“Summer is a good time for you to stay in your hills, then,” Gar agreed, “and fortunately, it’s summer now.”
“But you must go back quickly, my love!” Cort protested. “I don’t want to see you burned!”
“Worse,” Dirk said, “they might close the door to the Hill.”
“They will not be overly quick about it,” Desiree said, “seeing that they have come out hunting. Nevertheless, even as you say, I must go quickly.” She still held Cort’s hand, though, and turned back to him with longing. “Wait for me, my love! It will be long months before they let you come to me again, and I fear we must not look to Midsummer’s Eve as I had hoped—but Harvest Home should see us reunited. Wait by the little brook that runs through this wood every night for a week before that festival, and I’ll come as soon as I can, to tell you where I may meet you!”
“So long as that?” Cort said mournfully. “But it’s better than never being with you again at all!”
“Farewell, then,” Desiree said softly, and their farewell lasted so long that Gar had to separate them again. Then Desiree drifted off into the woods with many a backward glance until she seemed only a wraith of morning mist that faded, and was gone.
Cort stood looking after her, his face stark with loss.
Finally Dirk clapped him on the shoulder. “I know how it feels, my friend—in fact, I’m still feeling the same way myself! But if she’s worth having, she’s worth waiting for.”
“And working for,” Gar agreed, “but if you have any hope of seeing her again, you’ll have to stay alive. Come on, let’s run—the sun isn’t up yet, and the Fair Folk might be pushing their luck and searching the woods for us.”
“Even as you say!” Cort turned and plunged down the trail. “Indeed, I have reason enough to live now!”
“You sure do,” Dirk said, and followed him, thinking, Violet who?
But a dozen steps later, Cort suddenly turned back, crying, “If I give myself up to them, they’ll let me stay with her!”
Dirk caught one arm and Gar the other, lifting and carrying Cort backward. “Oh, they’ll let her see you, all right,” Dirk said, “through the crystal door of one of their upright coffins! She can come down and gaze on your frozen form any time she wants!”
“I know there are some women who like to keep a spare man around in case they need him,” Gar told him, “but I don’t think she’s one of them—at least, not in quite that fashion.”
“I’ll take the chance!” Cort cried.
“No, you won’t,” Dirk said firmly. “Look, it’s hard, yes, believe me, I know how you feel.”
“No you don’t!” Cort cried. “You didn’t spend the night with her!”
Dirk’s step faltered, but he kept going. “As long as I hear the occasional hunter’s cry behind me, we keep walking!”
“I don’t hear anything,” Cort protested.
They halted, Dirk and Gar cocking their heads to listen. As they did, a ray of sunlight lanced down between leaves, rosy with dawn.
“He’s right,” Dirk said. “The Hollow Hill is still.”
“The door is shut,” Gar agreed. As one, they dropped Cort.
He sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and wept.
Cort recovered enough to start walking a few minutes later. Dirk and Gar let him lead the way, talking rather grimly as they went.
“At least the Fair Folk came out of this ahead by three horses,” Dirk said. “Do you still have some gold to buy new ones?”
“Yes,” Gar said, “but if I didn’t, we could always have Herkimer drop us some more.”
“Careful what you say.” Dirk nodded at Cort. Gar glanced up at their friend, smiling sadly. “I doubt he’s hearing anything right now. I’m afraid he’s lost in his own misery”
“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” Dirk said from hard experience. “It will wear off to the point where he can function again, though.”
“She may someday be only another folktale,” Gar sighed, “even to him.”
Dirk nodded. “Say, do you really believe the duke’s version of his people’s history?”
“Accurate as far as it goes,” Gar said slowly, “but I suspect it’s somewhat one-sided. Subtracting the duke’s bias and trying to read between the lines, I would guess that some of the original colonists refused to leave the comfort of the domes, just as he said, but he only hinted that they were willing to accept a very low birth rate in order to have comfort and luxury”
“Sounds kind of selfish,” Dirk said, frowning. “Does it? Remember that on overpopulated planets, the people who want large families are the ones accused of selfishness—and since those domes were built for a very limited number of people, overpopulation would be a very real concern.”
“Still, wanting to stay in the domes would select for self-centered people. Having children makes you become other-centered.”
“I’d prefer to say that other-centered people make better parents,” Gar said sharply. “I’ve seen too many children emotionally butchered by self-centered parents.”
“How many is too many?” Dirk challenged. “One,” Gar replied, “but I’ve seen a lot more than that.”
“It does explain their vanity and preoccupation with pleasure,” Dirk admitted. “How about we say that the domes selected the most worldly?”
“Of the first generation, true. Of the second, I’d say the more worldly, selfish types became bullies.”
“Meanwhile,” Dirk said, “the dead grass and leaves piled up, and buried the domes.”
“Over a hundred years or so, yes. Since the colonists erected their domes in flatlands, I suspect they were silted over by windblown soil.”
“More or less,” Dirk agreed. “So they became hills—Hollow Hills, with arrogant inhabitants who kept their knowledge of technology and culture—and kept it to themselves.”
“Which made them view their fellow colonists with disdain,” Gar agreed. “They learned the old fairy tales from their computerized library, invited minstrels in for the night and taught them the stories, then kicked them out to spread the word among the outdoor colonists.”
“So they planted the seeds of superstitions, nourished them, then exploited the superstitious fears that grew among the peasants?”
“I would guess so,” Gar agreed. “What sort of exploitation did you have in mind?”
Dirk shrugged. “They had to limit population, right? And they only wanted beautiful children—so if a child was born ugly, they fed sleeping gas into a peasant but where there’d been a baby born, went in and traded their ugly child for the pretty Milesian infant, and let the grieving parents declare they’d had a changeling dumped on them.”
“And if the villagers killed the changeling as a sign of evil, the Fair Folk didn’t have to feel guilty about it,” Gar said grimly.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Dirk admitted, “but after a while, I suspect they were so much afraid of the legends of the Fair Folk that they didn’t dare kill the changelings, just raised them with scorn and blame.”
“Poor things,” Gar muttered, “but it did supply the next generation of bullies.”
“And the human babies supplied the Fair Folk with a few servants, and a large enough gene pool to avoid the worst effects of inbreeding,” Dirk guessed.
Gar nodded. “Of course, they kept the children who were good-looking, but had to keep the total number of people at the limit of what the dome would hold.”
“Right,” Dirk said, “and if the birthrate fell too low—people more interested in having fun, than babies—the Fair Folk could always kidnap some peasants, babies or full-grown. In fact, there’s a tradition of Wee Folk kidnapping new mothers whose babies have died, so that the fairy mothers wouldn’t have to nurse their own babies.”