Mary Gentle - A Hawk in Silver

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A HAWK IN SILVER
by
Mary Gentle
First published in 1977.
Scanned by BW-SciFi. Proofed by Ted.
1
The Hawk
Silver glinted.
Stopping to look in the art shop window, Holly saw the glitter down among the cigarette ends, sweet wrappers and dust.
Automatically she covered it with her foot, glanced round, then picked it up.
Silver, cold to the touch.
In her dirty palm in the June morning sun lay a disc the size of a ten penny piece. It was bright and untarnished with a
hole drilled near the edge as if it should hang on a chain. On it gleamed the image of a hawk stooping in mid-air to take its
prey. Foreign coin? Special issue? She flipped it over. On the obverse was a woman's head in profile, feral-faced, with long
sea-waving hair. Holly thought of the canvas and oil-paints and racks of brushes in the shop. Damn! she thought. Just when I
could've done with some cash. Wonder if it's valu-able...?
She slipped the medallion in her pocket, her attention returning to the shop window.
She froze. The street was clearly reflected. On the opposite pavement, a man was staring fixedly at her. Tall, dressed in an
old shabby coat a size too large for him and with a woollen hat pulled down almost to his eyes. She took him for one of the
tramps and derelicts who slept out in the East Hill caves during the summer. Except there was something wrong about
him...
She swung round to face him but he was quicker and vanished into the crowd of Saturday morning shoppers. Holly
glared up the road, at the parked cars and the bright street. He was gone. She paused, shrugged, then carried on walking, fists
deep in denim pockets. The coin made a hard edge against her knuckles.
I guess he wanted money. Probably needs it more than me. Too bad... Then she frowned. So far as she could tell, seeing only his
reflection in a dark window, he had been exceptionally fair-skinned. And that's what's wrong—he was too clean.
The heat fried her, making her clothing sticky. Lethargically she sauntered past the little shops of the Old Town: jeweller,
junkman's, bookshop, toyshop, cafe and opticians', puzzling over the coin. It did not grow warm to the touch.
Jesus, today's hot! Coming to the end of South Street, she looked undecidedly down the main road to the overcrowded
beach. Not a hope. I gotta get out of here for a bit.
She threaded her way quickly through the crowds to the Fishmarket. A few minutes later she was at the top of Tackle-way
Steps, at the foot of the East Hill.
Where it faces the sea this is a sandstone cliff pocked with caves. On the town side a steep gorse and bramble-covered
slope has one twisting stairway leading up it. At the summit a grey rock juts out like a ship's prow. Beyond that lies high,
wide and grassy downland, the gorse-yellow Fire Hills and Starshell Cove.
Holly flopped full-length on Highrock, her cheek against the warm grey stone, exhausted by the climb. Seagulls and a
sudden wind cried overhead. Having caught her breath she lifted her head, resting it on her arms, and stared down from the
rock's edge.
Surcombe Old Town lay below, a maze of narrow streets. Houses with ancient red-tiled roofs, white-plastered walls and
black beams, were interspersed with shops, pubs and churches. There were miniature cars, doll-people, and sudden inky
shadows that resolved themselves into black cats sleeping on dusty pavements. The main road, scaled with cars, glittered and
fumed like a summer dragon. She saw grey stone spires and—raising her eyes—the West Hill and the Castle bulking
opposite.
Down on the beach were fishing-boats, drawn up on the shingle in the shadow of the tarry-black net-drying sheds. Her
eyes were drawn by the line of the coast past the West Hill, behind which modern Surcombe and her own home lay hidden,
along to the Marina where the town ended. From Hallows Hill to Gallows Hill a heat-haze hid the marshes; beyond that lay
the small town of Combe Marish and a long sweep of land that finished a score of miles away at Deepdean, where Chalkspit
jutted out into the Channel. And all the time, on her left, the sea lay flat and innocent and unbearably bright. With seagulls
flying above and below her, she seemed sus-pended in the middle air, out of the sweltering town forever. The silence came
down like a wave.
"Hello."
The voice came from behind her. She started awake, dis-orientated for a second. Then, rubbing drowsiness out of
sun-heavy eyes, she sat up and swung round, brushing rock-dust from her T-shirt.
"My name's Fletcher."
He stood easy and unembarrassed, a tall and long-boned youth. He looked maybe a year older than her, and a hand's
breadth taller. He was suntanned an even dark gold, and wore denim jeans hacked off to shorts, no shirt, and bare feet. Thick
semi-curly dark hair framed a square face, blunt nose, wide smiling mouth with uneven white teeth, and deepset dark blue
eyes. She thought, Student? On holiday?
"What d'you want?"
"I saw you down there—" he jerked a thumb in the town's direction "—you found a coin. About this big; silver. Yes?"
She hedged. "Maybe. I found a coin, but is it the one you lost?"
"Mine has a hawk on one side, and a woman's head on the other."
"Yeah, that's it. Hang about." She pulled out a handful of loose change and began sorting through it. "I thought it was
maybe foreign. Where'd it come from?"
