Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  Later that night, long after Timothy should have been asleep, he crept into Sarah’s room.

  Sarah sat up, her long hair in tangles around her face, and pulled the covers close around her shoulders. “The portways haven’t failed us yet. It’s always as if hardly any time has passed here at home. And Mom looks better.”

  ”Yeah, she does.”

  “Much better. Timothy, you did a good job. She never would have survived if you hadn’t come back.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it was just the new antibiotic.” He burrowed under Sarah’s comforter with her to ward off the chill in the room. The November nights were growing colder now.

  “How can you say that after everything we’ve seen?” she protested with a broad yawn.

  “Because now that we’re back, it all seems like something I imagined.”

  But Timothy was too tired to puzzle anything out; he was hardly even aware of Sarah still talking. He was asleep when the first gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and he was already dreaming when two cats leapt onto the roof outside Sarah’s room.

  They hissed at the branch wedged in the window casement. “It will take a storm to move that wood,” said one cat to the other.

  “We can wait. Perhaps the old professor sleeps without protection.”

  “Then he will soon enjoy our company.”

  The larger of the two cats padded to the edge of the roof. On the front porch, Prank, Timothy and Sarah’s orange tabby, arched her back, the fur rising in pumpkin spikes. Above her, the two cats slipped like shadows off the edge of the roof and back into the night.

  AT MR. TWIG’S HOUSE

  IMOTHY HAD ARRANGED to meet Jessica after school on Wednesday to return the Uilleann pipes to Mr. Twig. That meant he would have to miss chess-club practice and, as a result, the tournament the following week, but somehow that didn’t seem as important as his errand.

  Sarah would meet them there after ballet practice. She had been very quiet that morning as they got ready for school. At first Timothy thought it was just because she was so tired. But when he’d wondered out loud what Peter was doing, she told him, in a very un-Sarah-like way, to shut up. Then she’d slammed the front door on her way out to catch the high school bus.

  Timothy had shrugged his backpack over one shoulder and checked his pocket to make sure the Greenman’s leaf was there. He’d taken the pipes from the closet and buried them in the bottom of his oversized pack before taking a brief glimpse at the assigned chapter in his geometry book. Then, after helping his father bring his mother breakfast in bed, he’d headed out into the frosty morning.

  All in all, it was a very unsatisfactory day.

  The school day plodded along more slowly than any other Timothy had ever known. He caught sight of Jessica’s curls in the hallway once, and the fact that she was laughing with one of her old friends annoyed him for some inexplicable reason. He snapped at his friends at lunch, couldn’t answer the question when called on in history, and found his locker door jammed in PE, which made him lose points for arriving late on the basketball court.

  Jessica was waiting by the city bus stop just as she had promised. She wore a short white jacket with some type of fake fur trimming the hood and cuffs. It was already growing dark, and they’d have only a short time at Mr. Twig’s before Timothy would be expected home.

  “So, how was your day?” he asked in a conversational tone, once again repressing that inexplicable feeling of irritation.

  Jessica smiled and pulled up the hood of her jacket. “Jordan invited me to a Christmas party, and my poem was selected for the lit mag. All in all, not too bad.”

  The bus groaned to a stop, and Timothy followed her up the steps, now feeling thoroughly out of sorts. Jessica slid off her hood, and Timothy noticed that if he looked carefully, he could see strands of red in her brown hair. Then he thought it was odd that he should be noticing at all.

  He scooted as far away from her as he could on the seat. “The pipes are in my bag,” he said glumly.

  “Do you think there’s a reason we’re supposed to go to Mr. Twig’s, other than just returning the pipes?” she asked.

  “Don’t you remember? When we were at the Market, the Greenman said he’d have more to tell us,” Timothy said. “I didn’t really want to come home, you know.”

  Jessica looked straight at him. “I didn’t, either. It doesn’t seem real now, does it?”

  Timothy thought for a minute. “No, it’s being here that doesn’t seem real. There, wherever there is, seems more than real.”

