Beyond the Door

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “He called out, ‘The One-Eyed!’ But still the snake advanced, toppling trees with its mighty body. Tree after noble tree fell in its path.

  “As the toad slashed through a brave company of birch, Gwydon again called out, ‘The Bent!’ The name echoed through the battle, good warriors dropped their swords, timid creatures scampered into holes or sought safety high in the branches of trees, but the fury of the Dark increased.

  “In desperation, knowing that this would be his last chance to turn the course of the battle, Gwydon reached back to the old knowledge, to a name before many names. ‘Balor!’”

  When Julian uttered this word, the audience covered their ears. Parents drew their children closer.

  “And with the speaking of this terrible name, the whole earth trembled. The snake slithered back into the mouth of the earth, the toad oozed down into the mud, and the multiheaded beast took flight. All was still. The power of the Dark was broken for a time, and from the depths of the earth the deer and the dog and the lapwing sprang free. They frolicked, leapt, and flew to serve man and the Light.”

  A few spontaneous cheers erupted. Timothy felt like cheering, himself.

  “But this was only one victory. The Dark slunk away, remembering, feeding on its bitterness, slowly growing stronger. It returned with new schemes, as it always will until the end of time. But Gwydon also grew stronger as he served the Light, and with each victory he transformed. In the next battle, he wore the shape of another man, a great military leader, emperor of Britain, Arthur …”

  As Timothy listened, he felt like he wanted to do something heroic, too. He longed for the Greenman to whisper a word in his ear. Was this Gwydon of the story the same Gwydon that lay at Julian’s feet? The same Gwydon who had carried him on his back in their first adventure? Had Gwydon once been King Arthur? For a long moment after the story ended, nobody moved. It was as if the spell of the story still hung in the air, the bright images slow to fade. Then, one by one or in groups, people stood and stretched, but their voices remained hushed, like parishioners leaving church, until the spell was broken by a loud sneer.

  “Are you done with your fancies, then, Storyteller?”

  Julian rose, and Gwydon, the fur on his neck bristling again, rose with him. The crowd quickly scattered, and Timothy, sensing danger, crept deep into the shadows.

  Tristan strode forward, and once again Timothy was amazed that so small a man could command such presence. He stood before Julian, his feet spread, his gloved hands on his small hips. “This is soft entertainment. If it wasn’t for the crowds, I wouldn’t have it. Stories? Why do people come to hear lies spun?” He shook his head.

  Julian spoke softly in return. “Stories help them make sense of their lives. Stories provide hope. They promise that the Dark doesn’t have the final word. Other people have lived through difficult times, too.”

  Tristan grunted. “‘Sense’? Nonsense. You fill their heads with nonsense, and they come back for more. And you—what kind of person lives this way, by words rather than actions? I’m Master of the Market. I could throw you out today, you and that demon beast. And then where would you be? A lost spinner of tales, begging for food. It’s no way for a man to make a living! A man needs truth, not stories fit for old men, women, and children. He needs to fight, get his hands dirty, take what he can get!” As Tristan’s voice grew louder, it also grew more strident, more threatening. Master of the Market … If master meant bullying everyone, then it was easy to believe the redhaired man held that title.

  Julian stood with his hands loose at his sides, apparently completely relaxed in the face of the dwarf’s onslaught. “Throw me out, and I will still be telling stories, old and new,” he said simply. “Sometimes you need to hear truth from another direction before you can recognize it, Master of the Market.” Then he shifted his gaze and looked straight at Timothy.

  Instinctively, Timothy shrank back farther into the shadows. But Tristan didn’t appear to notice.

  “Watch yourself, Storyteller. No one tells the Master about truth. In my Market, I decide what is true.” And he laughed the high, strange laugh Timothy had heard on the wagon steps. Turning sharply on one booted heel, Tristan strode from the tent.

  Everything might have worked out quite differently if Timothy had not, at that very moment, sneezed. It was the second time a sneeze had given him away at a crucial moment. The heat and dust were thick in the tent, and Timothy, cursing his allergies, couldn’t hold it back.

