Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “Goodness, Timothy, you’re restless. You usually love having time to read.” His mother frowned at her watercolor pad. “It’s harder to capture winter light than one might imagine. Here, Timothy. Bring me another cup of tea, will you?”

  He looked over Sarah’s shoulder at her hand of cards, whispered a suggestion into her ear, and went to heat water on the gas stove.

  “If only the place was heated with gas, we’d be set.” Mr. Maxwell slammed his hand triumphantly on the table. “Nerts!”

  “Not again! You’ve won two in a row! I admit defeat!” Sarah gathered up her cards.

  The doorbell rang. “Who’d be out in this?” Mr. Maxwell rose from the table, but Timothy ran down the stairs and beat him to the door.

  Mr. McMorn stood on the step, wrapped in a long wool coat, his arms full of shopping bags. His eyes raked Timothy’s face, and a deeper cold forced its way into the room.

  “McMorn, come in!” Mr. Maxwell spoke from over Timothy’s shoulder.

  Timothy led Mr. McMorn up to the main room.

  “I worried you wouldn’t have supplies to ride this weather out.” He dropped the bags of groceries onto the kitchen table.

  “That’s so kind of you, Brian.” Mrs. Maxwell wiped her hand across her face, leaving a streak of carmine red on her nose.

  “Here, let me get that.” Mr. McMorn reached into his pocket, pulled out a large white handkerchief, and wiped the paint away. Timothy’s muscles tensed.

  “I hope your family’s okay.” Mrs. Maxwell offered their visitor a steaming mug. “I was sorry you had to leave the dance recital.”

  Mr. McMorn undid the buttons on his coat. “Just my sister in a spot of bother.” He reached for the mug and held it between both hands.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister in town. Have a seat. How’d you manage to get here?” Mr. Maxwell scooped the rest of the cards off the table, and Sarah slipped them back into the pack.

  “You just have to go carefully. For those who don’t know the right roads, it can be treacherous.” He smiled at Timothy. Again Timothy felt the strange sensation of something crawling across his face. He brushed his cheek, and McMorn’s smile widened. “I wouldn’t recommend that any of you try going out.”

  “I was just thinking that I needed to finish up my Christmas shopping. I’ve seen people out walking,” Jessica said.

  Timothy was startled to find her standing by his side. He hadn’t suspected she was thinking of anything but cards.

  “I’m not sure that would be the best idea.” McMorn turned his gaze to Jessica, and Timothy thought he saw something flicker in the tall man’s eyes; it reminded him of a fish swimming just below the surface, a flash, and then it disappeared into the depths.

  “Brian is right. I don’t like the idea of you going out in dangerous conditions alone.” Mrs. Maxwell frowned at Timothy and Jessica.

  Surprisingly, his father took Jessica’s side. “We appreciate your help and concern, McMorn, but we have ice storms in the U.S., too. And I’d agree with you about driving, but it’s likely just slow going on foot.”

  Mr. McMorn’s eyes glittered, but he merely shrugged. “I also want to extend an invitation for Christmas Eve.” He spoke to them all but looked at Mrs. Maxwell with one eyebrow cocked appealingly.

  “Oh, we’ve already accepted an invitation,” she said.

  “Nessa Daring’s invited us for dinner,” Mr. Maxwell added.

  Again Timothy thought something almost swam to the surface of McMorn’s eyes.

  “Nessa Daring. She’s rather odd—a fine colleague, knows her subject, but a bit eccentric . . .” McMorn let his voice trail off. His gaze circled the room. Timothy noticed Sarah brush a hand across her cheek. “Well, happy to see you’re surviving the ice storm. Perhaps you’ll consider spending some time with me on Boxing Day—that’s what we call the day after Christmas. Oh, I’ve brought a few treats along as well.” He handed a plump bag to Sarah. “Happy early Christmas to you.” He stood, pulled on his leather gloves, and began buttoning his coat.

  When the door closed, amid a chorus of thanks, Mr. Maxwell shrugged. “Sometimes he seems like a mother hen. Thinks we can’t manage without him.”

  “Arthur, he’s so kind! Just look at these groceries.” Mrs. Maxwell began unpacking the bags. “And he’s right. The kids need to stay in, where we know they’re safe.”

