Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “Master of the Market!” Nom cried out. He stepped forward, blocking Tristan’s path.

  Tristan stopped and stared. “What do you want?”

  Jessica trembled. This would be the end of Nom. And how close was the Animal Tamer?

  Nom’s voice was surprisingly firm. “Stop letting the Animal Tamer push you around. He’s nothing but stirring up trouble, he is. Drives away all our customers. Wants to run the Market, he does.”

  “What do you know of it?” Some color had crept back into Tristan’s face, and he rested his balled fists on his hips.

  “Just what I sees and hears, Master, and what I sees and hears is him tellin’ folks that you’re getting too much power and he wants the Market back. That’s why he put the charm on you.”

  Nom spoke with such conviction that Jessica almost believed him herself.

  “Eh, what charm?” Tristan considered Nom with suspicion.

  “That draíocht necklace he tricked you into wearing.”

  Tristan looked down and fingered the ruby pendant hanging from the chain around his throat.

  “It’s bad magic, it is. Cursed. Things been bad since he gave it to you. First the birds came, then the boy Peter with his poison.”

  “He wasn’t trying to poison me, you fool. He was after the Animal Tamer!”

  “Wanted to make you think that, he did. And what about the Evil Eye and everyone leaving the Market?” Nom gestured at the empty stalls around them. “And now there’s that one.” Nom pointed toward Jessica. “Step out here!”

  Her heart froze. Cautiously, Jessica straightened and stepped into view.

  “She’s a draíocht girl, too. Got fairy blood, she has. He brought her here with the necklace ’cause he knew you’d want it. Charmed, it is. Me, I don’t want no trouble. My sis and me makes a nice profit with our geese, we do, and that’s how I’d like it to stay.”

  Tristan ran his thick fingers over the necklace again. “I’m hearing what you’re saying, old man, and it may or may not be true. But one thing for sure, the Master of the Market doesn’t hold with fairy folk. I know who does and who doesn’t have draíocht in my Market!” And Tristan turned his glower on Jessica.

  “Oh, my sister turned her into a mute,” Nom continued breezily. “She can’t cast spells that way. Come here, girlie.”

  Jessica did not want to move; she had no idea what Nom was planning, but she shuffled forward, remembering not to say a word. When she got quite close, Nom gave Jessica an unexpected shove, and she stumbled to her knees.

  Tristan smiled in appreciation at Jessica’s rough treatment. “She’s interfered with me and my Market already, and I’m wanting her gone, spit-spat.” Tristan pointed one meaty finger at Jessica and with the other suddenly ripped the necklace from his throat, breaking the chain. “And I won’t be wearing anything from fairy folk.” He tossed the ruby on its broken chain into the dirt at her feet. “Now, get rid of her, goose-man, or I’ll get rid of you next!”

  “Oh, I’ll get rid of her meself, yessir, I’ll do that. Trouble will stop, you’ll see. You’re the Master, you is.” And Nom gave several subservient bobs of his head.

  His red eyebrows knotted into a frown, Tristan puffed out his chest and hurried off, eager to put some distance between himself and the necklace of the fairy girl.

  Nom scurried forward and snatched up the necklace in his bony fingers. The ruby dangled, deep as a drop of blood, from the broken chain.

  “How did you know what to say?” Jessica whispered.

  “Understand him, I do. Pride’s the great enemy. Here, take yer pretty thing, and let’s be gone.”

  And Jessica slipped the necklace into a pocket close to her heart, wondering why she would need it for the battle.

  Electra had come to the Travelers’ Market because of the impending battle. She was needed to bear witness, to observe the facts impartially and tell of them accurately. And she had arrived because a new Filidh had come of age. She did not know who would win the battle or what would happen to the boy Filidh. Her job, her calling, was merely to witness events and not interfere, just as her sisters had done at turning points throughout history. They were those who could provide testimony of all that happened. But Electra found not interfering more difficult by the minute. Everything the small man said rang true. It was obvious, she thought, as she watched Jessica put the red necklace into a pocket, that Balor and Tristan never did as they promised. Even she could see this, and she had known humans for only a short time. And there was something more, a rawness she didn’t understand gnawing at her from the inside when she heard the word battle.

