Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  Mr. Maxwell slapped Julian on the back and talked animatedly about animal tricks he had seen. Mrs. Maxwell helped Nessa clear the table.

  “What did you hear?” Jessica’s voice tickled Timothy’s ear. “Didn’t he say something about ‘three shall go out’?”

  “Five must stand. Three will go forth. One remain,” Timothy recited without hesitating.

  Sarah was at their side. “We must be the three. With Julian and Cerridwyn, we make five. Why do you think everyone heard something different?”

  “We hear what we need to hear, when we listen,” Nessa said as she passed by, a teapot in her hands.

  With those words, Timothy was certain. All evening he had suspected it; Nessa was—

  “Cerridwyn?” Jessica looked into Nessa’s strong face.

  “We are all more than we seem, love.” And, teapot in hand, she calmly joined the Maxwells and Julian by the fire.

  THE BIRD

  HE RECEPTION ON THE RADIO was poor. “I don’t have television out here. I find it a distraction. So this will have to do.” Nessa adjusted the knob.

  “Internet reception is down.” Julian looked up from Nessa’s laptop.

  The wind continued to rise and beat the house like a drum. Timothy’s sense of dread grew as Gwydon paced the floor. Knowing Cerridwyn was with them, too, offered some comfort.

  “We’ve weathered fiercer storms, but I certainly wouldn’t suggest driving in this.” Nessa refilled cups of tea. “I’ve plenty of bedding if it comes to spending the night. I can put you all up out here and in my guest room.”

  “No, that would be too much trouble for you,” Mr. Maxwell said.

  “The roads won’t be safe.” Julian looked at Timothy.

  “Don’t you worry about being so isolated out here? Do storms usually grow so fierce so fast?” Mrs. Maxwell asked. Timothy could hear the rising tension in his mother’s voice.

  “I like the privacy. After working with people all day, it’s nice to be alone.” Nessa looked toward the window. “Midwinter storms can be the most unpredictable, though.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell exchanged a glance. Mr. Maxwell nodded.

  “We’ll take you up on the offer to stay over if it isn’t too much trouble,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “It probably wouldn’t be safe out there.”

  Jessica stood and walked toward the window. “I noticed you had a sprig of rowan at the door.”

  Nessa looked at her with bright eyes. “Very observant. It’s an old custom found throughout much of the world. Rowan offers some protection when the Wild Hunt rides.”

  “The hunt?” Mr. Maxwell sat back comfortably by the fire with an enormous mug of tea balanced on his lap. “Surely no one is out hunting in this weather.”

  Julian brushed the hair from his eyes. “Aunt Nessa is referring to the Wild Hunt. It’s a legend throughout the British Isles that a hunt rides through the sky on Christmas Eve when the world is in darkness, the time when the world is most vulnerable.”

  Memories of white hounds with their blood-red eyes and slavering jaws made Timothy shiver. He had once been their prey as he rode through the sky on Gwydon, hunted and alone. He looked at Jessica, who stood very still, listening by the window, her back to the room, and wondered if she, too, was thinking of that night. Nessa’s house felt like a world other than the brightly lit Edinburgh with its giant Norwegian Christmas tree on the castle mound. But they were only miles from Frederick and Princes Streets decked with fairy lights and Yuletide decorations.

  Sarah spoke in low tones with Nessa while Julian entertained Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell with stories of Scottish Christmas traditions. Jessica rejoined Timothy, and they sat on the couch, listening to the growing storm. Something in the wind changed. It no longer sounded like an impersonal force of nature battering the small house, but a person shrieking and wailing.

  “Do you hear dogs barking?” Timothy asked. Jessica got up anxiously, walked to the French doors, and parted the curtains. A terrible shattering of glass knocked her backward to the floor. The thick limb of a tree had thrust through the door and into the room. Cold rushed in as the doors hung open on broken hinges, and with the cold came a bird.

  The bird was large, black, and desperate. Like a ship caught by waves, it battered itself against one wall and then another. Mrs. Maxwell screamed. Nessa rushed to Jessica’s side with Timothy close behind. Julian and Mr. Maxwell hurried toward the doors to assess the damage where snow blew in uninvited. But Sarah stood motionless, Gwydon by her side. She was listening to the bird’s caw and to something just beyond the voice of the wind: the baying of hounds.

