“Set the trap and bait it well. The prey follows; it always will.” The golden man stood looking at him, hands on his hips, his eyes gleaming.
“Let me go!”
“But I’ve forgotten my manners. My name is Balor.”
The man paused while the name settled in the air. Timothy stared through the bars of his cage. He’d heard that name before. Mr. Twig’s words came rushing back to him. “The question you should ask is, If he’s evil.” Fear made it difficult for him to breathe.
“What do you want?” Timothy’s voice was tight. He was afraid he already knew the answer. Trapped in this cage, he would be held for Herne and the hunt.
“I confess you were a surprise—but a valuable one. You’ve already given me your crown.” Balor dangled it from one hand. “You have no rowan branch for protection this time.”
How could he have trusted this man? Timothy shot a glance at Gwydon. The wolf’s eyes were locked on Balor. Gwydon bared his teeth.
“There are many portways between worlds. Even the noble Gwydon didn’t know this one. He was so desperate to save you from the wolves, he carried you right into my workshop.” Balor laughed with delight and strode from the room.
“Wait, you’ve got to let me out!”
But there was no one to hear his cry.
Gwydon whined again and then lunged. He lay back down and worried at his hind leg.
Timothy was a prisoner in a world of elaborate cages. Unless he looked carefully, it was almost impossible to see the doors and wires that held them closed: sliding wires, pivoting wires, and some that seemed to be simple snares, a loop of silver on a length of line. Timothy remembered finding a dead rabbit in the woods near his house. It had hopped into a loop of wire, releasing a trigger bar that tightened the wire around the rabbit’s leg, lifting it off the ground. When Timothy came across it, the rabbit was long dead. One leg hung at a crazy angle, obviously broken, and no one had ever come to claim the prey. He had wondered what bait had drawn the rabbit into the trap, or if the rabbit had simply wandered in the wrong place.
He thought ruefully of the silver belt and felt his face flush with shame. He had been caught as easily as the rabbit. How quickly he had handed over Cerridwyn’s gift, the golden crown. What would she think of him? And Balor had tethered the faithful Gwydon! His eyes watered, and his shoulders, already sore from bending over Gwydon’s back, burned from being hunched.
All around him, the traps and snares gleamed. Their beauty and craftsmanship made them even more horrible. An exotic bird with yellow and red feathers looked down from an upper shelf. Cats of all sizes and descriptions cowered in small traps, and something with red eyes and a sinewy body of thick fur hunched near him. Across the room, Gwydon whined again and continued gnawing at his paw.
The floor was cold and hard; Timothy was hungry and the water had only intensified his thirst. If he concentrated on the problem of escaping, he could forget about his discomfort for a few minutes at a time. Most important of all, concentrating kept him from giving up. But he was tired, and his mind couldn’t or wouldn’t obey him for long. It ran in useless circles. He had failed the one adventure set before him, failed Sarah, Jessica, Gwydon, and Cerridwyn. He’d been taken in by Balor, dazzled by him and his glittering cages. This is what came of trying to be heroic.
Timothy rolled onto his back, knees drawn up to his chest, and let despair wash over him.
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.
TIMOTHY’S PLAN
RCHED IN THE TREETOP, Jessica watched the mad flight across the sky. She should have been the one struggling to ride the wolf, would have been the one if Timothy hadn’t taken her place. It was as if she were watching through binoculars, forced to view a scene she would rather not see, but at the same time, she couldn’t look away. Timothy was slumped low, shoulders hunched and head almost pillowed in the wolf’s fur. Herne and his hounds were gaining on them, the wolves and hounds howling in chorus. A small wolf pulled ahead of the pack, lunging at Gwydon’s left hind foot. The great wolf swerved to miss the snapping jaws and, in that instant, Jessica saw Timothy slip sideways.
“No! Timothy, hold on! I’m sorry!” But her screams and her tears were lost in the wind. She looked to the star girl for help, but the girl sat calmly on her branch, watching the event as one might watch a movie. “Do something … anything!” Jessica hissed.
