Beyond the Door

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “Where are we?”

  “The land you see is still your land, but tonight we are in time out of time.” As the girl finished speaking, the wind began to scream again. Fresh gusts blew in from the north. The branches swayed, and Jessica looked up into the night sky. Two white-tailed deer appeared out of the darkness. It couldn’t be! Sarah and the huntress were riding them! When she heard the hounds barking, Jessica moaned and hid her head.

  The quarry had changed. Herne could smell the change before he saw it; a boy riding a large wolf was leading the hounds. Herne peered across the backs of his dogs. He knew that wolf, Gwydon. Cerridwyn must be involved. He dipped low over a pond; the hounds had caught a scent below. A pair of geese flew up, panicked. Startled, they honked their way skyward, wings beating furiously. The hounds howled their satisfaction, urging the geese forward. The geese would not be able to last long. Herne raised the silver horn to his lips and blew. The baying of the hounds was answered by something else, an older cry, the forlorn voices of wolves howling at the moon.

  By using the key provided here, you can decipher the Ogham script that appears in this chapter. Zoom in or increase font size to see code more clearly.

  SUMMONING THE WOLVES

  IMOTHY WAS SLOWLY growing accustomed to the motion of powerful Gwydon’s legs surging forward. It was a strange sensation, as if the huge wolf were running across the ground rather than through the night sky, but the roar of the wind filling Timothy’s ears and the billowing clouds were more like navigating an ocean. He needed all his concentration to balance, holding on to Gwydon’s shaggy neck. Every now and then he allowed himself short glimpses over the wolf’s flanks to the land below. Where were they, Sarah, Star Girl, and Cerridwyn?

  He remembered the words in the Celtic encyclopedia, Herne hunts souls. Timothy thought of his own soul and wondered what Herne could want with it. And what did Herne do with the soulless body? Was it cast away on the ground like the crumpled form of the Greenman? Timothy tried not to think of the gentle Greenman lying in a heap on the forest floor. He thought instead of the strange poem with his name in it, and tried to remind himself that this was his great adventure, something that only he could do. But it didn’t help much. He lost all sense of time, and his body ached as if he had been riding for hours, shoulders clenched in fear and legs cramping where they gripped Gwydon’s sides. He tried to flatten himself along the wolf’s back to reduce the wind resistance and keep himself warmer.

  Tired and buried in Gwydon’s warm fur, Timothy dozed off. He had no idea how long he drowsed, but a flash of jagged lightning and the crack of thunder startled him awake. The second flash split a black pillar of clouds as the hounds’ voices grew to a crescendo. Timothy buried his face deeper into Gwydon’s fur, hoping to block out the noise of his pursuers, but another sound caught his attention. The blast of a horn was immediately followed by the harsh and lonely howling of wolves. It was a sound both like and unlike the call of the hounds, chilling Timothy’s heart. Gwydon dipped low, and Timothy brushed the crown of an oak tree with his legs. A pair of mallards flew up through the leaves, desperately flapping their wings. Timothy turned and watched in horror as the white hounds surrounded them, almost trampling them in their flight. Neck askew, one plummeted to the ground, a hound in pursuit.

  Lightning flashed again. A pack of gray wolves appeared, slavering and running to join the hunt. All of Timothy’s old fears rose like a great wave about to suffocate him. If only we could be wolfproof! His eyes burned and teared, from the wind or fear he didn’t know. And still Gwydon ran on.

  From the back of her deer, Sarah watched her brother’s flight for what seemed like hours. For the first time in her life, she was unable to help him. The deer easily kept pace with the hunt, and as she rode, her stomach was curdled with fear. The two animals glided silently, unnoticed through the night. Cerridwyn looked grim and beautiful, her red hair streaming behind her and her cheeks flushed in the wind. If it had been any other time or circumstance, Sarah would have loved the wild ride through the night sky, but her fear for Timothy kept her mouth dry and her heart pounding.

