Under the Green Hill (14 page)

Then the snake fanned its wings, peered at the pages, and recited the line in flawlessly accented Latin.

Somehow, this evidence that the beast was learned comforted Dickie. A snake that could speak English was a terror, but a snake that spoke Latin must be civilized. All the same, from the dubious safety of the tabletop, he insisted, “Snakes can't talk!”

The creature's hiss rose in a teapot whistle—he was laughing. “Of course snakes can't talk,” he said.

“But you're…”

“You insult me if you think I'm a snake,” it said, rising by several menacing inches but utterly destroying the effect when it tried to scratch the top of its head with its right wingtip.

“Then what…”

“I,” the creature said grandly, “am a Wyrm.”

“A worm?”

“I can plainly hear the ‘o' in your voice. I said ‘Wyrm,' not lowly ‘worm.'”

“Are…are you dangerous?” Dickie asked meekly.

“If it is true that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, what might be said of a great deal of knowledge?” the Wyrm quizzed him. “I have spent my life learning the tongues of men and beasts, and the wisdom each has accumulated. And I have been alive a very long time indeed. I know I don't look it.” He turned his wedge head down modestly, and his scales darkened in what might have been a blush. “Periodic shedding is very good for the complexion. For three thousand years I have been studying, to learn all there is to know.”

“And have you?” Dickie asked politely.

“Yes, nearly four hundred years ago. It was something of a let-down, I must say. Nothing left to look forward to. So I came here to forget everything. It's funny, but forgetting seems to happen much faster than learning in the first place. Already, I've forgotten more than half of what I once knew. Used to be able to do calculus with my wings tied behind my back. Now I couldn't tell you what happens as
x
approaches infinity if my life depended on it. Ditto for the dynasties of China, or the Akkadian warlords. Go on, ask me what the difference is between an arquebus and a blunderbuss. Couldn't tell you.”

“But you remember Latin.”

“Oh, I remember a great deal. Half of everything there is to know is still nothing to sneeze at. Someday, though, if all goes well, I will have forgotten everything, and then I can have the fun of beginning again. Are you a scholar?”

“I…I…”

“I see you speak only one tongue, and that badly. Come now, you are here, surrounded by books, interrupting my nap. It appears that you are a scholar. Do appearances deceive me?”

“No…yes…I'm studying fairies!” He blurted it out, and the odd thing was that he half thought a talking worm (I beg your pardon, Wyrm) would laugh at him for believing in fairies.

But the Wyrm uncoiled its sinuous body and flapped its leathery wings to rise, its body dangling beneath it, until it hovered at the level of Dickie's eyes. “A noble pursuit indeed!” he said. “Though one not generally undertaken in such a comprehensive manner. The lore of the secret people is, sadly, so often confined to apocrypha, rather than methodical scholarly pursuit. Tell me, do you intend to include practical experimentation and field observation in your studies, or rely solely upon literature? And, non-sequitorially, do you intend to perch upon that table all day?”

The Wyrm's conversation put Dickie at ease. It was, at any rate, better than talking to Finn. At least the Wyrm seemed to have a genuine interest in what he'd discovered. And perhaps he might be willing to help. To his own surprise, Dickie clambered down from the table and once more took his chair, while the Wyrm, panting a bit from the effort of levitation, eased himself to a comfortable coil on top of the books.

“I thought I'd learn all I could here,” Dickie explained. “I don't know if I really want to see any more fairies.”

“Well enough,” the Wyrm said, nodding his head in approval.

“Some of the greatest discoveries have been made by sifting through the labors of others. Standing on the shoulders of giants, as it were, the better to pick at their brains. There is no shame in synthesizing, as long as you have wit enough to separate the intellectual gold from the dross. In any case, fairies don't lend themselves well to systematic practical study. They are found by serendipity, not effort, and their secrets uncovered at great personal peril. Yes, confine yourself to books, young scholar, when you delve into the ephemeral and infinitely vexing world of fairies. What have you discovered so far?”

With great enthusiasm Dickie revealed the fruits of his studies. The Wyrm listened attentively, occasionally interrupting to dismiss some tidbit as drivel. “Bend upside down and look between your legs? Nonsense! Why, then, everyone on earth could see fairies, and they'd never be safe!” He seemed to approve of some of the information. “A self-bored stone. Hmm…yes, that sounds right. But it only works in the general vicinity where the stone was found. You couldn't see Dorchester fairies with an Edinburgh stone.” But the Wyrm seemed strangely perplexed by some things.