  Tristan spun on his heel. One great hand, splayed like a shovel—a hand that was surely too large for so small a man—reached out and grabbed Timothy by his shirt, pulling him out of the shadows.

  “Not only a visitor but a spy! What are you hoping to discover, boy?” Tristan’s face was inches from Timothy’s, and his breath, warm and garlicky, puffed into Timothy’s face with every word. “Never mind what you want.” He thrust his chin out. “You’re in my Market, and there are no secrets from me here. I have my ways.” The dwarf’s powerful hand gripped Timothy’s shoulder so hard that the boy felt tears spring to his eyes. He looked for Julian and Gwydon, but they were gone. He was alone with Tristan, the Master of the Market.

  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.

  FIONA’S DRAÍOCHT

  RISTAN MARCHED TIMOTHY out of the Storyteller’s tent. It should have been easy to break away from someone even shorter than himself, but Tristan was strong. His hand dug into Timothy’s shoulder as a reminder that Timothy wasn’t going anywhere without him.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  But Tristan wasn’t answering. Instead, he half dragged Timothy along, stopping only when they reached a bakery stall.

  “Nothing’s hidden in my Market, boy. In a few minutes I’ll know everything there is to know about you, whether you want me to or not.”

  Timothy tried to make one last break for it, but the thick fingers sought the bones of his shoulder. He winced. Why were they at a bakery? Julian and Gwydon, he thought with a desperate look over his shoulder, must surely be following him. He scanned the people clustered around a wooden keg in the shade of a striped canopy. No one paid them any attention. But one face in the crowd was familiar. Nom leaned against the side of the wagon, a flagon of drink in his hand, his face partly turned toward Timothy as he conversed with a man holding a giant lizard on a leash.

  “Nom!” Timothy called out. Tristan boxed his ear. The pain, sudden and sharp, made Timothy’s head spin. But Nom looked up and, for a moment, his bleary eyes widened at the sight of Timothy being shoved through the doorway of the tent.

  The air was sweet with the smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, and ripe fruit. It was also hot. Most of the heavy baking was done in an outside oven during the early-morning hours, but some fresh pies cooled on a rack. “I’ve brought you a customer, Fiona, but not for bread. Someone who needs his past and future brought to light.”

  To Timothy’s surprise, the same fair-haired lady who had distracted Tristan earlier came forward. Flour smudged her cheek and left white streaks on her red apron. “What have we here?” she asked softly.

  Tristan spat and touched his forehead again in the same sign Timothy had noticed before. “I want you to tell me everything about this boy, since he won’t say anything himself. I want to know why he’s here. Where he came from. Where he’s going.”

  Sadness blurred her pale face. “You know my business is a bakery, Tristan, and I prefer not to deal in fortune-telling.”

  “You’ll use your draíocht in the manner I choose.” He shoved Timothy forward and then clambered onto a tall stool, where his short legs dangled. He picked up a chopping knife and thumbed its blade. Any thoughts Timothy had of an easy escape vanished.

  The lady looked sad, even reproachful, Timothy thought. “Draíocht isn’t to be commanded by the likes of you, Tristan Quinn,” she said softly.

  “I’m the M
aster. You’ll do as I say, Fiona, or you’ll be back with the Animal Tamer!” As he smiled, Tristan’s tongue flicked in and out as quickly as a snake’s.

  Fiona’s hand crept involuntarily to her neck, where a ragged scar ran from one side to the other. She turned her eyes to Timothy and wiped her hands on her apron. “Come closer, child.”

  Her voice was gentle, and Timothy walked forward, not wanting to cause her any more distress.

  “Place your hand here.” She took his hand and pressed it to her stomach, over the red apron, then closed her eyes. Dropping his hand, she led him to a large bowl. “Spit into the water.”

  Timothy wondered if he had heard right. “Spit?”

  Fiona opened her eyes. “Yes, spit,” she repeated. And so he did.

  She watched Timothy’s saliva swirl into the clear liquid, then drew a fine gold stick from her hair. Fair strands tumbled down, curtaining her face. She stirred the liquid with the stick, then plucked a curly hair from Timothy’s head and dropped it into the bowl.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

  “Hush and watch.”

