Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “That’s all right. You be cautious. But there are four other words in Ogham you should know: cauldron, sword, spear, and stone.” Maggie pointed to the four words.

  “Those are the same as the pictures on the map!” Sarah exclaimed.

  Jessica shot her a dark look.

  Sarah lowered her voice to a whisper. “And they’re the same ones Mr. Twig said Balor is looking for.”

  “Yes, and I’d wager you’ll need them all.”

  All the slippery way back to Frederick Street, Timothy was quiet. The map of Dunsinane on the Seaborgs’ wall had given him an idea. If he was right, they would be much closer to solving the code. As soon as they were back in the flat, he pulled the girls into their bedroom and unrolled the map.

  “Timothy, what do you know?” Sarah watched her little brother silently count trees.

  “Look.” Timothy bent low over the map, tapping the group of nine bare trees near the top of the map. “This last letter”—he pointed to the last tree in the group—“is the same as the last letter here and here.” He pointed to the trees they had marked as spelling the. “An e.” Then he smiled.

  “So, what nine-letter words do you know that end in an e?” Jessica asked.

  Timothy kept smiling.

  Jessica pinched him. “What do you know?”

  “Dunsinane. Remember the map on Seaborg’s wall, when he told us this map is of Dunsinane, too? I saw how the name was spelled. It has nine letters and ends in an e.”

  “How can you be sure it’s spelled that way?”

  Timothy hesitated. “I can still see the way it’s spelled in my mind. I think this word with the nine letters is Dunsinane.” He wrote out each of the letters.

  “If you’re right, that will give us a lot more letters.”

  They worked together, taking each of the letters from Dunsinane and filling them in where they found identical trees.

  “Okay, here’s what we have so far.” Timothy read the clue aloud, putting in blanks where they didn’t know the letters.

  On Dunsinane

  Against the - - - - -

  -u--ed stones to the - - a - -

  “We have to climb Dunsinane,” Sarah said. “We’ll have to find someone to take us there.”

  “If Star Girl was right,” Timothy said, “the code will have to give us some directions, since there is no compass.”

  Jessica squealed. “Clock! Against the clock! I remembered what Star Girl said. ‘If there is no compass, something else must show direction.’ I think it means we go counterclockwise!”

  A sharp rap on the door was followed by a whistle. Maggie Seaborg put the last strokes on a hunting hound and stood stiffly, her back tight after spending hours hunched over her work. There could be only one visitor now as this extraordinary day waned. Her brother stood on the icy step.

  “Come in, Brian. The children were already here. Let me get you something warm.” She moved slowly to the simmering teapot.

  “It was a Pont’s map,” Newton Seaborg told his brother-in-law. Brian was taller and darker than Maggie, but the family resemblance was there: strong cheekbones, nose as sharp as an eagle’s beak, spare frame, sinewy arms. You could always tell a McMorn.

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  ESSA DARING’S HOUSE was buried in the woods. As the Maxwells and Jessica drove down the narrow lane in a rented car, the branches of giant elms touched overhead as if they were joining twiggy hands in a game of London Bridge.

  “I expect it’s lovely in the summertime, all leafy and green,” Mrs. Maxwell said from the front seat. “But it’s awfully isolated. I wouldn’t feel safe out here all by myself.”

  Mr. Maxwell grunted in agreement. “And we may have trouble getting out of here tonight. This road can’t be too good in snow.”

  A thick, flannel blanket of cloud had moved in to cover the moon. The weatherman on the car radio warned of snow.

  “I like it all tucked away in the woods,” said Sarah, who was tucked in herself between Jessica and her brother. “It reminds me of a cottage in a fairy tale.”

  Nessa Daring’s house did look like an illustration from a fairy story. The roof was thick with thatch and the windows heavy lidded, as if sleepy eyes were looking out on the world. Knobbly skeletons of climbing roses framed a bright blue door. A tangled garden surrounded the house, and a large willow leaned like a friendly neighbor over the backyard fence. “Look, there’s even smoke coming out of the chimney!”

  “Nessa’s an interesting woman. She knows more about local lore than just about anyone,” said Mr. Maxwell. “Her family’s been here for generations, but she’s traveled all over the world. She told me she’d break out all the Scots traditions for us. Might be some other guests, too.”

