by Steve Alten
Sam closed his mouth, then ran to catch up with Charly as she strode off along the tunnel.
“Hey,” he shouted, “that’s not fair! I came to rescue you! I didn’t have to, you know!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” breathed Charly, still smiling.
‡
Jack-in-the-Green bobbed and twirled through the streets of the town, accompanied by his bogeys and followers and by a growing crowd of tourists. The sound of the accordion and a jingle of bells, the stamp and clatter of the dancers’ clogs followed him.
High above, in the shell of the old castle, the Wiccans of Hastings were gathering, their faces grim. The craft stalls were set up now: books and pottery, T-shirts and cards laid out on trestle tables, striped awnings flapping in the breeze off the sea. The followers of the Craft moved among the tourists, nodding to each other, touching an arm here, exchanging a word of encouragement there. The sloping banks of grass around the amphitheater were dotted with spectators now, and a growing crowd surrounded the stage in the center. Morris dancers rubbed shoulders with bikers, New Age pagans with tourists pointing camcorders at the strange sights. A girl dressed as a fairy, shocking pink hair to match her tutu and fishnets, chatted with a man dressed entirely in silver, his skin painted to match. A man in medieval costume and a cloak of green cloth leaves wore the head and pelt of a stag as a headdress, skin and antlers intact, glassy eyes staring. The atmosphere was festive, as befitted a holiday, tinged with the anticipation of the coming of the May King. Over by Megan’s stall, Mrs. P. looked around at the happy, harmless, eccentric brew of humanity swirling in the cauldron of the castle and smiled.
“Are you OK?” asked Megan.
“Sorry? Oh, yes, dear,” replied Mrs. P. dabbing at her eyes. “Just nerves. I’ll be fine.”
Megan flashed her an uncertain smile and returned to her own worries. On the far side of the castle grounds, Mr. Macmillan watched them with dark intensity.
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Charly and Sam stayed close together, fearing that at any moment the Lady Una would return. The flickering light of the sparse torches made shadows leap and dance in every corner, sending their hearts racing as they moved deeper into the earth.
Suddenly, Sam stopped dead and held a hand out behind him, motioning for Charly to do the same. Then she heard it—footsteps, a single set as far as she could tell. Sam raised the athame before him, trying to hold it with authority. The steps grew nearer, fast and purposeful. An elongated shadow played on the wall in front of them. Then, around the corner, a figure came into view, silhouetted against the light of a torch.
“Ah, there you are,” said a familiar voice. “You’re going the wrong way. Come along!”
“Amergin!” shouted Sam and Charly simultaneously. Charly ran forward and hugged the bard, almost lifting him off his feet.
Disentangling himself with difficulty, Amergin said,
“There’s no time for all that. We must return to Hastings.
I have been very, very foolish.”
“Did you hear that?” asked Charly. “Foolish. He said so himself. Make a note.”
“Yup,” replied Sam, “heard it with my own ears. It’s official.”
“Oh, come along, you two,” said Amergin, smiling despite himself. “The Sidhe are heading for the castle to sabotage the festival. We have wasted too much time already.”
As the wizard led them through the labyrinth of tunnels, they chattered excitedly, recounting their adventures. Amergin muttered with concern as they described the opening of the Gate of Air.
“This crop circle you describe,” he mused, “this phenomenon concerns me. Finnvarr said that the Old Ways—the ley lines, you would call them—are full to overflowing with energy since the power of the Malifex was dispersed. I fear these crop circles are a manifestation of that. The land is saturated with power. Any attempt to use the Craft may attract that surplus power like a lightning strike. You had a fortunate escape, my friend.”
Charly drew gasps and a “Wow!” from Sam as she described her initiation and her encounter with the Goddess Epona. She secretly hoped that he was slightly jealous, but to her disappointment, he just seemed impressed. When Sam described his escape from the Sidhe into the ancient forest of the Weald, Charly asked, “If you can make a door anywhere you want, to any place or time, just by thinking about it, why can’t you make a door to Hastings, just here for instance?” She gestured at a nearby wall.
“We are still deep within the realm of the Sidhe,” explained Amergin. “These are internal walls. A doorway here would simply lead us to the next room.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Sam, as if the answer had been on the tip of his tongue. Charly sighed. They paced onward in silence.
