Under the Green Hill

by Laura L. Sullivan

  What Meg felt now that she held the Hunter’s Bow was almost a deep and passionate and totally unexpected first love. Yet the emotion wasn’t completely real—all the weapons were touched with the fairy glamour. The bow, almost sentient, spoke to her soul. When she held it, she felt stronger, braver than her usual self. She began to see, dimly at first, but growing clearer all the time, that there might be sense to fighting a war. She felt a thrill rise up her fingers as she stroked the string, and desired more than anything to shoot at something.

  Meg was less susceptible to fairy glamour than most, but she was not immune. In one way she felt at peace—nothing could go wrong while she held the bow—and in another way she felt a sudden agitation, a desire to devote herself to her weapon, to training, to helping Rowan prepare for the Midsummer War. Beneath it her fears still lurked, and, almost like a memory, she told herself, I’ll still find a way to keep Rowan from fighting. But she felt half drugged, and though the sensation lessened later on, it never left her so long as she possessed the bow. Though she hardly noticed it herself, under the bow’s spell she almost completely stopped nagging Rowan, didn’t bother to argue with Gul, and simply waited for the War.

  “Don’t try to use them on your own,” Gul said to Silly and Meg over his shoulder.

  “I’ll be with you in a while, to make sure you do it safely.”

  But the while grew longer and longer, and Silly and Meg sat in the shade of an elm, impatient yet fascinated, as they watched their brother practice throughout the afternoon. James, interested for a few minutes, soon turned to higher pursuits, like digging for grubs among the tree roots, and (though they weren’t near the water) making little boats from twigs and leaves. Silly cradled her two swords in her lap, as another child might hold dolls. Meg’s bow lay at her side, and one hand rested on the curving wood as she watched Rowan parry and slash at empty air. He swung the blade until his arm ached and his shield drooped low. Time and again Gul would step forward to correct him or reposition his arms or legs, moving back to watch Rowan repeat the same motion once more under his critical eye. It was grueling work, particularly because he didn’t have the stimulation of an opponent, or even a wooden stock to strike. To send out blow after blow and make contact with nothing is both wearying and frustrating. But Gul (who had been training Seelie champions for centuries) worked him at this until Rowan felt ready to drop, and finally gave him permission to rest. Rowan collapsed under the elm tree, exhausted but happy.

  “I’m ready for more,” he said only a moment later.

  Gul laughed. “Rest, lad. The girls have watched you long enough—they need their own work to keep them content.”

  At these words, Silly sprang up, clutching her swords. Meg wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but it seemed as if the swords had diminished. Both Hen and Brychan looked shorter and lighter, more suited to her sister’s hand. “The Sister Swords for you, is it?” Gul said. “But Meg takes precedence, being the elder.”

  Silly made a face. “You don’t mind if I go first, do you, Meggie?” Perhaps she did, and perhaps she didn’t. The bow was begging to be drawn, the arrows were crying out for flight. But Silly looked so eager that she yielded, and soon Silly’s blades were flashing.

  “Very good! Better than I’ve seen in many a year. Your blood breeds a bellicose progeny! Perhaps the queen chose amiss in your brother, young wildcat.” Silly beamed, and he left her to practice rapidly drawing and sheathing her weapons.

  “And what of you, Meg Morgan?” Gul asked, kneeling at her side. As before, she found that she could see a bit—just a bit—of the Seelie prince in his aspect. He was still Gul Ghillie, but for some reason, when he looked at her, he became older, more solemn, much more like the royal than a boy. And so each saw something in the other that the rest didn’t see.

  “I’d like to learn to shoot this bow,” she said, almost meekly.

  “Do you know who made it?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say acerbically, Of course not, how could I? But she only shook her head.

