Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to live in here; it’s too cold and formal.” Jessica squinted up at the ceiling. “I do like all the carvings, though.”

  “I can’t believe we’re just looking at all this stuff when the Stone of Destiny is somewhere here in the building!” said Timothy.

  “It might not be your special stone. But then, why is Julian here?” Jessica puzzled.

  “And why doesn’t he hurry up?” Timothy strode ahead, peering into the next room.

  Julian led them out a side door. Timothy couldn’t hold back any longer. “What about the jewels and the coronation stone? When do we see them?”

  Julian looked directly at Timothy, but it was as if he didn’t now recognize Timothy at all. “If you’ll follow me, young man, the Honors of Scotland and the Stone of Destiny are the next things that we’ll be viewing.”

  Mrs. Maxwell looked over at Timothy. “I didn’t realize you were so interested in history, Timothy. I knew this tour would be the right thing to do!”

  THE STONE OF DESTINY

  HE CROWN, SCEPTER, and sword looked exactly as Timothy imagined they should. Regal, he thought, a paltry six points for such an impressive word. Julian referred to them as the Honors of Scotland. Each was kept secure in a glass case. Unlike Timothy’s simple gold crown with a single leaf, this crown looked like a true king’s crown. It was a circlet of gold set with pearls. Four slender arches bore enameled oak leaves over a red velvet bonnet. The arches met at the top with a large gold and black cross. A white border of ermine edged the crown. He poked Sarah. “Look, it’s ermine!”

  Jessica compressed her lips, trying not to laugh, but it erupted in a snort.

  Sarah narrowed her eyes at them both, and Mrs. Maxwell turned to look pointedly at all three.

  Julian had already begun his lecture. “The first time the Honors of Scotland were all used together was for the coronation of Mary, Queen of Scots in 1543 and the last for the coronation of Charles II at Scone in 1651.”

  “Wasn’t that Bloody Mary?” Sarah whispered.

  “After the Treaty of Union in 1707, the Honors were no longer required and were locked away in a chest within the castle. There they lay undiscovered for over a hundred years, until Sir Walter Scott found them.”

  Timothy leaned forward until his nose almost touched the glass and imagined what it would be like to fight with such a magnificent sword. In the battle in the Travelers’ Market, he had used a short sword and found that it was much more difficult to wield than it looked in the movies.

  “And in this case”—Julian flicked a switch, and a rock the size and shape of a plump pillow sprang to view—“is the famous Stone of Destiny.”

  Timothy felt his mouth go dry. How could it be exposed like that, his missing stone on view for every tourist?

  “It is encased in armored glass so that it is quite safe from any who would attempt to remove it.” Julian paused and looked over the entire group, letting his eyes rest briefly on each of the children. “The stone has an intriguing history, which is tied closely to the history of Scotland. Let me tell you a story.”

  Timothy remembered Julian as he was in the Storyteller’s tent, his eyes half closed and Gwydon at his feet. The tourists shuffled into comfortable positions and looked expectantly at the tour guide. At first, Timothy had trouble listening to Julian’s words. His thoughts still whirled. If this was his stone, how was he, a twelve-year-old boy, supposed to collect it from its armored place? And why hadn’t the Dark come for it long before?

  “Timothy, pay attention. This is important,” Sarah hissed in his ear.

  “The Stone of Destiny is called the Lia Fáil. It came to notice in 503, when Saint Columba brought it to the magical Isle of Iona to be the coronation stone.”

  Timothy had read of Iona in stories about King Arthur. Some people believed Arthur was buried there, ready to return one day to rule England.

  “It’s difficult to say where the stone came from before that time. Many believe Ireland, and others say the Holy Land—that it was the stone where Jacob laid his head. It certainly does have the shape of a pillow.”

  “Or a very large loaf of bread,” Jessica whispered into Timothy’s ear.

  “Legend says that the Stone of Destiny came from Ireland and that it cried out whenever a true king put his foot on it. When the Vikings came in 843, the stone was taken to Scone Abbey here in Scotland for safekeeping. For many years every Scottish king was crowned there.