“There are so many gaps!” he said cheerfully. “Do you see how much I've forgotten already? At this rate, I'll be able to start learning again in only a few more centuries. That business about stray sods—never heard it before in my life. I still remember some things about the fairies, but, by gum, not near as much as I used to. Isn't this marvelous?”

But to the Wyrm's surprise, Dickie didn't seem too pleased. “I was hoping you could help me. If you could tell me what you know—”

“What would be the fun in that?” the Wyrm asked him.

“Where's the joy of discovery?”

Dickie thought the joy would be just as good if the Wyrm told him everything he needed to know, but he kept this to himself. The Wyrm did offer him some assurance. “I still remember Latin, though. And the strange and melodious Gaelic tongues. I suppose, if you really have your heart set on it, I can help you translate these tomes. It goes against my inclination, for, after all, it means I'll be doing a bit of learning again. But I suppose, weighed in the balance, it won't compare to my rate of forgetting. Very well—you may count on my assistance.” And he nosed himself into the pile of books and emerged a moment later pushing a slim volume with his snout. “We will begin with this, a treatise by the Venerable Ecclectus.” Dickie rested his chin on his hands as the Wyrm declaimed upon the nature of subterranean mining fairies.

Finn came late to lunch with soggy trousers, and Dickie never showed up at all. Finn waited expectantly for the others to ask him why he was wet—he had a brilliant excuse prepared—but they never did. He had searched all morning, and finally found a smooth oval stone with a hole in its center. He'd tried it straightaway, but when he held it up to his right eye he saw nothing more than the predictable beauties of southern England in the weeks before full summer.

But just because no fairies lounged in the shade and no pixies danced on the banks, this didn't mean that his seeing stone was a dud. It only meant that there didn't happen to be any fairies in the immediate vicinity, and he determined to continue his quest after lunch. The one thing that marred his pleasure at the prospect of the afternoon's discoveries was the Morgans' singular lack of interest. What fun is keeping secrets if those you're keeping them from display no curiosity? Well, just wait till he had something really worthwhile! He'd make sure they knew he had a secret, one more massive than any they sought to keep from him. And he'd just laugh in his lonely knowledge, and look down on them, and make them wish they'd been more open themselves in the first place.

Finn, as you can see, had a rather inflated idea of his own importance, and he might have been disillusioned had he realized that the Morgans almost forgot about his existence on a regular basis. Rowan and Silly had expected to despise him actively, but as each hour wore on, they found him fading further and further from their thoughts. At breakfast the Morgans and Finn remembered to say nasty things to each other, but for the rest of the day they were apart, and except for Meg, the Morgans never thought about him.

Finn, on the contrary, devoted a good deal of his time to contemplating the Morgans, and each discovery he made seemed that much sweeter for the knowledge that the Morgans weren't sharing it. It was perhaps a nasty, bitter, lonely sort of pursuit, but it gave him immense satisfaction nonetheless.

He slipped off to search the forbidden woods for fairy spoor, and the Morgans gathered in the far reaches of the garden, safe from prying eyes. Almost at once they were met by the Seelie prince—in the form of Gul Ghillie. It was quite an effort for them to remember that the merry, scampering brown boy was in fact one of the grandest men they had ever beheld. On that afternoon, his carefree gait was somewhat curtailed by the burdens he carried. Across his shoulder was a tall, strung bow, and at his back a quiver full of arrows fletched in shimmering golden pheasant feathers. From a belt girded tight around his narrow hips hung two light swords, one long and fine, the other more like a knife, with a tine on either side of the blade. On one arm he carried a small round shield charged with a foxglove sprig, and in both hands, awkwardly, he held a sheathed broadsword. Diamonds of perspiration fell from his brow as he bent and unceremoniously dumped his cargo to the grass. He stood and unfastened the various buckles and harnesses that held the other weapons in place, and laid them beside the sword and shield.

“I think I chose the wrong guise for this day!” Gul said as he readjusted his clothes.

“A man carries weapons better than a boy.”

“That's why it's so stupid to ask Rowan to fight,” Meg said hotly. “He's just a boy!”

“If you wish to argue later, I promise you'll have your chance. First hear me out. Perhaps you'll think differently in a moment.”

Meg wanted to argue, but she was arrested by the pile of weapons. They were strangely alluring, and, almost against her will, her hand reached out toward one keen, shining sword edge. She snatched it back just before she was cut.

