“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Jessica asked Peter, reaching for her pie and mug.
“Already have. You can sit back here.” He led them to the folding steps at the back of Fiona’s wagon.
Sarah sniffed the pie. The smell was spicy and savory, and again her stomach grumbled. Then she remembered Nom’s words about being careful of what she ate and drank at the Market. She tried to catch Jessica’s eye, but it was too late; Jessica had already taken a mouthful. A rich gravy trickled down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.
“This is the best! Sarah, you’ve got to—”
“Don’t you remember what Nom said?”
“If it’s draíocht you’re worried about, well, you needn’t. Oh, it’s draíocht food all right, but not the kind that will harm you.” Peter looked intently at Sarah.
Why, he’s no older than I am, she thought. “How did you know what I was thinking?” she asked, realizing with some surprise that if he were a bit cleaner, he’d be quite good-looking. “And how do I know it’s safe?”
Peter merely shrugged his thin shoulders and scratched his nose.
Sarah turned and studied Jessica. She wasn’t worried—she was wolfing down her pie. Sarah took a cautious swallow of the ruby liquid in her mug. It was sweet and tart, and more than that. It tasted like ripe strawberries and honey and lemons all at once. It tasted like … summer. Her shoulders relaxed, and the noise and dust of the Market faded to the background.
“Yeah, draíocht is magic,” Peter was saying to Jessica. “You’ve some of it about you. Light-haunted we call it.” He looked at Sarah. “Do you like it?”
“It’s great. The best drink I’ve ever had.”
“I told you she’d know what you needed.”
“Who is she?” Sarah bit off a mouthful of warm pie.
“Fiona? She’s my mam.”
How could the tall woman with the fair hair and pale eyes be the mother of this boy with black hair and tan skin?
“I look like my father,” Peter explained, as if once more reading Sarah’s mind. “That’s what I hear anyways. Never met him.” He looked at Sarah so long that she felt herself blushing. “Now, tell me—why’re you here?”
Jessica spoke up between noisy sips of drink. “We’re looking for something we need, something to help someone.”
Sarah choked on the pie in her mouth. This was going too far! Jessica shouldn’t be giving out information to someone they barely knew.
But Peter didn’t press his question further. Instead, he said, “There’s many things at the Market. Some can help, some hinder. It’s best if you know what you’re looking for.” He stretched out his long legs and scuffed the dirt with a bare toe. “Maybe I should go with you, just to keep you out of harm’s way.” And he looked so hopefully at Sarah as he said this that she felt herself blush again. She wished Timothy was there with his leaf.
“We could use some help,” Jessica said finally, wiping the last of the drink from her lips and looking around at the kaleidoscope of people, which was the Market. “Especially since we have no idea where we are.”
Peter grinned. “Tell me what you want, then. I’m thinking you’re in a hurry.”
“My mo—I mean, someone close to us needs help right away.” Sarah jumped up, wiping her hands on her skirt and brushing off crumbs. The food and drink had given her new energy, and with the energy came hope. The sluggishness of the last hour was gone; she was ready to search, no matter how long it took.
“Which way?” Jessica asked.
“What kind of help does she need?” Peter asked.
The girls looked at each other. Jessica nodded her head.
“We need medicine. My mother’s very sick.”
And without hesitation, Peter replied, “This is the way I’d go.”
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.
THE BATTLE OF THE TREES
T WAS LIKE entering Aladdin’s cave. Inside Julian’s caravan, bright cushions embroidered with gold thread were strewn across the floor like gems. Rainbows of light from two jewel-paned windows played across the rich red walls and books. At the end of the single room, in the shadows, a wooden rocker sat beside a tiny kitchen cookstove. And books were everywhere: perched in teetering piles on the floor; resting haphazardly on painted shelves that lined the walls; left open on cushions, as if someone in the middle of reading them had stepped away.
Timothy sighed. This was his kind of room. Julian’s books were leather-bound volumes with lettering in black and gold. Timothy itched to touch them.
