Under the Green Hill

by Laura L. Sullivan

  Phyllida made a little noise of acknowledgment, and Meg saw some of the servants give Finn odd looks. He sure could get on the wrong side of people in a hurry, she thought. Still, he had never said anything horrible to her (though that was probably more from negligence than anything else), and his eyes were a dark sort of blue that sometimes made her seem to lose her powers of speech.

  The cook began to talk to the Morgans and Dickie about what they’d like for supper, and the aproned girls sallied off in a flurry of titters, followed by their admirer.

  “Is that Bran one of your servants?” Finn asked, in the same overloud voice his father used. There was a quick hush—the cook broke off abruptly in her description of the Rookery’s applesauce, the retreating girls slowed their pace and stopped giggling, and both the older butler and his butler-in-training stiffened and looked twice as formal as before.

  “He was very rude to us on the way here,” Finn continued, thinking he could get the man in trouble. “Put us in danger by making us sit in the back without seatbelts, and his driving is atrocious. He shouldn’t be allowed on the road. I just thought you should know, so you could do something about him.”

  Phyllida looked at Finn with the first trace of annoyance she’d shown yet, though it quickly passed, leaving her face, if not her thoughts, serene.

  “Is he one of your servants?” Finn pressed.

  “No,” Phyllida said slowly. “He’s a sort of relative.”

  Finn seemed vaguely surprised. “A close one?”

  “You might say that,” Phyllida Ash said archly. “He’s my father.”

  A Lot of Silly Rules

  “Loony, that one,” Finn said while they unpacked. He’d walked into the room Meg and Silly were to share that night, until the other rooms got made up. “Thought she was a bit crazy, but that settles it. Her father! Simply raving!”

  “I think she was just kidding,” Meg said, tossing aside a pair of Rowan’s socks that had gotten mixed in with her own. “He’s evidently a close friend of the family, and she was irritated that you were criticizing him. You should be more polite.”

  “Oh yes, Mother!” he said, dropping down onto the foot of her bed. “I’ll be so very good and not make the poor servants cry! And I won’t even fear for my life when I have to drive with a big oaf, or live with a crazy old lady. Her father indeed!”

  “Drop it, Finn,” Rowan said as he sauntered in. “No one wants you here. Remember that. But since they’re stuck with you, you ought to make yourself more agreeable to the Ashes. They were kind enough to let you come. But nobody wants you here.”

  Whatever Finn felt about this speech he kept well hidden. He smirked, as if to imply that Rowan was obviously mistaken—who wouldn’t be delighted at his presence?—and began to juggle with two pairs of Meg’s socks and one set of unmentionables. “What do you think this May Day business is all about?” he asked casually.

  Meg, who thought Rowan was being far too hard on Finn and watched his face narrowly for any signs of hurt, said, “All I know about May Day is there’s supposed to be a Maypole. And don’t say that about Finn,” she added. “Of course we want him here. We’ll all get along just fine.” But Rowan still scowled, and Silly grinned, obviously backing him up.

  “The loony old bat—or should that be batty old loon?—said everyone would be gone tonight. They must be having a big party somewhere. Did you notice we weren’t invited?”

  “I don’t care,” Silly said, yawning. “Probably some dull bunch of farmers. I’ll be happy to get to sleep.”

  “Well,” said Finn, “while the babies are asleep, we have to decide what to do with our night of freedom. Whole house to ourselves, no servants—I think that’s the perfect time to explore.”

  “But Auntie Ash said not to,” Meg said.

  “Do you really think you could get lost in this house? Come on, there’s only two reasons she wouldn’t want us exploring. Either she just doesn’t want us to have any fun…or there are things she doesn’t want us to find. I bet there’s treasure hidden in this place, or corpses in the cupboards, or a crazy old uncle locked away in the attic. Are you babies telling me you’re not going to take advantage of tonight?”

  “I’m pretty tired, too,” Meg began. But Rowan, though he despised Finn as much as a good-natured boy can despise anyone, liked the idea of exploration and any rule-breaking that didn’t seem too serious. And he’d be hanged (to steal one of Silly’s old piraticisms) if he’d let Finn go off and have all the fun.

  “We’ll wait and see what time they all leave,” Rowan said decisively. “And when James is in bed, those who want to can explore the house.”

