The Firehills by Steve Alten Page B

wings and slid down a hill of air, heading inland. Charly
followed and found that they were descending over the Pevensey Levels, a vast,
flat expanse of grassland, carved into a checkerboard by countless waterways.
They chased the reflection of the sun as it sparked and glittered in the
ditches, skimming so low that their wing tips drew lines of ripples on the
surface of the water. And then Sam wheeled to the south once more, leaving the
Levels behind as he circled the hazy smudge of traffic fumes that marked the
town of Eastbourne.
    Dropping lower, they sped over rooftops and roads and saw,
stretching out before them like a rumpled green carpet, the beginning of the
Downs. Sam spotted what he was seeking, descended farther, and circled twice,
giving Charly a chance to catch up. Then, as they slowed and approached the
ground, the world tumbled again, and Charly found herself in her own body once
more. Breathless with excitement, she grinned at Sam.
    “You do know how to show a girl a good time!” she
gasped. Sam smiled back. “Come on,” he replied. “This way.”
    They were in a field dotted with the lazy black-andwhite
shapes of cattle. Over to their left, behind an ageworn stone wall, were the
ruins of an old priory. Sam led them to a fence, and they scrambled over.
    “Wow!” exclaimed Charly, gesturing ahead. “Look at
that!”
    “Yeah,” replied Sam casually, “cool, isn’t he?”
    Across the road, the bulk of the Downs rose up above the
village, and on the slope, dazzling white against the green, was the carved
outline of a man. He stood with his legs apart and his arms raised to shoulder
height, and in each hand, he appeared to be holding a tall staff.
    “Were you expecting this?” asked Charly.
    “Well, it says ‘Long Man’ on the map,” explained
Sam.
    “And there was a leaflet about him back at Mrs. P.’s.
Come on—that’s Windover Hill. There are barrows and things all over the
hilltop, up above him.”
    They crossed the narrow road and climbed a stile over a
fence. A footpath, tightly hemmed between the road and the edge of a cornfield,
led along the bottom of the hill before eventually swinging in a series of curves toward
the slope that bore the chalk figure.
    At the corner where the path left the road at right angles
and headed off across the fields, they came upon a man, sitting on a grassy
bank in the sun, biting into a huge sandwich. Two long walking sticks lay by
his side.
    “Art’noon,” he said, around a mouthful of bread and
cheese. “Off to look at the Green Man?”
    Sam looked startled. “Why do you call him that?”
    he asked.
    The man gave Sam a searching look. “Well,” he drawled,
in a thick accent that reminded Sam of Somerset or Cornwall, “’E’s white
now, see, that’s account of ’im bein’ made o’ concrete. But ’e used
to be made o’ chalk. Cut inter the chalk of the ’ill, so ter speak. An’
sometimes, see, the villagers ’ud forget to go an’ cut un, an’ ’e’d
get overgrown. An’ then they’d call un the Green Man.”
    “I see,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Any idea who he’s
meant to be?”
    “Well, ’e’s like one o’ they candles, see?”
    “Er, no,” replied Charly, “not really.”
    “One o’ they pictures, looks like a candlestick,
then—
    all of a sudden—ye sees it’s two faces, two blokes
lookin’ at each other. Most folks, tourists an’ the like”—he pulled a
face—“sees a bloke ’oldin’ two sticks. But there’s some as sees a
chap standin’ in a doorway.”
    Charly and Sam both turned to look at the far-off figure.
It was possible, thought Sam, that what he had taken to be two staffs or spears
could be the uprights of a doorframe. He turned back to the stranger.
    “And what do you think?” he asked.
    “Me? I reckon ’e’s a windsmith.”
    “A windsmith?” Charly frowned.
    “Used to be a lot o’ windmills round ’ere; still is
one over by Polegate. Used ter be a lot o’ call fer a man as could