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Charly began to recognize her surroundings. They were passing through the heartland of the Faery Folk, close by the feasting hall. Beyond that, she was in unfamiliar territory, relying on Amergin’s instincts. The wizard seemed far more purposeful than she had seen him for a long time, more like the Amergin who had led her and Sam in their quest against the Malifex. From time to time, however, he would mutter under his breath, “Foolish, foolish.”
Puzzled, Charly said, “We’ve told you most of what happened to us. What about you? What have you done that was so foolish?”
Amergin sighed. “Lost sight of my appointed task, child. Let that be a lesson to you, Sam,” he called over his shoulder. “I allowed myself to be distracted by the flash and glitter of your modern world. I forgot my mission to train a hero for the battle against evil. Never again. Buffy!” he exclaimed. “Ha!”
Charly looked at Sam, who shrugged.
Moving on, they entered an area given over to the practice of war—barracks with row after row of low, hard beds; huge, empty stables; vast armories with all but a handful of weapons missing from their racks. Finally, they came to a low doorway, a rectangle of deeper darkness in the general gloom. Amergin held up a hand for them to slow down and approached the doorway cautiously. After a moment, he beckoned them forward, whispering, “We must be silent. There is something evil within, but our way lies beyond this door.”
With a feeling of mounting dread, Charly and Sam followed the bard through the doorway. The darkness within was unrelieved by torches, but after a moment, their eyes began to adjust. They were in a cavern, long and broad, with stalactites dripping from the half-glimpsed roof high above. And they were not alone.
It seemed that the Sidhe had taken only their horses to war, leaving their other pets behind. In the half-light, Charly recognized the creatures that had pursued her to the feasting hall of Lord Finnvarr and then mysteriously vanished. The ebb and flow of their breath filled the chamber as, in the gloom, they slept.
Amergin raised a finger to his lips, though neither Sam nor Charly had any intention of making a noise. They were both frozen with dread, staring wide-eyed at the seemingly endless ranks of horrors.
Nearest to the central path sprawled untidy heaps of unclean bodies. Goblins and boggarts were asleep in a tangle of limbs. Scattered among them were the midnight black forms of the cu sith, their huge canine heads on their paws and tongues lolling in the dirt. Farther back in the gloom were larger shapes: the mounded backs of great black bulls and rams—the bugganes—lost in evil dreams. And finally, in the shadowy recesses of the cavern, sights that made Sam bite off a cry of horror: huge and formless in the darkness, the towering figures of giants and trolls, their snores rumbling through the very foundations of the cave. Charly and Sam exchanged glances, each seeking reassurance in the other’s eyes. Then they turned to follow Amergin as he stepped softly along the central path. In places, the tangle of goblin bodies spilled out in front of them, and they were forced to pick their way through a maze of hairy arms and dark, misshapen legs. Charly’s heart threatened to leap out of her chest whenever a goblin stirred and grunted in its sleep. At one point, Sam came perilously close to treading on clawlike fingers as a boggart flopped its arm out in front
of him. But the creatures of the Sidhe were deep in slumber, and gradually, the three made progress toward the far end of the chamber.
Suddenly Amergin waved a hand behind him, gesturing for Sam and Charly to stop. Peering around his back, they saw the problem. Blocking the path was a shaggy black mound—one of the cu sith, a dog the size of a horse, built like an Irish wolfhound but with the muscular bulk of a rottweiler. It lay on its side across the path, and it was hunting in its dreams, whimpering softly, its paws and eyebrows twitching as it pursued some unfortunate prey through the forests of its mind.
Amergin gestured toward the belly of the dog, miming that they should try to step between its legs and over its tail. When Sam and Charly nodded that they understood, he set off, slowly and smoothly, testing each footstep before he committed his weight, eyes glued to the dog’s legs for signs of movement. And then he was past, and it was Charly’s turn. She placed one foot in the space between the hound’s chin and chest, made sure of her balance, and prepared to step over the forelegs. She had one foot in the air when the dog’s nostrils began to twitch, and it let out a long, high whimper. Charly froze, teetering on one leg. Gradually, the whimper trailed away, and the dog settled back into sleep. Charly put her foot down next to the huge chest with relief. With more confidence, she stepped along the length of the dog’s belly, over its hind legs and tail, and was greeted with a silent hug from Amergin.
