“Timothy, let’s get out of here!”
“Not yet. She’s there, up in that tree.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
But Sarah had stopped listening. The front door swung open, and Jessica Church stood on the steps, bidding her great-aunt good-bye. Sarah and Timothy froze, completely exposed on the side lawn. There was nowhere to go. Jessica looked straight at them, and in that moment, nose dripping, twigs and leaves sprouting from his hair, Timothy knew that any hopes he’d had of ever seeming normal were gone. All because of Sarah and Sherlock Holmes. What a fool he was! He wanted to curl into a ball on the grass, sink a million miles into the earth.
“Run, Timothy!” said Sarah, and she dashed across the street and up the sidewalk. Timothy swiped his arm across his nose again. Lungs wheezing with every stride, he ran after his sister. He knew that running would make him look even more foolish, that he should have come out with some clever remark instead. But he ran anyway, as fast as he could with a tight fist squeezing his lungs.
A STORM BUILDS
NOOPS AND SPIES! You could at least tell me why you were there!” Jessica angrily bit off each word. “Were you following me?”
Timothy was hunched in the coat closet with his cell phone pressed to his ear. She had called at exactly the wrong time. His family had been sitting down to dinner. Timothy had left his phone on the kitchen counter, and his father of all people had answered it!
“Just a minute, young lady. I’ll get him … Timothy, there is a female person on your phone.”
Timothy watched his mother and father exchange looks, and Sarah kicked him under the table.
“Keep it short,” his father added. “It’s dinnertime.”
This was the ultimate invasion of his privacy, his father answering his cell phone! He mumbled a hello into the phone. Then he excused himself from the table. He was sure Sarah would be listening from the kitchen, so he’d slipped into the closet. It was stuffy, and his voice was muffled by the press of coats.
“We were doing just what you were, trying to get more information. And no, we didn’t have any idea that you were there.”
“How do you know where my great-aunt lives?” Jessica sounded suspicious now.
“Sarah passes her house on the bus, but I told you—she used to babysit for us.” Then Timothy remembered the girl. “Did you see her?”
“See who?” Jessica still sounded angry.
“The girl with silver hair; she was up in the apple tree.”
“All I saw was Great-Aunt Rosemary. That girl was there? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. She was in the apple tree in the side yard, looking at me.” Timothy wondered if he sounded like a lunatic. There was no answer on the other end for several seconds. Jessica had ended the call, he was sure. His stomach clenched. He knew the story would be broadcast all over school on Monday. Then he heard her voice speaking quietly.
“I think I found something. Strands of something silver, like very long hair. They were on the floor in the kitchen. My great-aunt was sweeping up some kind of glittery powder when I came in. I don’t think she knows I saw it.”
“That’s from her, the star girl.” Jessica hadn’t hung up, didn’t think he was completely crazy! His mother’s winter wool coat tickled his face. “I can’t talk any more now; we’re eating dinner.”
“If you weren’t following me, explain why you ran away.”
But Timothy couldn’t think of anything to say. Seconds unraveled, and he shifted uncomfortably. “We didn’t want Mrs. Clapper to see us—it was a stakeout.”
Jessica laughed, and Timothy’s heart sank. “Well, you’re not very clever detectives, are you—getting caught and all.”
“Did she tell you anything?” Through the muffle of coats, Timothy could hear his mother calling.
“Not much, except to say that I should pay more attention to her fairy stories. She didn’t admit leaving a note or anything. I told you, she’s just your average old lady.”
“Try to remember everything she said, exactly as she said it.” Timothy hesitated again. “I think we’re going back tomorrow night to look for the girl. It will be Beltane. Professor Twig said Beltane is significant. Do you want to come?”
“‘Significant’? Who talks that way? And I’ve got more important things to do on a Saturday night than play detective. I’ve been invited to a party.” Then she added quickly, “But let me know if you find out anything, okay? And don’t follow me again.”
