Heart of the Hill Read online

  Holly scrambled to her feet.

  A curtain of mist hung within the archway. A puff of wind stirred the mist. Fresh air rippled around Holly.

  On the breath of the breeze came smells of water, wet mud and wood smoke, faint sounds of splashing, quacking and an unfamiliar rustling.

  Holly crossed the cavern, clutched the edge of the magical archway with one hand and leaned through the mist to peer beyond.

  She was in the middle of a reed bed.

  Spear-like leaves and stems, taller than herself, taller than an adult, swayed and rustled around her. Holly stepped forward and parted the nearest reeds.

  A peaceful landscape of marshes and water stretched to a horizon. She was on the edge of a vast shallow lake scattered with small reedy islands. Only one island that she could see was of any size. It rose as a hill from the middle of the lake and dominated the view. Its shape was unmistakable—Glastonbury Tor without its tower. Holly could see the spiral path up the side. The portal was showing her Glastonbury Tor in the past. Why?

  A family of foraging ducks caught her attention, dabbling and splashing on the edge of the nearest patch of reeds. A faint haze of blue smoke drifted from the center of the reeds and hung above them. A passing breeze made the smoke dance and the reeds sway. Beyond the reeds, Holly caught tantalizing glimpses of what looked like the thatched roofs of large circular huts.

  A sucking sound made Holly look down. She was standing on a narrow soggy pathway. Not an animal trail but a track built from short logs pressed into the mud and covered by mats of thin woven branches. The path offered firm footing over the waterlogged ground.

  A whistle cut through the air.

  The ground shivered. Someone or something was using the track.

  Holly shrank back through the reeds, but the archway behind her was gone.

  Three young men dressed in skin tunics and carrying wooden spears ran softly along the track, brushing past her as though she was invisible.

  Maybe she was! She hoped so, for there was no return.

  Gathering all her courage, Holly stepped onto the still-vibrating path and followed the men.

  “It begins!” shouted Vivienne as Holly disappeared through the archway. “After lifetimes of effort I finally ensnare the minds of not one but two Magic Children. Watch out Old Magic, for now I have the means to break the bonds that bind me. Once a child is offered the power I wield, it will wish to use it!”

  She swung her sword, and light flashed from its blade, glinting off her ringed fingers. “So … how best to make them do my bidding? The boy is headstrong but weakened by worry. The girl is strong and clever but overly careful and conscientious. Which to approach and how? The boy was threatened by me as the warrior, but the girl was intrigued when I remained cloaked in darkness. What shape should I use to inspire both authority and confidence?” As she murmured to herself, Vivienne changed shape from warrior, to simple peasant girl, to modern middle-aged farmwife, to medieval woman wearing a long cloak…

  “PORTAL KEEPER, ATTEND ME!”

  Vivienne froze as Zorianna’s voice rang through the portal. “HEED MY WARNING. DO NOT PLAY GAMES WITH ME LIKE YOU DO WITH THE HUMANS.”

  Zorianna’s voice dropped to a hiss. “I have proved my power. I mind-probed and brought you a child as asked.”

  Vivienne grimaced. In what way could Zorianna lay claim to this second child? It had not come at Zorianna’s bidding; it had walked Vivienne’s labyrinth. “You think you brought the child here?” she challenged. “It was my labyrinth she walked.”

  Zorianna snorted. “I made her long to walk it. I learned from the child’s mind. She unknowingly revealed information about the Wise Ones and their tools.”

  Vivienne tensed and cloaked herself in the dark anonymity of the Portal. Zorianna must not learn that she too had knowledge of a Wise One’s tool.

  Zorianna’s voice hardened. “Now keep your part of our bargain, Vivienne. I demand to enter the Portal.”

  “And if it remains closed?”

  “I WILL DESTROY YOU.”

  Vivienne’s voice held a hint of amusement. “You know you cannot destroy either the Portal or its Keeper.”

  “I cannot, but if I report to the Dark Being, she will shatter both you and your Portal. Reconsider, Vivienne. Would you not rather deal with me?”

  “I would. I was testing you. You care not for Gaia, only for the power it might give you. Gaia’s destruction is still an option in your heart, Zorianna.”