  A face formed in the bowl. It was Timothy’s mother, looking pale and drawn.

  Tristan drew close, breathing heavily by Timothy’s side. As Timothy looked down at the image of his mother, panic attacked him from all quarters. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, her forehead shiny with perspiration. She writhed in pain. Timothy’s father sat beside her, talking on the telephone, distracted with worry. He kept one hand on his wife’s shoulder as he spoke, as if afraid she might disappear before his eyes.

  Timothy choked back tears. His mother was so thin that her collarbones threatened to break through the skin. “Mom!” he couldn’t help but cry out.

  Fiona looked even sadder. “Your mother is very ill.”

  “What will happen to her?” Timothy gasped.

  “I can’t say more than I can see.” She stirred the water again with the golden stick, and another vision appeared: Timothy stood with Sarah and Jessica. Nom was there, too, and Timothy remembered it as the time when Nom was giving them instructions about hunting for a cure.

  At this, Timothy felt Tristan stiffen behind him. “So he’s not alone.”

  Again, Fiona stirred the water. This time an image of Timothy’s crown formed in the water—the crown given him by Cerridwyn, the one he had traded in a moment of weakness for a drink of water. The circle of vines with a single leaf looked so real that Timothy reached out for it, but his hand met only air and water.

  “Please,” he said imploringly to Fiona, unable to erase the picture of his mother from his mind. “Please, help me.”

  She poured the water from the bowl out the door of the tent onto the packed earth.

  “So you want something, do you?” Tristan smiled widely. “Something we have for your poor, sick mum? And what will you give for it? A crown?” He began to giggle.

  “It’s best not to interfere with things beyond you,” Fiona said simply.

  “Am I not Master of the Market!” Tristan screamed in outrage. “Nothing here is beyond me! I control it all! And I think a crown would be adequate payment for a visit to my Market.”

  “Please, my mother needs—” Timothy faltered. His head was suddenly hurting, and his thoughts were befuddled. He clutched his head in his hands.

  “Don’t worry,” Fiona said. “It always feels that way afterward.” She laid a cool hand on his brow.

  Tristan eyed Timothy with a speculative air. “You may be worth more than I thought. I wonder what the Animal Tamer would give for you.”

  Fiona blanched. “Tristan, don’t,” she pleaded in a low voice.

  “Don’t you have a boy of your own to worry about?” Tristan countered.

  Fiona’s hand flew to her throat like a pale bird and rested there. Tristan shoved Timothy out of the bakery tent into the bright sun. The boy looked around frantically for Gwydon or Julian, but they were nowhere to be seen. The leaf in his pants pocket burned through the rough fabric, searing his leg.

  THE ANIMAL TAMER

  ARAH WAS FOLLOWING Jessica and Peter through the Market when her attention was diverted by the sight of a large crow slumped on a wooden perch. His wings were spread wide, and his head was cocked to one side, beak open. A thin film covered his eyes, and he was so still that Sarah feared he was injured. Falling back from the others, she cautiously approached the bird. His gleaming black breast rested on the perch between the widely spread wings. He did not move when she approached, as most birds would have.

  “That’s how crows take the sun, lady.”

  Sarah turned. The handsome man who had spoken to her was very tan, with a mop of golden curls, and when he smiled, his teeth flashed and his blue eyes twinkled. He was so striking, Sarah was afraid she might be staring and hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  “I thought it was injured, poor thing,” she said, trying to look away.

  “Crows are tricksters. You can’t trust a thing they do or tell you.” At that, the crow cocked his head and chortled deep in his feathery throat. “But now, if you’re looking for a pet,” the golden-haired man continued, “here’s something that would perhaps suit you better.” He pulled a thin creature with snow-white fur from his pocket. The animal slid through his hands and sidled up his arm where it posed, looking at Sarah with bright brown eyes. It was one of the most beautiful animals Sarah had ever seen.

