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.

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.

“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.

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.

Sam and Charly scrambled over boulders and dodged around stalagmites as they struggled to catch up with Amergin. The moisture that had created the spires 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.

“That should hold off some of the others,” shouted Amergin, and he set off along a narrow passageway. Charly cast a concerned eye over the white-faced Sam, then turned to follow the bard.

The procession picked its way up the entrance track to the castle and paused at the ticket office. The papiermâché giants—the knight, the black-clad Morrigan, old Hannah Clarke the witch—were manhandled to the ground and reverently passed through the entrance. Once inside, they were hefted aloft once more and the procession moved on. A thrill passed through the crowd as the first drummers and morris dancers appeared inside the castle wall. Jack was coming.

On the summit of West Hill, under the blank-eyed gaze of the guesthouses, was a wide, grassy, open space known as the Ladies Parlor. Once it had hosted tournaments for the nearby castle and resounded to the clash of jousting knights. Now it was the preserve of dog walkers and kite flyers. The wind, wet from the sea, hissed through the short grass, bowling stray candy wrappers across the expanse of green. Scattered leaves and pieces of paper swirled, dancing together in the air. A pattern began to emerge, a stately rotation of debris, scraps of litter tracing the edges of a wide vortex.

The pace of the wind increased, lashing the grass in a broad circle, dust and twigs spiraling faster around a point in the center of the Ladies Parlor. And then they came. From the heart of the whirlwind rode the Host of the Sidhe, clad in the full panoply of war. The hoofs of their horses sounded like thunder on the hard turf, and the thin gray light glinted on jeweled bridles as Finnvarr, King of the Host of the Air, led his people to war. By his side, the Lady Una shook her long black hair free in the sea wind and laughed, high and cruel. In response, her steed tossed its head and snorted, fire jetting from its nostrils. The shouts of tourists in the distance, converging on the castle for the festival, mingled with the crying of the gulls. Finnvarr reined in his horse and paused for a moment, looking back at the assembled throng, the last of their race. Then turning his gaze to the castle entrance, he cried out in the ancient tongue of the Tuatha de Danaan—a battle cry from the old days, before the coming of the Milesians—and the Host rode on.

Sam and Charly followed Amergin through a complex maze of tunnels. They were leaving behind the realm of the Sidhe. The passageways here had been little modified, merely cleared of the worst obstacles. Often they were forced to crawl on hands and knees or squeeze themselves through cracks in the dripping rock. When they paused to tackle a particularly tricky scramble over fallen boulders, Charly said, “On my way in here, I turned into a bat.”

“What do you mean, turned into? ” Sam asked with a smirk on his face. Charly ignored him.

“I turned into a bat,” she continued, “and it was much easier. You can get through tiny gaps, and you can see everything. Well, sort of see . . . or hear . . .” She trailed off.

“Hm-m-m,” pondered Amergin. “It’s not a bad idea, but I fear it would not serve us now. To find an exit from the Hollow Hills, we will need our human senses. No, I fear we must stay as we were born, though it grieves me to move so slowly.” He paused, holding up a hand. Charly and Sam heard the approaching sound of voices, harsh and cruel. The goblins, being smaller than humans and accustomed to their subterranean home, could move more rapidly. They had passed the obstacle of the fallen cu sith and were drawing near.

“Come,” continued Amergin. He stooped, cupping his hands together, the fingers interlaced. Charly placed one foot into Amergin’s firm grip and felt herself hoisted upward. Scrambling onto the top of a slab of fallen rock, she gazed back into the threatening darkness as Sam and Amergin joined her. Then they were off once more, slipping and stumbling on weary legs through the broken landscape.

Most of the procession had dispersed into the castle grounds, to the craft stalls and refreshment tent, leaving Jack and his followers to pick their way up the slope of grass at the rear of the amphitheater. Here they paused, resting high above the revelers, while morris dancers took their turn upon the stage below.