  Zorianna stamped her foot. “All right, I will promise. I swear on the stars that I will not destroy Gaia. I wish to find the tool hidden here, to bend Gaia’s inhabitants to my will and to learn their powerful Earth Magic. Does that satisfy you, Portal Keeper? It is the truth.”

  Vivienne smiled in the darkness. Humans were not easily used, nor was their Earth Magic. She thought fleetingly of the Crystal Cave, then re-cloaked her thoughts in blackness. The staff was well hidden. Neither she, nor the Myrddin, knew what Earth Magic had been used to make the magic seal. Zorianna would fail. Vivienne’s smile broadened. She would enjoy watching Zorianna deal with the humans. Both were in for a shock! And if Zorianna discovered the importance of the Crystal Cave? Any tampering would bring down the wrath of the Myrddin. That too would be interesting!

  Finally Vivienne spoke. “Yes, Zorianna. You may enter Gaia.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STORIES OF OLD

  The track beneath Holly’s feet gave at each step with a little sigh. The sensation was pleasant, almost springy, and much more fun than walking on pavement. At first Holly stepped slowly and carefully, testing each step in case she sank into the marsh beneath, but the track makers knew their job. The woven mat of branches, though it dipped at each footfall and sometimes water oozed between the cracks, diffused her weight, so she could walk through the marsh with confidence.

  The trail seemed long, for the track wound its way through the reeds. At first Holly was glad to hide, but as the trail lengthened, she grew anxious and kept parting and peering between reeds on either side, trying to see her destination while remaining hidden. The day was hot, insects buzzed and bit, and sweat beaded Holly’s face and trickled down the back of her neck. Pausing to wipe her face, she heard faint voices. Slowly she crept forward. The ground grew firmer. The track had brought her to a low mud bank, and the reeds gave way to an alder thicket and brambles. She peered through the branches.

  Three round wooden huts stood in a clearing. Holly crept into the thicket to observe.

  “Arto…leave well alone.” It was a girl’s voice, high with tension. “Utha will kill you.”

  A young man, dressed in skins like the others Holly had seen, stepped from the open doorway of the middle hut. He wore a roughly woven blanket across one shoulder and a bow and quiver full of arrows across his back. In addition he carried a spear in one hand and a dagger in his belt. In his other hand he cradled a small bronze bowl.

  A young woman, a baby bound on her back, erupted from the hut and grasped his arm. “No, Arto…the Lady’s cup is not worth it. Avalon is no more, so why risk Utha’s wrath.”

  Arto brushed her gently aside. “I must. The cup was the Lady’s sacred sacrifice. Utha should have left it in the lake.”

  The woman threw up her hands in a gesture of despair.

  Arto rested his hands on her shoulders. “You know Utha did wrong, Gwyn. You are still a believer though the Lady left us. You partook in the ceremonies. We all sipped the white and red waters from this precious bowl.” Arto held the cup in the air to display its fine workmanship and beaded pattern. “We all watched as the Lady cast the cup into the lake. Utha found it by accident and should have left it in its resting place. It belongs to no one but the Lady.”

  “And was sacrificed by her to symbolize the final sealing of the Crystal Cave and the casting away of its magic,” came a quavering voice. An old woman, bowed of leg, scarred of face and swathed in woolen blankets, hobbled from the nearest hut.

  The
girl and Arto bowed in deference.

  “Arto is right,” continued the crone. “The cup must be returned. Memory of Avalon must not be desecrated.”

  The young woman jutted her chin. “Then cast the cup back into the lake, Arto. Go not to Avalon.”

  “I must. The Lady calls in my dreams,” said Arto.

  “She bids me take the cup to the Crystal Cave. I do not understand why she needs me there, but I must obey.”

  The young woman spread her hands. “The earthly way into the cave is sealed. There remains only one way—through the Portal. That is a way full of dangerous magic. Do not go, Arto. You might never return.”

  “Earth Magic will protect Arto. He is a faithful follower of the Lady. The Portal will not hurt him,” insisted the old woman.

