by Steve Alten
Behind him, twenty or so of his followers dismounted and drew their blades. Those who remained on horseback moved off into the crowd, spreading out around the central stage, forming a circle with Jack at its heart. The crowd scrambled to get out of their way, screaming as the fiery breath of the horses moved among them. The Wiccans on the stage froze with indecision, looking from Mrs. P. to the approaching faeries.
A shriek rang out, high above. Three sleek shapes plummeted toward the earth, wings arched back, talons outstretched. At the last moment, when it seemed they must surely hit the ground, there was a shimmer of air, and there stood Amergin, Sam, and Charly.
“Finnvarr of the Sidhe,” called out Amergin, “That power is not yours to take. Leave it be.”
Finnvarr threw back his head and laughed. “You? Once more you come to meddle in the fate of my people?” He turned to Amergin. “Have you not caused us enough hurt?”
Amergin shrugged. “What is done is done. But for this moment, I will do what I must to stop you.”
“You are alone now, old bard,” sneered the Lord of the Sidhe. “The heroes of Mil are long turned to dust, and your time is past. Leave the future to such as these.” He gestured around. “Frightened cattle, with their trinkets and superstitions. They deserve to be led.”
“Not by such as you,” replied Amergin quietly. “Like me, your time is past. Go back to your hills.”
“Oh, no.” Finnvarr shook his head. “We will hide no more!” And with that, he thrust forward his left hand. A gust of wind, tightly focused, hit Amergin square in the chest, sending him sprawling.
Over by the stage, Megan cried out, “Amergin!” and began to push her way through the crowd toward him. The Faeries who were on foot began to move, some rallying to the side of their lord, some moving toward the stage. Sam decided to take advantage of the confusion and made his way through the crowd, heading for the silent figure of Jack-in-the Green.
Charly, hearing her mother’s cry, set off toward her but found her way blocked. “You,” she sighed.
“Not pleased to see me, girly?” asked the Lady Una with a smirk. She hit Charly with a blast of air that sent her skidding across the ground. Charly scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to think of a way to defend herself. But she was still very new to her powers. Shape-shifting was an effort, and she had no experience at all of protective magic, never mind spells of attack. She put out a hand before her, trying to picture in her mind the sort of defensive shield she had seen Amergin use. But no sooner had the image formed than she was knocked backward once more. The Lady Una smiled to herself.
Sam pushed his way through the crush, trying to keep Jack in view. But the Sidhe had spotted him. From all sides, tall Faeries were heading in his direction, kicking and elbowing frightened onlookers from their path. Sam glanced back. One Faery was very close, a leaf-shaped bronze dagger drawn in readiness to strike. Turning once more to the stage, Sam gasped as a bulky figure stepped in front of him. “You!” he gasped. “I knew it!”
It was Mr. Macmillan, the sinister guest from the Aphrodite Guest House. Beneath his greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, his face was lit up with fierce glee. But to Sam’s confusion, he was wearing the costume of a morris dancer, crisp white linen and silver bells, ribbons at his knees and elbows.
“What—?” began Sam.
“Duck!” shouted Mr. Macmillan and lunged over Sam’s shoulder.
Sam felt a gust of wind against his neck and turned, but there was nothing there. Looking back, he found Mr. Macmillan wiping a steel kitchen knife on the leg of his trousers.
Still grinning, Mr. Macmillan said, “It works, then—the iron trick. Now, get going, lad! Save Jack. Save the summer!”
Sam stumbled past, mumbling, “Thanks! Sorry . . .”
Rather too late, he remembered Wayland’s athame, tucked in his belt, and drew it.
All around the stage, the Wiccans of southern England were defending Jack. With kitchen knives and iron pokers, with bunches of herbs and wands of rowan wood they beat back the Sidhe. Mrs. P. ran to and fro, shouting out orders, sending her friends and colleagues to block gaps in their defenses, distributing bunches of herbs: vervain and SaintJohn’s-wort. Whenever one of the Faery Folk fell to the bite of iron, his passing was marked by a gust of wind and a high, thin scream. But weight of numbers was on their side, and slowly they closed in toward the figure of Jack. Amergin and Finnvarr were locked in a battle of their own. Oblivious to the activity by the stage, they thrust and parried, bolts of crackling energy and blasts of air detonating around them. Then something came into the corner of Finnvarr’s vision, and he paused. Whirling around, he seized Megan and pressed the blade of his sword to her throat. “This one means something to you, I think,” he growled to Amergin. “Let this be a lesson to you, bard.
