Under the Green Hill (10 page)

A ritual? She must mean the Midsummer War for which the queen recruited Rowan. Meg's mouth gaped and closed as she tried to decide whether to tell Phyllida. I'll tell her, Meg decided. I'll tell her right now. Or in just a minute. She bought herself a more little time by asking, “Is the ritual very important?”

“Oh yes. Everything that lives depends on it. If something happened to interfere, nothing green would ever grow again. But don't you fret, dear. Things have gone on for millennia; I assume they'll go on a while longer. You children just be sure you stay inside on Midsummer Night and you'll have naught to fret over.” She patted Meg on the head and sent her off with a fistful of macaroons.

As soon as Meg was out the door, she slumped against the wall and gulped, her hands tightening until the cookies crumbled. Nothing green will ever grow again. She was close to panic at the thought. She had no idea the Midsummer War meant so much. If something happened to interfere…Would it be interference to get Rowan to back out of the War? She remembered Phyllida's intensity when she talked about the fairies, and that deliberate carelessness even Meg recognized as evasion when she mentioned the War.

I'm afraid she won't stop it, Meg thought miserably. If I tell her about Rowan, things might be even worse. From what she said, it's her job, the job of all her ancestors, to see that things like the War happen as they always have. Maybe she won't help me. Maybe she won't let me interfere.

She wanted more than anything to tell Phyllida, for part of her trusted that she would be enfolded in her great-great-aunt's soft arms and told that everything would be taken care of. Another part of her wasn't so sure. She hadn't known Phyllida long, after all.

For now, Meg took the easiest and most dangerous route a person can take—she decided to decide later. There's more than a month and a half until Midsummer, she thought. Plenty of time to figure out if I should tell Phyllida.

Immeasurably relieved at deferring her responsibility, she ate her macaroon crumbs and went to find the others.

There is nothing quite so much fun as exploring someone else's house without the owner's watchful eye, and what is fun in six rooms is even more so in a hundred.

Whatever secrets the Ashes had were not concealed in the house, and they gave the children full permission to go through every room to their heart's content. “Just tell me if you find anything particularly good,” Phyllida had said at dinner the night before. “I haven't been in half the rooms since I was your age, and for all I know, there might be great treasures somewhere about. Or skeletons. I don't know which.”

“What'd she want you for?” Finn asked when Meg returned from her talk with Phyllida in the parlor.

“Oh…she wanted to see if we needed any more clothes.” Meg was amazed at her own facility for lying.

They all trooped up to the third floor and began to open doors. The first few revealed nothing more exciting than bedrooms. These were good enough in themselves, with old tapestries covering the walls and grand canopied beds raised up on daises. They had their own curiosities, for those who cared to look—one had a chamber pot shaped like a fat carp's head, another held a peculiar mirror with etching on the back of the glass, so that, when you looked into it, it always seemed there was someone behind you, peering over your shoulder. At the moment, though, the children had higher hopes than mere bedrooms, and they sallied onward.

Meg had a great deal to tell her siblings, but there was never a moment when Finn and Dickie were out of earshot. She managed to tell them only that Midsummer was June 21, which was an innocent enough thing to say. Even at that, Finn sidled closer and wanted to know what was so special about Midsummer. “It's just another holiday, like Beltane,” she said, as lightly as she could, echoing Phyllida's words. Finn, suspicious of everything now, and thinking every word held a clue to what he wished to discover, would have pressed her harder, but just then Dickie found the library.

There were actually two libraries in the Rookery, and they had already met one of them. It was on the first floor, a cozy, leathery place rather like the smoking room but without the billiard table, and lined all around with novels. Some were rare early editions from the days when people first realized they could write novels. On other shelves were books by the Victorians, with practically a whole wall of the prolific Anthony Trollope. They had a good selection of everything worth reading written before World War I, as well as a few pretty books about birds and plants. It was a fine library for any reader…but the third-floor library was another animal entirely.

Dickie could tell it was extraordinary just from the smell. An odor of knowledge permeated the air, ghosts of arcane secrets wafted about by the breeze the children made when they opened the door. Here were books more rare than any first editions. Many were bound in calfskin, and not a few had solid metal covers, so that they seemed more like treasure chests than proper books. Some were locked, and some placed so inconveniently high on the shelves it was obvious they were not meant to be disturbed very often. A large mahogany desk and a worn leather wingback chair were the only furnishings. The air seemed stale, as though no one had visited that room in decades. But, oddly, though there was dust on all visible surfaces, the library didn't make Dickie sneeze. Books have their own peculiar kind of dustiness, which didn't catch in his nose the same way cat's hair or thistle pollen might.

