The Firehills by Steve Alten

what they
want—revenge.”
    “If, as you tell me, Amergin is the last survivor of the
Milesians, then yes,” agreed the old woman. “It seems likely.”
    “I’m going to rescue him,” said Sam, suddenly.
    “No, you’re not,” replied Megan, just as quickly.
    “Why not?”
    “It’s too dangerous.”
    “But I defeated the Malifex! How dangerous can it be?”
    “Oooh!” exclaimed Charly. “Hark at Action Man!”
    “We’re talking about an entire race or what’s left
of them,” agreed Megan.
    “So what do we do?” demanded Sam. “Sit here and hope
he gets out on his own?”
    “But we don’t even know where they’ve taken him,”
    said Megan. “He could be anywhere.” She looked close
to tears.
    “The Hollow Hills!” exclaimed Sam. “Where else are
they going to take him? Mrs. P.?” He turned to the old woman. “Does it say
how to get in?”
    “Sorry, dear?” Mrs. P. looked up from her book.
    “How to get into the Hollow Hills? Does it tell you in
the book?”
    Mrs. P. looked thoughtful. “There was something,” she
began and jumped up, returning to her bookshelves.
    “Where was it? Ah, yes . . . here. William Lambarde.”
She held up an ancient, leather-bound book. “ A Perambulation of Sussex, published in 1578. I’ve always been intrigued by this. Where is it? Here we
go.” She cleared her throat and began to read aloud in strange, old-fashioned
English:
    “He who woulde be a Walker Betweene Worlds, and consorte
with Fayries, must take hym to those hilles which men term Barowes, being
hollowe, and knocke thrice, and the hill shall open unto hym. To the Wyse,
these gaytes be signified by the elementes, being the Gates of Air, Fyre,
Yerth, and Water.”
    There was silence.
    Eventually, Sam said, “And that helps, does it?”
    “It’s a start,” Mrs. P. replied with a sniff.
    “What’s yerth? ” asked
Charly.
    “Earth, sweety,” explained Mrs. P.
    “So we just find a likely spot and knock three times,
and they’ll let us in?” demanded Sam.
    “Not just any spot,” said Megan patiently. “At one
of the Gates, which seem to be associated with the four elements—earth, fire,
water, and air. Anyway, you’re not going, and that’s that. I told your
parents I’d look after you this weekend. And I will.” She stood up. “Come
on. There’s no use moping around here. I’m sure Amergin will be fine.
He’s a powerful wizard.”
    “I’ll go and start dinner,” said Mrs. P. Sam groaned
inwardly. “You’ll feel more positive with something tasty inside you.”

    ‡

    They filed downstairs, Megan and Charly going to their rooms, Sam and Mrs. P. continuing down to the ground
floor. When Mrs. P. had shuffled off to the kitchen, Sam made his way to the
residents’ lounge. There, he rummaged around briefly in a pile of brochures
and leaflets, pulled out a tattered, pink-covered map, and retired to a low
coffee table.
    Spreading the map out on the table, he began to scrutinize
it, pushing down the stubborn folds. One index finger hunted here and there
like a dog on a scent trail. To the north of the pink coastal sprawl of
Hastings was the bewildering patchwork of the Weald, a green maze of tiny woods
and narrow lanes. No use. No hills. Farther west, the bleak expanse of Pevensey
Levels, crisscrossed by a thousand streams and ditches. Still no hill. And then
the urban stain of Eastbourne, and just beyond, he found what he was seeking.
On the western edge of the town, the South Downs began, a swirling thumbprint
of contour lines and, dotted across them, the words he had hoped for: Long
Barrow, Tumuli, Earthworks. The names brought a shiver. All his adventures had
begun when Charly had told him of the barrow behind her house, high on
Brenscombe Hill.
    So, if it was barrows he wanted, then this was the place
to start. He noted the name of the nearest village—Wilmington. Just then, somebody came silently into the
room. Sam saw movement from the corner of his eye and jumped. It