Free Under the Green Hill by Laura L. Sullivan Page A

he’d be trying to embarrass her into a better show of bravery. But this strange brown boy with the keen, darting eyes that seemed to see so much more than anyone else, spoke the dreadful words with a flat kind of sympathy that surprised her.
    â€œI’m not!” she insisted, tensing her lips to be absolutely sure they didn’t tremble.
    â€œWell, if you are, you know a sight more than the others!” he said. Rowan laughed and started boldly across the starlit Commons, but Gul held her gaze a moment longer. “There’s naught to fear tonight,” he whispered to her. “This night’s a merry time for all who love the land—man and Good Folk alike.” For a moment he seemed very old, very wise, and there was something in his aspect that reminded her of Bran. Then he was a boy again, running after Rowan to take the lead himself as they trooped across the deserted field and passed through a little grove of old, nearly barren apple trees.
    The land began to rise, almost imperceptibly at first, so that their legs felt the strain of the grade before their brains had sorted things out. It grew more rugged, too, with rocks and roots reaching up to knock their toes and grab their ankles. They could hear life ahead of them, singing and laughter and a low crackling sound like armies of mice marching through dry leaves, which Meg didn’t recognize until she saw the first glow of the bonfires through the trees. Gul made them stop near a thicket of brambles that had flowered but not yet fruited, then moved the spiny curtain of leaves aside to reveal a broad, gently sloping hill swarming with people. At the crest burned three fires, and their flickering crimson licked light to the farthest reaches of the clearing. All around the hill, the woods were dark and dense.
    Finn started toward the hill, but Gul pulled him back. “Are ye daft? Didn’t I say you’re not welcome there? You’ve come to see what it’s all about, not take a part. Do you think they won’t know you don’t belong if they see you?”
    Indeed, though the strolling or dancing forms moved occasionally into deeper shadow, the top of the hill was well lit. Even at this distance, Meg could make out Phyllida Ash near the center of the group, her hair shining like moonlight. And there was the cook, throwing her stout body about in a lively jig as around her men clinked their glasses and sloshed amber liquid onto the ground. An assortment of woodwinds played a melody that sounded like wind moving swiftly through rocky crevices, and a verse reached them:
    â€œMy staff has murdered giants,
    My bag a long knife carries
    To cut mince pies from children’s thighs
    With which I’ll feast the fairies….”
    Yet all seemed merry and gay, with no fear of what Bran had intimated lurking anywhere around them. It was a grand sight to watch, almost as good as being a participant. Had she been in the thick of things, Meg might have felt uneasy, wondering if she dared to dance, worrying that people thought her out of her element. But watching it from the foot of the slope, hearing the music and seeing so many throngs of happy people, filled her with a vicarious sort of pleasure. It was like giving someone a particularly lovely gift, she thought, one you’d like to have yourself. It was almost better to see them enjoying it than it would be to enjoy it yourself.
    Hidden in the brush, the children tried to make sense of the assorted peregrinations on the Red Hill. At first they thought it was like one of their parents’ cocktail parties, where people milled at will in their own pursuits of pleasure, here and there, as they fancied. The more they watched, though, the more it seemed that there was an order to it all, that everyone was gradually moving to some preordained place, for some purpose that would be unfolded. The younger people were nearest the fires, along with the fair girl still perched in