  “A rare white ermine, lady, and almost as beautiful and rare as you. It keeps its color even when the seasons change.” The man smiled with a flash of white teeth.

  Now she was blushing. To hide her face, she looked down and stroked the ermine’s soft fur. The crow ruffled his feathers and hunched his wings. Then he ducked his head forward and bobbed it up and down, softly chortling.

  “Listen, he’s talking,” Sarah said, glad for a reason to look away from the golden man with the ermine on his shoulder. She moved even closer to the bird, and as she approached, the crow ducked his head even farther. She tentatively reached out one finger and rubbed the top of his head. He pressed back against her finger and chortled. Sarah laughed, and the knot of anxiety in her stomach relaxed a little.

  She glanced over her shoulder for her friends. Jessica had stopped to admire a display of glass beads several stalls away. She held a translucent green necklace up to the light. Peter was at her side, but he was watching Sarah. She quickly looked away.

  “I see you have a way with animals,” said the golden man, once again distracting her. “As you can see, I’m a specialist in rare animals. A tamer, a purveyor of whatever suits your fancy.” He smiled his disarming smile and gestured at the fancy cages displayed in his stall. “I am known as the Animal Tamer, and I’m desperately in need of an assistant.”

  A small monkey clambered up and over the man’s shoulder, clutching a red daisy in one paw, and in one unexpected motion jumped onto Sarah’s shoulder, offering her the flower.

  She laughed out loud. “I’m not here for very long,” she said, taking the flower from the monkey’s paw. “I’m looking for something for my mother.”

  “Oh, I’m disappointed,” the man said. “But perhaps I can help. Would your mother like some jewelry?” He drew a sparkling gold bracelet from his pocket. “Or a pet, perhaps?” He snapped his fingers, and a bright macaw landed on his shoulder.

  “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that.” The knot tightened in her stomach again as she thought of her mother. She couldn’t pull her eyes from the man’s gaze.

  “Then perhaps she would be interested in one of my rarer finds.” Before Sarah could speak, the man took her arm and led her inside a small tent that stood behind the rows of gleaming cages.

  The tent was the size her family might have used for a camping trip, Sarah thought. There was only one animal inside, housed in a large and very elaborate cage. She moved closer. Crouched in the back of the cage was a small blue-winged creature with curious brown eyes. Its bluestreaked wings looked as fragile as a dragonfly
’s. A bushy tail wrapped around the animal’s hindquarters. Enormous ears twitched on each side of its head as it followed the Animal Tamer with its large eyes.

  An overwhelming desire to hold the strange little creature filled Sarah’s heart.

  “Venustas,” the man said. “A rare find. They are prized, the few that have been captured, for their tracking ability. They’re better even than hounds. I assure you, once this animal has been put on a trail, it will find its prey or die trying. Its hearing and sense of smell are unparalleled.”

  “Can I hold it?” Sarah asked.

  “No, lady. This is my crown jewel. It is worth the price of all my other animals combined, and then some. Notice the bushy tail? The little beast survives even in extreme cold by wrapping it completely around its body. And the fur? It may look like a kitten’s, but it is as repellent to water as a duck’s feathers. I traveled a great distance and put myself at great risk to procure this creature.”

  The venustas scampered to the cage door to sniff at Sarah’s outstretched hand. She tried to poke her fingers through the silver wires of the cage and touch its downy fur.

  “However, they do like to be scratched under the chin, and I can imagine an instance when you might be able to hold the creature.”

  Sarah wanted to ask what the instance might be, but that annoying knot in her stomach reminded her that she had another, more important, task.

  “What is it, my dear? You look disturbed.” And in an instant the man was right by her side, grasping her hand in both of his.

  A pleasant warmth seeped through her entire body. Perhaps she should explain everything to him. Perhaps he was the person she was meant to find.

  At that moment, the crow perched outside the tent began to caw. His call was loud and insistent. Through the flap in the tent door, Sarah saw the crow sidestep back and forth across his perch. Spreading his wings, the bird beat them against the air. The attempt to fly was futile. He was, Sarah suddenly realized, attached to the perch by a thin silver chain.