  Blood trickled down Jessica’s face where sharp twigs like fingernails had raked across her skin. Pieces of glass sparkled in her hair. She grasped her left wrist with her right hand and winced.

  “Nothing too serious, from the look of it, thank goodness.” Nessa helped her to her feet. “Though that wrist might give you some trouble.” She used a napkin to wipe the blood from Jessica’s face as she led her back to the couch, then hurried to the hearth.

  Timothy sat next to Jessica and picked pieces of glass from her hair.

  He whispered in her ear, “Can’t you heal it?”

  “It’s only for others. I can’t heal myself.”

  Nessa filled a cup from the copper cauldron that hung over the fire. Vines and stars bordered its top.

  “I think you’ll find this soothing, dear.”

  “Thank you. I wish my mother could see your pot. It’s beautiful. She collects all kinds of copper things.”

  “It’s a cauldron,” Nessa said. “A very old one.”

  A spicy fragrance rose from the steaming mug, and Timothy leaned in to inhale the steam. Jessica took a tentative sip and then another. As she drank, the pain in her wrist subsided.

  Mrs. Maxwell joined them on the couch. “I think we should ice your wrist. Thank God that heavy limb didn’t land on you.”

  The great black bird swooped low across the room, and Jessica threw up her uninjured arm.

  “Let’s get that thing out of here.” Mr. Maxwell tried to drive it toward the gaping black doorway with one of Nessa’s rainsticks. The beans inside the hollow cactus tube chattered like rain as he swung the musical instrument at the bird.

  “Wait. Can’t you see it’s desperate?” Sarah looked out toward the night. “You can’t send it back out there with them.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Mr. Maxwell looked at his daughter as if she had lost her mind.

  “Didn’t you hear what Julian said? The Wild Hunt will kill it. It always does.”

  The bird crashed into a mirror and thudded to the floor. Sarah ran to its side.

  “Here, tender heart; let’s put it in a box until it recovers.” Nessa scooped the bird into a large file box and gently placed the lid on top. “There should be plenty of air coming in through the handholds.”

  Julian appeared from the basement, a saw in one hand, plywood in the other. “We have to seal up the doorway. I’m going to cut the limb.”

  A crest of snow had formed inside the room where the wind blew in like waves. The drape, torn from its rod, hung askew, and the gnarled limb reached at least four feet into the room. The cold settled in.

  “There’s someone out there!” Mr. Maxwell was at the open doorway, helping to clear away glass. He peered into the swirling dark.

  In the box, the injured bird woke and beat its wings.

  “I see a light moving.”

  Nessa hurried to join Mr. Maxwell and Julian by the door, while Timothy froze on the couch, remembering hounds and their red eyes that glowed in the darkness. The wind stopped its terrible shrieking, satisfied that it had a found a way into the house. In that sudden stillness, Timothy could hear the clock ticking on the mantel, the bird struggling in its box, and even Jessica’s soft breathing beside him. Everything was amplified as he waited to see what would come in out of the dark.

  “Who would be out on a night like this?” Mr. Maxwell str
ained forward.

  “Not all things in the dark should be invited in.” Nessa looked at Julian. “Perhaps we should seal the door closed quickly.”

  Julian made the first cut into the thick limb, and Timothy was reminded of the trees who had fought so valiantly at the Travelers’ Market. He was sure he saw the limb shudder. As Nessa went to retrieve a hammer and nails, a man carrying a small flashlight stepped up to the door from the dark.

  Timothy’s hand found its way into his pocket, but it was empty. If only he had the glass leaf given to him by the Greenman. Julian put the saw aside and stood blocking the man from entering. There was something familiar about him. Timothy stood and walked to the door, and Jessica, one wrist wrapped in a dish towel with ice, followed. She gasped. The figure in the dark was Tam!

  “I’m so sorry. My car broke down, and this was the only light I saw. Why, hello.” He stopped and looked from Jessica to Timothy. “We’ve met before. This is the strangest coincidence.”

  Nessa joined the group and silenced his chatter. “It’s a strange night to be out. How can we help you?” Timothy noticed that she positioned herself next to Julian to block Tam’s entrance into the house. Gwydon growled low in his throat.

