Guardian of the Green Hill Page 7

  Meg felt an almost magnetic force drawing her to say yes, and for one minute more she fought it. I want to learn, she thought, all she has to teach me. She heard the Green Hill call out to her, felt it pulling her out of the life she knew, her Arcadian childhood, calling her to a wild dance in a mushroom circle. And, oh, how she wanted to join in that dance! To be as serene and wise and powerful as Phyllida, to live forever in this lovely place, to have the knowledge, the lore, of creatures who have existed for millennia, creatures so lovely and frightening she felt her breath catch to think of them.

  “Will you let me teach you?” Phyllida prompted again.

  Meg waited just long enough to be certain the decision was hers, then she said, “Yes, I will.”

  * * *

  Rowan helped Gwidion carry the art supplies to the ramshackle hovel.

  “Welcome to my humble abode!” Gwidion said, swinging his arms widely to display the dust and cobwebs. “A palace fit for a king, if not for a young prince like yourself. Here, find a place to sit and we’ll have a nice … well, perhaps not a nice cup of tea, but I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” He flapped his handkerchief at two wicker chairs, stirring up dust-djinns, and poked around the corner of the one-room house that served as a kitchen.

  “Ah, here—a tin of chocolate. And sugar. That should do. Does the tap work? Yes, but I’ll let it run awhile until it’s a bit less brown. Still, the chocolate will hide that, no? And cups. I’ll take the one with the crack. Well, the biggest crack, anyway.” He was forcefully cheerful.

  “It isn’t very nice, is it?” Rowan said truthfully.

  “Good enough for the likes of me,” Gwidion said. “Not but that I wasn’t born to better things, but life hands you travails, and you take ’em and twist ’em and use ’em as you see fit. And here we are! Gwidion, master painter, and the likeliest lad I’ve seen in many a day. The other boy’s your brother, is he? Dickie Morgan? A good lad, I’m sure, but a bit quiet, a bit inward, if you know what I mean.” He tapped the side of his nose with a bony forefinger. “Never did trust the quiet types. Generally plotting against you, they are. Keep a man talking, and he can’t be thinking of ways to harm you. But you, now … I could tell at a glance you’re a horse of another color.”

  Rowan laughed at this and asked what color.

  Gwidion looked him over appraisingly. “Your hair’s chestnut, but your soul’s piebald. Half of one color, half another, black and white, here and there, and every time someone looks at you, they don’t know if they’ll see one or the other. A good way to be. A useful way to be.”

  He pulled out a sheet of paper and started drawing as Rowan pretended to drink some rather bad lukewarm chocolate.

  “Your sister, now, the older one…”

  “Meg, you mean.”

  “Aye. She’s a white horse if I ever saw one.”

  Rowan looked puzzled.

  “I’ve never seen a white horse win a race, have you?” Gwidion asked. Rowan had never seen a horse race. “I’ve never seen a white horse take a high fence in a hunt. No white horse pulls a plow, or a cart, or does any real work or any great deed. But who gets in all the paintings? Who leads the parades? When you think of a king or a statesman mounted, what does he ride? A white horse. When all the time white horses are the stupidest, weakest, most useless horses imaginable, good for nothing but prancing and show. They get the credit, but it’s the other horses that are more worthy.”

  You’d think Rowan would have bristled at this characterization of his sister, but he happened to be thinking of the Midsummer War, when he was the chosen hero of the Seelie Court. He had trained for weeks, was primed and ready for the greatest battle of his life, and what had happened? Meg put him to sleep with trickery and took his place. She got all the glory, all the honor. And she didn’t even fight. There was Rowan, ready for swordplay and derring-do, and all Meg had to do was let go of an arrow string. (It didn’t occur to him that the fatal blow itself is often the easiest part of killing.) Yes, he thought, Meg is a white horse. She got to lead the parade in his place. Everyone thought she was so great, when it should have been him.