"Junkshop. Before that—" he shrugged.
Far below, a church clock struck once. Holly absently checked her watch, stared in dismay, then scrambled up.
"Jesus, that's torn it; half-one. I was meant to be home for dinner at one. Hey, catch!"
She flicked the silver disc in his direction, slid feet-first off the side of the rock and landed heavily on the path below. She
regretted leaving. Even if he wasn't good-looking, the boy had an interesting face—and it's not so often, she thought, that I
get a fella to myself.
"What's your name?" He stood on Highrock's brink. She squinted up, shadowing her eyes with her hand.
"Holly." Then, in case he misheard: "Holly Anderson. Bye!"
She ran down the steps, yellow dust skidding up under her feet, hair flying into her eyes. There was a one thirty-five bus
from the Fishmarket, she thought...
Fletcher stood and watched until the town swallowed her. He stretched like an idle cat in the sun. Then he picked up the
coin from the rock. And frowned. Alarmed, he sought the girl again, but she was gone.
"Hello, Mum?"
The phone box was like a small oven. Holly gazed unseeingly at the centre of Surcombe, tapping her free hand on the
glass.
"Mum—it's Holly. Look, I'm gonna be a bit late for dinner; I missed one bus already—"
"Holly, thank goodness! I've been wondering where you were. Dear, your father and I have got to go over to Combe
Marish this afternoon."
"What's up?"
"We've had a phone call from Aunt Elizabeth. Grandad's ill; she wants us to go over there."
Holly thought, The old bastard, not again! "Can I come?"
"I think it's better if you don't, dear, really. I don't like to leave you but we have to start at once—I've made sandwiches
for you, and you can manage your own tea, can't you?"
"Mum, I'm fifteen." Holly sighed, "Yes, OK, I'll manage. Look, don't worry about me. You just stick close to Dad; it's his
father. I'll see you tonight."
"All right, then. Be good, dear. Bye."
Holly replaced the receiver thoughtfully. Outside, the heat engulfed her, beating back from the pavements and high
buildings. She wiped a thin film of sweat from her upper lip, sighed and pulled at the neck of her T-shirt. With no reason
now to hurry home, she leaned on the railings outside W. H. Smith and watched the traffic. Here the main coast road met
the main London road in a swirl of petrol fumes and dust.
If I had tuppence for every time that son of a bitch has been 'sick' I should be a millionaire, she thought bitterly. Why should we run
round after him anyway? He's got Aunt Liz. Ah, hell. If I'd known this was going to happen, I'd've stayed for a talk with that lad...
"Hey, dopey: wake up!"
"Hull—oh, hi, Chris, how're you doing?" She made room for the girl at the rail, surprised to see her on a Saturday. They
did not see much of each other out of school. Chris was an active member of many athletic and social clubs, hardly seeing the
inside of her home except to sleep; while Holly spent hours alone in her room with paints and canvas. At school, however,
they were inseparable. The arrangement suited Holly—she sometimes found Chris overpoweringly energetic. "How's the
cinema business?"
"Are you kidding? What business? I just finished being cashier for the kids' cartoon-show—might just as well not have
bothered. With this heatwave they're all on the beach. Goddamn part-time jobs!" She was a tall skinny girl, snub-nosed, with
blonde hair bleached white-gold by the sun. Darker tendrils clung to her damp forehead. Pale eyebrows gave her face a
deceptive wide-eyed-innocent look. Unlike Holly, she was neatly dressed; white blouse and blue denim skirt. "Whatta life this
is... You staying down here for dinner, aren't you?"
Holly shrugged, used to following Chris's lead, "I guess so."
"OK, let's head for Toni's. Got any money?"
"Yeah, I think." She produced a fistful of coins. "Chuck this lot in with what you got; see what we can afford."
The cafe was a mass of people. Holly sat on one chair and put her feet across another while Chris joined the queue. Their
voices wove into the cross-mesh of conversation, across the seated people and the gleaming table-tops.
"How much've we got?"
"Seventy-seven pence. I got news for you—somebody's passed you a dud ten-pence bit." Chris tossed a coin. It fell in a
glittering arc and rang on the table. Holly picked it up.
A hawk. A woman's face.
"Hell, I thought I'd got rid of that. I suppose I gave him a ten-pence... oh, damn!"
"What?"
"Never mind, never mind... I'll tell you about it when we've eaten."
The coin lay on the table between them. Holly leaned back, having finished her story, and swept the dark hair out of her
face. She envied Chris her cropped hairstyle, and sought in her pocket for an elastic band to fasten her own back in a ponytail.
Chris frowned. "Sounds fishy to me. You should've found out where it came from. And him, too. What'd he look like?"
Holly considered. "That photo of Davy Starren on his last LP. Like that, only dark-haired."
"Very nice."
"That's irrelevant. This hawk thing, coin or whatever, it might be valuable. Real silver, even. Reckon I ought to get it back
to him."
