The Lost Celt

by Conran, A. E. ;

  “Another damned soda can!” he says and swears a whole bunch more.

  I don’t understand why he’s so worried about a soda can. They didn’t even have them in his time. But something has changed because the Celt is alert now in a way he wasn’t before. His eyes seem so round that he’s like an owl, twisting his head slowly, looking at everything on the street. A chip bag rustles in the gutter, and the Celt is right there watching it. The streetlight flickers and he turns toward it. Then he moves one hand toward his body, one farther away, as if he’s holding a spear out in front of him. He points it at the chip bag, back at the road, and then at my trash can hideout, and all of a sudden he’s watching me, not the other way around.

  The Celt sinks into a half crouch, his hands curved as if he’s training his spear on my hiding place.

  “Hey, son,” he says. “Are you watching me? I’ve told you before. Stay away.” He speaks again in that strange language he uses then switches back to English. “Stay away, or you’ll get hurt. You hear?”

  My heart hammers against my ribs. I get a flash in my head of a news report: a boy missing, a mom crying. I glance around to see where I can run, but there’s nowhere. Is he going to hurt me? Is that what he means? I grip the trash can. And then a car zooms past and the Celt throws himself to the ground, cradling his head in his arms and swearing.

  It’s only a car, normal engine whine, normal squelch of tires on the road, faint thud of bass from the radio. It’s only a car, yet the Celt is terrified. Guess he would be. They didn’t have cars two thousand years ago. He’s quivering with fear. At least that’s what it looks like to me. I should help him, but his words echo in my head: “Stay away or you’ll get hurt.” Maybe he doesn’t want me to get hit by a car? Or maybe it’s more complicated than that. Maybe he doesn’t want me to get stuck in his dimension, the way he’s stuck in ours, or between his and ours, where you can be captured in the belly of a dragon and never get out.

  I race back home faster than I’ve ever run in my life. He shouts, “I told you. Stay away!” I glance over my shoulder as I hurl myself into our house and slam the door. He’s back at the corner of the street, not even looking in my direction.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I collapse into a heap on the floor. My brain is firing like I’ve eaten five bowls of the crunchiest cereal ever. What was he doing? The only idea that comes to me is “stuck.” He said he didn’t want to get stuck here, but he is definitely stuck somewhere, between worlds. By the way he was yelling, he didn’t want me to get stuck there either.

  As I’m still gasping for breath, I hear more shouting. This time it’s Grandpa. It’s impossible to make out the words. He cries out like he’s in pain. It sounds like he’s dying, like he’s being murdered in his bed. I start up the stairs, and it’s only when I get to the top that I hear his old familiar voice. “Mikey? That you?” It’s croaky and slurred, but it’s Grandpa.

  “Yes! It’s me!” I’m so relieved I could laugh, but then I realize this whole messed-up night isn’t over yet. How do I explain why I’m dressed when I’m supposed to be in bed? You see, the rule is, if Grandpa calls out in the night, I have to look into his bedroom so he knows I’m OK. He can’t check on me because of his leg, so this is the drill we’ve worked out.

  “Roll call,” Grandpa cries. I grab my robe from my bedroom door and throw it on over my clothes. Just as I push Grandpa’s door open, I glance at my feet. I’m still in my shoes, and my pants show beneath the robe. I do a last-minute shuffle to keep my feet out of sight while I lean my head around the door, sort of like I’m wearing astronaut boots. A pizza slice of light creeps across Grandpa’s room.

  “Are you OK, Grandpa?” I say.

  Grandpa rubs his head blearily and squints into the light. “Yeah, Mikey. Thanks. I was dreaming, and I heard something bang. Turned into a huge explosion in my dream. The one back at…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Just glad I woke up. I hate that dream.”

  “I’m sorry Grandpa. I must have slammed the door.” I catch myself. “The kitchen door. I went for a drink of water.”

  “Just so long as you’re all right.” Grandpa shivers, reminding me of a dog shaking water from its coat. “You have to shake off the memories, Mikey,” he says. “Crazy old man,” he mutters. “Since when did I become a crazy old man?” He thumps his pillow and puts his head down again.