“Sure, bye.” Timothy ended the call feeling like a fool. Now he would have to face his parents’ questions, too. But when he came out of the closet, Sarah was in the middle of a lively story about that afternoon’s ballet class. By the time she was done, the phone call was forgotten. He shot her a grateful look, and Sarah smiled back, kicking him again in the shins and wiggling her eyebrows. He knew what she meant. They’d talk later. But for the rest of Friday night, his mother had a family Scrabble game planned. Whoever won would get to choose a movie to watch. He’d have to put aside the plans that were just beginning to take shape in his mind.
Timothy was just about to use all seven of his letters in one audacious move when the house phone rang.
“Just let the answering machine get it,” his father said. “If they want us, they can leave a message.”
But Sarah was already halfway to the phone. “Mom, it’s for you.” Sarah handed her the phone and shrugged when their dad mouthed, “Who is it?”
His mother was on the phone a very long time. When she returned, her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. “Well, I’ve had some good news.”
“Out with it, then. We’re in the middle of a game.”
But Timothy could tell that his father was curious.
“I won the juried competition from the art gallery opening!”
Timothy thought his mother immediately looked younger, fresher, in her triumph.
“Hooray for you, Mom! You are good, you know.” Sarah beamed at her proudly.
“Well, that’s really something, Liz! We’re all proud of you!”
“There’s one problem. The reception is tomorrow night; I hadn’t planned on going, since we went to the opening, but now …” Her voice trailed away.
“Of course we’re going. The children will be fine for a few hours.”
And suddenly Timothy and Sarah were faced with the prospect of being all alone on Beltane. Nothing could have made them happier.
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.
IN THE DARK
T WAS LATE Friday night.
Something thumped against his window. Timothy sat up in bed. The room was thick with darkness. It was cold, much colder than it should have been, and the thumping continued. He knew he should get up and check it out, but he didn’t want to get out of his warm bed. Everything seemed sinister in the darkness. Familiar things took on strange shapes. His model airplane hung from the ceiling like a bat; across the room, his coat on a chair became a human hunkering in the corner.
Timothy forced his legs over the side of the bed. The window felt miles away as he crossed the room one trembling footstep at a time. This was not the friendly dark of a familiar place but a deeper, menacing darkness. His heart raced, and still he forced himself forward. A cold blast of air stopped him at the window. His blinds banged against the sill.
“I didn’t leave the window open,” he said out loud just to hear a voice. But his voice sounded small and tinny in the darkness. He would have to lift the blinds to close the window, and suddenly he was filled with dread. What if something was outside, watching and waiting for a chance to come in?
Slowly, he pulled the cord, lifting the blinds. The wind was blowing out of the north, and clouds scuttled across the sky. He struggled with the stubborn window sash. Something on the roof above his window moved. It was a dense shadow in the shadows of night. Timothy froze and held his
breath. The shadow took the shape of a cat, and Timothy slowly exhaled. It must be the neighbor’s cat looking for Prank. The cat came closer, slinking across the roof toward the window. Its fur was the light cream of a Siamese; the neighbor’s cat was a calico. Puzzled, Timothy was just about to call out to it when the cat raised its head and made a final dash toward the windowsill. A scream strangled in Timothy’s throat.
The cat had only one eye, a cloudy blue eye, and the eye was set in the middle of its head. The animal gathered itself to spring, then froze in midleap, paws extended. It fell back onto the roof. A tree bough rested on the ledge of the open window, and the cat seemed unable to cross it. Timothy slammed the window shut. With its back arched, the cat spit and hissed, its grotesque eye shining straight at Timothy.
He pulled the curtain closed and ran to Sarah’s room, but her door was locked. He stood in the hallway, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. No cats had eyes in the middle of their heads. He crept back into his room and turned on the bedside lamp. He didn’t look at the window. The wind howled around the house. Slipping deep under the bedcovers, he listened for the sound of claws on the glass. Although he listened for a long time, he never heard the cat scrabbling to get in. Just before daybreak, he finally slept after convincing himself it was all part of a very bad dream.