  But only Nessa’s ancient white Morris Minor was in the yard when they arrived. As they waited on the step, arms filled with presents and loaves of Mrs. Maxwell’s Christmas bread and cake, Jessica nudged Timothy. “There’s rowan over the door.” He looked up; a cluster of rowan berries hung from a bright red ribbon.

  The woman who opened the door was tall and straight with bright blue eyes set deeply above a patrician nose. Her short black hair was streaked with gray, and her earlobes winked with rubies. She was not at all what Timothy expected a botanist to be.

  “Welcome to my home! I’m delighted you came to spend Sowans Nicht with me.” She ushered them into a small entryway. Sarah looked at Timothy and raised her eyebrows in a question. He shook his head. He had never heard of Sowans Nicht.

  After Timothy’s father made introductions, Nessa led them through the entry to the heart of the house. The family gasped with surprise. They stood in an expansive room with a polished floor and open rafters lit by a myriad of candles. Swags of greenery were tied to the beams with bright plaid ribbons. Every wall, every nook and cranny displayed some type of art: eccentric masks, finely woven baskets, fabrics, photographs, even musical instruments. The room was a museum, Timothy thought. But museums were usually only for looking at things from a polite distance. This room was definitely lived in. At one end of the open room stood a massive stone fireplace. A copper cauldron hung over a fire, while just beyond, an island separated the living space from a very modern kitchen. Double French doors led out to the garden.

  “I know it’s a bit of a contradiction, but I decided that having a traditional exterior didn’t mean I should live without a comfortable interior. One large living area suits me best. I’ve got a little sleeping loft beyond the kitchen, and there’s a guest room down the hall. Other than that, it’s one big room.” Nessa laughed, a surprisingly deep laugh. “I like to display finds from my travels, but I still keep to many of the traditional ways. That’s a rowan log in the fire, traditional at Christmastime. And we’re having a trifle for dessert. There’s nothing more traditional than that on Christmas Eve in Scotland, unless it’s a whisky toddy.” She moved to fix drinks for the adults while the family stood taking in the eclectic mix of the room. “We’ll eat as soon as my nephew arrives. He’s single, and holidays can get a bit lonely for us singletons.”

  Timothy stood in front of a display of masks, each wooden face more gruesome than the last.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” Nessa stood by his side, offering a cup of spiced cider. “They’re African, designed to keep away evil spirits.” She dropped her voice so only Timothy could hear. “But we know that it takes more than masks to keep the Dark at bay, don’t we?”

  Startled, Timothy searched her face, but her expression was blank. Still, her words about the Dark made Timothy’s breath quicken. Nessa moved on to offer Sarah, who was examining a tapestry, a cup of cider.

  “Just a replica of part of a very famous unicorn collection.”

  “You’re a surprising woman, Nessa. I didn’t know you had quite so many anthropological interests.” Mr. Maxwell, his face rosy from both the firelight and the toddy, stood in the middle of the room, looking from wall to wall.

  “Did you think I studied only plants, Ar
thur? ‘This world is as wild as an old wives’ tale,’ and I don’t want to miss any of it.” She chuckled again. “That’s from a poem by G. K. Chesterton, by the way. Do you know him?” She looked at Timothy.

  He shook his head, his glasses winking in the firelight.

  “Well, you should. He had a number of important things to say, especially in his fairy stories.”

  “Important things in fairy tales?” Jessica looked skeptical.

  “Very important, my dear. I’m surprised a bright girl like you hasn’t figured that out already. But I’m being a poor hostess. I should offer you all some smoked salmon and crackers. Smoked by my nephew himself.”

  As if on cue, the heavy front door opened, and a tall man wrapped in a long woolen coat and several bright scarves stomped across the threshold. A pair of brown eyes were the only visible part of his face. Crystals of snow clung to his dark coat and sparkled on his flannel cap.

  “It’s beginning to snow, Aunt Nessa!”

  The voice was instantly recognizable. Timothy, Jessica, and Sarah each turned to watch Julian unwrap himself from the tangle of scarves. Then he unbuttoned his coat. A green kilt crossed with black and gold topped a pair of legs covered in long socks of the same design. Julian smiled at the open mouths. “I break out the family tartan on special occasions.”