Sam had been watching Charly’s progress carefully and realized that the first step had to be swift, otherwise his scent would linger before the sleeping hound’s nose for too long. Moving boldly, he strode past the head and over the forelegs. The dog remained silent. Pausing beside the slowly heaving chest, Sam scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand and contemplated the next step. One huge hind leg was pawing at the ground as the dog chased its dream prey. Sam moved closer, waiting for the motion to subside. He sniffed—the noise loud in the silence—and received a glare from Amergin. The leg ceased its frantic twitching, and Sam stepped over, skipped lightly over the tail, and joined the others. And then he sneezed, a huge, unexpected sneeze that bounced off the walls of the cavern and receded into the distance.
“Sam! You idiot!” hissed Charly.
“I can’t help it!” he whispered in reply. “I’m allergic to dogs!”
“Well, why didn’t you—?”
But Charly was cut off by a high, drawn-out wail. Up near the roof of the cavern, where stalactites hung in great, fluted curtains, something was stirring. One by one, more of the unearthly cries sprang up around the cavern as the banshees awoke. Upside down, their long, black hair falling around their beautiful faces, they crawled down the stalactites and launched themselves into the air. As they swooped and wheeled around the chamber, wailing and screeching, the other creatures of the Sidhe began to stir.
CHAPTER 8
The procession wound through the streets of Hastings, its numbers swollen now by curious holidaymakers. Despite the overcast sky and a chill wind from the sea, the town was filled with holiday bustle, and the revelers made slow progress through the crowds.
Along the seafront and into the Old Town they made their way, the towering figure of Jack-in-the-Green, like an animated Christmas tree topped with a crown and ribbons, at the head. Behind him came his bogies, clad in vibrant green, adorned with sprigs of vegetation, antlers, and horns. With them came the chimney sweeps, blackclad and sooty-faced, and a red-faced man with a drum, who wore a parody of a military uniform. Drums, large and small, appeared throughout the procession, all of them pounding out the same primeval rhythm. There were giants too, towering figures of papier-mâché; a knight with red hair and beard, brandishing a sword and shield; a witch in a black dress, with ruby lips and huge, dark eyes; a hooded man, all in green. The giants swayed and lurched above the heads of the crowd, while the hobby horse danced around them, sinister in its long black cape. It chased after children who screamed at its snapping jaw and sad, mad eyes.
From time to time, at prearranged points, the procession would stop to rest. Then the music of accordions and pipes began, and morris dancers in crisp white costumes would wheel and spin, bells jingling and ribbons streaming behind them. Above the music and dancing towered Jack, silent and enigmatic beneath his leaves. And whenever the procession moved on, more tourists followed, infected by the feeling that something was imminent, that they were part of some drama that would play out its final act when Jack-in-the-Green reached his destination.
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High above the streets of town, beneath a gray lid of clouds, the green bowl of the castle was beginning to fill up as tourists and revelers poured in through the gate. The deck chairs around the central stage were all occupied, and the slopes beneath the high circling walls were thick with picnickers. Megan was doing a brisk trade, trying to smile at the customers, but half of her attention was on the crowd. Here and there, she could make out familiar faces, practitioners of the Craft who dropped in and out of the Aphrodite Guest House as if it were their second home. They all had heeded Mrs. P.’s call, and all had the same look, a tightness around the eyes and mouth, their auras filled with expectation, tension, fear. But it was Mrs. P. who caused Megan the greatest concern. Her aura showed all of those things and something more. Something dark and cold—a great, bottomless sadness.
Megan shuddered as she handed a customer his change.
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“What now?” demanded Charly, looking from Sam to Amergin.
The bard peered into the darkness, where huge figures were lurching out of the shadows. “I think,” he began carefully, “that we should run.”
“And that’s the wizard’s approach, is it?” Charly snapped.
“There is a time for magic,” replied Amergin, breaking into a jog, “and a time for running. And now is definitely running time. MOVE!”
