Beyond the Door

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  When the world stopped spinning, Timothy found himself once again on a forest path, not quite sitting on the damp, mossy ground. Sprawled, he thought: fourteen points played off an s with an ed ending … Always a useful word.

  On both sides were trees and bushes. The gravel path was gone, replaced by a muddy track. They must be back in their own woods. Sarah was on her hands and knees in the mud, and Jessica was sitting in a patch of bracken. But Nom was standing with his hands on his hips, looking down at them all.

  “Hard to land on yer feet the first few times, I know, but I’s been at it for a while, and it don’t bother me no more.” He strutted around them as if nothing impossible had just happened.

  “But what about New York!” Sarah protested. She stood up easily, as if all this portwaying between worlds hadn’t bothered her in the slightest.

  “Oh, that,” said Nom, dismissing New York with a flip of his hand. “We needed the gate for a portway, and that’s where it’s living.”

  Jessica rose shakily to her feet.

  “Twenty gates for the needs of men,

  scholar, hunter, enter in.

  Closed until a time of need,

  the gates decide who will proceed.”

  Nom cocked his head at her. “That’s right. Yer catching on. Not as slow as the other two.”

  “I don’t know where that came from,” Jessica said with a shake of her brown curls. “It sort of popped into my head and out my mouth.” But she looked awfully pleased with herself, Timothy noticed.

  “Where are we?” Timothy asked, trying to stand. He had to bend over and rest his hands on his knees. “It looks like we’re just back in our woods again.”

  “Looks like, looks like,” Nom said impatiently. “When are you going to learn how to look? Do you see any road beyond here?”

  Timothy had to agree that he didn’t.

  “And the trees—is they the same?”

  Nom was right. The trees were large deciduous varieties with great spreading limbs, which Timothy didn’t recognize.

  “Oh, be quiet and listen,” Sarah scolded. “I hear music and voices.”

  “’Course you do. It’s market day, and we’re late.” Nom bounced on the balls of his feet. “Follow me. If you can stand, that is.” He looked pointedly at Timothy.

  Timothy forced himself all the way up and hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself by throwing up. Jessica was already following right behind Nom in the direction of the music.

  Sarah steadied her brother’s arm. “Do you have any idea what we’re doing here?”

  “Hunting, I guess. For something to help Mom. Sarah, I saw Star Girl by the gate, just before we went through.”

  “If you saw Electra, then we must be going to the right place.”

  They walked to the edge of a wide meadow and stopped. The sound of music was closer now. At home, it was already dark and almost time for supper; but here, the sun was right overhead. And what Timothy saw in front of him took his breath away.

  THE MARKET

  HE FIRST THINGS Timothy noticed were the wagons and the fat ponies. The meadow spread below them was splashed with brightly colored, barrel-shaped caravans parked near dozens upon dozens of tents and stalls. They were arranged in two large circles, one inside the other. The wagons had round windows, like the portholes of a ship, and crooked little stovepipes that angled up for chimneys. The backs of the wagons had arched doors with wooden steps that folded down to the ground, and in the front was a broad seat for sitting on while driving a pony. Tied near each wagon was a pony with a long shaggy mane and tufts of hair covering each hoof.

  Each wagon was painted a different combination of bright colors that seemed splashed together without any thought of coordination—purple and yellow, lime and pumpkin, turquoise and mustard … But it didn’t matter. The aroma of spicy grilled meat wafted through the air! And by Timothy’s side, Sarah tapped her feet to the music of drums, flutes, and fiddles.

  “The Travelers’ Market!” Making a little bow, Nom looked as pleased as if he had invented the whole thing himself.

  Banners flew above every stall. There were fish banners and fowl banners and others with pictures of cheese and of jewels, advertisements for the wares being sold, snapping in the breeze.

  “Let’s go. I’m so hungry!” Sarah exclaimed, plunging ahead.

  Nom grabbed her shoulder. “The Market’s full of draíocht, magic stuff, you know. Got to be careful, not running off like fools! Hunting’s yer job, after all.”