  I wonder whether all soldiers think they’re crazy at some point. Grandpa seems to think he is, but I don’t. I mean, everyone loves Grandpa. And the Celt? Will he seem crazy when he’s back in his own time? When he talks about dragons on wheels that race three times faster than the fastest chariot? I guess he will. Even his family will never understand. They’ll never see what he’s seen.

  “Good night, Grandpa,” I say. He turns over and grunts. As I close the door, I glimpse his prosthetic leg leaning next to the bed where he can grab it in the morning. Grandpa has the right to bad dreams.

  I lie in bed trying to get to sleep. I should be tired. My legs ache from running, and they’re all jumpy. I can’t find a comfortable position, not on my side, not on my back, and my mind won’t be quiet either. It churns over and over, asking questions, then watching the Celt in a little private playback of tonight, then asking more questions, then returning to the Celt.

  I keep seeing him pull those men from the belly of the dragon, and it doesn’t make sense. How can the Celt be both here and there at the same time? He was seeing that dragon he was talking about, for sure, but then he saw the car as well. How can he see both?

  I turn over again and thump my pillow just like Grandpa thumped his. Maybe it’ll work for me the way it worked for him. He fell back to sleep as I was closing the door, the landing light glinting on his prosthetic leg.

  It’s the stupidest thing. After everything that’s happened tonight, the secret plastic gun stash should be the last thing on my mind, but something about Grandpa’s leg makes me think of a hiding place that I’ve never thought of before: Mom’s shoe boxes. She has a whole bunch stacked up at the bottom of her closet. She buys shoes when she’s low, she says, to cheer herself up. She’s gotten a whole stack more since Dad left. She says she buys pretty shoes because at work she has to wear “sensible shoes.”

  “Look at me, Jeff,” she always says when Dad’s at home. “Legs of a chick; shoes of an old mother hen.” Whatever that means, it always makes them laugh. Then Mom kisses him and goes to work happy. At least that’s how it is when Dad’s at home. When he’s away, she just seems mad when she leaves for work. And the sensible shoes pinch her toes.

  I lie in bed a few minutes longer. The plastic gun stash? Now? Really? But I’m not sleeping anyway. I tell myself not to be stupid. I just need to close my eyes. I think about the Celt some more. How incredible he is. How lucky I am to have seen him. How bummed Kyler will be that he missed him. I’m still not asleep. I decide I may as well look for the guns.

  I hear Grandpa snoring the moment I open my door, so I know I’m safe. I tiptoe into Mom’s room, slide the closet open as slowly as I can, so as not to make noise, and switch on the small round light inside. It’s not that bright, but light enough.

  There’s a whole stack of boxes. I take a good look before I touch any of them. I need to put them back in exactly the same place, or Mom will notice. I decide to pull out each box in turn, look inside, and then line them up on Mom’s bed in exactly the order I found them. Then I’ll replace the boxes like a set of kid’s building blocks. Easy.

  I’m stupidly disappointed when the guns aren’t in the first box, or the second. I shouldn’t be. If Mom’s been smart enough to hide them from me all this time, she won’t have left them in the very first shoe box I pick up.

  I keep going, unwrapping the tissue paper surrounding the shoes, checking the toes, putting each box on the bed. I say the shoe colors aloud to keep myself awake: black, silver, blue, light blue, purple, yellow, orange (whoa, way too bright!). Some of these are so cheerful we’d have to put on sun
glasses if she ever wore them. I work my way down to the very last box. Nothing! I might as well be swallowing dirt, I’m so disappointed. I look at all the boxes on the bed. It’s tragic. All this work for nothing.

  I strain to see right to the back of the closet where the sad little light hardly reaches. I stick my hand in, sweep around a bit, and my fingers hit something. I get an electric buzz of excitement.

  Right at the back, once hidden by the whole shoe-box wall, is a smaller, much older box. It’s dark green. The corners have given way, and the lid rests loosely on top. I guess it’s been opened and closed too many times in the past. My heart speeds as I open the lid.

  There’s no stash of plastic guns, but what I do see is a different sort of secret. I glance nervously through the crack in the bedroom door, as if Mom will know immediately that I’m looking and come home to catch me.

