He took up his drink and swigged it back. I followed suit and ended up gulping down more than I intended. “It does grow on one, does it not?” he said with a loud smack of his lips. “Mulled heather ale.”
Heather ale? I stared into my cup. Folklore had it that the recipe for this ancient drink disappeared in 1411 when the English killed the last Celtic chieftain for refusing to divulge the secret of this legendary elixir. The beleaguered Celt leaped off a sea cliff rather than allow the hated foreigners to taste the Brew of Kings. How then did the professor tumble onto the recipe—if indeed he had?
My unlikely host rose and took himself to a nearby sideboard. He returned with a pottery crock and poured our beakers full of steaming liquid once more. “As I was saying—” He replaced the crock on the hot plate and returned to his seat. “You rather belong in the third category: one who wishes to believe, yet lacks conviction. Sympathetic, shall we say, yet skeptical.” He nodded benevolently. “You have been out wandering in the Celtic miasma and you have caught the bug? Am I right?”
Bingo! “I think I could go along with that,” I allowed cautiously.
“Now then, what has brought you to this impasse? This crisis of faith and reason? What has reduced you to stumbling around the city unkempt and unshaven, seeing things, and so easily ensnared by chalk drawings on the pavement?”
My lips began to frame an evasive answer, but the question was not for me. The barmy old gentleman continued: “What indeed? If I may hazard a guess, I would say that you have witnessed something for which you have no explanation, and for which you are struggling to discover a rational solution. One of these appearances you are speaking about? Or perhaps it was a disappearance? Yes! I thought so.” He beamed with innocent pleasure. “I warned you—I can always tell.”
“But how did you know?”
He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “Who is it? Someone you know? Of course it is. How foolish of me. Now you must tell me all about it. If I am to help you, I must know everything.” He raised a bony finger in the air. “Everything—do you understand?”
I slumped in the chair, feeling the soft leather envelop me. I cradled the warm beaker to my chest and muttered, “I understand.” How did I ever get myself into this? I wanted simply to sink so deep into the chair that no one would ever find me. Instead, I took a long pull of the mulled ale, closed my eyes, and began my dreary recitation.
Professor Nettleton did not interrupt. Twice I opened my eyes and found him sitting poised on the edge of his chair, as if he might pounce the moment I stopped. I rambled on and on until I had laid out the whole muddled episode, just as it happened. I told him everything— I did not have the strength of will to resist or play coy with the facts. I was too tired of keeping up the pretense, too weary of bearing the weight of knowledge all by myself. I just opened my mouth and the words tumbled out. I let my tongue flap on and on.
I told him about Simon’s wild aurochs chase, about sighting the Green Man, about Farmer Grant, about the cairn and Simon’s abruptly acquired interest in Celtic lore, about my disturbing dreams, about seeing things, about . . . everything that had happened before and after Simon’s disappearance. And it was blessed relief to unburden myself. Twice blessed to have someone listening who believed me completely. I had no fear that he would betray me or think me insane. After all, everyone already thought him mad. He had told me so. My secret was safe with him; I knew that, and I made the most of it.
When I finally finished, I opened my eyes and glanced into the bottom of my empty beaker. Had I drunk it all? I must have guzzled away during my recitation. Now I was sorry not to have saved some. I placed the empty vessel on the table.
Through rain-streaked panes the sky glowed a sickly gray green from the city lights reflecting off the low pall of cloud. I glanced into the gathered gloom of the chair facing me. Professor Nettleton’s white hair shone with a faint glow from the window. His eyes glittered in the darkness.
“Of course,” he said at last. “Yes, I understand now.”
“Believe me, I didn’t intend wasting your time with all this.”
He shook his head slightly. “On the contrary, it is why you came to me.”
Misplaced pride flushed my cheeks. “Look, I don’t know that this is any of your business. I just came along because . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Pish-tosh, Mr. Gillies. Let us clear the air at once. If we are to work together, we must have no more of this false modesty and guile. We both know very well what we’re talking about. It is the freedom of believers to shout aloud what doubters dare not confess.”