“It is not my place to change events, only to observe them,” she replied without once glancing in Jessica’s direction.
Timothy must have slept, because the next thing he knew, the room was darker and he was colder. But his mind seemed clearer. There had to be a way to escape. It was up to him; nobody was going to rescue him.
He carefully examined the locking mechanism again. If he could just understand it, then perhaps he could work backward and release the latch. He knew a little about snares and traps. When his father had set up the box trap to catch the raccoon last summer, Timothy had read everything he could on the computer about traps and snares. His obsession for information came in handy now. He knew that most snares grew tighter the more you struggled. Traps had a moving part that was triggered by a release, grasping or closing around the victim. Some doors were held in place by gravity, but some actually locked. By lying on his side he was able to see how his cage closed. When the door dropped, a bolt or pin slid into place. So, no matter how hard he pushed against the door, it wouldn’t budge. The only way out would be to release the latch pin from the outside, but the space between the bars was too narrow even for his fingers. Besides, he would need two hands to raise the door once the pin was released.
The weight of the door had caused it to fall, and in the upper-right-hand corner of the cage were the bolt and latch pin. The latch was held in place by a spring. He rubbed his hand across his nose, which had begun, annoyingly, to run. To open the trap, he would have to find a way to reach out of the cage and release the spring, then lift the door so he could slip out.
The odds were not in his favor. He needed something long, thin, and fairly strong to push back the pin. Turning onto his side, he slipped his hand into one pocket of his jeans. He tried the right pocket first: gum, string, a flat skipping rock—nothing at all useful. He carefully rolled to the other side, trying to remember what he had stored in his pockets. He used to carry a pocketknife, but those had been outlawed at school, so his knife sat at home on his dresser.
If only he could straighten his legs. He forced his hand into his left pocket and tugged out a badly bent playing card, the ace of spades, followed by a wad of rubber bands. He burrowed his hand down farther and felt it scrape against the very thing he had been looking for, his mechanical pencil. He had stuck it in there when he dressed because his shirt didn’t have a pocket. Never had anything seemed as perfect as his old blue pencil.
Just as he had hoped, the pencil slid smoothly between the bars. Gwydon gave a low growl, and Timothy froze, listening for footsteps. All was quiet. His hand shook, so it took several minutes before he could line up the tip of the pencil with the bolt. He had forgotten to draw in the lead; with a small snap, it broke off. If only the pencil was strong enough! Timothy pivoted the pencil against the bar, pushing the latch pin as far as he could.
Now came the delicate part. With his left hand, he inserted the thin metal clip between the pin and the bar, so that it would hold the pin in place until he could insert the pencil between the next two bars. His hand was so unsteady that it took two tries. He quickly pulled out the pencil; the clip held. Carefully, he stuck the pencil between the next two bars. He had to hurry! Every moment, he expected to hear Balor’s footsteps. Even though the room was cold, a bead of sweat appeared along his upper lip.
Bar by bar, Timothy worked the pin, using the pencil, out past the edge of the door of the cage. Finally, he reached the point where the pin was released from the latch and no longer locked the
door; the spring was fully compressed. It would take two hands to lift the door, and the pencil would drop as soon as he lifted it. He would have only one chance.
If the pencil could hold just long enough! He arranged himself the best he could to lift the heavy door, but it was difficult in his crouched position. It was awfully cold now; his fingers were stiff and clumsy as they gripped the bottom of the door.
He thrust the door up with all his might. It was even heavier than he expected. As the door slid up, it dislodged the pencil, which tottered for a moment on a horizontal bar, then dropped outside the cage, rolling out of reach!
Timothy wedged one leg under the door. The metal scraped the heavy denim of his jeans. Twisting and sliding, he forced himself under the door, inch by inch. Now just his shoulders and head remained inside the cage. His arms trembled from the weight of the door pressing down. The metal bar scraped the side of his face and nicked his ear.
Finally, he lay free, scraped and exhausted. He was outside the cage! Gwydon watched intently.
Timothy pushed himself to his feet and crouched down by the wolf, ready to undo his tether. “Let’s go. I’ll help you.”