  The quiver of arrows pressed into her back, and she worried whether she would be able to use them well when the time came. Over and over again, she told herself Timothy would escape. On the other hand, the Greenman hadn’t escaped, and she shuddered, as if an icy finger traced her spine. Ahead, the white hounds ran without tiring, followed by the awful man with horns, the man Timothy had called Herne. But on Gwydon, Timothy managed to stay in the lead, keeping a safe distance beyond the snarling and the snapping jaws.

  Suddenly, from behind, Sarah heard wolves howling. As she looked over her shoulder, she saw the pack break through the clouds! The deer swerved to avoid them. She slid sideways until only one leg was across the stag’s back. She tightened her arms around his neck and inched herself upright. Would the wolves pursue the stags?

  Herne had called in the wolves, but it was no more than Cerridwyn had expected. He would follow his prey to the ends of the earth, but she would do what was necessary as well. She looked across at the deer that kept pace with her and nodded in approval. The girl, Sarah, was coping remarkably well. She looked frightened but determined. It was almost time. Cerridwyn could feel it in the wind, in the pace of the storm. Far below, she had seen the white forms of the Morris men moving slowly, carrying the Greenman. She knew they would stop near the river. She would have to act swiftly and accurately. She thought about Herne; she had known him from the beginning of time beyond time. He lived for the hunt and his hounds. The wolves were gaining on Timothy. Even Gwydon would have difficulty outrunning them for long. For the first time, she would need to interfere with Herne’s task. The death of a wolf would be of little consequence to Herne, but he would not easily forgive the death of a beloved hunting hound.

  By using the key provided here, you can decipher the Ogham script that appears in this chapter. Zoom in or increase font size to see code more clearly.

  TRAPS AND SNARES

  HE RAIN BEGAN in harsh bursts that blew sideways across the sky. Timothy felt the drops sting his face, and he closed his eyes as he rode face-forward into the storm. Gwydon continued running closer to the ground; he was barely skirting the tops of the trees. His fur grew slippery and wet, and Timothy slid from side to side. The smell of wet fur surrounded him like a heavy blanket. Water plastered his hair to his head; droplets ran down his neck and into his shirt. He was thoroughly miserable.

  Another bolt of lightning struck, close enough to make even the hair on his arms stand on end. His ears rang with the clap of thunder. Directly ahead, a small section of sky opened, a ragged tear in the night. Light seeped out. Gwydon, with the hunt close behind, lunged forward and into the opening just as it was closing. The wolf’s desperate leap carried them up and through an open window. The terrible clamor of the hunt, the baying of the hounds, the shriek of the wind—all went silent. They had found sanctuary.

  When the prey vanished, the hounds began to howl. Herne, who had ridden with his dogs for time out of time, had never seen prey vanish into the sky as the boy and wolf had done. Blowing the silver horn, he tried to rein in the hounds while they circled and pawed the air. The company of wolves snapped and growled alongside them. They had lost their prey and would not be consoled.

  Timothy looked back over his shoulder for Herne and his pack but saw only darkness. Gwydon had eluded the hunt. They landed with a thud in a dimly lit room. A faint mechanical whine and Gwydon’s claws clacking on a wood floor were the only noises.

  They appeared to be in some kind of workshop. The whirring and clicking sounds came from an amazing array of mechanical devices that covered every surface. Cages of fine woven metal, intricate silver nets, braided tethers, and jeweled boxes. Cage doors and the lids of boxes whirred open and clicked closed of their own volition. Ornate and plain, all were made with skilled workmanship—even Timothy could tell that. Gwydon stood at attention, his sides still heaving. His ears flicked
forward, a low growl vibrating his chest.

  Out of the shadows stepped one of the most striking men Timothy had ever seen. He was tall and muscular; his bronzed skin glowed. Golden hair curled around the tops of his ears, and each feature on his face was perfectly carved, so that his nose looked like the very definition of nose, and his eyes gleamed as all eyes should gleam. He wore a deep-red velvet vest. It was buttoned over a white shirt with a stand-up collar. The sleeves were pushed up to reveal the muscular forearms of a workman. His black pants were tucked into a pair of fine leather boots.