  “It is strange. Though it was crafted by so great a force, this weapon has only been chosen once before to take part in the Midsummer War. It was a very long time ago, and she…But in any case, the bow was made by one who is older and greater than any of my people. Older, and we have been here since the beginning. The tree it is carved from has not grown in millennia, and the beast whose horns lent that ivory died before humans walked this world. There, see, the craftsman’s image is carved on the grip. He is the Hunter. But he is also the Protector. When an arrow finds its target, he is the one behind it. Yet, when you miss, and your prey is spared, this is also his doing. It fits your hand well. Now let’s see if you can draw its weight.”

  She held the bow before her in her left hand and with the first three fingers of her right pulled back on the string. For the first few inches it seemed impossible, but, as if the bow read her ability, she found that as she drew it became easier. “How far back do I pull it?”

  “As far as you like. To wherever it’s comfortable. Some draw to their lip, some to their jaw. But keep your right elbow down, parallel to the ground. That’s it. And bend your left arm, just slightly. Enough to make sure your elbow turns out, and not down. Come over here. There’s a clear alley between the trees, and I brought a bale of hay for a target.”

  Before she followed him—she couldn’t resist—she sighted down the place where the arrow would have been, picked a tree as a target, and loosed the bowstring.

  “Ow!” she said, though what she really wanted to say is unprintable. She rubbed her left arm in misery where the bowstring had snapped against it. Already the skin was swelling, and a purplish bruise crept across her inner arm.

  “That’s two lessons for you, Meg Morgan,” Gul said. “I told you to keep your arm turned out, and now you know why. And you should never shoot the bow without an arrow in it. If you do, all the force goes into the bow spine, instead of the arrow shaft, and that weakens it. Not that anything could weaken the Hunter’s Bow, I think. But it’s best to learn things the proper way. That bow won’t always be yours.”

  He set her before a tightly compressed rectangular bale of hay with a feathered popinjay affixed to the top. She hit the target on the first shot (albeit on the edge), and as she found her stance, her arrows came ever nearer the center, until she was a dead shot. The bow seemed to thrill with each arrow launched, and Meg was filled with a wild joy.

  While the Morgans were taking such pleasure in the fell arts of war, Finn was forcing his way through the forest, trying both to walk and to look through the self-bored stone at the same time. This proved harder than he had thought, and the forest took advantage of his distraction to help protect its denizens by reaching up with roots and vines to trip him. At last he gave up the trying task of attempting two things at once, and concentrated on finding a likely spot for fairy-watching. His goal was to approximate the same route they’d taken on their first night, to find what he reasoned must be the Green Hill. He remembered the chambermaid’s allusion to this place, and it struck him that the emerald tumulus he’d seen in the pool must be no other. He didn’t know its significance, of course, but, being a clever boy, he found it logical that such a monument, hidden in the middle of a wood, might hold some meaning to the fairies. The rotten Morgans had seen wonders there—why wouldn’t he?

  He came at last to a place where the stream snaked through the woods. At first he was wary of approaching the water, for well he remembered that glimpse of fangs in Jenny Greenteeth’s wide, gaping mouth. But even to Finn, who was not particularly sensitive, that pond had seemed a noisome, foul thing, a place well suited to a monstrous inhabitant. Here, where the water trickled melodiously through rocky crevices, the environment was too pure to house anything dangerous…not to mention too shallow. Silver-sided minnows might live there, and the fierce larvae of dragonflies, but nothing more treacherous. Perhaps a clever fisherman might catch a tiny Asrai, a harmless water fairy.
But she would melt away into a puddle if kept in the air for more than a moment.

  Finn took up position in a likely-looking spot along the bank and sank down to his stomach, propping himself up just enough so he could hold the stone pressed to his eye. But he had nothing of the naturalist in his makeup. He was restless, always craving activity, and he found it impossible to focus his attention on anything as unrewarding as a lovely landscape for more than a few minutes at a stretch. For some it is an easy matter to sit and stare; for them it is not a wait for something to happen but, rather, an experience in itself. But Finn soon grew bored, and then impatient.

