The Hill of Strangers

Part One. Small Giants

Last time, we left Alex and Felix on a hill, with a lot of shouting coming out of a golden door.

We should say again that we were not there. Alex and Felix told it all to us afterwards, and Maya wrote it down, and Ollie asked whether they had given the children any dinner, and it turned out that they had, so he was cheered up.

The door was as tall as the school hall. It was carved all over with swirls and dogs and boats, and it had swung open so wide that the noise from inside came rolling down the hill like a big warm wave: voices, and laughing, and a harp, and a great many chairs being pushed back at once.

Out of it came a crowd.

They were tall. Even the shortest one was as tall as Mister Hanu on a bad day. They wore furs and cloaks and gold rings, and one of them had a horned hat, and one had a beard so long that she had tucked it into her belt. They stopped in a half-circle on the grass, and every single one of them stared.

"Small giants," said somebody at the back.

"They're tiny giants," said somebody else. "They've shrunk in the rain."

"We're not giants," said Alex. "We're Alex and Felix."

"We're children," said Felix. "Small ones."

The crowd drew in a large breath. A man in the middle, who was holding a roast chicken, dropped it.

Part Two. Thought and Memory

"SILENCE," said a voice.

It was the big one. It came from the very top of the steps, and it was so deep that the grass moved. A man came down them with a stick. He was the tallest of all, with a long grey beard, a wide blue hat pulled down over one side of his face, and a cloak the colour of a dark sky just before rain. He had only one eye. The other was covered with the hat, and he was glaring with the first one so hard that it made up for it.

On each of his shoulders sat a black bird.

Two ravens, as big as cats, glossy and sharp, with eyes like wet beads. They were looking at Alex and Felix, and they were whispering in the old man's ears.

"This is Odin," whispered Felix. "I think. Maya told us about him."

"He's the boss," whispered Alex.

"My ravens say that you are real," said Odin, in a voice like a very large drum. "This one is called Thought. This one is called Memory. They fly out over the nine worlds every morning, and come back and tell me everything. And this evening they came back and said they could not tell me what you were, because they had never seen anything like you in the whole of the sky."

"We came by puddle," said Alex, trying to be helpful.

"We were playing a game," said Felix.

"A game," said Odin. He looked as if he had been given a tray of cheese and told it was a sword. "In the nine worlds. In my grass. How odd. Who sent you?"

"Nobody sent us," said Felix. "We swapped."

Part Three. Who They Swapped With

The old man took off his hat.

It made no difference. He still had only the one eye. But it let the twins see his face, which was not so frightening, close up. It was more like the face of somebody's grandad who has been up too late reading.

"Swapped," he said. "With whom?"

Alex and Felix looked at one another.

"A girl," said Alex, slowly. "She was called Hel. We think. She looked sort of half and half."

"And a wolf," said Felix. "A puppy."

The whole crowd made a noise, all together. It was a sort of ohhh, the noise that you make when you are watching somebody about to sit on a sleeping cat.

"That," said Odin, "is Loki's children."

"We know Mister Loki," said Alex.

"Mister...?" said Odin.

"He's our supply teacher," said Felix. "And he does magic tricks. And he's got a green jumper."

"Loki," said Odin, in a flat voice, "is doing supply teaching."

"He's very good at it," said Alex, loyally. "Mostly. Sometimes he turns into a bin."

For a long moment, the old god just looked at him. Then something strange happened to the corners of his mouth. They twitched, and twitched again, and in the end he was laughing, a big rumbling laugh that went on and on, and set the ravens flapping. Half the crowd laughed too, though they didn't know why, because it is catching.

"A bin," said Odin, wiping his eye. "He'd do that. He'd absolutely do that."

Part Four. The Feast That Could Not Start

"Well," said Odin. "You must come in."

"Oh, no, thank you," said Felix, quickly, who had been taught never to go into a strange house with a stranger. "We have to go home."

"We don't know how yet," said Alex.

"Then you will have to wait," said Odin, "and a guest who waits is a guest who eats."

It was the hall they went into, and it was the biggest room they had ever been in. It was longer than the school field and as tall as a church. The tables ran down it in long rows, with benches, and tall candles, and jugs, and golden plates. There were roasts and breads and bowls of berries, and a big carved fish that smelled of lemon. At the far end, a fire as big as a bus burned in a stone fireplace, with a roast boar on a spit.

"Ollie would love it," said Felix.

"Ollie would faint," said Alex.