  Gwidion sketched away, studying Rowan’s intense face, and soon, the scowl on the paper was matched by a scowl on the living lips. Gwidion added anger to the eyes, and resentment, and determination, and it was not long before the boy felt them too.

  What a pleasure to practice my art on the young, thought Gwidion. They are so malleable, so pliant, so easily turned away from the things they should love.

  When Rowan was in a properly receptive state, Gwidion began to lead him in earnest. “How do you like the Rookery, lad? It will all be yours someday, no?… No? Whose, then?”

  Rowan honestly didn’t know, and Gwidion made him think about it. “You children are her only heirs, aren’t you? If it doesn’t go to you, then who? The pensioners? The royal cat hospital? You are the eldest male heir, you know.” Besides me, the rightful heir, he thought.

  He went on about the beauties and the riches of the Rookery until Rowan was fairly enthralled by the idea of all that money and land, of the people who would live under the care of whoever owned it all.

  “And I have heard,” Gwidion added conspiratorially, “that there is more to the estate than just the riches, the land, the title. Do you know of the Green Hill?”

  “Do I ever!” Rowan said, and in his spell, he didn’t know how foolish he was being. Still thinking more of Meg’s usurpation of his glory than any interference in his inheritance, he told Gwidion all about the Midsummer War.

  If she has done all that, Gwidion thought, she must be close to being formally accepted as Phyllida’s heir. Should I focus on the old woman or shift to the child? The girl might be easier to control, but who can say how close she is to accepting her position? If Phyllida renounces her place, it is mine straightaway. If the chit is the heir and hands it to me, well, the old lady still breathes. An obstacle, but not a great one. Still, always easier not to have blood on one’s hands. Better stick to the old woman and hurry, before that brat makes things more difficult.

  Gwidion laid the portrait of Rowan on the dusty table before him. It scarcely looked like the Rowan we know. The face was sly, calculating, full of resentment and imagined insult. It was pinched and somehow twisted, not the handsome boy who had walked into the shack. Rowan stared lovingly down at his own image.

  “It should be mine,” he said softly.

  “But it will not be,” Gwidion hissed. “She will give it to that girl, your sister, just as they always do. It is the eldest who should inherit—the eldest male. You know that. Everyone knows that. Why should this family be any different?”

  If Rowan had been in his right mind, he would have put up a pretty good argument. He hadn’t thought about being rich, or a landowner, or a lord, and therefore didn’t really know if it mattered to him if he was one (or all three) or not. As for primogeniture, he accepted it in books, but he didn’t really think anyone was too strict about it in modern times. He certainly never thought about what he would inherit from his parents. The idea of their demise was too distant and terrible for him to even contemplate, and if they were gone, inheritance would be the least of his concerns.

  If he hadn’t been enchanted, he wouldn’t have minded if Meg inherited the whole kit and caboodle. If it were his, he would share with all of them, and if it were hers, she would share with all of them. It wouldn’t really matter who actually owned it, except that person would have to do all the dull, boring things, like taxes and rents.

  But now he had no argument. Everything Gwidion said seemed to make perfect sense. Even the queen of the Seelie Court had chosen Rowan. Of course he should get the Rookery, the money, the Green Hill.

  “You must fight for what is yours,” Gwidion said into his ear as Rowan studied himself. “And I will help you, if you will trust me and keep my secrets.”

  “It should be mine,” Rowan said again, absently, staring into his own flat, greedy eyes.

 
Gwidion took this for assent. “Then I will help you, if you will help me. I have a way with convincing people, and I think I can persuade Phyllida to leave everything to you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I deserve that,” Rowan said.

  Gwidion chuckled. The arrogance of youth, to think it deserved anything. Still, this boy could help him gain access to Phyllida and would amuse him by being a gadfly to the family.

  “In return for my help, you must do as I ask … everything I ask, without question. Serve me, and I will serve you. I must paint Phyllida’s portrait. Either get her to agree to that, or arrange it so I can observe her.”

