Under the Green Hill

by Laura L. Sullivan

  She looked to Rowan expecting to find some sympathy, some understanding—even if he didn’t believe her, if she made it clear she didn’t think they should go out, she hoped to find some measure of support from him. But no—he was looking strangely like Finn, mocking and almost unpleasant.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve started to believe that hogwash!” he said, loudly enough for the others to hear. They all turned to stare. “If you’re afraid to go out, just say so.”

  “I’m not afraid…not very.” She heard Finn laugh.

  “I’m not!” she almost screamed, feeling tears of rage spring to her eyes. “But we don’t know what could happen. There could be anything out tonight!”

  The only one who looked worried was Dickie. The others openly scoffed.

  In the end, she agreed to go, partly to look after James, who still swore he’d escape on his own if he wasn’t allowed to go, and partly, though she was afraid, from curiosity to see if there really was anything to what Bran said. She was too old to believe in monsters, and didn’t think there was anything actually male volent out there. If they went to the Red Hill, they’d be near all the villagers, and what could happen to them in a crowd, even if it was nighttime? But she was sorely disappointed in Rowan.

  Beltane Fires

  Dusk came more swiftly than they’d expected; once the sun sank behind the trees, it was very nearly black at the Rookery.

  “We should have set out sooner,” Meg said. But the others (even James) only looked at her scornfully. She had become the official old lady of the party.

  They moved with some stealth until even the highest windows of the Rookery were hidden behind the trees. The others looked over their shoulders for any servant who might betray them; Meg searched each window for the gaunt yellow face of the brownie. When they rounded the bend on the road to Gladysmere, they began to walk more freely…all except Meg, who searched each tree and hedgerow for the things she feared (but didn’t really believe) might be there. But aside from the low drone of crickets bidding one another good evening, the night was still, and Silly’s strident laughter was the only startling sound.

  Gul Ghillie sat on the arch of the bridge, swinging his feet and tossing flat oval stones into the trickle below. When he spied them he waved, and called out with a lilting halloo that sent little shivers along Meg’s bare arms (she had forgotten the jackets after all). He greeted them with a smile, but there was still an appraising air about him as he looked the assemblage over.

  “Ah, so ye all decided to come,” he said, spitting off the side of the bridge. “No matter—there’s room enough in the woods for the lot of you.”

  “Woods?” Meg asked as they gathered around him. “I thought we were going to the Red Hill.”

  “Aye, the Red Hill. That’s where the fires are.” And, for reasons Meg couldn’t fathom, he winked at her.

  Gul Ghillie set off with an almost skipping walk, as though the world was too jolly for a more conventional pace. While the children hastened to keep up with him, he began an engaging monologue about the history of Gladysmere.

  “There was this sword, y’see? Forged from a hunk of iron that fell out of the sky. Sword out o’ legend, wielded by a king who meant to unite all the folk in these parts. This was, oh, thousands of years ago, even before Phyllida Ash’s ancestors became the Guardians. But this king was met with strife. His dearest friend betrayed him, and he was slain by his son. In the end, the sword was thrown into the lake down the way.”

  “That’s not the history of Gladysmere!” Rowan said. “That’s the story of King Arthur!”

  “Dunno any Arthur,” Gul Ghillie said amicably. “This feller’s name was Aelred or some such. That’s the story they tell around here. Who’s this Arthur fellow?” And he and Rowan walked abreast, comparing their versions of the legend as they had heard it.

  The town, crouching in heavy shadow, was as still as a graveyard. Not a single soul roamed the cobbled central street, and no light shone in any of the windows. The loneliness, the emptiness were almost worse to Meg than if there’d been murderers or ghouls haunting the lanes. She preferred a danger she could see to this disturbing feeling that something might jump out at her at any moment. She told herself not to be silly, that they were all perfectly safe in this, surely the quietest part of England. Still, as the silent houses looked down at her with their lifeless windows, she wished she were safe at home in bed.

  “Is everyone at the May Day party?” Meg called up to Gul Ghillie, who was walking some distance ahead.