“Huh?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” The way he said it brooked no contradiction; I offered none. “Very well, let us put aside all inhibition and speak openly.” He reached out a firm hand and tapped my leg. “I will make a True Man of you yet.”
“I told you about Simon and everything else,” I said, somewhat defensively. “But you haven’t told me how you knew I was—” Words failed me. What was I?
“Troubled?” Nettles offered. “Since this began, I have been observing very closely.”
“Observing what?”
“Why, everything. Quite literally everything. The signs are there for anyone with eyes to see them.”
“I don’t understand,” I complained.
“No.” He rose and stood over me. “But we have done enough for one day, I think. Good night, Mr. Gillies. Go home and get some rest.”
“Uh, yeah, good night.” I climbed slowly to my feet. “Thank you.” I felt grateful in a nonspecific sort of way. I guess I was just glad he wasn’t telephoning the men with the butterfly nets.
He propelled me quickly toward the door. “Come to me again tomorrow morning. I will explain everything.”
Next thing I knew, I was standing with my coat in my hands in the gloomy half light of Brewer’s Lane. I put on my coat and hurried into the chilly rain. The wind had risen, driving the fine rain before it. The relief I had enjoyed in Professor Nettleton’s company quickly dissolved in the cold reality of wind and rain. “Mad as a hatter,” I thought gloomily. “Old Nettles is crazier than I am.”
I arrived back at the door to my rooms just in time to hear the telephone ring. I jammed the key in the lock and dashed to answer the phone, and instantly realized I’d made a big mistake.
8
SUNWISE CIRCLES
The clock read ten minutes past eleven. Who would be calling at this time of night?
“Hello, is that Mr. Gillies?” The voice sounded as if it were coming from a very great distance—the vicinity of Mars, perhaps. Still, it was one of those once-heard-never-forgotten voices, and I recognized it at once. My heart sank.
“Speaking,” I said. “Good evening, sir.”
“Geoffrey Rawnson here.”
“Good to hear you, sir. How are things?”
“Oh, working too hard as usual. Haven’t a minute to myself. Still, mustn’t complain, I suppose,” he replied affably enough. “Actually, I was wondering if I might speak to Simon.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rawnson, but Simon isn’t here at the moment.”
“Not there? Well, where is he?” His tone implied that he thought it unlikely his son should be anywhere else but standing beside the phone, waiting for him to call.
“He’s out for the, ah, evening, I believe,” I lied, then added a corrective of truth. “As a matter of fact, I just got back myself.”
“I see,” he replied. “Well, I won’t keep you. Would you just relay to Simon that I called?”
“I’ll do that, sir—as soon as I see him.”
“Fine,” the elder Rawnson said. “There’s just one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“Tell Simon that unless I hear from him tomorrow before ten o’clock, I will arrive as scheduled to pick him up. Do you have that?”
“You’ll be here to pic
k him up as scheduled—yes, I have it. Uh, what time would that be, sir—so I can tell Simon?”
“He knows the details, I should think,” Rawnson said, and I detected an undercurrent of pique. He paused and, by way of explanation, added, “I don’t mind telling you I’m a little put out with Simon just now. He was supposed to turn up for his grandmother’s birthday celebration at the weekend. Never misses it. This year not a card, not a call, nothing. He’d better have a very good excuse. And I’ll expect to hear it when I see him tomorrow. You can tell him that from me.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed.
“Well, it’s late; I won’t keep you. Good night, Mr. Gillies. Best regards.” The phone clicked, and the line went dead.
Sturm und Drang! Face-to-face with Simon’s dad, and what was I going to tell him? Terribly sorry, your highness, but Sonny Jim has flitted off to La-la Land. Tut tut. Rotten luck, what?
I went to bed full of woe, and fell asleep plotting Simon’s demise.
