Under the Green Hill

by Laura L. Sullivan

  “If ’twere on the grounds, it weren’t the fairies. If ’twere the fairies, it weren’t on the grounds. That’s all.” And he lowered his head and glared at Finn with his peculiar orange-gold eyes until Finn looked away.

  “And you!” Bran snapped, suddenly turning on the Morgans.

  “What were you doing all day?”

  “Just playing,” Meg said. “Out in the garden.”

  “You didna go in the woods? You didna leave the grounds?”

  “No,” she said, feeling herself start to tremble.

  “Then remember not to.”

  Silly couldn’t resist. “But we’re allowed to leave the grounds, right?” She looked to Lysander. “We can go on the road, or to Gladysmere, can’t we? You said so!”

  “Wouldn’t be wise,” Bran said gruffly, looking at the children each in turn, his mouth twisted in a scowl. “There’ve been strange things afoot.” His gaze flickered to Lysander. “Keep them close. Don’t let them leave the Rookery.”

  Silly raised her voice in protest, but Lysander lifted his hand and called for peace. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, I trust it will be no dire hardship to have your liberty curtailed for a few days. I have seen the signs, too, Bran, though no one reads them as clearly as you. Later, you must tell us, Phyllida and me, what you know.”

  “I know nothing!” Bran almost shouted, darting a quick and, Meg fancied, menacing look at Rowan. “Nothing!” And he shoved back his chair and stalked from the room, just as Phyllida came back with the scissors.

  She took Finn aside near the light of the fire and snipped deftly at his hair until the strands were even and he looked as though he’d intended his hair to be that length. It was another silent meal, with many under-table nudges and questioning looks. After supper, the Morgans gathered in Meg’s room.

  “What I want to know is, why did Bran meet with the Black Prince?” Rowan said straightaway, curling his legs under him as he sat on Meg’s bed.

  “We don’t know that he met him, exactly,” Meg said. “You heard what he said at supper—the fairies aren’t supposed to be here without leave, and he makes sure of it. Maybe he was just driving the Black Prince off.”

  But Rowan wasn’t buying it, and Silly didn’t seem convinced, either. “He was looking all around when he went to the woods. He didn’t want anyone to see him.” Silly had done the same thing herself plenty of times, and knew well that furtive look of one who is up to no good.

  “And he didn’t just run into the Black Prince,” Rowan said. “It was a rendezvous.

  He knew the prince would be there.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything,” Meg insisted.

  “No,” Rowan agreed. “It certainly doesn’t. But it does offer up one possibility. I think they might have chosen Bran to fight for the Host. Why else would he hold a secret meeting with the Black Prince?”

  “But it can’t be!” Meg cried. “Bran’s good. He’s Phyllida’s father. He wouldn’t be the Black Prince’s champion. He wouldn’t fight against you.”

  “He might not know it’s me he’s to fight. And yet…did you see the way he looked at me over dinner? When he shouted to the Ashes that he knew nothing? I don’t know…but I think we should keep an eye on him.”

  “Can’t we just tell Phyllida? She could help us. She could clear everything up.”

  But Rowan had a lingering fear that, somehow, Phyllida Ash would have the power to keep him out of the war. Now that he’d swung Hagr and hefted Tew, he was more determined than ever to hold his place as the Seelie champion…the queen’s champion. “No,” he said sternly. “This is my task, not theirs. You will not tell them.”

  May Dwindles

  The darling buds of May had blossomed, ready to welcome June, and the Morgans’ secret still remained their own. They practiced their martial arts almost every afternoon at the foot of the garden, and at odd hours or in foul weather would sneak off to the Rookery’s more obscure rooms to hone their skills with the collection of weapons scattered as ornaments throughout the estate. (Each evening, Gul Ghillie would collect the Seelie relics and return them to their home under the Green Hill.) Rowan never bothered now with the rattan practice sticks, but would engage in fierce battles with live steel against Gul Ghillie. Time and again, sword would clash with sword—or pike or ax, to prepare him for whatever his opponent might have in store. And Rowan practiced with diligence, performing the same sequence in endless repetition until the movements were second nature to him.