They were put at the middle of the high table, on cushions, because the benches were too tall. A lady with a gentle face and a silver dress cut up their meat for them, and said her name was Frigg. A man with a golden harp, who was called Bragi, began to sing a song about them, which began, "Two small strangers came over the hill," and had a long chorus.

But when everybody sat down, nobody started to eat.

"Why's nobody eating?" whispered Alex.

"It's the rule," said Frigg. "We can't begin until every person in the hall has sat down. It's old. It stops anybody feeling left out."

"Is somebody missing?" said Felix.

Everyone looked at the empty seat at the end of the high table. It had a plain wooden chair, with a very large bowl on the table in front of it. The bowl was empty.

"That," said Frigg, softly, "is Tyr's."

Part Five. The Man Who Was Not in the Room

He was standing in the doorway.

Alex saw him first. He had been hanging back, in the shadow of the great door, like someone who is not sure he is allowed. He was holding the pale ribbon bunched up in his good hand, and the other hand, the wooden one, hung at his side.

"Tyr!" said Odin. "At last. You are always last, you know. Sit down, man. Sit. We've been waiting for you since the soup."

"I was minding something," said Tyr.

"You are always minding something," said Bragi, not unkindly.

The man came slowly up the hall. Everybody watched. His head was down, and he looked as if he would very much like to be a bit smaller. He stopped in front of Alex and Felix, and gave a small bow.

"I'm Tyr," he said. "I'm... I'm sorry you've been put in this."

"It's all right," said Felix, because it is what you say.

"It isn't," said Tyr. "It's my fault."

"It's a game's fault," said Alex.

"It's not your fault," said Felix. "It's nobody's. It's only that two things matched."

Tyr looked down at them for a very long time. Then, with a sort of sigh that seemed to come up from his feet, he sat down on the plain wooden chair. And at that, the whole hall let out its breath at the same moment, and at last, all together, started to eat.

Part Six. Where Ollie Would Have Been

We would like to say, here, that we have eaten many things. We have had fish pie. We have had Missus Ungnyeo's porridge. We have had a Seven Lucky Men's special, which is mostly rice.

But Alex and Felix said that nothing in the world compared to what they had at that table.

There was a roast that came apart when you looked at it. There was bread with a crust that crackled. There was a bowl of tiny red berries, so sweet that Alex had to close his eyes. There was a pie shaped like a boat. There was a jug of something that smelled of honey and looked like sunshine, which Frigg said was meant for children, and was not what the grown-ups were drinking.

"Is this real?" said Felix, after his fourth bite.

"It is extremely real," said Frigg, kindly. "You have gravy on your ear."

"Alex has a whole carrot up his sleeve," said Felix.

"I'm saving it," said Alex.

"For who?"

"For Willow," said Alex. He lowered his voice. "I don't think she's coming. But in case."

Nobody noticed, then, that someone had made a small noise by the door.

Part Seven. Bragi's Song

Bragi had been making up the song all through dinner, and at last he stood on his bench and sang it.

It was called "The Ballad of the Two Small Strangers", and it had eleven verses. It said they were as brave as bears. It said they had come over the hill on a beam of moonlight. It said they were nine feet tall, which was not true, but Bragi said that it scanned.

There was a chorus that went:

Oh, Alex and Felix, oh, Felix and Alex, They came through the puddle and they didn't have a palace,

and then it ran out of ideas, and went on for another four lines about a palace.

"I like it," said Felix, politely.

"Is it meant to rhyme?" whispered Alex.

"Poets are allowed to have a go," said Frigg.

By the twelfth time they sang the chorus, the whole hall was banging its cups on the table, in time. It was a loud, very happy, strange noise. And Alex found, rather to his surprise, that he was banging his cup too, and that he was not frightened any more. Not for a minute.

Then he remembered where he was, and put the cup down.

"It's all right," said Felix, in his ear. "We can be glad for a bit."

"And sad for a bit," said Alex.

"Both," said Felix.

Part Eight. The Cat in the Doorway

That's when Willow arrived. She had walked through the silver as if it was a door that somebody she respected had been holding open.

She stood on the hall step for a moment, in the light from the fire, quite alone, a small spotted Bengal cat in a large hall. Her coat was damp. There was a smear of silver on her nose.

"Willow," said Alex, and nearly knocked over a jug.

She did not run to him. She never does. She looked round the hall, very slowly, at the tables and the plates and the fire, and the tall people, as if they had all been moved into her house without being asked. Then she walked, slowly, and without a glance at anybody, down the middle of the room.

Under the high table, two large grey wolves had lifted their heads.