  “Aye, not a one would miss it. Wouldn’t care to be left in a house with nary a fire. Babes at the breast go, and grandmothers so ancient no one knows from one minute to the next if they’re quick or dead.”

  “And they told us it wasn’t for children!” Silly said.

  “Well, you’re still strangers, see,” Gul explained. “Even though you’re the Lady’s kin, they’d want a proper introduction, in good bright daylight, before they’d let you go to the Beltane fires. Townsfolk, I mean. They’re used to one another, used to things being a certain way.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay away, then, if they don’t want us there?” Meg had visions of their being hauled home in disgrace. That would be almost as bad as facing unknown fairies.

  Gul stopped. They were on the edge of the town, just before the grassy field known as the Commons, where on other days wooly sheep would graze, and girls herding geese would meet to exchange gossip. But on that night it was as dead as Gladysmere—even the livestock were elsewhere.

  “You’re afraid,” Gul said to Meg in a low voice. If Finn had said it, he would have been trying to hurt her; if Rowan had said it, he’d be trying to embarrass her into a better show of bravery. But this strange brown boy with the keen, darting eyes that seemed to see so much more than anyone else, spoke the dreadful words with a flat kind of sympathy that surprised her.

  “I’m not!” she insisted, tensing her lips to be absolutely sure they didn’t tremble.

  “Well, if you are, you know a sight more than the others!” he said. Rowan laughed and started boldly across the starlit Commons, but Gul held her gaze a moment longer. “There’s naught to fear tonight,” he whispered to her. “This night’s a merry time for all who love the land—man and Good Folk alike.” For a moment he seemed very old, very wise, and there was something in his aspect that reminded her of Bran. Then he was a boy again, running after Rowan to take the lead himself as they trooped across the deserted field and passed through a little grove of old, nearly barren apple trees.

  The land began to rise, almost imperceptibly at first, so that their legs felt the strain of the grade before their brains had sorted things out. It grew more rugged, too, with rocks and roots reaching up to knock their toes and grab their ankles. They could hear life ahead of them, singing and laughter and a low crackling sound like armies of mice marching through dry leaves, which Meg didn’t recognize until she saw the first glow of the bonfires through the trees. Gul made them stop near a thicket of brambles that had flowered but not yet fruited, then moved the spiny curtain of leaves aside to reveal a broad, gently sloping hill swarming with people. At the crest burned three fires, and their flickering crimson licked light to the farthest reaches of the clearing. All around the hill, the woods were dark and dense.

  Finn started toward the hill, but Gul pulled him back. “Are ye daft? Didn’t I say you’re not welcome there? You’ve come to see what it’s all about, not take a part. Do you think they won’t know you don’t belong if they see you?”

  Indeed, though the strolling or dancing forms moved occasionally into deeper shadow, the top of the hill was well lit. Even at this distance, Meg could make out Phyllida Ash near the center of the group, her hair shining like moonlight. And there was the cook, throwing her stout body about in a lively jig as around her men clinked their glasses and sloshed amber liquid onto the ground. An assortment of woodwinds played a melody that sounded like wind moving swiftly through rocky crevices,
and a verse reached them:

  “My staff has murdered giants,

  My bag a long knife carries

  To cut mince pies from children’s thighs

  With which I’ll feast the fairies….”

  Yet all seemed merry and gay, with no fear of what Bran had intimated lurking anywhere around them. It was a grand sight to watch, almost as good as being a participant. Had she been in the thick of things, Meg might have felt uneasy, wondering if she dared to dance, worrying that people thought her out of her element. But watching it from the foot of the slope, hearing the music and seeing so many throngs of happy people, filled her with a vicarious sort of pleasure. It was like giving someone a particularly lovely gift, she thought, one you’d like to have yourself. It was almost better to see them enjoying it than it would be to enjoy it yourself.