  “But I will,” roared a voice. A bronze dagger skimmed through the air and buried itself in the wattle wall of the hut, a hair’s breadth from Arto’s ear. “How dare you steal from a clansman.”

  A skin-clad warrior, his face patterned with blue woad, leaped from the reeds on the far side of the encampment. He brandished a second dagger.

  The young woman screamed and rushed inside the hut.

  “I do not steal. I am returning the sacred cup you stole from its resting place in the lake.” Arto spun on his heels to face Utha, but stumbled on a root rearing through the mud.

  He fell to his knees, and the bronze cup was jolted from his grasp. It sailed through the air and into Holly’s thicket. Without thought, Holly put out her hands and caught it.

  Utha gave a cry of rage and fell upon Arto, who dropped his spear as little use in such close combat. Arto rolled to one side and freed the dagger from his belt.

  They fought ferociously, rolling over and over the mud bank, snarling like wild dogs and leaving dark smears of blood in their wake.

  Holly watched in horror as the maddened pair rolled closer and closer to her hiding place. Then Utha’s enraged face was right before her. His bloodstained knife slashed viciously though the air as he pressed Arto against the bush in which she hid. Arto gave a convulsive jerk and jackknifed to one side, but Utha’s thrust continued.

  Pain bit into Holly’s arm. She sprang back, forcing her body blindly through the thicket, ignoring sharp thorns and the wicked whipping of twigs against her cheeks and limbs. Then there were no more bushes, just the kinder concealment of the reeds. Holly stumbled gratefully among them but too late remembered the marsh. Her feet found no solid ground, and she tumbled dizzily into blackness.

  Grass blades tickled the back of her neck, and sunshine warmed her face. Holly opened her eyes and sighed with relief. She was lying in the middle of the lawn. She must have been asleep and dreaming. She sat up. Her clothes were muddy and her arm hurt. She looked down and all relief vanished. She was clutching a small bronze bowl in a hand caked with blood from a throbbing knife slash on her forearm.

  A wave of fear washed over Holly. “How the heck am I going to explain this?” she whispered, fighting nausea as she gripped her arm to stop the bleeding.

  She struggled to her feet, shut her eyes and swayed dizzily. This wasn’t right. She’d had a dream, hadn’t she?

  How come she was so muddy? How could she get hurt in a dream? How was it possible to bring something back?

  She opened her eyes and stared down at the bronze bowl. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. She knew the myths and legends. This was trouble. No one should ever bring back things from the past.

  Holly stumbled across the lawn to the farmhouse hoping she could get to the bathroom before anyone noticed her.

  She slipped into the house by the back door.

  Late that evening, the cousins gathered in Holly’s bedroom and gazed down at the bronze cup hidden in a drawer, under Holly’s socks.

  “Crikey,” whispered Owen. He stuck out a finger and poked it. “Is it magic? Do we rub it or anything?”

  “You mean like rubbing a magic lamp? Don’t be daft. This isn’t a Walt Disney film,” said Holly crossly.

  “Hey, keep your voice down,” Owen reminded her.

  Holly and Owen, Adam and Chantel held their breaths and listened, but no adults called. They relaxed.

  “Can I hold it?” asked Adam.

  “I suppose so,” said Holly uneasily. “Nothing happened when I held it. But how are we going to get it back?”

  Adam eased the bronze bowl from its nest.

  “It’s fantastic,” Chantel whispered.

  Adam grunted agreement. He turned the bowl and gazed at it. “Just think … it’s thousands of years old… it’s beautifully made. Look at the beads decorating the rim, and its shape is perfect. It just fits.” He cupped the bowl in both hands and mimed lifting it to his lips. It fit into his palms as though it belonged there. “Oh … it’s been mended.” His finger had discovered a rough spot. He turned the bowl and showed the others. A tiny square of bronze patched a crack in the bottom, so skillfully riveted that it was almost invisible.

  “Don’t mess with it,” said Holly, jerking the cup out of his hands. She thrust it back in the drawer.

  “Hey, you don’t have to snatch,” said Adam. He frowned. That wasn’t like Holly.