"How?"
"I don't know how!"
Chris ticked off points on her fingers. "One: you don't properly know his name. Two: you don't know where he lives.
Three: you don't really know it's his. Fishy, like I said. If it was me, I'd say 'finders-keepers'."
Holly covered it with her hands as a group of youths pushed past. "Like to. But I give it one last chance, I think. He
might still be up on East Hill. Coming?"
"Was going down to the pool, get a bit of practice in for that competition. Still..." Chris grinned. "Davy Starren, you said?
That'd be worth seeing!"
"Is it necessary to trail your filthy shoes all over the house?"
"No, Dad. Sorry, Dad." Holly shut the front door and slipped her shoes off, deciding she'd better go carefully. Visits to
Combe Marish never improved her father's temper.
"Go and give your mother a hand with the tea while I lay the table."
"Yes, Dad."
Holly threw her shoes into the hall cupboard and limped to the kitchen. Her feet were hot and aching. She and Chris had
walked across most of the cliff but they had not found the boy.
Seeing Holly, her mother smiled. "Did you have a good time in town, dear? Oh—you haven't eaten your sandwiches."
"Had dinner down the town. Went over the East Hill with Chris. Don' worry, I'll eat 'em now. How was Combe
Marish?"
Mrs Anderson turned away and began filling the kettle. "Grandad's gone into hospital. Apparently Elizabeth phoned the
doctor; said her father wasn't eating and wouldn't get out of bed; what should she do? The doctor came round and took one
look; said get him into hospital. Of course, Elizabeth and your father are very upset."
"So I noticed." She thought, I'm not upset—except: does that mean we'll have to visit him in hospital? Christ! She
fetched the cups. "In a right temper, is Dad. What's wrong with the old buzzard, then: why hospital?"
"The doctor said—could I have the milk? Thanks—he said it was just old age; but he'd be too much for Elizabeth to
nurse on her own. I feel I ought to offer to have him down here, but with you at school and both of us at work, there'd be
no one to look after him."
"The house is too small," Holly said resentfully, knowing whose bedroom would be taken over. "He's got Liz. We don't
want him living here!"
"Holly-"
"All right, all right. I won't say any more. Just, don't you worry any more, see?" Because the bad-tempered old bugger
ain't worth it!
"It's a long business... and it's your father I worry about. Still, we're home now. I'll take the tea in."
Holly put the television on, depending on the Saturday evening programmes to keep her mind off her problems. She sat
restless, conscious of the hawk-coin in her pocket, as the evening wore away.
Silver liquid moonlight flooded her room. Holly lay taut, listening for the slightest sound. Something had woken her;
she didn't know what. No shadow shifted. Into the silence came a rattle and a metallic click. On the floor...
Her hand sneaked out from under the sheet to flick on the light-switch. When her eyes refocused she saw a small dark
shape on the floor. It was alive. A mouse.
Holly stared.
Between its front paws lay the hawk-coin, bigger than the animal's head. As she watched, it tugged the coin with sharp
incisor teeth, jerking it towards the door. A fat beady-eyed grey mouse.
Soundlessly she sat up in bed and slung a pillow at it. Quick as she was, it was quicker, vanishing out of the door with a
scrabble of claws. The hawk-coin lay in the middle of the linoleum.
She noted the time: half past three. Sleep fogged her head. Quietly she got up, retrieved coin and pillow and crawled back
into bed.
I don't really believe I saw... I left it on the bedside table... so how..?. She shivered. Then she tied the coin in a hand-kerchief, tied
that round her wrist and huddled under the thin sheet. Dropping asleep, she thought she heard a faint eerie music. It wound
in and out of her dreams; but in the morning she made a discovery that drove it completely from her memory.
2
First Blood
Holly stirred and slept again several times before waking, burrowing face-down into the pillow's warmth. Eventually she
reached out and switched on the radio for a time-check.
Eight-ten, she realised. Sunday. No one moving... Mum and Dad having a lie-in. Good. Lazy day for me. Forget school and homework
until tomorrow.
Morning light picked out sheaves of paper heaped on the dressing-table, squashed and bent-backed tubes of paint, a
shrouded corner of the easel, and crumpled clothes thrown down on the dusty lino. Irregular splashes of colour leaped out
from posters pinned on the walls: gold, viridian and crimson.
She rolled off the bed, heavy-limbed, and climbed slowly into blue denim jeans, the rough material dragging at calves and
hips and thighs. Her eyes were gritty. She rubbed sleep away and began brushing her hair back, tying it away from her face in
one heavy plait.
You look grotty. Holly watched her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Mousy hair. And grey eyes—what sort of eyeshadow is
supposed to match that? And ears that stick out. And you're too fat. God save us, no wonder you ain't got no boyfriends...
That thought brought back all of Saturday. She threw down the brush and scrabbled at the sheet, frantically shaking it.
She found a crumpled handkerchief and, in one fold, the hawk-coin.