Down on her stall, Megan could bear it no longer. Ignoring the waiting customers, she fled into the crowd. To one side of the castle, behind a stall selling cards and Tshirts, was an area where the giants had been abandoned. They looked strangely forlorn, propped against the pitted stonework, their time of glory over. It was here that she found Mrs. P.

The old lady was gazing at the pale paper features of the Morrigan, black hair and black dress contrasting sharply with her white skin. Without looking around, she said, “I used to look like her once, my sweet. You may find that hard to believe now.” She turned to smile at Megan. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “They’re close now,” she continued. “I can feel them.”

Megan reached out and touched Mrs. P.’s arm, and suddenly they were hugging, the old woman’s head buried against Megan’s chest. When she finally looked up, Megan barely recognized her. Mrs. P. seemed to have aged a decade in a matter of seconds.

Mrs. P. sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m just a foolish old woman. Age is supposed to bring wisdom, but some days I think it only brings rheumatism and a tendency to forget where you left things.”

“It’s going to be fine,” said Megan, squeezing Mrs. P.’s shoulders.

“Of course it is, lovey. Of course it is. Come on. We must get ready.”

Megan gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile, turned, and headed back into the crowd.

Mrs. P. watched her for a moment, then muttered under her breath, “Lady, grant me the strength to leave them behind.” And then she set off, a tiny figure beneath the towering giants.

The Host of the Sidhe crossed the road, their horses oblivious to the screeching of car brakes and the screams of fleeing tourists. Faces stern and pale, they made their way along the narrow track that led to the castle entrance. Up ahead, at the entrance to the castle, King Finnvarr saw an obstacle: the low, wooden ticket office that spanned the narrow gap in the stone walls. He reined in his horse and stared for a moment. Then he raised one hand in the air, palm upward and fingers clawed. The wind began to gust, swirling savagely in the confined space. Gradually, the ragged gusts gathered into a whirlwind, a screaming funnel of air that tracked slowly across the ground, clouds of dust billowing at its feet. With a horrifying inevitability, it smashed into the ticket office. There was a rending sound, a shattering of glass, and a chorus of screams. Chunks of timber flew out into the track, one clattering to a halt at the feet of Finnvarr’s horse.

Finnvarr lowered his hand and the twister dispersed. Paper leaflets advertising local attractions fluttered to the ground like autumn leaves. Finnvarr tapped his heels against his mount’s flanks, and the Host of the Sidhe moved on.

The goblins were close now, the scrambling sound of their feet and hands like a rising tide in the narrow tunnel. Charly, Amergin, and Sam were battered and weary, the palms of their hands scraped raw by the rock, their shins bruised and aching.

“We’re nearly there,” gasped Amergin. “I can feel the outer world drawing close. Sam, you must use your power.”

Sam stared at his feet, panting helplessly.

“Sam? Come on! We need your power.” Charly shook him by the shoulder. His head wobbled up, and he looked at her blankly.

“Power?”

“You are a Walker Between Worlds, my friend,” said Amergin kindly. “Come—find us a doorway.”

Behind them, goblins and bugganes began to spill through a narrow gap between two stalagmites. A crude bronze knife struck the rock by Charly’s face, showering her with dust. She helped Amergin to push Sam into the lead. He stumbled forward, hands groping blindly along the walls of the passage. And then he collided with something: a blank wall of stone.

“It’s a dead end,” he mumbled and then louder, “It’s a dead end!”

“Come on, Sam,” hissed Charly. “You’re the hero—do something!”

“I’m not.” He sighed, “I . . . I don’t know how.”

The nearest goblins saw that they had halted and soon realized why. Knowing that they had their prey cornered, they slowed. Despite their vast numbers, they were wary, edging forward, tittering and hissing with anticipation.

“Charly,” said Amergin, “we must help him. Take his shoulder.” He placed one hand on Sam’s shoulder, gesturing for Charly to do the same. Leaning close to Sam, he said quietly, “Sam, my friend, only you can do this, but we can help. Take our strength. Find us a way.”