  “Are you sure there’s something here to help Mom?” Timothy asked.

  Nom continued in the kind of lecturing voice Timothy hated. “Can’t say what you’ll find, nor where. It was just me job to get you here. But I knows this: Don’t trust everyone, and meet back here, by this oak, when it’s time to go.”

  “How will we know when that is?” Jessica said. “And look at us.” She gestured down at her jeans and tennis shoes. “We don’t fit in at all.”

  “You’ll know when to meet. And don’t expect to understand everything you hear—travelers speak their own language when they want to. As for yer clothes …” Nom took the pack from his back, and his long, bony hands pulled out a wad of tangled fabric, which he spread out on the ground. There were two roughly woven skirts, one purple and one red with yellow flowers, a pair of blue wool pants that reminded Timothy of pirate pants, and three short cloaks of a drab gray that changed color depending on the way you looked at them. “That’s the best I got.” And he sniffed as if he thought they expected more.

  “Oh, these are wonderful, Nom!” Sarah said, shooting Timothy a look. He hoped Nom wouldn’t see her inspecting the red skirt for bugs. “We can pull them on right over our jeans.”

  But Nom’s sharp eyes were fixed not on them but on the Market. He rubbed his long, thin hands across his face. With his cap set at a jaunty angle, he, at least, looked like he could blend right in with the colorful crowd.

  “Now, if you’ll not be needing me anymore …” Nom said. “It’s been a long time since I been to the Market.”

  But Timothy wasn’t ready to let their guide disappear so quickly.

  “You’ve got to tell us what we’re looking for—how to find it!”

  Nom shrugged his hunched shoulders impatiently. “Too many questions! Just sniff it out. That’s all I know, all I do. I’ll be around if you need me.” And with that he stuffed the discarded sweatshirts into his pack and scuttled through the tall grass as if he didn’t like being out in the open too long.

  Timothy had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he pulled on the wool pants over his jeans. He wasn’t sure if he trusted Nom, but Nom was their only link to home. And now that his stomach had settled, he was hungry. But even the magic of the Market wouldn’t make him forget his quest for an antidote to help his mother.

  Walking through the tall grass in long skirts was more difficult than the girls expected, and the pollen was making Timothy’s eyes water. But stride by stride, they were getting closer to the tantalizing smells and sounds of the Market.

  How would they ever blend into the hodgepodge before them? The long skirts hid the girls’ jeans, and the cloaks mostly disguised their T-shirts, but Timothy noticed that Jessica’s bright running shoes peeked out at every step. He felt ridiculous in his baggy pants and oversized shirt, as if he were a character in a play. And he couldn’t tell what time period they were in. Did traveling markets like this still exist in some parts of the world, or had they gone back in time? From every side, people shouted, bargained, and conversed, sometimes in a language Timothy couldn’t understand.

  In front of them, a bright yellow wagon sat next to a deep-red tent. Two dogs lazed in the sun nearby and barely raised their heads as the children approached. Overhead, snapping in the breeze, was a blue banner emblazoned with a brown loaf of bread.

  “Just our luck!” Sarah complained. “A food tent—and we’ve no money at all.” She eyed a pile of brown loaves and a basket of blueberry muffi
ns that smelled as if they’d just come out of the oven.

  Timothy slid off his digital watch and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. If he was going to fit in, he needed to think of all the details.

  “Huh? What’s this?” He pulled a small silk purse out of his pocket. It was heavy, and its contents clinked in his hand.

  “Well, open it up,” Sarah demanded.

  Inside were a number of silver coins that Timothy poured out into Sarah’s palms.

  Jessica lifted one of the small coins and studied it. It was octagonal, with a sheaf of wheat on one side and an unfamiliar script on the other. “Do you recognize this?”

  Timothy took it in his hand. “Never seen anything like it before. But then, there’s lots of coins I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m hungry,” Sarah declared. “Let’s see what happens.” And she boldly marched up to the front of the tent, where a red-faced woman with a squalling baby on her hip was arranging the stacks of loaves.