Thank the Lord for that! I do have the craziest dreams. For a minute I thought... she stared at the coin, suddenly intent; then
picked it up and gingerly rubbed her thumb over it. The pattern of the hawk in mid-flight was gone.
This I don't believe. Hell, no. Somebody'd better see this an' prove I'm not cracking up... I'll go over to Chris.
Quickly she finished dressing, scribbled a note and propped it up on her pillow, then pussy-footed down into the
living-room. Bumble, a hairy mongrel, stirred as she passed but thought better of it.
She padded across the room, alert for any sound, eased up the catch and pulled the back door open. Shutting it carefully
behind her, she let out a long relieved breath and ran down the steps into the garden.
Although it was early, the sun was high. Already it was hot; the dew was long off the grass. The scent of roses struck her
with cloying sweetness. She pushed past the overgrown garden gate, grass and bindweed dragging damp and sticky at her
hands. The path ran along the bottom of the garden, between it and the field below. She ran in cool shadow down the
tarmac path that skirted the field and sloped down into Fern Park.
June heat had burned the grass yellow. She came under the pines and paused on the causeway between the two ponds.
The ducks were out, and coots and moorhens; and a long line of pompous Chinese geese. They squarked and hissed angrily;
but the swans glided mute. Seagulls rocked in the glittering water and ignored her.
She slowed to a walk to appreciate it all but remembered the coin, and ran on up the opposite slope towards Park Road
and St Kevins.
Park Road was deserted. Holly stopped again to catch her breath, looking back over the tops of tall pines and flicker-ing
green horse-chestnut trees, picking out her own window in Stonegate Street. Westward, the park ended at Birchdale Junction;
eastward, it ran on down towards the town centre and the West Hill.
Yesterday was fun, she thought. A little bit mysterious, but fun. This is... different.
The houses were old, terraced; built of warm red brick. Blue-grey slates caught the light and shone silver. Chris's house
was the last in the road.
Chris herself was just coming out of the gate. She greeted Holly: "Just going up to get a paper. What's got you up so
early? I don't generally see you before midday, Sundays."
Holly glanced round the empty street. She was nervous, but impatient. "Chris, that coin I had yesterday; you remember
what it looked like?"
"Sure. Some long-haired female, an' a bird—"
"You could see it clearly?"
"Do I look as if I was blind? Of course I could. Look, let's talk on the way up to the newsagent's—"
"No, hang on. Take a look." Holly unrolled the handker-chief. Chris picked the coin up carefully by its edge.
"The pattern's gone—no, not quite. Look, you can just see it faintly, like a Victorian penny." She shook her head in slow
amazement. "Hey, but this is crazy; yesterday it looked brand new. You're sure it's the same one?"
"Sure I m sure."
The noise of traffic filtered down from St Kevins main road; the morning beginning to stir. Chris leaned back, kicking her
feet against the gate. "Bloody odd," she said. "Question is, what do we do? Tell you what, tomorrow's Monday; and first
lesson Monday morning is Chemistry, right? So we go and sec old Hawthorne, get him to check it out, right? Maybe it's not
silver. Maybe it's some metal that wears away quick. He could tell us."
There's too many people coming in on this. Holly was doubtful. "Dunno. If he asks a lot of questions—"
"He won't—or if he does, doesn't mean we have to tell him what's happening to it; just ask him what it's made of. You
know what he's like—lose his head if it wasn't screwed on. Holly, c'mon; you telling me we can't put one over on him?"
She looked again at the coin resting in Chris's palm. "Yeah, OK. Hawthorne's thick as two short planks. We can't lose
anything by trying—"
A squeal of anger rang out in the empty street. A tawny streak shot past Holly—she jerked back and saw Chris stagger
and fall, screaming with pain. Raking her legs with bloody claws was a ginger cat. Holly stood rooted by shock.
Chris kicked; the cat was thrown twisting away. It landed foursquare and leaped again. This time Holly could move; she
caught it by a hind leg and flung it down as it ripped her arm to the elbow.
"Help me!" She kicked out again but was thrown off-balance. Something buffeted her violently round the head. She
could see nothing, but when she covered her head with her arms something struck at them again and again. Panic flowered in
her. She ran.
The coin fell with a clear ringing sound, and she bent down in mid-flight to scoop it up. A heavy blow struck between
her shoulders. She tripped, fell and rolled.
An oily undercarriage dug into her back and she came up hard against an exhaust pipe. She had rolled under a parked van
but she felt more trapped than protected. She heard Chris's shouting mix with an inhuman screech, close to her.
She dared look out and, in the narrow frame between tarmac and metal, saw a large gull stalking up and down in the
road, its snake-head cocked sideways. The yellow beak was red and wet and the glistening black eye was fixed expressionlessly
on her. The evil cawing chuckle sounded again.
At that same moment Holly saw the cat, belly down, preparing to leap at her. She scrabbled uselessly backwards. I'll run,
she thought. I'll never make it. I'll throw this damn coin so far—
She heard a car approach—fast. She ducked to avoid the slipstream, heard a roar and a thundering concussion of air, a
solid thump, and a cut off animal squeal.