“Quickly!” shouted Charly. A boggart, bigger and bolder than the rest, was shuffling toward them with a sideways gait, ready to turn and run, but with a glint of bloodlust in its eyes. It made lunging motions with a dagger as it came, hissing through yellow teeth. Sam shut his eyes, sending his thoughts out into the rock. He tried to recall what it had felt like when he had found his way into the ancient Weald, spilling out onto the sunny grass of the South Downs with the mighty forest stretched out before him. But all he could remember was a feeling of fear, of overwhelming need. The stone beneath his hand felt like stone, nothing more—just the old familiar crystal tang of ancient bedrock. Suddenly, Charly screamed. The boggart had reached her and grabbed her by the arm. Frantically, she tried to beat it off while still clinging with one hand to Sam’s shoulder. “Sam,” she sobbed. “Now!”

For a split second, Sam turned and saw the leering face of the boggart bearing down on Charly, the bronze dagger raised to strike. He closed his eyes, turned back to the rock, and pushed.

He stumbled, lost his footing, and fell, rolling forward. He felt the comforting hands on his shoulders wrenched free, but then something solid rose up and struck him on the temple, and he sank into oblivion.

Up on the high slope within the castle yard, Jack’s followers began to drum. With looks of intense purpose, they fell into a particular rhythm, throbbing and somehow primeval. Drummers all around the castle heard the rhythm and synchronized with it, until the whole green bowl of the ancient site seemed to pulsate to the sound. It could be felt in the chest, in the time-worn stone walls, in the old bones of the West Hill itself.

Then Jack began to move. Slowly, with great dignity, the towering green figure made its way down the winding path in the castle grounds to the central stage, and there he took up his position. Surrounded by his followers, he dominated the crowd, ancient and enigmatic, a faceless green cone of vegetation, ribbons fluttering in the breeze. The pounding of the drums rose to a crescendo and abruptly ceased. Silence fell. A single female voice, high and pure, was raised in song, bidding farewell to the winter, yearning for the summer that would soon be set free by the ritual destruction of Jack-in-the-Green. But something was wrong. Screams could be heard from outside the castle walls and a crashing sound, the shattering of glass. The crowd around the stage began to exchange worried looks. Some of the tourists smiled, thinking that this was part of the day’s entertainment, some sort of historical reenactment.

The screaming outside grew more intense, and a cloud of dust could be seen at the entrance. Then the ticket office exploded, sending fragments of wood into the air. The crowd panicked, but there was nowhere to run. The only way in or out was through the ticket office. A few people set off in that direction anyway, despite the screams coming from its shattered remains. But they soon halted in their tracks. For out of the dust came figures from a dream—the Faery Folk, riding abroad in the mortal world, fire flickering around the mouths of their horses. Silence fell, broken by sobs. Side by side, King Finnvarr and the Lady Una rode into the castle grounds.

Charly opened her eyes. “It hasn’t worked!” she cried in dismay. They were clearly still in the caves. She was at the foot of a wall of rock, in some kind of narrow crevice.

There was one improvement, though—light was shining down on her. Her eyes tracked upward, and she screamed. Above her head, jammed into a narrow chimney of rock, was a skeleton. It was suspended, face down, in some sort of iron cage, tattered scraps of clothing and pale bones hanging above her. She jumped to her feet and scuttled backward, tripping over Sam’s inert body. He groaned, shaking his head. Putting a hand to his temple, he felt something wet and a dull ache.

“We’re still in the caves!” shouted Charly, to nobody in particular. “It hasn’t worked, and now we’re going to be too late!”

Sam peered back into the recess from which Charly had emerged and found Amergin sitting up, rubbing his head.

“Come on,” said Sam, “Charly says we’re still in the caves. We’d better get going before those . . . things catch up.”