  “MacArthur on my mother’s side.” Nessa beamed. “From the Isle of Skye. The clan were pipers to the MacDonalds, a hereditary position.”

  From behind came a clattering of toenails on the wood floor. Gwydon, his fur speckled with snow, padded into the room.

  “I hope no one’s allergic to dogs,” Julian said.

  Timothy, his heart thudding with joy, wanted to run forward and grab the great dog in a hug, but he glanced at his parents and then at Nessa.

  His mother beamed. “What a beautiful animal!”

  “His name is Gwydon, after one of our legendary shape-shifters.”

  A small squeal escaped from Sarah as she hurried forward and buried her face in Gwydon’s fur.

  Nessa gathered up Julian’s wet coat and scarves. “And this is my nephew, Julian. A true Renaissance man—librarian, storyteller, historian, tour guide extraordinaire!”

  Mrs. Maxwell was staring at the gangly man in the entryway, a thin line deepening between her brows. “You look so familiar. Have we met?”

  Julian smiled. “I believe I was your tour guide at Edinburgh Castle.”

  “That’s it!” And the room relaxed into introductions, while Gwydon, overcome by petting and chatter, retreated to the warmth of the fireplace and lay, head on paws, watching the party unfold.

  Timothy’s mind began to whir. It was wonderful to be with Gwydon and Julian again. But their presence could mean only that something was brewing. He remembered Electra’s comment that a battle was about to begin. Here were his old friends and allies gathered in one place, a place not far from where the legendary Telling Stone might be hidden. He looked closely at Nessa. She was handing around a plate of food while talking with his mother about South American art. Her ruby earrings glittered in the firelight. “If you’ll come to the table, we’ll start with sowans. It’s a traditional Christmas Eve dish in the region. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve assigned you places at the table.” Nessa herded her guests to the table in the manner a goose herder directed a gaggle of geese. He watched Nessa even more closely now, a slow assurance building.

  Timothy found his name card, placed between Jessica and Julian.

  “O’Daly is the family name, isn’t it? Irish, but with ties to Scotland.” Nessa looked at Mrs. Maxwell.

  “Well, yes, however did you know?” And then she turned to her husband.

  “Nessa asked me a while back if we had any Celtic ancestry in the family. I’m surprised she remembered.”

  “Oh, the name O’Daly has quite a bit of fame associated with it. They’re part of a hereditary line of poets. Muiredach O’Daly, a renowned bard and Filidh, fled Ireland after a fight with a chief of the O’Donnells, who demanded he pay taxes. Poets never did pay taxes. He fled to Scotland, I believe, after splitting the poor fellow’s head in two with a battle-axe.”

  Jessica pinched Timothy’s leg under the table.

  “My goodness, you know more about my heritage than I do.” Mrs. Maxwell wrinkled her nose. “I had no idea there was such a dramatic and violent story associated with the name.”

  “Dramatic, yes, and part of a much longer story. But let me tell you about the sowans.” Nessa ladeled bowls with a substance that looked very much like oatmeal. Oatmeal was not what Timothy was expecting for Christmas Eve dinner, but he was too excited about the mention of Muiredach O’Daly, the Filidh armed with a battle-axe, to complain.

  “Sowans is made from oat husks and fine meal steeped in water. It’s about as traditional a Scottish food as you can find. Don’t worry; the whole dinner won’t be porridge.”

  Timothy took a bite. It tasted like unsweetened oatmeal, and he was glad the portions were small.

  “And, in keeping with tradition, as I said, that’s a rowan log in the hearth. The Christmas Eve fire signifies that any bad feelings between friends or relatives have been put aside for Yuletide. A nice tradition, don’t you think?”

  “Lovely. Perhaps it should be done more than once a year.” Mrs. Maxwell took a small bite of the sowans. “But I can see why the sowans is saved for special occasions.”

  Mr. Maxwell shot his wife a look. “And what about all these candles, Nessa? We burn candles in the States, too, of course, but usually not so many at once. And I can’t say I’ve ever had oatmeal at Christmas.”