Holly began to cry. Minutes passed. No one came. The gravel was harsh under her cheek, the smell of oil and sweet petrol
sickened her. She cried until the hysteria passed; then pulled herself out from under the van and lurched upright.
The cat lay a yard away, head bent too far back and mouth open, gaping to show all the needle-sharp white teeth. Its fur
slicked up in dusty points. She had been watching it fearfully for some minutes before she realised it was dead.
Beyond a few scattered feathers, there was no sign of the gull.
Her hands and arms stung bitterly, and they were wet. When she looked down she saw long shallow gashes that swelled
with beads and rivulets of blood.
"Hey—"
Chris was huddled in a tight ball on the pavement. She uncurled slowly. There were long bloody slashes down her legs
and blood running from her left cheek. Eyes and throat were unharmed. Her face was white and blank.
Holly stood unspeaking. unsmiling. Her mind felt numb. She unclenched her hand. The coin had been held tight
enough to leave a circular imprint on her palm. Chris's eyes focused on it, and her face relaxed. She stood up warily, brushing
at her skirt.
"You OK?"
"Yeah. Are you— I mean—"
Chris's hand went up to her cheek. "It's all right. It's all right." She sobbed, then caught herself and wiped her eyes,
savagely angry at her own weakness. Blood smeared cheek and hand.
"Christ, it hurts." Holly fumbled for a handkerchief and mopped her streaming arms. "Did you see? They went for the
one with the coin. You first; then me. If it hadn't been for that car—"
"Don't be mucking stupid. It was rabies. Or something. I don't want to talk about it. Not now."
"I can't go home like this."
"We'd better get cleaned up."
Holly followed Chris into her house—messier than her own, she always thought, because of Chris's young sister; yet
somehow everything was always within reach. Now it was cotton wool, disinfectant, and sticking plaster. They cleaned
themselves silently in the kitchen.
If this wasn't Chris's place, if she wasn't watching me, I'd sit down and howl, Holly thought. I wonder; is it the same for her? She looks
pretty cool...
"I want a hot drink," Chris broke the long silence. "I'll make coffee. If me Mum and Dad come down, let me do the
talking. And we've got to think how you're going to get home."
Holly thought of cats and seagulls; and geese on the pond; and dogs and swans and squirrels—all now suspect. She
found her hands were shaking.
"Not through the park," she said.
Eventually she walked up the main road to St Kevins and on to Birchdale Junction; then down Stonegate Street. There
was no one awake in the house when she crept in. She made another cup of coffee—strong and black—and took it up to her
room.
The four walls closed round her, friendly and familiar. She shut the window, then pulled a chair up to her old battered
desk. It had been shoved into a corner under the Art Nouveau posters, and her sketch pad lay open on it.
After a moment she laid the coin down. Taking a sharp pencil and sipping gingerly at the hot coffee, she began to sketch
the fading patterns. A hawk; and a woman's sea-strange profile...
I can wear long sleeves, she thought, the plaster won't show. I'll talk to Chris at school tomorrow. We've got to know why this
happened—because it might happen again...
Chris did not come to school that Monday.
3
Contact
Holly stood alone by the main school building. It was tall and grim. A row of temporary classrooms—the Huts—were
squeezed in between it and the outside wall, close to the small side gate. In front of her a grassy bank fell away to the
play-ground, the rhododendron shrubbery and, finally, the main school entrance in Mill Road. Long streets of Victorian
houses shuttled back and forth across West Hill; Mill Road School spanned the space between two of these streets and
looked out west over Surcombe town centre and the end of Fern Park.
It was the dinner hour and the playground was noisy and full; ball games, rope games and fights were almost
indistinguishable from each other. On the grass bank, groups of older girls sat studying or talking. Shadows lay like charcoal
round their bodies sprawled on the brown grass, and the noon haze of heat lay heavy on them.
Holly took her eyes from the far-off sparkle of the sea and her mind from dreams of cold clear water. There was a girl
whom she must not meet if she wanted to keep out of trouble, especially now Chris was not there to back her up: a girl called
Helen Gabriel.
Lousy bitch, she thought venomously, picking her enemy out of the crowds. The side gate opened. She noted it absently,
glanced away, then suddenly back. My God. It's that bloody boy. Fletcher!
"Hey, you!" The girl Helen stepped out of her group; tall, raw-boned, with black frizzy hair clustered round a narrow face
touched with cosmetics. Holly swore in a whisper. She saw the boy stop and stare calmly. "Hey, nobody tell you this is a girls'
school? Whassup? Struck dumb?"
"I am looking for Holly Anderson."
"Kee-rist!"
That is the limit, Holly decided, him asking her, of all people. She'll never let me forget it.
She strode across the grass, elbowed through the group and shepherded the boy back out of the gate. There were giggles
and whispers behind her and the black-haired girl's strident voice. Her mouth tightened in anger.