  I shouldn’t look. But I do.

  In the box there’s a small pair of girl’s shoes. They are a bright, happy, shiny red. The same red as the uniforms of the British foot soldiers during the American Revolution. They are the only red shoes she has in her entire collection. They’re resting on a piece of dull green cloth. Slotted down the side of the box, there’s an envelope.

  A voice in my head tells me this is not my business, but, at the same time, I feel excited and curious. I slip the envelope out of the box.

  It’s addressed to Mom, but Mom before she married Dad. Miss Christina Andersen, it says. The address is: Christina’s Bedroom, Upstairs, Home. On the left, in smaller writing, it says: From Pa. The address is Grandpa’s house, where Mom grew up. In the top right there’s a drawing of a stamp, not a real one. Grandpa must have pretended to mail this letter to Mom when she was small.

  I pull the letter from the envelope and find two photos folded inside. They’re of Mom and Grandpa standing together in Grandpa’s garden. In the first, Grandpa’s wearing his uniform. In the second, he isn’t. He’s leaning on crutches instead, and Mom looks much older. I put them down to look at later because I want to see what Grandpa said to Mom all those years ago.

  The writing is big and very clear, like he wants to make sure she can read it.

  Darling Christina,

  I hope you love these special shoes. Aren’t they just the shiniest, prettiest pair you ever did see? I bought them for a very special girl. That’s you!

  I thought we could play a game while I’m away. Try these on. I think you’ll find they are too big right now, but, here’s the fun! Let’s see if by the time I come back home they don’t fit just fine.

  You can wear them for me when I come back, and I’ll give you the biggest hug a girl ever had from her Daddy.

  I love you, Honey Bee, and I always will!

  Kisses,

  Your Pa

  “Honey Bee?” Grandpa called Mom “Honey Bee.” Wow, she’s kept that quiet, and I don’t blame her! This letter is just like Grandpa. He’s always been fun.

  I go back to the photos and look at them again, more carefully this time. In the first, Mom and Grandpa are hooked together in a big hug. He’s smiling down at her, and she’s looking up at him like he is the best thing in the whole wide world. In one hand she holds the red shoes. They hang down in front of her, pegged together by her fingers. This must be the picture Grandma took when Grandpa had to leave for Vietnam.

  In the second picture, Mom and Grandpa stand in the exact same spot. Mom holds the shoes in the same way, but she’s not hugging Grandpa. His crutch is in the way for one thing. She’s not even smiling. You’d think she’d be happy because her dad has come home at last, but, if anything, she looks uncertain, even shy.

  It reminds me of the pictures Mom takes of me when I have to stand next to some old friend of hers: a lady who knew me when I was two, but who I don’t remember at all. That’s how Mom looks with her dad. At the bottom of the photo there’s one sentence in Mom’s handwriting. It says: I grew up too fast.

  I take the shoes out of the box. They’re brand new, never been worn. As I lift them, I realize what the green cloth is. It’s a hat. A really worn-out, floppy, wide-brimmed hat like the ones you wear for hiking. Grandpa must have worn it in the jungle. Maybe he was wearing it when he was wounded. It doesn’t look like much, but this was Grandpa’s. I put it on and stare in the mirror hoping I look a bit like him. I think maybe I do.

  Finally, I put the hat, the picture, and all the shoe boxes away exactly as I found them and creep back into my room. No one will know.

  When I finally fall asleep, I have a weird dream. I’m crossing a road wearing Grandpa’s hat. The sun burns down on my head so hot that a bead of sweat trickles down my spine. I want to run, but the surface of the road has melted into a black mess. When I pick up my feet, strings of gloop, stretchy as hot pizza cheese, glue me to the ground. Then there’s a massive explosion. I cover my head as the whole road rocks beneath me, and a blast of heat washes over me. I can’t escape, but it’s getting hotter and hotter. I look to see where the heat’s coming from, and a dragon charges at me with its skin on fire. It’s bright red and glowing as hot as the ceramics furnace at school. In a flash I know that Grandpa is caught inside its belly, writhing and screaming for help, and the Celt is trapped inside too, and even Mom. I draw my sword and hack away at the beast, but its armor is so hard my sword clangs against its side and bounces off. The heat brightens the tip of my sword like a marshmallow fork and travels up the metal. I yell with pain and let the sword clatter to the ground. The last thing I remember thinking, before I wake up, is how magnificent the sword is, and how much my hand hurts where I held it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In class the next day, I can hardly keep my eyes open. Every time I think math, my eyelids droop like sagging window blinds.