“Sit,” Julian said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get us some refreshment.” He disappeared into the shadowy end of the caravan.
Timothy did as he was told. He chose a thick red cushion, folded his legs, and sat down. Gwydon padded over and lay, muzzle on paws, by his side. Timothy reached down and buried his fingers in the wolf’s soft fur, and Gwydon let him. Sunlight filtered across the walls in watery patterns.
Timothy drew a few deep breaths and unclenched his hand. The leaf was a calm, clear blue in his palm. He tried to think of the right word to describe Julian’s caravan. Exotic, he thought finally and smiled to himself, because the word used an x, a difficult letter to play. He put the leaf back in his pocket, gave a gentle stroke to the wolf’s head, and picked up a thick brown book from the top of the pile nearest him.
Flipping it open, he saw, rather than the expected familiar letters or even the swirls and dots of Arabic, a series of straight marks that reminded him of tally scores. He’d seen these types of marks before … on the back of Mr. Twig’s business card!
He studied the marks closely, wondering if it was some type of code. The heavy marks appeared to be grouped in sets, at an angle to a horizontal line. Sometimes they were above the line and sometimes below. Occasionally, they crossed the horizontal line.
It is a type of code, Timothy decided, but not one he’d ever seen before. He turned to the next page, looking for patterns. Every cryptographer knew that the secret to cracking a code depended on identifying the patterns. Some of the marks were the same. Repeated words?
Above the marks was an illustration of a tree, a tree holding a spear. A warrior tree, Timothy thought. He ran his finger over the illustration and tried to imagine trees at war.
“This should do.” Julian returned, bearing a tray with a plate of cakes, a single glass, and a silver goblet. He set the tray down and looked at the book on Timothy’s lap. “Do you read Ogham?” he asked, pronouncing the strange word like “Oyam.”
“What did you say?”
“Ogham … No, I didn’t think so.” Julian took the book from Timothy’s hands and replaced it with the silver goblet.
Then Julian handed him a dense round cake about the size of Timothy’s palm. It smelled of honey, and the pale top was sprinkled with small seeds and nuts.
Timothy took a bite, and a moist sweetness filled his mouth. “Thanks,” he said around a delicious mouthful, and swallowed. “Was that a code in your book?”
Julian explained, “It’s not a code—it’s a language. An ancient language called Ogham.”
Eyes wide, Timothy took a sip from the silver goblet. It felt strange to drink out of anything so fancy. “Why did you lock the door?”
“There are things that are best spoken of in secret.”
“What things?”
Julian steepled his fingers, resting his pointed chin on his thumbs. “Before you can find what you need, Timothy, you must understand a few things about what you are looking for. Here in the Market, I am a Storyteller. A keeper of history and of words. And what I am going to tell you now is a history worth knowing. It is partly your history.”
Timothy’s heart beat faster. This was surely it: the secret to curing his mother.
Julian closed his eyes and began to speak in a singsong voice, as if reciting something he h
ad memorized long ago.
“The Filidh are a race of poets, keepers of the word, keepers of wisdom. The rank of a Filidh cannot be earned. It is only by birth and training that one becomes Ollamh, master scholar and the highest degree of Filidh, the equal of kings. One shall not slay the Filidh, nor may one ever refuse them hospitality, wealth, or land. Only a Filidh by birth can rule the Travelers, the people of the Market. A Filidh fights in all worlds against the power of the Dark.”
Filidh. Timothy had heard that word before. But where? And there was the Dark again. It kept creeping in, and each time, he thought of Balor. The Filidh fights against the Dark. He was just about to ask more about what a Filidh was when there was a pounding at the caravan door. Instantly, Gwydon was on his feet.
Julian held up his hand, signaling silence.
“Come out, Storyteller! You’re wanted in your tent!” The voice was loud and nasal. “You know the bargain. The price of living in the Market is your stories. If you have no stories, we’ll be throwing you out. Leave you to lions! Tooth and claw!” What Timothy heard then was a high, tittering laugh that made his skin crawl.