She remembered the prince's advice about giving her brother support instead of hindering him with criticism. There was a peculiar light in Rowan's eyes, such as seasoned warriors have on the eve of battle, and she felt again that vague jealousy she'd known at the Green Hill, when her heart called out,
Me! Let it be me!

For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether she only meant to protect Rowan, or if there might be some other motivation for her determination to keep him from the battle. When she looked at the weapons, she felt her pulse quicken in excitement. She longed to hold them, to use them to some noble purpose.

Soon, she thought, I will try again to convince Gul and Rowan to end this foolishness. Her hand crept out unbidden once more, this time toward a bow half buried by the swords. Soon, but not yet.

Rowan's first task was to select his weapon. “In the Midsummer War you may carry only one weapon into battle,” Gul explained. “These are the relics of the Seelie Court, forged in ancient times of rare metals, heated in the furnaces of the earth's core, cooled in the snows at the crown of the world. From these three weapons the Seelie champion has chosen over the centuries. Each has slain foes without number…and each has been hewn from its master's lifeless hand. The weapons do not promise victory, but, wielded properly, they will serve you better than any human-crafted arms. Take them up, and learn their weight, their feel. I will show you each on this day, and you will make your selection.”

Rowan knelt before the weapons laid out on the grass and looked at each in turn. His hand hovered for a moment, and at last came to rest on the broadsword. He picked it up, and found that, despite its size, he could lift it with ease. It was four feet long, grooved at its center (“for the blood to flow along,” Gul told them later). But, for a relic of the fairy court, it was surprisingly simple. The blade was somewhat dull, the hilt unadorned by any jewels. There were rough engravings along the haft, symbols that Rowan didn't recognize, but no other ornamentation. The pommel was a half-moon knob, and a length of leather cord twined around the grip. And yet, the moment he touched it, Rowan felt a new energy surge up his arm. Already, he felt master of the sword, as though he could plunge into battle that very moment with supreme confidence.

“This one,” he said, rising with the sword before him.

Gul laughed. “I thought it might be! But, come, you can't make your decision without giving the others a fair chance. They are all fine weapons.” Reluctantly, Rowan agreed to test the others, but not until Gul had told him about the broadsword.

“Its name is Hagr, which means ‘ugly.' None of the Seelie Court think much of it, and when it was first made they almost sent it back to the dwarves who forged it. They believed it an insult to have such a homely creation given to them, and wanted it fitted with gems and precious metals. But the dwarves refused. Take it as we give it to you, they said, or we'll cast it back into the molten furnace where it was forged. It remained unchanged, and it has proved to be the doughtiest of weapons. Hagr has won more battles for the Seelie Court than the other two weapons combined.”

He picked up the round shield and fitted it to Rowan's left arm. “This is Tew, which means ‘fat.' This was fashioned by the Old Man of the Hills. He lives where the wind never ceases to blow, an open, craggy place in the north where the trees are beaten down even as they try to grow. In his domain, a tree may be five hundred years old yet stand no higher than a child. It is from the wood of these ancient, stunted trees that Tew was crafted. Again, the Seelie Court was dissatisfied. How can a man fight with that heavy lump of wood strapped to his arm? But every man who lifted it has found it to be as light as a piece of balsa, and in all its battles, not so much as a chip has been cut from it. At least the Old Man of the Hills had no objection to our decorating it. Tew's sturdy wood has been covered with the hide of a white hart, and the foxgloves on its face were made by the queen herself.” Rowan stroked them reverently.

“There they are, Ugly and Fat, at your service! May they serve you well, Rowan. But, here, lay them aside and meet the others, that you may be sure beyond a doubt that these are your chosen weapons.”

Rowan next took up the pair of slender swords that had hung at Gul's belt. They had jet-black handles with inlaid silver scroll-work, and their blades shone like mirrors in the sun. “The elder one is Hen, and the younger is Brychan. With them you fight in the Florentine style, more akin to fencing. The short sword stands in place of a shield, and the tines are meant to catch your opponent's sword…if he has one.”

“What weapons will the other side be using?” Meg asked. Gul looked on her with approval. “Their champion will also select among three weapons—a longsword, a pike, or an ax.”

“And which has he chosen?”

Gul didn't know. “To my knowledge they haven't chosen their champion yet. But that doesn't concern you.”

“Of course it does,” Meg said hotly. “He'll be better prepared if he knows who he's to fight against.” Gul seemed to think the identity of Rowan's opponent a trivial matter, and returned to the weaponry, showing him how to strike with Hen and parry with Brychan. Rowan found the technique awkward. It was hard to keep track of the two blades, and he felt he'd be just as likely to wound himself as his enemy.

