The Firehills by Steve Alten Page A

suddenly, and Sam saw that he was holding a
long, curved blade. In a panic, Sam scuttled backward and collided with the
doorframe, bringing down a shower of dust from the thatch.
    “Oh, don’t ’ee mind this,” said the man, waving
the blade at Sam. “New scythe blade; old ’un’s as sharp as I am.” He
placed it carefully on a low wooden table.
    “Run on an’ get us summin’ t’eat,” he commanded.
Sam was confused for a moment, but then a small shadow detached itself from the
larger gloom and scurried past him. It was a young boy, covered in soot. Sam
had a glimpse of wide, white eyes, and then he was gone.
    “Don’ get many strangers,” said the man, folding his
arms across his massive chest. He was wearing a long leather apron over rough
brown leggings. His arms were bare and hugely muscled.
    “I’m, er, lost,” said Sam.
    “I should say y’are,” agreed the man, “a tidy way
lost, an’ all. A young ’un, too, ter be wanderin’ the ’ollow
’ills.”
    “You know about the Hollow Hills?” Sam asked in
surprise.
    “Course I do, boy! I ain’t no gowk! An’ I knows a
Walker when I sees one.”
    “A walker?”
    “A Walker Between Worlds. One as uses the ’ills to get
about, an’ ’as commerce with the Faery Folk.”
    “I dunno about commerce, ”
replied Sam. “I was trying to get away from them. They’ve kidnapped my
friend.”
    “Ah, a sorry tale,” said the man with a sigh. “Not
wise to cross ’em, the Farisees. What did ’e do, this friend of yourn?”
    “He invaded their land, killed quite a few of them,
drove the rest underground.”
    “Ah. ’E’ll be a pop’lar lad, then.”
    At that moment, the boy returned with wooden plates
bearing thick slabs of coarse bread and slices of tangy cheese.
    “Tuck in, lad,” said the man.
    “Thanks. I’m Sam, by the way.”
    “’Ow do, Sam? You can call me Wayland.”
    Silence fell as they applied themselves to the food.
Eventually, Wayland said, “Youm gonna rescue ’im, then?
    This friend of yourn?”
    “That was the idea,” admitted Sam, “but I didn’t
get very far. I’d just found a way into the Hollow Hills when the Sidhe
turned up, and then somehow I sort of fell out and ended up on a hillside not
far from here.”
    “Aye, well, them as goes crawling round in the earth
like moldywarps is arskin’ fer bother.”
    “Moldywarps?” spluttered Sam, spraying crumbs.
    “Little gennlemen in black velvet, as digs in the earth.
Leaves their little mounds o’ muck hither and yon.”
    “Ah, moles,” said Sam and returned to his sandwich.
Wayland was quiet once more, chewing steadily. His face was weather-beaten and
ruddy, like old leather, polished and oiled; and his graying hair was
square-cut at the shoulders. His blue eyes twinkled in nets of fine lines as
he watched Sam.
    “Iron,” he said, after a while. “That’s yer lad
for the Faery Folk. Iron.”
    Sam looked blank.
    “Can’t stand it, see?” Wayland continued. “Takes
away their power, only thing as can kill ’em. You needs you some iron.”
    “Have you got anything I could use?” asked Sam.
Wayland dissolved into laughter. It went on for what seemed like an
unreasonable length of time, and Sam was starting to look around in
embarrassment when Wayland took a shuddering breath, wiped his eyes, and said,
“’Ave I got any iron? I’m a blacksmith, boy! I’ve got precious little but iron! Tell ’ee what, you an’ me, we’ll
make somethin’, a good ole pigsticker fer visitin’ bother on the
Farisees!”
    The smith jumped to his feet. “Don’t just sit sowing
gape seed, lad. Tackle-to!”

    ‡

    Charly lay on her back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her mother had gone upstairs with Mrs. P., up into the attic room, where they
were now deep in discussion. Closing her eyes, she pictured once more the crop
circle forming around Sam, the spheres of light crackling and dancing, the
breathtaking pattern of swirls stamped across the landscape. How