  “But in 1296, King Edward I’s men stole the stone and took it to England. It was his way of saying that England ruled over Scotland and that Scotland’s destiny would now be in English hands.”

  Timothy couldn’t help himself. “Does the stone still cry out?”

  Julian smiled. “A good question, young sir. It is said that the stone lost its voice when it left Scotland. But there are others who believe that the stone never left Scotland at all.”

  Timothy could feel Julian’s eyes burning into him as he continued.

  “They say that the stone had no voice because the true Stone of Destiny never went to England. It was hidden by the monks of Scone Abbey as Edward’s men approached and that the true stone is still in hiding today.”

  “Are you saying that this isn’t the true coronation stone?” a heavy woman in a plaid coat asked indignantly.

  “I’m merely sharing the stories surrounding the stone. Fast-forward to Christmas Day 1950. Before dawn, in the gray hours, while most of the country slept, four young Scots broke into Westminster Abbey and stole the coronation stone, all three hundred and thirty-six pounds of it.”

  “I’ve heard about that.” A man leaning against the far wall spoke up. His girlfriend lounged next to him, examining her fingernails. “They brought it back to Scotland. Imagine stealing it right out of Westminster Abbey—heroes in my book!”

  Again Julian smiled his long, thin smile. “Many Scots feel that way. The four allegedly hid it in the boot of their getaway car and sped toward the Scottish border.”

  “The boot’s the trunk,” Mrs. Maxwell leaned over and whispered.

  “We know,” said Sarah.

  “Four months later, the stone was found at Arbroath Abbey, draped in a Scottish flag. It had become a political symbol of Scottish independence. After the patriots had made their point, the stone was returned to England and remained there until November 1996, when it was returned to Scotland. And on Saint Andrew’s Day it was placed here, at Edinburgh Castle.”

  “Is there any evidence that this is a fake stone?” The heavy woman furrowed her brow. “Of course, the crying-out part is all a load of nonsense.”

  Julian took a moment before answering. “The stone you see here is made of sandstone. There’s much sandstone near Scone Abbey. There’s no record of what the original stone was made of. As for crying out, the world is full of truths we do not always understand. But now, if you will follow me, we will proceed to Saint Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in the castle.”

  The three children fell to the back of the group.

  “Did you notice he was looking right at us when he said that monks hid the stone?” Jessica’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright.

  “But if it’s a story everyone knows,” Timothy protested, “why wouldn’t it have been found before now?”

  “Maybe the stone is waiting for the right person—you know, like the sword in King Arthur’s stone.” Sarah stuck her hands into her pockets as they left the palace. Outside, the wind scoured the castle mound.

  Jessica pulled up her hood. “He’s giving us a message, Timothy. I’m sure of it. We just need to get him alone to find out what it is.”

  The chapel was a small irregular stone building that looked nothing like any church Timothy had ever seen. It was only about ten feet wide, the size of a small bedroom. Julian explained it was the oldest building in Edinburgh.

  Timothy moved to the very front of the group, hoping to catch Julian’s eye, to have a chance to speak w
ith him privately. Behind Julian, a small stained-glass window sparkled in shades of blue. It depicted a young woman with two long blond braids. Timothy stared hard; it was as if his sister, Sarah, had modeled for the window.

  “In 1314, thirty men climbed the north face of the cliffs to capture the castle. The castle had never been taken by a direct assault against its gates. It was taken then, by surprise at night, when an attack was least expected.” Julian’s gaze again rested on Timothy. And again, Timothy felt as if he were being warned. He looked at the other tourists in the group, his heart pounding. But their faces gave away nothing.

  Julian led the group back outside. Timothy realized that he had fallen to the back of the crowd. While Julian thanked the tourists, Timothy pushed forward. The lady in the plaid coat grabbed Julian’s arm and kept talking as Julian walked back toward the gatehouse.

  “Excuse me!” Timothy interrupted.

