The Firehills by Steve Alten Page B

Horned God. The one you call the
Green Man.”
    Charly turned her head and caught an impression of
antlers, a face of leaves and a familiar pair of amber eyes.
    “Come,” cried Epona and plunged on into the night. For an eternity, they seemed to run without tiring, along
the high ridge. Charly grinned as she ran, exhilarated by the speed, burning
within with the power of the Moon Goddess. No longer would she envy Sam his
power. This night was hers, had come from her alone. She had her own path to
tread now.
    After a time that Charly could not measure, the bushes
grew thicker and tall trees began to dot the slope. Epona paused, waiting for
Charly to catch up. As she drew to a halt, the goddess placed her hands on
Charly’s shoulders and smiled.
    “We are one now, you and I.”
    “My thanks, Mother,” said Charly. Then she added, “I
seek a doorway, an entrance to the Underworld.”
    “There is a gate such as you seek,” continued Epona,
“It is called the Gate of Water. Follow.”
    Epona plunged down the slope, leaving the ridge behind and
picking her way through the thickening trees. Soon they were in dark woodland,
full of strange shadows and movements in the undergrowth.
    After a time, Epona led Charly down a steep slope into a
narrow valley. Trees arched over from either side, blotting out the stars, but
the light of the moon followed them. At the bottom of the valley, splashing and
murmuring over rocks, was a tiny stream of cold, clear water. Together, Epona
and her daughter followed the flow upward, picking their way slowly through the
overhanging branches. At last, they came to a small pool in a bay of rock,
where ferns clung to the crevices and water dripped from the moss, a thousand
bright droplets.
    “The Gate of Water,” said Epona, standing aside.
Charly stepped forward. Before her was a blank face of stone, higher than her
head, draped with greenery. The source of the stream was somewhere in the rock
above her. Water poured down from the leaves of the ferns like strings of glass
beads, and its music was all around her.
    “Trust,” said Epona, “and the gate will open unto
you. But take heed, daughter. Those who journey in the Underworld are ever in
peril. You have run well on this, your first night of power. But my protection
was upon you, and the elder things of the world would not draw near. I will not
always be by your side. Fare well, daughter, and blessed be.”
    “Thank you,” replied Charly, feeling awkward. The
light that burned within her was fading, and the impression of existing in two
worlds at once was drifting away. She gazed at the wall of layered stone. When
she looked back, Epona was gone.
    Charly stepped forward into the shallow pool at the foot
of the waterfall, gasping at the icy bite of the water. She stretched out one
hand, meaning to test the weeddraped rock but then decided against it. Trust,
Epona had said. Closing her eyes, she strode forward, flinched in expectation,
but the anticipated collision never came. Instead, she stumbled, tried to
regain her footing, and sprawled headlong into dry dust.

    ‡

    Sam worked until the sweat poured from him, maintaining a
steady rhythm that kept the metal glowing red. Just when he thought he was at
the end of his endurance, Wayland took the blade in a pair of tongs and plunged it
into a barrel of water. Steam billowed up with a great whoosh, and the smith bent close, peering intently at
the metal. When he was satisfied, he took it out and returned with it to the
forge.
    “Right, lad. Now it’s ’ard, we needs to temper
it.” He put the metal back in the coals and let it heat up to a dull glow,
cooler than the fiery red that Sam had maintained before, then plunged it once
more into the water barrel. He repeated this several times, until at last he
seemed happy. Taking the cooled metal from the water, he held it up to his
face, squinted along its length with one eye closed, and smiled. “Aye,
lad,” he said, “that’ll