Never become too attached to mortals. They are so very . . . breakable.” And with that he began to edge toward the stage, the blade against Megan’s neck and one of her arms wrenched painfully up her back. Amergin looked on in despair.
Charly too was taking a beating. She had hit her head against an ancient cobblestone and was having trouble focusing her eyes. And while she struggled to rally her senses, Una laid into her again and again. One particularly well-aimed gust of air hit her in the stomach and dropped her to the ground, gasping for breath. She fell back, panting, staring upward. The Lady Una came into view, standing above her with the familiar smirk on her face. Something crystallized within Charly. It was the old, instinctive hatred for Una, the cold loathing that had gripped Charly as she stood in the line for the East Hill Cliff Railway. Keeping her face carefully neutral, she thought, Right, lady—there’s more than one way to tackle this. If magic didn’t work, there were older, simpler ways. Charly groaned and rolled her head from side to side, but she continued to watch Una through slitted eyes. As the Faery Queen leaned closer, Charly brought her knees up to her chest and kicked out with all her strength, catching Una in the pit of the stomach. The breath hissed out of her, and she staggered backward, sitting down with a heavy thud. Charly sprang to her feet and brushed herself down, muttering, “See how you like it!” Then, as Una fought to regain her breath, Charly closed her eyes and centered herself. Casting her mind back to that night on the Firehills, she tried to recall how it had felt when she had carried out the ritual of Drawing Down the Moon. There was no time to go through the words of the ceremony now. She would have to try to capture the essence. She struggled. So much had happened since then. Una was on her feet again, a look of white-hot fury on her face. And then it came to Charly—the smell of coconut, the fragrance of a million gorse flowers pouring their scent into the night sky.
As if the memory of that smell had unlocked a door, the sensation of heightened awareness came over her again, every nerve in her body attuned to its surroundings. She could see, hear, smell, feel everything so intensely it was almost painful. And with this sensation came a slowing down of time. Una was drawing back one hand, preparing to strike at Charly with the power of the gale. But she moved as if in slow motion. Charly had plenty of time to turn toward the central stage, where Sam had spotted her. He cried out, a long, low drone of sound, and raised a languid arm. Something left his hand and drifted through the air toward her. She reached up and plucked the athame from its lazy arc, then turned to Una. From the palm of the Faery’s upturned hand, a vortex of air was spreading, shimmering ripples spiraling out toward her. Casually, Charly threw up a shield, a shimmering web of green force that deflected the blast of air with ease. With an effort of will, she returned time to its normal speed. Calmly, she faced her enemy. She was Charly, but she was also Epona, horse goddess of the Celts, and she was armed with iron. It was time to fight back.
Sam looked around. Charly seemed to be doing fine now that she had his athame, but he was in a rather worse predicament. The Sidhe were converging on him from all sides, despite the best efforts of the Wiccans. Suddenly, there was a tug at his elbow. He looked down into the wrinkl
ed face of Mrs. P.
“Go to Jack, lovey,” she pleaded. “Set free the summer.”
“But—” began Sam, gesturing at the advancing faeries.
“Don’t worry about them. We’ll take care of them.”
And as Sam scrambled to the edge of the stage, Mrs. P. made her stand against the Host.
Finnvarr had reached the edge of the stage now, the frightened Wiccans backing away from the cold threat of the blade against Megan’s neck. With difficulty, he scrambled up, dragging Megan behind him. Close by, Sam too climbed up onto the stage. The Sidhe were almost upon him, and he had given up his one weapon. Still, if he had to give the athame to anybody, he was glad it was Charly. She seemed to be holding her own now against Una, and somehow that gave him strength.