He reached for the bow, and Meg felt a sharp sting of involuntary jealousy.
Don't touch it,
she wanted to snap. But he only plucked the taut string and set it back down—it held no appeal for him, and he immediately snatched up Hagr again. His choice was irrevocably made, and Gul took him a bit apart from the others to review the rudiments of stance and grasp.

Silly looked on with undisguised envy. “Just because he's the champion shouldn't mean we don't get to learn anything ourselves,” she said, in that sort of voice that pretends to be low but is meant to be heard. “Why does the champion have to be a boy, anyway?”

“It doesn't have to be a boy,” Gul called as he adjusted Rowan's shield arm up a few inches. “And there's no reason you can't learn to use the weapons, too. Pick yours, and I'll give you a lesson later. I'm sure you see that Rowan's training has to take priority.” Somewhat abashed, Silly bowed her head, but an instant later dashed to the remaining weapons and scooped up Hen and Brychan.

“I want these!” she said eagerly, then cast a sly, sidelong glance at Meg. “You don't mind, do you? You can have the bow.”

Meg didn't mind in the least, and finally succumbed to the temptation to pick up the five-foot recurved bow. It was made of a pale, gleaming wood marked all over with spots like a leopard's, like bird's-eye maple. The grasp was ivory, carved with the figure of a seated man with deer antlers. In one hand he held a torque, and in the other, a horned snake. She twanged the string and leaned close to it, smiling, as the vibrations spoke to her.

What Meg felt now that she held the Hunter's Bow was almost a deep and passionate and totally unexpected first love. Yet the emotion wasn't completely real—all the weapons were touched with the fairy glamour. The bow, almost sentient, spoke to her soul. When she held it, she felt stronger, braver than her usual self. She began to see, dimly at first, but growing clearer all the time, that there might be sense to fighting a war. She felt a thrill rise up her fingers as she stroked the string, and desired more than anything to shoot at something.

Meg was less susceptible to fairy glamour than most, but she was not immune. In one way she felt at peace—nothing could go wrong while she held the bow—and in another way she felt a sudden agitation, a desire to devote herself to her weapon, to training, to helping Rowan prepare for the Midsummer War. Beneath it her fears still lurked, and, almost like a memory, she told herself, I'll still find a way to keep Rowan from fighting. But she felt half drugged, and though the sensation lessened later on, it never left her so long as she possessed the bow. Though she hardly noticed it herself, under the bow's spell she almost completely stopped nagging Rowan, didn't bother to argue with Gul, and simply waited for the War.

“Don't try to use them on your own,” Gul said to Silly and Meg over his shoulder.

“I'll be with you in a while, to make sure you do it safely.”

But the while grew longer and longer, and Silly and Meg sat in the shade of an elm, impatient yet fascinated, as they watched their brother practice throughout the afternoon. James, interested for a few minutes, soon turned to higher pursuits, like digging for grubs among the tree roots, and (though they weren't near the water) making little boats from twigs and leaves. Silly cradled her two swords in her lap, as another child might hold dolls. Meg's bow lay at her side, and one hand rested on the curving wood as she watched Rowan parry and slash at empty air. He swung the blade until his arm ached and his shield drooped low. Time and again Gul would step forward to correct him or reposition his arms or legs, moving back to watch Rowan repeat the same motion once more under his critical eye. It was grueling work, particularly because he didn't have the stimulation of an opponent, or even a wooden stock to strike. To send out blow after blow and make contact with nothing is both wearying and frustrating. But Gul (who had been training Seelie champions for centuries) worked him at this until Rowan felt ready to drop, and finally gave him permission to rest. Rowan collapsed under the elm tree, exhausted but happy.

“I'm ready for more,” he said only a moment later.

Gul laughed. “Rest, lad. The girls have watched you long enough—they need their own work to keep them content.”

At these words, Silly sprang up, clutching her swords. Meg wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but it seemed as if the swords had diminished. Both Hen and Brychan looked shorter and lighter, more suited to her sister's hand. “The Sister Swords for you, is it?” Gul said. “But Meg takes precedence, being the elder.”

Silly made a face. “You don't mind if I go first, do you, Meggie?” Perhaps she did, and perhaps she didn't. The bow was begging to be drawn, the arrows were crying out for flight. But Silly looked so eager that she yielded, and soon Silly's blades were flashing.