Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “But where’s Timothy?” Tam looked from side to side as if he expected him to pop out from behind a hillock.

  “We were just looking for him,” Sarah explained. “He’s disappeared in the fog. He likes to explore on his own.”

  “Well, I think we should help, don’t you?” Tam looked at his sister. “It isn’t safe to be wandering in this fog. Morgan and I will go this way.” He gestured east, in the direction Timothy had gone. “Why don’t the rest of you split up and—”

  “I don’t believe we need your help.” Mr. McMorn had not moved, but his voice seemed to have dropped an octave.

  Why was he being so rude? Jessica looked at Sarah, who stood frowning with her hands jammed in her pockets, pale streamers of hair lifting in the wind.

  “Just trying to help. Don’t want the kid to get lost.” Tam shrugged. “Come on, Morgan, we’ll walk this way.”

  “I think not.” Then, from inside his Burberry trench coat, McMorn drew forth a sword.

  Jessica turned to Tam, but where he had been there was nothing but a quivering in the air, the scent of smoke where he had stood. And then he was there again, but his skin had erupted into welts, as if he were diseased. Each welt burst into a scale. Tam’s arms fused to his sides. His legs twisted, melding into one thick body, while a forked tongue flicked from his smiling mouth.

  Sarah screamed.

  Jessica opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her stomach heaved, and her legs took over. Before she could think, she ran.

  She ran blindly through the fog, her heart pounding in her ears, over the hillocks toward the east, where she knew Timothy had gone. But the girl, Morgan, was right behind, her thin legs pumping furiously, her black hair streaming. Jessica ran until her lungs could barely draw air. She knew that if she slowed, one of Morgan’s skeletally thin arms would reach out and grab her.

  The ground was soft, the grass wet. Fog had now enfolded the summit of Dunsinane. It was no good keeping up this pace. She couldn’t see the terrain, couldn’t judge where the hillocks were. Her feet slithered in the mud. She fell onto her side, sliding down a grassy knoll. That one misstep was all it took. Before she could stand, Morgan was on her, her long legs straddling Jessica’s chest. Her white hands had a stranglehold on Jessica’s neck.

  Even in the swirling fog, the sword was bright. For an instant McMorn held it high over his head, and then he sliced it downward toward the serpent. Sarah watched, openmouthed, as the serpent gathered itself up and readied a strike at McMorn’s unprotected chest. She looked wildly for a rock or anything else that she could lob at it. McMorn’s stroke missed by inches as the snake swiveled away from the blade. Thick tongues of fog roiled and curled. Now Sarah groped blindly for a rock on the cold ground.

  The serpent struck, but McMorn was nimble and dodged sideways, his dark coattails flapping behind. But it wasn’t McMorn the beast wanted. As soon as the man no longer blocked the serpent’s way, it oozed forward, the long body traveling east. Again McMorn struck. This time the sword sliced through the serpent’s flesh, severing the tail. The serpent stopped. It eyes sought out McMorn as it hissed. Sarah held her breath, a rock finally clenched in her fist. But the snake did not strike. Its wound glistened wetly as the tailess body disappeared into the fog.

  STONEWORK

  IMOTHY CAREFULLY MADE his way down the tunnel, guided by the rough stone wall. Underfoot, the tunnel floor was smooth, dry dirt, an underground passage that led from the chamber and was obviously manmade. His fingers traced the fitted stones on each side—about three to four feet wide, he guessed. At one point the left wall receded, creating a small alcove. He stopped to take off his pack. Inside was a small key-chain flashlight, but a light could be dangerous. Who knew what else might be in this underground tunnel and attracted by the light?

  Timothy looked up. The stone ceiling rose a few feet above him. He could just make it out in the dim light. Ahead, the ground sloped gently downward, and the passage widened. It was darker here, away from the hole where he had fallen in, but the tunnel wasn’t musty-smelling like an unused basement or a cave. A fogou, Timothy thought. He had read about chambers and passages like this in a book about knights. They were used to store food but also as hiding places when Iron Age villages were raided.

