PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McQuerry, Maureen, 1955–Beyond the door / Maureen Doyle McQuerry.pages cm. — (Time out of time; book 1) Summary: When mythical creatures appear, a mystery of unparalleled proportions begins to unfold for Timothy, his sister Sarah, and school bully Jessica, who must defeat the powers of the Darkness.
ISBN 978-1-4197-1016-2
[1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Mythology, Celtic—Fiction. 4. Space and time—Fiction. 5. Magic—Fiction. 6. Animals, Mythical—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M24715Be 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013025513
Text copyright © 2014 Maureen Doyle McQuerry
Book design by Sara Corbett and Kate Fitch
Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS.
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FOR BRENNAN AND CLAIRE, WHO LOVE STORIES
SEE THIS PAGE TO LEARN ABOUT THE SECRET CODE IN THIS BOOK.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1 STRANGE VISITORS
1 AT THE DOOR AND INTO THE HOUSE
2 EVIDENCE
3 SECRETS
4 UNDESIRABLES
5 WISHES
6 THE MAN IN THE LIBRARY
7 THE GIRL ON THE LAWN
8 DO YOU BELIEVE IN EVIL?
9 MYSTERIOUS LETTER
10 THE HORNBEAM
11 THE HORNED MAN
12 ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE
13 THE STAKEOUT
14 A STORM BUILDS
15 IN THE DARK
16 COME INTO THE STORM
17 GREENMAN
18 IN THE SHADOWS
19 SWORDPOINT
20 THE HUNT RIDES
21 REGRETS
22 SUMMONING THE WOLVES
23 TRAPS AND SNARES
24 TIMOTHY’S PLAN
25 A WILD SHOT
26 ALONE
27 GIFTS
28 WOLFPROOF
PART 2 THE FILIDH
29 WATCHMEN
30 NO ORDINARY RAT
31 THE RATCATCHER
32 RAT-BITE FEVER
33 NOM
34 HUNTERS’ GATE
35 THE MARKET
36 JULIAN
37 FERRET LEGGING AND A FRIEND
38 THE BATTLE OF THE TREES
39 FIONA’S DRAÍOCHT
40 THE ANIMAL TAMER
41 THE COMING OF THE CROWS
42 A TRADE
43 CHOICES
44 KEEPERS OF THE WORD
45 THE OLD WAYS
46 HOME AGAIN
47 THE MAN IN THE WOODS
48 PETER’S PLAN
49 BLUEBLACK’S
50 CAUGHT
51 THE PIPES
52 THE CROWN
A NOTE TO THE READER
THE CODE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
TOOPED AND SHUFFLING, the man slipped soundlessly through the shadows of night. His hair was long and shaggy, his clothes ill-fitting and unremarkable except for the many pockets of various sizes that covered his jacket and trousers. Wherever he walked, the streetlights dimmed. It seemed to make the man stand a little taller and his stride lengthen. He gazed hungrily into well-lit windows of houses, and his pale skin began to itch. It was only mid-March, but spring was coming. The daylight lasted longer; the air carried the first faint scents of new life. Soon, very soon, the change would come.
He stood hidden in shadow outside the windows of a small house on Willow Street. Silhouettes moved back and forth behind the curtains. The windows blazed, but this was not the house he was looking for. When his scalp began to tingle, he raked his fingers through his hair. A single leaf had sprouted from the back of his head. The change was beginning. A tabby cat rustled through the laurel bushes. Pausing to stare warily, it inched closer to the man, then rubbed against his ankles. As he bent to scratch its ears, he thought of the lengthening days ahead. Every year he waited for the days to grow longer, for the short days of winter to change to summer. This spring would be different. He could feel it. He could even hear it in the voices of the trees.
He hurried toward the outskirts of town, past the road to the forest’s edge, where the houses became more scattered, hidden behind hedges and large trees. He was in search of a particular house where two particular children lived. He had been waiting for this spring for many years. The boy should be almost twelve; his sister, two years older. Their house was half-hidden by a large clump of birch trees, white and shining in the moonlight. A wide porch wrapped around two sides. The green front door had been left ajar.
It was time to begin.
The rough bark of the sycamore dug into the girl’s back. She was not used to sitting in trees, and she had been in this tree for what most people would consider a very long time. Above her, the stars burned in the night sky and the distant moon looked as if it were tangled in the uppermost branches of the tree. Occasionally, she swung her legs or ran a comb through her long pale hair. Her job was to wait and watch, and as she waited, she sang. The song had no melody, but it spun out into the night like a silvery ribbon. As she watched, the front door opened tentatively: a slender slice of light, and a boy’s face appeared, and then disappeared. Surprisingly, the door stayed open. She continued to sing as minutes passed. Finally, there was movement in the darkness and her back relaxed against the tree. A man came shambling across the wide lawn, moving purposefully toward the open door.
The girl’s song carried itself on the wind through the night and spread out in the four directions of the compass. In the north, it disturbed the sleep of a pack of white hounds; they stirred restlessly, whimpered, and barked. Their master looked at the sky and wondered why they should travel so soon. Nevertheless, the hunt would ride when and where it was summoned. He saddled his well-muscled horse, black as the night sky. Then he hooked a polished hunting horn to his belt. The hounds would be glad of some exercise, and he wouldn’t mind some himself.
