Beyond the Door

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “I don’t know if we should take pictures. Maybe they wouldn’t like it. Besides, it will skew the experiment. I didn’t have a camera last time. I thought that maybe we should just try talking to them.” Timothy felt the somersaults begin again and sat down in the middle of the floor. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset the horned man.”

  Sarah pulled her head out of the cupboard long enough to fix him in her gaze. “We need evidence. You should know that with your obsession for the scientific method. Besides, talking to them would change the experiment, too. Here it is, the digital one!”

  “Okay,” Timothy agreed reluctantly. “We need to be on the stairs.”

  Sarah aimed the camera at him and snapped a trial shot. “Battery is still good. Now we wait.”

  Timothy surveyed his ordinary living room in his ordinary house, and he wondered once again why anyone would want to come and explore here. A polished wood entryway with a coat rack opened onto the living room with a blue-gray rug, striped couch, the leather recliner and tall white bookcases flanking a fireplace. In the corner was an old upright piano that his mother played sometimes when she was thinking up a new idea for her art. It was just like any of a hundred other living rooms in a hundred other houses. Why choose theirs?

  As soon as it was dark, Timothy opened the front door. Overhead, a thin slice of moon floated like a pale melon wedge. More than anything, he wanted Sarah to see what he had seen. He’d confront the silver girl and the pale man.

  He sat next to Sarah on the stair landing and pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket. The horned man Herne, or Cernunnos, had more names than Timothy could remember. But in every account he was wild and unpredictable. Timothy focused on feeling wolfproof.

  Sarah breathed over his shoulder. “Who do you think will come first?” The camera was stuffed into the pocket of her carpenter’s pants, and she sat curling and uncurling her pink-polished toes.

  They waited for fifteen minutes.

  Timothy checked his watch. Half an hour had crept by. Nothing.

  He willed the door to open wider. He could feel Sarah’s patience stretched tightly like a wire about to snap. Even snarling hounds would be better than silence. “Let’s wait just a little longer.”

  “Okay, you got me. I fell for it this time. Why do I always believe you?” She unfolded her legs to stand.

  “Wait!” Timothy grabbed her arm. “Not all experiments are reproducible. There are anomalies. Just because you don’t see anything now—it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen before.” He could hear the note of desperation in his own voice and cringed.

  “I can’t believe that I wasted my time this week looking up answers for your stupid mythology questions.” She stood.

  Timothy jumped up and blocked her from going down the stairs. “Have I ever lied to you before about anything important?”

  Sarah gave him a long, slow look. “No. But there’s always a first time. Look—maybe you really think something happened. Maybe you dreamed it. But things like you described don’t happen in real life. They happen in movies or in books. Sometimes I wish life was more exciting, too.”

  “I didn’t make this up!” His words exploded. “Quit being so, so … condescending!” He hated the way she talked down to him. Even worse, he hated that Sarah, who always believed him, was questioning his credibility.

  “That does it. I tried to be nice to you. I’m going to watch TV. Don’t bother me unless there’s a horned man in the living room.” She pushed Timothy aside and stomped down the stairs, flipping on the light at the bottom.

  Timothy stopped short of punching his fist in the wall. Sarah was the one person he could say anything to. She should know he’d never deliberately mislead her. He ran down the stairs and slammed the front door closed.

  What if she was right? What if he had invented the whole episode? Timothy leaned against the door. Was it possible to imagine hearing an entire conversation? He puzzled over the pale man’s last words, “The light will call him to me.” Had the man been talking about him? He didn’t feel drawn anywhere.

  After two hours on the computer, he was still angry. He rattled around the house and ignored Sarah in the den. Outside, an owl trilled. One of the living room windows was open. Timothy tugged on the raised sash. The window was stuck. Beyond, the yard was a dark expanse.

  And in that darkness, someone was humming.

  Timothy stuck his head out the open window. A flicker of movement at the edge of the lawn caught his eye. A girl’s silhouette.

  His breath came faster. She was watching the house. A faint glow surrounded her. It was her, he was sure of it—the silver girl from the other night. He ran to the den.