Even Finn was briefly impressed by this room, for it had a grandeur that would not be denied. He was particularly intrigued by a globe on the floor in the corner. It was as big around as his arms could reach, fashioned out of jewels and semiprecious stones. The Atlantic was lapis lazuli, the Pacific soft jade. England was a rough-cut emerald, and the fjords of Norway might have been crystal, or they might have been diamonds.

There was a scurrying behind the shelves, and Finn said, “Ugh, rats!” But Dickie, whose nose was as keen as a hound's when it came to allergens, could detect no trace of the ammonia smell that comes when rodents have made a place their home.

Though the others, however much they liked the library, were eager to explore the rest of the house, Dickie said he thought he'd stay, and meet them later for lunch.

“One down,” Meg said under her breath. “One to go.”

Near the library was a room dedicated to maps, with canvases unfurled on the walls and scrolls nestled in umbrella stands. It, too, had a table in the center, and on this was a map of Europe with little red and blue pin flags piercing it, and tiny models of tanks spiked like thumbtacks. A long time ago, someone had followed the movement of troops in World War I.

A few doors down was a room filled with arms and armor—they would find several such rooms, each holding the weaponry of a particular period, as though a long succession of owners had prepared for a battle that never came, and at last put their martial gear into storage. This one had arms from the time of Napoleon—cavalry sabers and antique rifles and patinaed pikes. There were tricornered hats in glass cases, with plumes untouched by moths or rot. Uniforms on headless mannequins had fared less well, and their reds (and blues) were faded, their brass buttons tarnished by time. Finn and Rowan wanted to take the arced swords off the wall, but Meg flatly refused, and something in her tone stayed their hands. They had a fierce, brief bout with rattan practice sticks they found, but Meg put a stop to that after Rowan got a nasty bruise on his arm.

“Let's play hide-and-seek,” Meg said at last, desperate to get Finn away so she could talk to the others.

“That's for kids,” Finn sneered. Nevertheless, it didn't take much to convince him to play. Even when they agreed to confine themselves to the third floor, the possibilities for hiding were so vast that it promised to be a challenging game. Finn volunteered to be It, and went back to the library to count and see if Dickie would be in on the game. The Morgans dashed off, and Meg pulled them into a room they hadn't yet explored.

“We're not all supposed to hide in the same place,” Silly protested, even after Meg started to reveal the tidbits Phyllida had told her. Silly had a very strong sense of fair play, and thought that if you were going to bother with a game you ought to do it right. But she eventually hushed as Meg recited as closely as she could everything that Phyllida had said.

“I really think we ought to tell her about last night,” Meg said.

“I wanted to—I almost did. But I decided I wouldn't unless you agreed.” She didn't want to tell them how vital it was that the Midsummer War take place. This would only add to Rowan's stubbornness. If he thought the world might end if he refused to fight, he'd never capitulate.

“No!” Rowan said at once. “I don't want the Ashes to know.”

“Surely we wouldn't get into any trouble. I mean, we're in enough already, with the fairies. Phyllida and Lysander wouldn't do anything else to us. They'd make sure we were safe.”

“We'll be fine,” he assured her.

“Weren't you listening to what I said…what she said? They're not tame and friendly, they don't have pretty wings and flit in flowers. They're dangerous! People have been killed by the fairies, or stolen away, or—”

“No,” he said again, firmly. “We're not going to tell them. Gul will come back, maybe today, and we'll explain things to him. If we told the Ashes, they might send us away.”

Meg didn't much like that idea—their parents would be disappointed in them, and, despite her growing unease about the fairies, she felt a compulsion to know them better, if she could. “But it's better than being forced to fight someone.”

“No one's forcing me to fight,” he said in a strange voice. “If we left, I'd never see
her
again.”

“Her? Oh, you mean the queen? Yes, I'd like to see her again. Not at that price, though.”

Rowan said nothing, but he looked as if even the price of his life might not be too high to pay. Meg frowned at him. “You're not thinking of doing what she wants. You wouldn't be that foolish, would you? Agree to be in their silly war just to impress her? You'd die, just for her?”

“Who says I'd die?” Rowan countered. “You have a pretty low opinion of me if you think I'd go in prepared to die.”

Meg opened her mouth to speak, but she was so frustrated at his obstinate stupidity that nothing came out. It was simply against all logic for an untrained boy to agree to fight in a war, particularly one in which he had no personal stake. If someone had to fight, why not a grown-up, a soldier? And how could a battle have any effect on growing things? Yet, according to Phyllida, nothing would grow again if this ridiculous war didn't happen every seven years. It didn't make sense to Meg.

He can't mean to go through with it, Meg thought. He's talking big now because he doesn't want to look scared, but as soon as he realizes how real all this is, he'll back down. Seven weeks. I have seven weeks to change his mind. It was as reassuring as an eternity.

