Time out of Time

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  Peter stepped forward. “Hello, Sarah. I knew you’d return.” His gaze included all three of them, but Sarah felt it settle on her.

  She swallowed and looked at the ground. Why couldn’t she say anything?

  Peter drew a silver medallion on a chain from around his neck and slipped it over Timothy’s head. Then he dropped to one knee.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  A deep voice, the voice of the Greenman, boomed from behind. “Today we crown a new Filidh, a new Master of the Market, a new lord of the Travelers. The Stone of Destiny has spoken, one prophecy fulfilled. And it has returned to hiding until a future Filidh is summoned.”

  Again the crowd roared.

  The Greenman they knew and loved stood at Timothy’s side. In traveling to the Market he had transformed once more into the tree man, and in his twiggy fingers he held a crown, Timothy’s crown with the single gold leaf. With a rustle, the Greenman stretched his knotted limbs, flexed the bark of his branches, and placed the crown gently on Timothy’s head. “There are some things better not left at home.” A smile split the bark, and his eyes shone merrily. “With the crowning of the Filidh, the long-promised treasures are returned. A cauldron for the Healer to mend the injuries of the people and teach kindness.” He placed the Dagda’s Cauldron from Nessa Daring’s at Jessica’s feet.

  Nessa herself stepped forward, but she was no longer only Nessa Daring, the botanist. She was transforming quite rapidly into Cerridwyn, with flaming red hair and broad shoulders.

  “The Spear of Lugh for a warrior who fights for truth and justice.”

  And with gloved hands Cerridwyn handed the glowing spear to Sarah.

  “And the Claíomh Solais, the lost Sword of Victory.”

  For the first time since arriving in the Market, Timothy noticed Julian. He now held the sword McMorn had carried. He no longer looked like the librarian of Timothy’s world, or like the Market’s Storyteller, or like Nessa Daring’s nephew in Edinburgh. His clothes were finer, a thick cape with a silver clasp and polished boots. Gwydon stood quietly by his side. Julian was someone, Timothy realized, to be reckoned with.

  Julian stepped forward and presented the sword to Timothy with a slight bow.

  For a moment, Timothy hesitated. Gwydon nudged his hand with his cold, wet nose, and Timothy reached out to receive the sword. It gleamed in his hand. Timothy bowed his head.

  “The Filidh, as keeper of the word, must guard the old stories and see that they live to transform new generations. The best stories always involve great cost.” Julian’s voice was sure.

  With a rustle of leaves, the Greenman turned his solid trunk toward Peter. “Peter, as Steward, has served the Market well with civility and justice while you were gone.” Timothy heard Sarah’s faint intake of breath and noticed that her eyes were wet. What was wrong with her?

  The moment was interrupted by a great rushing, as if a winter wind was arriving in a blast. But there was no wind. Still the rushing grew and, with it, a terrible thumping. Timothy looked out across the crowd. His grip on the sword tightened. But it wasn’t warriors he saw on the move; it was the forest. What had woken the trees? Adrenaline surged through his body.

  “It’s the trees! They’re on the march again!”

  Timothy felt the same mixture of fear and delight that he heard in Jessica’s voice.

  “Will there be a battle?” she asked.

  “They’ve come to join the celebration, just as the old stories foretold.” Cerridwyn spread her arms wide as if welcoming them all.

  The silver-haired willows, the firs in capes of snow, the bare-armed oaks—all of them were coming to the Market. From somewhere in the crowd, music started up: fiddles and drums, then the whine of bagpipes. People danced, and even Sarah lost her pinched, bewildered look as Julian swung her in a circle. There was nothing, Timothy thought, like a party that involved dancing trees.

  It was just before nightfall. Timothy sat near Peter and finished off a plum tart. They were watching the dancers. And not far from them, another watched as well. Electra sat in a tree, observing the merriment. She smiled and hummed along with the music, and her bare feet swung in time.

  Timothy noticed a flock of white moving through the revelers. A small man drove them with a stick. His cap was set at a jaunty angle, and he carried a flagon of drink in one hand.

