Owen, Adam and Chantel seated themselves around the rim.
Arto took Holly aside and gave her whispered instructions. The others watched anxiously. Holly nodded several times and seemed to repeat things back to Arto.
Finally they both came back to the depression. Arto seated himself with the children. Holly stood at the head of the pool, between it and the eternal flame. She held the cup in both palms and looked expectantly at Arto.
He smiled. “You have the solemnity of the priestess. Please begin.”
Holly flushed with pleasure and took a deep breath.
“We come to the Lady’s Reflection Pool for guidance,” said Holly clearly. “If our question is worthy, may the waters reveal the answer.”
Holly moved ceremoniously around the Crystal Cave.
She filled the cup seven times from the Red Spring and seven times from the White Spring. Each time she poured the water into the depression.
Gradually the shallow pool filled, but despite the sparking ceiling above, the water lay still and black.
After the last cup was emptied, Holly joined the circle and settled herself at the head of the pool with the eternal fire behind her.
She dipped the cup in the dark water, sipped, then wiped seven drops over each eye with each finger. She passed the cup to Owen.
Owen took the cup and raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
Holly nodded.
Owen too dipped, sipped and wiped his eyes with seven drops of water. He passed the cup to Adam.
Adam, Chantel and Arto all completed the actions.
Arto placed the cup on the rim of the pool.
“Who is the person with the question?” asked Holly.
Adam half raised his hand. “I am.”
“Look into the water,” said Holly. She extended a finger and began to stir. “When the water lies still, ask your question, Adam.”
Adam nodded and concentrated on the pool.
Silence fell. Absolute silence. Even the dripping water and songs from the streams faded away.
The water swirled and began to pull light from the Crystal Cave.
Holly withdrew her finger, and the water whirled faster and faster. Gradually the light became concentrated into one beam that fed from the crystal ceiling above into the pool below. The pool grew brighter and brighter and the crystals duller, until all light was gathered and darkness fell around them.
The water settled.
The four children and Arto stared down into a still pool of liquid silver that gleamed up on their faces. All else was black except for the quiver of the everlasting flame behind Holly.
Adam tried to clear his mind and frame his question simply. “Please, can you show me where Myrddin’s staff is hidden?” he whispered. He leaned forward and stared into the silver surface.
There was nothing: no reflection of his face, no movement in the depths, only the flicker of the eternal flame.
Adam stiffened and looked more closely. This was no reflection; the real flame was hidden behind Holly.
The flame in the pool brightened. Its light revealed a hand and arm that gathered a stick from the pile and fed it to the fire. The image faded. The pool darkened, and light returned to the Crystal Cave.
Holly gave a tiny sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Lady,” prompted Arto. He looked expectantly at everyone.
“Thank you, Lady,” the children repeated. They looked at each other. Had any of them seen anything or heard the Lady’s voice?
Holly picked up the cup and returned it to Arto with a little bow.
“It is over. You did well.” Arto leaned over and clasped Holly’s hand.
“I saw nothing. The Lady didn’t speak to me,” said Holly, distressed.
“Me neither,” said Owen.
Arto didn’t comment.
Chantel looked anxiously across the pool at her brother.
Adam untucked his cramped legs and stood up.
He walked over to the eternal flame and stared at it thoughtfully. He stooped, picked up a stick and fed the tiny fire.
Arto ran over. He lifted a hand as though in protest, then stopped and watched intently.
The flame crackled greedily.
Adam added a second stick and a third. The blaze strengthened.
One after another Adam piled seven sticks on the fire. It reddened and glowed fiercely. Whoosh. The flames blazed to the ceiling. Within the conflagration an upright staff appeared with a head of gold holding a fiery crystal.
“May the waters protect me!” shouted Adam. He thrust his arm into the fire and pulled out the staff.
Holly, Owen and Chantel clapped in delight.
Arto smiled. “My task is completed. Thank you, Magic Children. May light burn always in your hearts.”
He turned and bowed to the fire. “Thank you, gracious Lady. May your waters protect me.” Holding the bowl high, he stepped into the flames.
