Beyond the Door

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  This time the man straightened and swung around. “Dr. Lachlan McClallahan, at your service, son.”

  Timothy couldn’t quite place his accent—not quite Scots, not quite English. “I was hoping you could help me with a rat bite.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up and then settled like caterpillars on his brow ridge. “Better show it to me.”

  “Oh, it’s not my bite. A rat bit my mother, and she’s very sick.” Timothy’s voice quavered. “It wasn’t an ordinary rat. It was a magical rat.”

  “A magical rat? What are her symptoms?”

  As Timothy explained, the man listened, his eyebrows wiggling up and down.

  “Oh, that’s bad—very bad, indeed,” the merchant said finally. “Lucky she has a son like you, concerned and all. But I can help you. And if I can’t, nobody can.”

  The medicine man ducked through the small doorway into his caravan—and Timothy felt his heart surge with hope. He’d find Nom and the girls, and they’d be home in no time!

  Dr. McClallahan came out of the caravan holding a small paper packet in his thick hand. He bent his face close to Timothy so that Timothy could smell onions and smoke on his breath. “This here is crushed powder from a certain deep-sea oyster,” Lachlan said. “Rare stuff! Cost you dear, but it’s the only thing that can save your mum.”

  “You mean that, without this, she’ll die?”

  “’Course she will, no doubt about it. And with great suffering, too. A terrible death.” The man’s eyes bore into Timothy. “Three times a day till it’s gone. Pour it in a cup of water, swirl it around, and down the hatch before it settles out.”

  “How much is it?” Timothy wondered if he would need to collect the girls’ money as well.

  The merchant’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see what you got.” He pried the coin purse from Timothy’s fingers before Timothy could offer it up. McClallahan didn’t say a word as he fingered through the coins, apparently counting, but his eyebrows began to wiggle again. “That should do,” he said at last. “Should do nicely.” He squinted at Timothy. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?” Timothy tucked the packet for his mother safely in his pocket. “You’d like to be taller, wouldn’t you?” the doctor asked. “Small boys always want to grow!” He drew a packet and a small bottle of clear liquid out of his pocket. “Complimentary, this is. But see that you don’t take it until your mother’s had hers. Stuff has to ferment for five days before you drink it. And then expect at least four inches.” The merchant held his hand four inches above Timothy’s head in illustration. Then he slit open the packet and dropped a pinch of the crystals into the liquid. He shook the bottle. The crystals swirled like smoke as they dissolved.

  Timothy stared, fascinated. How had the man known how much taller he wanted to be? Timothy clasped the small bottle in a sweaty palm.

  Something cold and wet nudged against his arm, and the bottle slipped from his fingers. He made a futile grasp for it, but the bottle tumbled to the dirt.

  “Dirty beast!” The doctor’s voice rumbled.

  In confusion, Timothy bent to retrieve the bottle of growth potion and found himself looking right into the eyes of a great golden wolf.

  “Gwydon!” Timothy threw his arms around the wolf’s neck, burying his face in the thick fur. How often he had dreamed of seeing the great wolf again! Now Gwydon was here, and everything would be all right.

  “I’ll thank you not to speak ill of my wolf,” said a voice behind them.

  Timothy turned. A tall man with a thin face and long hair stepped forward.

  “And I think my friend won’t be needing this, either.” The stranger stomped his boot, crushing the bottle of growth potion into the dirt. Timothy’s heart sank.

  “You filthy Storyteller, get away from my stall!” But Dr. McClallahan hurried into his caravan, still clutching the money from Timothy’s purse. The door slammed hard behind him.

  “I think you’d better come with us before anyone else takes advantage of you,” the man said to Timothy. As if in agreement, Gwydon pushed his head against Timothy’s leg.

  Without another word, the man strode off through the crowd, with Timothy and Gwydon at his heels. Timothy could have sworn that the wolf was smiling. And there was something very familiar about the man’s lanky frame.

  “What about my bottle of medicine?” Timothy exclaimed, half running to keep up with the stranger’s stride.