In the east, the song reached into the sleep of the one-eyed man and gave him horrible dreams. A striped orange cat, held in a small trap by his bedside, hissed, longing for freedom. Only hours before, it had been hunting for a morsel of food or water. In a cage next to the cat, a gray rat hunched miserably, rubbing its paws over its pointed face. The man snorted loudly and called out in his sleep, but because he lived alone, nobody came. In the next room, other animals growled or mewled piteously. Those without voices merely shifted, seeking comfort in cages that gleamed like jewels.
AT THE DOOR AND INTO THE HOUSE
STRAY GUST OF wind howled down the chimney, sending a spray of last fall’s leaves out of the hearth and scuttling across the living room floor. Timothy James Maxwell jumped up with a start from the book he had been trying to rea
d. It wasn’t a windy night. Leaves had never blown down the chimney before. He went to the fireplace and peered cautiously up the chimney, but all he could see was the blackness of the flue. A puff of air blew directly in his face, and he pulled out his head, smacking the back of it on the bricks. “Ouch!”
Fortunately, neither the leaves nor his cry awakened Mrs. Clapper, who had fallen asleep in the recliner at least half an hour ago. She slept soundly, with her legs, thick as tree trunks, sprawled in front of her, head thrown back, mouth gaping like a trap. Her nose whistled with each deep breath, and her full lower lip quivered. She wasn’t really too bad, as babysitters went, Timothy thought, but the fact that she was a babysitter was a problem. At eleven and three-quarters, he was quite sure he no longer needed a babysitter. Unfortunately, his parents didn’t agree. And even though they tried to pass her off as a companion, he wasn’t fooled. So when they had taken his older sister, Sarah, to a ballet audition in the city, Timothy was left, alone, with the Clapper.
“We’ll be home Sunday night as soon as we can—promise,” his mother had explained. Timothy looked down at the carpet and drew his eyebrows together.
“Buck up, son. Clapper’s a good sort, and she’ll probably play Scrabble with you to your heart’s content.” Timothy considered this to be nothing more than bribery because his father knew how much he loved Scrabble: the smooth wooden tiles, the random surprise of letters, and, of course, the fact that he usually won.
“I don’t think I need a babysitter anymore, now that I’m almost twelve,” Timothy replied with dignity. “I can take care of myself just fine. What could happen? Nothing ever happens here. If you really don’t want me left alone, then one of you should stay. It doesn’t take two people to see an audition.” He knew he was being unreasonable, but he couldn’t stop the words.
“We know that you’re very capable,” his mother had replied, bending close so that he caught the minty fragrance of her soft brown hair and a faint whiff of turpentine. “We just want you to have some company, and Mrs. Clapper has already agreed. Do be kind to her, Timothy.”
At that point, Timothy had known the battle was lost. He thought of the word conquer. A handy word to use in Scrabble, but a miserable word when it was directed at him.
Over the years, Mrs. Clapper had stayed a number of times, but always when he and Sarah were home together. He didn’t like the idea of having Mrs. Clapper to himself. He’d always counted on Sarah to divert most of the babysitter’s attention. And he was still haunted by some of the strange stories she had told them, stories about people who shape-shifted into animals, about changeling children or creatures that came in from the dark if you left a door or window open.
The evening hadn’t passed as slowly as he had feared. They had played Scrabble, and he’d won every game but one, and she’d let him play WarGames on the computer for an hour. But even this couldn’t make up for tolerating a babysitter. Then Mrs. Clapper had made a batch of ginger cookies and begun one of her stories. It was about a stone that had been missing for many years, a stone that cried out loud when the right person put a foot on it.
“How can a stone cry out?” Timothy popped a warm cookie into his mouth.
“This one has a voice, but it’s not a human voice. A cry rings out when a just leader places a foot on it. Of course, there are those who’d rather the stone was silent.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re not interested in justice.”
“Are you sure there isn’t a sword in this stone?” Timothy asked, thinking of the story of King Arthur.
“No, there is no sword in this stone. But there is a missing sword in the story, and a missing spear and cauldron as well.” She handed Timothy a dish towel and the wet mixing bowl. “Like Arthur’s stone, one specific person is intended to find it.”
Timothy considered. “A good story should have battles.”
“Oh, there are battles, fearsome battles, and if the Dark wins them, the Dark grows stronger.”
“The Dark?”
“Of course, the Dark. The Dark wants the stone and is willing to do all kinds of terrible things to prevent anyone else finding it. That must never happen. Just as the Light longs for everything to be free, the Dark longs to control everything.”
The story was definitely getting interesting, Timothy thought. A chill passed up his arms. “What kinds of things?” He set the bowl aside and bit into another of Mrs. Clapper’s ginger cookies. Crumbs cascaded to the floor.
“Things that are better left unspoken. They’d give you worse nightmares than the wolves you’re afraid of.”