  Mr. Twig, professor of mythology—emeritus, as he liked to point out—lived in an old, tree-lined neighborhood across town. The first time Timothy met him, he was dressed all in blue from his sweater to his socks. He favored consistency. He was also prone to asking disturbing questions. A light glowed in the front window, and Timothy could see the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair, reading.

  “Good, he’s home.” Timothy shifted nervously as he waited for Mr. Twig to answer the front door. The only other time he had been at Mr. Twig’s house, the professor had asked him if he believed in evil. The memory still sent shivers down Timothy’s arms.

  “Do you think he left you the pipes on purpose?” Jessica asked. “He might have intentionally left them behind in the woods, so that you’d have them when you came back to the Market.”

  “You never know with Mr. Twig. You’ll see. The last time I saw him, we talked about parallel universes.”

  The door swung inward, and Mr. Twig, dressed all in shades of brown, greeted them in stockinged feet, reminding Timothy of a woodland elf.

  “Well, well, what a pleasure, Timothy James Maxwell and a friend. Come in, come in.” Mr. Twig waved them into his warm living room. A book lay facedown on a chair by the window, and a fire warmed the hearth.

  “This is Jessica. We’ve come to return your pipes.” Timothy slid the backpack off his shoulder and pulled out the instrument.

  Mr. Twig raised his generous eyebrows. “I expected you’d be returning them someday. Now, young lady, have a seat.” He gestured toward the red couch where Timothy and Sarah had sat a month ago on their last visit. It was there, Timothy thought, that they had first heard the name Balor, and he shuddered.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  “Ah, more visitors.” Mr. Twig swung the door open to Sarah. She stood on the porch, rosy-cheeked, her ballet bag over her shoulder. “Come in, Sarah. We’ve quite a party here. I don’t often get this many visitors in a week!” Mr. Twig seemed delighted to see them all. “Have a seat. Let me make some tea.”

  Timothy held out the pipes. “We probably don’t have time for tea. We need to be home before dark.”

  Mr. Twig looked disappointed. He took the pipes in one hand. “Very wise for many reasons. Well, have a seat for a moment, anyway, and tell me what you’ve been up to. The last time I saw you, Timothy, you were trying to put my eye out and asking me questions about parallel universes.” He laid the Uilleann pipes tenderly on the table next to his chair.

  Timothy flushed and then said, “It would take a long time to explain everything . . .”

  “I see at least that you have your sister back safe and sound. I suspect the pipes were a help to you there.”

  “Did you leave them there on purpose?” The question that had been rattling in Timothy’s brain popped out.

  “I thought they might be of some use, to you in particular, Timothy. Were they?”

  Timothy sat down on the couch in between the girls. “They were. But how did you know they would be, and why were they?”

  “Ah, more questions! I suspect the girls can help me answer that.”

  The girls glanced at each other, Jessica frowning and Sarah looking puzzled. “When Timothy blew the pipes,” Jessica said, “the battle changed in our favor.”

  “Of course it did. It always does when a Filidh arrives.” Mr. Twig sat back in his chair, looking very satisfied with himself.

  Filidh. Ther
e was that title again, Timothy thought.

  “Your mother is an O’Daly, isn’t she?” Mr. Twig steepled his fingers.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Remember that the Filidh is a hereditary title handed down for generations through the family O’Daly. And that the last true Filidh turned his back on his calling for promises of power. So why do you think you have the crown, Timothy James Maxwell? No one chooses the crown; the crown chooses him. A Filidh is a keeper of the word, of memories, tasked with reminding people of the true stories, and in that way the Filidh is a guardian. And with that title comes another.” Mr. Twig paused. “The Master of the Market.”

  “I knew it!” Jessica pounded the sofa arm. “It’s just what Julian and Cerridwyn told us. And Timothy must find a special stone to prove his birthright.”

  “Correct. The Telling Stone, most often referred to as the Stone of Destiny,” said Mr. Twig.

  “Wait a minute!” Sarah’s face puckered with confusion. “When did you hear all this?”

  She looked at Timothy.

  Timothy hesitated. He found that things went better when he didn’t mention her time as an ermine.