  “The girl’s on the lawn! The one who was in our house.”

  Sarah looked up from the television. Her face was icy. “Timothy, stop it.”

  “Now. You have to come now! Please!”

  She looked away.

  Timothy grabbed her by the arm.

  “Ouch! I said—” Sarah paused.

  Timothy’s breath came in great gulps.

  Her face softened. “Okay. Show me.”

  Timothy prayed the girl was still there as he dragged Sarah out to the porch.

  Sarah peered into the dark. “Timothy! You’re right! There’s a girl staring at our house. And she glows!” she whispered.

  “Told you!”

  Headlights swung into the drive.

  “It’s Mom and Dad.” Timothy’s voice trembled. “They can’t come home now!”

  The car doors slammed. The headlights died.

  “Timothy, Sarah, what are you doing outside? Is everything all right?” their father called.

  Timothy stared across the black, empty lawn.

  “Fine. Everything’s just fine,” Sarah said, and shot Timothy one of those looks, the kind that meant “Play along.”

  Star Girl ran her fingers through her hair and wondered how humans could stand to live in such a crowded place. She looked longingly back up at the sky and thought of cold, black nights, the vast emptiness of space, and her sisters singing in the moonrise. Humans called Electra and her sisters the Pleiads. People made up stories about them, but the stories never captured the whole truth. Electra’s job was to bear witness to the events that would soon unfold. She had been on earth for one cycle of the moon, watching and waiting. She had witnessed the Greenman and Herne’s visit to the boy’s house. She’d heard their conversation, and returned to watch the house night after night, but there had been nothing more to observe.

  Now there were only several weeks until May 1 of human time: Beltane, the spring fire festival. Human time was linear and very confusing, not at all like time as she knew it, which was more like water pouring off a tabletop, flowing in all directions at once.

  With each hour, the Greenman’s movements had become stiffer. It was difficult to hold objects; he could no longer button his coat. His skin was changing, growing rough and peeling like sycamore bark. It was time to return to the forest, to his favorite clearing under the hornbeam tree. The dogwoods would be in bloom now, blossoms large and as white as his hand.

  This was always the most difficult part, knowing what was to come. How he longed for the rustle of leaves, the birds sorting through his hair, the feel of the earth itself rising in his veins. Best to be gone from the town before anyone could notice how wooden his voice had become. It was as strained as the voice of a creaky old man. Best to be gone before his joints sealed.

  By using the key provided here, you can decipher the Ogham script that appears in this chapter. Zoom in or increase font size to see code more clearly.

  DO YOU BELIEVE IN EVIL?

  IMOTHY AND SARAH rode the bus across town to an unfamiliar neighborhood. Every Sunday afternoon, their mother painted and their father golfed. When their mother had asked where they were going, Sarah patiently explained that Timothy was interviewing a professor of mythology for a project and that she was going along to keep an eye on things
.

  It wasn’t really a lie, Timothy reasoned. They were going to meet a professor of mythology. Still, their mother had insisted on talking to the professor on the phone and writing down his address. Mothers were not conducive to the detection process.

  Sarah barely spoke during the ride across town. She stared out the window and absently drummed her fingers on her knee. Timothy’s mind wandered back to the library and his only real conversation with Jessica. He liked her better when she was alone. Of course, tolerated was a better word than liked; it was worth ten points if you could play off an e and d. Enjoyed would be even better, but that was stretching his intent. He couldn’t quite say that he enjoyed Jessica. She had even looked different last Saturday—no jewelry and her curly hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail. Jessica was smart, he knew, and somehow in the library, away from school and surrounded by books, she seemed less dangerous.

  Mr. Twig’s street was lined with old ash and maple trees. The houses were set far back on their lots, often hidden behind hedges and overgrown shrubs.

  “He’s at number twenty-eight,” Sarah said for the fourth time as she twisted the golden chain at her throat round and round in her fingers. Timothy had come prepared. His notebook was tucked under his arm and he had two mechanical pencils, each filled with fresh lead, peeking from the pocket of his shirt.

  Number twenty-eight was a gray-shingled house with narrow bay windows and a bright green door. A hedge of laurel separated the house from the street, and an iron gate opened onto the brick path.