  “Well, hello there. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  The fur rose along Gwydon’s neck, and his growl was louder now.

  “Hush.” Timothy placed a palm on Gwydon’s head. “I’m Timothy, and this is Gwydon.” And he felt his body relax just the tiniest bit.

  “It’s not often I encounter a boy riding a wolf in my workshop.”

  If Timothy found it remarkable to be suddenly out of the storm and in a workshop, it was no more remarkable than any of the other confusing events of the night. By now his mind felt so thick with weariness that he no longer tried to make sense of it all. He was only grateful to be away from Herne, his hounds, and the pack of wolves. And was growing warmer every minute. The fear of the hunt was behind him, and he could think again.

  “What are these?” Timothy gestured toward all the strange devices. His legs still vibrated with Gwydon’s low growl.

  The golden man laughed. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” He held up a silver net so fine that it ran like water through his fingers. “Here, try to tear it.” He tossed the net to Timothy.

  Timothy tugged and pulled at the silvery metal. It was flexible but impossible to break. “Magnificent,” he said and couldn’t help mentally adding up the Scrabble points for each letter, nineteen total.

  The man beamed with pleasure. “I make snares and traps, cages for hunting, or capturing, or protecting things. I see you appreciate fine workmanship.” He gestured at the small crown Timothy wore.

  Timothy reached up and felt the slim circlet still nestled in his hair. He had forgotten all about the crown. “Where am I, and how did I get here?”

  Again the man smiled, and his smile dazzled Timothy. He found himself wishing that this man could be his friend. “Well, you are in my workshop. You and the beast entered through my window, but where you’ve come from and why, I can’t say.”

  Gwydon growled loudly and bared his fearsome teeth. He paced back and forth across the workshop floor while Timothy still sat on his back. Timothy placed a restraining hand on the wolf’s head.

  “Perhaps you and your wolf would like some water. Why don’t you slide down?”

  And suddenly there was nothing that Timothy wanted more than cool, sweet water. His throat felt parched and the air too warm. As he tried to slide from Gwydon’s back, the wolf turned his large head and snapped at Timothy.

  “Here, here, we can’t have that.” The man strode over to a large wooden chest, opened a drawer, and took out a large collar and leash that twinkled and gleamed. The collar was studded with red and green jewels. Timothy wondered if they were rubies and emeralds and immediately thought of Sarah. She would love this place; it would remind her of pirate treasure. “Do you think this will suit him? You can tether him here while we have some refreshment, and you can give him a bowl of water.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea, tethering him,” Timothy found himself saying, even though he knew in his heart that Gwydon would despise being tethered. But it might be the only way to get some of the cool, sweet water, and his legs ached so from riding on the wolf’s back. Why couldn’t Gwydon see that they were safe now?

  Timothy slid off the wolf’s back, and his legs quivered as they hit solid ground. He took the collar from the man and fastened it around Gwydon’s neck. Then he clipped the leash to a hook on the floor. Gwydon dropped his head and shoulders but looked at Timothy with eyes full of reproach. With unbearable thirst, Timothy watched the man pour some water from a pitcher into a silver bowl.

  “Perhaps we can make a trade. Some water for that circlet you are wearing.” Again he poured a stream of sparkling water into the bowl.

  Timothy’s eyes never left the bowl. His tongue felt thick, and it stuck to the roof of his mouth. If he didn’t drink soon, he was sure he would die. Cerridwyn’s stern face flashed before him, but he pushed the image aside. Surely she would understand how much he needed water. “All right,” he said, though his tongue felt so swollen, he could barely form the words. He reached up and removed the simple crown.

  The man grabbed the crown from Timothy’s hands and thrust the bowl at him. The man stuffed the crown into a deep pocket of his pants. Timothy took a small sip. The water was just as cool and sweet as he’d imagined, and he drank in greedy gulps. Water trickled off his chin and dripped on the wood floor. But his thirst was not satisfied.