  A thrill shot through him. This would have been the perfect place for the monks of Scone Abbey to hide the Telling Stone when they heard the English were coming. He would have chosen a place just like this himself. Here, in this underground chamber, there were no sounds, no rustle of wind, no far off birdcall, only the sound of his own footsteps, the beating of his own heart. The dark and silence had swallowed him. Despite his fear of being seen, he decided to risk the flashlight. Its beam of light was small but comforting. Without it, he might miss the stone if it was hidden here.

  Each step was a soft thud on the soft earth floor. Timothy had read that fogous had more than one entrance. There had to be another way out, and he was determined to find it as soon as he found the Stone of Destiny.

  Timothy held the flashlight in his mouth. Despite the small circle of light, he extended both his arms in front for protection. Finally, his fingers met rough stone in three directions. He grabbed the light and played it over the rough walls. A dead end. No exit here, and if the Stone of Destiny was hidden in the fogou, he hadn’t found it. It was too easy to imagine the walls closing in on him, and he fought back a rising sense of panic. Even several deep breaths didn’t steady him. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Timothy made a decision. He would be methodical, like Sherlock Holmes, covering every inch of the passage and chamber in hopes of finding the coronation stone, no matter how desperate he felt. There had to be something about this particular stone to make it stand out.

  As Timothy walked back the way he had come, he heard a soft scraping. He paused, straining to hear better. It was a whisper in the dark, something large being dragged across the dirt floor. He turned off his flashlight and held his breath. The sound of breathing. Something was in the chamber with him! It was between him and the only opening he knew to the outside world.

  There had to be another way out! Timothy turned the light back on and cupped the beam with a hand as he shone it across the rock ceiling, searching for a way of escape. Nothing. He turned off the light and pressed into the small alcove, hoping he hadn’t given himself away. Cautiously, he peeked out. A thick darkness was gliding toward him along the chamber floor. It glided across the ground without legs. A giant snake! His fingers dug into the rock wall. He had no doubt that the creature was coming for him. The alcove was small, just a jag in the tunnel. It wouldn’t offer any protection. What he needed was a way of escape.

  Directly ahead was the stone where he’d scraped his shin. It was dimly backlighted from this direction, and Timothy could see it was a rectangle about a foot wide, raised about two feet off the floor by two smaller stones. All three must have fallen from the ceiling, first the smaller stones dropping, and then the larger rock falling to rest on them. Maybe, with any luck, there would be an opening left where they had dropped or at least a ledge where he could hide.

  Any place would be better than here, waiting like a mouse for the slithering snake. He would have to walk toward the serpent to get to the rock and find any opening above it. His legs shook as he inched forward. The snake raised its head. Timothy shone his light into the beast’s face, hoping to blind it, but its eyes were set high on the sides of its head. The nostrils were raised holes, and the mouth a wide slit in shiny skin. So, this is where stories of dragons began, Timothy thought dizzily. Would he be swallowed whole like a rat, or was this the type of snake that would squeeze the life out of him?

  The snake caught his scent. Its head shifted from side to side as it searched. Its forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. Timothy pressed himself against the wall and turned off his light. Cold stone cupped his shoulder blades. The long body coiled, then struck, but it overshot its prey and passed Timothy. This was his chance! He ran to the raise
d stone, keeping it between him and the snake. The snake was quick to turn its head and strike again. Timothy dodged, but the snake was faster. It caught and tore the edge of his pants. The smell of burned cloth filled the fogou.

  Before it could strike again, Timothy jumped up onto the raised rock, praying for an opening in the low ceiling. His muddy tennis shoes landed with a smack on the stone. The fogou shook and rumbled. A terrible groan rose from the depths of the earth, as if something ancient had been wakened from sleep. The noise reverberated through the chamber.

  Timothy’s hands flew to cover his ears. The note vibrated up his legs, playing his body like a tuning fork. The snake rose, prepared to strike. Stones rained from the ceiling, and dust billowed. Timothy crouched and covered his head with his arms, trying to balance as the stone swayed and rocks tumbled around him. Would he be buried alive with the snake?

