Silver on the Tree by Susan Cooper Page A

know.”
    â€œSometimes,” said Jane. She grinned at him suddenly, reaching back to hitch up the ribbon on her pony-tail. “Mostly we are. Well. I said I hoped we should see you again someday. Didn’t I?”
    Will grinned back, and Jane remembered the way his smile had always transformed his rather solemn face. “And I said I was pretty sure you would.” He came a few paces down the rock, then paused and raised the horn to his lips again. Tilting it to the sky, he blew a string of short staccato notes and then one long one. The sound curved out into the summer air, then down, like an arrow dropping.
    â€œThat’ll bring them,” he said. “They used to call it the
avaunt.”
    The note of the horn was still echoing round Jane’s head. “It’s a lovely, lovely sound, not a bit like the ones they use for fox-hunts. Not that I’ve ever heard those except on television. That one—it’s just—it’s
music—”
She broke off, flapping one hand wordlessly.
    Will held up the small curved horn, looking at it with his head on one side. Though it seemed old and battered, itgleamed like gold in the sunlight. “Ah,” he said softly. “Two occasions there will be, for its using. That much I know. The second is hidden to me. But the first time is now, for the gathering of the Six.”
    â€œThe Six?” Jane said blankly.
    â€œWe are two,” Will said. She stared at him.
    â€œJane? Jane!” It was Simon’s voice, loud and peremptory, from over the ridge. She turned her head.
    â€œJane—? Oh there you are!” Barney clambered over the rock a few yards away, turning over his shoulder to call, “Over here!”
    Will said in the same tranquil voice, “And then there were four.”
    Both boys’ heads swung round in the same instant.
    â€œWill!”
Barney’s voice was a yelp.
    Jane heard the sharp inward gasp of Simon’s breath; then he let it out in a long slow hiss. “Well … I’ll … be….”
    â€œSomeone,” Barney said. “Didn’t I tell you? Someone. Was that you blowing the horn, Will? Let’s see, do let me see!” He was hopping about, reaching, fascinated.
    Will handed it over.
    Simon said slowly, “You can’t tell me this is a coincidence.”
    â€œNo,” Will said.
    Barney was standing still now on the rock, holding the small battered horn, watching the sun glint on its golden rim. He looked over it, at Will. “Something’s happening, isn’t it?” he said quietly.
    â€œYes,” said Will.
    â€œCan you tell us?” Jane said.
    â€œNot yet. In a little while. It’s the hardest thing of all, and the last thing. And … it needs you.”
    â€œI should have known.” Simon looked at Jane with a small wry smile. “This morning. You weren’t there. Dad happened to mention who it was that suggested we stay at this particular golfing hotel.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œGreat-Uncle Merry,” Simon said.
    Will said, “He will be here before long.”
    â€œIt really is serious,” Barney said.
    â€œOf course. I told you. The hardest, and the last.”
    â€œIt really had better be the last,” Simon said rather pompously. “I start boarding school after these holidays.”
    Will looked at him. The corner of his mouth twitched.
    Simon seemed to hear in his mind the echo of his own words; he looked down, scuffing at the grass with one foot. “Well I mean,” he said. “I mean my holidays will be even more different from the other’s, so we may not be going to … to the same places all the time. Right, Jane?” He turned in appeal to his sister: then paused. “Jane?”
    Jane was gazing past him, eyes wide and fixed. She was seeing, now, nothing but a figure on the mountain, a figure standing looking at them, outlined by the blazing light of the