  GATHERING

  ESSICA AND NOM made their way toward the caravan of Julian the Storyteller. Jessica’s steps were lighter now that the ruby necklace from Cerridwyn was curled safely in her pocket. She’d have to find some way to mend the chain, but first she must find Sarah. But even Nom had no clever ideas about tracking down the missing ermine.

  “We’ll go see the Storyteller. He may know sumthin’ that can help us. He’s clever, him and that great wolf of his.”

  Jessica nodded in agreement and thought of Julian, who, in her own world back home, was a reference librarian. She remembered how surprised she and Timothy had been to discover him here, between worlds, at the Travelers’ Market. In the Market he was revered as a Storyteller, living in a small, brightly painted caravan with the wolf Gwydon. Perhaps Nom was right; if anyone knew what to do, it just might be the mysterious Julian. If only Timothy was here now to help her puzzle it all out. Why hadn’t Cerridwyn told her exactly what to do?

  At the very time Jessica and Nom were making their way through the nearly deserted Market toward Julian’s caravan, a rumor was spreading through the forest. It was carried on the slightest breeze and traveled with the woodland birds and animals. Birds of every kind, along with deer, badgers, rabbits, foxes, squirrels, and other forest dwellers, were preparing for battle. Some tucked away food and secured their shelters, while others made their way into dank places where agents of the Dark congregated.

  Rumors said that the trees were waking and would soon be called into battle; the Greenman had spoken their true names. It had been many years since the trees surrounding the Market awoke and many more since trees in Timothy’s world had. Stories held that the trees awoke only at the great intersections of history. And rumors rustled that now was such a time. A true Filidh had once again arisen. He would arrive wearing the crown. The Greenman walked among the trees. His skin was as rough and gray as sycamore bark, his fingers knotted and stiff. Vines sprang from his nose, and tendrils curled from his eyebrows. A covey of quail had taken shelter in his leaves and bobbed in low branches as he strode along the old forest trails. In a voice both deep and raspy, he conversed with the ash and linden, calling them by name. And as he spoke, with a great groaning the trees awoke. Limbs flexed and bark rippled. There was no wind, but the leaves of the forest shook as if a storm brewed. Young saplings bent to the earth and straightened again. Ancient oaks and elms moaned as they shook off years of sleep.

  Arkell, the eagle, landed heavily in the topmost branches of a sycamore, where Andor waited. The ferret was a nasty burden, and it didn’t even offer the promise of a meal. The animal was to be spared; it was once one of the human folk. Now that it was safely out of the open field and away from battle, Arkell could be rid of it. He swooped down and, near the base of a tree, opened his talons and let the animal go.

  Julian waited outside his caravan. They should be coming soon. He had done what he could, but he would not be able to prevent the coming battle. The outcome of the struggle would affect far more than the Travelers’ Market. It would tip the balance of power in Timothy’s world as well. For whatever happened in this Market between worlds was connected to all worlds. If the Dark triumphed here, its hold would grow stronger everywhere. If the Dark was held at bay, Timothy would be given a chance to prove his birthright. And Timothy still had no clear understanding of that inheritance and of th
e perils that would be involved. Maybe it was better that way.

  Julian’s sigh was deep. The shadow of evil in the Market was growing stronger, but there was beauty, too, and for that he grieved. He loved the people who jostled every day among the stalls—the men, women, and children who listened to his stories, who ate and drank and applauded for the jugglers and musicians. He loved the honest merchants who struggled to make a living. He had warned those who would listen and even those who wouldn’t. Many believed his words, and a few caravans were already bumping their way along the forest trail. Merchants who remained closed up shop, and shuttered the windows of their caravans. But others shook off Julian’s words as they would a pesky fly. They continued bartering goods, eating, and drinking as the shadows grew around them.

  There was one part of the Market he did not visit: the Animal Tamer’s section. He knew he was no match for the tricks of Balor. His one hope was that Gwydon had accomplished his task and brought the crown to Timothy. Julian leaned against the painted wood of the caravan, crossed his arms, and scanned the distance.