  Just as Timothy was about to ask for more, he heard a cat cry. The cry came from across the room, and even Gwydon lifted his dejected head, his ears twitching. On one of the long wooden shelves, a gray cat crouched under a small dome. The cage was too small for the hunched creature, which reached one soft paw out through the silver gridwork as if pleading for freedom. But the cat wasn’t the only caged animal. Timothy spied more animals: other cats, birds, reptiles, and rabbits, each one confined in a different cage. The cages were works of art. They gleamed and glowed. Each had intricate patterns of mesh, some silver, some copper. “Why do you have all those animals in cages?” Timothy asked.

  “Cages and snares,” the man corrected him. “I use the animals to test my workmanship.”

  The gray cat continued its mewling. The man looked up and drew his eyebrows together. The cat cried louder.

  “Silence!” In one bound, the man was across the room. He lifted the cage from the shelf and swung it through the air, dumping both cat and cage into a large wooden barrel. Timothy tried to get closer to see what was inside the barrel, but his legs wouldn’t move.

  “I suspect you are still thirsty,” the man purred. “There is nothing like riding to dehydrate a person.”

  And Timothy found that he was indeed thirsty, so thirsty that he couldn’t speak, only nod.

  “I’m so glad you came, but I was expecting a young lady. She was to be my assistant. The hounds should have delivered her here. I was hoping to enjoy Herne’s expression when he lost her.” The man pulled a pocket watch from his vest pocket and impatiently checked the time. His other arm was still in the barrel. “That should do it.” He pulled up the cage, dripping wet. The gray cat lay in a limp huddle, paws extended through the grid … drowned.

  Gwydon growled deep and low. Timothy’s stomach lurched.

  “Where is she?” the man asked impatiently. “The girl I was expecting?”

  Jessica’s face filled Timothy’s mind. He was sure that she was who the man was looking for. “I took her place,” Timothy found himself saying. “I was chased here by hounds with red eyes.”

  “How very noble! But I would expect no less from the boy with the crown. I knew we would meet sometime. But I never expected you to come to me.” The man opened a drawer and pulled out a silver belt. It shimmered and sparkled and snaked through his hands like something alive. “I had a present for her.”

  Timothy reached out one hand to touch the belt. But the man dangled it just out of his reach. Even more than he wanted the next drink of water, Timothy wanted that belt. All thoughts of the drowned cat were gone. He longed to let the slippery silver run through his hands.

  “Perhaps the belt will fit you.” The man bent toward Timothy.

  Timothy held his breath.

  With a terrible lunge, Gwydon thrust his neck and shoulders forward, straining the tether. Surprised, the man dropped the belt. It fell to the floor in a silver curl.

  Snakelike, the belt unwound and slithered across the floor, disappearing under a tall dresser. Timothy threw himself to the floor. The
simple wooden dresser stood on long curving legs, the bottom clearing the floor by about two feet. There was just enough room to crawl under it. The belt gleamed in the darkness just beyond his fingertips, and Timothy scooted under the dresser. He was close enough to grab it, but it slinked away, out of his reach. He inched forward. The belt slithered beyond the back of the dresser. Timothy crawled closer and made a quick grab for the belt. With a whir and click, something dropped down behind him and snapped into place.

  Startled, Timothy looked back over his shoulder. A metal door with an intricate grid pattern had dropped between him and the back of the dresser. He swiveled his head; on all sides were metal bars of the same intricate pattern. The dresser was merely a few inches deep, a false front for a large trap. His heart sank. The metal bars were thicker than those on the animal traps but no less ornate. He was in a cage, caught, just like one of the animals. And the silver belt was gone.

  The cage was not tall enough for Timothy to sit upright. He crouched on his knees. Just like the animals, he had been lured into a trap. The intricate cage was nothing more than a trap with a door that dropped down and latched. His father had used one to capture a raccoon that had taken up residence under their front porch last summer. The latch and bolt made the door impossible to open from the inside.

  Timothy pushed as hard as he could against the door, but it didn’t give. He rolled onto his side. There was no room to straighten his legs. He thrust them against the side of the cage as hard as he could. Nothing gave. From somewhere behind him, he heard a laugh.