  Julian looked at his watch. “I’m sorry.” He moved the woman’s arm away from his and nodded toward Timothy. “I’ve got to meet another tour.”

  “But—” Timothy’s objection was whipped back in the wind.

  “He can’t just walk away like that!” Jessica stood with her hands on her hips, chin thrust forward.

  “Maybe he told us everything we need to know,” said Sarah. “Something’s going to happen when we least expect it.”

  Timothy was afraid she was right.

  Mrs. Maxwell called to them from the edge of a small walled yard. “Over here.”

  “It’s a dog cemetery!” Sarah cried, reading the sign. “Soldiers can still bury their dogs here. See? Some of the headstones show carvings of the dogs.” Stone steps led down to a pocket-size grass lawn surrounded by a horseshoe of headstones. “It says that this is for regimental mascots and officers’ dogs.” She knelt in front of the headstones, reading off the names of faithful hounds.

  But Timothy looked over the stone wall. The little cemetery hung out over the cliff of the castle mound. Two hundred sixty feet down, he thought. At least he had paid attention to something Julian said. How had the army scaled this cliff to take the castle by surprise? How would they be taken by surprise?

  “It’s time for the firing of the cannon,” Mrs. Maxwell called. “We’ll have lunch, and then this afternoon I’m going into the gardens to paint. I’m not sure I want you going off on your own . . .” She hesitated.

  Timothy knew she was torn. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. We’ll be fine.”

  He followed her up the steps, hoping his words sounded more convincing than they felt to him.

  THE CARTOGRAPHER’S SHOP

  FTER A STOP for shortbread that they munched as they walked, Timothy, Sarah, and Jessica made their way down the Royal Mile, passing shop windows decorated with Christmas garlands and twinkling lights.

  “Julian said the real Telling Stone might still be hidden in Scotland,” Timothy mused aloud. Every few yards he looked back over his shoulder. Now every face seemed sinister. Every footfall a threat. Jessica matched his stride. “We need to find out about Scone Abbey.”

  “At least we’re all together.” Sarah linked arms with Timothy and Jessica. Overhead, two crows cawed from a rooftop.

  A group of girls, their faces partially concealed by scarves, walked toward them. Timothy’s heart accelerated, but the group passed by without a glance. He took a few deep breaths. He’d go crazy if he suspected everyone.

  Sarah pressed her nose against the window of a bookstore. “This is the most Christmassy place I’ve ever seen. It feels like we’re in a Dickens novel, even if we’re not in England.”

  “Especially in the alleys.” Jessica disappeared into the narrow gap between two buildings. “It’s a city of alleys and stairs.” The alley led them to a steep bank of stairs past the back of a butcher’s shop, where two men in white aprons sat talking.

  Timothy and Sarah followed her up the short flight of steps and paused on a landing that opened into two alleyways, one leading right and the other left. “If we keep the Ferris wheel and the castle mound in view, we can’t get lost. Which way?” Jessica pointed to the two alleys. Timothy read aloud, “Milne’s Court and Wynde Alley.”

  “Wynde Alley!” exclaimed Jessica. “McMorn said that was a lane of unusual shops!”

  Timothy let his eyes explore the narrow passage as far as he could see. The cobbled lane was deeply shadowed by the stone buildings that stood guard on either side. Shops were announced by old-fashioned swinging wooden signs.

  “Okay,” Timothy said. “But we can’t just shop. We need to go over everything Julian said about the stone.”

  “It is only three days till Christmas. I have to do a little shopping.” Jessica offered Timothy a piece of shortbread. “I could live on this.”

  With the wind as their escort, they started down the alley. The upper stories of buildings leaned so far into the lane that the blue December sky became a narrow river above them.

  “Look. It’s a milliner.” Sarah stopped in front of a wavy window.

  “A what?” Timothy, did a mental search but couldn’t find a meaning for milliner.

  “A hatter.”