  An explosion ripped through his head. Colors, words, and sounds rushed at him. Strange information filled his head: lines of poems, bits of stories, histories he had never learned. Here in a dark underground chamber, his mind had run amok, and that was even more terrifying than the snake. Again the ground shook; he could no longer keep his balance.

  Timothy tumbled from the stone to the ground as more rocks rained from the ceiling. The snake coiled around itself. Timothy covered his head. The stone rocked from its support and dropped with a thud onto the floor of the fogou. The soft earth drew it in, and the stone where Timothy had stood disappeared from view.

  The chaos in his mind quieted, but every part of his body ached. Timothy struggled to take a deep breath of air and coughed out dust. He lay on his back. Overhead, he could see the stone ceiling. He was still alive and still in the tunnel. Or was he? Sitting up slowly, he cradled his head as it throbbed with pain. Where was the snake? Where was the rubble? Around him, light flickered. Timothy looked up. Above him was the stained-glass window with the girl who looked very much like Sarah, the window in Saint Margaret’s Chapel at Edinburgh Castle. And he was not alone.

  A company of men and women stood in a silent ring around him. Perhaps he was dead. Timothy bit one of his fingers. It hurt the way it would in real life. In the stillness he could hear the soft breathing of the assembly, see their very human faces in the candlelight.

  “Welcome to the Society of the Stone.” A silver-haired woman spoke. Her voice, whispery as old leaves, was gentle, but her eyes were fierce. “We have waited a long time for you to come.”

  A murmuring of assent filled the room.

  Timothy looked at the faces, a mixture of young and old, of various races. Most were unfamiliar, but two he recognized.

  “Julian! Professor Twig!”

  A man stepped forward from the crowd. He was old but as straight and tall as a younger man might be. His hooked nose rose from a face as lined as a walnut shell. White hair braided with feathers and beads hung to his shoulders. Timothy knew this face, too. He had seen it somewhere before, but he couldn’t place it. “This assembled group are the Stewards of the Stone. We have been tasked to protect the Stone of Destiny and the Filidhean for generations.”

  Timothy looked past the older man to Julian. “You knew where the stone was all along?”

  “None of us knew where the true stone was hidden. That knowledge has tempted Stewards in the past. The Dark pays well for information. Our task has been to help you find it,” Julian said.

  The white-haired man stood over Timothy. “Stand up; you are chosen.”

  “But why me?”

  “Filidhean, male and female, are chosen because of who they are, the gifts they are born with. But this is not the time for questions. That will come later.”

  And Timothy, in his ripped pants and muddy tennis shoes, stood. In the back of the crowd was another face he recognized. Mr. McMorn lounged against a wall, his face partially hidden by shadow.

  “Filidhean arise at the great turning points of history, the ganglions of time.” The old man’s thin beard quivered as he spoke.

  “Where am I?” Timothy asked.

  The woman answered. “Time out of time. The fogou was a portway to us. But let us begin.”

  The circle drew tighter. Timothy swallowed. His mouth was as dry as dust. Where were Sarah and Jessica? Were they all right?

  The white-beard spoke again. “As Filidh you are keeper of the word, repository of knowledge.” He touched a knotted finger to Timothy’s forehead. And at the touch, the madness came rushing back like a wave, tumbling Timothy over and over while he gasped for air. Words, histories, lineages assailed him; there was no end.

  Each person stepped forward and, one by one, placed a hand on him, filling him with the knowledge of their lives. Years passed, armies marched, songs were written and sung. Timothy crumpled and fell to lie like a babe in the old woman’s arms.

  Sarah and McMorn tracked the snake that had been Tam as best they could in the thickening fog. Sarah could barely see her own fingers at arm’s length. She stayed close to McMorn by watching the gleam of his sword. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of something moving, or McMorn would call out to her as if they were players in a deadly game of Marco Polo. They moved eastward.

  “The snake must not find your brother before he finds the stone!” McMorn whispered.

  And then she heard the noise, an inhuman cry. It ran up the ridge of her spine and lodged at the base of her skull. Her teeth rattled. “What is that?”