They were Odin's. They lay by his feet, one on each side, with long yellow teeth and ears like knives. They were called Geri and Freki, which means Greedy and Hungry, and the one thing they had never in all their lives done was to be afraid of a cat.

They growled. It was a long, low rumble, like a lorry in a tunnel. Every person in the hall went still.

Willow stopped. She turned her head and looked at the wolves. She looked at them for a long time, with her golden eyes half closed, the way she looks at a bird through a window. She did not hiss. She did not arch her back. She simply sat down in front of them, and began to wash her paw.

The growl faltered.

Geri put his head back down on the floor. Freki yawned, a great, loud, embarrassed yawn, and rolled over on his back.

Part Nine. What Odin Said About Cats

"I have never seen that," said Odin.

He leaned back and looked at the cat with real respect. Thought flew down from his shoulder and landed on the table, and looked at her too.

"She walked through a door," said Memory, from the other shoulder, in a quiet, dry voice. It was the first thing either bird had said. "Without a key."

"There's no door," said Thought. "That's the point. It's a cat."

"Cats go in and out of places," said Frigg, softly. "You know how they are. They don't ask. It's said that they can't be kept out of any room in any world, and Freyja's cats have always held the same view."

"I know her," said Alex. "She's ours. She's Willow. She's not good at lap-sitting but she's very good at doorways."

Willow finished her paw. She walked up to Alex, and sat on his foot, which was a great compliment, and stared at the nearest roast.

Alex took the carrot from his sleeve, and offered it to her. She looked at it. She looked at him.

"She'd rather have the fish," said Felix, "I think."

Without a word, Tyr reached out with his good hand, and put a piece of the carved fish on a golden plate, and slid it down the table. Willow ate it, with her paw on the edge of the plate. It was the first time all evening that Tyr smiled.

Part Ten. What Is a School?

"Tell us about this school," said Frigg, when the plates had been cleared. "Tell us about the place you live in, when you are not on our hill."

"We don't live in it," said Felix. "We go to it. Every day. Except Saturday and Sunday."

"It's got a field," said Alex, "and a playground, and a dinner hall, and about four hundred coats."

"And who is in charge of it?" said Odin.

"Mister Harris," said Felix. "He's the head teacher. He's got a clipboard."

"A clipboard," said Odin, respectfully. "What does it do?"

"It makes him feel better," said Alex.

"And there are the staff," said Felix. "They help with everything. There's a lady who's the dinner lady, and a man who does the weather, and one who keeps the doors. And there's Mister Heimdall, who does the crossing patrol."

A hush fell over the hall. A lady in a green cloak, at the far end, put down her cup.

"Heimdall," said Frigg. "Of the rainbow bridge. Our Heimdall?"

"He's got very good ears," said Alex. "He says the grass is loud on Mondays."

"He left," said somebody, in a small voice. "He and Freyja and Idun and Thor all left, one morning, and we thought they were cross with us."

"They're not cross," said Felix. "Mister Thor is the caretaker. He mends the pipes. He has to be careful not to be startled."

"Thor," said Odin, in a voice that was quiet, for him, "is mending pipes."

"He's very good at it," said Alex. "He's got his own van. It eats the hedge."

The whole of the hall was silent. Then Odin let out a long, shaky breath, and put one enormous hand over his face. It was quite a while before anyone could tell whether he was laughing, or the other thing.

"And Idun's orchard?" said Frigg, at last.

"She's got two apple pips we planted," said Felix. "They're next to each other."

"Then they are all well," said Frigg. "And happy. And looked after." She looked at the long table, and the one empty chair, and the fire. "It's a long time since we have heard that."

Odin took his hand from his face. His one eye was bright, and wet.

"A school," he said, gruffly. "Well. It sounds a good place. I should like to see it."

"You'd have to bring your own coat peg," said Alex.

Part Eleven. Why Nobody Can Talk to the School

After the feast, Odin sent the twins' news up and down the hall on the ravens.

It was a very odd evening. Everyone in the hall had a question, and Alex and Felix were asked every single one, in turn, from high up. What was a school? What was a playground? Why would anyone have a bin? What were pencils? They didn't have the answers to the last one. Alex said it was "a stick for making things stay". Bragi wrote it down.

"Can we send a message?" said Felix. "To the school? To Maya, or Mister Janus? So they know we're all right?"

"I have tried," said Odin. "My ravens fly out over all the worlds. They went to the very edge of the sky, and came back with silver on their wings. There is a... a smudge, where the two skies touch. A bird can fly into it. But a bird cannot fly out the other side. The silver closes up behind it."

"But Willow got through," said Alex.