  “Now it’s time to walk the plank,” Sarah cackled as she swung open the gate.

  Mr. Twig took a long time to answer the door. Timothy thought about how easy it would be to turn around and flee. But before he could act on his thoughts, the door swung inward and there stood Mr. Twig, dressed from head to toe in shades of brown. Timothy caught Sarah’s eye as if to say, “See, what did I tell you?”

  But Sarah had already extended her hand. “Sarah Marie Maxwell,” she said very distinctly.

  Mr. Twig’s nose twitched as he offered a hand freckled with age spots. “Robert Twig, at your service. Won’t you and Timothy please come in? I was delighted you called.”

  He led them into a small, dim living room. A large, dark piano sat in one corner, brooding over the rest of the formal antiques. The chairs were the type that never looked comfortable to sit in and always made you think about your posture. Two things immediately caught Timothy’s eye. The first was the rug. It was woven into a dense mat of flowers, with colors so deep and rich that he felt he could reach his hand in and pull up a bouquet. The second was a tapestry that covered much of one wall. In it, a young woman stood with her hand on a unicorn’s mane.

  A tray with glasses of lemonade and small plates of cookies rested on the coffee table, but Timothy felt like his mouth was stuck shut. Sarah’s obviously was not. She balanced her plate of cookies on her lap, held her lemonade, and talked—all at the same time.

  “We are hoping that you might be able to give us some information about mythology,” she said.

  “What type of mythology?”

  “British, I think. Herne, the hunter, and Beltane and—”

  Mr. Twig leaned back in his chair. “That is most definitely British, but there have been hunter stories in a number of cultures.” He rubbed his hands together and nodded his head. “But let’s start with Beltane.”

  Timothy could almost see the older man start to glow as he began to lecture. It was like being in school, but more interesting, Timothy thought as he pulled out a mechanical pencil and opened his notebook.

  “The ancients in Ireland and Britain celebrated the four fire festivals—Beltane, Samhain, Imbolc, and Lughnasadh. Beltane, May first, was one of the most important of these festivals, a welcoming of spring and life. It’s coming up in a few weeks. It was a time for reveling.” And then he looked somber. “Despite the death. There is always a death.”

  Timothy looked at Sarah. He didn’t like the way Mr. Twig had tacked death onto his explanation, but before he could ask anything about it, Mr. Twig was talking again. “You’ve heard of Dionysus, haven’t you?”

  Timothy nodded. “Yes, but about the death—”

  “That’s a story for another time.”

  Timothy could tell by the finality in Mr. Twig’s tone that for some reason the subject was closed.

  “What do you know about Dionysus, eh?”

  Timothy could answer this question easily. “He’s the Greek god of wine and revelry.”

  “Right. His presence could drive a whole community mad. People would take to wandering off into the forest for days. But most people haven’t heard of another god associated with him: Cernunnos.” Here Professor Twig stopped, sipped some lemonade, and stared at Timothy from under his curling eyebrows. “He’s lord of the forest in Britain. People used to leave carved heads in doorways on Beltane in his honor. The heads were decorated with flowers and antlers. That’s where we get our tradition of leaving flowers for May Day.”

  After hearing “antlers,” Timothy couldn’t focus on anything else Mr. Twig was saying. A question leapt from his mouth. “Antlers? Why antlers?”

  “Because Cernunnos is one of the Celtic stag men! He has antlers growing from his head like a stag. Sometimes he gets confused with Herne, the leader of the wild hunt. I suspect you may have heard of Herne.”

  Now he had Timothy’s full attention. Sarah, too, leaned forward in expectation, almost spilling the second serving of cookies from her lap. “What’s the wild hunt?”

  “The wild hunt usually happens in the fall on Samhain—Halloween, as you know it—and in the spring on Beltane. But Herne’s been known to ride at other times, before a great catastrophe or significant event. He rides across the sky with his pack of Gabriel hounds, fierce-looking white beasts. It’s said that any animals left out on those nights go mad. The hounds will pursue them to the ends of the earth. But surely you’ve felt it in the fall? Nights when the winds fly, there’s a sound of baying like wild geese overhead, and there’s a touch of something in the air that sends a shiver down your spine.”