  Slowly, McMorn dropped to one knee, raising the sword above his head. A smile nudged its way across Sarah’s face. Timothy had found the Stone of Destiny; she was certain now. Timothy had found it!

  McMorn’s voice rose through the mist. “The stone cries out! I do believe we’re hearing the voice of the Stone of Destiny.”

  Sarah felt as if a terrible weight had lifted from her chest and dissipated into the fog. Timothy must be alive, and he had found and stood upon the coronation stone! Two more steps and her foot thudded against something soft and large. She bent toward the ghostly shape. She had stumbled on a body.

  THE SPEAR OF LUGH

  ARAH TOUCHED the damp curls, the felt hat. The body trembled. Jessica!

  “It’s okay, it’s me, Sarah. What happened?”

  Jessica continued to shake. Sarah wrapped her arms around her. She called out to McMorn, “I’ve found Jessica, and she’s hurt!”

  Mr. McMorn was quickly by her side. Together they searched for a wound but found nothing. McMorn removed his black Burberry and tucked it around Jessica. “She has no visible injury, but she may be in shock. We need to keep her warm. Stay with her while I try to find out where the serpent has gone.”

  “You need to find my brother, too.” Sarah was miserable, cold and damp. She crouched over her friend, trying to warm her with her own body heat.

  “I believe if we find one, we’ll find the other.” McMorn straightened, turned, and ran into the fog.

  A blue flame flickered in the mist.

  “What’s that?” Sarah pointed toward the blue light, which moved closer. She drew her body into a tight ball around Jessica. Her friend would not be able to protect herself.

  As if a curtain parted, Orisis the stag stepped out of the fog. On its back was Finula, and across her chest was strapped a spear that glowed with a blue light.

  “The Daoine sídhe, Finula,” Sarah breathed. There could be no mistaking the woman who had appeared in Nessa Daring’s home just two nights ago. Today she wore crimson, and her black hair was beaded with drops of fog.

  “The Good Folk pay their debts,” she said from high on the tall stag’s back. “It is an old agreement from the time when the mortals and Good Folk walked together. Even today, in a just battle, we will fight side by side with mortals.” As the stag bowed its front legs, she slid from its back. “I have brought the Spear of Lugh.” She drew the long blade from a scabbard and held it aloft. It glowed in her hands. “It has not been used in battle for many years, but now the time has come. It was forged for the mighty Lugh to use i
n his fight against Balor.”

  Sarah’s heart lurched as the name of their old enemy was spoken.

  “It shall fight against him again today. But as legend says, it is a stone that will fell him. The spear will burn anyone who is not destined to wield it. It’s for the warrior girl.” And her green eyes beamed at the girls.

  Sarah looked at Jessica. Her limbs were slack, her face pale. She was in no shape for battle. Her weak arms would not even be able to hold a sword. “Jessica has been injured. She—”

  “She is not who must take the spear.”

  Perhaps the Daoine sídhe was mistaken. Sarah knew she was no warrior. She recalled when Timothy was pursued by the Wild Hunt. Cerridwyn had given her a bow and arrows and said something about being more than meets the eye.

  “That is your gift, Warrior.” Finula’s gaze never wavered.

  Warrior? Sarah straightened her shoulders, trying to stand a little taller.

  “Take it, child.” The Daoine sídhe’s face was solemn and her voice a command. “Though it burns blue-hot, it will not harm the one who is intended to use it.”

  Sarah closed her eyes, held out her arms, and cringed when the spear met her flesh. But it didn’t scorch her. The metal was warm, and the spear trembled like a living thing in her hands. “What do I do with it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  MORGAN’S KISS

  HEN TIMOTHY OPENED his eyes again, he lay curled on his side on the dirt floor of the fogou, swallowing dust, stones heaped around him. They were on his shoulders, his legs. Every inch of his body hurt. The earth was still. He carefully lifted his head. Coughed. From under a pile of rock several yards away, something hissed. The snake! How could he have forgotten about the snake? His muscles clenched. He pushed up to his forearms.