"What the blazes d'you think you were doing? You can't come in straight off like that. What are you playing at?" A few
paces away from the gate, she stopped. "All right; never mind, never mind. Now tell me: what's going on?"
"I want the coin; the hawk-coin."
"I haven't got it." Quite true, she added mentally, I gave it to old Hawthorne at break and he's still working on it.
It shook his calm. "Where is it? Do you not know?"
Holly eyed his worried face. It was young, almost immature; she wondered just how old he was. "You tell me what the
coin is—and I'll tell you where it is."
"Is that fair?"
She avoided his eyes, looking up through the dappled sun and green shadow of the horse-chestnut tree that shaded
them. The pavement was littered with fallen buds; spiky green maces. The sandstone wall was warm against her arm. She was
thinking of seagulls.
"Will you give it back to me now and ask no more ques-tions? It would be safer. You and your friend would be out of
danger."
"How come you know about her? And what d'you mean, out of danger?" She stopped, remembering the only recent
danger she'd been in, with Chris. "Are you talking about what happened yesterday morning? You are. How do you know
about that?"
The sound of the school bell cut between them. Holly saw the school grounds emptying with magical swiftness. She was
torn between being late in class and being answered by Fletcher.
"I won't give it back now. Too much has happened, I want to know why. Look, I'll meet you after school tonight. You
tell me what this is all about, and I'll hand it over. Promise."
"Where?"
"You be around Birchdale Junction about five—I'll find you." She ran for the Huts, not looking back and slipped into
class on the heels of the form-mistress.
She sat down at her desk, and began cramming dog-eared books into her tatty satchel. He knew about Sunday—how? No one
there but me an' Chris. Or if he was there, why didn't he help?
She heard the black-haired girl and her clique settling noisily into the back row. That Helen Gabriel, she saw us. There's another
excuse for her to pick trouble—as if she needed one. Bloody hell.
"Hey, how's lover-boy?"
"That one's real anxious to get it, ain't he?"
The voices were an anonymous chorus, she would not look at them; but she knew Gabriel's voice beyond hope of error.
"We didn't think Anderson had it in her, did we? Cocky little bitch thinks she's too good for boys—we thought. Looks
like we was wrong, don't it—hey, you having it off with him, are you?"
Holly had learned the hard way that her only defence was silence.
"I'm talking to you, Anderson. Hey, don't you bloody answer when you're spoken to? Don't you?"
It never stops, she thought. Their voices were pitched loud enough for the form-mistress to hear; but she knew nothing
would come of that. Gabriel had a reputation for being uncontrollable.
"Know your trouble, Anderson? You're a bloody nympho!"
"Where's the other one, Holly? Where's Ivy?"
"Chris Ivy's a creeper—she crept off!"
"Maybe she's with your boyfriend, ever think of that?"
"Not her," Gabriel chimed in. "She's les. Don't call them two the Holly and the Ivy for nothing, you know."
"You shut your mouth!" Goaded, Holly broke silence. She did not mind her and Chris's nickname; but she did mind
Helen Gabriel using it.
"Hey, that little bitch is scared of us."
"You got it, Hel. Scared."
Holly stared at the sunlit world beyond the dirty glass, and prayed for the afternoon to end.
Holly found Chris at home in front of the television.
"How you doing?"
Chris grunted morosely. "How d'you think I'm doing? What with me mother fussing around, and me father creating hell
about dangerous pets let loose on the streets..."
Holly turned the TV volume up to cover her voice, and sat down. "Listen. That boy showed up at school today-"
"He did what?'
"—and he knows something about yesterday. So I said I'd meet him up at the Junction tonight, to sort it all out. You
coming?"
Chris pulled a fine strand of hair into her mouth and sucked it reflectively. "Maybe."
There were bandages under her tights, and two parallel red lines marked her cheek. She fingered them. Then added:
"Hawthorne say anything about the coin?"
"Only that it's exceptionally pure silver. Said it might be antique."
Chris was pulling on her shoes. "That gets us nowhere —he thinks that because it looks old, now. If he'd seen it
Saturday... He was sure it was silver?"
"He was sure. Told me to take it to the museum. Said it might be worth something."
"Worth a whole lot of trouble!" Chris snorted. "Hang on. If I'm going out, I'm putting my slacks on."
She went up the stairs two at a time. Holly, holding her scratched and aching arms, watched in wonder. But the silver
athletics cups on the sideboard caught her eye, and she smiled, thinking, She has a reputation to keep up. Tough girl.
The television occupied her until Chris returned.
At the top of Stonegate Street, looking across the Junction in the hot June sunshine:
"OK, where is he?"
"Over by the newsagent's. Dark hair and Levis."
"With bare feet. I got him." Chris unconsciously tidied her hair. "Let's go."
"He's seen us." Holly waved, suddenly aware that her jeans were shabby and that she was untidy and hot. Fletcher came
quick and lightfooted through the five o'clock crowds.