  “When you were eating mice!” Jessica grinned, both dimples flashing.

  Sarah glared.

  Mr. Twig held up a bony hand. “Not just the Telling Stone, although it is the most famous piece of the legend, but the three other treasures, as well: the Dagda’s Cauldron, the Spear of Lugh, and Nuada’s Sword, the Claíomh Solais. These are the things Balor needs to control the Light. But he can’t find them without a Filidh to lead him to them.”

  At the name of Balor a stillness entered the room. Timothy felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Then Mr. Twig continued. “Until you recover these items, the Dark will be searching for you. There are not many places where you will be completely safe.” He stared into the distance and cleared his throat, then glanced once more at Timothy.

  Timothy’s heart had begun to pound so loudly that he was afraid everyone would hear it. “Not safe? What do you mean?”

  “Unfortunately, just what I said. You’re very desirable to the Dark, Timothy.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened, and Jessica shifted on the couch.

  “What can he do?” Sarah said.

  “The servants of the Dark have their own agenda. The three of you can keep them from realizing it, but Timothy is the most at risk. As for what to do . . . first find and step upon the Stone of Destiny before any real harm can be done. But be cautious. And let your friends help you.” Mr. Twig sighed. “And of course, you will have the help of the Stewards of the Stone: Julian, Gwydon, and me.”

  “Stewards?” Timothy asked. “You?”

  “Yes, me. There are many of us throughout history, some of whom you have yet to meet. Steward is an ancient title, one that binds us together to ensure the Stone of Destiny can fulfill its mission and to help anyone who is a true Filidh claim his place upon it. That means we aid the Filidh in the quest and block anyone or anything that might interfere.”

  “Do you know where the stone is?”

  “I do not. Being a Steward doesn’t mean we each know the stone’s current location. It means we know the stone’s purpose. We each have a particular skill to offer the Light. I wish I could tell you more about your risk, but I don’t know how the assault will come. Only that it will.”

  “But that’s not fair!” Jessica’s voice was shrill. “You can’t tell someone that something awful is going to happen, when they can’t do anything about it!”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t fair. But it is true. And I speak truth to the three of you because I believe you can bear it.”

  Timothy’s face had turned very pale. “It’s okay, Jessica. Mr. Twig’s right. It’s better to be on guard, isn’t it? Even if I don’t know what is coming or what, exactly, I’m supposed to do.” He turned to Mr. Twig. “Where do we start?”

  All three children looked at Mr. Twig expectantly.

  “Keep in mind that I am one who studies myths. I can tell you what I know from the past, but whether it will work in the present or not”—he shook his head—“I do not know. What I know is that, according to legend, the stone, the Lia Fáil, roars with joy when a rightful king puts his foot upon it. Many kings of Ireland were crowned on the stone, and the stone always tells the truth. Any true Filidh will also induce a cry from the Telling Stone. But the stone was stolen many years ago. and ever since . . . well, there has been no way to prove rightful succession, as you yourselves have seen at the Market with Balor’s pawn Tristan.”

  “Who stole the stone?” Sarah was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes sparkling. She always loved a mystery, Timothy thought.

  “We don’t know who took the stone, but I suppose it must have been the work of the Dark, though I don’t know even that with certainty. What I do know is that the stone failed to cry out when the Dark tried to place a false king on the throne. Then the stone was taken by force from Ireland to Scotland. There are rumors it was taken to England, and others say it is still hidden in Scotland. Either way, you can see that the Dark would not be eager to have a true Filidh arise and reclaim the Stone of Destiny. The Dark would stop at nothing to prevent that.”

  Timothy’s mind was whirling. “If nobody else has been able to find this stone and the rest of the treasures, how can we?”

  Instead of answering, Mr. Twig stood and walked to a tall cabinet. He removed a key from around his neck and unlocked a small drawer.