Charly and the Lady Una fought back and forth, oblivious to events at the center of the arena. Charly had mastered her defensive shield now, and she had begun to take the fight to Una, firing bolt after bolt of energy at the Queen of the Sidhe. Also, to distract her opponent, she shifted shape, from deer to boar to hare, flickering through a kaleidoscope of animal forms. Una was weakening, her long black hair in disarray, her clothes dirty and torn. Finally, she felt cold stone against her back. She was cornered, pressed into the junction of two ancient remnants of the castle walls. But then there was a cry, high and despairing. It sounded like the boy, Sam.
Charly turned from her opponent, distracted by the scream, and Una seized her opportunity. A series of rapid blows slammed into Charly, and she fell, tripping over a low stone wall and landing heavily. Una pounced, launching herself at Charly with hands clawed, long red fingernails hooked like talons. At the last moment, Charly brought up the athame. It took Una full in the throat. With her eyes screwed tight, Charly felt a blast of warm air wash over her and heard a long, furious scream that trailed away as if into the far distance. She opened her eyes, and Una was gone. Struggling to her feet, she turned to look at the stage. Finnvarr flung Megan from him, sending her stumbling over the edge of the low platform, and raced toward Jack. Sam, who had been closer, was there already, standing before the towering cone of foliage and ribbon, one hand outstretched to pluck the first leaf that would free the summer. Finnvarr moaned as he ran, a long, low desperate sound, and lunged with his sword.
Sam’s eyes widened with surprise as something cold entered his back, pushing impossibly through and out. There was an unpleasant scrape of metal on bone as the blade was withdrawn but no real pain. Not yet. The pain would come, he was sure. For the moment, though, there was just surprise and a feeling of loss. The world was slipping away, a world that he had once felt so connected to, such a part of. In slow motion, Sam sank to his knees. There seemed to be a wall in front of him, a green wall. He reached out for support, but part of the wall came away in his hand. He hit the boards of the stage, slumping sideways, and just as he slipped out of consciousness, he saw that he was holding a sprig of green.
Finnvarr turned to the horrified crowd, sword raised in triumph. Turning on his heel, he spun, the sword hissing horizontally through the air. Effortlessly, it severed the crowned apex of Jack-in-the-Green from its conical body, narrowly missing the cowering head of the man inside the green framework. With a flutter of leaves and ribbons, the severed crown rolled across the boards and dropped into the crowd.
“Jack is dead!” Finnvarr cried in triumph. “Attis is gone, his power dispersed. The legacy of his dark brother, the Malifex, is ours to claim. Life and death, the cycle of the seasons, they are ours now. Your dominion in this land is over, mortals!”
Sam, in a dark place far away, felt something stir behind him. No, not behind him, for he was turned in upon himself, his senses at an end. Behind his mind, then, something moved—a familiar presence. He thought he heard a chuckle, deep and musical, and perhaps, far off, the sound of pipes and horns. He felt a tingling sensation, reminding him of the flesh that he had so recently left behind. Perhaps it was like the ghostly itches that people felt in limbs that they had lost, old nerves firing from habit. But there it was again, in his fingers, spreading into the palm of his hand. The darkness that had been closing in on Sam receded a little as his curiosity was aroused. There was a definite sensation, spreading up his arm now. Perhaps I’m not dead after all, he thought, and with the thought came a further rush of sensation, washing up his arm and into his damaged chest. He opened one eye a crack and peered down the length of his arm, lying limply on the boards of the stage. From fingertips to shoulder, it was covered in green leaves. Sam closed his eyes once more, and in his mind hunting horns were blowing.
Finnvarr pointed to Amergin and shouted, “Bring him here! Bring me the Milesian!” Tall faeries converged on Amergin and seized him by the arms, dragging him toward the stage. Megan tried to pull them off, but they slapped her away as if she were an insect. Amergin was thrown down at Finnvarr’s feet.
“Now,” began the Lord of the Sidhe, “the time has come for retribution. My first use for the freed power of the Malifex will be to rip the living soul from the last survivor of the race that stole my home and destroyed my people.”
“And you’re quite sure you have that power?” asked Amergin quietly.
“Of course, fool. The power of the Green Man is ended, the balance destroyed. Nothing stands in my way now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” replied the bard, staring over Finnvarr’s shoulder.
