Heart of the Hill (17 page)
As Arto trod the Labyrinth in the past and Holly and Owen followed him in the dreamworld, Myrddin paced up and down between the sleeping children in his guest bedroom.
“I must keep the faith,” he muttered. “Owen will use his wits and intercede at the right time.” He patted Owen's leg.
Bending over the other bed, he checked Holly's pulse and felt her forehead. He gave a grunt of approval. The fever had abated. “You are healing, though your dream is long. Keep the light in your heart,” he murmured as he smoothed her covers.
Myrddin strode to the window and gazed out at the Tor. He thumped the window ledge with his fist. “Oh, for my staff. Oh, for my magic. What wouldn't I give to see how you are all proceeding!”
In the real world, while Adam dowsed his way through the Labyrinth, Chantel and Mr. Smythe toiled up the steep sod steps cut into the Tor's eastern side to watch Adam's progress from the peak.
The sky flamed red and gold, but the hill loomed between them and the sun. The shade was dark and chilly. They both stumbled several times.
“Wait, Chantel,” panted Mr. Smythe. “I need to catch my breath.”
Chantel stopped. She cocked her head to one side.
“Can you hear something?”
Mr. Smythe listened. “Hmm, a sort of deep rhythmic moan.”
“I think it's a didgeridoo,” said Chantel. “Someone is on top of the Tor playing music.”
“I suspect we'll find quite a lot of people on top of the Tor,” murmured Mr. Smythe. “People often gather to watch the sunset.”
“Come on! We've got to hurry,” urged Chantel.
“It's nearly sunset now.” She turned, scrambled up the remainder of the steps and disappeared from view over the top.
Mr. Smythe plodded on behind.
Chantel paused as she reached the plateau on the summit. In front of her rose the black tower, silhouetted against the vivid sky. The sun's glow streamed through the archway, in a path of gold that reached to her feet. Beyond the arch, Chantel could see the silhouettes of people staring toward the western sky. They were an odd assortment â ordinary tourists dressed in jeans and jackets like herself, and several other people wearing biblical-looking shifts or monks' robes. Chantel also spotted flowing gypsy skirts and medieval jerkins and tights.
She stared up at the tower again. This was the tower that scared Adam. It loomed dark against the brilliant sky, but she felt no magic or fear oozing from it. It was just a curious old stone building.
Chantel ran along the golden path, through the tower's middle, to join the crowd on the far side.
The didgeridoo player was seated on a colorful Mexican blanket spread over the grass. He was perched on the edge of the plateau with his legs hanging over the slope and the end of his instrument wedged into the ground between his feet. The magnificent view spread before him â the valley, sodden fields crisscrossed with drainage ditches and the town of Glastonbury, looking like a toy village complete with picturesque ruins and tiny cars. In the middle of the valley rose the low hump of Wearyall Hill, and the sun's rays gilded the rooftops of the houses along one side of the ridge.
One of those must be Myrddin's house, and that's the path we walked this afternoon, Chantel thought, pleased that she could identify something.
Far beyond, edging the other side of the valley, marched a distant set of black hills, the tops of which the orange disk of sun was about to touch.
The didgeridoo player's eyes were half closed against the light. Chantel watched as he breathed rhythmically in and out, making a deep continuous drone that pulsed around everyone. Beside him crouched a drummer, slapping and patting bongos, setting up counter-rhythms that flowed between the notes from the didgeridoo. Slightly behind them a woman sitting cross-legged, played the harmonica, improvising sounds that cascaded and wailed, creating a wild tune as free as the wind and strangely beautiful. The woman's and the drummer's eyes were shut. They held their faces up to the sun. All three swayed gently.
Chantel slipped between the sky watchers, past the musicians, right to the edge of the plateau. She lay on her stomach and looked down over the edge of the steep slope, craning to see Adam. Below her some of the ridges of the spiral path were visible. But Adam was not in view.
She bit her lip. What if Adam didn't know what to do? Treading the Spiral Labyrinth seemed so vague.
What if he walked the wrong way? What if she failed to help him? Chantel scrambled to her feet and looked doubtfully at the collection of people behind her.
“Welcome, child.” An older man with a long white beard and a staff smiled down at her.
Chantel stared up. He was one of the people clothed in white shifts. His was tied at the waist with a rope of gold. Gold also gleamed from the heavy chain around his neck that bound a fiery crystal.
“Er, hi,” she answered.
“Welcome,” the man repeated. “I am Osprey, a seeker of truth and light. A protector of the Crystal Cave ⦔
He held his crystal up to the sun. “⦠and Merlin the Sleeper. Have you come to celebrate the setting of the sun and to honor the way of the ancients?”
“I guess so,” said Chantel. She smiled shyly, wondering what he'd say if she told him that Merlin wasn't sleeping but living on Wearyall Hill.
