The Firehills by Steve Alten

discovered her as they fought their way through western
Europe. To Charly, brought up on a farm, she had always seemed the ideal
goddess, wild and young, a friend to the farmer and to the rider.
    “Come,” said Epona, “ride with me.” She whistled
and was answered by a high whinny. A thunder of hoofbeats and a white stallion
appeared. It stamped to a halt before them, the breath gusting from its
nostrils, blue white clouds in the moonlight. Epona mounted and beckoned for
Charly to join her. The raven had flown as the horse approached, drifting silently into the night on soot-black
wings. Reaching out for the offered hand, Charly experienced a swirling
sensation and found herself on the horse’s back, clinging to Epona’s waist.
    With a mighty kick, the horse took flight, cantering up
the slope. As they picked their way through the bushes, the thorns scraping
Charly’s legs, she saw that they were heading for the fire on the hill’s
summit. The sound of chanting grew louder. At the foot of the beacon, Epona
reined in the horse. It pranced sideways for a moment, reluctant to end its
flight. The raven circled them once, then flopped to the ground, hopping out of
the reach of stray hooves. Charly looked out over the sea.
    “I heard the words of the old ritual, child,” said
Epona.
    “You are yet young.”
    “I–I know. I’m sorry,” stuttered Charly. “I was
desperate.”
    “What is it you seek?”
    Charly thought for a moment. “Power.”
    Epona threw back her head and laughed, a wild sound. The
horse reared, and Charly clung to the goddess.
    “Power? You are a child. What need have you for
power?”
    “A friend of mine is in trouble. I need to help him,” replied Charly sharply.
    Epona laughed once more. “Come,” she said and with
another blur of sensation, Charly found herself on the ground once more, Epona
by her side. Looking around, she saw that the horse was gone. Only the raven
remained, and with three flaps of its glossy wings, it returned to Epona’s
shoulder.
    The goddess took Charly by the hand and led her to the
foot of the beacon. They stood side by side, the great fire roaring above them,
the sparks streaming away inland on the wind. Before her the land dropped away,
and still Charly had the impression of two worlds, one layered upon the other.
Dimly, she could still make out the blazing flowers of the gorse, in the
Firehills of her own time. But over them lay another landscape, one much older.
As she had noticed before, the sea was much farther away than she remembered.
How many centuries, she wondered, would it take for the waves to erode that
much land?
    Charly saw that Epona was beckoning and moved to follow
her. It was difficult to walk. Her doubled vision caused her to stumble as she
struggled to keep up with the horse goddess. Cresting the ridge, she paused.
Below her, in the lee of the hill, was a hollow. The sound of drums and
chanting was coming from a group of huddled figures, their shadows flickering
in the light from the beacon. Charly moved closer. As she drew near, the
figures were revealed as men in rough clothes of linen and leather, heavy
cloaks of animal skin drawn close about them. They bent over something hidden
from Charly, some chanting, some beating wide, shallow drums of tanned hide.
    “Come closer,” said Epona, beckoning. “Do not be
afraid.”

    ‡

    Sam awoke scratching. He had spent the night on a rough
mattress stuffed with straw, in the single room that Wayland shared with his
son. Rolling his shirt up, Sam examined the rash that dotted his stomach and chest. He
hoped this was from the prickling of the straw, but he suspected that some kind
of insect had been involved. After a breakfast of fresh eggs and more coarse
bread, Wayland said, “Now then, lad. Let’s see ’ow she’s farin’.”
    He set off toward the smithy.
    Sam arrived to find the smith lifting the bundle of
sackcloth from the cold ashes of the forge and peeling back the layers. The
clay