The Firehills by Steve Alten

human shape. A huge butterfly, dark except for a
lightning-flash of white across its wings, fluttered up from a hoofprint. Its
wings glinted an intense metallic purple as it passed through a shaft of
sunlight, heading up to the high canopy of oaks. Sam was getting hungry. He had
lost all track of time, but it felt like several hours since his last meal. He
stopped for a breather, climbing the low bank and settling with his back against a tree. He sat listening to the sound of
birdsong for a while, watching midges weave a ball of silver in the light that
fell on the path below. And then, with nothing else to do, he continued on.
Soon he came to a patch of woodland that had recently been cut—the word coppiced sprang to his mind, though he wasn’t entirely
sure what it meant. Here the old stumps that he had seen throughout the forest
had had their crop of tall stems removed, and piles of long poles were neatly
stacked by the path. The great timber trees had been left to grow on and stood
in majestic isolation in the wide clearing. Sawdust and wood chips littered the
ground, but already primroses and purple orchids had pushed up through, basking
in the unexpected flood of light that now bathed the forest floor.
    A little farther on, Sam came across a series of low
mounds. They reminded him of barrows or tumuli, but the earth was raw and
fresh, and each was crowned with a wooden peg surrounded by turf. A wisp of
smoke drifted from around one of the pegs. Sam went over to investigate. He
placed one hand on the bare clay of the mound and found that it was warm.
Moving on, he soon found an explanation for the mounds. They were charcoal
kilns—the last in the line had been broken open and its contents
removed. Glossy black charcoal was strewn across the trampled ground, and a
pile of blackened logs stood to one side. He kicked at the scraps of charcoal,
and they tinkled like glass. The trail of footprints and black dust led off
through the trees, and Sam’s eyes, following the trail, made out the dark
shapes of buildings in the distance.
    Sam edged into the clearing, eyes darting back and forth.
A regular metallic ringing came from the largest building, as did the plume of
smoke that he had seen from the hillside. The buildings themselves confirmed
his suspicion. This was not his own time. Thatched and timberframed, the sides
daubed with mud and straw, these were no buildings from Sam’s world.
    There were three main structures: the largest in front of
him, across a yard of bare earth, and two smaller ones—barns or storehouses of some sort—to either side. A few
hens scratched around in the dust. The trail of charcoal fragments led to a
neatly stacked pile of black logs by the main building. The metallic sound of
hammering suddenly ceased, and a figure appeared at the door of the building
ahead, a huge hulk of a man. He stared at Sam for a few moments, then beckoned,
turned, and disappeared back inside. Sam stood on the edge of the yard,
paralyzed with indecision. The man had not seemed hostile. Otherwise, surely,
he would have approached Sam instead of turning back. But was it safe to
follow? Sam considered his options. He had clearly emerged from the Hollow
Hills far from his own time. He was alone, with no idea of where or when he was
or how to return. What did he have to lose? With a shrug, he set off across the
yard.
    It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
The windows were tiny, and the main source of illumination was a roaring fire
in the center of the room. Silhouetted against its light was the bulk of the
man who had beckoned. He had his back to Sam and was examining something
intently.
    “Welcome, lad,” he rumbled, without turning around.
His accent was thick but somehow familiar. “Don’t ’ee ’ang on the
threshold. Come on in.”
    Sam realized that he spoke like the man they had met at
the foot of Windover Hill, who had told them of the windsmith. He stepped
forward.
    The man turned