"Hello, Holly. Chris. Have you the coin?"
Chris glared at Holly. "You tell him about me?"
"Not a word," Holly disclaimed. Then, to the boy: "Are you going to explain? Everything?"
"Yes, but—" he was hidden for a second in the crowd, then pushed his way back to them "—but not here, I think."
Holly tasted the traffic's dust in her mouth. People swept round them: workers going home as the factories changed
shifts, holidaymakers going down to the beach. She wished she could go swimming and cool down.
"The park?" she suggested, wanting clear space more than anything else at that moment.
"If you wish."
Stonegate Street and the path beside Holly's house was the quickest way down to the park. As they passed the field a
whickering neigh rang out over the hedge.
"What—?" Fletcher shied away.
"It's only Strawberry. I'd've brought an apple if I'd thought." Holly pointed to a low wooden building just visible
through the greenery. "That's her stable. She's due to foal pretty soon."
The white mare neighed again, hearing them clatter down the hill.
There were several benches under the pines by the pond. Holly picked an unoccupied one and they sat down, Chris as far
from the boy as possible—she obviously didn't trust him.
"Well?" Holly prompted.
"The coin is my father's. He is a collector and dealer in antiquities; that coin is one such." He smiled briefly. "I was taking it
to a friend of my father's when I lost it in the Old Town—Holly, I saw you find it; but then I lost you in the crowd. It was
pure luck, to find you on Highrock."
Holly's thumbs strayed to rub the sticking-plaster on her hands. Some luck, she thought.
"And Sunday?" Chris put in, single-minded.
"That? I heard of that from a friend of mine who lives near to you. I tell you this, you are lucky nothing worse happened.
That coin has a whole history of misfortune— like certain precious gems, ill-luck follows those who possess it. Well, you
saw. There was no reason for my losing it, save bad luck."
Chris was sceptical. "Your father don't mind bad luck?"
"He has had little—yet."
Holly, doubtful, said, "Is that luck bad enough to make two harmless animals attack us without provocation?"
"Hardly. It's my guess that the cat and gull were engaged in a scuffle over food, perhaps; and chanced to be scared by
you—and in consequence, attack."
Could that—? Holly grabbed for the rational explanation, but her memory denied it. They went for the coin. Both of them. On
purpose.
"Why not just come and ask for it back?"
"It took me time to find you. And, you kept it Saturday."
"Accident."
"We were not to know that; there are other collectors who would give much for it. So if I could have it back...?"
"Well—sure, I guess." I bet his father's foreign. He sounds like a student himself. And I'm almost sure he's lying— but he might not
be—I'd like to believe him—and anyway, what else can I do? She held the coin in her palm. "Here."
Then she stared, not hearing his exclamation. The coin was the size of a sixpence, no bigger. Three heads bent over it—it
was shrinking as they watched—pea-sized, pinhead...
Gone.
Holly rubbed her thumb across her palm. A faint silver
dust sifted into the air. There was nothing left of the hawk-coin she had found in South Street.
Fletcher's hand closed hard on her arm. "It was the same one? You are sure it was the same?"
"Of course!" She twisted violently out of his grip, on her feet in an instant. Abruptly she realised he was bigger than her,
older and stronger—but not faster, she thought, on edge to run.
"Wait, please. I must think. There's much in this. More than you know." He swung round, staring away from them,
unseeing.
"Let's get lost," she whispered.
Chris stood up beside her. "We can run any time."
"Well... yes." She looked out of the shade: crowds of holiday makers and rowdy children, and the blue sky burning
overhead... reassuring. "If we wait, we might get the truth."
The pines creaked above, the underside of their branches dappled with light reflected in ripples from the water. Her panic
subsided. At last the boy turned back to face them.
"This changes all. The reason must be found. I admit I have lied to you; but the truth is not believable. Tamburrand
—the cat—was sent to recover the coin from you; and because of the gull he failed, and attacked you. But as for who sent
them..."
Holly said, "Tell me."
He shook his head. "No. You will have to come with me. He will want to see you, my father Elathan, in his own place."
"Where's that?"
"Do you know the reservoir? I will meet you there in a short while, and take you from there. I should warn you; it will be
a shock. Elathan is—not quite like the rest of you. But I shall have to take you to him."
"Hey, man." Chris was cocky, and scared. "You just try and stop us coming. Right, Holly?"
She knew there was no arguing with Chris in that mood "Right," she said. "You're on."
4
The Gates of Orione
Clam's Hole is a large muddy reservoir north of Fern Park, and Downdingle the stream that flows into it. The stream
comes from Ridgeway, the hills that block the town from the farming country inland, in a steep-sided and wooded ghyll that
snakes down through Cornton Estate to the Park; as if the country had thrust an arm into the town, reaching seaward.
Holly sat on the bank at the beginning of Downdingle, trying to ignore the sour smell of the mud. She was attempting
to make a daisy-chain and failing because her nails were chewed down to the quick.