  Finn gave him a look of utmost scorn. “Think you’re in charge, do you? I’d watch that, if I were you.” Rowan rose abruptly, squaring his shoulders. The boys had been on the verge of fighting several times before, but nothing had ever come of it. Once again, it failed to come to blows. Finn merely looked at him like a particularly haughty cat and gave a little laugh. Another boy might have punched Finn for that laugh alone, but Rowan was too honorable to hit someone who was obviously not ready to fight. He was the sort who would sit down with his opponent to discuss the rules before the fisticuffs began; Finn was the kind who would wait till his enemy’s guard was down and get in the first, and probably only, blow. He was taller and a little older than Rowan, but not as strong, and he wouldn’t fight unless he was sure from the outset that he would win. So he sat coolly, thinking of nasty things he could do to Rowan if he wanted to.

  “Let’s go down to supper,” Meg said quickly, getting up and shoving Rowan toward the hall. “It should be ready soon.”

  They were in fact met at the door by one of the girls in frilly white aprons, come to fetch them. “Is it true everyone’s going to be away tonight?” Rowan asked.

  “Oh, laws, yes!” the girl replied. “Everyone in the village who can walk will be on the Red Hill tonight—and most of those who can’t walk will find someone to carry them.”

  “It’s a big party, then?”

  “More than a party, I’d say. But aren’t you going? I’d have thought any relations of the Ashes…but then, it is your first day here.”

  “Where’s the Red Hill?” Finn asked, sidling up to her.

  “’Round the other side of Gladysmere, just beyond the Commons.”

  “Why’s it called the Red Hill?” Silly asked.

  “Because it’s not the Green Hill,” the girl replied. She added, almost as an afterthought, “And because of the fires.” With this mysterious comment, she preceded them down the stairs and directed them to the grand banquet hall.

  “Hello, dears! Have you had a little rest?” Phyllida Ash, looking rather small, waved at them from the far end of the table. “Lysander and I usually take our meals in the garden kitchen, but I noticed it was a bit cramped with all of us in there at once. I’ll have another room made ready with a smaller table, but I think for tonight we can sit at the proper groaning board…or at one end of it, at any rate.” She rang a handbell, and hidden doors swung open, admitting three liveried men carrying plates and a girl with long matches to light the four candelabra. “We usually eat somewhat later, but with your journey, and all the goings-on tonight, I thought it better to eat now. Here’s Lysander, never late to a meal.”

  Lysander asked if they were all healthy and happy, then took his place at the head of the table, with his wife on his left and Rowan on the right. Conversation was strained and hesitant through the soup and fish courses, but by the time they dug into a bloody roast they were all feeling easy with one another. Phyllida made each of the children feel clever and interesting by asking all of them about things they knew. Lysander’s wry and often sardonic humor at first made the children feel younger than they were. But as they became used to him, they realized that he was actually treating them as if they were much older than they were, and it is nice to be treated like an adult, without having to take on an adult’s responsibilities.

  “He
scared me at first,” Silly told Meg later that night. “But now he makes me think of Santa Claus. He pretends to be very concerned about whether we’re naughty or nice, but inside, he’s just thinking, Ho! Ho! Ho! I like him.”

  It wasn’t long before Finn asked the question everyone else had been thinking. “Will we be allowed to go to the party tonight? Some of us aren’t very tired, and we’d like to go.”

  The Ashes hesitated before answering. “No, I don’t think you’d better,” Phyllida said at last. “It’s not really a party. More of a…a ritual. An old custom in these parts. May Day, or Beltane, they call it here. It’s not really for children. The folk drink too much cider, and there are bonfires everywhere. No, I’m sorry. You won’t be able to go. But the procession will pass this way near sunset, on the way to the Red Hill. You’ll be able to watch that. It’s as good as the Beltane night, without getting your toes stepped on by drunken revelers.”

  Finn and Rowan both thought the same thing at the same time, and they exchanged quick glances across the table: They’d have the whole summer to explore the Rookery, but there would only be one night of—what did she call it?—Beltane? Surely, with everyone gone, they could sneak out and just have a look, see what it was all about. On his own Rowan probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. He wasn’t a goody-goody (or at least he generally wasn’t), but he was anxious to make a good impression on the people he would have to live with for four months, and didn’t want to begin by disobeying them—and getting caught. But Finn would undoubtedly try to sneak out, and Rowan couldn’t bear the thought of what he’d have to listen to the next morning if he didn’t go, too.

  After supper, they repaired to what Lysander called the smoking room. Neither of the Ashes smoked, but it turned out that the fireplace did, and filled the room with a heady, fruity smell of burning apple wood. There was a billiard table at one end, and several deep armchairs of burgundy leather with brass trim. The children felt very important as they were served coffee (with very little coffee and a great deal of milk) and tiny, ornate glasses of blackberry cordial.