Julian stood, threw the bolt, and opened the door. Gwydon stalked stiffly to Julian’s side, his fur bristling.
There, framed in the light of the doorway, Timothy saw a small man with a very red face and even redder hair, pulled back into a straggling ponytail. He tapped one leather-booted foot impatiently, and his muscled arms, partially covered by long leather gloves, were tensed at his side. His red face was compressed in a scowl.
Gwydon stepped forward.
“Get that beast away from me!” the man demanded. “He shouldn’t be allowed with civilized folk. I’d be having him in a cage with the circus if I was you! Or perhaps you’d prefer to have a little chat with the Animal Tamer?” When Gwydon responded with a warning rumble, the little man added, “It’s a known fact that wolves turn on their owners, like vipers.” He turned, spit on the steps, and touched two fingers to his forehead.
Julian turned to Timothy. “As you see, duty calls. We must finish our conversation another time.”
Timothy’s mouth flew open in protest. What about helping his mother? What about the Filidh and the Dark? Why would Julian let this obnoxious little man tell him what to do? Who knew how much time he had wasted, sitting here in the caravan, listening to stories with nothing to show for it?
It wasn’t until he heard Gwydon growling softly beside him that Timothy realized his leaf was burning in his palm. He hadn’t even been aware of pulling it out. Instantly, Timothy became more alert, every sense prickling. This man was not only obnoxious, he was dangerous.
As he stepped out of the caravan, Timothy squinted in the bright sunlight. Closing the door, he followed Julian, Gwydon, and the redhaired man. Gwydon pushed himself between the man and Julian, who walked behind in heavy silence. Timothy wanted to ask Julian where he thought he might search for something, anything, to help his mother, or if he knew Nom. But maybe it was better not to say anything in front of this man. At least, the leaf seemed to be warning him.
Midstride, the man stopped and pivoted, his hands on his hips. “Am I being followed? What have we here, a visitor to our Market?” His voice was a sneer.
Timothy hesitated.
“Can’t you answer when you’re spoken to, boy? Shake a leg! Corrie up!” The word boy was spit from the dwarf’s lips like a curse.
“My name is Timothy James Maxwell,” he said to the short man. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch yours.”
“Everyone in the Market knows the name of Tristan! What wind blew you in? You’ve the smell of a foreigner about you.” The man leaned his long nose against Timothy’s arm and inhaled deeply. Timothy jerked his arm away.
A few yards off, Julian and Gwydon entered a large white tent set between two stout trees.
“Where I come from’s my own business,” Timothy mumbled, thinking of Nom’s warning not to reveal anything. And where was Nom? Wasn’t he supposed to be helping them?
“Everything in the Market is my business, boy. Everything.” Tristan’s eyes continually darted about. “And I’m asking you a question.”
“No more your business than mine, Tristan,” said a woman’s voice from behind.
Timothy turned to see a tall woman with fair hair piled on top of her head. Her voice was lilting but formidable.
“Since when has the Market become ungracious to guests?” the woman continued when Tristan didn’t immediately answer. “Don’t mind him, Traveler. But come, Tristan, I have a dispute for you to settle.”
Tristan puffed up under her gaze like a banty rooster. “I suppose I could be helping you out, Fiona.”
She laughed lightly, and Timothy saw it as his chance to slip away. If he went into the tent with Julian and Gwydon now, he thought, he might have a few minutes to ask his questions. As soon as Tristan’s back was turned, he dashed toward the white tent, lifted the flap, and slid from the bright sun into darkness.
The air inside was stuffy from the press of many bodies. Men, women, and children sat on rough wooden benches or cross-legged on the floor, their eyes fastened on Julian and Gwydon. Julian, sitting on a small stool in front of the crowd, was beginning a tale in the same singsong voice Timothy had heard in the caravan. Gwydon lay at his feet, nose on paws. When he spotted Timothy, he raised his head as if in acknowledgment and then relaxed again. Timothy found a spot near the rear of the crowd and sat cross-legged on the dirt floor.