  “Nom!” Timothy cried and jumped to his feet.

  “Of course it’s me. What did you expect? Someone still has to keep things in order while others are off gallivanting.” The little man nodded in Cerridwyn’s direction.

  “It’s so good to see you.” Timothy hurried to Nom’s side.

  “Well, I never thought I’d find meself talking to a Filidh. Here now, Master Tristan, behave yourself.” He tapped his long herding stick against the neck of a smallish gander that had inched closer to an ear of corn held carelessly in a reveler’s hand. “And you, the one always asking too many questions.” Nom shook his head, looking at Timothy. “But look where it got you. I always knew it. Knew you’d make good.” And Nom nodded, as if he was responsible for the way everything worked out.

  “And you were right!” Jessica, face flushed and eyes merry, paused from dancing with a sapling. “We’re all proud of him.”

  Timothy felt, well, he didn’t know exactly how he felt. Flattered. No, humbled, he corrected himself: fifteen points. He looked at Jessica. Her cheeks were very pink, and her curls, as usual, sprang out in every direction. Then he found himself doing something completely out of character.

  “Jessica,” he asked, “would you like to dance with me?”

  Timothy, dancing! And with Jessica! Sarah smiled. She sat on a log just outside the circle of firelight. For the first time since returning to the Market, she was alone. Nearby, Julian talked in a low voice with the Greenman. Gwydon padded to her side and lay near her feet. Absently, she ran a hand through his fur.

  “Sarah, it’s good to have you back.”

  She started at Peter’s voice. He approached from behind and sat next to her on the log.

  Absurdly, her heart hammered in her chest. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  He sat in silence.

  Sarah shifted her feet. Crossed and uncrossed her legs. “How did you become Steward of the Market? You look older now.”

  “Time passes differently here. It’s been two years since you were last at the Market. I’m seventeen now. After the battle, when the three of you left, the Market was a mess. No one was in charge anymore. Tristan was a goose, and the Animal Tamer was gone. Even a bad ruler makes people feel more secure than no ruler. The Greenman asked me to stand in, just until Timothy returned.” Peter paused. “Or in case he didn’t.”

  She felt those words suspended above Peter’s head, hovering like a dialogue balloon.

  Peter continued. “I guess it wasn’t easy finding the Stone of Destiny.”

  Sarah shook her head. And suddenly her words returned, tumbling over one another, as she told the story of finding and searching Dunsinane. But when she got to the part about the spear, her words deserted her again. She would not cry, not here, not now. Blinking, she looked up at the sky.

  “Then what happened? How did Timothy get away?”

  “I killed the snake with the Spear of Lugh. And the snake . . . had once been a boy named Tam.”

  Finally, she did cry, and Peter stroked her hair. And for the first time since all the fury at Dunsinane, Sarah felt at peace.

  PARTINGS

  AYS AT THE MARKET passed in swift succession, filled with new duties and friends.

  “It’s almost like we’ve always been here at the Market,” Sarah mused aloud. “I can remember life at home, but it seems so very far away. I wonder if Mom and Dad are missing us, or if it’s like it’s always been, and time doesn’t pass.”

  Timothy cleared his throat, and the girls paused. His eyes were downcast, and he fidgeted in his seat. “Last night I spoke with the Greenman.”

  “He’s back?
” Sarah asked quickly. A few days after the crowning celebration, the Greenman had disappeared with Julian, though Cerridwyn and Gwydon remained.

  “He was just here for a short time. Remember when he said that a Filidh needs to keep the old stories alive? It’s time for us to go back.”

  “Go back!” Jessica looked up in alarm from a sketch she was making for new banners. “When?”

  “Soon,” Timothy said quietly. “Tonight.”

  “But you’re the Filidh. The Market needs you. We can’t leave all of a sudden!” Sarah’s voice sounded indignant.

  “The stories aren’t just for the people of the Market. Peter did a good job as Steward. He’ll do a good job again . . .” Timothy’s voice trailed off. “There’s a portway opening tonight. It will take us back to Edinburgh. It will be like we’ve just been gone for the day. Mr. McMorn will meet us and take us back to the apartment.”