"Willow," said Odin gravely, "is not a bird."

Memory had gone quiet, as if he had thought of something. "Cats," he said, "do not use the smudge. Cats go through the edges."

"Whatever that means," said Thought.

Nobody knew. They wrote it down anyway, and put it on the long list of things that nobody knew, which was by now so long that Frigg said it should have its own table.

Part Twelve. Bright Ideas

By ten o'clock, the gods had come up with a great many ways of sending two children home.

"We could shout," said a man with a red beard. "Very loudly. In the direction of the school."

"Which direction is it?" said Bragi.

"Up," said the man. Everyone looked up. It was all up.

"We could build a ladder," said the lady with the long beard. "A tall one. Out of tables."

"We could throw them," said a large man at the end of the bench, quite cheerfully. "Just a short throw. Over the edge of the sky."

"No," said Alex, and Felix, both at once.

"We could ask the moon," said Frigg. They all looked at the moon. The moon, which was low over the hill and had been listening, went pink with embarrassment.

"I'm afraid I don't know either," said Mama Quilla, from a great distance, in her warm-water voice. "I have been trying to remember all day. I know that I came through the same smudge that you did. And I know that it is all very close at the moment, and it is mostly my fault, for sitting down. And I know one more thing, and I wish I didn't. On Friday, I shall be full. And whatever is the way things are on the night that I'm full, I'm afraid is the way they will stay."

"It isn't your fault," said Felix.

"It's nobody's," said Alex.

"Then whose is it?" said the moon, sadly. And nobody could say.

Willow, who had been listening from the end of the table, climbed up onto Alex's lap. She turned round three times and lay down, with her chin on his arm, which is a thing she only does when she has decided to, and she had decided. She was exactly as heavy as a warm loaf.

"That's a good idea," said Alex.

"What is?" said Felix.

"Having a rest first," said Alex, "and thinking after."

Part Thirteen. What Tyr Was Minding

It was late when they left the hall.

The moons were high. The big, low one hung over the hill, like a lamp that somebody had forgotten to turn off. The small cold one was behind it. The grass was silvery, and the air smelled of wood smoke.

Tyr was waiting for them on the steps.

"I will take you to where you'll sleep," he said.

"Where?" said Alex.

"It is the only house on the hill that nobody visits," said Tyr. "I am afraid that I do not have a big one. And it is a bit..." He stopped. "Hel's house is the nearest. It's where you ought to be, I think. It is her hill you landed on, after all."

"Is it nice?" said Felix.

"It is," said Tyr, "quiet."

He took them by the hand, one on each side, with his good hand and his wooden one. The wooden hand was surprisingly warm. And they walked down the hill together, a tall tired man, and two small children, and a Bengal cat with her tail up, in the light of two moons.

"Tyr?" said Alex. "What were you minding?"

Tyr didn't say anything for quite a long time. The ribbon, in his pocket, shone in the moonlight.

"A very large puppy," he said, "and a small girl."

Part Fourteen. The House at the Bottom

At the very bottom of the hill, the path ran out.

There was a low stone wall, with ivy on it, and a wooden gate that was a bit crooked. Beyond the gate, in the dark, was a house. It was long and low, with a green roof like moss, and a single window with a candle in it. It was so quiet that the grass seemed to be holding its breath.

"Is it a... is it a spooky house?" said Alex, in a small voice.

"No," said Tyr. "It is a quiet house. There is a difference, though I could not tell you what it is."

Felix looked at the candle in the window. He noticed that it was not the sort of flame that makes you want to run. It was the kind that is left on for somebody.

"It's like a landing light," he said. "The kind that's left on so you can find your way."

Tyr looked at him, and for the first time since they had met, he did something with his face that was nearly a smile.

"Yes," he said. "That is exactly right."

He pushed the gate. It swung open without a sound. Willow went through first, with her tail straight up, and sat on the doorstep as if she had lived there all her life.

"There is one more thing," said Tyr. "Hel's house has never had a visitor. Not one, in a long time. I do not know what she will say when she hears."

"She's not here," said Felix.

"No," said Tyr. "But she will be. Somebody is going to have to explain."

On the doorstep, the cat turned and looked back at the three of them. Then she lifted one paw, and knocked on the door, three times, very politely.

The door opened.

Nobody was behind it. But the candle flickered, and somewhere deep inside the house, something old said, in a soft, dry voice, "At last."

Alex took Felix's hand, and Felix took the key in his pocket in his other one, and held on to both. They listened to the voice go away down the house, one slow step at a time.

"Monday," they said, at exactly the same time.

The End.