Timothy cringed. He never should have told Mrs. Clapper about the wolves in his nightmares.
“Before I say anything more, close the drapes. You never know who might be watching us. And lock the door. You never know what might wander in.” She barked out a laugh, and went into the living room. Settling into the leather recliner with a sigh, she pulled the plaid tartan throw over her legs and closed her eyes.
“This throw is from your mother’s family, isn’t it? The O’Dalys.”
“Yes, I guess so, but who would be looking in here? There’s nothing very interesting in our house.”
“Sometimes ordinary things turn out to be more interesting than you think.”
Timothy drew the drapes. “So where is this stone?”
Mrs. Clapper opened one blue eye and peered up at Timothy. “Only the Stewards of the Stone know that, and maybe not all of them. But the stone is meant to be found. By the right person, of course … If he survives.”
Her words hung in the air. Timothy breathed them in. “It’s a quest, isn’t it?”
But Mrs. Clapper’s breathing had become deep and regular. She had fallen asleep. Timothy had picked up his book on magic tricks and tried to read, but the story of the stone distracted him. A talking stone would definitely be spectacular.
That was when the leaves had blown down the chimney.
Now rubbing the knot forming on his head, he took one more careful look up the chimney. Nothing. Too bad real adventures were so hard to come by. He looked at the snoring Mrs. Clapper. Once she was in bed for the night, he could spend more time on the computer. He could stay up all night if he wanted to.
He grasped Mrs. Clapper’s sweatshirt-clad shoulder and shook: no response. This time he grabbed her shoulder more firmly and spoke directly into her ear. “Mrs. Clapper, I’m going to bed now.”
She snorted loudly. “Oh, my goodness, it’s past eleven. At least you don’t have school tomorrow.” She pushed up her reading glasses to the top of her head. “Time for you to get ready for bed, and I think I’ll be heading that way myself.” Easing herself up out of the overstuffed chair, she cocked her head to the side, and her clear blue eyes peered sharply at Timothy. “Is there anything you need?”
For a moment Timothy felt as if she knew he was planning to stay up most of the night. “No.” He feigned a yawn. “I’m just really sleepy.”
“Well, good dreams, then, Timothy, good dreams.” And she wandered down the hall to the guest bedroom. “And turn off the lights on your way to bed.”
Timothy set off in the direction of his bedroom. He stopped in the bathroom and made sure to let the water in the sink run at least three minutes to simulate brushing his teeth. Then he flushed the toilet and checked the hallway. No Mrs. Clapper in sight, and the door to the guest bedroom was firmly closed. Now for the computer.
As he passed the front door, Timothy couldn’t resist opening it and peering out into the dark. The night was warm for mid-March, and the wind that had blown the leaves down the chimney seemed to have completely disappeared. And, of course, there was nothing waiting to come in as Mrs. Clapper had suggested. If only life were more like the stories she told. He could hear the night noises, the shuffle of trees getting comfortable, the soft trill of a screech owl, and could smell the mustiness of the river a few blocks off. Maybe he should try an experiment. What if he kept the door open a few inches
and waited to see if anything came in? He had all night to get to the computer.
Timothy left the door open just a crack, grabbed his book, and climbed halfway up the stairs to wait.
Scientists had to be open to all possibilities. This was a data point. He didn’t believe any of Mrs. Clapper’s stories, but it was best to be objective. He opened his book and began the chapter about sleight-of-hand tricks. Every few minutes he looked up. Nothing happened. Timothy finished the chapter and stood up, feeling foolish. What had he expected? He’d never tell anyone about this little experiment. Time for the computer.
Two steps down the stairs, and the door moved. A strange thumping began in Timothy’s chest, as if his heart was trying to escape the cage of his ribs. Slowly, the door swung inward. Timothy drew back into the shadows of the stairs and held his breath. He thought of Mrs. Clapper’s words, Things that are better left unspoken. A long face followed by a long, spare frame sidled into the living room. Beneath his shaggy black hair, the man’s face was as pale as moonlight, his eyes the startling green of new leaves. Timothy froze. Should he call out and try to scare him off? He checked his pocket for his cell phone. Empty.
He leaned forward and let his breath out slowly, quietly, so he wouldn’t be heard. He’d watch for a few minutes and see what the man was after before calling Mrs. Clapper.
The man grabbed at the air. The light in the hallway dimmed. As Timothy watched, the man stuffed his hand into a large pocket of his coat. The pocket glowed.
It was impossible! No one could grab light as if it were a solid object; all the laws of physics were against that happening. But that is exactly what the man did. When one pocket was full, he filled another, and the light in the room grew dimmer. Timothy could see light spilling out over each pocket’s edge like a moon just brimming above the horizon. If the man moved too quickly, the light would spill on the floor.
Timothy crouched down and concentrated on keeping his breath quiet. Now that his initial terror was gone, he felt … He wasn’t sure how he felt. Intrigued, he thought to himself … No, mesmerized. Scrabble tiles popped into his mind. Mesmerized, twenty-four points, a good choice because of the z.
Beyond the Door Page 1