  First his feet began to twitch, and then he found the ground ridiculously uncomfortable, and had to shift position every few seconds. His movements were enough to scare away any of the shyer inhabitants of the wood. Birds took flight for more serene habitats, and an otter who had lately been patrolling the region performed a graceful underwater turnabout and retraced its path when it heard Finn’s twitchings. It was only the overwhelming desire to get the better of the Morgans that made him stay, until the sun fell a little lower and hovered between two trees, casting its heat directly on him. It is funny how fast restlessness can change to sloth, particularly in the hazy heat of afternoon. In a while, Finn dozed off, and his self-bored stone, clutched in his hand, fell from his eye.

  The more wary creatures of the wood had fled, true, but others who lived in the forest thought they had no need to be particularly secretive. When you believe yourself invisible, you travel with complete freedom. Within a few moments of Finn’s falling asleep, three strollers passed by on the opposite bank of the narrow stream.

  The trio were as like as brothers—small, lean men with thin bandy legs, dressed in smart green suits and tricorner hats, each with a feather in it. Their shoes had gold buckles, and they smoked pipes of fragrant herbs far sweeter than tobacco. They chatted about this and that as they walked—loudly, for the Good Neighbors can’t be heard without craft any more than they can be seen, unless they wish it. As with many human men, their talk consisted of bawdy jokes and tales of their drinking exploits, of brawls they had won and bets they had lost, and their rich laughter could be heard, by the right ears, for a league in all directions. Finn slept soundly through it all, his cheek resting on the grassy bank.

  “What ho!” cried one of the little fellows, stopping short.

  “What have we here?”

  “It’s a log,” another guessed.

  “A lump,” said the third.

  “You’re both right,” said the first. “But it’s a boy, too. And look at the crop he’s grown for us!” With a skip he leaped over the stream and drew from the back of his waistband a sickle-shaped copper knife. The other two followed eagerly. The first little man crouched beside Finn’s head, and for a moment the wickedly curved blade hovered menacingly at his nape.

  “What’s this?” he said, spying the stone in Finn’s hand. “Oho, so you’re out for a bit of tricksy fun, are ye, lad?” He reached for the stone, but his friends stopped him.

  “Are ye mad? Do you mean to wake him? If he stands we’ll never get his hair, and look how fine it is, like a raven’s breast. It’ll make a grand bit o’ goods for some wee lassie.”

  For these little men garbed in green were Weavers, and they roamed in search of material with which to make their cloth. Though they sometimes used wool or linen or hemp, like the human craftsmen of those parts, they loved variety. These fairies would shear the tails from horses while they slept, or comb the fur from a kitten’s belly. They spun spiderwebs into fine silken threads, from which they fashioned a lace that was invisible in all but moonlight. At times they even captured the moonlight itself to incorporate into their garments. But what they loved best to work with (perhaps because it was so hard to come by) was human hair.

  They thought Finn’s onyx hair particularly pleasing, and faulted only its shortness. Still, the strands that flopped about his face (of which he took such care, and which he thought so fetching) were long enough for their purposes, and while he slept the Weavers sheared him of his locks.

  Their touch was gentle, and the knife so sharp it sliced effortlessly through his silky hair. Their barbering never would have woken him, but just as they were finishing, a woodpecker landed in a nearby bough and, looking down, found the spectacle so amusing that he trilled a chuckling song. Finn jerked awake while the sickle was hewing its last stroke, and felt a little tug. Thinking a beetle was crawling on him, he swiped at the air and thought he heard “Damme!” muttered near his ear. Thinking even more quickly (and more cleverly) than usual, he slapped the stone to his right eye and caught a fleeting glimpse of three figures tripping away, black tufts clenched in their fingers. His own fingers went to his head, and he gave a cry of rage to discover his cropped hair. He hurled his only weapon—the self-bored stone—at the retreating trio, but it didn’t find its mark, and he spent the next ten minutes grubbing through the shrubbery to find it again, muttering curses all the while. The stone was gone, perhaps carried off by the Weavers, and after kicking a few trees and spitting into the stream, he headed home.