  “It’s already afternoon. Why didn’t you tell us sooner? There are people I need to say good-bye to!” Jessica’s eyes flashed.

  Sarah remained quiet.

  “This is how the Greenman asked me to do it. Maybe he thought that if we worried too much about it . . .” Again Timothy’s voice trailed off, and he bit his lip. “We’ll be back. I am Master of the Market.”

  “If the Greenman says we’re supposed to go, then we have to.” Jessica’s voice was quieter now, assured. “Tell us what to do.”

  Sarah needed to tell Peter they were leaving. For a few minutes she allowed herself to imagine Peter going with them, riding the bus with her to high school, staying at her parents’ house. But that would be impossible. Peter was of another place. They had separate lives. He was needed at the Travelers’ Market, and he, well, he wouldn’t fit in at home. There were no other options.

  The clear winter sky slowly turned to navy. Tonight the moon would be only a rind among the stars. Sarah searched for Peter in all the familiar places but didn’t find him. The shadows grew longer and her thoughts heavier.

  In the end, Peter found her. She was standing outside Julian’s old caravan, ready to give up and return to Fiona’s bakery, when Peter came up to her, whistling.

  “Sarah! I’ve been looking for you!”

  “No, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He looked down at his hand and stuffed something quickly into his pocket. “Sit down and tell me about it.” He indicated the steps up to Julian’s door.

  She shook her head. It would be better to tell him her news and leave quickly.

  “No, I insist.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the steps.

  Reluctantly, Sarah sat next to him, realizing how much she would miss his company.

  “Well, what’s your news?”

  Even though she had rehearsed the words and her quick exit, it was difficult to summon them. Again she shook her head.

  “Let me guess, then. You’re leaving tonight.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. “How did you know that?” And, worst of all, he didn’t look at all concerned.

  “Ah, well, Timothy isn’t the only one who has conversations with the Greenman.” He reached into his pocket. “I’ve made you something.” He extended his hand and opened his palm. In it lay a small perfectly carved wooden caravan about two inches in length.

  “See? The door even opens.”

  Sarah inspected the realistic little carving. The tiny door swung open on a minute metal hinge. She held it up to her eye to look inside. “It’s beautiful, but it’s so dark, I can’t see inside.”

  Peter nodded. “We can’t see very far, Sarah, but the story isn’t over yet. There’s more to come. I’m sure of it. Just wait until you see what I have in mind.” And for the very first time, Peter kissed her.

  In the dark of the Market, when the lights in the caravans were out and that rind of moon rode the sky, Timothy led the girls to the same oak where Sarah and Jessica had watched the ferret-legging competition. We’ll miss seeing the first blossoms on the wild cherry trees, Timothy thought, and we’ll miss spring opening day, when the Market is said to be at its finest. He drew in a deep breath of the woodsy night air. Somewhere overhead a screech owl hooted and with a flapping arced through his line of sight. With longing almost as sharp as a knife, he knew it might be a long time until he returned.

  “There are so many more stars here,” Jessica whispered, as if she didn’t want to disturb the night. “I can’t imagine being back in school again as if nothing ever happened.” Then she stopped. “What about the cauldron and the sword and the spear?”

  Timothy shook his head. “They belong here in the Market. Peter will keep them safe. After all, what happens in one world can affect what happens in another. Mr. Twig told me that. They’ll be here if we need them.” He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt. “It’s time. Take my hands.”

  Sarah and Jessica each took one of Timothy’s hands, which had grown larger and rougher. A cloud sailed in front of the moon, and in that moment they were plunged into darkness. A sharp crack split the bark of the oak, as if it had been struck by lightning.

  “Follow me.” Timothy ducked his head and stepped through the layers of rippled bark into the heart of the tree, the girls close behind.

