The Firehills by Steve Alten Page A

had baked solid, and the cloth crackled, shedding clouds of dust as he
revealed the contents. Sam reached out and touched the smooth surface. The iron
was black and cold now, a dull spike of dark metal marked with the imprint of
Wayland’s hammer.
    “C’mon, boy,” said Wayland. He began to build a fire
in the center of the forge, heaping charcoal over a pyramid of dry sticks. Sam
helped him, and soon they were both covered in black dust, grinning at each
other with dazzling eyes and teeth. Wayland struck a spark into a tuft of dry
moss, blew on it until a glow bathed his face, and fed it into a gap in the
pile of firewood. After more blowing, a tiny flame sprang into life. While Sam
watched the fire, the smith worked on the blade with files, grinding and
shaping, adding the beginnings of a sharp edge. The metal was soft, easily
worked, and quickly took shape under Wayland’s expert hands.
    The fire blazed for a while, lighting up the dark smithy,
then began to settle. With a brittle tinkling, the charcoal collapsed into the
embers of the wood and the flames subsided. When the hearth was glowing gently,
Wayland added more charcoal and said, “Right, lad. Get on they bellows.”
    Sam hauled on the bellows handle until the charcoal
roared, and Wayland returned the blade to the fire. “Need to ’arden it
now,” he told Sam. “Get pumpin’.”

    ‡

    Charly gasped, her hand to her mouth. As she drew closer
to the circle, she saw that the men were bent over a shallow pit in the earth.
Within lay a body, a tall man of middle years, a dusting of gray in his hair.
His arms were folded across his chest, and beneath his hands was the pommel of
a long sword. He was strewn with the petals of wildflowers, and items of
jewelry had been placed about him. Around his neck was a chain of bronze links,
and in his hair, clasped to his brow, was a circlet in the form of galloping
horses.
    “They pray to me now, at the time of death,” said
Epona, “for the Underworld is mine. You say you seek power. This is power.”
She gestured at the chanting circle. “The worship of men.”
    “But that doesn’t help me,” protested Charly.
“Nobody worships me. I’m just a kid.”
    “No, my child,” replied Epona, “for you drew down
the moon. The Goddess is within you now. Take up your power.”
    She led Charly by the hand into the center of the
circle.
They seemed to pass through the bodies of the men like smoke and found
themselves standing by the graveside. The drumming and the relentless
drone of
voices crowded in on Charly. The two worlds, the ancient and the
present day,
swirled around her on black wings. She saw images, visions in the
streaming sparks from the beacon fire—births, deaths, the galloping of
white horses on green
fields, harvests of golden wheat, bright swords against the sky. The
eye of the
moon, high above now, seemed to pierce her, nailing her to the spot.
She
couldn’t breathe. And then, when she thought she would burst, Epona
reached
out and touched one finger to her forehead.
    Suddenly, Charly was at the center of a shaft of light, a
pillar of cold radiance that lanced upward into the night sky. She seemed to
expand, until she filled the whole world, and the white light spilled out of
her, from her eyes, from her mouth. Clenching her fists, Charly drew the
radiance into herself, until it formed a white-hot core deep inside. She threw
back her head and laughed, high and wild.
    “Run with me,” said Epona. And Charly ran.

    ‡

    Together, they left the circle of shadowy figures and the
blazing beacon and ran along the hill’s crest. With the speed of horses, they
tore across the night, and the cold light of the moon spilled from Charly so
that she seemed like a vessel of glass, lit from within. As she ran, her hair
streaming behind her, Charly caught glimpses of another figure, half-seen,
always on the edge of vision.
    “Mother,” she called to Epona, “who runs with us?”
    “It is my consort, the