  It is good to remember that, no matter where you are, there are always eyes upon you. Oh, very often they are not human eyes, and even more often they care less for you than the man (or woman) in the moon. But there is no deed on this earth that goes unnoticed, and nothing is ever forgotten. Ghosts of old gods will know if you violate their deserted temples, and a forest will remember the hands that set fire to it. A great many things watched Finn as he slept, when he woke, and while he made his growling and cursing way back to the Rookery.

  He did not travel long before he felt a stinging impact on his calf. He slapped at it, thinking it must be a wasp. (No one had ever told him that this was the worst thing you could do if under attack from wasps, hornets, and their kin. The scent of an injured comrade drives all others in the vicinity to madness, and instead of one painful wound, you’ll have a hundred crippling stings.) Near his leg he saw a stone the length of his finger, chipped in roughly the shape of an arrowhead, though the point was far too dull to tempt any respectable archer. Finn pocketed the stone, thinking to show it off later, and walked on, making no connection between the pain and the piece of chert. But a few paces later, he was struck again, just below the shoulder, and when he rubbed the spot there was a smear of blood on his palm.

  This time, he had seen the missile ricochet off him and bounce to the ground. He whirled around wildly, looking for the person (as usual, he suspected the Morgans) who had presumed to attack him. He heard a high-pitched laugh from the trees, but saw no one.

  “Come out, you!” Finn called, searching the greenery. His only answer was another manic laugh, and another stone. This one hit him in the rump.

  “Stop it, you coward! Come out and fight.” But his attackers had no intention of being seen. More stones flew, with an accuracy that would have been deadly had they been sharper, or hurled with greater force. Soon Finn had no choice but to make a run for it, and took to his heels with stones still pursuing him. He thought he caught a glimpse of a squat figure in the crook of a tree, holding a Y-forked stick.

  “Elf-shot,” Dickie told him later, when Finn, hiding his cuts and bruises, showed Dickie the stone and asked what might have made it. “The fairies use them to harry people who bother them. Sometimes they throw them, sometimes they use a slingshot. People who find elf-shot always think it’s nothing more than flint tools from extinct tribes. Did you get hit with this?”

  “No, of course not. I just found it on the road and was curious.” When the children met the Ashes and Bran for dinner, Silly took one look at Finn’s head and burst out laughing. Meg, more tactful, said, “Oh…you cut your hair,” in a tone that sounded as if it could be either an insincere compliment or commiseration.

  “I didn’t cut it,” Finn said sourly. He’d thought long and hard about lying and saying he cut it himself, but he couldn’t think of any way to tell it that didn’t
make him look like a fool. The Weavers hadn’t taken as much as they could have—there weren’t actually bald spots on his head—but his hair was cropped much closer than he liked, and the locks were uneven. Though he didn’t look all that bad, in his own eyes he looked horrible. “I went to sleep…in the garden.” After all, a story must have some untruth to it. “And somebody thought they’d play a joke on me.” He looked the Morgans over one by one, as if to imply that any of them, even little James, might be capable of such infamy.

  “You weren’t in the garden,” Rowan said. “We were there all afternoon, and we didn’t see you.”

  “Well, I was obviously in a different part of the garden, wasn’t I? Was it one of you, then? I’d think you’d at least pretend to have an alibi.”

  But Phyllida Ash said, “Tut, tut,” and rose to have a look at his shorn head. “Looks like the work of the Weavers to me. Let me get my shears. I’ll have it neatened up in no time.” She slipped away, and Finn kept scowling at the Morgans. When covering up your own secret, it is good to imply that others have secrets, and turn the attention their way.

  Then, from the far side of the table, Bran spoke. “You werena shorn in the garden.”

  Finn managed to look at him levelly, but there was something about the man that made him quail inside. “I think I know where I was,” he said haughtily. He still didn’t believe that business about Bran’s being Phyllida’s father, and felt inclined to treat him as an elevated sort of servant.

  “The Weavers dunna come on the Rookery grounds. None of the Good Folk do, unless they’re given leave. I make sure of it.”

  “You mean the fairies did this to me?” he scoffed, keeping up a good act. “Humph! I doubt it.”