Charly started to follow Amergin, then realized that Sam had remained behind. Turning, she saw that he was rooted to the spot, and she understood why. The floor of the cavern behind them seemed to writhe as hundreds of goblins and boggarts shook off sleep and began to scramble to their feet. High above, one of the banshees wheeled and began to plummet toward them, a terrible scream trailing out behind it. Sam’s eyes grew wider as it arrowed toward him, long black hair snapping in the wind of its flight. In a face of porcelain skin and perfect features, blood red lips were pulled back to reveal sharp fangs.
“Come on!” shouted Charly, grabbing Sam by the arm. He stumbled backward, and the banshee hissed past his face, its talons millimeters from his eyes. Gagging on the stench from its black robes, he turned and broke into a run behind Charly, who was sprinting down the chamber toward the retreating figure of Amergin.
The cavern began to echo with cries as the cu sith awoke and began to bay, and the boggarts called to each other in harsh voices. The bugganes lumbered from their resting places, shifting shape from bull to ram to foul goblin form, and in the farthest shadows, the first of the trolls lurched into motion.
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The procession left the busy shopping streets along the seafront and turned inland. To the hypnotic pounding of the drums, the holidaymakers and morris dancers, bogies, and giants began their final ascent. The stragglers were still setting off from the seafront as the leaders of the throng began to make their way up Castle Hill, so long had the procession become. High above, a thrill of excitement ran through the crowd assembled in the castle grounds as the word spread: Jack was on his way. From deep within the Hollow Hills, the Host of the Sidhe rode forth. Lord Finnvarr and Lady Una were at its head, mounted on black steeds with eyes of flame. Behind them rode fifty of the Faery Folk, and twice as many again were on foot—almost all that remained of that race—dressed for war. The hoofs of their horses struck sparks from the stone floor as they made their way toward the human world.
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Sam and Charly scrambled over boulders and dodged around stalagmites as they struggled to catch up with Amergin. The moisture that had created the s
pires of rock by its slow, millennial dripping made every surface slippery, and both Sam and Charly had lost their footing. Charly had cracked her shin painfully on a rock ledge. But the hoarse breath and howling of the cu sith was close behind them, spurring them on. As they reached the farther end of the cavern, the walls drew closer and the floor became more broken. Amergin was slowing down as the terrain became rougher, and soon Charly and Sam caught up with him.
Turning to them, he cried, “Duck!” and they felt a gust of foul air as two of the banshees swooped over them. Amergin let loose a bolt of energy from his fingertips, dropping one of the creatures with a shriek. They heard a sickening crack as it collided with a spire of rock.
“Come on!” shouted Amergin. “I can see a way out.”
He pointed ahead to a narrow crack of deeper darkness toward the cavern’s end. Sam and Charly scrambled after him as he picked his way through the tumbled rock debris toward the opening. Sam heard a clatter of stone and turned. The cu sith were close now, claws skittering on the damp rock, their tongues lolling from their mouths and their jaws flecked with foam. And behind them came the goblins and boggarts, a foul tide sweeping over every surface, some running upright, some scuttling on all fours, trampling each other in their haste to reach their quarry. The air resounded with harsh cries in nameless languages, the furious baying of the cu sith, and farther off but drawing nearer, the rumbling bellows of trolls.
The nearest of the great black dogs scented victory and made a huge bound forward, its eyes blazing red in the darkness. It landed close behind Sam, who was struggling to move at speed over the wet rubble of the cavern floor. Amergin had reached the opening in the cave wall and paused. Turning, he saw the massive hound bearing down on Sam. Pulling Charly to him, he flung out one hand and sent forth a blast of violet energy, but at that moment, the dog slipped and crashed to the floor. The bolt of energy passed over its head, and then it was on its feet once more, talons scrabbling as it fought for a footing. As Sam sprinted the last few agonizing meters to the exit, the claws of the cu sith caught on solid rock and it sprang forward, jaws agape. Charly reached for Sam’s hand and dragged him into the opening in the cavern wall. The faery hound, unable to stop its momentum, crashed headlong into the opening and slumped to the ground, its massive head and shoulders blocking half the exit.