At the bedroom window in Wearyallhill House, Myrddin lifted his arm to the sky and gave a roar of delight. “Light and Dark, Dark and Light, Earth Magic lives… Adam has my staff. My magic flows once more.” He held his hands over Holly’s arm, whispered a healing spell and sprinkled stardust over her bandage. Holding his arms over the sleeping children, he spoke. “Gently, gently, you may return from the dreamworld. We will go together and greet Adam.” He sat on Owen’s bed and waited for them to stir.
In the Crystal Cave, Holly nudged Owen who was still staring at the eternal flame. “My dream’s over.”
“I know,” said Owen. “Mine too.”
They smiled at Chantel and waved at Adam. “See ya,” they called together and walked toward the fire. Both faded away as they entered the flames.
“Time to go,” said Adam, holding the staff proudly.
His eyes wandered around the heart of the Crystal Cave. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” he breathed. “We’ve seen ‘Merlin’s Crystal Cave.’” He laughed. “It just doesn’t belong to Merlin. It’s the Lady’s.” He raised his voice, “Thank you, Lady.”
“Thank you, Lady,” echoed Chantel. “But I wish you’d talk to Holly.”
Adam offered his sister his hand.
“You’ve grown taller,” Chantel said as she tucked her fingers in his.
Together they stepped into the fire.
“We’re singing in the rain, just singing in the rain…,” warbled the vigil keepers.
Myrddin, his cloak sheltering Holly and Owen, appeared in the archway, startling everyone.
“Blessings, good people,” he shouted. “Your vigil is rewarded.”
Mr. Smythe gave a shout of relief and pleasure and jumped up to join them.
Myrddin beckoned, turned and walked through the rain to the edge of the Tor. With his back to the tower he raised his arms.
The rain ceased. The darkness lifted like a curtain to reveal a watery dawn sky reflected in the floodwaters that lapped around the base of the Tor.
Osprey rushed to the rim of the Tor. His followers jostled behind. They gave a collective gasp when they saw the view. “The prophesy!” several voices whispered.
“When the Tor an island be,
A child shall wind around the key
And waken me,” chanted Myrddin and Osprey.
Thud! The white stone fell from the Tor’s side.
Chantel and Adam skipped out, laughing. Adam waved the staff in triumph.
Myrddin ran toward him.
Zap! Lightning struck the tower. Zorianna and Vivienne appeared on the top parapet.
Zorianna dove through the air in a blur.
As Adam passed the staff to Myrddin, Zorianna swooped between them and snatched it from Myrddin’s hand. “A Portal door, Vivienne,” she shrieked.
“Oh no, you don’t,” yelled Adam furiously. He grabbed her cloak and hung on.
“Damn you, Vivienne,” raged Myrddin as Zorianna and Adam zipped through the tower’s arch and disappeared into mist.
“Watch the children, Smythe!�
� bellowed Myrddin.
His hair and beard flamed and colors swirled in his cloak as he threw a veil of forgetfulness across the vigil keepers and sped through the mist behind Adam and Zorianna.
EPILOGUE
In Wearyallhill House, Chantel, Owen, Holly and Mr. Smythe sat silently at the breakfast table. In the center, a bowl of scrambled eggs congealed and the rack of toast grew limp and cold.
“We need help. We’ve got to get Adam back before we go home tomorrow,” said Chantel. “Why don’t we make a circle and call for Equus?” She left the table and held out her hands.
Owen sat up. “Or Ava. That’s worked before. Why not?”
“It’s mindspeak,” said Holly. “I thought we weren’t to use it.”
Owen gave a harsh laugh. “That was to protect Myrddin. Zorianna knows all about him now. He’s on her tail.” He left the table to join hands with Chantel.
Holly pushed back her chair. “Okay.” She took Chantel’s other hand.
They looked at Mr. Smythe.
“You’re part of the magic now,” said Holly.
“Indeed I am,” said Mr. Smythe. He completed the circle.
“Light and Dark,” murmured Holly.
“Dark and Light,” whispered Chantel.