Finnvarr turned. Something was rising from the boards of the stage. Indeed, part of it seemed to be made of the boards, the wood blending seamlessly with the leaves that covered its legs. Dense foliage cloaked the arms and torso, but Finnvarr could just make out enough of the face to recognize Sam.
“No!” he cried. “No. It can’t be. I killed you.”
Leaves spilled out of Sam’s mouth and nostrils, and the last traces of his face were hidden. He continued to grow, until he towered over the Lord of the Sidhe.
“No!” repeated Finnvarr. “I will not allow this! I have come too far!” He pulled back one hand, summoning all his power to hurl at the figure of the Green Man. “Rally to me!” he shouted, and the remnants of the Host came running to his side, summoning their own powers to bolster his. Sam looked down at them, felt the force gathering within them, the ancient might of the wind, strong enough to level forests and wear mountains down to sand. Even he could not face such a blast and survive. He needed a weapon to replace the athame. He cast about with his mind, sending a tendril of thought down into the soil. He did not have far to look, for the bones of the earth were close to the surface here. He soon tasted rock and sent his thoughts down through it, searching, testing. And there he found it—the familiar blood-tang of iron. He drew the sensation into himself, let it flow through him, until his veins pulsed with a stream of molten metal. He remembered his time with Wayland and the smith’s quiet patience as he heated and reheated the iron, tempering it until it was hard but not brittle, flexible yet strong. And when he felt that he had captured that balance within him, that he was tempered like steel, he struck. The remaining Host of the Sidhe had gathered their power, channeling it through Finnvarr. He stood, eyes ablaze, arms spread wide to summon the whirlwind that would blast the Green Man, Attis, the May King, from the face of the land. His hair streamed out behind him in the gathering storm, and he cried out his triumph. But before Finnvarr could strike, a wave of force exploded from Sam, the concentrated essence of iron, expanding out through the crowd. Spheres of energy popped into existence around his head, hissing and spitting. A vortex of force began to spin around him. Part of his mind recognized it—the crop circle power. As Amergin had said, the land was overflowing with energy, the dispersed power of the Malifex seeking an outlet. Sam opened himself to it, let it flow through him, mingling it with the taste of the blood-metal. The humans in the crowd flinched as the halo of steel blue light washed over them, and they felt nothing. But as it touched the Host of the Sidhe, they were snuffed out like flames, their forms fraying into smoke, out over the castle w
alls. For a few moments, their screams rent the air and then faded away, until all that could be heard was the high keening of the gulls.
‡
Sam looked around at the devastation, the frightened faces of the crowd, the exhausted Wiccans gazing up at him. Their expressions frightened him—gratitude and hope, yes, but something else. Then it dawned on him. It was worship. As if he were some kind of god. Panic gripped him. He was only Sam, he didn’t want this, had never asked for it. He looked at the sea of faces and tried to think what he could do for them. Then it came to him. There was something that remained unfinished, and it was within his power to finish it. After a moment, he raised one hand, gesturing at the sky, and then sank into the earth without a trace.
Above the castle, the clouds parted, driven inland by a fresh breeze from the sea. The sun broke through, pouring its warmth onto the upturned faces among the ancient rocks.
Summer had come.
‡
They found Mrs. P. at the foot of the stage, as they were ushering the confused tourists out of the arena. Charly spotted her first and cried out for her mother. But she knew, even before Megan arrived and checked for a pulse. Amergin and Mr. Macmillan helped to carry her body, and a solemn procession of Wiccans accompanied them as they made their way out of the castle and down into the Old Town.
EPILOGUE
They had to tell Sam’s parents, in the end, when his father arrived at the Aphrodite Guest House and found he was missing. There followed a period that would always remain a blur in Charly’s mind, a time of tears and shouting, confusion and worry. Sam’s parents refused to believe the tales of shape-changing and battles against the ancient Sidhe and called the police. But there were too many witnesses to the strange events in the castle, and the authorities soon found themselves out of their depth. The police tried to hush up the whole business, issuing vague statements about mass hysteria and rampaging teenage delinquents. Sam’s parents were told to wait—their son would show up when he was good and ready. ‡