  “Oh, his name’s Tam. We met him the other day in town.” Jessica stepped forward.

  “That’s right, we did.” Tam smiled directly into Jessica’s eyes. “I still have your number in my pocket.” Tam turned to Nessa. “I’ve been at a friend’s for Christmas Eve dinner and must have taken a wrong turn in the storm. Drove right off the road. Now the car’s good and stuck, and I can’t get any reception out here.” He held up his cell phone, clicked off the flashlight, and shivered.

  Timothy noticed that his thin jacket was iced in snow. He wore no hat, only a pair of driving gloves and boots. White flakes stuck to his sandy hair and eyelashes.

  “Come in and get warm!” Mrs. Maxwell, her face taut with alarm, joined her husband.

  Tam quickly stepped in through the damaged door and stomped the snow from his boots. It formed small puddles on the wood floor.

  Julian and Nessa shared a glance. Again Gwydon growled, low and ominous. Julian silenced him with his hand.

  “Yes, come in and have some hot tea. Let me take your wet things. We’ve no phone reception here at the moment, either,” said Nessa.

  “Very kind of you.” Tam pulled off a sopping glove and shook hands first with Mr. Maxwell and then with all the adults. “Looks like you’ve had a bit of trouble yourselves.”

  Suddenly Jessica remembered her hurt wrist and clutched it, rather too dramatically, Timothy thought. “The storm crashed a tree through the glass doors, and I was standing right next to them when it happened.” Jessica continued the story while Mrs. Maxwell poured tea. Nessa brought a blanket, and Julian and Mr. Maxwell finished boarding up the door.

  Only Sarah, Timothy noticed, hung back, Gwydon by her side. She watched Tam closely. The bird continued to struggle in the box. She lifted the lid and soothed its feathers with her hand. “There, there, poor bird. We’re going to have to splint that leg before we turn you loose.” She turned to Timothy. “I think it’s broken. It’s hanging at a strange angle.”

  “Let me take a look.” Tam walked over to the box. All at once, the bird, who had finally settled under Sarah’s touch, cawed loudly, beat its wings, and flew up. Startled, Sarah dropped the box. The bird flapped in desperate circles, its broken leg dangling. It circled the room once, crashing into a window. This time when it fell to the floor, its head hung sideways.

  “Oh, dear. The poor thing.” Mrs. Maxwell bent over the lifeless form.

  But Timothy wasn’t watching the bird. He was watching Tam and thought he saw the ghost of a smile on the boy’s face.

  “Oh, I must have startled it! I should never have come near.” He looked at Sarah from under his ginger curls.

  “I’m sure you didn’t mean to—it was injured, anyway.” Sarah flushed. “Hush, Gwydon.” She put her hand on the great dog’s head. “He’s not always good with strangers.”

  Timothy wanted to interrupt. What was Sarah talking about? Gwydon was excellent with strangers. She was talking about him as if he were a mere dog.

  “Perhaps we should put him in the basement?” Nessa turned to Julian.

  And Julian obediently led the still-growling dog out of the room.

  Had everyone lost their minds? Timothy looked at Jessica. She was holding Mrs. Maxwell’s Christmas cake in her good hand. He thought of Julian’s warning that the Dark was most powerful at this time of year and looked speculatively at Tam. There was something not quite right.

  “You must be hungry,” Jessica offered.

  “How’d you end up spending Christmas Eve with two of the bonniest girls in Scotland?” Tam turned to Timothy.

  Mr. Maxwell laughed as if Tam had said something terribly clever; Timothy scowled. The storm and the Dark seemed forgotten as they again relaxed into the warmth of the room. The fire burned brighter, and Mr. Maxwell began a funny story that Timothy had heard at least a hundred times before. He watched the contented scene by the fireplace. Tam sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, next to Jessica. Julian added more wood to the fire. The plate of cake was nearly empty, and Nessa had gone to the kitchen to refill it.

