close-fitting green jacket and pale doeskin breeches, and his hair was covered with a pointed red cap. His staff had trailing pink and green ribbons wrapped around it.

“Good day to you, revelers!” Lysander called out. There were now more than a hundred people lined up before the house, and though the procession had ceased its forward momentum, the participants seemed unable to keep still. Some merely shuffled their feet and jangled their bells, but others twirled like dervishes, on their own or grasping a partner's hands.

“Good evening to you, caretakers! Have you put your fires out?”

“The hearth is cold and the house is dark,” Phyllida said. It sounded as if they were reciting lines from a script.

“Then join us, and make free!” And with that the rider in the lead let out a whoop and the horses marched, the people danced, and the wagons rolled on, as the Ashes walked down the stairs and took up a place at the end of the line. The children could see other members of the household coming from around the sides of the Rookery, similarly dressed in bright finery, to join the advancing line.

“Be good, little ones,” Phyllida called out. “And mind what I said.”

“Can you believe they're leaving us all alone?” Finn asked, wonderingly. “I'm used to a little more of a challenge….”

But Rowan wasn't listening to him. Finn followed his gaze and found the object of his interest. Borne on a litter that was a veritable bower of flowers was a girl, sixteen or seventeen, with flowing blond hair and very white skin. At this distance she was the most beautiful girl Rowan had ever seen. Young men were clustered around her, and when one seemed to please her she would turn smilingly to the lucky swain and present him with a flower from her verdant carriage. There was a magical aura about her; everyone who looked at her seemed to worship her.

“Not bad,” Finn said laconically, raising an eyebrow at the retreating figure.

Meg, noticing what they were looking at, said, rather huffily, “She's not so pretty.” And she was right—if they'd seen her more closely (or with a more critical, feminine eye), they'd have found that her features were somewhat rough, she squinted, and each fingernail was broken off short. She was a dairymaid and sometime hog-tender, pretty enough, no doubt, though certainly no more exceptional than any other cheerful, hardworking farm girl. But under the glow of so many admiring eyes, she became spectacular. Each worshipful gaze served (more than any charm she herself possessed) to heighten her beauty, so that the more people looked at her expecting to see beauty, the more beautiful she became. It was the children's first encounter with that thing called a glamour, and even then, Meg saw through it more readily than the rest.

“I wonder who she is,” Silly said.

“She's the May Queen,” someone said, and from around the hedges came that boy who had led the procession and disappeared so quickly at the sight of them. He was thin and brown and lithe, with a tip-tilted nose and eyes that darted about much too quickly, until they settled unnervingly, unblinkingly, on you for a too-long stare. He'd evidently had time to overcome whatever surprise he might have felt at seeing strangers at the Rookery.

“I'm Gul Ghillie,” he said, “and you're Phyllida and Lysander's relations. Or some of you are. Doomed to stay in all night while the rest sport on the Red Hill?”

“Not if I can help it!” Finn said.

“That's what I thought,” Gul said with an impish grin. “Well, meet me at the bridge crossing and I'll escort you there meself.” He looked at the two older boys.

“Which one of ye's of the family?”

“I'm Rowan,” he said. “The Ashes are my relations. These are my brother and sisters.” He nodded to his own.

“Pleased to know you,” Gul said, eyeing him shrewdly. “Yer likely enough.” He turned abruptly away. “Just after sunset, at the bridge,” he said, and scampered off.

“That was odd,” Rowan said. “Wonder who he is?”

“I liked him,” Silly said. “He'll show us all the fun around here.” Meg said nothing. She was apt to be suspicious of people who seemed too friendly right away—they often had their own reasons for it. But she told herself that a little village like Gladysmere must not see many strangers, and he was probably just anxious to be the first to meet the newcomers. He seemed nice enough, and she supposed it was better to be welcomed than shunned. But why had he fled at the first sight of them?

“Which of you are in?” Finn asked, with a look that clearly implied he'd think very poorly of whoever skipped this adventure.

Rowan and Silly said “I am!” simultaneously, and Dickie, who looked as though he'd really rather not, raised his hand as if he were still in school and said, “Me, too!” between two loud sniffs.

“What about you?” Rowan asked Meg.