  “I’d like to purchase a muffin, please.” Sarah held out two coins.

  The woman paused long enough to wipe the baby’s nose on her sleeve and then grabbed up the coins, dropping not one, but three plump muffins into Sarah’s hands. Then she bobbed her head and muttered some words Timothy didn’t catch at all before disappearing back into the tent.

  Sarah gleefully split her prize between the three of them. “Blueberries, and lots of them. I love blueberries!” She sighed with contentment as she ate.

  “I think we need a plan,” Timothy said around bites of muffin. He was feeling much better now that he had something in his stomach. “We need to find whatever it is that will help Mom as soon as possible. So, we should divide the money, split up, and meet back here.”

  “Don’t you think we should stay together?” Jessica wiped her hands in the folds of her skirt. “What if we run into trouble?”

  “And how will we know when we find the right thing?” Both Sarah and Jessica looked at Timothy as if expecting him to know the answer.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll know it when we find it.” He tried to sound much more confident than he felt. “But we do need a signal, a way to get in touch with each other.”

  “Let’s just say that we’re all back here in this very spot in two hours,” Sarah said, checking her watch. “You both have watches, don’t you?”

  “Mine’s in my pocket,” said Timothy. “And I have the leaf. It should warn me when things get dangerous.”

  Jessica said, “I’ve got my cell phone. It tells the time.”

  “Somehow I don’t think a cell phone will do any good here,” Sarah said. “Do you have reception?”

  Jessica checked her phone. “None. That settles it. You and I will go together. I don’t like the idea of being on my own. Besides, Timothy has his leaf. That will be his protection.”

  Sarah gave Timothy a stern look. “Don’t do anything crazy, Timothy. Promise me you’ll be back here in two hours.”

  Timothy remembered his mother’s pale face, the sheen of sweat on her upper lip, and he swallowed to hold back the panic that rushed at him. “Okay, let’s get going.”

  “Wait, don’t forget about the draíocht.” Jessica flushed. “It’s an old Irish word for magic. It’s what Nom warned us about.” She looked hard at Timothy. “Be careful, and trust your leaf.”

  But Timothy was already walking away.

  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.

  JULIAN

  HE MAN WORE a short cape of peacock feathers. Bright glass balls flew in a circle from his hands, higher and higher each time. He placed a thin stick between his lips, tilted his dark face up toward the sky, and spun a sea-green ball while his hands never let one of the glass balls slip. The man finished with a flourish, dropping his blue cap to the ground, and Timothy tossed in a coin.

  Every sight was a distraction, every sound a chance to explore something new. Focus, Timothy told himself as he turned away from dueling fiddle players. You’re here on a mission.

  In his pocket, his hand closed over the glass leaf. It was pleasantly warm to the touch, as if it were a living thing. Maybe it will be like a game of Marco Polo, he thought. When he got closer to whatever it was that would help his mother, the leaf would alert him in some way. He already knew it blazed when danger was near.

  He scanned the crowd for Nom, irritated that the little man had abandoned them. Occasionally, he thought he spotted him, but it always turned out to be someone else—a young boy or a craggy-faced old man. The ratlike Nom, in his threadbare coat and cap, was lost in the sea of the Market.

  An orange caravan with shiny green trim loomed just ahead on Timothy’s right. Next to it, contentedly munching on a patch of grass, was a beautiful fat pony with a spotted coat. Its dark tail swished as it ate. Timothy crept closer. The pony watched him out of one eye as it munched. He approached quietly, holding one hand out for the animal to sniff. A pony would be a much more interesting pet than a cat. It allowed Timothy to stroke its warm neck while it continued eating.

  Nearby, a tall man with bushy red sideburns and a thick nose stood on a wooden crate. In a loud voice, he hawked his wares: medicines, herbs, and potions. A row of bottles with black-and-white labels glittered on a wooden shelf attached to the orange caravan behind him.

  Timothy walked closer to read the labels on the bottles: Lover’s Curse, Breathe Better, Wart Wash, The Invigorator. Bunches of dried herbs hung around the perimeter of the caravan, like a necklace on a great orange pumpkin.