  Yet Timothy was not at ease. It was eleven o’clock. Well past the time his parents usually stayed up. His eyes felt sleepy and heavy. Suddenly the room was too warm. He had an intense desire to step out into the cold night air. If only he could crack open the front door. The night was a presence, breathing all around him. It was crouched, a cat waiting for a mouse. He remembered his house after it had been searched, and Mr. Twig looking frail in the white hospital bed. He thought of the map hidden safely in his backpack. He glanced at it hanging on a hook by the door. Whatever had come hunting for the map at home was here now in Scotland. He could feel it. Suddenly he wanted the map by his side. He crossed the room, grabbed his pack, and stuffed it next to him in the leather chair.

  Nessa and Julian showed off her collection of unusual musical instruments gathered over many years of travel, starting with the rain-stick Mr. Maxwell had swung at the bird.

  “This is a didgeridoo,” Julian explained. “They’re made—at least the early ones like this are made—from the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. Ants have eaten away its inner cells, so it makes a buzzing noise like this.” He picked up the long instrument, which looked to Timothy like an elephant’s trunk, and blew. A strange noise somewhere between a vibration and a buzz filled the room.

  Mr. Maxwell snored open-mouthed in the chair closet to the fire, but Mrs. Maxwell smiled with interest.

  As Timothy watched, Tam nudged Jessica and pointed up to a low beam. Timothy looked up. A sprig of mistletoe dangled from a gold ribbon. When Jessica turned her face up, Tam kissed her lightly right on the lips. Jessica laughed in surprise. No one else noticed.

  Timothy balled his hands into fists. He looked away, his heart racing.

  “Could we play some Christmas music?” Sarah asked, looking from Julian to Nessa. “We could try some of the instruments.” She eyed the small drum Nessa had called a bodhrán.

  “Despite all these instruments you see, I don’t play anything but the piano, and I don’t even play that very well. But we could sing Christmas carols, and you could each have a go at an instrument if you want,” Nessa said, smiling.

  Something was wrong with her, Timothy thought. The sparkle was missing from her eyes. The wind shrieked around the old timbers of the house.

  “No one carols anymore, do they?” Tam asked lightly. “But I know some modern stuff I could bang out on those drums, if I could get an accompanist.”

  The slightest furrow appeared between Sarah’s brows. “Carols are wonderful. It’s all right to be old-fashioned on Christmas.”

  Timothy watched Tam’s face and thought he glimpsed a flash of anger before it was smothered by his natural charm. “Well, how about the one you Americans like about the reinde
er?”

  “No, that isn’t a real Christmas carol at all.” Sarah held her ground.

  Timothy felt as if he were watching the growing drama from a great distance. The rest of the players seemed to fade into the background. His father woke with a snort, and he and Mrs. Maxwell exclaimed about the time.

  “Let me show you to the guest room.” Nessa led Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell to the other side of the house.

  Jessica sat just a little too close to Tam. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, Timothy thought in disgust. In contrast, his sister and Tam stood out in sharp relief, their battle of the wills pitched over something as silly as Christmas carols.

  Sarah continued in her crusade to persuade Tam. “I mean, a carol like ‘Silent Night’ or ‘Joy to the World’—you must know those, even in Scotland.” She closed her eyes and began to sing the first lines of “Joy to the World.”

  “Ewh!” Tam pressed his hands to his ears. “I can’t stand your voice!”

  Timothy had never heard anyone say anything like that to Sarah before. Unlike Timothy’s, her singing was always praised. She narrowed her eyes and looked, Timothy thought, like a cat about to spit. “How could you say such a thing?” she gasped.

  But Tam paid no attention at all. His hands were pressed to his ears, and his face was contorted as if he really were in pain.

  “Oh, just stop, Sarah! Stop showing off.” Jessica put her hand on Tam’s shoulder and turned her back on her friend. This was so much like the old Jessica that Timothy winced.

  Sarah, silent now but with eyes still flashing, retreated to a corner of the room. Timothy tried to catch her eye.

  The scream of the wind was becoming deafening. Julian added more wood to the fire. The room grew uncomfortably warm as the hands of the clock pushed slowly toward midnight.

  FINULA

  ITH A SHARP CRACK, the newly hung plywood board separated from the French doors. Bitterly cold air again rushed in, and with it came another stranger: a woman leading a white stag. Blood dripped from the trembling animal onto the wood floor. It was immediately clear that the animal was mortally wounded. But it was the woman who commanded the room.