  Hats of every shape and size filled the window. A wide-brimmed hat of peacock blue with a green feather balanced next to a yellow hat that looked like a turban with a great red brooch. Cream-colored gloves and a paisley red parasol completed the display. “Maybe we should go in here, just for a minute.” Sarah looked hopefully at Jessica and Timothy. Jessica already had her hand on the brass doorknob.

  “You can if you want. I’m not going to waste my time. After all, we didn’t come to Edinburgh to shop!” Timothy stuffed his hands into his pockets. Was he the only one who registered why they had likely come to Scotland in the first place?

  A bold gust of wind almost made him reconsider. Wynde Alley funneled the draft between the buildings. He trudged a few yards farther, keeping close to the sides of the buildings. A striped cat appeared out of nowhere. Timothy started. It hurried past with a prize in its mouth, a limp mouse. There were few people on the street. Everyone, Timothy thought, must be sitting inside some pub near a fire. That would be tons better than a hat shop.

  Dry leaves skittered along the cobbles. When he checked over his shoulder for the girls, Timothy saw that the alley was now deserted. He would go around the next bend to see what was ahead and then go back and drag the girls out if he had to.

  Light glowed from a lower window. A wooden sign and handsome gold lettering across the window proclaimed SEABORG CARTOGRAPHERS. A map shop! Timothy cupped his hands by his eyes and peered into the tiniest workshop he had ever seen. Every nook and cranny was filled with rolled papers, paints, and inks. Maps papered the walls, draped the tables, and were rolled and stuffed above the heavy timbers at the ceiling. The long worktable was cluttered with ink bottles, brushes, and pens. In one corner a deep green enameled stove squatted like a benign monster with a fire in its belly.

  In the middle of the chaos, two people worked. An angular woman with thin silver glasses perched on the tip of her beaked nose sat at the table, painting. Close to the stove, a bald-headed man overflowed a rocking chair as he read. There was something so peaceful about the scene that Timothy hesitated before turning the iron doorknob and walking in.

  “May we help you?” The man stood, carefully marking his place in his book. His hands, Timothy noticed, were neat and small, much too small for a man of his size. His bald head was a terrain of veins, just like roads on a map. The man stood looking at Timothy with a quizzical expression.

  “I, ah, saw your store, and I love maps.” Timothy couldn’t think of anything else to say, but the man smiled, and the woman replied without looking up from her work.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place. We illuminate maps, sell maps, trade maps.” Her fine silver hair was held back with a tortoise-shell clip. Her face was lined and creased, marked by faded freckles, but her ink-stained fingers worked deftly.

  “Enjoy a look r
ound, then. I’m Newton Seaborg, and this is my wife, Maggie. We’ve owned this shop for thirty years.”

  “That’s Maggie for Magdalene.” She centered a magnifying glass on a stand over a section of work. “I’m the illuminator. He’s the historian.”

  Timothy felt as if he had stepped inside the cabin of a boat. Every inch of space was used efficiently, from the wooden shelves that ran to the ceiling to built-in cupboards and benches. Cupboards and doors closed with elaborate iron hinges. Even the polished wood walls were used to display dozens of intricate maps. He moved closer to the warmth of the stove. Mrs. Seaborg continued her work with the finest of brushes.

  “These are the historical maps.” Mr. Seaborg gestured to one side of the room. “The oldest go back to the 1500s, and, of course, they’re kept behind glass.”

  Timothy looked up at the framed maps, and his heart gave a small excited shuffle. This was the kind of place where he might be able to find out more about his map!

  “These are the newer maps and the ones clients have asked to have illuminated.” Newton pointed out brilliantly colored maps with intricate borders, tall-masted sailing ships, and a variety of sea monsters. “Maggie’s workmanship.” Bottles of ink, stands of brushes, and finenibbed pens lined a wooden shelf below. Not a single space in the tiny shop was unused. Not a single corner was square.

  “I didn’t know anyone illustrated maps anymore.”

  “Well, I do. See this brush?” Maggie held it aloft in her speckled hand. “Made from a single mouse whisker.”