“Well…someone has to stay behind with James. Even if he's asleep, he can't stay by himself, especially in a strange house.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Finn said, making Meg bristle. She was keen for adventure, too, though she was the kind of person who would always think to bring water and wear sturdy shoes
before
the adventure, whereas the other Morgans generally set out first and thought about necessities and comforts later. She was often criticized for her forethought, and Silly had been known to call her a wet blanket…but they were always thankful for the drinks, or the sunscreen, or the flashlights she remembered to bring. She didn't want to be left behind on this excursion—and, even more than that, she didn't want the others, particularly Finn, to think she was afraid to go out at night. But there really was James to think of….

“I wanna go t' the party!” James said shrilly. Meg looked at him in amazement. She had almost forgotten that he could talk. He was usually so self-absorbed, they all took it for granted he wasn't paying attention to whatever they were saying. He had been the baby for so long, they forgot he was now nearly sentient, and might have opinions of his own.

“But you can't go, baby love,” Meg cooed. “You have to go to the sleepy-sheeps very soon.”

But he had been dozing on and off for the past twenty-four hours, and at the moment felt wide awake. He wanted to go wherever the others were going. “'Fyoo leave me, I'll follow you,” he said with unusual craftiness.

“Not if I tie you to the bed!” Silly growled.

“All right, he can go,” Rowan said, and Meg looked at him resentfully. After all, Mother had put her in charge of James. Sometimes she thought Rowan was just
too much
the older brother. It went to his head.

James looked as though he'd accomplished a great victory, but Meg resolved then and there that she'd get him (and all of them) home in bed as early as possible.

“Well,” she said, patting the once-again silent James, “I'm going to get us jackets. It's bound to be chilly after the sun goes down.”

“That's the ticket, Meggie!” Rowan said with approval.

She sulked as she left them all and trudged up the steps. Somehow, the adventure didn't seem as exciting as it once had. There was still an hour or more until their rendezvous, and she determined to stay away from the others all that time. That would show them! she thought, though she wasn't quite sure how. In case Rowan decided to follow her, perhaps to apologize, she went not to her room but to the garden kitchen. It was funny that, even while she was harboring a grudge against all of them, she was thinking that she really should make a few sandwiches to take along, in case any of them got hungry.

She eased open the kitchen door, and there, seated on a low stool, was the oddest man she'd ever seen, working a great butter churn. At least, she had to say it was a man, because it certainly wasn't an animal. But she'd never seen any creature quite like this. It was short and barrel-chested, with thin legs and arms, sallow skin, huge watery eyes, and lank hair that hung greasily in its face. It was dressed in a ragged sort of loincloth that barely covered the vital parts. Most peculiar of all, it wore no shoes, and its bare, leathery feet were blunt and perfectly square at the ends—it had no toes!

It wasn't because she was brave that she didn't scream. It never occurred to her to be afraid of the bedraggled laborer, who was too gaunt and pathetic to seem any sort of danger. In fact, her first thought was that it was some poor deformed soul doomed to work unseen, forbidden (just as they were) to go out to enjoy the festivities. Once, when she was a very small girl, she cried and pointed at a man who had no legs, and her mother had been quite sharp with her. Since then, she was very careful to display no outward surprise at anyone's appearance, even the tattooed, pierced, green-haired youths that sprouted among the college students at home.

But she couldn't help staring at him for a very long time, until she realized she was being rude, blinked, smiled, and started to introduce herself. For a second her eyes seemed to be losing their focus…and then the little man was gone. The stool was still there, and the butter churn stood before it. But the thin, tattered creature had disappeared. No, she hastily corrected herself, not disappeared—ran away, because you stared so rudely.

“Come back!” she called. “I'm sorry! Come back!” She ran to the still-open door to the fragrant herb garden, and collided with Bran.

“Oh!” He'd frightened her more than the little butter-churner.

“I thought everyone was gone!”

“And ye'd get into mischief,” he replied gruffly, frowning down at her.

“No, I wasn't…” She broke off guiltily, thinking about what they had planned for that night. “I was just…hungry.”

He looked down at her suspiciously. “Ye just ate.”

Meg stared at her feet. “Well, get a plateful and be off with ye.” He blocked the door, a monolith with folded arms, and Meg crept back to the kitchen and made herself a hasty snack of ham and pickles under his watchful orange eyes. “And mind ye stay in the house tonight. Ye could do with an early bed.”

She started to go, grateful to be out of his baleful stare, but she couldn't resist asking him about the little man she'd seen.

“Who is it that churns the butter?” she asked.

“Ah, sometimes Lemman in the dairy, sometimes the lady does it her own self. Why d'ye ask?”

“I mean the little man with the long hair, and no…proper clothes.” She'd been about to say “no toes,” but though she'd seen it with her own eyes, it seemed too farfetched.