“Don't you think we should hide now?” Silly asked. Fairies were all well and good, but there was a game to be won. The fairies, not so immediate a concern, could wait. Anyway, she thought it rather exciting that her brother had been chosen for battle, even if she was a little bit jealous. It never occurred to her that he might be killed. Death was for other people, people who weren't related to you, whom you didn't know.

They agreed to play the game a bit more earnestly, though Meg had half a mind to go off on her own until lunchtime, maybe to the garden, to think things through without a bellicose sister and fairy-struck brother distracting her. Her mind was so muddled—to trust Phyllida or not, to have faith in Rowan's good sense, or really to believe he would fight. She needed time, and, fortunately she had plenty, or so she thought.

Before they split up, Silly checked the room they were in for good hiding places. It was only another bedroom, if anything less promising than the others, but she was drawn to a large piece of furniture in one corner.

“It's like in
The Lion, the Witch and the Whachamacallit,
” Silly said, opening the door.

“
Wardrobe
,” Meg said.

“Yup, that's it. Look, it's full of furs, too, just like the one in the book. I wonder if there's a passageway to a secret world.”

“We have enough to do here with the fairies without finding another world full of trouble,” Meg said testily, and started to leave as Silly delved deeper into the wardrobe, crushing the furs against her cheeks. She almost ignored Silly when she said, “Wait! There
is
something back here.” Then she heard the muffled click of a latch being lifted, and Silly's voice grew fainter, but echoed strangely. Alarmed, Meg followed her, and in the dim light that filtered through the window and past foxes and sables saw a staircase rise from a narrow door.

“There's a secret passageway!” Meg called back, and James and Rowan joined them in the cedar-scented recesses. Mercifully, it wasn't a door to another world, but a hidden staircase was enticement enough.

The door was wood, the same sort as the wardrobe, but the steps were slate, scarcely more than two feet across, and the cold walls that brushed their shoulders were stone set in mortar. Though the light from the room didn't reach beyond the first few steps, Silly was undaunted, and how could the older ones be less brave than their little sister?

They felt their way slowly, not quite holding hands, but groping at one another's shoulders and backs to keep in constant contact. The stairs were steep, and seemed to skirt along the side of the house. At one point they turned sharply, and a second flight continued onward and upward. At last they came to a barrier, and a little exploration revealed this to be a door. “Probably locked,” said Meg. But it wasn't—the latch shifted easily, and they were nearly blinded as the door swung open on smooth, greased hinges and they were awash in a wave of clear white light on the Rookery roof. Sleek young crows took flight at the disturbance, but grizzled, hoary old rooks only fluffed their feathers and gave gravelly caws. They had seen far stranger things in their long lives, and were not bothered by creatures as innocuous as children.

Five stories is not a great height, nothing compared with the buildings in New York City, or even the venerable stone structures of Arcadia. The Morgans often went to the top of the school's bell tower, up 201 steps, where, amid the deafening peals of bells taller than they were, they could see the spreading countryside of hills sheltering deep, narrow lakes. This height was nothing to that…and yet it seemed somehow a greater thing to stand godlike above the places they had ventured the previous night. There was the stream, a silver winding snake, and there the road overhung with limbs so ponderous and leaves so light. Green was all around them, until it met the piercing blue of the sky. They could see the tops of the tallest houses in Gladysmere (few rose above two stories), and beyond that a break in the greenery that must be the Commons. They could not see the summit of the Red Hill, though the breeze still carried a faint, acrid whiff of smoke.

“The Green Hill must be over there,” Rowan said, shading his eyes. “But I can't see it.” Its top did not reach beyond the highest trees, and, indeed, from their vantage point, they could see that the oaks seemed to grow more densely around the spot where the Green Hill lay, shielding it from the rest of the world…or perhaps shielding the rest of the world from the hill. Then, as if responding to their longing, the treetops shifted, as though from a high wind, and there, peeking between the gaps, the Morgans glimpsed a green as bright as new spring leaves, a green almost gold in the unforgiving noon light that made the oaks seem grim and gray. Then the trees closed in on their secret, and the Green Hill was again hidden from view.

Rowan leaned on his elbows in the trough of the dagged parapet, looking over the forest that hid the Green Hill. Strange visions filled his head, visions of himself, clad in mail that chafed him under the armpits, with a close-fitting helm hugging his skull, and a sword in his hand. He saw himself facing an enemy who stood in shadow, unseen save for the outline of his bulk and the glint of his weapon. It was with some wonder that Rowan watched himself face this threat, saw his own legs stand firm, his hand brandish its sword unwaveringly at the foe. He was proud of that Rowan he saw, the one whose lip did not tremble, who didn't turn away from the challenge simply because he was no more than a boy. There was a version of himself who was brave, who was willing to face any danger, for…he heard the Fairy Queen's voice, low and rich, calling out to him from the Green Hill.
Rowan!
she called.
Rowan! My champion!