Then he saw why Gwydon no longer moved. His hind leg, held in a bear claw trap, was matted with blood where the teeth of the trap bit through the thick fur.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you out.” He tried to sound more hopeful than he felt. Gwdyon growled deep and low, and then licked Timothy’s hand. The bear trap was held by two springs, one on each side. Timothy needed to release each one to open the jaws. Hoping his weight would be enough to compress the springs, he stomped one foot down on each. The jaws shuddered, and sprang apart.
Gwydon tentatively lifted the injured leg up and out of the trap. It was a pitiful sight. The golden fur was stiff with blood. Timothy ran his hand down the leg, feeling gently through the stiff fur and hoping against hope that it wasn’t broken, that Gwydon would be able to bear them both to safety. The wolf flinched as Timothy’s hand passed down the length of his leg. It seemed intact, but his hand came away sticky with fresh blood. The wolf watched patiently as Timothy pulled off his shirt, ripping off a strip of cloth to bandage the leg. He had never bandaged anything before and, once again, felt totally inadequate for the job. Trying to remember the way Sarah wrapped her feet for dance, he tucked the loose end into the top of the wrapping, hoping it wasn’t so tight that it would cut off Gwydon’s circulation.
Gwydon stood stiffly and nudged Timothy with his nose. Timothy unfastened the collar. “Do you think you can still carry me?” he whispered.
From overhead, he heard a sharp hiss. Timothy jumped to his feet. A striped orange cat with mangy tufts of fur and an ear that looked as if it had been chewed up in a fight crouched in a cage. This cat didn’t plead for release. Instead, it fixed Timothy with its green eyes, demanding freedom, compelling him to help. Once more, Timothy looked around the workshop at the sad, trapped animals. A puppy whined and pressed itself against the bars. There might not be time to free all of them, but he couldn’t leave without trying to release as many as he could, even if it meant having to face Balor again. He’d start with the old cat. It was difficult to reach the cage, even when standing on tiptoe. When he finally slid the bolt open, the cat sprang to the floor, hissing and shaking as if throwing off a terrible indignity.
As quickly as possible, Timothy began to open cages: the exotic bird, a large iguana, the cowering puppy. Some of the animals milled around his feet, rubbing against him and tripping him up, while others disappeared immediately.
He had to hurry. There were still many more traps and snares. The more he opened, the more he noticed. A small fox dragged a leg broken by a snare, but there was no time to tend to any injuries. Once the animals were freed, they were on their own. He worked steadily, occasionally pinching a finger, but becoming more adept with each cage he opened. Timothy was so intent on his work that he didn’t hear the soft tread of steps from behind.
Gwydon growled. A strong hand gripped Timothy’s bare shoulder. Spinning around, he was face-to-face with Balor.
“Cutting your visit short? You passed my test magnificently, like I knew you would.” A compelling smile spread across his handsome face. “I’ve been looking for an intelligent assistant like you for a very long time. You are even more valuable to me than the girl I expected. You must understand, I had to take every precaution. I couldn’t let just anyone be my assistant.” He paused to let the word assistant soak in.
Timothy stood still.
“You, Timothy, are worthy of learning my secrets, of changing the world. You’re capable of great things, things you’ve never imagined. You don’t often get an offer like that, do you?” And Balor smiled his heartbreaking smile.
For a moment, Timothy wavered. He could learn Balor’s secrets. Maybe he had misunderstood. Maybe this had been nothing more than a test. He looked into Balor’s deep eyes and imagined what it would be like to be his assistant, remembering the silver belt.
“Yee-ow!” The orange cat’s yowl cut through the workshop. It arched its mangy back and hissed. With an effort, Timothy pulled his eyes away from Balor. The spell of Balor’s words was broken.
A movement in the shadows caught his eye. A small man with tufts of gray hair and a scraggly beard was creeping out from one of the opened cages. Hunched over, he paused and sniffed the air. Catching Timothy’s eye, the man gave a nod and smiled, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth. Silently, he slinked away into the darkness. In the cage lay the split pelt of a rat. Did the man come out of the rat’s skin?