  “You did a nice picture of her before. Can’t you do it from snapshots?”

  “No questions!” Gwidion roared, making Rowan flinch. “This portrait must be perfect, it must be real. It … it will be a gift, from you to her.” His voice became soft and sly. “When she sees it, she will be so grateful, she will do whatever you ask. Everything will be yours. Will you do that for me?”

  Rowan didn’t have to think about it. It might have been his picture answering with its covetous mouth, its resentful scowl.

  “Yes, I will.”

  Like a Pollywog, Agog

  MEG’S TRAINING WOULD BEGIN TOMORROW. Today, for the rest of the afternoon, she was free, and it felt like the end of summer vacation, joyous and careless with a last bacchanalian exuberance and an undertone of trepidation.

  For the first of her lessons, she, and everyone in the household, would attend the Gladysmere mowing festival. Gladysmere has more festivals than any community outside of an artists’ colony, and Phyllida explained that a large part of Meg’s duties (should she choose to accept them) would be chairing the organizational committees for a least two dozen holiday, seasonal, crafting, and agricultural celebrations.

  “You children will have a good time at the mowing,” she said to Meg before letting her scamper to freedom. “Everyone works hard, but there will be jesters and magicians and fire-eaters and such too, and every merchant for miles around will have a tent set up. You can buy yourselves souvenirs, and I’ll introduce you to some of the villagers you’ll have to know.” She caught Meg’s look, which was almost a warning, and amended, “That is, if you decide to be Guardian someday.”

  It might give you a hint about Meg’s eventual decision to know she spent her last day before training doing a Guardian’s duty on her own—looking for Moll. This time, without the magical lure of Gwidion and the bluebell woods, she set out unerringly for the Green Hill. Phyllida had said there was no point looking there, but Meg didn’t know where else to start. She couldn’t remember where she’d looked the night before.

  The ground was still wet from the storm, and the brutal heat of afternoon made the moisture rise until it felt like a rain forest. She was slick with sweat in the heavy air, but at least it was shady. The fungi enjoyed the warm, wet conditions even if she did not, and bright-red spotted fly agarics and golden polypores stretched their caps and spread their spores, while slime molds crept their inexorable way over roots. Clusters of frail pale-brown fairy-bonnet mushrooms sprang in great profusion over and around stumps and rotting logs. Meg wouldn’t learn until weeks later that there is always a diminutive fairy hidden in each bunch, and she would spend hours one afternoon peeping under every delicate bonnet until she found a sharp little face grinning back at her.

  She couldn’t see the Green Hill yet, only a thick ring of thorns, which she now realized, to her delight, were blackberries. She pulled off a handful of fruit, then wondered, Did berries around a fairy mound count as fairy food? On their very first day at the Rookery, Phyllida and Lysander had made sure they knew, among other things, that they were never to accept food from a stranger, lest it be fairy food. To take so much as a taste could doom you to a life of imprisonment. But no, the berries were probably safe, and she stuffed a handful of the cool, sweet fruit into her mouth. She was still chewing when Finn called her name from behind her.

  “Oh, umph…” She gulped and hastily covered her mouth with her hand while she tried to surreptitiously pick blackberry skins out of her teeth with her tongue. “What are you doing here?” she asked from behind her fingers. “How did you find the—” she stopped. Maybe he didn’t know what was hidden behind the thorn hedges.

  “The Green Hill? That’s it, isn’t it? I don’t know. I was just wandering around.” He turned away suddenly and did something she couldn’t see—he was making absolutely sure there were no tear trails left on his cheeks. “Maybe I paid the price and they don’t mind now. Maybe they figure I can’t do any harm. I wasn’t trying to find it. What are you doing here? Looking for Moll?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can I help?”

  Since he was already at the Green Hill, what could it hurt? She nodded and parted the brambles.

  Finn hung back. “I don’t have to if you don’t want me to,” he said, so sourly Meg forgot her teeth and had to laugh. Seeing her berry stains, he laughed back.