  Timothy knew exactly what Mr. Twig was talking about. He’d felt it mostly in autumn, when the season was about to change, the feeling of something about to happen. And he shivered in the warm room.

  “Do you believe in evil?” Mr. Twig paused to let the question settle like dust. The sun moved behind a cloud and a shadow was cast across the floor. He continued, “People tend to fear the wrong things. You see, Herne’s not malevolent; he’s a hunter and he hunts. But Balor of the one eye—that’s another matter entirely.”

  The name Balor roamed around in Timothy’s head like something he should know, but it found no place to settle. He was sure he had heard it somewhere before.

  “Is he more frightening than Herne?” Sarah asked.

  Mr. Twig stared off into space and rested his chin on his fingers. “You’ve asked the wrong question. He doesn’t always look frightening. Sometimes Balor is very beautiful, and he’s a master craftsman. Sometimes he changes form entirely and becomes an animal, a shape-shifter, but that’s another subject. The question you should ask is, ‘If he’s evil …’”

  “Is he?” Timothy asked.

  Mr. Twig didn’t hesitate. “Oh, yes, and he is never true. Remember that—evil is never true.” And he tapped his index finger on one bony knee for emphasis.

  “What does he want?” Sarah asked.

  “Balor?” Mr. Twig gave a dry chuckle. “What we all want at times—our own ending to the story. He wants power, but he is already powerful. Like all emissaries of the Dark, he wants to destroy the Light, to take truth and bend it to his will. And unlike most people, he is not bound by time. But it’s wiser not to talk about him too much. The Dark has eyes and ears everywhere. And Balor, himself, can show up in the most unexpected places.”

  The Dark. The horned man and the pale man had talked about the Dark. Timothy closed his eyes, trying to remember the
ir exact words—something about the hunt riding because the Dark was on the move again. And the pale man had used another word, one Timothy had never heard before, Filidh. The pale man had vowed to protect the Filidh.

  When Timothy opened his eyes, Mr. Twig was leaning forward, his bright eyes fastened on Timothy. “How else can I help you?”

  The shadow had passed. Timothy shifted in his chair. “What is a Filidh?”

  “A keeper of the word and wisdom. A Filidh is an ancient title. It is hereditary, rather like a king or emperor. Filidhs are tasked with reminding people of the true stories, and in that way the Filidh is a guardian.”

  “But I’ve never heard of one before.” Timothy looked at Sarah, and she shrugged her shoulders.

  “A true Filidh is chosen. You don’t hear of them much in this world anymore.”

  “In this world?” Timothy’s voice came out in a squeak.

  Before Mr. Twig could respond, Sarah voiced a question. “In the wild hunt, what are the dogs hunting?”

  Again Mr. Twig lowered his brow. “Souls. Herne and his hounds hunt souls.”

  Timothy’s voice was still tight. “Who are the Bent?”

  “The Bent is an old term. It describes a person who is in the process of becoming more Dark than Light, who is choosing darkness over light.” Mr. Twig’s eyes shifted from Timothy to Sarah and back again. “Eventually, a person will become what he or she chooses.”

  School. The last weeks of April limped slowly forward. Timothy was counting out the days until May 1. Daily he replayed Mr. Twig’s warning that the wild hunt rode on Beltane.

  On Tuesday morning, Timothy sat at a table in the corner of the commons with his friends before classes started. His group of friends was small: Jay and Caleb from the chess team and Gillian Oliver, who had been born in Holland. She spoke three languages and was captain of the chess team. Every now and then Gillian read out loud a particularly good line from the book she was reading. It really didn’t seem to matter if anyone was listening or not. Jay and Caleb huddled over a computer magazine, arguing about the best way to maximize graphics on a small screen. But today, even they were irritating. Timothy had been up most of the night before, worrying about Herne and what he might want with his soul. Ever since his visit with Mr. Twig, Timothy’s nights had been restless. In his dreams, the horned man returned with his pack of hounds.