  When he finally spotted them, they were trudging through the thinning crowd, Nom in front, the bedraggled girl behind. He noticed how small they both looked, how tired and disheveled. This night would be a long one, he feared, but he stepped forward to greet them with a welcoming smile. And when he did, he saw that they were being followed. The star girl walked a few yards behind them with a curious expression on her face.

  The ermine was gone! The Animal Tamer’s gaze swept the crowd but caught no sign of it, and a small fire ignited in his heart. He fanned his anger with thoughts of the wolf stealing the crown, the crown that should be his, and the fire became a blaze of hatred. It had all been within his grasp—the crown; the boy, Timothy; and his sister. He had waited so long, and soon the narrow window of his opportunity would close. He’d taken the boy’s sister as bait, turned her into an ermine, and still the boy had not returned. He needed Timothy as much as he needed the crown. What he had not been able to win by guile he would now take by force.

  He ran his hands through his hair, and when he could bear it no more, he cried out in rage—a long, inhuman howl. The Master of the Market had outlived his usefulness. The Market itself must be destroyed before the boy returned with the crown to claim it!

  Jessica heard the unearthly cry, and her heart stuttered a beat. A clammy sweat broke out on her palms. Throughout the Market, people paused, the hair rising on the backs of their necks, their skin growing cold. They had all heard the Storyteller’s warning, and now his words came back to them. Those who had not already made preparations to leave began to close up shop. Mothers called for children; men and women trundled baskets of goods into their caravans and bolted the doors.

  The Animal Tamer’s howl was answered by creatures that served the Dark. With a great wrenching sound that shook the Market, a fissure appeared in the earth. The thin crack widened until it looked like a hideous, gap-toothed smile as broad as a wagon wheel. And from this mouth in the earth, a head slithered. A huge emerald-green, crested snake slid its way up and out, its monstrous head swiveling, its forked tongue flicking the air—ten feet, thirty feet, sixty feet of winding green.

  Locked inside their caravans, people crouched low, covering their ears as the Animal Tamer’s cry wailed on. The earth shook. A curious few ran toward the Animal Tamer’s stall. Tristan led the pack. Something terrible was happening in his Market, something that had to do with draíocht. When he saw the widening fissure, Tristan stopped, his eyes fixed in horror on the long green serpent that now rose, a slithering barrier, between the Animal Tamer’s stall and the rest of the Market. A small group of merchants stood behind him, muttering and crossing themselves, and a few, like Tristan, were spitting and touching their foreheads with the ancient sign of protection from evil.

  Julian, Nom, and Jessica had arrived at their destination. They watched from the back of the group as the fissure began to widen yet again. It was no longer the width of a wagon wheel but of an entire wagon. This time, with a gurgling slurp, as if the ground below was filled with something wet and mucky, the earth expelled a large and hideous toad. Out it sprang, black and sprawling, with many muscled legs and a hundred claws, clods of dirt shedding from its flesh.

  Jessica covered her eyes, gasping.

  “They have gathered,” Julian said in a voice flat with grief. His words, bleak and heavy, filled Jessica with hopelessness. She felt Nom tugging at her arm, to pull her away, but her legs refused to move.

  And then, quicker than a blink, the great toad jumped sideways, and his tongue, longer than any toad’s tongue should be, unrolled like a black ribbon. In one flick it wound around a merchant’s broad chest and pulled him, shouting and cursing, into its enormous black mouth. Jessica could hear the man’s muffled cries as the toad’s mouth closed around him. Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined anything as awful as the fleshy lips of the toad closing over the man’s shrieking head.

  The small group gasped; people ran blindly, pushing and shoving, trampling their weaker neighbors to get away. But Jessica’s eyes were fastened on the Animal Tamer, who had appeared in front of his stall. Gone were the handsome features, the golden hair, the bronze skin. He was Balor the One-Eyed.

  His single eye remained hooded, but Jessica could see the loose flesh of his face sagging over sharp bone, and his twisted lips drew back in a thin smirk as he clambered onto the great snake’s back. The serpent reared its ugly head, bright eyes looking to both sides at once. Jessica drew the necklace from her pocket. With shaking fingers, she knotted the two ends together and prayed that it would hold. The ruby gleamed in the late-afternoon light. She felt as if something within her was growing. She stood up taller.