  Silly practiced with an almost equal fervor, and sometimes the two would battle. Rowan had the advantage of height and strength, but he was a contemplative fighter who would defend patiently against his opponent’s strikes, waiting for a lapse in judgment to give him an opening. Silly was quicker with her lighter weapons, and a very aggressive fighter, which was sometimes her undoing. When she struck home, the blow was telling, though when she missed, she would overextend and sprawl forward on her face. Then Gul or Rowan could declare victory merely by stepping on her back and plucking Hen and Brychan from her hands.

  Meg always watched these battles between her siblings with half-averted eyes and her nails digging into her palms. She was sure that one of them would come to grievous injury. For all that they wore mail and steel helms, the danger of serious wounds was very real. But at the end of the day, when they stripped off their armor, they were never marked by anything worse than bruises. Perhaps there was a magic in the weapons that kept them from harming a friend.

  It’s surprising their secret wasn’t discovered sooner, for the Morgans’ physical changes were quite apparent. Never unhealthy or weak, they suddenly began to look like what they were—warriors in training. Rowan’s shoulders broadened and his arms thickened, and Silly’s coltish movements began to reveal a real power. Even Meg, who, with her bow, got the least exercise, began to look a bit more rugged, and her dresses pulled across the shoulders and chest. Their bearing, more than their physique, should have given them away. Rowan looked impossibly noble, more and more like a member of the Seelie Court himself than a mere boy. They all stood more erect, walked with more grace, and seemed suffused with a higher purpose. Though Meg was still fundamentally against this whole business, she had been almost completely converted in all the ways that matter. She didn’t want Rowan to fight, but if there was no way to stop him, well, she wanted him to win. She was liberal with her encouragement and praise, and though she never picked up a sword herself, she watched him so closely that she could often detect his mistakes, and coached him in Gul’s absence.

  Nevertheless, she had moments of depression and heartache, when visions of her brother’s failure and death would torment her. Then she would retreat through their secret passageway to the Rookery roof, and seek the solitude of her lofty perch and the comfort of the rooks. She would look to the Green Hill, and rack her brain for a way to save Rowan. She would gaze down on the flashes of steel at the end of the garden, where he sparred with Gul, and tell herself that there was really nothing to worry about. Of course he would emerge victorious.

  What troubled her most was that, as the Midsummer War crept closer, the identity of his opponent was still unknown. Bran had given them no further proof of his treachery—nor had he given them any assurances. His grimness increased by the hour, and he growled obscure warnings to the Ashes and barked threats at the children. Many times each day, he warned them not to stray from the Rookery—which was quite all right with the Morgans, since all their business could be done on the grounds.

  And he took to following them. They’d be chatting away happily over breakfast in the garden kitchen (though never about Serious Business, which they’d agreed not to discuss save in absolute privacy) when, suddenly, it would seem that a cloud descended over them. They’d fall silent, look up, and find Bran peering at them though the window. Caught, he never seemed disconcerted, but only frowned and moved on, to reappear later in the shadows of corridors, where he looked like an inanimate suit of armor un
til he sprang at them and asked where they were going, what they were doing. It became ever more difficult for the children to practice in the garden. Gul could hear, or perhaps sense, Bran approaching from far away, but there were still a few near-misses. At last Meg agreed to act as a sort of watchdog and tail Bran whenever the others practiced outside, ready to give a signal should he come too near their battleground.

  And so, through the merry, merry month of May, she became Bran’s shadow—albeit a timid and distant shadow. She watched him as he labored, chopping wood or mucking out the henhouse (for, whatever his relation to the Lady, he worked like a hired man), and found it no uncongenial task. He was silent and solitary, and when he worked, he did so with such utter absorption that it made Meg’s job easy. It was like studying a wild animal from afar. As long as she was quiet and didn’t get too close, he didn’t seem to know she was there. Sometimes he’d catch her, and shout at her to get inside (or go out and play, if they were in the Rookery). But, like a wild animal, he seemed to grow accustomed to her perpetual presence, and there were times when she snapped a twig or sneezed, only to find that, instead of chasing her off, he continued with his work, an odd smile touching his lips.