  “Not very good for you, I’m sure, but after all it is a festive night, for several reasons,” Phyllida said. “The cordial will help you sleep tonight, but the coffee will keep you awake while we turn to serious things for a moment.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket.

  “You’ll have a great deal of freedom here,” she told them. “I wouldn’t have it any other way—I don’t like to see children or animals confined or too constrained. But you must understand that there are certain…dangers here. And this place isn’t quite like the places you’re used to. There are customs here so old that they are almost laws, and it would be very unwise to break them. I’ve compiled a list of rules for you to remember. Some of them will seem arbitrary to you, some foolish, but you must do as I say. And don’t ask me why some of these rules exist. I won’t have a good answer for you. But be assured that they do exist for a reason.”

  She looked very serious, but for some reason the children had already, in their own minds, almost dismissed the warnings that were to come. She herself said they would sound arbitrary. And what dangers could possibly exist here? They’d had full run of Arcadia, from the Arboretum to the Arts Quad, and had managed to stay alive so far.

  Phyllida shook out the piece of paper and rested a pair of spectacles low on her nose. “You may have free run of the house and the garden, and you may go into the village, Gladysmere, whenever you like, as long as you tell one of us, or Bran, where you’re going. But the forest—you passed it on the way here—is absolutely off limits!”

  “Why?” Rowan asked, immediately ignoring her request for no questions. “Are there dangerous animals?”

  “No, there haven’t been wolves or boar in England for hundreds of years. Trust me, it is very dangerous nonetheless. Now listen, and no more interruptions.”

  Rowan fell silent, feeling chastised. When he looked up at Finn across from him and saw a challenge in the boy’s smile, he knew they’d be going into the woods, too.

  “There’s a spring at the foot of the garden, and a little stream that runs south. You may play there until it cuts past the bridge. Beyond the bridge, you must not enter the water. There are several deep pools along its course. Don’t even get close to those.”

  “We’re all good swimmers,” Silly began, but stopped at Phyllida’s stern look.

  “You must always be in by sunset. Inside the house, or in the gardens.” That put a double nix on their plans for that evening.

  “You must never try to ride the wild ponies, no matter how friendly they may seem. We have two or three good, steady horses in the stables, if any of you would like to ride.”

  “I’m allergic to horses,” Dickie volunteered.

  “What aren’t you allergic to?” Finn asked in an undertone, rolling his eyes. He had no sympathy for anyone weak or incapable in any way.

  “Now, these next may be hard for you to remember all the time, but they are, if anything, more important than the others. You must never, under any circumstances whatsoever, eat any food that does not come from this house, or a member of the household. Don’t eat anything you find, no matter how tempting it looks. And don’t accept food from anyone, not even if a farmer’s wife offers you a slice of cake. Be polite in your refusal, but always refuse. If you feel you’ve given offense, just say it’s what we told you to do, and anyone from these parts will understand. And never offer food to anyone. If they ask you for it, you can give freely, but never make the offer. If there’s anyone needs food, they know they can always come here. Sometimes the tinkers pass through—they’re like Gypsies—but they know to stop at the Rookery if they need anything. Can you remember that?”

  They all nodded, but, despite Phyllida’s earnest looks, they thought this was only a rather severe variation on the standard rules about accepting candy from strangers.

  “You mustn’t give your name to anyone you meet outside the village. And yet you must not refuse to give some answer. If you pass a stranger in the fields, and he asks who you are, you can say you are children of the Rookery. Or say, ‘Oh, I’m just myself.’ I know it must all sound a little silly to you, but they’re simple rules, really, and shouldn’t hamper you in the least. If you follow them, I think you’ll have a marvelous summer. Now, let me see….” She bent her head to consult the list again. “Sunset, stream, forest, food, ponies, names…have I forgotten anything?”

  “Dunna kill the emmets,” said a low voice from behind them. The children turned to find that Bran had crept in.

  “What was that?” Finn asked impatiently, doing nothing to disguise his instinctive dislike of the fox-eyed man.

  “The emmets, lad,” Lysander said. Bran seemed to sink again into the shadows.

  “The ants. Or the spiders, for that matter, though that’s another story.”

  Finn had an immediate impulse to find a magnifying glass and a column of ants.

  “Ah yes, I’d forgotten. The ants. That’s very important indeed.”

  “We don’t kill insects,” Silly said. She had in fact pounded several people for that very crime, and all the Morgans thought badly of people who killed bugs.

  “As well you shouldn’t,” Lysander said. “The smallest among us often have the greatest strength. And though they lie lowly, if they’re crossed they can be quite fierce indeed.”

  “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!”

  The Brownie

  “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.”