  “Have some berries and come on!” she said and slipped through.

  Finn grabbed a fistful, and as soon as he tasted them, his sulks were dispelled. They tasted of summer, and holidays, and second helpings of dessert, and suddenly he wanted to play tag, which he hadn’t done since he was five and romping with the maid’s daughter Pancha. “You’re it!” he cried, and tapping Meg on the shoulder and sprinting away. He flung his bag into the tall grass halfway up the hill. Meg, instantly caught in the unexpected jollity, chased after him.

  The Green Hill has been host to gruesome battles and stately parades, to revelries the likes of which mere mortals cannot imagine in all their short lives … but never had the Green Hill seen sport to rival this. When Meg had first seen the hill, it was neat as a new-mowed lawn, with tender grass, thick and fresh and green. Now it was wild and overgrown with summer flowers, the grass as high as her waist, sprouting seed clusters. Daisies turned their bright eyes to the sun, and saucer-shaped clusters of tiny white flowers were apparently the height of floral fashion that year, since yarrow, Queen Anne’s lace, wild carrots, hogweed, elder, and hemlock were all bedecked in them. Grasshoppers in brown and green frockcoats whirred and zipped away in annoyance as Meg and Finn chased each other over the Green Hill until at last they collapsed near the summit, panting, sweaty, neither knowing nor caring who won.

  “I didn’t know you were so much fun, Meg,” Finn said after a while.

  Meg didn’t know she was either.

  “We should look for Moll,” she said about an hour later. She’d spent some of the time dozing, some watching clouds, and some trying to watch Finn peripherally without moving her head.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Finn said drowsily.

  Very rarely, a cloud drifted by, and they talked about what they saw in it. Meg, whose imagination was usually so good, always envisioned sheep. Words grew fewer and farther between, and she said, “I’m only going to close my eyes for a minute.” Not because she was going to sleep, she assured herself, just because the sky was so brilliant.

  “Just for a minute,” Finn echoed sleepily, as the wayward sheep clouds without their shepherds roamed free, and the benevolent sun, taking pity on them, sank lower and lower, grew dimmer and cooler, until when at last they opened their eyes again, he was gone entirely.

  Meg sat up abruptly, confused. She saw Finn’s dim form curled beside her and kicked him gently until he woke up. He rubbed a face that had been rubbed so many times with grubby hands it had turned a muddy brown, and sat up beside her.

  “If we were home, we’d get in trouble for staying out after dark. Do you think we will here?”

  “How late do you think it is?” she asked. Unlike the ancients, she didn’t spend enough time in wild places at night to have any feel for reading time by the moon or the stars. It didn’t feel too late … that was the best she could do. “We won’t get in trouble, but they’ll be awfully worried. Come on, we have to go. I never did look for Moll— Oh! What was that?”


  It started as a moan so low it seemed more seismic than sound, like the calls of elephants or whales rumbling through the ground and up through their legs. Then it rose to an almost-human wail before climbing higher, and higher still, to a catamount scream, then an operatic soprano, and finally a keen so high it was sensible only as pain. Meg felt like she had outside Moll’s house, swept away by someone else’s grief, weak with pity and terror.

  “It’s Moll!” she said, thoughtlessly grabbing Finn’s hand. “She’s close. Come on, it sounds like she’s right here.”

  They barreled down the hill and crashed painfully through the blackberries, tripping and stumbling in the darkness.

  “This way!” Meg said, pulling him toward the sound.

  “No, this way!” Finn said, pulling her away from it.

  The keen rose again, and though it was undoubtedly close, it seemed to come from all directions at once. Still clutching hands, they pulled each other this way and that. Meg wasn’t at all sure she wanted to find whoever was making that sound, but it seemed the surest way of making it stop. In the calm between cries, the rest of the forest was silent. No owl or frog dared compete with that outpouring of grief.

  They came to a dark, trickling stream, a small spring that flowed through the wood until it met the river Gladys.