Heart of the Hill Page 10

The children watched as Arto leaned his weight against the stone and pushed and shoved with all his strength.

  “Looks like he’s trying to open it,” hissed Owen.

  The stone was immovable.

  Arto knelt before the stone, touched his head to the earth and lifted his face to the sky. His lips moved as though he was whispering a blessing or invoking a spell.

  He laid his hands again on the stone.

  Nothing happened.

  “What now?” whispered Owen.

  Holly shrugged.

  Arto stared at the stone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WINNING THE FUTURE

  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 — 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 — 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 wo
man 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.

  The others gathered together and waited until the last visitor had left.

  “Where did the children go? What happened?” someone murmured.

  “Did you not feel Avalon stir?” said Osprey.

  “A miracle happened,” said the harmonica player.

  “The children found the entrance to the Crystal Cave. Blessed be!”

  “Yes, Blessed be!” shouted Osprey. “We will keep vigil until the children return.” He flung his arm around Mr. Smythe’s shoulder and invited him to sit on the blanket.

  Everyone settled down for a vigil. Some produced blankets, sweaters and wraps from knapsacks and packs.

  Others handed around soy nuts and trail mix.

  “The child said we should sing,” continued Osprey.

  He motioned to the musicians. “Play friends, and raise your voices so the children will hear us. Let them know we keep watch while they travel inside the Tor.”

  The music resumed.

  Stunned, Mr. Smythe sat on the blanket, hugging his knees. What would he do if Adam and Chantel didn’t reappear?

  “Idiot. What did you do that for?” whispered Owen, disbelief in his voice. “We’re in a blasted cave again. We’d just escaped! What if those women come back?”

  Holly ignored him. She peered through the gloom.

  They heard a stone strike stone and saw a shower of small sparks. Holly gave a sigh of relief. Arto was still ahead of them. “Keep watching,” she hissed.

  Arto struck his flints repeatedly until the braid of dried reeds he carried caught fire. He sheltered the flame with his hand until it burned strongly, then held his tiny torch high.

  The faint light on the end of his reed flickered. “The sacred fire,” muttered Arto. “It must be lit before my reeds are consumed.” He cast around in the center of the cavern, holding his taper high in the air until he almost stumbled over a dark mass of sticks piled ready for use on the cavern floor.

  Arto thrust his reed into the middle. With a spit and a crackle the tinder-dry kindling caught. Tiny blue and yellow flickers danced under skillfully laid boughs, until, with a sudden whoosh, the fire blazed and the cavern filled with light.

  Arto fell to his knees before it and held out his arms beseechingly. “O Guardian of the Portal, show mercy on a believer. The passage to the Lady’s Crystal Cave is sealed forever. Grant me entrance through your Portal.”

  Holly and Owen held their breath.

  Nothing happened.

  Zorianna and Vivienne were oblivious to the activities in the Portal. They were engaged in a battle of wills.

  “How dare you interfere and terrify the child?”

  Vivienne stormed at Zorianna. “You promised to help, not destroy my chance of freedom.”

  Zorianna ignored her. She plunged into the darkest reaches of the Tor.

  Vivienne followed. “You are in my realm. Answer me!”

  Zorianna swung around haughtily. “You think you have power?” She snorted. “You are weak, Vivienne. Learn from my actions. The human child defied me. I punished her.”

  Vivienne trembled with frustration. “You do not understand humans.”

  Zorianna laughed cruelly. “What is there to understand? The child is nothing. Now she will comprehend the power of the Dark.”

  “You do not comprehend the workings of the human mind. Humans are clever,” Vivienne insisted.

  Zorianna laughed again. “It is you who do not comprehend.” Zorianna waved her arm and conjured a window out of the darkness. “Look into my dream cavern. Watch the human begging for release.”

  Both peered through the gap into the dream cavern.

  It was empty!

  Vivienne gasped, then laughed.

  Zorianna screamed with fury. She flew out of the Tor and raged around in the form of a great wind.

  Above Glastonbury, torrential rain fell.

  Vivienne sobered and drew a cloak of darkness around her body, wishing she had never set eyes on Zorianna. “She is impossible,” she muttered angrily. “I need to think.”

  The moment of reflection was short-lived. Vivienne became aware of activity in the Portal. She tilted her head and probed the darkness. Sev
eral realms were involved. She felt a quiver from the past, a stir in the dreamworld and a definite tremor in the present.

  “So, the child in the dreamworld has discovered the Portal. She can wait. So can the past. Even I, Vivienne, cannot deal with more than one realm at a time.” Vivienne probed the present, her pulse quickening. “Ah … here is the boy, Adam. He has walked the Labyrinth at last.”

  Vivienne flew through the darkness to the present.

  Adam and Chantel goggled at each other and stared again around the Portal.

  “I … I did it,” stammered Adam. “I … I walked the Labyrinth, and Earth Magic happened.”

  “I know,” said Chantel softly. “Time kind of stopped, and something weird made me make the Spiral Labyrinth.”

  Adam nodded. “It’s weird all right, but I guess we’re inside the Tor. Earth Magic worked for me.” His voice grew stronger. “If I could do that, I can do the rest!” He took a deep breath. “Now for the Crystal Cave.”

  Wind whirled around them as though an invisible door had opened. Abruptly the disturbance stopped.

  “Adam and yet another Magic Child!” said an irritated and flustered voice. “I return just in time. How many more Magic Children are there?”

  Adam and Chantel were too startled to answer.

  “You have entered the Portal and seek entry to the Crystal Cave? Why?” The voice rolled around the gloomy space, filling their heads, but whether it was a real voice or mindspeak neither child could tell.

  Adam tensed. “Vivienne?”

  “Yes, it is I, Adam,” the voice replied. “At last you have answered my call and walked the Spiral Labyrinth. Now you have entered the Portal between worlds. Forget about the Crystal Cave; undreamed of power is within your grasp.”

  “It is?”

  “Don’t believe her,” whispered Chantel. The voice gave her the shivers. She tugged at Adam’s arm. “Don’t listen. Remember?”

  Adam pulled his arm free. He couldn’t deal with both Chantel and Vivienne. He turned his full attention to the voice. “I don’t want power, just the entrance to the Crystal Cave, p … please.” His voice, firm at first, wavered.

  Gentle laughter filled the cave. “Why do I not believe you? All humans crave power, Adam. Few attain it. Forget the Crystal Cave. You will never be able to breach its seal. Why risk failure when you could be one of the lucky ones? Choose your future!”