  The man stopped suddenly and turned to peer down at Timothy. “How much money do you have left?”

  Timothy swallowed. “None. I had to buy something for my mother.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the packet of medicine the merchant had given him. Beside it, the leaf rested, uncomfortably warm. With a sinking feeling, Timothy realized he should have checked it before. “I have to go find my sister,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

  “If it’s about that powder in your pocket, it’s not so urgent. It’s only alum, used in baking. The so-called doctor is nothing more than a charlatan, adept at separating people from their money.”

  “But he promised it would help!”

  “McClallahan trades in hope. People bring him their sorrows and he sells them false hope. And sometimes something worse.”

  “But the lady with the baby—”

  “Did it have a rat’s tail? A cloven foot? She was either a plant working with him or someone desperate for hope. Whatever he gave her will do nothing more than sicken the infant. If she’s lucky.”

  Timothy’s shoulders slumped. He felt like a fool. He’d wasted precious time when the cure for his mother was still out there, somewhere. He looked up at his rescuer. His voice was so familiar. “I remember who you are. You’re Julian the librarian! How did you get here?”

  “Yes, I was wondering when you’d recognize me,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye replacing his stern demeanor. “And for now, Gwydon is my companion.”

  Timothy noticed that Julian didn’t answer the other part of his question. What was the librarian doing here in the Market?

  “Why don’t you come with me? Perhaps I can help you find what you’re looking for.” Julian, with Gwydon at his side, led Timothy to a nearby caravan and climbed the steps. When Julian opened the blue door, Gwydon padded contentedly in.

  “After you,” Julian said to Timothy.

  Timothy hesitated. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You’re learning, Timothy,” Julian said with a slight smile. “All I can say is that Gwydon seems to trust me, and I believe he is someone you trust. But you’re right to question. And don’t forget to check the Greenman’s leaf. It was probably blazing hot back at the doctor’s stall.”

  “How do you know about the leaf?”

  Again, Julian smiled. “I have some knowledge about the old ways.”

  Timothy drew out the cool leaf. Resting in the palm of his hand, it was a clear, untroubled blue. Gwydon stood patiently in Julian’s doorway, waiting. Timothy looked into the wolf’s golden eyes. He could trust Gwydon. He followed the wolf into the caravan.

  Behind Timothy, Julian slammed the door shut and locked it.

  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.

  FERRET LEGGING AND A FRIEND

  HE GIRLS DECIDED to work their way around the Market counterclockwise, visiting the outside ring of stalls first and then the inner circle.

  “This way,” Sarah said, “we’ll be sure not to miss anything.”

  Behind the wagons on the outskirts of the Market, a knot of noisy people were gathered under a sprawling oak.

  “Looks like something important is happening over there.” Jessica nodded toward the boisterous group. “I think we should check it out.”

  The girls approached cautiously. Men of every shape and size had gathered to watch something that made them shout and cheer. Neither girl could see over the circle of heads.

 
“We’ll never see what’s happening from here,” Jessica said. “Let’s try the tree.”

  The thick oak stood a few feet from the gaggle of men. Its branches hung invitingly low, and under normal circumstances it would be easy to climb into the lowest ones. But these were anything but normal circumstances. Sarah gazed down at her long skirt. Perhaps if she hiked it up to her knees, she could scramble up, but she wasn’t sure if climbing trees was the type of thing girls did in this place, and it seemed important not to draw too much attention to themselves. On the other hand, not a single face was turned toward them. A shout went up from the crowd, followed by clapping and whistling. No one would notice two girls climbing a tree. Sarah nodded at Jessica and eyed the easiest ascent.

  Jessica went first, her purple skirt wide enough to make the scramble up the branches easy. Sarah kicked off her sandals and hitched her skirt up to her knees. The bark was rough and the first step high. She circled the lowest branch with her arms and threw one leg over. Her skirt caught on a cluster of twigs. As she tugged at it with one hand, she heard the hem rip. Well, there was nothing to do about it. Freed, she scrambled up to the branch where Jessica sat and was able to just see over the tallest heads.