“Sun by day,” said Owen.
“Moon by ni …” Mr. Smythe stopped short as for the first time in his life he heard mindspeak.
We hear you, Magic Children. Keep the light in your hearts. And on the breath of the breeze that wafted in from the veranda the children and Mr. Smythe heard the cry of a hawk and the faint galloping of hooves.
Holly’s shoulders drooped, and she bit her lip. She’d hoped to hear the voice of the Lady.
A clatter and bang came from the hallway.
The circle fragmented as everyone rushed to see what had happened.
The Sunday paper lay in the middle of the floor.
Owen gave it a kick. “I thought it was an answer for us.”
Holly picked the paper up and passed it to Mr. Smythe.
He opened it as they moved back into the breakfast room.
“Actually, it does have a sort of answer,” Mr. Smythe said. His voice sounded odd.
The three Magic Children turned to look at him. He held out the front page.
“MAGICAL RETURN OF GLASTONBURY CUP!” shouted the headline.
“Yes,” yelled Owen, punching the air with his fist.
“The magic continues!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I will never forget my first glimpse of Glastonbury Tor. My husband, Dave, and I were driving through the flat green pastures of Somerset, England, and suddenly an unusual hill loomed in the distance. I turned to him. “Dave, what’s that tower-topped hill?”
He shook his head, concentrating on negotiating around a tractor.
I stared at the hill, and excitement built. “It must be the Tor at Glastonbury... I’ve always wanted to go there. It’s the Isle of Avalon, the heart of the Merlin legends!” As I spoke visions of Merlin, King Arthur, the Crystal Cave and the grail danced in my head. The Tor’s magic pull increased. “Dave … I have to go there. I have to climb the Tor.”
He laughed and turned toward it at the next junction. We approached, cross-country, through narrow winding lanes and suddenly there we were in Wellhouse Lane, captured by the magic of Glastonbury.
Glastonbury is fascinating. It’s a small modern community surrounding a centuries-old town center and the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, all overshadowed by the even more ancient Tor.
The abbey, destroyed by the army of King Henry viii, is the heart of England’s Christianity, for tradition says it was founded by Joseph of Arimathea. It is said that Joseph stuck his staff in the ground where the first English church was to be built and that it immediately rooted and became the blessed thorn that flowers at Christmastide. The thorn and its several offshoots around the city really do bloom in midwinter. Several flowering twigs are gathered early each Christmas morning and rushed to Queen Elizabeth ii to grace her breakfast table.
But stories of magical staffs becoming trees have roots in religions far older than Christianity, and the legends of the Tor, of Avalon and of the figures we currently call Merlin and Arthur originated several centuries before the birth of Christ.
This is the folklore I used as a basis of my fantasy story.
We climbed the Tor that first afternoon, using the path Chantel and Mr. Smythe take in my story. As we approached the tower, I saw the figure of a knight silhouetted in the center of the arch. The hairs rose at the back of my neck. As we drew closer I realized it was a modern-day pilgrim dressed in tight jeans and a tunic top, hands clasped over a walking staff, meditating over the heart of the hill.
We left the pilgrim to her meditations and circled the top plateau, marveling at the view. While Dave explored some of the spiral terraces, I sat in the sunshine, my back against the crumbling walls of the tower, absorbing the myths and the magical atmosphere. Some time later, as we left the Tor, the pilgrim joined us on the path, and we gave her a ride into the center of Glastonbury. She spoke of the current lore of the Tor, of her belief in secret tunnels and caves deep inside the hill, their entrance lost or hidden. She told of the power of the waters of the Red and White Springs and the beauty spot that had been their source, now destroyed by Glastonbury’s water-supply building. She also described a local historian’s discovery of the spiral labyrinth carved up the Tor’s sides.
Since then we have visited Glastonbury several times. The last time we stayed at Wearyallhill House, which I use as Myrddin’s house in my story, and walked into the city over Wearyall Hill, past a blessed thorn decked with bright ribbons and fluttering paper appeals. We drank from both the Red and White Springs and visited the Lake Village exhibit on the second floor of the Elizabethan building known as the Tribunal Hall.