  “It’s the Lady’s cup, a sacred object from the past. It must go back,” Holly’s voice was fretful. She shuddered. “But I don’t want to get sucked through the labyrinth again.” She cradled her throbbing arm, now bound and hidden under a long-sleeved T-shirt. “The Portal was creepy. Besides, who knows what door I’d get next time? I might never return.” She looked at the others.

  “What should we do?”

  “Take the bowl to Glastonbury, “ said Adam promptly.

  “Give it to Myrddin.”

  Holly gave a sigh of relief. “Yes. He can send it back. He’s the magician.” She shut the drawer with a bang and winced as the muscles in her arm flexed.

  “You should go to the doctor,” said Owen uneasily. “You’ve a pretty big gash. And there wasn’t much antiseptic cream left in the bathroom cupboard.”

  Holly shook her head. “And say what? It’s obviously a knife wound. It’s way too big for a bramble slash, and all heck will break loose if the adults think we were playing around with knives.”

  “Okay, okay, it’s your arm,” said Owen, but he and Adam exchanged uneasy glances.

  Chantel’s visit to the hospital early next morning went without incident. Though her leg looked wasted and thin after being in a cast for six weeks, she was pronounced fit and just had to promise to exercise carefully until the muscles strengthened.

  “See…I won’t slow you down anymore!” Chantel crowed as she burst through the farmhouse door, limping a little but without her crutches.

  Adam sighed. Now his nosy little sister would be into everything again.

  “When are we leaving for Glastonbury?” asked Chantel eagerly.

  “In an hour,” he said shortly.

  Lynne used her foot to push open the girls’ bedroom door. Her arms were piled high with folded clothes.

  Holly looked up. “Brilliant, Mum. I need those.” She tried to take the clothes, and her sore arm gave way.

  Everything cascaded to the floor.

  Lynne surveyed the mess. “What a waste of time.”

  Holly gave a strained laugh. “Relax, Mum. You know Owen and Adam are just going to shove things in knapsacks any old way.” She separated the clothes she recognized as hers and Chantel’s and stuck her head into the corridor. “Owen, Adam,” she called. “Your stuff’s here.” She nudged the pile into the middle of the corridor with her foot.

  Lynne threw up her hands in despair. “Leave room for rain capes. The weather report’s prophesying wet days.” She disappeared downstairs shaking her head.

  The weather forecast was right. The windshield wipers of Mr. Smythe’s Land Rover worked overtime as he drove the children through Glastonbury town center in the early afternoon. High Street gleamed with a wet slick, and the multicolored festival banners dripped soggily from l
amp posts, but the bad weather had deterred few from attending. The shops were doing a roaring trade in souvenirs; and the pavements were packed with a sea of umbrellas, rain slickers, people wearing extra large garbage bags and a variety of sodden tie-dyed wraps, swathing heads and shoulders, as they moved between festival venues. Despite the weather the atmosphere was electric.

  A group of trumpeters and trombonists played jazz on a street corner, raindrops beading their instruments. A didgeridoo player and drummer sheltered in an archway, producing hypnotic rhythms. A mother and three children danced around the market cross, holding umbrellas high, and people smiled and made room for them.

  The four cousins in the Land Rover wound down the rain-streaked windows so they could better see the activities.

  “Watch for parking signs,” hollered Mr. Smythe. “The streets are narrow, and I’m trying to avoid both traffic and pedestrians.”

  Adam stuck his head out of the side window. “There’s a parking sign coming up on the left…Naw, it says full,” he added in disgust as they approached.

  They stopped at traffic lights. A police cruiser halted in the lane beside them. Holly hung out of her window and waved. The constable lowered her window.

  “Please, do you know where there’s parking?” Holly shouted.

  The policewoman pointed up a side street. “All spaces in town are full. Try Spears Fields. About a mile that way.”

  Holly waved her thanks and drew her head back inside the car. “Got that?” she asked Mr. Smythe.

  He nodded tersely. “Yup, but if we have to go a mile out of town we might as well go to Mervin’s house and walk in from there.” He leaned on the horn as two young women with tinsel in their hair and gauze fairy wings pinned to their backs drifted damply across the road just as the lights changed.

  “Blessings,” they chanted, bestowing a smile in Mr. Smythe’s direction.