Free Under the Green Hill by Laura L. Sullivan

another good evening, the night was still, and Silly’s strident laughter was the only startling sound.
    Gul Ghillie sat on the arch of the bridge, swinging his feet and tossing flat oval stones into the trickle below. When he spied them he waved, and called out with a lilting halloo that sent little shivers along Meg’s bare arms (she had forgotten the jackets after all). He greeted them with a smile, but there was still an appraising air about him as he looked the assemblage over.
    â€œAh, so ye all decided to come,” he said, spitting off the side of the bridge. “No matter—there’s room enough in the woods for the lot of you.”
    â€œWoods?” Meg asked as they gathered around him. “I thought we were going to the Red Hill.”
    â€œAye, the Red Hill. That’s where the fires are.” And, for reasons Meg couldn’t fathom, he winked at her.
    Gul Ghillie set off with an almost skipping walk, as though the world was too jolly for a more conventional pace. While the children hastened to keep up with him, he began an engaging monologue about the history of Gladysmere.
    â€œThere was this sword, y’see? Forged from a hunk of iron that fell out of the sky. Sword out o’ legend, wielded by a king who meant to unite all the folk in these parts. This was, oh, thousands of years ago, even before Phyllida Ash’s ancestors became the Guardians. But this king was met with strife. His dearest friend betrayed him, and he was slain by his son. In the end, the sword was thrown into the lake down the way.”
    â€œThat’s not the history of Gladysmere!” Rowan said. “That’s the story of King Arthur!”
    â€œDunno any Arthur,” Gul Ghillie said amicably. “This feller’s name was Aelred or some such. That’s the story they tell around here. Who’s this Arthur fellow?” And he and Rowan walked abreast, comparing their versions of the legend as they had heard it.
    The town, crouching in heavy shadow, was as still as a graveyard. Not a single soul roamed the cobbled central street, and no light shone in any of the windows. The loneliness, the emptiness were almost worse to Meg than if there’d been murderers or ghouls haunting the lanes. She preferred a danger she could see to this disturbing feeling that something might jump out at her at any moment. She told herself not to be silly, that they were all perfectly safe in this, surely the quietest part of England. Still, as the silent houses looked down at her with their lifeless windows, she wished she were safe at home in bed.
    â€œIs everyone at the May Day party?” Meg called up to Gul Ghillie, who was walking some distance ahead.
    â€œAye, not a one would miss it. Wouldn’t care to be left in a house with nary a fire. Babes at the breast go, and grandmothers so ancient no one knows from one minute to the next if they’re quick or dead.”
    â€œAnd they told us it wasn’t for children!” Silly said.
    â€œWell, you’re still strangers, see,” Gul explained. “Even though you’re the Lady’s kin, they’d want a proper introduction, in good bright daylight, before they’d let you go to the Beltane fires. Townsfolk, I mean. They’re used to one another, used to things being a certain way.”
    â€œShouldn’t we stay away, then, if they don’t want us there?” Meg had visions of their being hauled home in disgrace. That would be almost as bad as facing unknown fairies.
    Gul stopped. They were on the edge of the town, just before the grassy field known as the Commons, where on other days wooly sheep would graze, and girls herding geese would meet to exchange gossip. But on that night it was as dead as Gladysmere—even the livestock were elsewhere.
    â€œYou’re afraid,” Gul said to Meg in a low voice. If Finn had said it, he would have been trying to hurt her; if Rowan had said it,