  “Small, weak, need muscle? Try the Invigorator! Two capfuls, morning and night, and you’ll be a new man, commanding respect wherever you go!” The redhaired medicine man’s voice boomed out through the crowd as he poured a capful of thick black liquid into the open mouth of a short man in a baggy coat. “There you go, sir … fit as a fiddle in no time! And there’s a bonus—won’t be able to keep the ladies away!” The merchant winked broadly. “You’ll be the envy of every man in the Market!”

  The customer wrinkled a freckled nose and covered his mouth with a grubby handkerchief. “Ew, tastes nasty! Burns me throat!”

  “That’s the medicine at work. This is a powerful drug, definitely not for the fainthearted!”

  Several people in the crowd nodded and pressed close to buy a bottle. Then the most amazing thing happened: The man who had drunk the potion fell to the ground, twitching.

  “Oooh! Here, here—what’s going on?” the crowd murmured as one. But before the murmuring stopped, the man was still. The woman next to him bent down and offered him a hand. He pushed it away and bounded to his feet, peeling his coat off to display enormous biceps. He flexed them proudly as the crowd gasped in astonishment.

  Then the man began to tremble again. Two small lumps appeared, lifting the shirt from his shoulder blades. The humps grew larger and larger as the crowd stared, goggle-eyed, until the fabric on the back of the man’s shirt split apart, and with a loud pop two small wings unfurled. Small brown wrinkled things. The man swore and grabbed his coat from the ground, and he flipped it over his shoulders as he disappeared into the crowd.

  “Well, it makes some like that,” the medicine man said with a shake of his shaggy red head. “But that’s a rarity. Don’t let it frighten ya.”

  Timothy considered. Whatever the medicine man was selling worked in some mysterious, unpredictable way. Maybe one of the man’s potions could help his mother. As he continued to watch, more people came up to consult with the merchant. Most left with a bottle or two clutched in eager hands.

  Then Timothy noticed a lady with a baby. She crept up to the man’s side and whispered something in his ear. Then she held up the infant, unwrapping him so that the man could take a better look. From the back of the baby protruded a long, thin rat’s tail. The medicine man shook his head in pity, and the mother hurriedly wrapped the baby again. He beckoned her back to the side o
f the caravan.

  Timothy moved closer to hear what was said.

  “Aye, that’s draíocht, bad draíocht,” said the redhaired medicine man, towering over the young mother. “But I can help the wee one.”

  “Oh, please!” The woman’s voice was faint as she rocked back and forth to keep the baby from crying.

  “This is a salve.” The medicine man unscrewed the lid from a rusty-looking jar. “It comes from the crushed stems of gentian flowers. It’s a powerful magic, a rare plant.” His voice had dropped to a husky whisper. “I don’t let most people know I have it. It goes dear.” His fingers were blue with the thick paste.

  Once again the mother unwrapped the infant, this time turning him onto his stomach and laying him across her arm. The merchant rubbed the paste into the baby’s backside.

  Instantly, the baby began to howl.

  “You can see it’s working its magic already!”

  Timothy stared at the tail. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed. Maybe the potion worked very slowly.

  The woman held out a small purse, and the merchant poured the contents into his meaty palm, returning the purse empty. The mother tucked the jar into a pocket, rewrapped her baby, and, standing on tiptoe, kissed the medicine man on his cheek before scurrying back into the rest of the Market.

  Timothy could hardly believe what he had just seen: A salve that could work against magic! Surely, this was the very thing his mother needed.

  He felt his small coin bag, hoping it held enough to purchase the medicine required to heal his mother of rat-bite fever. Glass jars of elixirs sparkled in the sun—love potions, beauty rinses. Nothing was labeled as a cure for rat-bite fever. The big man was bent over a bucket, filling it with water from a barrel for his pony.

  Timothy approached him cautiously. “Excuse me, sir.”

  The man didn’t look up, so Timothy repeated himself a little more loudly. “Excuse me, sir.”