  Occasionally she would seek him out openly, bringing him refreshment while he worked (and claiming that Phyllida had sent her with the fruit juice or muffins), and then sitting somewhere near him. Only rarely did she try to engage him in conversation—and even more rarely did he respond. She was almost afraid of broaching the topic of fairies, lest he get some whiff of the Morgans’ secret. She soon comforted herself with the realization that it would seem more suspicious not to speak of the fairies, for what child would see a brownie and then not be tempted to talk of it later? And so, tentatively at first, she began to quiz him. Generally he refused to answer, telling her such things were none of her concern, and sometimes it was like a game of twenty questions, only worse—he would volunteer no information himself, but reply to her queries with ambiguous grunts, the meaning of which, positive or negative, she was left to decipher herself. She got little information out of him, and she always had to be careful lest her questions reveal too deep a knowledge of the subject. Then, one morning, on the last day of May, Meg heard more than she’d bargained for.

  There are those who will tell you England has very few perfect days. Too often it is cold, or windy, or rainy, or all three. Depressed Londoners will flee the dull, smoggy skies and river fogs of their metropolis for the seaside resorts on the southern coasts of Torquay or Penzance, only to find a sunless shore and uninterrupted sea wind blasting its bitter breath across the strand. Or so the stories go. That season, however, the children were privileged to know England at its best. The days were bright and warm, full of the scent of flowers, breezy but not blustery. It was just cool enough to make it pleasant to work up a sweat with sword training, just warm enough that, if you liked, you could wear short sleeves and short pants without getting goose bumps.

  It was on just such a day that Meg brought Bran a tray bearing a tall glass of milk and a pretty nosegay of yellow primroses around a spike of drooping foxgloves. He took the milk without thanks and drained it at one go. Whatever food she brought, he always consumed it quickly and perfunctorily, as though he couldn’t taste it or thought food a waste of time. The part of Meg that wasn’t very good was tempted to bring him unsweetened lemon juice just to see if his tastebuds were in working order, but so far she’d always mastered that impulse.

  A thought occurred to her, and she asked him, before she lost her courage or the moment slipped away, “What was the food like…while you were there? With the fairies, I mean.”

  For a long time, Bran was silent—so long that she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her. Then there came slowly over his face an expression she’d never before seen. She saw bliss, an unadulterated happiness, a face such as a lucky man might wear in the last few moments of a long life, as a monk might have when, after decades of meditation, the answer comes to him, and he finds that it is very simple. But it was not a peaceful bliss. There was about Bran at that moment an aura of ecstasy, vital and violently transcendent. Nor was it the innocent utter happiness of an untroubled baby. No, this was the sort of joy that comes after a lifetime of suffering, a paradise discovered after a journey through hell.

  Meg looked at Bran in astonishment. She had never seen an emotion stand so brazenly naked on any man’s face, and he was the last she suspected of being capable of such a display. He was lost in memory of a dream, of a time far better, in his mind, than any waking reality. Since his return from under the Green Hill, Bran had struggled like a man addicted to leave those years behind him. And though he managed to maintain a front of recovery, there was not a moment of his life when he did not think of, and then force himself not to think of, his time with the fairies. So frail were the barriers, so strong was his desire to relive the past, that the question of a child was enough to plunge him deep into the drowning currents of reminiscence, and for one heavenly, hellish moment he was back in that twilight world of sweet voices singing through an endless day.

  Frightened that he had fallen into a trance, Meg laid a cool paw on his brow, and in an instant he jerked back to the moment and, teeth bared, grabbed her hand and her other shoulder with bruising fingers. “It was poison!” he growled savagely. “Poison and bile! Toadstools and wormwood and rue!” And he shoved her violently aside and stalked into the dairy.