  A few women jostled among the men to watch the action in the center of the ring, where a bearded old man tried to stand still. His face was red and scrunched up. Every few seconds, he would open his eyes very wide and twitch all over. Blue baggy pants were banded tightly around his ankles above long and bony bare feet.

  Next to the old man was a small, redhaired man holding an empty cage. He was only waist-high to most of the people in the crowd, and his arms were clothed in long leather gloves. Someone in the crowd called out encouragement to the other man: “You can do it, Bruno!”

  “Don’t mind the biting,” someone else shouted. “It’s the claws that’ll kill you!”

  “He’s got nothing to lose anyway!” cried a third.

  Something moved inside the old man’s pants. A bulge traveled quickly down the front of the leg to the ankle, thrashed around a bit, then moved up the back of the leg. The old man gave a yelp, and the small man held up his hands. The crowd burst into cheers.

  “Seventeen minutes!” cried the man. “A new record!”

  The crowd sent up another cheer. The old man cavorted, bulge and all.

  A round-faced woman bent down and undid the bands around the old man’s ankles while the small man held out the cage. A dark, sinuous creature poked its head out from an ankle of the pants. In a flurry of motion, the woman and the small man stuffed the thing into the cage as the old man hopped around gleefully. Another man moved forward, reaching down to fasten bands around his ankles.

  “It’s a ferret,” Jessica hissed. “It must be some kind of competition.”

  “He’s going to put the ferret in his pants!” Sarah said, horrified. “It sounds like they’re timing how long he can keep it there—the poor thing!”

  The girls watched as the small man ceremoniously reached back into the cage with one gloved hand, held the squirming black ferret over his head, and then with a flourish slipped it into the front of the next contender’s pants. The woman started a pocket watch. Just like a wooden marionette, the man danced from one long, sticklike leg to the other.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Jessica said indignantly as she swung down to the ground, but Sarah couldn’t drag her gaze from the spectacle below her—the shouting mob, the sticklike man’s legs and arms flailing in every direction. A mixture of disgust and curiosity kept her planted on the branch, lips parted and eyes wide, even though it was obvious to her that this man would not be breaking any records.

  At the edge of the crowd, a familiar shape caught Sarah’s eye. Star Girl stood watching, too.

  “Jessica!” Sarah called.

  It was then that the small redhaired man looked up and stared straight into Sarah’s eyes as she sat, legs dangling from the thick branch. She recoiled from his gaze as if she, too, had been bitten by a ferret.

  “Hey, now, we’ve got a watcher, ladies and gents! I’m thinking the young lady’d maybe like to tussle with the ferret? We could arrange a challenge for you, missy, spit-spat like!”

  “Put it down her dress, then!” the plump woman called out, and the crowd guffawed. Panic beat against Sarah’s chest as their eyes bored into her. Grabbing her ripped skirt in one hand, she slid down from the branch, the rough bark scraping the skin at the backs of her thighs.

  “Let’s get out of here!” she cried, grabbing Jessica by the arm and snatching up her sandals with her free hand. “I saw Star Girl!”

  The girls ducked behind a wagon and plunged back into the noisy crowd of the Market. “So much for being inconspicuous!” Jessica exclaimed. “Where is she?”

  But the crowd had thinned with the new contender.

  Star Girl was nowhere to be seen.

  “Come on—she was in that direction.” Sarah pointed toward the food stalls. The girls ran.

  A different audience, this one surrounding a group of jugglers, forced them to slow their pace, but Sarah’s heart still raced. She felt sickened by the ferret legging and a little frightened, too. She could still feel the small man’s eyes boring into her. “If Star Girl’s here, maybe she can lead us to the antidote for my mother. Timothy thought he saw her, too. Right when we went through the portway.”

  “You should have said something earlier.” Jessica straightened her skirt.

  Sarah bent to put her sandals back on. “Sorry, Jess. I guess I forgot once we got here.”

  Jessica nodded and ran her fingers through her unruly curls.