The day was blustery and clouds were speeding across the sky on Saturday morning. Sarah had forgotten to close her blinds and the sunlight played across her blankets, shining full in her face. She wrinkled her nose and muttered, “Okay, okay, I’m up.”
Stretching, she walked over to the window. Despite the sun, the weather looked as if something might be brewing. On the window-sill, something caught her eye. A tree bough. There was no tree near her window. How did it get there? She wandered into Timothy’s room. Timothy was usually the first one up in the family, always afraid that he might miss something if he slept too late. This morning he was still a lumpy form under a worn blue comforter.
“Get up.” She poked at the lumpy shape and crossed to his window. “Oh, look—you have one, too.”
Timothy managed to open a sleepy eye. “One what?”
“A piece of tree on your windowsill. Did you put it there?”
Timothy was fully awake now. All the fears of last night came rushing back. He pulled his comforter around his shoulders and reluctantly followed her to the window. Sure enough, just as in his dream, a branch lay across the sill. He felt his hands grow cold. Making sure there was no cat in sight, he opened the window. The end of the branch wasn’t rough and jagged like one broken off in a storm. It was smooth, as if it had been cut. Leaving the branch in place, he closed the window. He thought he recognized the type of leaves but struggled a minute to remember the name of the tree. “Rowan boughs.”
Sarah glared at him. “Mother should never have let you take that community ecology class last summer.”
“They’re placed in windows and doorways to keep witches away.”
“That wasn’t in the class! How do you know?”
“It was in one of the books I was reading to get information about them. May Day used to be called Beltane, and rowan boughs are a tradition. They were put on window sills to keep the people in the house safe on Beltane—and last night was Beltane Eve.”
“Like flowers on doorsteps?”
“Mmm, older than that.” Timothy wondered if he should tell Sarah about his dream and the one-eyed cat.
Sarah opened the window and pulled at the branch.
“Leave it! I didn’t put it there, but whoever did must think we need protection.” The idea that they might need some type of protection made Timothy uneasy. He decided to keep the dream to himself, at least for now.
Sarah looked at him strangely. “Timothy James, do you know more than you’re telling?” She flopped down on the rumpled bed. “I think we need to go back to the library today or talk to your Mr. Twig. Who would have put these branches on our windowsills anyway?”
“Don’t you have ballet?” Timothy dropped the comforter, glad he didn’t have to answer her question. He was wearing gray sweatpants and pulled on the first T-shirt he could reach.
“Not today. Some of the dancers are out of town for a workshop.” Sarah frowned. “I don’t like the idea of people sneaking around our house at night. It gives me the creeps.”
Once again Timothy found himself at the library on a Saturday, but this time Sarah was with him. He hadn’t paid much attention to Beltane when he was researching earlier, but ever since visiting Mr. Twig, he’d both looked forward to and dreaded the day, and now it was here.
Before leaving the house, Timothy and Sarah had checked all the doors and windows. At each entry point, they found a tree branch. Timothy couldn’t shake the fear his dream left behind. It paced him like a shadow.
Herds of preschool-age children stormed the library for story time. Sticky with paste, they cut brightly colored strips of construction paper to weave into May Day baskets. Sarah did not like little children—they made her edgy—but Timothy could still remember being one and felt a certain empathy with them. He wanted to tell them to enjoy themselves now because things only got harder as you got older.
He noticed that the same long-faced, floppy-haired Julian was sitting behind the reference desk. Sarah was headed right toward him. Timothy wound through the stacks back to the Special Collections room to look for the book with the pictures of Herne and the long description of Beltane. As soon as he entered the small room, he relaxed. Sanctuary, he thought, seeing the word arranged as Scrabble tiles. Today he was the only one in the room. No Mr. Twig snorted in the corner.