“One day, Gwydon, the greatest of all storytellers and magicians, was given a task by the Light. It is often a difficult thing to serve the Light, for at times it involves great sacrifice and courage.” An old man beside Timothy nodded vigorously. “He was tasked with securing three creatures that had been captured by the Dark and trapped in the underworld: the dog, the deer, and the lapwing. Just as the Light longs for all to be free, the Dark longs to control each and every thing.” Julian spread his hands as if to include them all.
“To fight against the Dark is a terrible task for any man, but Gwydon was not any man. He was a shape-shifter, and now, in the form of a mighty human warrior, he knew he had been set apart for this very purpose. So when he realized how great his task was, to go into the depths of the underworld and free the three—the dog, the deer, and the lapwing—he realized that he would need help. Even in his present form, the task was too great for him alone. Nothing less than an army would do if he were to battle the Dark, or seek to outwit it. For the Dark had been gathering fierce warriors and strange creatures who lived under the earth. But where could Gwydon raise an army in time?
“Now, because Gwydon was wise, he was able to see the true nature of things. Before him stood the trees of the woods, and as he watched them, an idea grew in his mind. He would awaken the trees to their oldest form: when they were sentient beings. Once awakened, the trees, in their wisdom, would join him and march as an army against the Dark.
“First there came a great wind. The trees and the grasses began to murmur among themselves. As the wind howled, the voices of the trees joined in. Their voices had been silent for many years, and now they were terrible to hear. They creaked and groaned and shook their leaves. And then a noise even more horrible rose in the forest: a deep moaning and wrenching. The tree trunks began to sway—not just the limbs and the branches, but the thick, muscular trunks of the trees moved side to side. The noise was so great, Gwydon longed to cover his ears, but he needed to be a fearless leader to his army, so he stood fast before them. With a mighty groan, a ripping came from the depths of the earth. The first of the trees, the powerful alders, tore their roots from the soil. And so began the Battle of the Trees.
“The ground trembled violently, as if in an earthquake, and in the blink of an eye, the alders rushed to begin the assault. Never had there been a more terrible sight than hundreds of alders moving as one, trampling any agent of the Dark that stood in the path of their massive roots.
“Then the long-haired willows charged, th
eir arms mighty. As they advanced, the willows shook and rattled their leaves like swords. Despite Gwydon’s valiant fighting, despite the help from the trees, the forces of Darkness were winning. The ground shook once more. Birds flew up in a panic. Animals sprang from burrows and shelters, fleeing for their lives.”
The crowd listened on the edge of their seats. The tent was completely silent except for Julian’s voice.
“Into this chaos, the mighty company of oaks marched forward. No one could stand in their way. They were flanked by the fearsome hawthorn and holly, who challenged the Dark with sharp spikes of thorn. In the midst of the battle, the elm towered over all, flanked by the lofty pine and gloomy ash. Nothing could pass them, not even the Dark’s fiercest warriors, men and beasts. Gwydon breathed a sigh of relief. The battle was turning. Now he would be able to set the prisoners free.
“But out of the Dark, there flew a multiheaded creature. Each head was more terrible than the other, and each spouted fire like a dragon, singeing the leaves of the trees. And with a moist, bubbling sound, a great black toad with a hundred claws sprang from a muddy swamp. Hopping in all directions, it slashed at the trunks of the trees. Both toad and beast were guardians of all the Dark held captive. Finally, slithering through the sea of swaying grass, came the many-colored snake—the snake who tormented souls kept prisoner by the Dark.
“Gwydon looked out over the battle, and his courage failed him. He knew that even with his army of trees, he could not complete the task, could not free the three. The battle was lost.”
“Oohhh,” the crowd sighed as one.
“In this moment of despair, a tree unlike any of the others moved close to Gwydon’s side. The tree had the face of a man. He leaned down and whispered in Gwydon’s ear, ‘Speak a creature’s true name. Use the old power of names.’”
The Greenman! Timothy thought. I’m sure it was him!
“And Gwydon considered the many names of the evil force that held the prisoners captive.
Beyond the Door Page 20