Some of the tourists had overheard their conversation and were moving further away, distancing themselves from Osprey and his followers. Chantel spied Mr. Smythe coming through the archway. She waved, and he raised his hand in answer and joined her.
Chantel glanced up at Osprey again. She had a task to complete, and somehow she had to get this man and his followers, and as many other people as possible, to help. She took comfort from the presence of Mr. Smythe, who smiled at her.
“I'm here because I need help from everyone,” she said clearly. Several people turned to look at her in surprise.
“What did the little girl say?” asked a voice from the back of the group.
The didgeridoo player stopped. So did the other musicians. The silence hung heavy as everyone stared.
Chantel felt her face flush with embarrassment, but she knew she had to go on.
“Do you know about the Spiral Labyrinth?”
Osprey and several people nodded.
“My brother is walking it now ⦠and⦠and⦠I promised I would sing to help him, to encourage him. He's ⦠he's in a kind of a trance ⦔ Chantel's voice trailed off. She dropped her gaze and fidgeted.
“A believer,” shouted Osprey. “We have some young believers on the Tor! One is walking the Spiral Labyrinth.”
Excitement buzzed among Osprey's followers, and several people walked to the edge of the plateau and looked over.
“But the maze isn't complete,” said a woman's voice.
“Sections have been lost. How does he know where to go?”
“I see him,” someone called and pointed. “He's just come around the side of the hill.”
Chantel and Mr. Smythe rushed to the edge. There was Adam on a ledge below, stepping slowly but confidently with the thorn twig held before him. He was oblivious to the audience peering down.
“He's dowsing! That's how he's finding the hidden path!” said the woman. “How wonderful!”
“Blessed be! Avalon is smiling. Walking the maze will bring a miracle,” said the woman with the harmonica.
She smiled up at Chantel. “We'll help. What would you like to sing?”
Chantel shrugged. “I don't know many songs. Just ones my mom sang when I was little and couldn't sleep.”
Her eyes pricked at the memory. Her mom and dad were happy then, and her mom often sang.
Mr. Smythe squeezed her shoulder in support.
“Sing whatever's in your heart,” he whispered.
Chantel squared her shoulders and stood on the edge of the plateau, facing the sun. The great red orb was sinking slowly behind the distant black hills. The sky was spectacular.
Below her Adam crossed the slope, his shadow lengthening up the side of the hill. As she watched, he stumbled and turned uncertainly toward a clump of small trees also casting long dark shadows. He moved the thorn from side to side, obviously having trouble locating the next stretch of path.
An old song, one her mother had sung to soothe them after a bad day, popped into Chantel's mind. She began softly.
“Come by the hills, to the land where fancy
is free,
And stand where the peaks reach the sky
and the rocks reach the sea.”
Her voice was sweet and carried in the still air. Everyone fell silent. Chantel continued with more assurance.
“Where the rivers run clear and the bracken
is gold in the sun.
And the cares of tomorrow must wait 'til this
day is done.”
On the slope below her, Adam stood taller. He did not look up, but he stepped forward with confidence and entered the shadows.
People behind Chantel began to hum.
Chantel closed her eyes. The sun's last rays gilded her. Her red hair flamed. She was a golden child with a golden voice.
“Come by the hills, to the land where legend
remains.
Where stories of old stir the heart and may
yet come again.
Where the past has been lost and the future
is still to be won.
And the cares of tomorrow must wait 'til this
day is done.”
The last note hung in the air, but before it was lost in the breeze, the harmonica caught and repeated the tune. Several new voices joined in, and together everyone repeated the second verse. The watchers moved forward to rim the Tor. All eyes were riveted on the sunset.
By now the group sang in glorious harmony. They held out their arms to the disappearing light.
“And the cares of tomorrow must wait 'til
this day is done.”
The sun vanished.
The voices stopped. The didgeridoo took over. The drummer joined him, and a great chorus of sound gave a final salute to a glorious sky smudged pink, purple and gold.
For a moment sheer clarity filled the air. For a millisecond time stopped and magic stirred. In that moment reality and the dreamworld fused.
In the past, Arto had a new idea. He stuck out a finger and traced the spiral maze on the surface of the oval white stone in the hillside.
In the dreamworld, Holly gasped, “Of course! That's the key!” She grabbed Owen's hand and traced the maze on his palm.
In the real world, something inspired Chantel to hold up one finger and sketch the spiral maze in the air.
At that precise moment Adam reached the end of the Labyrinth and touched the oval white stone. He traced the spiral maze on its surface.
The Eye of the Labyrinth blinked.
The four children and Arto disappeared.
On the top of the Tor, only Mr. Smythe, Osprey and his followers understood the subtle shift in light and time.
The tourists looked baffled. One by one they drifted away down the sod steps, their memories of any children vague or forgotten.