It may be that Professor Nettleton slept in his clothes. Then again, maybe he didn’t sleep at all. When I arrived early next morning, he appeared exactly as I’d left him the previous evening, hip deep in research—there were piles of papers, pamphlets and journals, and stacks of books all over the floor. “Come in! Come in!” he called when I knocked, barely glancing up as I entered.
“Here it is!” he cried, waving a book over his head. “Sit down, Lewis, and listen to this.”
Nutsy Nettles began reading at me from the book, pacing among the heaps of literature, running his hand through his wispy hair. I listened to him for a moment before I realized that I did not understand a word he was saying. I mean, the words I understood, but they made no sense. It was all a jumble of jargon: nexus this, and plexus that, and something about serial time and the infinite malleability of the future or some such thing.
I shifted a stack of papers onto the floor and sat down in the leather chair. The lamp next to the chair was the room’s only light. He finished his reading and regarded me closely, his eyes pixie bright with excitement.
“Excuse me, Nettles,” I said, “I’m not sure I got all that. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” Then I told him about my phone conversation with Simon’s father.
The old prof clucked his tongue sympathetically. “It was only to be expected,” he said. “People can’t go missing and not be missed. Still, I had hoped for a bit more time. Never mind.”
“Never mind? But he’s coming to see Simon today—and Simon won’t be here.”
“We can worry about that later,” the professor told me. “Would you like some tea?” He pottered off to his hot plate on the sideboard, saying, “The aurochs and spear—those are positive indicators. Likewise the Green Man, the wolf, boar, and hound. I expect there are scores of others—perhaps hundreds—but you wouldn’t necessarily have noticed them.” I could hear him rattling tins and filling a kettle. His voice drifted back to me as if from the outer darkness of the netherworld.
“Indicators,” I repeated without enthusiasm. I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
“Now then, there are two things which puzzle me about your story. I must ask you to remember very carefully. Quite a lot depends upon it, I’m afraid.” Nettleton returned to stand over me. “Think back to the cairn. Did you notice anyone nearby when you were there?” he asked, watching me intently. “Did anyone approach you?”
“No one.” I shrugged. “Why?”
“An animal, perhaps? A deer? Or a bird of some kind? A dog?”
I sat bolt upright. “Wait a minute! There was someone. I remember seeing this guy and he had some dogs—three of them, funny looking. I mean the man was funny looking, not the dogs. Well, the dogs were strange, too, now that I mention it. White with red ears, big and thin—they looked like oversize greyhounds or something. They actually blocked my way to the cairn, but I just stood my ground and they left.”
“When did you see him? Before or after Simon entered the cairn?”
“After,” I said. “No, wait . . .” I thought back. “Before, too. Yes, I saw him before, too—Simon and I both saw him. Simon said it was probably just a farmer, and we went on to the cairn. I saw him again when I went back to the cairn after Simon disappeared.”
Nettles clapped his hands and chortled with delight. The kettle shrieked from the sideboard, and the professor bustled over to it. I followed him. “Milk?” he asked.
“Please.” I watched him pour boiling water into a large, tea-stained pot. He also poured water into two unwashed mugs. A fresh pint of milk stood on the sideboard; he took it up and pushed the foil cap with his thumb. “Have I said something important?” I asked.
He swished the water around the mugs and then dumped it back into the kettle. “Yes,” he answered, splashing milk into first one mug and then the other. “Unequivocally.”
“Good. I mean, that’s good . . . right?”
“Oh, it’s very good. I was beginning to wonder if you were telling me the truth.” To my stricken look, he replied, “Oh, there is no doubt in my mind now. None at all. The presence of the guardian confirms it all.”
“Guardian?” I asked. “You didn’t mention anything about any guardian.”
“We will let the tea steep a moment. Bring the mugs.” He pulled a knitted tea cozy over the pot and carried it to the driftwood table, then nudged his chair closer to mine. “The guardian of the threshold,” the professor said simply. “It might have been a stag, a hawk, or a wild dog—the guardian can take many forms. His absence puzzled me. And another thing puzzles me as well: why was Simon allowed to cross the threshold and not you?”