He pulled Amergin to his feet, and together they set off after Charly. Crossing the floor of a broad, smooth-floored chamber, they heard an urgent hiss and ran toward its source. They found Charly by the door of a side chamber. She waved for them to slow down and to stay quiet, then gestured into the open doorway. Sam tiptoed forward and peered around the edge of the opening. He jerked his head back, eyes wide with surprise. There were people in the small room, definitely human, bent over something as if deep in concentration. Charly followed him. She frowned for a moment, then chuckled.

“It’s OK,” she said loudly, “come and see.” And she strode into the room. When Sam and Amergin caught up with her, she was kicking one of the figures in the seat of its pants.

“What are they?” asked Sam. “Pirates?”

“Smugglers,” replied Charly, leaning on one of the wax dummies, a man in a baggy white shirt and leather waistcoat.

“Smugglers? But . . . Oh, the Smugglers Caves.”

“Can somebody tell me what’s going on?” asked Amergin forlornly.

“We’re in the Smugglers Caves,” explained Charly. “It’s a tourist attraction, exhibits of what the place looked like when these caves were used by smugglers to store their contraband. It’s just by the—”

“The castle entrance!” exclaimed Sam. “We’re right by the castle! Come on!”

Minutes later, the ticket attendant of the Smugglers Caves looked up from her newspaper as three ragged, dusty figures, one with blood on his face, hurtled up the long passageway and out through the exit. As the turnstile clicked to a halt, she sat in bewilderment. She was sure that the last few visitors had left about fifteen minutes earlier.

As the Host of the Sidhe rode into the castle grounds, Megan, Mrs. P., and their fellow Wiccans had moved into position. Pushing through the frightened crowd, they formed a circle around the center stage, backs to the towering figure of Jack-in-the-Green. To their credit, his bogies had stayed by his side, clustered together on the stage, shooting fearful glances around the amphitheater. Mrs. P. went to them and spoke with their leader, who nodded several times, his mouth set in a grim line. Then she returned to the circle of Wiccans. Megan, meanwhile, had gone in search of the girl who had sung the song that welcomed the coming summer. She found her, pale-faced and shaking, over by a blue-and-white striped pavilion. After a few seconds of intense discussion, Megan led her by the hand back to the stage.

Sam, Charly, and Amergin ran up the sloping track that led from the Smugglers Caves and clattered up a flight of steps onto the windy summit of West Hill. In front of them was the green expanse of the Ladies Parlor. To their left, unseen, was the entrance to the castle. Screams carried to them on the breeze.

“Come,” said Amergin. “We may yet be in time.” With that, he disappeared, and in his place was a bird of prey, steely blue gray above, palest buff below, flecked with dark markings. With a swirling feeling of dislocation, Sam and Charly found themselves transformed, and together the three merlins took to the sky.

The frightened crowd pulled back as Lord Finnvarr walked his horse forward toward the stage. Behind him came the Lady Una and the rest of the Host, the hoofs of their mounts clicking softly on the ancient stones. By the stage, Megan whispered, “Now—sing!” and the young woman began her song once more, her voice quavering at first but growing in strength. Into the silence she poured the words, a challenge to the forces of winter, a hymn of praise to the coming May King.

Finnvarr smiled.

High above the castle, Amergin paused in his flight, hovering for a moment on the wind from the sea. One obsidian eye took in the scene below. With a fierce cry, he folded back his wings and plunged, arrowing down toward the circle of stones below. Close behind him came Sam and Charly.

The song ended, and the time had come to release the summer. “Now!” shouted Mrs. P., gesturing to her fellow Wiccans. They moved toward the figure of Jack, to take apart his body, leaf and branch, and distribute them to the crowd.

Finnvarr swung one leg over his horse’s broad back and dropped to the ground. The slap of his boots on the hard earth rang out in the silence. Striding toward the stage, he called out, “No, old woman! Not this time. This time, the job falls to me.” And he drew a long, bronze sword from a black leather scabbard at his hip.

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 wrinkled 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 walls. 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.