The view upstream was hidden by elms and beeches that grew on the steep banks. Twigs scattered on the narrow
dirt-track that followed the watercourse. Chris stood on a rock in midstream throwing pebbles into a pool, calm and
uncon-cerned.
Taking his time, isn't he? Holly thought. We won't see him again. Dammit. But maybe it's better that way.
"Maybe he's not coming?" Chris missed her footing, recovered and came ashore carefully.
Birdsong rang in the cathedral arches of trees; rustles in the undergrowth were—what? Only the evening wind. The two
girls were solitary in gold sunlight.
Holly was not happy. She had had To Not Go With Strangers drummed into her since early childhood, and even though
this looked like the one exceptional case, she felt guilty. "I got an idea. Let's go back to St Kevins, get some chips and go
home. We could listen to my Starren LP."
"One: the chippie ain't open. Two: I've heard Starren till I'm sick of him. Three: I'm staying to find out what the hell's
going on. What's the time?"
"Seven, or thereabouts." A pebble skittered past her head and plopped into the water. "Hey!"
Fletcher grinned at their amazed faces. Girl with gold hair too short to touch her white collar, in blue skirt and plimsolls:
Chris. Girl with dark brown hair cascading over a pink T-shirt, in shabby jeans and dirty shoes: Holly. Both astonished.
Neither had seen him come; he moved with a wood-animal's quietness. He stepped out on to the path.
"About bloody time, too," Chris muttered. "Now what?"
"Up the Dingle." He turned, not waiting for them. "Shall we go?"
"Yes; but where—?"
"No time to argue. The sooner we're at Orione, the better."
He began walking upstream. Chris followed without hesitation. Holly saw no way out and so went after her. Fletcher set
a fast pace. Even in high summer the path was dank and slippery, so they could not spare attention for talking.
The mile and a half of Downdingle passed in a dream for Holly. The place was as familiar as her own garden; she had
been coming there since her infant school days and she knew every step of it. Four sets of stepping stones, a safe wooden
bridge, an unsafe wooden bridge, then along by a cool stone wall where hanging ferns brushed her face, the huge grey
double-arching bridge that carried the main road over the Dingle. A rickety footbridge led them by that, their feet and breath
echoing... Shafts of sunlight fell down between the high banks and lit the mossy steps of a waterfall she had once climbed...
They crossed the last bridge and found the Dingle closed by a barbed-wire fence. Holly automatically turned right towards the
steps leading up to Cornton Estate, but Fletcher lifted a stake and set the barbed-wire aside, motioning them through.
We're caught now. She looked ahead. The valley stretched on, a dusky tunnel where the trees grew over and shut out the
light, twisting so she could not see beyond. There's no houses up there. What's he at? Chris, you said we could run, I wish we had.
There's too many things not explained.
She went on. There was no path, so they must pick a way over the rocks and mud and shallow basins of water. The
stream split into a hundred channels. They rounded the first bend in the valley.
She thought, grimly, Well, that's it. No getting round that. Now we'll see what we're here for.
She craned her head. In front was a solid cliff of rock fifteen feet high, stretching from one high bank to the other. It
curved back and from the overhanging lip a thin stream of water plunged clear to the river-bed, bubbling in a deep pool. The
rock was damp and blackened with scabby moss.
"Wait."
Fletcher skirted the pool, using a narrow ledge. She saw him lay one brown hand on the wet rock-face and press. In
ponderous silence the stone went back, an irregular slab the size of a church door; in the gap was a flame-lit darkness.
Holly saw then that a man had come out to stand by him on the ledge, not four feet away from her. She noticed first that
he wore a long blue coat—and that it wasn't a coat but a robe with a heavy silver belt—and then that his clothes were the least
peculiar thing about him.
He had blunt features, a short beard and a mane of chestnut-coloured hair that appeared to grow down the back of his
neck like a lion's mane. His eyes were a startling gold, and slit-pupilled like a cat's. His ears were delicate, pointed, and covered
with fine red down. Holly dropped her eyes from his face and saw his hands. They were large and capable, the nails opaque,
white and pointed. She looked up again, at his sadly smiling features. He terrified her.
But, she thought, he's beautiful.
"My God." Chris's voice was flat. Holly saw her go white, then red, the two new scars standing out dark across her cheek.
She began to back away.
"Wait. Hear me. There will be no hurt done to you. We need your help." His voice was deep, -and blended with the
falling water. "The boy was foolhardy to bring you, yet I think he chose rightly. This matter of the coin touches many folk;
摘要：

AHAWKINSILVERbyMaryGentleFirstpublishedin1977.ScannedbyBW-SciFi.ProofedbyTed.1TheHawkSilverglinted.Stoppingtolookintheartshopwindow,Hollysawtheglitterdownamongthecigaretteends,sweetwrappersanddust.Automaticallyshecovereditwithherfoot,glancedround,thenpickeditup.Silver,coldtothetouch.Inherdirtypalmin...

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