  “What did he give you?” Timothy and Jessica had crowded around Sarah.

  “A package of macaroons and some Scottish fudge to share. They’re from some famous sweet shop.”

  “Macaroons! I love coconut!” Jessica began to peel open the package.

  “Speaking of Christmas presents, Nessa gave me something for the three of you. I almost forgot.”

  “Mom, we need to go out. We still have presents to get. We’ll be careful. Besides, we’ll have our cell phones with us.” Timothy tried to sound convincing.

  “Lizzie, I think it’s perfectly safe if they stay together. There won’t be much traffic.” Mr. Maxwell looked at his wife.

  Timothy could hardly believe his ears. His dad hardly ever disagreed with his mom when it came to letting them go places.

  “We will be careful.” Jessica brushed macaroon crumbs from her pants. “We can check in every hour if you want.”

  Mrs. Maxwell crossed and then uncrossed her arms. She looked at Mr. Maxwell. “No more than two hours.”

  Timothy looked at his dad.

  “You heard your mother.”

  All three hurried to get their coats before Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell could change their minds.

  Walking was harder than it looked. Every step forward felt like two steps backward. Even the slightest incline was treacherous. Sarah laughed and clutched Jessica’s arm as she slid, which sent Jessica straight into Timothy. They landed in a heap as they rounded the corner from Frederick onto Princes Street. At least here the street and sidewalk had been properly sanded. Stores were open, and the smell of food made Timothy’s stomach growl. He carefully untangled himself from the two girls and rubbed his backside. Six arms and six legs could get hopelessly entwined, and somehow he always ended up on the bottom.

  “It’s going to be difficult on the stairs to Wynde Alley. I bet the sun can hardly peek between the buildings,” Sarah said. “We’ll just go slowly and—”

  Whomp! Jessica’s feet flew up, her mouth opened in a startled O, and her blue beret skittered across the pavement.

  Timothy dove for the hat just as a boy a few years older barreled out of a shop door and sent Timothy sprawling sideways.

  “Sorry, mate. Here, let me help you.” He hooked an arm through Jessica’s and lifted her to her feet.

  Jessica beamed at him.

  Timothy, beret in hand, was forced to scuttle sideways like a crab before he regained his footing. “Here’s your hat, Jess.”

  She shot out one hand to grab the beret, never taking her gaze from the tall, ginger-haired boy at her side. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “Damsels in distress are my specialty, especially ones with big hazel eyes. My name’s Tam.”

  Jessica giggled. “I’m Jessica, and these are my friends, Sarah and Timothy.”

  Timothy glared and then extended his hand. Sarah smiled.

  “Americans, by the sound of it. Sorry to plow you over, but I’m in a bit of a rush. Spending the holidays in Edinburgh?”

  “Our father’s here for a conference, and we got to come along.” Sarah folded her tourist guide and put it in her pocket.

  Tam beamed as if the news delighted him. “Well, I’ve lived here my whole life and am an excellent tour guide. Why don’t you give me your phone number? I’d be happy to show you around sometime.”

  Timothy was about to say that they were managing quite well by themselves when he saw Jessica pull out paper and a pencil from her purse.

  “Here’s my cell number. We’d love a tour.”

  “We’ve already seen the castle and ridden the wheel,” Timothy interjecte
d.

  Tam laughed and adjusted the black wool scarf around his neck. “I know places you won’t find in the guidebooks.” He took the folded paper from Jessica’s hand and put it in the breast pocket of his overcoat. “I’ll keep it close to my heart, so I don’t forget.” He winked an amber eye. “Off to work, I go.” And he ambled sure-footedly up Princes Street.

  “I think he likes you, Jess.” Sarah smiled. “We’d better get going before we all freeze.”

  Timothy didn’t say a word.

  THE MAP AND THE HILL

  S SARAH PREDICTED, the steps to Wynde Alley were painfully slow going. An iron handrail set into the brick wall was the only thing that made the climb possible at all. They walked single file, each gripping the rail, with Sarah in the lead.

  “There’s no one out. I don’t think the map store will even be open,” Jessica said.

  “Then why didn’t you just stay in the apartment?” Timothy asked the back of Jessica’s head.