  Nessa scooped the last of her sowans from the bowl, wiped her lips with a red cloth napkin, and looked directly at Mr. Maxwell. “The candles are to hold back the Dark, Arthur. People seem to have forgotten that. On Christmas Day the Light comes into the world. On Christmas Eve, the Dark makes one last-ditch effort to win.”

  Timothy didn’t remember most of the rest of the meal. There had been salmon his parents exclaimed over, vegetables, breads, and potatoes, but all the while a spring had been winding tighter and tighter in his chest. It took every ounce of concentration just to remain in his chair. Ever since Nessa had mentioned the Dark, Timothy knew with a heavy certainty that the Dark was out there, just beyond the cottage walls, waiting. While the rest of his family talked and laughed, he pushed his food around on his plate, stealing looks at Sarah across the table and at Jessica by his side. He noticed that Jessica had gone pale and quiet at the mention of the Dark, but Julian on his other side was loquacious, a word Timothy admired, entertaining them all with the funny stories of a tour guide. Gwydon remained peacefully sleeping by the fire, and his presence offered Timothy some comfort against his growing fear.

  When everyone had pushed back their chairs and exclaimed over the festive dinner, Nessa rose and stood at the head of the table.

  “And now for my trifle and the lovely Christmas cake you brought.”

  Mrs. Maxwell rose to help Nessa bring in the desserts, and Gwydon wandered from his place by the fire to sit at Julian’s left hand. The women returned with the trifle and cakes, and Timothy was pleased to see that the desserts did not resemble oatmeal in the least.

  “I don’t know that I can eat another bite, Nessa. You’re a fine cook.” Mr. Maxwell sighed with contentment as they finished dessert. The wind whiffled and murmured at the door. The flames in the fireplace flickered.

  “It sounds like the wind’s rising.” Julian walked to the tall windows and lifted the drapes. “The snow’s flying. I’m glad we’re safe inside, Aunt Nessa.”

  Timothy thought he saw them exchange a glance. Then he noticed that Sarah was staring with a strange expression on her face at Gwydon. The dog, still at Julian’s side, was sitting up straight and tall. His massive head was cocked, as if he were listening for something in the wind, and he lifted his muzzle like a coyote or wolf about to bay at the moon.

  “He looks like he wants to talk.” />
  Everyone’s eyes turned to Gwydon.

  “There’s an old tradition of animals talking on Christmas Eve,” said Julian. “Supposedly it’s the one time of year they are no longer mute, as if a spell is broken. They prophesy.”

  “What do they say?” Jessica leaned forward, and her brown curls danced in the candlelight.

  Mr. Maxwell laughed. “Every country has its peculiar traditions. It doesn’t mean that they really happen. Perhaps we should be thinking about the weather and—”

  The noise was a rumble at first, deep and throaty like a growl. Timothy felt the spring inside himself propel him from his seat. He stood, eyes riveted on Gwydon, who was moving his lips in a very peculiar manner. The growl changed to a series of strange, guttural noises.

  At the head of the table, Nessa’s eyes glittered.

  The first word was half howl as the dog’s mouth contorted into strange shapes. The sight was terrifying, an ordinary dog trying to form human sounds.

  “Five must stand. Three will go forth. One remain.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it! How did you teach him to count?” Mr. Maxwell’s excitement shone in his face. “It sounded like he counted to five. Quite a trick!”

  “That’s funny.” Mrs. Maxwell rested her chin in her hands and stared at Gwydon, who now lay quietly at Julian’s feet. “That’s not what I heard at all. It sounded like he was singing. Well, not really singing, but trying to, anyway. Something more than a howl.”

  “Now, Lizzie, you just weren’t listening carefully enough. It wasn’t very clear, but I believe the dog counted to five.”

  Timothy looked at Sarah and Jessica. “Did you—?”

  “Yes, I think it was counting,” Sarah cut in. “I saw a horse do it once on a TV show. He pawed the ground once for one, twice for two, and so on.” She gave Timothy a swift kick under the table.

  “He’s a remarkable beast.” Nessa’s eyes were still gleaming. “Perhaps we should move over by the fire with our tea. I’d like to see if we can get a weather report on the radio.”