  They were surrounded by food: stalls of apples, persimmons, and oranges, tables heavy with cakes and scones warring for their attention. Three young jugglers tossed fruit taken from a stall, while a vendor shook her fist in mock anger. Apples, pomegranates, and a hard, green fruit Sarah didn’t recognize spiraled through the air from one hand to another while jugglers capered, pretending to almost drop an apple and then catching two at once. Children with candy-smeared faces and bright eyes crowded close, and men and women paused their bartering to smile and watch, but Star Girl was not among them.

  A boy with long black hair and bright blue eyes lounged against the side of a wagon. His eyes strayed from the jugglers to the girls and rested on Sarah. She shifted self-consciously.

  “Don’t stare, but I think we’re being watched,” Sarah whispered.

  Then the boy smiled and ambled in their direction. “You’re not from around here,” he said to Sarah. Up close, his face looked very grubby, but his gaze was steady and his eyes very blue. They took in both girls, but the statement seemed directed to Sarah.

  Jessica pulled her eyes from the jugglers. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just can tell, I guess. Haven’t seen you around before.” The boy scratched his nose. “My name’s Peter. Where’re you from?”

  Sarah’s mind froze. What could they say? That they’d come through a portway in New York City?

  But Jessica seemed to have no problem answering the question. “From a long way away,” she said, “and you’re right, this is our first time at your Market. I’m Jessica, and this is Sarah.” Jessica smiled that dimpled smile that could distract even the most persistent questioner. “You know, I’m awfully thirsty. Perhaps you could tell us the best place to get something to drink and eat—there are just so many choices.”

  Peter straightened, squinting into the sun. “Follow me,” he said in a voice of confidence. “Fiona’s pies are the best in the Market, and her drink’s not bad, either. She’ll know what you need.” And without looking back, he threaded his way through the crowd.

  Sarah elbowed Jessica. “We don’t have time for this! We need to find whatever it is that will help my mom!”

  “Trust me. I have a feeling about this. He’s a friend.” And she was away, following Peter, before Sarah could make any more objections.

  Dodging knots of people and keeping her eyes on Peter a
s he wound through the crowd took most of Sarah’s concentration. They wove in and out, between overflowing stalls and wagons, in such a circuitous route that she was sure they would never find their way back. She wondered how her brother was doing, if he was having any better luck than they were. She gave up trying to mark their route and almost bumped into Jessica when she stopped abruptly next to a peacock-blue wagon.

  A loosely woven striped cloth was draped from the roof, forming a shady canopy. Fiona’s wagon was clearly a popular spot. Tired shoppers refreshed themselves with large mugs of drink and small baked pies. Sarah’s stomach complained loudly. How long had it been since she’d eaten?

  Peter spoke to the woman who commanded the stall. “They’re not from around here,” Sarah heard him say. “They could use a pie and drink.”

  Fiona responded by giving Peter a smile and a quick cuff on the ear. She was a tall woman with long hair, the color of light, caught up in a pile on her head. Tendrils fell alongside her cheeks, softening one of the most interesting faces Sarah had ever seen. Fiona wasn’t young, but she didn’t look old, either, even though her light gray eyes were webbed with fine lines. Her mouth was wide, her nose long and narrow, but it was her neck that caught Sarah’s attention. It was the long, slender, elegant sort of neck every dancer dreamed of having, except for the ragged scar that ran from one side to the other.

  Fiona paused, cocked her head sideways, and stared hard at the two girls.

  “Morningcrush and kid pie with balsam root,” she said with a nod. “Yes, that’s what you need to keep you going—to keep you focused.”

  “Oh, but I was hoping for raspberry,” Jessica said, looking longingly at the display of rich fruit pies on a nearby shelf.

  “Not for you.” Fiona shook her head, brushed a stray tendril from her face, and poured a ruby-colored liquid into two mugs. Then, grabbing two small brown pies from the shelf, she plopped them on the wooden counter.

  Sarah felt for the coins in her skirt pocket and drew them out, wondering how much to offer.

  “Friends of Peter’s needn’t pay me,” Fiona said brusquely, off to the next customer before Sarah could protest.