He was just getting settled when Sarah appeared. “The librarian said you would be here. Look what he found for me! I asked him about Celtic traditions, and he gave me this book.” She slapped a book down triumphantly on the table next to him. “It talks about Beltane.” She flipped through the pages and paused. “Morris dancers!”
A glossy photo showed a troupe of dancing men bedecked in bells and ribbons, twirling flaming sticks.
Timothy raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“I know about them from dance class. It’s an old tradition of dance in the British Isles. But look what it says.” She pointed at a caption under the photo. “‘They dance on Beltane, or May Day, when the Jack is slain.’ It might be important because of Beltane. And didn’t Mr. Twig say something about a death?”
Timothy looked up at Sarah. “Who is ‘the Jack’? And why do they kill him?”
Sarah read on. “‘Sometimes the Jack is a real person covered with vines and leaves. Sometimes it’s just an effigy, a dummy.’”
Timothy stared at a photo of a man covered in foliage.
Sarah continued. “‘The dancers pretend to kill him, and then the Jack comes back to life.’ It must have something to do with spring coming.”
“Well, I can’t see what it has to do with us,” Timothy said, but the fear was back, making his heart race.
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.
COME INTO THE STORM
HE KNOCKING AT THE DOOR was insistent, although it was difficult to hear over the wail of the storm. Saturday night, Beltane. Timothy and Sarah were home alone. Their parents had left hours ago for the artists’ reception. Despite the date, it had been a normal Saturday, and Timothy wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or disappointed. And then the wind had started blowing. It never stormed like this in the spring! Who would come knocking on a night like this?
“I don’t think you should open that!” Sarah’s voice was sharp.
Prank arched her back and hissed.
Timothy looked through the peephole in the door, straight into the face of Mrs. Clapper. Why was she out in this storm? He opened the door, and the wind pushed in like an uninvited guest howling its displeasure. Disheveled, Mrs. Clapper stood on the step, wisps of gray hair wild about her face.
She was wearing a long cloak, and she carried a willow basket on her arm.
“Your parents are going to be late. They called and asked me to check on you two.” Her voice was calm and her eyes gleamed.
She likes this storm, Timothy thought.
Sarah looked over his shoulder.
“Come in,” Timothy offered.
“Oh, no, I think it is far better that you come out,” Mrs. Clapper replied.
Then Timothy saw it peering from behind her cloak: a golden-furred wolf! He took a step back, right onto Sarah’s toes.
“Come into the storm; we haven’t had one like this in years!” Mrs. Clapper continued. “And we have business to attend to.”
Timothy’s mouth opened and he swallowed a gulp of air. Did he just see what he thought he saw?
“What’s wrong with her?” Sarah hissed into his ear. “Okay,” she said more loudly, looking right at Mrs. Clapper.
Didn’t Sarah see the wolf? wondered Timothy.
Sarah grabbed a sweatshirt from the hook by the door and ran outside.
Timothy tried to hold her back, but his voice failed him. Mrs. Clapper turned to stare out across the lawn. The wolf was gone, but strapped on her back was a quiver full of arrows and a bow. Mrs. Clapper had lost her mind; there could be no other explanation. He couldn’t let Sarah go out there alone with her.
As soon as he stepped out on the porch, the door slammed shut behind him. The wind swirled with voices. Clouds scurried across the sky, covering and then revealing a sliver of moon. He shivered in his T-shirt. The temperature was dropping fast. “I think you should come in,” he pleaded. And then the wolf with gleaming yellow eyes poked its head out from under Mrs. Clapper’s cloak and growled.
Sarah leaned against the porch rail, looking into the storm. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Come on, Timothy, let’s go for a storm walk!” She danced a few steps across the porch and pulled the sweatshirt hood over her hair. Sarah had lost her mind as well! He needed to warn her about the wolf!
Beyond the Door Page 8