  Hidden in the brush, the children tried to make sense of the assorted peregrinations on the Red Hill. At first they thought it was like one of their parents’ cocktail parties, where people milled at will in their own pursuits of pleasure, here and there, as they fancied. The more they watched, though, the more it seemed that there was an order to it all, that everyone was gradually moving to some preordained place, for some purpose that would be unfolded. The younger people were nearest the fires, along with the fair girl still perched in her blossomy bower. They adjusted themselves in a way that made Meg think of a prelude to a square dance, and seemed to Rowan like the starting positions of some obscure sport. As it happened, it was both.

  “They’re about to start the Love Chase,” Gul Ghillie said. “Oi, Finn, flatten yourself a bit!” Finn had started to crawl forward, and was craning his neck to get a better look at the May Queen, who was descending from her litter to stand very close to the fire.

  “What’s that?” Meg asked. But even Gul Ghillie seemed to have become spellbound, and he didn’t answer, only looked intently up the Red Hill.

  At first it really did resemble a stately dance, or perhaps a pantomime. If the participants spoke, their words were too hushed to reach the interlopers. The May Queen was surrounded by a bevy of girls her own age, who seemed to be adjusting her clothes and setting new flowers in her hair. Then they parted, and the girl stood alone for a moment in the shifting orange of the three fires. She looked much smaller than she had in her regal and flowery throne, held high above her admirers, and Meg wondered if she felt frightened.

  Two women came from the crowds of older people that were assembled farther down on the slope. One—who might have been the girl’s mother, for she, too, was fair and had the same rough, cheerful prettiness—reached her first, and took her in her arms in a swift, fierce embrace before turning abruptly and almost running away, without looking back. The second woman was Phyllida Ash, and over her bright garments she had draped a dark veil that covered her from her head to the hem of her skirt.

  She seemed more shadow than flesh, so dark was she among the bright young folk who swayed as firelight played on their bare limbs. They all seemed to draw away from her, except for the May Queen, who stood very still when Phyllida touched her forehead and then placed a switch of wood and a hunting horn into her hands. This was fashioned from the curved black horn of a bull, charged over with red scrolling, and suspended from a strap of leather. The May Queen placed it to her lips, as Meg and the others strained forward to get a better view.

  Meg wasn’t at all sure what was happening—everything seemed so strange and solemn, as though the smallest actions held meanings as deep as the earth’s very foundations. She was no longer frightened, but she felt as if something profound was happening right before her, and she didn’t quite have the wit to understand it.

  The May Queen blew the horn…and all that emerged was a shrill squeak that tapered off into a rude noise. Much to Meg’s relief, the May Queen laughed, high and floating, and Phyllida’s veil fell back to reveal her own mirth. The spell seemed to dissolve, and they were no longer players in an esoteric mystery, but only revelers gathered in celebration.

  “So it has begun!” Phyllida Ash cried out across the hill, and the May Queen, plainly smiling even at a distance, looped the horn across her shoulders and set off at a run down the hill. When she was nearly at the base, a score of the young men (and a few not so young) set off after her.

  “Is this the Love Chase?” Meg asked.

  “Aye, hush!” Gul hissed, pressing himself lower against the earth.

  The boys in pursuit clearly didn’t push themselves to their full speed. The May Queen ran lightly but not too quickly across the dewing grass, and the boys loped some distance behind while she completed a circuit of Red Hill. Their path brought them within a few feet of where the children hid, but the brambles were thick, and the participants so intent on their task that the children were in no danger.

  When she was making a second lap, the boys closed in upon the May Queen, but to Meg’s astonishment the girl turned as she ran and struck out at the nearest of them with the switch Phyllida Ash had given her. The branch was light and supple, capable of inflicting no real damage, but she seemed to be lashing at them with all of her strength, and when runners passed by again, Meg saw that most of the boys were bleeding from slashes along their cheeks and throats. Only two were unscathed, a strapping, handsome fellow not yet twenty, whom the May Queen seemed deliberately to spare, and a man with an auburn beard, older than the rest, his sleeves rolled up on sinewy arms, who appeared to avoid her blows by skill rather than her favor.