  No one could predict where the toad would strike next. Its many legs allowed it to change direction instantly, and in the chaos of shoving bodies, the amphibian seemed to be everywhere, sucking in victims, slashing others with its claws. The snake, too, was hungry. It unhinged its jaw and swallowed a woman whole. The last Jessica saw of her was a pair of stout arms flailing like a windmill as she shrieked like a teapot come to boil.

  The snake’s great tail splintered one of the potbellied caravans. A couple and their three children within, suddenly exposed, dropped to hands and knees and crawled to hide behind the wheels and splintered boards. Then into the midst of the chaos a shot exploded. Tristan stood, legs spread, gripping his pistol in his gloved hands. He fired directly at the toad, but the bullets glanced off its thick skin.

  “Too late for that, my friend!” Balor called out in a triumphant voice. “Before dawn the Market will be destroyed, and you will no longer be necessary. But you won’t have the luxury of death, either!”

  Tristan’s face bloomed purple with rage. “I am the Master of the Market!” A flap of skin rose on Balor’s face, and his single eye found Tristan. Instantly, Tristan fell to the ground, writhing in agony like a beetle stuck through with a pin and fastened to a board.

  Balor’s face was white, and he bent forward, his arms resting on his knees, as if using his Evil Eye had stolen his strength. “I won’t kill you yet, my friend. I may still have need of you,” he growled.

  Jessica couldn’t bear watching any longer. Still clutching Nom, she turned to Julian, but his gaze was not on the inhuman battle. He was looking up into the sky.

  THE PIPES OF WAR

  IMOTHY CLUTCHED GWYDON’S fur in one hand. In the other he grasped the Uilleann pipes Mr. Twig had left behind in the forest. Timothy’s glasses, beaded with moisture, sat crookedly on his nose as he leaned over as far as he dared to look at the ground many yards below. From his seat on Gwydon’s back high above the tallest trees, he saw the Travelers’ Market spread below him like a tapestry. His heart thrilled with the familiar sight of the bright caravans, their banners snapping in the breeze.

  As the wolf flew lower, Timothy’s brow furrowed. Something was not right. Many of the caravans were shuttered. People were closing do
wn market stalls, stacking their wares, while others hitched ponies to caravans, preparing for what appeared to be a hasty departure.

  Timothy scanned the Market for any sign of Jessica and Peter. They had promised to do everything they could to rescue his sister. A cloud of dust and noise rose from a corner of the Market. As Timothy watched, people fled from the center of the commotion, but Gwydon flew straight toward it. Timothy tried to feel hopeful. He tried to feel brave. He reached up and straightened the small gold crown on his head, and it gave him courage. He had been just in time to save his mother. But would he be able to save Sarah?

  Gwydon flew directly into the cloud of dust and noise. A loud crack shook the air, and Timothy gripped the wolf’s fur with his one free hand. He leaned out over the great animal’s neck, peering through the dust, and his heart sank. Signs of chaos and destruction were everywhere. People were running and screaming. In the midst of the chaos, an enormous black toad with many legs leapt, first in one direction and then in another. Timothy could barely follow the toad’s movements as it hopped from leg to leg to leg. He dug his fingers deeper into Gwydon’s fur. A huge green snake reared up, Balor seated on its crested back. Timothy almost toppled from the wolf. Once before he’d encountered Balor, and he’d barely escaped with his life. Between the toad and snake, men, women, and children alike were being swallowed like field mice.

  “The pipes, Timothy. Play the pipes!” a rough voice called to him as Gwydon dipped low over the chaos. Timothy started. He knew that voice. It was Julian. This hardly seemed the time for playing music.

  But Julian shouted again, more fiercely, “Timothy, you must play the pipes!” So Timothy pulled his gaze from the destruction of the Market and slid the bellows under his right arm, steadying himself with his left hand. He pressed his thighs as hard as he could into the wolf’s sides, and once he felt secure, he fingered the chanter and pumped his right arm.