“That puzzles me too. No end.”
“Was Simon perhaps more sensitive?”
“Sensitive Simon isn’t,” I said. “Not that sort at all. No way.”
Nettles shook his head and frowned. “Then this becomes very difficult.” He turned to the teapot and poured our mugs full. He handed a mug to me, and we drank in silence for a moment. Then he said, “Did he show any interest in the Otherworld before this business at the cairn?”
“None,” I said. “Celtic studies is my thing, not Simon’s.”
“But it was his suggestion to go and view the aurochs, was it not?”
“Yeah, but—I mean, he just wanted an adventure.”
The professor regarded me over the rim of his mug. “Did he indeed?”
“You know what I mean. Any excuse for a party, that was Simon.”
“Of course. But you would say he was the adventurous type?”
“Sure. He liked a bit of excitement.” I sipped some more tea and then remembered something else. “But you know, there was something weird that morning. Simon quoted poetry to me.”
“Yes? Go on,” Nettles urged.
“Well, I don’t remember it, but it had to do with—I don’t know.”
“Please try to remember. It might be important.”
“We were driving to the farm—this was before we’d even seen the aurochs—which we didn’t see, because it wasn’t there—and Simon all of a sudden rattles off this scrap of poetry. Celtic poetry. Something about standing at the door to the West,” I said, trying to recall the exact details. “It was one of those Celtic riddle verses where the speaker gives all these clues and you’re supposed to guess who he is.”
“Standing at the door to the West,” the professor repeated. “Yes, go on. Anything else?”
As with a jolt from an electric cattle prod, I remembered something else. “And before that,” I said, excitement tightening my vocal cords, “when we were just waking up. We slept beside the road, like I said, and I woke up just before sunrise. Simon wanted to get an early start but we overslept—not much; it was still plenty early. But Simon got all upset because he wanted to be at the farm before sunrise—not after. When I asked him why, he sneered and said, ‘And you a Celtic scholar.’ It was the time-between-times—Simon knew about the time-between-times, see. That’s why he had us rushing to get to the farm. I asked
him and he didn’t deny it. Simon knew about the time-between-times.”
Nettleton smiled. “I see. Go on.”
“That was all. I wasn’t aware he knew about anything like that. It was odd, but that was Simon. He’d tear into anything that took his fancy.”
“But you did not reach the farm or the cairn before sunrise?”
“No. We reached the cairn well before ten o’clock, though,” I told him.
The professor rose and fetched the milk bottle. He poured milk into the mugs and topped up with hot tea, replacing the tea cozy. He rested his hands on the warm teapot and said slowly, “This is extremely interesting.”
“Great, but what’s it got to do with Simon’s disappearance?”
As if he hadn’t heard me, the professor got up and started rummaging through the pile of books on his desk. He found one and held it up to me. “I came across this last night,” he said and began reading to me.
“On a day in August in the year 1788, I arrived in the chief village of Glen Findhorn, a settlement of fair aspect called the Mills of Aird Righ. I called first on the schoolmaster, Mr. Desmond MacLagan, who kindly agreed to conduct me to the Cairn. MacLagan had been raised in the region and indeed had heard stories of the Cairn from his grandmother, Mrs. Maire Grant, who would oft times relate how she and other youths of the village on bright moonlit nights were wont to go to the Cairn. They seldom had long to wait before they would hear the most exquisite music and behold a grand tower standing in the hollow there. The diminutive folk of Fairyland would issue from the tower and perform their frolic and dance. Next morning the tower would not be found, but the grandmother and her friends would gather Fairy Gold from around the Cairn. This continued until one of the youths, when questioned about the gold, told his father, who then forbade any further excursions of this nature, saying that from time to time people were known to have disappeared in that vicinity.
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