  Jessica shot Timothy a frown over her shoulder.

  The going wasn’t much easier on Wynde Alley. Sure enough, the sun hadn’t yet looked in on the narrow, cobbled lane. Most shades were drawn, and as Timothy peered down the glittering alley, he worried that Jessica might be right. They might have made their way there for no reason.

  “I feel like we’re going into a tunnel. It’s so dark.” Sarah linked arms with Timothy. “Why don’t we all walk together. We can hold each other up.”

  Jessica grabbed Timothy’s other arm. He didn’t look at her. It did feel better going down the alley together, even if they likely wouldn’t do much good holding one another up. The crooked buildings loomed above them, shutting out most of the sky. Windows were shuttered; the milliner’s was dark and closed up tight. But near the end of the alley, a faint light gleamed onto the ice-frosted cobbles. Timothy’s shoulders relaxed; someone was in the cartographers’ shop.

  A small CLOSED sign hung on the door, and a shade was draped like a heavy eyelid across the large window, but a smaller window in the door shone with light.

  “Now what?” Sarah asked.

  “We knock anyway. We didn’t slide all the way here for nothing.” Jessica rapped on the wooden door. No one responded.

  “I know they’re in there!” Timothy, balancing on tiptoe, pressed his face to the glass just as the door swung open, and he tumbled in.

  “We’re closed.” Then, as he recognized the threesome, Mr. Seaborg’s tone changed. “Well, well, out skating on the streets. I guess you’d better come in and get warm.”

  Timothy picked himself up off the threshold, while Jessica and Sarah stepped past him into the warm shop.

  Maggie Seaborg was perched on her stool, putting the finishing touches on a map. Today silver chopsticks held her white hair in a mound on top of her head. “What brings you out in all this ice? Must be something important.”

  “It is.” Timothy unzipped his backpack and carefully removed the leather pouch.

  Sarah caught her breath. “Are you sure—?”

  Timothy gave a brief nod. “I’ve brought a map to show you. It’s the one we were talking about the last time we were here. I was able to figure out—”

  Here Jessica glared at him.

  “Jessica and I,” Timothy corrected himself, “were able to figure out a code that’s written on the map. A tree code.”

  Mr. Seaborg had advanced, rubbing his hands in anticipation. If he had been a dog, Timothy thought, his entire body would have been wagging.

  “The map with the colored illuminations?”

  Timothy pulled out the cylinder containing the map and walked over to the long table where Maggie Seaborg worked. Without a word she moved pens and bottles of ink, clearing room for Timothy to unroll his treasure. Sarah and Jessica gathered close.

  Timothy could hear Mr. Seaborg’s intake of breath as the map unfurled. In the warm light of the cartographers’ shop, the jeweled tones glistened deep and rich. Maggie peered intently through her silver spectacles, then tapped a cluster of bare trees with one blunt finger. “That’s the code right there. I’d bet on it.”

  “It’s fantastic. A marvel.” Mr. Seaborg was chortling. “One of the best I’ve seen.”

  Then, in a hushed voice, Maggie Seaborg spoke in a language Timothy didn’t recognize.

  “Cinnidh Scuit saor am fine,

  Mar breug am faistine:

  Far am faig hear an lia fáil,

  Dlighe flaitheas do ghab hail.”

  “What does that mean?” Sarah’s eyes widened.

  Maggie touched the Ogham running along the illuminated border.

  “The race of the free Scots shall flourish,

  if this prediction is not false:

  wherever the Stone of Destiny is found,

  they shall prevail by the right of Heaven.

  Except old seers do feign,

  and wizard wits be blind,

  the Scots in place must reign

  where they this Stone shall find.”

  She paused, then said, “I’ve heard that prediction since I was a child.” She lowered her glasses. “You’re looking for the coronation stone, are you? Who gave you this map?”

  Jessica’s glance flew to Timothy.

  But it was Sarah who spoke up. “A friend in America gave it to us.”

  “Not just any friend, I’d wager,” Maggie responded. Then she looked at her husband. Something passed between them, and she nodded. “It’s a Pont’s map. Drawn in the 1500s. North is to the east. Timothy Pont’s maps are the oldest recorded maps of Scotland. Extremely valuable, but this one, well, this one is unlike any other. Look over there.”