Timothy shuddered as Balor’s hand tightened on his shoulder. He tried to twist from Balor’s grip as Gwydon nudged his legs. How to make Balor loosen his grip? If Timothy could distract Balor, even for a moment, he and Gwydon might have a chance. Otherwise, he would find himself back in one of the cages, or worse.
“If I was your assistant, would you give me something like this?” Timothy swiped at an ornately carved glass bowl. It tottered and fell from its stand, and Balor loosed his grip as he grabbed for the bowl.
In an instant, Timothy had flung one leg over Gwydon’s back. With a swift bound, the wolf was airborne, heading straight out the window. Timothy slipped and then tightened his hold as he pulled himself onto the wolf’s strong back.
Once free of the workshop, he couldn’t help looking back. Balor’s face was framed in the window. As Timothy watched, the beautiful features melted like wax, leaving gray skin stretched tightly over bone. In the very middle of Balor’s forehead was a single socket filled with a milky eye. The eye was roving through the darkness and light streamed from it. Timothy knew the eye was seeking him.
He pushed his face into Gwydon’s neck. He remembered another one-eyed creature, the cat at his bedroom window. Mr. Twig had said Balor could take many forms. Had Balor been searching for him even then?
Timothy and Gwydon flew into the dense chill of clouds. He shivered without his shirt and burrowed down into the wolf’s fur. Once more the clouds parted. Beyond, the storm still raged. Timothy thought of the animals he had set free, and hoped that they, too, had made their escape. And who was the man who had escaped from the cage?
The ground was very far away, and a strange thickness in his head made Timothy dizzy. And over the rain and wind, he heard the thing he dreaded: the call of hounds. He had not escaped the hunt; it had waited for his return. And behind him, in the dark, Balor’s eye was still searching.
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.
A WILD SHOT
ARAH HAD NOT GIVEN UP. She continued to squint desperately into the wind and rain. She couldn’t lose Timothy; he had to be out there somewhere! Cerridwyn was nowhere to be seen. They’d been separated in the storm. The hounds bayed, the wolves howled. Sarah could still see the red lights of their eyes circling above her where Timothy had disappeared.
And then she saw hi
m. Timothy appeared on Gwydon as if he had just burst from a cloud. And he was close.
“Timothy!” Her voice was swallowed by the wind.
The hounds and wolves spotted their quarry as well. As Sarah watched, the hounds snarled and dove. In a moment, they would be on Timothy. Where was Cerridwyn?
In desperation, Sarah fit an arrow into the bow. She gripped the stag hard with her thighs to steady herself. The rain had almost stopped, but the wind continued to wail. As Sarah drew back the taut string, her arms trembled. This was nothing like archery at camp. The stag slowed, but he still moved, and she had to adjust for the wind. Taking a deep breath, she aimed for the lead hound. Then for good measure, she shot two more arrows.
A sudden pain and fire coursed up Timothy’s leg. One of Herne’s hounds had bitten him! He grabbed for his calf, expecting blood. Instead, the butt of an arrow stuck out from his leg. He bent to tug at it and slid sideways. “Help, Gwydon! I’m falling!”
He clutched at the wolf’s densely furred neck. But he slid farther. The leg with the arrow dangled as the other leg slid across Gwydon’s spine. Timothy’s fingers lost their grip, one by one. They scrabbled desperately at the slick fur but found no purchase. Hot rivers of pain shot up his leg. He was falling! He flailed his arms, but there was nothing to grab.
Wind shrilled in his ears. Trees rushed up from the ground. All around was black, empty sky. Branches tore at his face, slashed his bare chest and arms. The hard bed of earth waited just below.
Jessica could no longer sit in the tree with the silent girl. Timothy needed help! She saw him slide from the wolf’s back. He was falling! She marked the spot where he would land and began a frantic climb down through the branches. The others might get there before her. They might not want anything to do with her. But it didn’t matter. This was all her fault, and all that mattered now was finding Timothy.
Beyond the Door Page 13