  Stunned, she gathered herself for a moment before moving to follow him. The door was ajar, and she slipped silently inside. The dairy was warm from the score of milling, mooing bodies waiting for their morning exercise, and the pungent but oddly pleasant smell of fresh cow dung filled her nostrils. The cows looked up at Meg, then told her plainly by their anxious glances where Bran must have gone. She went into the annex, where Lemman turned the cows’ produce into cream and butter and new country cheeses.

  He was on his knees with his head in Lemman’s lap, and from the movement of his shoulders, it looked as though he might be crying. Lemman stroked his hair and sang a low song under her breath. She raised her eyes to the interloper, and greeted her with a strange, sad smile.

  Several times before in her weeks at the Rookery, Meg had gone to see Lemman, though it might be better to say she’d gone to see the cows. She always greeted Lemman as if she might answer at any time, bidding her good morning or asking how her day had gone, or whether the cows were well. But though Lemman sometimes consented to look at her (which Phyllida said was more than she did to most), she never favored Meg with a reply. Still, she didn’t seem displeased with the girl’s presence, and where there was not absolute rejection, Meg was always game to persevere.

  She told Lemman once how sorry she was that she’d been stolen from her home, and promised to look for her otter pelt. Lemman had glanced at her, then turned back to her task. Another day, she told the captive otter girl about her first encounter with the brownie. (She’d seen him several times after that, and took to leaving the heel of a new loaf on the table for him after each breakfast…though of course she never indicated by word or gesture that it was intended for him, lest he take offense and leave the Rookery.) She chatted to her silent and unresponsive audience about household gossip, what trees were blooming, what she had had for dinner, and though she never received any sign that her efforts were appreciated, she had an idea that Lemman enjoyed her company.

  She knew that Bran visited Lemman often, but had never seen them together. When the song ceased, Meg was about to ask if Bran was all right, but Lemman held a finger to her lips and motioned for her to sit on a bale of hay pushed against the wall. Silently, Meg sat, behind Bran and out of his sight. After a time, he raised his head and pushed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if trying to contain something that was about to escape. He looked up at Lemman.

  “Do you remember the drink they served under the Green Hill?” he asked her, a catch in his voice. “It was like water, cool and pure, but with such subtl
e flavor. It tasted of every rock it had flowed by, every speck of earth that had touched it. And how it made me feel! Like the very springwater itself, as though I was welling up from the earth’s heart to gush free into the air and sunlight. It invigorated my body, it opened my mind. Why is it that all water tastes like dry ashes to me now, Lemman? Why is the world so dull and flat and colorless?”

  Lemman lowered her head to his, but Meg couldn’t tell whether she kissed him or whispered something in his ear.

  “No,” Bran said, “not even for her sake. Alas, Lemman! For us the world is empty and cold. But you will return someday. Never lose heart, leanan sidhe. The Lady will never cease in her search, nor will those who follow her. Midsummer comes, and my time draws near. If anything could turn me from my course, it’s the thought that your grief might be heightened by my absence. What a comfort you have been to me! One who knows what I have lost, because she has lost it, too! Now the sun grows stronger, the nights grow shorter, and soon my pain will be ended. On Midsummer Night, I will know if such a price can buy me peace at last!” With that he rose and, without seeing Meg, left the dairy.

  When the gate slammed behind Bran, the little dun fairy cow squeezed through the annex door and looked at the bewildered Meg with deep-brown sentient eyes, and she found that she addressed her incoherent questions to the cow as much as to Lemman.

  “Does he mean…Midsummer…he is going to fight against Rowan in the Midsummer War? But why? How could he?” And then she remembered his beatific face when he recalled his time with the fairies. What I have lost… Phyllida said that Bran had been taken, and eventually recovered, stolen by the fairies and then saved after many years’ imprisonment. Meg had accepted the story. But what if that wasn’t quite the case? What if Bran had gone willingly under the Green Hill, so that his supposed rescue tore him from the place of his bliss? What if he felt as much a captive in this, the real world, as poor Lemman?