  Mr. Seaborg led them to the back of the shop, where a few maps were in gilt frames. “Pont’s maps, but notice that none of these are illuminated.”

  Timothy stared at the maps. They had the same intricate lines but none of the strange flowers or animals, no border of Ogham, no tree code.

  “Yours is a Pont’s map that has been illuminated, and a cipher added as well, for a special purpose,” said Mr. Seaborg.

  Maggie stood and drew a shade to cover the window in the door.

  “It’s a good thing you came here. A map like this shouldn’t be shown to just anyone.” Mr. Seaborg looked sternly at Timothy. “I suspect that there is much more to the story.” Then he cleared his throat. “Maggie knows more about the legend of the Stone of Destiny than just about anyone. And I, well, I can tell you where this section of land is located.” He removed one of the maps from the wall and carried it into better light. “There are similar features.” His finger traced a river and then pointed to a hill. “Dunsinane.”

  Maggie shuddered a sigh. Timothy noticed that her eyes sparkled wetly. “So, it’s Dunsinane Hill, Macbeth’s land. And not far from Scone.” She shook her head.

  “Macbeth?” Sarah asked. “The one from Shakespeare?”

  “Aye, he was real, all right. Had a castle on Dunsinane Hill in the Iron Age. Only a bit of rubble and a few walls remain. It’s about an hour and a half from here. But the coronation stone’s story begins long before Macbeth was king.”

  “So, this map is of a part of Scotland only an hour and a half from here?” Timothy felt as if he were shouting.

  “That’s right, son. See here?” Mr. Seaborg pointed to a river. “Scone Abbey was here by the bend in the river. Someone left out or removed all the labels, but it’s as plain as plain can be to someone who has eyes to see.”

  “Why do you have this map?” Maggie Seaborg stood so close to Timothy that he could smell the tea on her breath. Involuntarily, he backed away. “Didn’t steal it, did you?” Her eyes glittered.

  “Like my sister said, a friend gave it to us for safekeeping.”

  “That’s not the whole story. Why you?”

  “Because I, ah, because—” Timothy felt like a beetle pinned to a board, and he began to squirm.

  “Because,” Jessica broke in, “we are supposed to find the Stone of Destiny.” Her words
dropped into the small shop like a rock might drop into a pond. Timothy could almost see the ripples traveling through the room.

  Maggie Seaborg lunged toward Timothy. He swung sideways, but her thin arms were quick. She grabbed his head between her hands and kissed him on the forehead. Instantly, the tension in the room dissipated. “Oh, you sweet, sweet boy. It is you! You’ve come at last.” And then she burst into tears.

  Jessica relaxed her hands, which had balled instinctively to fists. Sarah looked from one Seaborg to another, her blue eyes saucers of surprise. Timothy stood frozen, his heart still racing, his legs still ready for flight.

  “What does that mean, ‘You’ve come at last?’ ” Sarah asked.

  “Legends say that the Stone of Destiny will be returned. I believe you’re the one to do it.” Maggie looked at Timothy.

  “Maggie’s family have been Scots nationalists for hundreds of years,” Mr. Seaborg explained. “In fact, her brother, Brian, was one of the four involved in stealing the stone from Westminster Abbey in 1950 and bringing it back to Scotland. Of course, it wasn’t the real stone, not the Stone of Destiny; everyone just thought it was.”

  “You never could tell a story straight from beginning to end,” Maggie said, wiping her eyes.

  “We’ve heard some of the story at the castle,” Jessica said. “We heard about it being stolen. That was your brother?”

  Maggie nodded, now beaming wetly. “Brian was always the impulsive one, ready to take a risk. But it was the political statement that stealing the stone would make that he cared about.” Her spare shoulders hunched. “We’ve always known it wasn’t the real stone at all.”

  “The castle tour guide said the real one may have been hidden by monks.”

  “Scone Abbey was here.” Mr. Seaborg again pointed to the bend in the river. “Scone was the ancient crowning place of the Scottish kings, on Moot Hill. If they hid it anywhere, it would have to be near.”

  “And what about the tree code?” Maggie asked.

  “We’re working on it.” Timothy, his heart returning to its normal patter, was still reluctant to reveal what the code said.