  The fog had faded from Dunsinane, leaving the hillocks, hummocks, and Pitmiddle Wood in the distance shining. The sun was low in the west. Arms crossed, Mr. McMorn leaned against the car, watching the children as they descended the hill. It was hard going for the girls in long skirts and sandals. The portway had not turned their clothes from the Travelers’ Market back into twenty-first-century jeans and tennis shoes. Timothy’s pale leather boots grew thick with mud as they carefully skirted the bull’s field, his pack still on his back.

  There wasn’t much to say. Too much had happened. Timothy felt that his brain was full to bursting. He had no idea how life would play out now. What did it mean to be a Filidh in this time and place? Who was he now? And what had happened to the coronation stone?

  McMorn was the first to break the silence as the little group straggled up to his car. “A fine sight you three look.” He shook his head. “It’s time we were on the road. We want to be back in time for the burning of the longship.”

  Jessica looked down at her dress. “We’ll have to do something about these clothes before we get back, won’t we? And how long have we been gone, anyway?”

  McMorn looked at his watch. “It’s four o’clock, and the festival on the castle mound begins at five.”

  Four o’clock. Timothy couldn’t reconcile the time. He knew that time out of time was different, but this was too much. They’d been at the Travelers’ Market for days and days. As they piled into the small car, McMorn started the heater. Timothy asked his burning question. “What happened to the Stone of Destiny? Is it still there in the fogou?”

  McMorn backed the car out slowly. “The Stone of Destiny has fulfilled its current purpose. There will be other Filidhean until the day when they are no longer needed, when the stories themselves come to life. Until then, the stone waits. If you looked for it now, you wouldn’t find it, but it is there when it’s needed.”

  He looked at Timothy, who again had the strange sensation of something moving across his skin.

  “What was that?” he asked, and then wondered if he should have. McMorn once again seemed aloof and incomprehensible.

  “The truth touch. It’s one way of knowing.” And McMorn shot him a piercing look. “It helps me know how sincere a person is. It’s an ability I’ve had since I was a child.”

  It was miles before the heater worked properly, and when it did, Timothy found his eyelids drooping. He yawned broadly. In the backseat, Jessica’s head bounced on Sarah’s shoulder.

  The car bumped its way onto a narrow street in Edinburgh. It was no more than an alley, and no vehicle wider than McMorn’s would fit between the stone buildings. Timothy started awake as they parked in front of the steps to Wynde Alley. “Why are we stopping here?” he ask
ed, stretching.

  McMorn didn’t answer. Instead, he raised a pistol and pointed it at Timothy’s head.

  BALOR

  LECTRA WAITED for the children to return from Dunsinane. She had watched as they climbed the hill, heard the stone cry out, and then watched as Herne and his hounds hunted Morgan through the fog. She watched McMorn drive the children to this narrow street. Now Electra knew it was almost time for her to leave; she could feel it. It would be time to return to her sisters, the Pleiades. But she was reluctant to leave the children. There was one more task before she was free to leave, one more event to witness in this long history of the coronation stone. Quietly, she climbed the stone steps to Wynde Alley.

  “Get out of the car, and bring your things.” McMorn kept the gun pointed at Timothy, but he spoke to all three of them.

  “What’re you doing?” Jessica asked, the first to recover her voice.

  McMorn made no answer. Timothy stepped out of the passenger door, his movements slow and clumsy, his eyes drawn like magnets to the gun pointed at his head.

  As the girls climbed from the back, McMorn indicated the alley. “We’re going to the map shop. Timothy will lead the way.”

  Wynde Alley was deserted. The entire town had gone to the celebration on the castle mound. Timothy’s thoughts raged. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? When McMorn hadn’t gone to the Travelers’ Market with them, when he had failed to turn at the sound of Greenman’s voice, he had known something was wrong. He’d never completely trusted McMorn, with his strange “truth touch.”

  Behind him, McMorn and the girls’ footsteps echoed in the alley. No one spoke. A thin band of light shone from under the door of Seaborg Cartographers.

  “Open the door.” McMorn prodded Timothy in the back with the gun.

  Newton Seaborg stood when they entered, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight.

  “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind, Brian.” His voice was high and eager.