  “Rowan wood,” he said, laying his hand on the ancient piece of furniture. “Protection against any uninvited guests.” Then he withdrew a leather pouch from the drawer. “I have debated long and hard about whether or not to give this to you,” he said quietly. “Once it is in your possession, your risk increases. However, without it you will have little hope of getting further in your quest.” Finally, Mr. Twig smiled. “But now that I’ve seen how the pipes respond to you, Timothy, I think it is time. I believe the three of you may be able to see something here that I have missed.”

  Gesturing for the children to follow him, Mr. Twig went to a small round table near the fireplace, where the three gathered close around him. His fingers trembled as he tenderly worked open the pouch, and Timothy saw that the leather was old and worn, as if it had been handled often over many centuries. Slowly, Mr. Twig drew out a small roll of paper. It was the color of old leaves, brown and stiff. He had to hold both ends down to keep the paper from springing back into a roll.

  An unusual pattern of lines and dashes that Timothy recognized immediately filled the corners of the paper. They were runes from the Ogham alphabet he had seen in Julian’s caravan. Blooming between the lines, like flowers on a vine, was an intricate border of animals and birds in deep reds, blues, and greens. In the center of the paper there was a drawing that resembled a map, except that it wasn’t like any map Timothy had ever seen. You couldn’t tell north from south, east from west, and instead of roads there were only lakes, mountains, and trees. A tall-masted ship sailed in a corner.

  “It’s beautiful!” Sarah gasped, looking as if she would like to reach out and trace the drawings with her finger. “Is it very old?”

  “Very. It came into my possession many years ago, but its secrets are locked to me.”

  “Is it a map?” Jessica asked, as if reading Timothy’s thoughts. She bent low over the paper. “It doesn’t look like a normal one.”

  “It very well may be, but I believe it is also more than a map. Maps aid navigation; map ciphers, however, though they look normal, have a code hidden within them. As a navigation tool alone, this map is flawed. However, I believe this map can lead you to the Stone of Destiny. As a Steward, I’ve protected it for the Filidh.”

  “Are you sure this stone is here in our world?” Sarah asked.

  “The kings crowned on this stone ruled in your world. So, yes. The stone is needed here.”

  A tapping sound on the window made Timothy jump. The tapping grew to a patte
r, louder and louder, as a sleety rain began to fall.

  “This document is not something that should be kept open for long,” Mr. Twig added hurriedly, and with a deft movement rolled it back up and slid it into the pouch. “There are many who would like to find it.” He handed the pouch to Timothy. “Above all, it must be kept safe.”

  Timothy’s eyes widened in alarm. The day had dimmed with the sluice of sleet against the windows. The shadows in the room lengthened. Sarah checked her watch. “I think we need to head home, or our parents will be worried about us.”

  “Again, a wise idea,” Mr. Twig agreed, escorting them to the door. “I expect that I will be hearing from you again sooner rather than later.”

  Timothy tucked the pouch inside his backpack. The three children walked silently out into a gray late afternoon, each wrapped in thought and quickly chilled by the stinging rain. A Filidh. He whispered the word, trying out the sound of it. And a quest! He looked at Jessica and Sarah trudging by his side. Wherever their adventures took them from here, they would go together.

  “Do you think we can figure out the cipher?” Jessica asked. “I don’t like the sound of an assault coming.” She looked at him from under her hood, the cold rain plastering stray curls to her cheeks.

  Sarah looked at him, too.

  The word assault rattled in Timothy’s mind. Seven Scrabble points. Did it mean a physical attack? It reminded him of onslaught, a word that also made him nervous and offered thirteen points. He held the bag tightly against his chest and wondered if being a Filidh meant always feeling afraid and trying not to show it.

  THE MAGICIAN’S TRICK

  HURSDAY.

  Timothy’s body occupied the third desk in the third row of Mr. Petty’s health class, but his mind was elsewhere, wandering far outside the classroom walls.

  He was riding Gwydon, the great wolf, through miles of endless blue sky. Below, the banners of the Travelers’ Market snapped in a fresh breeze. Behind him on the wolf, Jessica laughed and tightened her arms around his waist. They could see his sister, Sarah, just below, waving and calling to them. At her side was the Greenman, his stout arms pushing skyward and his deep voice calling—