There I felt a magical pull again. As I looked at the artifacts excavated from a lake village site, one drew my eyes. It was a bronze bowl, just big enough to cup easily in the palm of one’s hands. It was beautifully made, showing finer workmanship that anything else in the exhibit. It was well loved, having been carefully mended with a tiny beaten bronze patch held on with minute rivets, as finely crafted as the original bowl. It was obviously far more than a household object. What if ...? What if this small but magnificent bowl was really an important ceremonial object? What if it was the forerunner of the stories of the grail?
Further research took us to the site of the reconstructed Lake Village. The interpretation depicted a lake settlement of around 200 bc where an original of Arthur, assuming he was a real person, may well have grown up. It was a far cry from the current image of Arthur popularized by books, film and television. This image is based on many later figures whose tales have become incorporated into the legend.
We sat in smoky circular huts and learned to scrape hides, spin raw wool and weave willow branches into wattle mats. Such mats were used to cover the timbers forming the ancient tracks through the marsh, used over thousands of years in the days when the Tor rose from a shallow lake.
I learned to draw the spiral labyrinth, an ancient symbol found not only in England, but also carved on rocks in Ireland, France and Greece. But the Tor is the only hill to my knowledge where the labyrinth takes the form of a path up its side.
I wish I had been able to enter the heart of the hill. I found the oval white stone said to be the entrance, sunk into the Tor, just below the tower. It remained immovable, so I did the next best thing. Dave and I visited the caves of nearby Cheddar Gorge and walked through caverns filled with stalagmites and stalactites and marveled at the amazing formations flowing down the walls, created by millions of years of mineral-laden water dripping through the rock above.
The result of this fascinating research is Heart of the Hill, the third book in the Summer of Magic Quartet, a four-book fantasy story set among real landscapes in the heart of England.
As I did in Book One, The White Horse Talisman,
and in Book Two, Dance of the Stones, I have woven historical objects, ancient history and some of England’s rich folklore into Heart of the Hill. But the children, Chantel, Adam, Holly and Owen, all the other characters and the entire adventure are figments of my imagination.
The children’s fantastic adventures do not end here.
Watch for the final book in the Summer of Magic Quartet when Chantel, Holly and Owen chase after Adam and confront the Dark Being on an island hidden from view behind a cloud of mist known as Mannanin’s Cloak.
Book Four, Behind the Sorcerer’s Cloak, will be published in fall, 2006.
Andrea Spalding
Pender Island, BC
April 2005
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are always people to thank in the creation of a book. This book was completed under unusual circumstances.
Special recognition is due to Bob Tyrrell and Maggie de Vries whose patience, support and encouragement while waiting for the manuscript made it possible. I also received special support from Deborah Allison and Marion Ehrenberg—I could not have carried on without them. Artist Martin Springett offered friendship and encouragement and provided a wonderful cover design that inspired me during the last chapters, and my agent, Melanie Colbert, lifted my spirits during the difficult days with encouraging phone calls.
I am blessed with understanding friends, Cherie and Kevin, Sharon and Gary, Sheryl, Georgi and Lawrence. They kept the faith even when I was too preoccupied to phone or visit.
As always my husband, Dave, and our three daughters, Jane, Penny and Lucy, gave unstinting love and provided a foundation of approval and encouragement, and even occasional bullying, that helped me continue working on the days I nearly gave up.
Thanks everyone — we did it!
photo: David Spalding
Award-winning author, Andrea Spalding, has written many popular books for children, but the first three volumes of the Summer of Magic Quartet are among her most exciting. The White Horse Talisman (Book One) was nominated for the Silver Birch, Hackmatack and Manitoba Readers’ Choice Awards. Dance of the Stones (Book Two) was also a Silver Birch nominee. In Heart of the Hill, Andrea raises the adventure to another level altogether in preparation for the final volume of the quartet, Behind the Sorcerer’s Cloak, to follow next year. Andrea lives with her husband on Pender Island, British Columbia.
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