  These two took the lead, and the chase became more earnest. The May Queen’s feet moved more fleetly, and the two men jostled with each other to take the lead. The May Queen veered a bit to come nearer the younger one, but the red-bearded man’s foot snaked out, sending his competitor into a headlong sprawl. The older man leaped over his opponent and made a grab for the May Queen. She gave a little scream, though she seemed no more than startled, and stumbled over her long skirts. But before she fell, the victor scooped her up with a triumphant yell, like a red deer’s call, and bore her to the crest of the Red Hill.

  Cheers rose from the crowd, and all—save perhaps the boy who had come so close—looked well pleased at the outcome. The May Queen (who by now looked quite disheveled—hardly any flowers were left in her hair) panted at her champion’s side, and was allowed to rest a moment before he led her to one of the fires.

  “They’re not going to…No! She’ll catch on fire!” Meg dug her fingers into the earth as the couple, holding hands, took three running steps and jumped through the fire. More cheers rang out, clapping and ululating cries, and—lo!—there they were, leaping through the second fire, laughing and apparently unhurt. The flames had died down a bit, burning only knee-high, but they still looked viciously hot to Meg, who watched in awe as the couple crossed the third fire.

  Then the rest of the company followed suit. Most jumped with a partner, holding hands and taking it at a run, and not a few balked at the last moment and, to the jeers of the others, had to try again. Mothers leaped the flames with children held close in their arms, and a very old man crossed perched on his grandson’s shoulders, whooping and waving his cane like a sword.

  “Why do they do that?” Meg asked Gul.

  “For luck, for health. To keep bad things at bay.”

  “Don’t they get burned?”

  “Not if they jump fast enough. Not usually.”

  Meg noticed that the hill seemed less crowded, and she caught sight of the May Queen and her captor slipping into the woods. “Is it over?” she asked, dismayed. “Is everyone going home?”

  “Ah, not home…not quite yet. They’ll be back when the fire’s died down to coals, and march the beasts through ’em. The beasts need luck, too. Then they’ll all take a coal from the fires to relight their own hearths. There’s not a fire burning within twenty miles save the Beltane fires.”

  “But what is it all about? Just for luck? What about the Love Chase? What’s that for?”

  He grinned, then quickly sobered
. “T’keep the fields fertile, and the trees fruitful,” he said, turning away from her quickly. “Come, we shan’t be wanted here, and there’s naught worth seeing. But there’s another sight to see, if you’re up for it.”

  Of course they were—even Meg had by now overcome most of her trepidation. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the night, and she no longer started at every owl hoot or insect buzz. This place might be filled with mystery, she decided, but it could hold nothing dangerous. The brownie now seemed no more than a strange regional beast, like a hedgehog—a thing she’d never met before and found outlandish but, after all, perfectly harmless. As for the warnings, veiled and direct, from the Ashes and Bran, well, it was hard to heed these when there were so many other people going about at night, happy and fearless. If they could, why couldn’t she?

  “Come! Quick, now!” Gul started at a run, and the children, catching his sudden urgency but not knowing if they were chasing him or fleeing something, set off after him. But they did not go back through the ancient apple orchard, and though they ran on for many minutes along the uneven ground, they did not come to the Commons. Meg wanted to ask Gul where they were going, but she wasn’t the fastest runner, and lagged behind with Dickie and James. At last Gul slowed his mad career, and Meg stumbled to a halt beside him.

  “Are we in the forest?” It seemed a foolish question—the trees were thick all around them, and the earth was mossy and rich with violets and white-spotted toadstools. What else could it be?

  “We’re not supposed to go in the forest. We promised! Auntie Ash said it was dangerous.”

  “Aw, it’s not dangerous,” Rowan said, thumping his sister on the back. “She’s just afraid we’ll get lost.”

  “Ye’ll not get lost if you keep close by me,” Gul said. “I’ve known this forest since the first acorn fell.” To the children, it was no more than another queer country expression. “Come this way, and softly. I’ll show you how another kind of folk spend Beltane Night.”