  “My, my! Was it a full moon last night?” Miss O’Brien says. “Because we seem to have two very weary chislers in class this morning.” “Chislers” means “kids” in Dublin, where Miss O’Brien was born. She came here when she was little so she sounds American, but she says quirky words every now and then.

  I look up sleepily and catch a glimpse of Ryan O’Driscoll’s head jerking upward from his desk. By the way he glances around the room, I can tell he’s forgotten where he is for a second. I recognize the feeling and grin. He scowls and turns away. Looks like he didn’t get any sleep either, but I bet he wasn’t chasing a Celtic warrior like I was. Knowing Ryan, he was playing computer games all night. His mom lets him stay up as late as he wants, even on school nights. Well, that’s what he tells us. Any other day I’d be mega jealous, but not today.

  Kyler winks at me. He’s so desperate to get the full story about last night that he can barely concentrate. Miss O’Brien notices him squirming in his seat and blames the moon again. Kyler’s dad dropped him at school this morning, so we couldn’t talk. I texted as much as I could but, just like my book reports, half of what I wrote didn’t make much sense.

  “The bushes, recess,” I mouth as if he doesn’t already know that’s the first place we’ll go when the bell rings. As I return to the snaky long division problem winding down my page, I see Ryan out of the corner of my eye. He’s glaring at me as if he wants to burn a hole in my chest. What’s gotten into him? I know we’re not best friends or anything, but he’s looking at me like I just threw his cat across the room.

  When the bell rings, Kyler and I are by the door before Miss O’Brien finishes saying, “Right, class. It’s recess.”

  “Looks like you’ve woken up now, Mikey,” she says as she lets us out onto the blacktop. I don’t have time to reply. We have to snag our place in the bushes before anyone else does.

  There’s a whole row of bushes along the gym wall. I guess they were planted there to make the playground look better, which is a grown-up thing and really boring. But it turns out they’re the best play spots in the entire yard. The really cool thing about these bushes is that the branches grow up from the trunk and curve over like a fountain. This makes a space in the middle, which
works great as a den. The kids that play spies use them as hideouts. The secret “candy munchers” use them as clubhouses. Kids like me and Kyler use them as forts. The only thing is, you have to get there right at the start of recess to claim one. If the girls who play kittens get there first, well, you’re lost even when they leave one of the bushes free. I tell you, five minutes of girls doing kitten mewing, and you’re ready to tear your ears off.

  Anyhow, one of those Celtic gods must be looking out for us today because the “kitten girls” head for the jungle gym and the “spy kids” and candy munchers are playing foursquare. We have the bushes to ourselves.

  “Last night sounds epic,” Kyler groans, as we crouch in our den. “I can’t believe I missed it. Was he looking for a portal do you think? Did he do any weird ritual stuff? Why do I miss all the action? I’m so bummed.”

  “Me too. I needed you there, dude. I needed your brains!” Which is so true, but I decide to back up and restart by saying how cool Kyler was, the way he convinced his dad he’d been locked out of the house and all. “Awesome!” I say. Kyler blows it off, but he’s pleased. I hope it makes him feel better about missing what I have to tell him next.

  By the end of my story, Kyler’s mouth is hanging wide as a garage door. “He was talking about dragons and women warriors and swords? For true life?”

  “True life! And he was terrified by a car driving down the road at, like, forty miles an hour. It wasn’t even speeding.”

  “He’s still not used to them, I bet.”

  “Totally, but how is this whole thing working? How can he be here and somewhere else at the same time? He was seeing a world I wasn’t seeing, but he was right in front of me. He wasn’t in the Otherworld, he wasn’t in a parallel universe, at least his body wasn’t—”